Master of the Mini Manse

It seems just like yesterday that I welcomed the furball love of my life Teddy Bear into my mini manse.

After the first feline object of my affection, Nicodeamus passed away (and I truly thought I would die of a broken heart), I laid eyes on Ted via the Nashville Cat Rescue’s website.  He’d been saved from a one bedroom apartment full of 30 cats (I thought I was a hoarder) and when I went to take a look at that sweet little face, it was love at first meow.

Instantly wrapped around his paw.

Upon bringing TB home, I had a partially screened in porch.  My new little prince had such a sweet, timid demeanor I allowed him to relax on the porch alone, taking in his new surroundings.

Soaking up the sun.

After a few months, Tedstar suddenly came out of his meek shell, morphing into a tiny lion, deciding that he was King of the Jungle Porch. One evening while I was letting Calgon take me away in a bubble bath, His Royal Highness ‘presented’ me with a beautiful, live cardinal fidgeting around in his mouth.

Feathers flew.

I screamed bloody murder at the horror of seeing a blinking bird in the jaws of my supposedly shy Teddy Bear. Then I thought my poor pussy’s muzzle was going to break because his mouth was open so wide. I stood there naked, sopping wet with trauma tears (because I didn’t want to have to feed Ted through a straw the rest of his life due to breaking his face trying to release and save our feathered friend that most likely carried bird flu) streaking down my face when he wouldn’t let the cardinal go until a towel was thrown over his head. (For those of you holding your breath or shedding a tear over the bird, it lived).

You guys, the bird! Teddy’s jaw! My BATH!

A very relaxing, spa-like evening indeed.

Once Ted had a whiff of wildness, he got very daring after The Great Bird Incident.  One afternoon Bear attempted to escape the awful prison I keep him in by leaping off the porch to a nearby bush (about four feet away) which turned out like this:

Body outline of my ferocious feline.

He’d climbed to the porch railing and apparently thought the bush was sturdy enough to hold him (Teddy sometimes has blonde moments like his mother) but alas he sunk all the way down to the bottom.  It was super fun trying to get a hysterical cat out of the tangle of limbs.

After his failed prison break, the porch was promptly screened to the ceiling, preventing my blue blooded attack cat from parting ways with yours truly (he obviously loved his new home).

My detainee’s private jail cell.

Of course Tedstar continually looked for a way out but much to his dismay, I locked that shit down like Fort Knox.

Does curiosity kill?

Presently in my mini-catsle, I’m the evil queen happy to keep my royal subject Ted preserved behind second balcony porch bars, knowing that I won’t have any unwelcome gifts or a clumsy cat stuck in a bush.

Still trying to leave me.  Good thing his fur isn’t as long as Rapunzel’s hair.

Trying to persuade my fave pussy from walking the second story proverbial plank, I christened the porch in honor of Mr. Bear.

Properly named perch.

Highly unimpressed with a 2 x 4 wood sign, Teddy still thinks there might be a chance to break free, walking on the backs of chairs like he’s a high wire act in the circus.

Now that I’ve introduced three new court jesters into our royal family, I have a feeling they’ll be putting their furry noggins together to thwart my attempts to keep them behind my gated tower.

The new pussies on the porch prowl.

Now, who’s the real master of the mini manse?

I think we all already know the answer.

CBXB

How to Get Into the Closet

While upgrading to a new mini manse was a tad traumatizing for me this summer (click here to catch up), I could barely wait to sign the lease on my upgraded digs after I saw the walk-in closet that would soon be mine.

This is exactly how I looked when the leasing agent showed me the closet. I am the world’s worst poker player.

Upon moving in, I could barely wait to shove all of my glittered, bedazzled, pink, gaudy, (insert your favorite adjective here) clothes into their new home.

Bare as a bone.

