Weekend VAXXED Winks

So if you weren’t aware, Dr. Anthony Fauci is my off-season Lee Corso. In other words, I’m cheating on my 85-year- old main squeeze with a younger 80-year-old side piece.

What can I say? I have a thing for 80 year olds who love my Hawkeyes and science.

When I was able to get my Fauci Ouchie to say I was ecstatic is an understatement. I went to a slick drive thru vaccination station and from start to finish it took 20 minutes (including the 15 minutes I had to wait afterward to ensure I wouldn’t spontaneously combust from a side effect). Naturally, I brought support with me.

Pretty sure ya girl is gonna be on a progressive candidate’s commercial at midterm time, as I was filmed getting vaxxed and cursed the useless Tennessee governor and celebrated the shot going in my arm like I’d just won a billion dollars. You know, my usual timid self.

Getting the Fauci Ouchie was cause for celebration much like everything else in my life. But there was a shift in how I felt – a combination of relief and what is that I see?….a light at the end of the Rona tunnel?! Getting vaxxed gave me a renewed lease on an almost post Rona (fingers crossed) life!

Hanging with an also fully vaxxed Mama CBXB.
Prissy is able to socialize (aka lunge for nachos) again at her fave local spot, Alley Pub that allows canines on the patio.

I’ve been more active outside now that the weather has turned to a gorgeous Tennessee spring.

Percy Warner park in all of its green glory.
This little beast can walk three miles (so, 30,000 steps for her) like it’s no biggie. I’m referring to the dog.

Last week started off in a tense manor, as most of the country prepared for the verdict in Derek Chauvin trial. You know, the sociopath cop who murdered George Floyd casually kneeing his neck for nine minutes filmed by a minor child last May.

I wanted to throw the fuck up when I heard the verdict was in on Tuesday.
Thank FUCK the jury held a murderer accountable for George Floyd. Art by Nikkolas Smith.

I stayed late at work to watch the verdict read live and updated the fam, who was also waiting nervously.

While this was a fucking gigantic relief, there is so much more work to be done in this country regarding racism and the blasé attitude so many white people have toward it. But holy fuck was this a needed victory.

After a collective sigh of relief, the rest of the week flew by. I’m back at the office full time now and boy, it was a hard transition after being able to roll out of bed, take care of the fur kids, make coffee and roll up to my home office desk all in 15 minutes time. Now, having to actually give a fuck about my appearance, put on real pants AND wash my hair regularly takes almost every ounce of energy in my being.

It’s such a foreign feeling to be around coworkers and have semblance to the Before Times. I miss working out over lunch with my fave trainer who also happens to have the name of Meghan Trainor (how purrfect?!). I got addicted to her free daily Instagram workouts during quarantine. So I jump on when I’m at work to say hi because I have major FOMO.

The back at the office routine has me extra ready for that TGIF cocktail and I spent Friday on a phone-a-thon with two of my fave peeps.

First up was Slappy (you know, my former co-worker who drunkenly slapped me at a work party when I told her I’d wait on her to go to the bathroom. I knew I loved her from that moment on) and her adorable fur kid, Roscoe.

Next up was Sister CBXB and we had no fun talking as you can see. What the fuck did we do before this technology?!

Saturday was quite luxurious for the pussies of the Mini Manse.

Rocky spent most of the day in my tub, awaiting me to bring him a meowmosa. All of the other Pussy Posse members lounged on the patio, delighted it’s back open for them 24/7 now that the weather is fab.

My Iowa twins had a glow party in their basement. I’m hoping the sticks are still lit when I get to see them next month.

Prepare for your mind to be blown when you gander below at how the twins have turned into actual mini adults. Time needs to stop for a sec, OK?

Sunday was a gorge day to spend outside, so of course I opted to day drink with my friend Aha! inside instead.

Cheers to being out and about with two-for-ones!

Speaking of my love of 80-year-olds, I saw a fucking dude roar in on a bike that looked like it was custom built for me.

