For the Love of the Game

It’s no secret that I’ve had a rough go in my personal life the last few years. Of course, no one has perfection and bad shit happens to everyone, however, I’ve been numbed to the point that I don’t expect the worst but am surprised by nothing. Nothing.

Martians falling from the sky? We believe you.

It’s also no secret that I love college football – especially my alma mater, the Iowa Hawkeyes.

Fans #1 and #2.

It can be hard for those who experience trauma to remain in the moment, appreciating what life offers up for enjoyment. No matter how small the pleasure.

The last day that I can truly say I was ‘in the moment’ was December 5, 2015. I got to experience the first Big Ten Championship with my dad, The Silent Indian (who cheered for the wrong team) and Camo with my Iowa Hawkeyes taking on Sparty of Michigan State.

Big four at the Big Ten game.

It was one of the best days of my life even though Sparty won in the literal last second of the game.

All the after morning feels.

Four days upon returning home from that game, I was pushed out of a career that I’d worked my ass off to obtain in the music business. Eleven days after that, I experienced the worst Christmas of my life – a day I cherish (almost as much as my birthday) due to family dynamics shifting and my unwillingness to accept it. Less than one month later, a woman who was like a little sister to me died in a car accident. That evening, I went to my best friend’s house and was raped by her boyfriend.

I went into deep personal hibernation.

Somebody wake me when it’s 2025.

The day I was at the hospital awaiting my rape kit to be performed, I was asked if I’d like an advocate to come sit with me. I didn’t know if I did or didn’t because as my bare ass was hanging out of the back of a hospital gown, I was in a state of shock. An advocate was called on my behalf. Aside from her beyond sweet demeanor, her name being Barbie (I mean, c’mon!), her fabulous Louis Vuitton purse (obvies the right advocate for me), she said something that still rings true to this day.

“There will be a before rape in your life. And there will be an after rape.”

A before and after. Seems like a simple enough concept but I did not comprehend then how fucking true this would be in my daily life moving forward.

The Before: last selfie I took before Rapegate.

The After: first selfie taken after Rapegate.

It’s now been 1,277 days since the saga of Rapegate began. At first it was all-consuming, eating me up – a worm in my brain, invading every moment of my sleep, thoughts, feelings – I had no idea that I might as well have been standing at the bottom of Mount Everest, readying to climb 29,029 feet with zero conditioning.

My thoughts on hiking.

Thing is, life goes on all around even though time stands still for victims of any sort of trauma. For me, I was stuck on January 29, 2016 but I still had a job to find, bills to pay, fur ball mouths to feed and personal hygiene to maintain (this took much insisting from Mrs. America and my sister). I just wanted to wallow on my leopard couch and have it swallow me whole but of course that didn’t fucking happen.

Not so fresh and so clean clean.

With the support and love from my family, friends, and readers of this blog (my sparkly army), I was encouraged to put one (semi-clean) foot in front of the other and got into counseling. I’ve tirelessly acted as my own advocate with a horrendous detective, found a job, kept my lights on, was diagnosed with PTSD, adjustment disorder and severe stress and stumbled forward.

I don’t wanna but I’m gonna!

Through what felt like a continuous avalanche in my life, I put on the happiest face possible and plowed forward. Although, everything had less meaning, was less fun, was just not right. I went to my fave watering hole Dalts, invited girlfriends over, tried to read books but couldn’t remember the page I just read, watched TV only to forget what the episode was about as my mind couldn’t stay focused, stopped going to yoga and jogging due to not being able to be alone with my thoughts – because the aftermath of Rapegate was never far.

SAY WHAT?

Trying to trudge through life, every step felt like I was moving through snow waist deep. Yet again, life stops for no one. Aunt Crazy Pants was diagnosed with terminal cancer almost six months to the day after I was raped. She passed just a little over two years ago, ten days after I suddenly lost the fur ball love of my life, Ted. The searing dual losses not only felt like unusually cruel timing but also like a hot iron had been stabbed into my chest. I’d never experienced the throes of despair (navigating my way out of Rapegate), alongside devastating, life altering grief (losing those we deeply love) at the same time.

