The Yule Blog of 2020 Year in Review

What in the actual fuck 20fucking20?

Who could have predicted the surprising mess you would be? In honor of the longest, shortest, most eventful, confusing, defining, emotional, true color revealing, nothing surprises anyone anymore shitshow of a time, I’m doing a yule blog year in review. Starting with this overview, I’ll be breaking my “what-fucking-day-is-it-do-I-have-enough-toilet-paper-do-you-care-enough-about-others-to-follow-three-simple-rules-an-alarmingly-large-portion-of-Americans-are-in-a-cult-like-state-when-did-we-become-so-divided-did-that-just-really-happen-where-have-you-been-maskless-how-is-it-already-december” year down month by month in upcoming posts.

The eve of the new year, December 31, 2019…how the start of a brand new decade – let alone fresh year – felt exhilarating! 

New decade prep.

The years between 2010 and 2020 were beyond rough. I started that decade leaving an emotionally and mentally taxing relationship where I wasn’t appreciated for me being me, moved in with my parents as an independent adult for almost 365 days and sandwiched in between those years, my immediate family crumbled before my eyes, I was sexually harassed at work and lost a career that took years to build, I was raped by my best friend’s boyfriend, I gained half of my pre-Rapegate bodyweight in the following four years, found myself abandoned by what I thought was a tight circle of girlfriends, the electoral college system in America yet again granted a victory to a person who didn’t win the popular vote, THE furball love of my life, Ted E. Bear (and star of this blog) passed away three weeks before I lost my Aunt Crazy Pants to fucking cancer.

Ted. Teddy Bear. Mr. Ted E. Bear. Tedstar. Teddy Krueger. How I miss you.

Fuck, during that decade I was ALWAYS ready for a motherfucking new year.

So young. So innocent. Not knowing the fuckery that was to come a knocking.

Byeeee 2014!

GTFO 2016. Worst.Year.of.My.Life.

…looking toward 2018?

You get the (literal) picture(s). Of course fabulous happenstances were included in the shit sandwich of a decade. The absolute best was the grand appearance of the two not-so-little anymore loves of my life. Sister CBXB and my BIL gifted our family with twins!

The introduction of a lifetime.

I lost my goddamned mind in 2016 after Rapegate one day at PetSmart and adopted three cats at one time.

The Pussy Posse was born that very day.

Princess Elsa Pants of the Mini Manse, Ruby Sue and Rocky.

We’ve since added three more pussies and a Pomeranian.

Fabio, Scooch, Prissy and Girlie Girl have rounded out The Pussy Posse nicely.

Yes. Yes I do realize I will be single forever and I’m OK with it. I also love candles, reading and watch The Bachelor franchise in a wedding veil I found in my dumpster. I’m just living my best life authentically, OK?



This decade, I found my true ride or die people. In person – and virtually. I’ve never “met” some of my most cherished friends who live all over the world. The outpouring of solid, lasting support after sharing my Rapegate story and its profoundly life altering aftermath is what kept me breathing and why I’m alive to type this today.

I sent out the S.O.S. and you answered in droves.

Another reason I still live and breathe is Superhero Sheila. My therapist. My literal lifesaver. We met days after I was raped and she will always be in my life. Thankful isn’t a strong enough word but then again, there isn’t one that exists to describe how grateful I am for her. I can’t take a picture of Superhero Sheila for confidentiality reasons but I named my new car after her. No. I’m not kidding.

OK, so I may be more excited about my Sheila than the actual Sheila but how many peeps can say they have a car named after them?

The excitement of a new decade dawning was cause for fabulous celebrating on my leopard couch December 31, 2019. Out with the awful old and in with all of the brand new!

It’s finally here!

Little did I know the entire world would soon collectively feel like…

The start of THE shitshow of all shitshows was just around the corner.

What kind of badassery do you think January 2020 bestowed to me? We shall soon see.

Cheers!

CBXB

CBXB!

Buy Me a Drink

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Weekend Whatever Week You’re On Winks

Oh the things being stationed from home 24/7 will make you do…like take in a kitten who just had her own litter. Therefore, making me not a grandma but a GLAMma.

Oops I did it again. And again. And again. And again. And again.