The hair. The vest. The bike. The colors. Naturally, I need a pic with my newfound soulmate.

Can we all be this fucking cool at 82?!? Is the octogenarian age group the new 40-year-olds? I’m thinking YES.

Being out and about, I don’t even mind seeing what always annoys me to my core. One of these annoyances is when couples sit on the same fucking side of the table. I mean, can’t you just gaze at each other across the fucking table?

This has bothered me since Scooby and I saw a couple doing this at the Olive Garden my Junior homecoming.

Sunday is hair do day for Princess B and check out her new braids, compliments of Sister CBXB’s sure to be future arthritis’d hands.

I had every intention of heading home and popping some champs for Hollywood’s “golden” night watching The Oscars.

Stocking up on my new fave champs – Barefoot Brut Rosé Bubbles. Mask by Any Old Iron.

While I was gussying up, I poured myself a glass to primp before my own personal red carpet.

Then I made the mistake of sitting down on the couch and taking a two hour nap. So I skipped my own red carpet, and proceeded to watch the most boring Oscars of ALL TIME. Rocky couldn’t even cuddle to watch it was so lack luster.

So here we are at the start of another maybe closer-to-post-Rona-life week. Although I’m fully vaxxed, I continue to wear my mask in support of those who haven’t yet had a chance to get their shots and because I give fucks about other people. Wearing a piece of fabric over my face contributes to the mask culture and supports those around me. I hope you do the same for me and your neighbors.

Mask by Fringe and Co.

Love ya, mean it.

CBXB

CBXB!

BUY ME A DRINK!

Yule Be Bowled Over

Holy shit the holiday season crept up and is flying out faster than a fad diet at the beginning of a new year.

This season not only marked Prissy’s first Christmas with me and The Pussy Posse, it also was our premiere road trip together.

One of us was embarrassed of a hotel lobby selfie. One of us was clearly not.

Dada CBXB is not known for his speedy lead foot. If anything, when we are on a road trip to Iowa, the texts I usually get from family go a little something like, “see you next week” when it’s simply a day’s drive. However on this trip, Dada CBXB splurged and got a hotel room in St. Louis, the mid-way point between destinations. He very cleverly booked us at a place that featured three free cocktails per guest, along with snacks until 7pm. We arrived at 6:30.

Will speed for free booze.

After chugging, we wound down catching former Hawkeye, George Kittle kill it on the field with the San Francisco 49ers. Always a way with a nickname, Dad called our usual night caps, “Kittle Kaps” and well, that’s what it shall be named from here on out.

Kittle Kaps all around.

Not only was this first holiday road trip for Priss, this was also her introduction to the twins. I was slightly worried I may not get to take her back to Music City with me once the duo of cuteness got their paws on her.

Prissy, the instant hit.

One of the reasons Prissy is enviable to the twins is her size as my dogphew, Spike, can’t sit on laps and be carried around on a hip easily. But boy can he snuggle like nobody’s business.

You can totes see the family resemblance, right?

It was new hair dos all around for the big man in red.

Hair envy, anyone?

What would a Christmas be without a sugar cookie fest for my pie hole? Sister CBXB had three pounds of buttercream frosting that may or may not all be sitting on my hips at the moment.

Cookies more delish than they appear.

When the wee ones wondered to bed my BIL (also known as Dr. Cocktail) whipped up some of his finest drunk mixes. One round was vaguely familiar and it inspired me to start watching Sex and the City on my next TV binge.

Carrie Bradshaw style Christmas Cosmopolitan.

Prissy couldn’t decide if she’s a Carrie or a Charlotte. Jury’s still out.

After matching cosmos, we kept up the sister game by sporting matching sequined Santa starter jackets because why the fuck not?

Holla Ho!

The following evening we were treated to a snazzy seasonal supper complete with place cards created by the twins. They somehow managed to set their own cards at the heads of the table. Clever little fucks.