There’s not enough wine for this.

While I was home for ACP’s celebration of life, I had an opportunity to go tailgating with my Uncle Toddy, Aunt Crispie, my cousins and their many friends at the in state rivalry of the Iowa Hawkeyes versus the Iowa State Cyclones. It was a thrillingly unexpected day jam-packed with tailgating shenanigans.

The friendly family rivalry…

Battle of the birds.

The fun of endless booze all around…

I hate tailgating.

The classiness of passing time while waiting to use the port-a-potties…

Shotski for three please.

Having to ask your uncle if there’s anyone he’s friends with in his season ticket section just in case I embarrass him with my big, loud pie hole…

A beauty and a sparkly beast.

Embarrassing my youngest cousin with all the right moves…

Cousin love is acceptable below the Mason Dixon line.

Up close and personal for the live action overtime win didn’t suck!

End zone win baby!

Afterward, I realized how much fucking fun I truly had that day. I lived in the moment for the first time in almost two years – at yet another football game. I didn’t think about anything other than what I was partaking in every. single. second. The bands marching through the tailgates. The booze. The Hawkeye buses arriving. The booze. The food. The booze. The rivalry. The family and friends I was enjoying the fuck out of spending time with. The game I got to watch from the end zone and the exciting win by the Hawks in overtime.

Some cousins took it well.

Others were sore losers.

Point is, for a brief day I got a taste of what it will be like when I transfer from survivor to thriver. I felt normal. I felt the fun I was experiencing. I felt like pre-rape me for once in almost two years. And it was fucking fantastic, freeing and I caught a glimpse of my old self starting to shine through the cracks I still carry.

Fist forward.

I’m happy to report that in the two years after this fun day of football, I will be there again this upcoming Saturday as a thriving survivor. And holy shit Ames, look the fuck out. This survivor is gonna be there in the wee hours of the morning to secure a spot to see my 82 year old boyfriend, Lee Corso, with the rest of the College Game Day gang.

At the end of every episode, Lee picks one of the two teams featured and my fucking fingers, toes and legs are crossed that I get to see him don a Herky head.

Everything else is triple fucking crossed that I not only get to lay eyes on Lee but also, hopefully, maybe just maybe, get my hands on my other boyfriend, Herky the Hawkeye.

Stud.

I attended the University of Iowa for four years and never once got close enough for a pic together. But you bet your ass I tried.

Wait. Stop. I love you.

The Hawkeyes are almost always considered the underdogs. And it’s not lost on me that both the last and first time I realized I was living in the moment were at football games, watching my favorite team with some of my favorite people.

I love you too, Lee.

The love of the football fan experience was and is a much needed reminder that I’m doing the best that I can every goddamn day. Aren’t we all?

Appreciate what life offers up for enjoyment when you can.

ON IOWA!

CBXB

 

Weekend Winks – Cheers to Seven Years!

It’s my seven year blogoversary!

Celebration Queens.

When I started Cowboys and Crossbones at the urging of my sister one wine filled night seven years ago, I didn’t quite know what kind of content I was going to create. Maybe ways to look fashionable on a budget? Or a nail painting blog? A lazy in the kitchen, you can do it too recipe blog? As I played with different ideas and posts, the more I shared about my life in general as a single Nashville, crazy cat lady, Iowa Hawkeyes, Skinny Pirate and wine loving gal, a lifestyle blog surfaced.

The photo above was taken on the same day I started CBXB and just appeared on my Facebook memories. Back when I thought the worst thing that could happen to me was my then boyfriend running over my cell phone on our way to eat Italian one Friday night. Oh, how life would school me.

Wait a second…you’re telling me life isn’t all sunshine and fuckin’ rainbows?