I have an outside brood of seven pussies that I’ve been feeding the last two years. I was able to trap and release (TNR) each one last spring. TNR is when you catch a cat in a trap, take it to the vet for a spay or neuter and then release it where you found it. I’m making this sound easy but it takes a goddamn act of the stars being aligned even if Mercury is in Retrograde to accomplish this because feral cats are basically wild animals.

I missed a female last spring and she had kittens. And now, I am a Glamma and have four sweet, teeny, tiny Glammies inside the Mini Manse quarantined in their own Rona hell to my bedroom. They are now known as The Glam Squad and I almost lost an arm and two eyes trying to get them into the Mini Manse but that’s a story for another day.

Girlie Girl feeding Maverick and Ruth.

The Glammies are almost fully weaned off of Mama. I’m on a waiting list at Value Vet and Nashville’s Pet Community Center (that has 600 felines afuckinghead of me) for spaying and neutering. These little nuggets won’t be going back outside, either. They’ve entered the Mini Manse and are now accustomed to a boxed wine luxury lifestyle with Glamma. It’s been a shit ton of work but definitely, a welcomed distraction from whatever this thing is we now call the world. All of the babies will be up for adoption. Don’t you think you need a new friend?

Girlie Girl, Fauci and Nelly enjoying their breakfast buffet.

All of this pussy momming has given me even more reason to dive right into my Crazy Cat Lady status that I have not one ounce of shame over.

Light Friday night reading compliments of M.Star.

So how do Prissy and The Pussy Posse feel about acquiring temporary residents?

WHAT. THE. FUUUUUUUUUUUCK?

Because The Pussy Posse, Prissy, and yours truly all sleep in my Princess and the Pea bed, I’ve had to do some distracting to avoid immediate punishment from the permanent feline residents in the Mini Manse. The weather has been quite fabulous, so I am able to leave the Pussy Patio wing of the Mini, Teddy’s Terrace open for their recreational habits of napping all day every day and night.

Fabio has no complaints.

Thundercunt would like to speak to the manager.

While I’ve been trying to keep my cat hoarding situation under control, Sister CBXB has been entertaining her duo with her fabulous versions of summer camp.

So far they’ve been to France, Japan, and space.

Day camps can be exhausting, so they get a little happy hour every day.

Summering so hard.

Princess B also got a visit from the tooth fairy twice last week.

I could run a summer camp on how to find shit in the garbage can. Remember when I found my dumpster wedding dress (that is still in my possession, I mean, just in case, you never know)? Well, when I was leaving the Mini Manse on Saturday, what to my wondering eyes did appear but a gigantic framed fancy photo of some golfer. And you know who loves her some golf?

First Mate.

One woman’s trash is First Mate’s treasure.

I snapped a pic of it and sent it to her as a joke. Turns out she really wanted it and I unshamefully backed my ass up and it’s now anchored at her beige palace.

You who else needs to back their asses up? Every single motherfucker in this photo from Kid Rock’s bar in downtown Nashville taken this weekend. What do you want to bet every single person in this photo has bitched and moaned about businesses reopening and how masks are an infringement on their personal fucking freedom?

Thanks for helping Nashville inch back to Phase 1.

EVERYONE I know wants to get out and about and have some sense of pre-Rona normalcy. But when a very large handful of peeps take the conveyed Tennessee message “proceed with common sense,” in establishments that completely ignore city set guidelines (6 feet apart, wear a mask), it’s inevitable to not feel like these folks aren’t being wise. Nashville is in a four-phase reopening plan. Currently, we are on Phase 2, with many businesses waiting for Phase 3 to reopen. Selfish folks, like Kid Rock’s establishment, accompanied by many other downtown Nashville bars are completely ruining it for other businesses waiting for their economic means to starting flowing again. Get your shit together you selfish fucks and maybe, just practice compassion for others.

In London over the weekend, great compassion was shown for a counter-protester to the Black Lives Matter march. Patrick Hutchinson saw a white counter-protester on the ground, about to be trampled. Hutchinson picked the man up, and with help from friends, got him out of the large crowd and to safety. Remarkable compassion and integrity.

Selflessness at its finest.