Supper is served.

Soon after our bellies were full, it was time for the slumber before Santa’s visit.

The calm before the Christmas tsunami.

HE CAME.

Our day was filled with stockings, sugar cookies, mimosas, coffee, sugar cookies, mimosas, presents, dogs, kids, mayhem, mimosas, movies, naps, a fire pit, sugar cookies, pizzas, wine and fun.

Fucking crazy for Christmas.

The holiday went off without a hitch and I’m pretty sure the blood pumping through my veins is still straight saccharine.

Prissy and the Princess.

The Christmas stimulation proved to be tiring to my pooch who typically acts as if she’s on some sort of canine cocaine on the daily. She spent most of the nine hour sleigh ride back to Nashville the next day with her eyes shut.

Sleeping ’til 2020.

While I was trying to pry my eyes open with toothpicks for work back in Nashville, the twins were partying with tacos and Mama CBXB.

Taco time.

With Christmas falling in the middle of the work week combined with two travel days in a car, my body didn’t know up from fucking down. I was able to muster a work outfit together on Friday, which felt like a Monday and then felt like a Saturday because the Iowa Hawkeyes were playing in a bowl game that night, when they usually play on Saturday day. See the difficulty for me?

Be bold, wear gold. And sequins. Lots of sequins.

A mix of emotions for the last game until next August. The horror.

It was quite fitting the Iowa Hawkeyes played in the Holiday Bowl against USC this year. Our long time beloved coach, Hayden Fry, passed away earlier in the month. When he was coaching, this bowl was one of his favorites, so winning it would be extra special. Dada CBXB and I weren’t sure what to make of Iowa scoring on their first drive, even though we were favored to win by two points.

Naturally, we did the typical Family Tradition…times fucking seven. Yes, SEVEN.

Touchdown #1!

Touchdown #2!

Touchdown #3!

Touchdown #4!

Touchdown #5!

Touchdown #6!

Touchdown #7!

It’s been forever since we needed two hands for counting shots so we were a tad out of practice. We also had to get really crafty with our picture props, as the Hawks kept scoring TDs. The final victorious score was 49 – 24, making Iowa’s overall record this year 10-3.

If that’s not a way to end a season, I don’t know what is. ON IOWA!

High five to a new decade.

I was certainly feeling bowled over the next day…with no complaints.

Cheers to the last few days before a new year!

CBXB!

Too In Love to Let It Go

It’s fucking insane that my kick ass Aunt Crazy Pants has been partying up above for over 700 days now. This weekend, it will be two years since she went to bicker with her mother up above (They seriously used to keep track of who called who last – and reported it to me every time I spoke to either one of them. Thinking about it now, I should have just conducted a three way call and then they would have been even.)

No shit. Eleven days since you last spoke? Did you know the phone works both ways?

I still forget and go to pick up the phone to text or call and then remember I can only communicate via the red bird, a cardinal.  I think about ACP every day (I mean, I do have her signature tattooed on my wrist) but I especially think about her during my beloved Iowa State Fair, which just took place at the beginning of August. After my folks moved to Nashville, ACP would always be my state fair side kick unabashedly wearing fucking Crocs (so called “shoes” that I hate with a passion) on her feet while she humored me on my yearly 12 hour day of fair festivities (present when the cannon goes off in the morning until the fireworks boom after the nightly concert at the Grandstand).

She also poured water over her head when she was hot.

I haven’t been back to the Iowa State Fair since ACP passed and it will be bittersweet when I get to go again. But she relayed the torch to R. Nasty who was keen to accompany ACP and me to the fair in past years even though it was most likely the worst days of his life. Now, he gets me all to himself as I force him to eat everything in sight, ride the death traps carnies assemble (although they took the double ferris wheel away and I AM NOT OK WITH IT) and visit every.single.livestock barn.

Two peas in a forced fair pod.