Naturally, with life milestones coming and going, I’ve been thinking about what has taken place since I started this blog. I loved so hard on Ted, moved three times, found a career I adored in the music production business, adopted New Cat, broke up with relationships not healthy for me, gained a niece and nephew (!), loved on Precious, lost my Gma, got promoted to an executive in a career I adored, lost New Cat unexpectedly, was sexually harassed at the career I adored, forced out of the career I adored, guzzled countless family tradition Hawkeye touchdown shots, hosted celebratory for anything parties, endured Rapegate (and the shit show that still ensues), adopted three pussies in one day (and love the shit out of them), lost Ted, gained a happy work environment, lost Aunt Crazy Pants, fell into depression, grew boobs as an adult woman due to weight gain associated with Rapegate, lost Precious, twirled my way down to a concussion, have discovered who my ride or die life peeps are and remain in therapy with my super hero Sheila to this day.

I’m still standing.

The amount of band aids I’ve required over the last seven years rivals the amount of silicone in a Kardashian body.

Finding joy again has been a long overdue relief. And while I’m focusing on me, being happy and moving forward, those steps that take you back can feel like falls that rival the depth of the Grand Canyon. My stress level has been off the charts and to cope, I’ve been looking into getting a dog. A constant companion that can travel with me (I’m still a pussy galore gal but none of my current posse loves an errand filled day in a car). While I’d just been thinking about it, First Mate knew a friend of a friend of a friend who was a foster and here’s what happened this weekend.

It was just one of those things that was meant to be and it was further solidified when her foster mom sent this photo to me…

Waiting on her forever home.

My response…

I’m ready for her.

The Pussy Posse and I are pleased to introduce you to the newly named Prissy. She’s a four-year-old Pomeranian that was being fostered by Russell Rescue TN.

We really hate each other.

Obviously.

While celebrating her arrival it was discovered she has a taste for boxed wine, just like her mother.

Booze Hound.

The Pussy Posse gained a new member but are still a tad on the leery side regarding Prissy.

The Big Three questioning their mama’s sanity while watching Prissy frolick about the Mini Manse as if she owns it.

I let the animal queendom work itself out as I headed to soak in some summer rays.

And ended the weekend as I always do…

Stressless soak.

Please send your good juju and patience to me as I attempt to run a zoo.

Cheers to another seven years!

CBXB

CBXB!

Weekend Winks – Christmas in Retrograde

Anybody else’s life been feeling slightly off lately?*

*slightly off for me is the understatement of the fucking century but you get what I’m saying.

Ever heard of Mercury in Retrograde? I have but I thought it only had meaning for those who comprehended astronomy or astrology (neither of which I have any sliver of understanding). I mean it involves a planet and a fancy word that means backward so what the fuck would I know about it?

The Farmers’ Almanac explains, “Retrograde is when a planet appears to go backward in its orbit, as viewed from Earth. Astronomers refer to this as “apparent retrograde motion,” because it is an optical illusion.” According to Horoscope.com, it may be an optical illusion BUT “when Mercury is in retrograde, technology, communication, travel, logic, and information all get disrupted.” Ah. I see.

It is an explanation as to why life is a shit show for periods of time (if you’re looking for an excuse and I am always looking for an excuse for the complications in life no matter how minor).

Apparently, this shit happens a few times a year (it’s over August 2 but starts again on October 31 – be prepared for a freak show of a Halloween!). During this ass backward Mercury rotation, I have had a car tire almost fall off due to negligence during my last tire rotation (one lug nut was holding the tire on – there are supposed to be five), ruined an entire work outfit due to white paint around the Mini Manse door that didn’t have a fucking ‘wet paint’ sign, discovered mold in my kitchen cupboard above the stove (which we all know doesn’t get used so what the actual fuck?), found mushy, rotten wood is holding my patio doors together – barely (been 30 days and counting for maintenance), and these are just small examples. Could it be worse? Fuck yes.

Me. Until Mercury exits retrograde.

Speaking of could it be any worse, Podunk has really had a fucking bout with this spin of the planet.

Instead of sandwiched between two blondes, it was marble.

She had a bundle of marble fall on her and sustained four broken ribs, a torn spleen accompanied by internal bleeding, a bruised liver, a partially collapsed lung and a contusion on her arm.

Please send my gal all of the good juju you have for fast and proper healing of her injuries. I’m doing that, as well as hoping she has some leftover feel good meds to share.

I was so excited to see the end of the week I couldn’t get my ass in bubbles quickly enough Friday. I stayed in the tub nearly three hours after work.