I think some people have become frustrated with what may seem like a lull after two weeks of full-on worldwide protesting (so yeah, the entire universe thinks black lives matter). It’s important to remember that Black Lives Matter is a movement, not a moment. It will take time, education, resources, protests, reform, and….compassion.

Speaking of viruses, my vehicle has been nothing but bad juju and decided to finally piss out on me two weeks ago. It’s just been sitting in the parking lot (silver lining of remote working compliments of Rona) at the Mini Manse until yesterday. And when I started to drive it to CarMax, seeing if I could muster any kind of moola out of them for it, the old rust bucket came up with the soundtrack to 2020.

The brakes completely went out about 15 seconds in the car. I was able to emergency brake it the entire way to the dealer. When the mechanic took it out for a test spin, before giving me my appraisal, I warned him that if he valued his life, he may want to stay in the parking lot.

The rust bucket in better days, when I wished it was a Range Rover.

Turns out, the make and model of my car holds value. WHAT? WHAT? Exsqueeze me? 

GOOD NEWS?

How awful is it that I’m accustomed to the very worst scenario always panning out? I’m not a pessimist but I am just always prepared for the defeat of a situation these days. Instead, I got so much for my rust bucket, I was able to get a better vehicle in my price range that I love.

Car salesman Harry and I are now best friends.

My new beaut is being transferred from Maryland and is the exact same make, model and color as my old one. Just newer and minus the rust, the duct tape, the myriad of dashboard lights on 24/7, and no power steering fluid leak. HOW LUCKY AM I?!

For those of us who didn’t have my luck yesterday, (which applies to every other area of my non-vehicular life) might I suggest some sage to last us the next six months as we patiently await 2021?

Let me know when you want me to come sage your place. I have a new ride, you know.

Stay safe.

CBXB
CBXB!

 

 

 

 

Buy Me a Drink

Weekend Winks – Sorry Not Sorry

I’m having some major holidayitis. It’s all I can do at work to stay focused because my head is in North Pole clouds. So I’ve been passing my time during my eight hour day like a cotton-headed ninny muggin.

Making good use of work centerpieces.

As soon as I arrived home to the Mini Manse on Friday night, I poured a hefty glass of vino while I planted my ass on my leopard throne. When it was time for me to break my seal, I came back from the bathroom to find an atrocity created by a curious canine.

The HORROR.

While red wine was soaking like quicksand into my beloved custom couch (first and last big girl purchase since college), I not-so-silently freaked out. I glanced at the other end of the sofa and found the culprit just wallowing in her guilt.

Sorry not sorry.

I quickly ran to my new best friend (since The Pussy Posse has reached numbers of a zoo and due to my overall daily klutziness), Resolve carpet cleaner. This shit works miracles but I wasn’t sure if it would be enough for red wine on a spotted couch.

Couch (and Prissy life) saver.

Turns out, the Resolve performed an early Christmas miracle.

What wine?

Prissy felt so badly, she pretended as if nothing happened. I didn’t cry tears over the spilled wine but I did have some choice words for the pom.

The nerve of this bitch.

Saturday was an early tailgate for Dada CBXB and me with our Iowa Hawkeyes kicking off at 11am. We downed our first touchdown shot before noon.

Who doesn’t shoot shots before noon?

Iowa went on to be victorious due to field goals, so our family tradition was one and done for the day but I was able to eek out a bit more for Saturday fuel.

Dada CBXB loaded several of my Christmas bins in his sleigh for Saturday delivery (full disclosure: not all of them would fit into his vehicle, so the rest are coming in next weekend). The Mini Manse currently looks like Christmas got drunk and threw up all over but at least I’m making Santa proud.

Christmas cray cray.

I wasn’t alone in my holiday excitement. The twins have gained the love of all things decorating from Sister CBXB and started trimming one of their trees.

After elfing and unloading bins, I sat down for a quick rest that turned into a full-on pussy mauling. Which translates into “I couldn’t move for three hours because cats were all over me.”

Thundercunt snuggle.

I moved when she moved.

Fabio, Ruby Sue (TC) and not pictured: Rocky and Scooch.

Sweet Princess Elsa Pants of the Mini Manse perched on the highest place possible, just out of reach. She’s my socially anxious pussy that is finally realizing the luckiness of her life with this crazy cat lady.

Finally settling in…after three years.