I’ve really been missing her beyond lately. It’s comforting to a degree knowing that she’s with her folks, other family members and all of my fur balls (who are most likely mauling her) that passed before ACP. While our family celebrates her life while we’re still living on, it doesn’t make the void any less painful. I miss the cards she used to mail me. I miss her texts that made no fucking sense (so I’d end up having to call her anyway to find out what the fuck she was talking about). I miss cheering her up on what she called her ‘blue’ days. I miss making her laugh until she pissed her pants (super easy). I miss her Christmas Village she set up every year that was literally the size of a small town. I miss laughing with her. She was my second mom.

Whenever I hear the song “Fix You” by Coldplay from their X&Y album, I think of ACP and the fucking cancer that stole her life waaaaaaaaay too soon (the chicks on her side of the family easily live to at least 90 years young. This means I’m going to need a helluva lotta Botox). If you haven’t heard the song or need a refresher, stop what you’re doing and go listen to it or click on the highlighted Fix You words above for a link to the video. I’ve always loved the song but it’s taken on a new meaning for me since ACP passed.

When she received her unfuckingfair diagnosis, her peeps rallied and while we couldn’t fix or take the pain away from her, we could provide happy experiences for her remaining time and and memories for her to leave with us. She tried her best to stay as long as she could here because she was insanely in love with her kids, grandkids, family, friends and was at a point in life where she was positively starting over.

Positive pants.

In honor of Aunt Crazy Pants, turn your radio (or really these days, your iPhone) up, raise those gin rickey’s (or Black Velvet and Diet 7Up, whichever you’re feeling) high in the air, as we celebrate how much we miss her and hate the fuck out of cancer in my mixed lyric rendition of the song.

Fix You

When you try your best

But you don’t succeed

When you get what you want

But not what you need

When you feel so tired

But you can’t sleep

Stuck in reverse

And high up above

Or down below

When you’re too in love

To let it go

But if you never try

You’ll never know

Just what you’re worth

Lights will guide you home

And ignite your bones

And we did try to fix you

Tears stream

Down your face

When you lose something you cannot replace

Tears stream

Down your face

When you lose something you can’t replace

Tears stream

 Down your face

When you lose something you cannot replace

Lights will guide you home

And ignite your bones

And we don’t have to fix you

Love you Aunt Nancy.

Weekend Winks – Back to the Future

Is it just me or does it feel like 1991?

Funny how my history teachers always said history repeats itself and here the fuck we find ourselves in the dramatic throes of a SCOTUS nominee scandal, with sexual assault being at its core – AGAIN.

Proud as fuck of Dr. Christine Blasey Ford.

I chose to follow the hearings as closely as possible because I want to be as informed as possible. Others I know chose not to watch, read or follow anything in the media for all types of various reasons.

Can’t stop. Won’t stop stress eating.

The testimony from Dr. Blasey Ford and the SCOTUS nominee could not have been more opposite. It was like watching a bad reality show, only it’s for real unfolding in front of your eyes. Lucky for me, I had my therapy Thursday and then an evening in with my band buddy, A-Ha.

Sometimes wine out of pumpkin glasses is just what the day ordered.

Another distraction which is funny as hell but not to one little lady in particular. My nephew, Prince B has lost three more teeth than Princess B – all within one week.

AND RUBS IT IN.

Ah, the good old days when all that mattered was who was losing teeth before whom.

I was asked/told several times that I was attached to the SCOTUS drama (along with the millions watching America’s politicians around the world) because I’ve been a victim of rape. Well, that’s partially true because my trigger bell went into high force when the person in charge of America started victim blaming and shaming publicly and others joined in the prior Friday.

All I can say is I know in my bones that Dr. Ford Blasey is not lying. I would bet my life on it. I would bet my cats’ lives on it. I also know that as a woman, this took me back to the first time I found a hand in my pajamas at 14 years of age and didn’t know what to do. I can’t tell you all of the details but I sure as shit know who did it to me. And the “minor” incidents – the ass grabs and slaps from strangers, unwanted come-ons from superior co-workers, just ultimately knowing that most of the women in my life have had some degree of harassment – even if it didn’t culminate into a rape. Shit like this reopens deep seeded wounds and memories whether or not we like it.