Yes, I use every single product you see in this photo.

Prince B has had zero problems with this Mercury bullshit. In fact, he celebrated his Ninjaversary on Saturday. Not familiar with that holiday? It’s when you have an anniversary for ninja class. Duh.

The two faces of Prince B.

What’s a celebration without cake? Chocolate cake with lemon frosting to be exact.

Sweet ninja.

And of course, it’s not a celebration without balloons and matching party accessories.

Par-tay done right.

Always a prince and princess to me.

While Prince B was kicking serious ninja butt, I was trying to keep my legs attached to my body at a spin cycle class. I may have come in last place on the scoreboard but goddamnit I showed up.

What my shirt says.

Wondering about my ever growing gaggle of pussies? Welp, I trapped, spayed, neutered and released two adult cats. When I finally caught the third adult cat and took her in for surgery, she’d already had another batch of kittens. Please be aware of the adorableness below.

Beyond.

There are three kittens total that I’m going to catch and have spayed/neutered. Anybody want one?

The photo below gives me multiplying chills just like Danny in Grease.

Family tradition on the horizon baby!

Longtime friends passed through town and we had a pool party Saturday. I really made quite the impression on their youngster (surprise).

“Dad, she drinks more wine than you.”

I also got to see Uncle Toddy and Aunt Crispie as they made their way through Music City two weekends in a row. They really love posing for photos with me.

There’s always that one asshole in the family.

Keeping it cool on National Ice Cream day were the royal members of our family.

Ice cream dreams.

They’re always loved the cold stuff.

About to scream for their ice cream.

I wasn’t as excited over frozen dairy as I was the Hallmark Movie Channel marathon of Christmas movies. Why? Because Christmas in July. Duh.

Merry Christmas.

July decor in tact on the year round Celebration tree.

The pussies thought I’d lost my ever loving fucking mind (this tends to happen quite often).

The fuck is she doing now?

They got used to taking turns cuddling during the massive cheesiness in the Mini Manse living room for 16 hours straight.

Heavy rotation of pussies. Thank gawd there’s five of them.

I’m not mad about it.

This week, my ass is going to be planted on my leopard couch, adorned in my Gpa’s 45-year-old robe, along with my sequin Santa hat and rosé. Always, always rosé (during the week).

Suck it Reverse Mercury!

Aside from that, my excuse for anything that goes sideways before August 2 is Mercury in Retrograde. Please feel free to use it for yourself, too. You’re welcome.

Superhero Sheila can’t wait for my session this week.

Merry Retrograde!

CBXB!

How to Be Loud and Proud

Treat others as you want to be treated.

Sounds pretty fucking simple because it is, however we all know that isn’t the way the world works.

I don’t know how, but my folks somehow instilled embracing my uniqueness as I grew up (most likely because I was an asshole perfectionist who wouldn’t have listened to them one way or another but still). If someone made fun of my vibrantly colorful outfit (think turquoise sneakers with pink jeans), called me fat or four eyes because of my Coke bottle thick glasses, I always retorted “God made me this way. If you have a problem, talk to him.”

https://cowboysandcrossbones.files.wordpress.com/2014/02/photo-38.jpg

Honestly though, forget the glasses, can we please talk about my earrings and sweet blouse?

I was loud and proud before I could even understand the meaning.

It’s not that I don’t give any fucks, I just give zero fucks about the opinion of people who are judgemental. The type of folks who have no right to be judgemental about anything, let alone my clothing choices, lifestyle choices, crazy cat lady status, my loudness, my swears like a trucker but knows my surroundings mouth, my social media sharing, my sexuality, and on and on and on. And, like they (whoever “they” are) say, what someone thinks about you is none of your business. Unless, of course, unsavory opinions about me are shared with me and I can tell one how many fucks I give about their opinion.

That being said, you can imagine my delight when a celebration of all things colorful, shiny, anything goes, you do you partay takes over the streets of Nashville in the fashion of LGBT Pride.  For those of you not aware, LGBT stands for lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender. The month of June was chosen for LGBT Pride Month to commemorate the Stonewall riots, which occurred at the end of June 1969. As a result, many pride events are held during this month to recognize the impact LGBT people have had in the world.

