Weekend Winks – Loud and Proud

First world problem – a non-working cell phone that carries over to a week.

How the fuck do landlines work again?

My iPhone 6 took a literal dump. Complete with a cracked screen (I seriously replaced that motherfucker four times – FOUR TIMES and each and every time cracking occurred, it had a protective screen on it) and total black out of the phone BUT if I kept it charged, sometimes Siri would work. Bonus, I was gifted an iWatch from Sister CBXB for my birthday and I could use that to talk and text like a fucking secret service agent.

Who doesn’t scream into their wrist?

Wanna know how I felt as soon as I had a brand new phone in my hands?

Hello again 2018.

While I was awaiting my new phone, I was able to hire, beg my gal pal Rasta, into being my own personal paparazzi. My cousin, Tballs and his wife with whom he’s been with so long, she feels like a cousin, Hussy #5 visited Nashville and naturally, I needed documentation.

A trashtacular family sandwich.

Hussies for life.

Dad’s Day required margaritas and four heaping bowls of salsa.

Feel good Father’s Day.

My twins of The Pussy Posse turned six last week. They were overjoyed. Obviously.

Sleepy at six.

Another member of my posse is making the rounds at the vet (and I’m still paying off Ted who’s been over the Rainbow Bridge for almost a year), Precious my chug.

Fainting couch needed.

Pres is 12 years old but truly acts like a puppy in the fact that she canNOT contain her excitement over anything. At all. So, in the recent weeks, she’s been so excited seeing her leash, she passes out for a few seconds. The first time at the vet, we were supposed to keep an eye on her. Then, she passed out upon my return home from work last week (I mean, I do know how to make an entrance into a room).

Vet visit two resulted in a referral to a pet cardiologist AND an order to keep this chug as calm as possible. I sound like a fucking ass clown coming home from work, trying to talk in a monotone voice, when typically my screech could shatter windows when talking to my fur kids.

Netflix and chillin’.

I’m not even supposed to take her out to pee (she’s puppy pad trained) because the sight of her sparkle leash literally makes her pass out. So what’s a fabulous fur mom supposed to do for a little stimulation? Put her in a Louis Vuitton and take her on errand runs.

Most annoying duo on the west side of Nashville.

Preshy even joined First Mate and yours truly for an early Friday happy hour.

While speaking of illnesses and fur kids, Mama CBXB  has two pussies that I may or may not have had a hand in getting her. One is a fucking beast who gives all felines a bad name – hissing and batting at legs and making sounds that don’t seem like they belong on this planet. The other, is the sweetest little baby you could imagine. Yet, they get along.

A beast and a baby.

When I tried picking the beast up over the weekend, I got a little souvenir for my heroic efforts of love.

Finally! I’m sprouting cat hair.

Speaking of hair, look who is the proud owner of some colored locks…

Sorry. Not sorry she’s my mini me.

My nephew, Prince B, is taking after his folks for a love of baking. This weekend it was pizza.

Chef BoyArdee.

The ultimate taste tester.

After a week full of shit show news, it was good to get out and about at Nashville Pride.

Roaming the festival with Rasta.

LGBTQ allies.

One of my fave parts of festivals is gawking at people and boy, this one did not disappoint. The best t-shirt ever goes out to this dude, who found it on Etsy.

Trump is not his safe word.

It was also Tan Boy’s birthday and we had a big time making fun of my blondeness.

Taking Pride a tad too literally.

Pride weekend was a much-needed positive reminder after all of the hate spew coming from people of all walks of life these days.

Love is love.

Regardless of your political affiliation, every person bleeds red, compassion is compassion and treating people like actual human beings is NOT hard.

Image by Justin Teodoro.

Care.

Care your fucking brains out with compassion. It matters. If you need any guidance on how to do this, give me a ring. I no longer have to shout into my wrist.

CBXB

How to Be Somebody at a Grammy Party

When I was invited to attend a Grammy viewing party sponsored by the Nashville chapter of The Recording Academy, how could I say no?

Like I’d ever say no to a party. In a bar. With cocktails. And food. And photo booths.

Four somebodies at a Grammy party.

What does one wear when the invitation states, “dress to impress” as the advised attire?

To leopard or not? Boots or heels? Oh the woes.

Selfies helped narrow down the wardrobe before I was all set to make my appearance.

All gussied up with somewhere to go.

Upon arriving to the gala, I prepped myself to walk the extremely short, fairly stained, freshly vacuumed red carpet.