After all of the manhandling was over, there was one teeny, tiny problem. I couldn’t see into the f’ing closet due to the door that a man obviously designed, as it opened into the damn room, instead of outward. I had to go into the closet and shut the door just to shop in my own store.

Seeing a sliver of my threads just wasn’t going to do.

While some folks are trying to come out of their proverbial closet, I just wanted to get the F into my actual one. So one night in a pissy, hissy fit, trying to find a cardigan that was behind the door, I decided to take it off its hinges (I felt like ripping but do want my deposit back one day).

Culprit thwarted.

And suddenly, the world of my clothes became the place I always knew it could be…my own personal heaven.

I can see! It’s a summer miracle!

Becoming doorless has left my closet exposed, much to my delight.

In all of its naked glory.

I can see my decor with much more ease (because every closet needs decorations, right? I can feel the eye rolls already. Yes, I’m talking to you – and I don’t care!).

Spotting my pink glitter to start and end my days correctly.

And I can finally see my scents and select accordingly instead of just grabbing whichever bottle my hand got to first.

Why so many to choose from? Depends which ‘personality’ I decide to be each day. Yes, I’m serious.

Of course with renewed access to my high shelves, I have my leopard stool that does the trick. Accompanied by a black, glitter throw rug.

My tiny throne.

Yes, my rug sparkles. Yes, I know how ridiculous that sounds. No, you can’t have it.

This room has become my little fur ball, Ted’s favorite place to hang – most likely because it looks like a rainbow threw up in the closet (probably a psychedelic trip for a kit cat). So here’s how Mr. Bear sees the renovated space…

He starts by laying on his left side.

Not being able to fully roll over to the other, he takes a breather and views my garments straight on his back.

And then he somehow maneuvers a roll to the right.

I know you’re wondering how all of my clothes have no shoe companions joining them in the closet.  Silly you! They have their very own room. But that’s a post for another day.

All high and mighty, sitting pretty.

So by simply becoming a design expert for all of 15 seconds and removing the closet door off its own hinges, I’m able to gander at the gaudy in my own home.

But where in the hell am I going to store the door?

CBXB

Weekend Winks – Moving Mania Month

In the past 21 days, I’ve been asked to vacate my mini manse (due to the non-use of condoms by my landlord’s son who now needed my side of the duplex to expand their family), searched and found a new castle, scrapped and scrimped for money to pay rent two places in June while also forking over a pet and security deposit (my landlord refused to give me my deposit back early after asking what he could do to help – and then had the nerve to tell me that he couldn’t help it if I didn’t know how to”manage my money” when I told him I didn’t have the funds to move and also ended up telling me to “put your big girl panties on and deal with it”…you can imagine how that conversation ended), moved every evening after work (loading and unloading three car fulls a night was epic fun), consumed copious amounts of Skinny Pirates and wine after going to the doctor and spilling my guts that I can’t function on three hours of sleep per night, I’m beyond stressed and I just might punch someone in the face if the toner on the copier happened to run dry at work (not a typical reason for me to threaten physical violence) and the good ‘ol doc came back in and handed me a prescription…for a psychiatrist (lovely to have your feelings of lunacy verified by a medical professional – couldn’t I just get 14 days worth of Ambien or Xanax?!). Help a girl out!

After all of this I can finally say I’m done with this moving bullshit!

Thank God for t-shirts that say it all.

Moving is never, ever any fun. But being surprised with a relocation overwhelmed (to say the least) me.  I moved into my mini manse three years ago after an awful year and was my ‘new start.’ Also daunting was the fact that I have shit everywhere. Literally (because I downsized from a house to a duplex). I have shit at my parents house, shit at friends’ homes, shit in a storage unit, shit in my mini manse…but my new palace is double the size of my old (this gal is moving up) – oh snap!

Load by load, my folks (who I am forever indebted to) and myself carried precious possessions to and from the old to the new.

Dear old Dad – the man who is a constant and always around in my times of need. Plus, he sure looks good with a pink flamingo, right?