The impact of my LGBTQ+ friends in my life has been enormous. To me, their sexual preference means nothing more than what they eat for supper. I’ve stuck to those peeps in my life who treat others the way they wanted to be treated and I must say, I have one helluva large quantity of folks I love and adore. If you’re reading this, you’re one of them. And Pride is really a large celebration of love and being whoever the fuck you are – loud and proud.

Pride just happens to fall on the birthday weekend of my friend OMG. Last year, we went and turned up the snark because we thought we were oh so fabulous.

Until I took the meaning of “drag stage” a scosh too literally.

All the snark left the stage.

Outfits are one of the best things about Pride. Anything – and I mean anything goes. OMG just happens to be the most creative person I know and he bedazzled the shit out of some kicks.

Too bad he has no talent.

I decided on a t-shirt from fringe + co for my razzle dazzle.

This New Orleans chick has a love for sparkle that rivals mine. Thing is, she can sew like a motherfucker and creates the most bad ass pieces.

Mastermind behind all things sparkly.

My sidekick creative director, OMG put the finishing touches on my Designer Pussy giddy up.

Just a tiny bedazzle.

My gal pal, M.Star really upped her makeup game from neutrals to mauves in honor of Pride and when I commented, we had this spot on exchange.

My normal crazy turned out fiercely, felinely fabulous.

Not hating my vibe. At all.

When it comes to supporting Pride, Nashville steps up (as any city should in 2019). Local business, news stations, conservative restaurants (thumbs up, Cracker Barrel) and even the Metro Nashville police department join in on the color parade.

The only time I want a ride in a cop car.

Love is love. Love breeds love. This is why I adore that Pride is a family friendly event. Although my Iowa munchkins were enjoying a Peppa Pig (love is love and they love this pig) live show, Princess B adorned her sparkly rainbow in solidarity.

I tried showing everyone my rainbow when we posed for a pic but I couldn’t get my leg quite high enough.

Seated high kicks are not as easy as they appear.

After sweating our asses off while sitting and looking fabulous drowning in our own sparkly sweat guzzling cocktails, we decided to hit the dance floor. Said dance floor was the fountains typically reserved for the squeals of delight from small children and drunk people. We might have fallen into the latter category.

The negative side effect of continuously quenching your thirst at an outdoor festival is the restroom availability.

Ew. Just ew.

Upon barely surviving the stench of the enclosed commode, I came out to find OMG slightly sideways.

Tipsy at its gayest.

When we were walking to our Lyft, OMG was stopped to give his thoughts for a podcast on whether one chose to be gay or one was born “that way”.  He slayed.

Slay Queen, slay.

Needless to say, the day was full of fun celebration for all of the right reasons. I woke up feeling like the most beautiful woman on the entire planet the next morning.

So…Pride was fun.

I applied my eyeshadow with such dexterity, it lasted through sweltering heat, fountain water rhythmic dancing, face washing, drunken slumber AND pool shenanigans the following day.

Still proud.

I basically had to take a jackhammer to it on Monday morning before work, as my lids looked like this – even after washing my face.

MAC glitter shadow base with Too Faced eyeshadows.

All in all, I’m still on a high from the laughs, the people watching and most importantly, seeing everyone at Pride celebrating in however fucking fashion they chose.

We came. We saw. We slayed.

All kinds of proud and always loud.

Couldn’t have said it any better myself.

However you live and love in life, here’s to doing it loudly and proudly.

Cheers!

CBXB!

Weekend Winks – A Wonder Dog and Dads

All is well and good until you kick your weekend off with a purple gin martini.

Then it’s fucking fabulous.

I only like gin when it’s purple.

A gaggle of friends were in Music City and we had so much fun, the time spent together warrants its own post. But what started out like this…

Was raging the following 24 hours like this…

No fun zone.

My Iowa twins were having their own fun on my old work stomping grounds at Adventureland, an amusement park near Des Moines.

