Weekend Winks – Single in the Sizzlin’ City

Girls just want to have fun is a severely underused statement, as was proven by the party I hosted for gal pals this past weekend.

Cheers to the ladies!

Cheers to the ladies!

Instead of a red carpet roll out, I had a piece of khaki carpet all dazzled up for everyone’s arrival.

Rolled out the khaki carpet

White trash version of the real deal.

Truth: my neighbors upstairs just moved in and left this on the sidewalk. Everyone loves a soaking wet, nasty piece of used carpet sloshing under their heels. Am I right, ladies?

An ode to our beloved show “Sex and the City,” we gussied up as our fave characters from the show.

Triple threat.

We know. We know. Dead ringers for Samantha, Miranda and Carrie.

What party would be complete without favors?

Party favors

Cocktails for everyone!

When you live in a mini manse with no storage, you don’t keep things like an ice cooler on hand. So you substitute a sink in its place.

Ice ice baby.

Ice ice baby.

My group of girls are serious about their party food. God forbid we go three minutes without the ability of shoving something in our not-so-quite mouths.

Chicken coming out of our ears.

Chicken nuggets galore.

Food galore

The added veggie tray among dips, chips and sausage wrapped cheese made us feel ‘healthy’.

Instead of gathering around and watching an episode of our favorite TV show of yesteryear, I decided to force gather the gals around and get their feedback on my sizzle reel.

Sizzlin' it. Just a little bit.

I fed them plenty of alcohol before this preview, so naturally they loved it.

While I was showing off skull rings, I incorporated a ring pop into the mix.

Ring Pop, anyone?

The gaudier the better.

When my pal, Bird Lady (we felt each other’s pain a few years ago working for the same über rich, wannabe country singer) said she’d never heard of a ring pop, I nearly forced my naughty finger clad with a sucker down her throat.

What's a ring pop?

Ring pop for one, please.

Of course no party is complete without a photobombing attack from yours truly.


Not the first nor last time First Mate’s photo will be ruined by my photobombing expertise.

As the evening crept into the wee hours of the morning, we started making silly decisions. Like my Georgia friend Podunk, who swore to her husband that she’d stick to beer.

No shots for Podunk. Hubby's orders!

Yes, I’ll take a whiskey shot please.

Down the hatch

32 shots later….

Fully loaded with liquor we turned into a think tank around 2am, brainstorming ideas and writing them on our makeshift white board…paper towels hung from my busted up blinds.

Think tank.

We become geniuses after midnight. And 46 combined cocktails.

When the clock struck 3:30 am, we didn’t turn into pumpkins. Nope, not us. We turned into supermodels.

"Look sexy"

We know. We know. Dead ringers for Claudia Schiffer, Cindy Crawford and Elle Macpherson.

When heads finally hit pillows at 4:30am (after a rousing 3am rendition on my piano of chopsticks – you’re welcome neighbors) six minutes seemed to pass before the sun came up. Upon opening the freezer door to retrieve ice for much needed water later that morning, I was greeted with a leftover cocktail next to my Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Fire (have you tried this yet? It’s better than Fireball, FYI).

Good morning. Freezer finds.

Freezer finds.

Leftovers, anyone?

Leftovers, anyone?


Apparently we were extremely thirsty.

How does one recover from an all night estrogen party? Lay by your private pool. (Which is typically full of screaming kids and chatty parents – somehow the universe just knew I needed quiet time).

Enjoying private pool

Pool for one.

New Cat recovered from the festivities by laying on top of every single piece of literature I tried to read the rest of the weekend.

Reading the newspaper blocker. Cat blocker

Cat blocker.

While Prince Charming could do nothing but scowl about loud ladies keeping him up past his precious bedtime.

If looks could kill...

Read my face, I hate you.

If looks could kill…

Here’s hoping you have a fabulous week.




I’m a Cowboy, Baby

…with the top let back and the sunshine shining…

OK, so maybe I’m not the Kid Rock kind of cowboy. But ever wonder how others might describe you?

One of my blogging besties, The Wandering Poet compiled a few thoughts (and possible explanations) regarding yours truly (and my dad, who runs around on Twitter and is often a side-kick on my blog).

A Cowboys Sighting

The Cowboyius Nashvillius of the Family BigBennius Barbecueius SuperHeroius is not to be confused with the far more common and uncouth Johnny Knoxvillius.