On a happier note, Dada CBXB retired on Friday! His company had a breakfast par-tay for him and then we went to lunch with his department. I adorned his college football practice jersey and a football card from when he played for the Baltimore Colts.

No work, all play!

As soon as the lunch was over, I sat in my car, trying not to have a come apart. First, I was enraged last week. I was furious watching the hearings on Thursday and then Friday, knowing how there would be a confirmation, the feeling of pure defeat washed over me. A feeling I couldn’t shake.

And while I want to be brave and strong when people say, “there’s nothing you can do about it,” I call bullshit. I can speak up. I can write. I can vote. I can demand better for my niece and nephew’s generation. But, it’s exhausting to try to move through normalcy when the culture of this country regarding women has hardly budged in 30 years.

 

 

I share these videos and emotions to show the vulnerable side and the aftermath years after incidents take place on survivors. I want to share how I truly feel. How it feels for people – women especially – to over prove, over think, over compensate themselves in every.single.situation. To think about what you have to wear before going to jog – can you insert both headphones or leave one out? My key goes in between my fingers as a weapon. To have your mom remind you to wear a hat while driving at night alone, so you look more like a dude. To be careful about walking alone to your car, cause you never know when someone may try to mug you.

You are not alone.

Through all of this, humor is the one thing I can always cling to and happily welcome from Sister CBXB. Along with the hundreds of you who checked in on me all last week, lifting my spirits. My sister noticed something very key that stood out to her in the videos.

The lipstick is Urban Decay for the record. And I put one coat on Friday morning. I took the videos Saturday am, FYI.

Heading to the park for a walk while bawling underneath sunglasses (so chic and not weird at all) helped ease some of the sadness.

Fucking preach.

And so did strawberry martinis with Mama CBXB who demanded a lunch date.

And so did some vino with Bird Lady and First Mate, who have seen more ugly than pretty in me the past five years. I’ve cemented their friendship in happier times, so they’ll need a jack hammer to remove themselves out of my life.

Stuck like cement.

Oh, and speaking of humor, I want to personally deliver an Emmy for a guest appearance to Matt Damon and his spot on, perfect depiction of the SCOTUS nominee at the hearing on Saturday Night Live. Luckily, I recorded it and have watched the cold opening no less than 461 times. So on point. If you have not watched it, Google it now. Right now.

Sunday, Rocky and I got sucked into binge watching and football.

Not wanting to acquire couch sores, I made it to the bathroom for my bubbly routine.

Then it was time to love on my youngest boy, Fabio (who is also known as Fartio because he farts when he gets nervous). It was our one year anniversary together and we celebrated his “Gotcha!” day.

Fabio hearts being mauled.

Starting a fresh week, there’s a few things I know for sure…

I think this bun makes me appear smart.

This still rings true…

And…

Oh, and in case you were wondering what to write down in your calendar/journal this week so you can look back on it 36 years from now when hopefully there isn’t a circus full of ass clowns – and yes, I’m talking about almost all of them – “leading” the country here’s a suggestion:

Write it in permanent marker, just in case we go back to the future and need reference.

Cheers!

CBXB

CBXB!

How to Hit Rock Bottom by Twirling

What happens when something – or someone hits rock bottom?

I dunno. You tell me.

According to the dictionary rock bottom is defined two ways, with a third added by me:

rock-bot·tom

ˌräk ˈbädəm/

adjective

  • at the lowest possible level.
  • “rock-bottom prices”

noun

  • the lowest possible level.
  • “morale is at rock bottom”

 CBXB style

  • hit head as hard as possible on concrete
  • “head hit rock bottom”

I took the phrase rock bottom in a very literal way a few Fridays ago, as I twirled around in a parking lot, lost my footing IN FLATS (Louis Vuitton if we’re keeping track) landing only on my noggin which was cushioned by a yellow concrete tire stop.