You’re gonna have a fun filled day! (jingle)

I used to sing and dance on a stage that rose from the ground six times per day in the sweltering Iowa heat. It was so much more fun than waiting tables and it gave me the performance bug that eventually led me to Nashville.

I was not fortunate enough to be a plush dog. Once I was a fucking clown.

Princess B decided to get a few inches chopped off of her luscious locks and I don’t care that she’s my mini me, this chick can do no wrong when it comes to life her hair.

those. curls.

Saturday called for brunch and while I was busy guzzling bottomless mimosas at the bar, I saw a dog (it’s like my eyes are magnetically drawn to anything furry). The bartender took a beer, the dog retreived it from her hand and gingerly carried it to his owner at a nearby table.

I was so bummed I missed the video but naturally had to go and maul the dog, Dog for his fabulous efforts. Luckily for me, the owner was not a one and done kind of drinker, therefore, I had a chance to get this genius canine in his pet trick element.

*mind blown*

What else would one do on a low key Saturday night than watch your favorite Christmas movie for the 6,380,156 time? I couldn’t even wait until “Christmas in July”.

A fun old fashioned family Griswold Christmas.

Sunday greeted me with a fancy omelette courtesy of Van Waffles.

That drizzle is everything.

Father’s Day celebrations then commenced and I sent messages to my peeps. I have dudes in my life who are fathers to fish, four legged friends, and humans. First photo I received of the day was from my cousin and his one and some months year old daughter (why don’t people just say one? Why does it have to be 16, 18, 24 months? Just a side question for the humanless parents).

Juicy Lucy!

My mini party headed to the ever affordable Chili’s for their all day happy hour (2 for 1 house wines and beer, hello!) to celebrate dear old Dada CBXB.

Chips, salsa and snoozes.

My girl, Sleepy, went out the evening before and the salsa dipping proved to be too much, so she shut her eyes for a second.

Party animal.

While she was regaining her dipping strength, I gifted Dada CBXB with a small token of gratitude that he can share with me, naturally.

Bota Box Rosé. Bring that into the pool next weekend. Thanks.

I then turned my dad into Elton John by adorning him with my new sunglasses that are only missing lights.

Here’s hoping your week is just as extra as my dad’s sunglasses.

Cheers!

CBXB

CBXB!

 

Hometown Tourist

You’d think with all of the belly aching I do regarding Nashville’s ever growing population that I hate it here in Music City. That’s not true though – I love this city. I just wish other people loved it the way I loved it instead of moving here and trying my once (and still to some) mini city on for size for a few years before moving on to bigger and better.

OMG. Stop moving here. You are driving me to drink.

The job market is oversaturated, gentrification is becoming a serious side of living here (especially if your income is a single lady living on her own – cannot imagine what it’s like for families), high rises have already murdered the once charming Music Row, First Mate can count 18 cranes (she calls them sky birds and for the record, she’s totally fine with the havoc wreaking taking place) from her downtown office, every.single.fucking. bro country “music” artist has a bar in the once quaint downtown (from Florida Georgia Line to Blake Shelton to Jason Aldean). My once gem of a city is turning into a bonafuckingfide bigger Branson, Missouri, right in front of my peepers.

https://cowboysandcrossbones.files.wordpress.com/2012/09/image2.jpg

Country. When country wasn’t cool.

I digress.

When pals come to town, it’s always been fun playing tourist in my own city. Due to the massive growth the last few years, I haven’t taken advantage of seeing Nashville through the eyes of others lately (and because if one more fucking to-be bride drunkenly steps on my foot, I might lose my goddamn mind and kick her Taylor Swift wearing cowboy boots with skirt outfit circa 2015 to the fucking state line).

There’s enough crazy in town already, bachelorettes.

This past weekend, my college bestie, Tdawg was in town to get her giddy up on with some of her gal pals from Denver.

It was the group’s first time in Nashville and I threw caution to the wind, swallowed $40 for two hour parking (you parking lot people are seriously horrible human beings), and trotted my ample ass down to the swanky hotel on Friday and met the crew at the rooftop bar.

Gorgeous lobby.

Intricate ceilings.

Most importantly, the bar.

The views from this spot did not disappoint.

Three ladies and an asshole.

