Say Hello to My Little Friend

Stop. Or I’ll shoot (in your general direction).

It’s possible that I may not hit you. The bullet might nick your ear or rustle the hair on the side of your head and that’s OK…I just really want to scare the living shit out of you (well not you, actually).

My real live stuffed animal Ted and were living happily together in our old mini manse.  So when someone started messing around with my surroundings I wasn’t so much scared as I was territorial. And extremely pissed off.

Little mysterious happenstances occurred…it wasn’t that someone was harassing me outright but just enough to make me take notice (inside window locks broken, as if someone was trying to jimmy them open), enough to let me know they were around (a pile of cigarette butts by my car door in the morning that weren’t there the night before – and I’m not a smoker) enough to piss me off (smashed Halloween pumpkins on my sidewalk – and I lived around the rear of the building, so I knew someone was intentionally F’ing with me), enough to get some sort of security…enough to get my ass a gun.

OK, so maybe my .38 special revolver is a teeny tiny bit smaller than the ‘friend’ Al Pacino used in “Scarface.”

Upon acquiring a loaded firearm, I was feeling much more secure. So while I felt at ease, I had never shot a gun. Not even a bb gun (I couldn’t even make cool gun sounds – a capability all boys seem to be born with – when I was a kid).  And I thought maybe it would be a good idea to know how to handle the gun so as not to accidentally point and shoot at shadows, possibly hitting myself in my foot (which would be tragic, as I love my heels).

Sharing my need to obtain skills, my buddy found a ‘ladies shoot free’ day at a gun range near work.  So over lunch (only in the South would you be able to shoot guns over your lunch hour…how red neck of me…but let’s not forget I’m already fabulously trashy (see anything in my Grizzie category) therefore, I don’t give a rat’s ass what you think) we headed to the fancy gun range.

We arrived to a grimy, dingy, seedy (get the picture?) building, complete with bars on the windows.  After signing in, we received our ear (which look just like fancy headphones but sucked because they were communal. Yuck) and eye (snazzy yellow-tinted glasses) protection and headed downstairs.

Prior to actually shooting a gun, I was feeling very bad ass. Like a big, dorky, bad ass with kick ass accessories.

Did you get that last shot? Do I look cool? Seriously, tell me.

The first few times I pulled the trigger I was startled not only due to the loudness of a shot but also due to the ricocheting casings that flew off the ceiling, coming back to bite me on the head (insert screams – as at first I thought they were bullets – how blonde of me).

Focused on trying to hit the target…anywhere.

My trigger finger is apparently the weakest link on my body (why the hell does this look so easy on TV shows?) because I was having to use two digits after about five shots (insert my excuses as to why my bullets were hitting the floor and ceiling instead of the target).

Did I really hit it? Or is that just a black spec?

Hells yes I hit it! And then almost shot my gunpanion in all of my excitement.

While taking a break from my cockiness of less than mediocre shooting ability, (and resting my throbbing hand and aching finger) I was able to pose for one more threatening picture –

Stop! Or I’ll shoot…if I don’t giggle you to death first (way too much red neck fun at the gun range…maybe I do have a little Southern blood in my veins).

And now for the grand tamale (I know, I know, how can I possibly top a lunch break at the gun range?)… I decided to display my moderate (but in my mind kick ass) abilities and scare the bejesus out of anyone lurking around my mini manse.

A poor gal’s security system. Scared, aren’t you?

Who wouldn’t be terrified upon seeing a target with actual bullet holes hanging on a front door (no one has to know I took aim 12,346 times to achieve the 22 bullet holes actually making contact with the paper). But upon hanging my security guard on the door, no mysterious incidents occurred again…maybe they’re scared of a red neckish, unabashedly trashy girl with a gun.

And when I hit the gun range again, I will be wearing my ultra fabulous, non-communal pink ear and eye protectors courtesy of my First Mate’s hubs. He thought I needed the fancy giddup to match the pink grips he gave me for Christmas. I wish he knew me better…

Wouldn’t you be scared shitless of a girl giggling uncontrollably with pink eye and ear protectors, along with a pink gripped .38 special?

Go ahead, make my day.

CBXB

How to Conduct a Trashtacular Moonshine Toast

Keepin’ the family tradition alive…

Being from such a classy clan, we started a tradition a few years ago to celebrate every touchdown or field goal that our favorite college football team, the Iowa Hawkeyes, score with a shot of one’s choice (this way no matter what the outcome of the game, you can have fun – even if your team sucks (which is how this lovely tradition began). Unless they score nothing of course, and if that’s the case, get a new team).

This past weekend, my dad really upped ante (and kept it Southern) by blowing the dust off of a jar of moonshine for our required celebratory shots.

Popcorn Sutton White Whiskey (it’s called white whiskey instead of moonshine because they pay taxes).

In order to prep for a trashtacular toast (and be sure you’re ready for a photo-op), you must first be sure your three free fingers that aren’t holding the shot glass are available for a partial jazz hand.

Digits prepped and ready.

Second, make sure your ‘do is did. Right before this pic was snapped, my dad said, “I hope I combed my hair.”

Either way, it was too late as the toast was already in motion.

What hair? The one strand on top of your head?

Next, be sure you prolong the inevitable by clinking your glasses several times.

Again, don’t forget the fingers.

Then before you take the shot, say something really clever like my dad, who said, “You know, once you go moonshine you never……….”

*Silence*

*Crickets*

Feel free to borrow this toast whenever you shoot moonshine next.