An absolute guarantee my twirl was not as cute as this girl’s.

I can also guarantee that the concrete was not as cozy as this cushion.

I lost time but never consciousness. My head didn’t crack open and I didn’t have any kind of bump, so no visit to the emergency room commenced. I’ve fallen down so much in my life, this was just a par for the course in my novel.  I spent the night on a friend’s couch aided with water, ice and a high dose of ibuprofen.

The next morning, I did have quite the headache but only where I’d fallen on my head, so I wasn’t concerned.  I retrieved my car, ate breakfast, drank coffee, water, went to the pool, had wine, snacks, wine, supper and wine.

Totally fine enough to go to the pool.

Then that evening, I took a turn for the confused, belligerent and ended up at my mom’s house escorted by Bird Lady who kept telling me, “you’re not making any sense.” (Author’s side note: not uncommon for yours truly to not make any sense due to my self-described ‘blonde brain’ so this was waaaaaaay beyond my usual rambling).

Wait. What’s happening?

Upon waking Sunday, my entire body throbbed from my hairline, behind my eyeballs, my teeth, my neck, spine, knees and somehow in the middle of the night, my right big toe turned black and blue. I was a fucking mess.

Rock bottom if you will.

Mama CBXB had the pleasure of icing my head, listening to me complain about being nauseous, then getting to clean up after her grown ass daughter as I missed the bowl upon abruptly vomiting, when my symptoms were getting more serious. We called my health insurance nurse’s triage line and the on-call doctor at my general practitioner’s office for advice. It was decided I could miserably wait until Monday to see my doctor.

Ice. Ice. Baby.

I rewarded Dada CBXB for being my dad by giving him a reason to waste PTO days on, again, his grown ass daughter. Really, I’m just looking for more ways to bond with him at hospitals. So far, we’ve endured the removal of my tonsils, a busted face stitched up after an aluminum bat hit in 7th grade, Rapegate, his colonoscopy this year and now, my inability to twirl in a parking lot.

Hospital bonding.

I had a CT scan and X-ray of my foot (Dada CBXB just added my out-of-pocket cost to my ever-growing bill) performed, with the results saying there was no brain bleed, just a severe concussion. And a broken fucking toe (I have no idea how in the fuck I managed to break a toe and concuss myself all in the same twirl down, but somehow, I managed).

My doctor prescribed a week of no concentration and rest. No reading. No screen time on the phone and computer. No driving. No work. Just literally sitting and relaxing. And use a cane to help with the fucking toe. Oh, and I couldn’t be alone, so again, Dada CBXB cashed in four more PTO days and waited on his klutzy as fuck kid.

Oh woe is me.

So I decided the best way to communicate my neediness was to not look at him and ask for something while he sat three feet from me on the couch, but instead, I rang a bell.

I got used to the bell in about .000000003 seconds.

Leading up to my twirl down, I was insanely tired. My chronic fatigue has been in full force almost the entirety of this summer. I’d get restless sleep (because Shane the Rapist appears in my dreams but is just there – like, if I’m at a party, he’s there too. But nothing happens to me in the dream, well really, nightmare). So, I couldn’t remember the last time I woke up feeling refreshed. It’s basically been my job to be as relaxed as possible so that’s even become a chore. How fucked up is that? Three minutes of my life have doled out almost three years of recovery – with many more to come.

But, I’m back doing my beloved hot yoga, which helped me wind down in the past.

I take bubble baths after yoga. I read. I take my meds as needed. I drink sleepy time tea an hour before bed. I have a sound machine. I smell lavender. I put oil on my pulse points. I wear a sleep mask. I have a weighted blanket that is supposed to help with relaxation. I mean Jesus tap dancing Christ, this is my nightly ritual that shouldn’t seem like a fucking chore. But nothing was really working for my exhaustion and I was a train in dire need of some WD-40 on my wheels before they rolled completely away.