Because I must always be up to no good, I was more than happy to oblige photo requests.

Oh. Just you three in it? Sorry. Not sorry.

They had supper reservations Friday night and I promised (after she forced me to call the studio by literally holding the phone up to my ear to make an appointment while I guzzled rosé at the bar) Tdawg I’d meet her on Saturday morning for an exercise class at Pure Barre. If you wonder who the fuck works out on a two day vacation, look no further than Tdawg. I have enough trouble sweating in my own city, let alone when I’m traveling.

Unless I’m visiting Yoga Barbie in Denver, I DO NOT workout on vacay.

Needless to say, I overslept and missed the fucking class. It ended up being OK thought because Tdawg was overserved the evening prior and spent the next several hours in her dreamy hotel bed. But she was up and at ’em for the evening and after supper, I took the gals to my fave honky tonk on the planet – Robert’s Western World to see my fave country band on the planet – The Don Kelley Band.

Recovered.

I used to frequent Robert’s so much before the besiege of tourists take over every summer, the last time I was there, Don Kelley said to me, “you don’t get out much, do you?” while I was dancing for the 4,812,654 time in front of him.

You AGAIN?!

Usually, on a Saturday night at 8:30 it’s already asses to elbows on Broadway and it was no different when we were frolicking about downtown. However, luck was on our side and when we galloped into Robert’s, there was an open booth at the front of the bar waiting for our rear ends. This kind of magic hasn’t happened since 2014.

Yeehaws all around.

Tawg was beyond impressed with the twang and spent most of her time at Robert’s on one of many devices.

 

The owner of Robert’s, JesseLee Jones, is the leader of the house band, Brazilbilly. They play every Saturday night from 10pm – 2am. In all of my years going to Robert’s, every single Saturday night, his mom comes and watches his show. Every. single. time. She sits in the same spot and drinks either coffee or Red Bull. It’s the fucking cutest thing ever.

Mama Jones.

Tdawg called it an early night but No Digity, MoHo and yours truly stayed to see The Don Kelley Band’s famous rendition of “Ghost Riders in the Sky.”

We didn’t hate it.

Upon returning to the Noelle Hotel, I tried to fill Tdawg in on what she missed.

No pillow talk for me.

The ladies had to get up at the first sign of the sun to catch their 8am flight. Meanwhile, I was able to get some much needed beauty sleep in a quiet, cool, dark hotel room.

Not so sleeping beauty.

When my lids decided to fling open, I realized that this place was a whole lot fancier than the Holiday Inns in which I’ve grown accustomed.

 

This mastery was just a reach beside the bed and I honestly don’t know how much longer I can live without one.

Controls for the entire room.

 

Parched after my previous evening’s boozefest, I sauntered out of the room to get some water and didn’t know how many choices there were when it came to H2O.

 

I couldn’t figure out where the ice machine was until I saw what looked like a fancy refrigerator drawer below the water.

 

I would have taken some ice packages if I had a bigger purse with me. Because, I’m nothing if not white trashiness at its finest.

Speaking of finest, what about my departing outfit from the fancy Noelle Hotel?

 

I looked like I was a hot mess because I was a hot fucking mess. No Digity gifted me a Robert’s Western World t-shirt that I refused to take off. When I went to retrieve my car from the valet, the dude asked me where I was heading home to (since I looked like a confused, hungover bachelorette from Nebraska).

No shame in my game.

“West Nashville.” Ever heard of it?

I had so much fun being a tourist in my town, I can’t wait to do it again. So consider this your warning if you’re coming to Music City and staying at a fancy establishment. I’m crashing your party. Until then, I’ll be riding as high as the rooftop bar I was lucky to experience.

Oldies but goodies.

Party on.

CBXB

CBXB!

 

 

 

 

How to Join the Mile High Club

How do you join the Mile High Club?

You go to Denver, CO. Get your minds out of the fucking gutter.

My birthday has been never-ending this year (sorry not sorry to those who’ve been forced lucky enough to celebrate endlessly with me), and one of my gifts was a trip to Denver from Van Waffles.

Poor, poor me.