Trepidatious cheers.

Down the hatch…

Smooth. But hopefully the Hawks don’t score again until the second half.

Never one to be at a loss for words (unless he’s conducting a toast), my dad concluded our initial shot by saying, “Best shine I ever had.”

My response followed, “Oh no shit, Dad. It’s the first time you’ve ever had moonshine,” (although Popcorn Sutton is awfully tasty – it also mixes well with lemonade or Diet Coke for you white whiskey connoisseurs that aren’t down with our family tradition of straight shooting).

While we were hemming and hawing over the “best shine ever,” the Hawkeyes scored again.

For F’s sake. Again?! And again. And again.

So even if your team loses (like ours did in the last ten seconds), you can have some bright, shiny fun watching the game anyway with a little bit of Southern likker.

Cheers!

CBXB

Trashtacular 90th Birthday Shenanigans

Can you imagine turning the big nine-oh? I can’t either (really, I can’t imagine my liver lasting that long). But my family certainly turned up the class when we were celebrating behind the scenes at my Grandma’s 90th birthday shindig, starting off with her heart bursting in pride at my inability to wash off rub on tattoos I’d received at the Iowa State Fair the day prior.

Tough enough to celebrate 90?

Of course we threw Gma an appropriate celebration complete with cake, cookies, punch, old friends and best (depends on how you look at it) of all  – family.

Nonagenarian in her birthday glory!

Party girls! All five sisters are still alive and kickin’ it into their 90s.

Whenever the seven of us are now in the same state, my immediate fam always feels the needs to take a photo just in case we use it at holiday time.

Smile! Might be the Christmas card this year…but it for sure won’t be because the babies aren’t looking into the camera. Plus, why do I have two dark holes as eyes?

During the four-hour throw down, a few of us cousins snuck off to Aunt Crispy’s house for a quick cocktail.

None of the 90-year-olds even noticed we went missing.

The celebrating really started when we spiked the punch and got out the elaborate appetizers at the after party.

Nothing says fancy like Anderson Erickson French Onion Dip and party sized Ruffles!

We took turns primping in the new hand mirror my sister gifted me…

Definitely not the fairest in the land.

I cheated on Captain for the first time ever (hurt so good) and used Lady Bligh for Skinny Pirates.

You can catch me on the next episode of Cheaters.

Friendly, loving sign language was exchanged as I “made” family members sign Gma’s guest book, accompanied by a favorite memory with her.

Tough times signing the book (even though it’s her own son).

With the addition of B and B, we were sure to keep the after-party baby friendly.

Party animals taking notes from Auntie CBXB.

As we turned their binkies into new wine glass decor.

Binky booze charms will be all the rage. Mark my words.

We then felt the need to forgo glasses and just pass the bottle, in old-fashioned, celebratory, heathen-style family fun.

Who needs a glass?

Once we threw the stemware out, we felt it appropriate to just use our hands to eat left over cake.

Don’t forget to lick under your fingernails.

And what family birthday party is complete without someone taking their shirt off and using it as a turban?

Uncle T’s head was cold. Really cold.

Taking one’s shirt off also means you can just let it all hang out…all over the kitchen table.

Bonding time over the gut strut.

You may think that all of this white trash birthday behavior would be enough to make one go mad…

I don’t care about your gut Uncle T! This mirror won’t answer my question. AM I PRETTIER THAN SNOW F’ING WHITE?!

But I was still concerned with not being the fairest in all of the land.

I’m sure you’re wondering if my clan is available to attend your next family gathering. The answer is yes. But we do require chips, dip and booze. Lots of booze. Oh, and a piece of your square footage to lay our weary party heads when it’s all over.

CBXB

Tennessee Truck Trash

The state of Tennessee (along with Kentucky, Alabama and Mississippi) is often referred to as “The Armpit of America,” and when I first relocated to the greenest state in the land of the free it took all of three seconds to understand the moniker.

It seems that white trash folks live above the Mason-Dixon Line, where as red necks (who are really proud to boast about being one) generally reside in the South. And to be a proper red neck, you need a truck because they come in handy for attaching larger than life tires, they are used for muddin’ (yes it’s a sport down here) and with a truck, you don’t care if your window falls out or if you need a ladder to climb into the cab.

My buddy Chris (complete in camo) caught in mud after a day of turkey hunting. Looks devastated (more like delighted), huh?

This proud truck owner apparently needs a ladder to climb up to the driver’s seat with the oversized tires in which he opted to attach to his ride. It makes so much sense for driving around Nashville, right?

Up the ladder to the truck, where you can see heaven much better!

Due to the photo quality you can’t quite see the beauty in this truck’s license plate….

PRKRIND. Sound it out…

On the same Nashville interstate, I found this clever driver who decided glass was too fancy for his rear window.  He opted for plastic and duct tape (my favorite), which really classes the vehicle up – don’t you agree?

Duct tape to the rescue!

This lovely SUV owner obviously takes Tennessee trash quite literally.

Taking pride in garbage.

Trashed dash.

Of course after seeing my fellow statesmen class up our city, I had to get in on the trashy Tennessee shenanigans.  Since my dream car is a Range Rover, I thought I’d just go ahead and own one – all it took was  a marker, packing tape and cardboard. A true dream come true – for free!

Think my new vehicle can handle the car wash?

Just keepin’ it ultra classy with my fellow Tennesseeans (does this mean I’m now a red neck?!)…

CBXB