GO THE FUCK TO SLEEP.

Something had to give – and so, it did.

It came in the form of a severe concussion and a broken toe, forcing my ass to sit still and let others step in and care for me.

More water, please.

I can’t remember the last time I ate three meals a day consecutively since January 29, 2016. Well, that was remedied quickly.

My dad’s omelettes are my fave.

His BLT lettuce boats aren’t bad, either.

His stuffed peppers don’t suck.

Nor do his chicken lettuce wraps.

Chef Boyarcbxbeeee

I can’t remember the last time I took hour-long naps in the middle of the day.

Let’s get some day zzzz’s.

I can’t remember my dad ever watching the Bachelorette or Bachelor in Paradise, but we did.

New shows on the radar.

I can’t remember the last time I slept ten consecutive hours overnight. But I did.

I know you can’t tell, but I’m well rested.

I can’t remember ever not feeling like I’d swallowed the weight of a bowling ball in my belly since January 29 of 2016. But that feeling is gone.

The feeling of not feeling like I’ve swallowed a 14 lb. bowling ball.

The thing is, I’ve been treading water justenough to keep from drowning to the depths of my own personal Bermuda Triangle. There’s no escaping the aftermath of any trauma but when I started making baby steps in progress, even if I’d regress some later, it seemed so daunting to get up on that goddamn horse and try, try again.

When I saw glimpses of pre-Rapegate me starting to shine through my cracks, I wanted to do everything at once to grasp, hold on, keep the feeling there. I wanted to fight through therapy and come out on the other end, meet with the detective and sergeant of the Nashville Sex Crimes department to discuss the mishandling of my case, lose the 40 lbs I’ve gained since being raped, feel confident no matter what, work out daily, keep the mini manse sparking clean, be “on” and “happy” at work, make my bed without feeling like I should earn a gold medal for that feat, eating even though I have no appetite, grocery shopping, taking and keeping track of my meds, paint my nails, gussy up, take pride in my appearance, not wanting to make people who care about me worry, trying to not feel like a burden to those who do love me, avoiding panic attacks only to have them creep on stronger, listening to the judgement of others not solicited from folks who mean well and like to offer suggestions and the “I told you so” phrase even though they aren’t medical professionals or have experienced my exact trauma, remaining relaxed to try to sleep, trying to save money and pay back loans while keeping my lights on, dealing with life and loss like a normal person when I’m feeling like a tsunami inside (loss of self, ferociousness, confidence, dignity, ashamed of being raped (all daily feelings), my best fur friend Teddy Bear died, my second mom, Aunt Crazy Pants died, a friend of mine cut me out of his life completely with no explanation, a job loss, Precious my beloved Chug died – and this is all just part of fucking life) – I have been exhausted to the marrow of my bones.

Then, I suffered a severe concussion.

I first thought maybe one of those stupid cardinal wings of Aunt Crazy Pants’s was under my head, keeping me out of further harm when my noggin hit the concrete. Looking back now, I’m wondering if everyone who is a cardinal in Heaven and loves me joined forces and pushed my ass down, knowing I needed to stop.the.madness that had become my life. I was circling the drain in a bad way and I needed my ass kicked to stop it.

Thanks for the shove from above. Let’s not do it again, mmmkay?

Thankfully because of my family and friends (virtual and in real life), the Sparkly Army, that – if you’re reading this, you’re a part of– I’m back at it again.

Albeit a tad slower.

Canes are cool, right?

Unless you are my parents, sister, family, friends, or co-workers. In their case it’s me, then you.

Happy to report I’m on the mend, hobbling around on a broken toe, which is like a glimpse into my nursing home future.

If ever I twirl down again, I hope I’m in more appropriate attire.

Twirl at your own risk.

CBXB