Walk of fame.

As no media was present, I shouted my own name acting as paparazzi while I traipsed down the crimson rug.

Hey CBXB! Look right here!

Meeting up with my posse, we beelined for the bar (Anyone surprised? Anyone?) prior to taking our seats.

Ready to mingle.

Because I’m not a fan of standing for hours, I make a habit of arriving as soon as the doors of a venue open (completely being ‘uncool’ as all of the other Nashville hipsters arrive fashionably late).

No one on the floor but me and the DJ… but my ass will get a seat. Hallelujah!

I sat guzzling wine and flipping through the evening’s program, admiring my V.I.P. paper bracelet that so hideously clashed with my other accessories and watched all of the other somebodies arrive for the show.

If I were a true V.I.P. I probably wouldn’t need this bracelet now would I?

Assessing Nashville’s interpretation of “dress to impress” footwear choices had me arriving at the conclusion that this city embellishes their feet for comfort. Classy comfort.

Sensible wedges, sneakers and cowboy boots, oh my…

I missed the comfort memo.

As the venue filled up, I was a happy camper conversing with old friends and enjoying fabulous new times.

Does this wine match my nail polish? Does it?!

I forced deep conversations with my trio of gents that probably made their ears want to start bleeding.

Do you think Pharrell was trying to mimic Smokey the Bear by wearing that God awful hat?

No seriously, do you?

When they couldn’t take the fashion talk anymore, my buddies lured my vocal chords into remission by announcing the presence of a photo booth near the exit.

Record scratch.

A what?

Let me touch up my lipstick…

No talking during photo taking…

Apparently no smiling during photo taking, either.

We weren’t meant to be models. Clearly.

And while we hoarded the booth (much to my insistence) for a quarter of an hour, we forever captured the essence of us being our best version of somebodies in snapshots.

Lucky us.

CBXB

Redneck Red Carpet

While I was all in a tizzy about what to wear to work the Country Music Association Awards last Thursday night, I should have been charging my phone because it unfortunately died due to me acting like I was a member of the paparazzi.

Walking up to the red carpet area, I was overly excited at the first classy thing I saw – a freaking hot dog cart.

Do you think they sell hot dogs at the Academy Awards red carpet or is it just a country staple?

I arrived at 3pm – the same time all of the D list stars were being dropped at the red carpet entrance.

The girl in the cream coat almost broke an arm trying to get an autograph from an American Idol 6th runner-up from 2006. Seriously.

Fans gathering on the red carpet four hours before the CMA Awards show began. If I had more balls, I would have snapped pictures of their snazzy outfits – some combining sequins and Crocs.

In case you stayed WAY past the start of the show (as most fanatics do), you’d need to leave your sunglasses on if you’re prone to migraines or seizures.

Moving my way around back to slide into the mover and shaker scene, I felt the same way about the rear of the red carpet as I do about my own backside…needs a bit of work.

Baby got back.

The ass of the red carpet is also where stars sneak out after they’ve had their photo taken by media and don’t want to walk down the long line of TV interviewers. I recognized as many ‘stars’ that came through the back entrance as they did me. Zero (apparently anyone can be a country singer these days. Just attach a cowboy hat to your head or wear mirrored sunglasses at night or really go out on a limb and do both).

The scene of a photog’s dream (and mine, since I was about 6 feet from all of the upcoming action. And I was extremely busy pretending this was no big deal, while having to bite my cheeks to keep from smiling too big from giddiness).

While I was busy acting like I didn’t give a rat’s ass about my surroundings, I was constantly ducking out-of-the-way for the CMT’s Katie Cook and Evan Farmer, preparing to interview all of the celebs.

After giving my thighs a squat work out from my continuous up-and-down-out-of-the-camera’s way calisthenics (and trying really hard to be nonchalant about the whole ordeal), the big stars were just about to appear in front of me.

Phone out. Camera app on. Flash off (God forbid anyone think I’m taking a picture. I may be a little white trashy but sometimes I do know when to save face).  Holding the phone out from my body just so (pretending like I can’t see the screen up close). Positioned just high enough (so it doesn’t look like I’m taking a picture).  Phone rings. Boss needs me now. Damn it!

As I disappointedly turn to walk out (I had a red carpet spot!), I hear the photographers shout, “Sugarland, over here!”

And being the classy lady that I am, whipped around and snapped a blurry picture, complete with flash on my way out. Score!

Oh, and I got a hot dog on my way to the show in case you were wondering.

CBXB