Beyond excited to watch Saturday Night Live, which was hosted by Will Ferrell, I pissed my pants (again) when Maya Rudolph reprised her role as Kamala Harris. In a previous SNL skit, she declared herself “America’s Fun Aunt” which she shortens to F.U.N.T. She then went on to say she was also “America’s Cool Aunt” and stopped short when she started to say C.U.N…–. I died. You can watch the skit here.

While I was busy wearing my rewind button out, pissing my pants over a F.U.N.T. the twins were prepping for their upcoming viewing of Frozen 2.

Prince B decked out in one of a kind bling crafted himself.

Princess B not only handcrafted herself Frozen-themed necklaces, but her mama also created a hair-do in which Princess Elsa herself would envy.

Beyond jealous of the hair.

Sunday really was a fun day for me. I meandered out to get groceries at 10am and ended up hitting two TJ Maxx stores (my second mothership to Target), Burlington Coat Factory, Marshalls, Kirklands and my fave liquor store, Reds. I didn’t mean to but it was fun just gazing at all of the holiday decor. I’m pretty sure I lost all sense of smell from the 1,843,023 candles I had to fucking sniff. I stumbled on a fun delight at Reds – canned bubby rosé from House Wines. Two dollars from each can benefits the Human Rights Campaign. So, I was doing my good deed for the day, right?

Making errands bright.

When I finally arrived back at the Mini Manse, my monthly box of cat shit had arrived. No matter how many mother fucking pet beds are around, the pussies insist that boxes are best.

Rocky. Never a dick in a box.

Ruby Sue. Always a dick in a box.

I settled into what was supposed to be a relaxing bubble bath with my brand new wine glass from family who visited earlier this month. It immediately became my favorite upon laying eyes on it as it reads: I do not spew profanities. I enunciate them CLEARLY like a fucking lady. It’s like my cousin “gets me” or something. Speaking of getting, Prissy had visions of vino in her head as she tried to not-so-slyly get into the glass on the edge of my tub. She’s such a fucking bitch but she’s so obviously mine as she’s a true booze hound.

Still NOT sorry.

As the holidays roll around and the state of the world is divisive at best, I think it’s a good time to remember kindness. Life can be harsh as we are all aware, but being kind isn’t hard. I have a lot of people in my life who have lost loved ones, with this being their first holiday without them here. I also know peeps who just loathe the holiday seasons for their own reasons. Whatever the case may be, just remember a smile can go a mile.

Thanks for the reminder Mr. Rogers.

Here’s hoping you have a short work week and unapologetically enjoy it.

Sorry not sorry.

CBXB

CBXB!

Ghouls Night In

Being that I haven’t been in a celebratory mood for the past two years, retrieving my Halloween decor out of Camo’s attic was an exciting feat. Getting my giddy up back after Rapegate, I’m trying to stay on the right track by doing what I would “normally” do, which is celebrate the fuck out of every. single. thing. I can.

So Halloween has been my first glittery stiletto heeled step in the thriving direction. And what better way to get my ass in gear than to host my monthly Supper Club in October?

Yeah…all for the mini manse.

As soon as the bins were in, I was in shopping heaven – being that I hadn’t seen my sparkly Halloween accessories in almost 700 days. I perused my own decor, acting like I was on an episode of a holiday themed Supermarket Sweeps.

Decor for days.

This was also the first time any of my current fur ball amigos had seen any type of Halloween madness from their mama, and it was super fun trying to avoid stepping on a live cat bomb, as they hid amongst everything.

Elsa Pants trying her hand as a ground hog.

As the count down began, I decorated like the Wicked Witch of Nashville, readying my mini manse for a Ghoul’s Night In.

Why would it be worth even putting one decoration out, if you didn’t dress up the outside of your haunted house? Even the Glamingo slipped into her skeleton feather attire.

Grand entrance.

While most mansions have extravagantly large foyers, mine is excruciatingly small – but grand nonetheless.

Instead using my dining room for what its intended, I naturally have a few bars (duh).

The bar cart gussy up.

The liquor bar gussy up.

The side bar gussy up.

The wine bar gussy up.

The fur ball bar gussy up.

No, I do not think I have too many bars. No, I also do not need to attend weekly meetings (*cue eye roll*).