Frequently seen in all types of environments, the Cowboy is a social creature that exhibits brazen, even shocking behavior!

Here she is choosing a suitable potential mate from the finer specimens of Marinius Kickassius.

Teddy on United States Marines

The symbiotic lifeform, Teddyius CoolCattius has temporarily attached himself to another host.

This is to allow the potential for selection or other social engagement in the wild without the Pussy Symbiote getting involved in the ritual.

The Cowboy is a social animal, often seen intruding in otherwise calm social gathering in the wild.

The local watering hole is often frequented, where the Cowboy displays her blonde plumage in a brazen display.

Notice the Cougar spots.  They help her blend into the local environment to make ambush hunting easier.


The Cowboy is a selective huntress, preferring a potential mate that is comfortable with his masculinity.

Here, the well male of the species does a bit of grooming while Cowboys supervises and instructs on proper grooming technique.

This is necessary so that proper care and hygiene is passed down to next generations through natural selection.


When on the hunt, the Cowboy exhibits an astonishing variety of hunting techniques.

At one one with the environment and able to adapt, improvise and overcome, the Cowboy is truly a flexible huntress.


Not above using disguise when on the hunt, she will exhibit a furry look on occasion, and changes her spots.


Remember, that the Cowboy is flexible, and there are often tell tale signs that it is the true Cowboy.

Critical to identification of the Cowboy is the Open Mouth.

If seen at the local watering hole, the identification is that much easier.


The Cowboy is known to associate with her Father, the Big Benny.

Note the Iron Man and Hulk on the fists.  That makes the classification of SuperHeroius very clear.


And anyone that messes with Cowboy or Big Benny is messing with the #Krew also.

We hear that a Documentary is currently filming of the Cowboy, and that may be airing in your neck of the woods.

And I give Cowboy 2 thumbs up and a 5 of 5 on the #Krew scale.

I think Wandering Poet knows me pretty well, don’t you?




Weekend Winks – Sizzlin’ Willie Style

Oh the fun that filled my Nashville weekend!

Back in January, I filmed a sizzle reel for a potential reality show and I have been patiently waiting for the final product.

Sizzlin' it. Just a little bit.

Sizzlin’ it. Just a little bit.

While sitting at my desk trying to eek out a little more work just before the clock hit five on Friday, Producer Paul texted me and said that I’d get to lay eyes on the final reel later that evening. Naturally I pestered him to the point where he wished he’d never opened his mouth and learned that I had to wait another two hours.

So I went to kill time with five a few Skinny Pirates at Dalts before the world Nashville premiere of my sizzle.

After getting over the fact that hearing my own voice makes my ears want to bleed profusely and wishing I’d eaten 800 less sugar cookies over the course of the holidays (as we filmed in early January), I nestled into my bar stool and let ‘er rip.


Not so bad the first time.


Second viewing a success.


Third round proved a monster had been born.

Rudely interrupting my sizzle observations, a chance to see Willie Nelson presented itself and how could I say no?

I couldn’t.

I also couldn’t refrain from stealing a Shotgun Willie shirt off of the back of a gentleman in the crowd. OK, I didn’t steal it.  I simply admired this dude’s shirt out loud and he offered it up after some gentle prodding by yours truly.


Mamas don’t let your babies grow up to be robbers…

I also got to hang with my work buddies who made my Willie experience all the more fabulous.

C'mon down!

Tire Hero, CBXB and Ashman.

Finding myself out way past curfew, I fully expected a tongue lashing from Teddy upon my return to our mini manse. But he could barely even muster an eyelid opening and I found myself off the hook. Holla!

Passed out

Too tired to care.

I found myself dazed and confused staring at my half-assed wallpaper fail and found the motivation somewhere in my dehydrated state to finish the damn job – even the wonkiness above the doorway.

All around fail

All around unfinished fail.

After three hours, four cocktails and one large headache the stick-on wallpaper mission was accomplished!


Don’t try this sober.

Not at all amused or sharing my joy in any way shape or form was none other than Mr. Ted E. Bear who slept off his food coma (I accidentally fed him breakfast twice) while I practically stood on my head lining fucking stripes of sticky paper together.


Trying so hard to not give a care.