Dissecting my wall of shoes proved to be a ginormous task.

Wall of fun.

Boo hoo shoes….new places for you to make your debut!

While my dad never uttered a peep about how many shoes I own, I happily pointed out that it could be worse.

Aren’t you glad I’m addicted to shoes and not crack cocaine?

Teddy acted like the sky was falling (he happily took the cue from yours truly) and tried to take up residency in every empty box.

Forget me and you’ll be sorry.

And was exhausted by the 48th hour of watching our trio take endless trips back and forth to our cars.

Ted tired out on day 2.

When my mom and I visited storage, it seemed like a good idea to stop payments and call Storage Wars on A&E.  There wasn’t time to sift through everything BUT many trips were made to Goodwill and the dump.

Oh boy…

I lost many nights of shut eye over whether or not my beloved piano would fit into my new mini manse.  My work family came to my rescue by not only picking up my heavy as all get out player piano but also stepped in to move my furniture and belongings out of three different places with the company truck (I’m one lucky gal (with a happy tear in my eye) who will never be able to convey my level of gratitude).

Oh this has wheels? No problem.

Badass fellas kickin’ a player piano’s ass.

Thank God for dry grass!

My heroes!

The madness continued once we stopped to collect my other larger pieces of furniture – I snapped this pic while the boys were trying to maneuver my two ton antique Coke machine down the front steps (naturally, I run and hide when I think heavy lifting is in order. I’m such a bitch).

Shit show.

And while my life still looked like this…

Will this move ever end?

I had to kick up my heels and celebrate the piano fitting into my new and improved mini manse (although the front door of the apartment had to be removed to get the damn thing in – but still!). And yes, believe what you’re seeing – I’m in overall cut-offs (that my grandpa wore while farming – although I never, EVER wear shorts) and sneakers (which I never EVER wear unless I’m working out) but this was a dire circumstance and comfort was above any other fashion issue (unfortunately).

The piano fits!

Moving into my fabulous new closet, the first piece of clothing I grabbed was my t-shirt celebrating the end of 2010, as I’m finding myself in a similar situation currently.

Poetic.

In between all of the moving shenanigans, I took time out for all kinds of debauchery at a bachelorette party.

Ahh…is moving over YET?

Wondering about our fabulous attire? We’re paying tribute to the bride’s love of the muumuu.

There was nothing more fun than getting up after a long weekend of partying and cleaning the day away at my old place, making a few last trips to my spacious new mini manse.

Last load after endless hours of cleaning…

I felt a lump in my throat upon departing the driveway for the last time because change is terrifying but I’ve found it’s almost always for the better.

Plus, I have one hell of a new closet!

Closet heaven. Holla!

Invites to our kick ass housewarming will be delivered shortly – I accept all sizes of Captain Morgan bottles (hint, hint) and Teddy will be available for pawtographs.

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

Does This Sign Make My Ass Look Big?

I love getting snail mail of any kind – cards, letters, post cards and especially packages (who has ever opened their mailbox and said “damn it, someone sent me a package?”).  So you can imagine my delight when I saw a small box waiting for me to open one recent afternoon.

Inside the package was one of the funniest, most spot-on gifts I have ever received, compliments of Elvis’s mom, Whit (who also gifted me my fabulous Captain Morgan lamp).  I am always commenting on the ampleness of my derriere (and how I try to detract some attention from it) and this present offers a perfect explanation of my obsession with sparkles, sequins and shoes.

My total mantra on a canvas in MY COLORS!

And where else would one display such a fabulous piece of art? Well my bathroom of course (along with my sparkly deer head that you can win) where I house all fabulous things live in my mini manse.

The perfect trio. My crowned cat, my motto and a skull and crossbones jewelry dish. Sigh.

Every time I see the sign it makes me giggle, adding a little pep to my step and granting me justification for piling on more daily bling.

Sparkle on.

CBXB