In lieu of dishes in kitchen cabinets, I chose to display Halloween knick knacks galore because…really, dishes are boring.

The stove top was easy to cover because it’s so rarely used.

My piece de resistance happens to be my player piano, which I turned into a haunted forest of sorts where resident pussies often tip toe through like abominable snowmen, seeing what all can be knocked over. Or broken. Or played with to pieces.

Speaking of my pussies, of course their room is also decorated – or else they’d be pissed.

Kit cats killed the witch.

Truth.

After my mini manse was haunted to the gills, it was time to prep for the ghouls.

Appetizing table setting.

Spooky Sangria prepped and ready.

My finest china ready for chili and potato soup.

Chili costume accessories.

All that was left were the ghouls who came to par-tay as my fave non-scary Halloween movie, Practical Magic, played in the background.

Cutest ghouls in Nashville.

Don’t think I let them forget me.

I mean, I am the ghostess with the mostess.

Happy Haunting!

CBXB

How to Almost Burn Down a Mini Manse

I’m a woman of many talents.

I photobomb like it’s my career, my dainty laugh makes 80-year-old men want to fight me,  I have a knack for getting strange dudes to send me dick pics and I’m on the brink of being Nashville’s cray cray cat lady.  However, I recently uncovered a new ability of mine when I almost burned my entire apartment complex to the ground with a microwave and a glittery paper plate.

All that glitters is not gold. It's more of an orange color with a yellow tint that when combined together create a blaze.

All that glitters is not gold.
It’s more of an orange color with a yellow tint that when combined together create a blaze.

It all started with these gorgeous red paper plates, rimmed in silver sparkles because an ordinary white hue was all too normal for me to purchase.

Of course I had to have them.

Food tastes better when combined with glitter, yes?

Maybe it was because I had five one too many Skinny Pirates the night before but I thought it was a good idea to throw the shimmering piece of flimsy cardboard into the microwave in order to heat up chicken fingers (also from the previous evening that may or may not have sat on the counter all night long).

Don't worry. I'm sure I have at least 22 brain cells left.

Don’t worry.
I’m sure I have at least 22 brain cells left.

Upon closing the appliance door and setting the timer for 30 seconds, I stepped away from the kitchen, distracted by one of New Cat’s many attempts to commit suicide by sitting on the banister of my second balcony porch.

No energy to thwart suicide attempts by New Cat.

Thinking long and hard about how rough he has it in my mini manse. Fucker.

In the mere seconds I was away rescuing my idiot pussy, something started happening in the microwave.

A stench started to quickly fill the air.

By the time I got back to the kitchen, flames were bursting through the microwave door as the timer counted down to zero.

For a moment, all I could think about was the loss of my chicken tenders. My hungover ass then snapped out of it and flung the door of the appliance open to find a smoldering, disintegrating plate with burnt to a crisp pieces of poultry attached to it.

So glitter doesn't warm well.

So…… sparkles don’t warm well.

Mourning the loss of my food like broken high heel, I was further pissed off thinking that the manufacturer of this piece of shit plate didn’t list any danger warnings about putting a metallic glitter plate into the microwave for all of the dumb asses out there who apparently don’t know foil starts on fire in a microwave like yours truly.

Then I turned the crispy plate over.

WARNING

I may have missed something here.

Once I realized I wasn’t even close to being the most mediocre genius on the planet, my feelings of grief were geared toward the loss of my beloved red (because white is too normal) microwave that now smelled like a year-long bonfire had taken place inside and ceased to run properly.

Um...

The not so sparkly remnants of a small kitchen fire.

Much to my hungover delight, Target (my mothership) had a shiny red appliance just waiting for me on the store shelf later that day.

Forced to invest in a new appliance.

It’s a kitchen miracle.

Forced to utilize my lingering brain cells, I tried to figure out how to unplug the old glitter cooker from behind the refrigerator without having to move the 250 lb unit.

Not going well.

This might as well have been brain surgery.

You guys, it’s hard being a blonde with so many talents.

Help.

Help.

Who wants to come over for a fancy chicken tenders dinner and watch me put my new microwave to use tonight?

Don’t worry, I got new glitter plates.

CBXB

CBXB!