Keeping in the spirit of putting pep in household steps, I helped G (you know, the friend who almost brawled an 80-year-old man for me) gussy up her new bedroom by throwing any and everything in her cart at Target (much to her hubby’s dismay, I’m sure). On a side note, did you know that Southerners call shopping carts buggies? Yes, like the horse and buggy type. Just an FYI for you.

Fully loaded cart - or buggy as southerns like to call them.

Supermarket Sweeps CBXB style.

Coming home I found these my two ‘we-don’t-like-each-other-when-you’re-around-but-when-you’re-not-looking-we’re-in-love’ cats sitting in tandem on the porch.

Love to hate

My pretty pussies.

All weekend I was sweating how to break the news to Tedstar that he didn’t make the sizzle reel, even though he made damn sure he was highly involved during the weekend shoot.

Patiently waiting for his close-up.

Patiently waiting for his close-up.

As we nestled into bed and I turned the sizzle on for the 7,491 fourth time this weekend, Ted couldn’t do much of anything but silently seethe when he found himself missing from the entire footage.

No love.

If looks could kill.

I’ve relayed this issue to Producer Paul who may or may not have claw marks on his face next time he visits Nashville…



How to Get Down a Girl’s Pants

Getting to second and third base with a lady is an easy feat….if you’re a camera dude.

Rough, rough job. But somebody's got to mic me.

Rough, rough job. But somebody’s got to mic me.

While filming a sizzle reel for a potential reality TV show a few weeks ago, I got immediately intimate with the camera guy on day one. I think our initial meeting went something like this:

“Hi, I’m Ian. I need to put this mic down your shirt.”

Never one to be shy, I responded with, “Bring it.”

So if you find yourself timid with lackluster skills around the ladies, allow me to suggest a career move to the film industry.

Do this...

No game required to be this guy and still score with ladies.

Being a camera dude (the correct term for this job is Director of Photography but that doesn’t have as good of a ring to it, ya dig?), not only do you get to put your creative thinking cap on, hiding mics in weirdo places like tiny disco balls (yes, only in my mini manse would this problem arise)…

NOt only do you need to put your thinking cap on...and get creative in where to hide mics,

Microphone hider extraordinaire.

…you also get to touch ladies from the tip tops of their heads…

Tip top of her head...

Can you please not palm me?

…down lovely their backsides…

You get to get down a gal's backside.

Even married ladies let you go in for the kill.

…and up the other.

And some frontal action

As you can see, Ian loathes his line of work.

While he was nothing but professional, I couldn’t help but blow Ian shit whenever he was carrying a mic pack toward me.

You want to what, where?

You want to do what to me where?

I gotta feeling you don't hate your job.

This kind of touching usually requires at least $800 worth of liquor, you lucky devil you.

He had no shame.

You dropped the tiny mic down my shirt? *Awkward*

By the end of filming I was all kinds of professionally appropriate and barely noticed when Ian had his hand down my shirt.



As you can see, I hated every second.



Pussy Producer

Film me, Bitches.

Film me, Bitches.

I always knew my pussy was a self-absorbed, one-of-a-kind, scene stealing feline but I had no clue he could also act as a producer, director, location scout, lighting manager and camera man at the same time.

When filming a sizzle reel in my mini manse for a possible reality TV show, my main squeeze Ted put his mad skills to use as soon as the equipment hit the floor.


Any other color for this cord? Say, pink for instance?

Equipment manager

Can we get this bar a tad lower? I can’t jump over anything more than one inch off of the ground.

Think you can get a better angle

This angle is all wrong. Jesus!

Set direction

Envisioning potential for filming a scene.


A little more light over here, please!

Location scout

Location scout.

While I was under the impression Mr. Bear was taking charge for my well-being, he had other ideas…

No, seriously. Film me.

No, seriously. Film me. NOW.

Lighting Director

More light shining on me, please!

So not moving.

CUT! She’s blocking my good side.

Pretty pussy

Puurfectly primped pussy poised for an interview.

After all of the spotlight stealing, Tedstar needed a cattail to take the edge off.

Cattail time.

Being a cat star is beyond exhausting.

After resting his weary paws, TB realized he was one pooped pussy and decided it was a wrap (such a diva already).

Pooped pussy.

No pawtographs, please.

Upon waking up the next morning, I could tell Ted was wondering where the fabulous lighting had gone as he cruised from room to room looking for our mini manse guests.

Since he’s so lonesome for the camera, I make him feel better every other minute by shouting –

“Lights! Camera! Teddy!”