Being the spoiled biatch that I am, the vacay commenced with bloody marys at the ass crack of dawn in the airport.

Time doesn’t exist in airports.

There’s something about the heinous Nashville airport carpet that is a “thing” to local peeps. A shop even sells t-shirts about this beautiful floor accessory. Naturally, I had to join in on the social media fun.

Upon landing, we headed to our hotel downtown (Denver, what the fuck is up with your airport being 35 miles outside of the fucking city?). It was a sunny, 70 degree day that was just perfection. As soon as we left to explore the downtown, I somehow made a wrong turn but in such a right way.

My Mothership.

Yes. I came all the way to Colorado to shop in a Target because I’ve never been in my Mothership that was located in a downtown setting with no parking lot. I mean, it’s all about new life experiences, isn’t it?

Target in the heart of downtown.

Once Van Waffles was able to drag me out of the store that I just scoured the day before in Nashville (they have the same items in case you’re wondering which I’m sure you aren’t but now you know) it was time to enjoy pink wine in the sunshine.

A perfect day for rosé.

We then made our way to a shuttle that transported us to the famous Red Rocks amphitheater for a 311 concert.

I sure the fuck didn’t know what I was about to embark.

I was warned not to wear heels to Red Rocks. I listened. I was warned that it was “quite a walk” to the venue. I practiced hills at my local park in Nashville. But I still almost died (or so I thought) on the way up to that motherfucking theater.

The worst part was being sweaty, thirsty and having to stop to take a piss in the middle of my mountain climb in a hot, humid, stank ass port-a-potty. I’d never wished I had a penis more in my whole life as I tried to stand to pee over the gaping hole of other people’s waste (you know the feeling).

Mouth breathing.

Low and behold, much to Van’s bleeding ears, after all of my bitching…

As soon as I got to the fucking top of the mountain, my iWatch buzzed. I was certain that it might explode from my activity during the climb but alas it was just reminding me that I hadn’t come close to closing my step (in red) or exercise (in green) rings. And I’d had this watch on since 4:30am.

I work out a lot. Obvies.

What I do work out on a regular basis? My biceps. And by the time I spied the wine line, all was right in the world.

Workout more my speed.

All in all the weather was perfect, the band was killer and the night was fabulous.

If you ever get the chance to see a show at this venue, GO. But maybe watch my coaching videos above for reference before you attempt to mountain climb unless of course you’re in shape. Then it’ll be easy breezy for you.

When the concert was over, I walked down the mountain like I was a 94-year-old woman recovering from a hip replacement surgery. Mostly this was due to the fact that I fall down like it’s my day job and I’m not sure how much more my joints can take before I need a true knee, hip, ankle, elbow, and wrist replacement surgery.

Me: Sorry we’re having to walk down so slowly. (Literally taking left foot and stopping. Letting right foot catch up)

Van Waffles: It’s OK. Nobody knows us here.

Me: That’s so sweet fucking true.

After consuming every drop of water in the hotel (along with every bag of potato chips and maybe a Snickers bar because I got contact high from the legal marijuana smoked at the show) I woke up Saturday hacking like I’d been a lifelong smoker.

I soon got my act together because I had told my college bestie, Tdawg, that I would take her yoga sculpt class at Core Power Yoga where she instructs. She was picking me up at 10am and being that I take hot yoga, have taken many sculpting classes, I incorrectly assumed I was up for this challenge after a night out and a mountain hike.

Pre-yoga excitement.

Upon arriving, the serene yoga room had a reminder on the door.

Just what I need after a mountain climb.

Then Tdawg came in and blasted old school Nelly…”Andele andale moma E.I. E.I. uh oh!”

Uh fucking oh was right. She didn’t teach a power sculpt yoga class. She instructed a Jane Fonda on crack cardio class with a few yoga moves thrown in here and there while the room was heated. No big deal. This was just the second time I thought a workout was going to be the death of me in Colorado in a matter of 24 hours.

Yoga Barbie and a sweaty pig in a blanket.

Keeping everyone updated via Instagram stories, Sister CBXB kindly asked if we’d be partaking in our favorite college past time.

Not drinking.

Not doing drugs.

Yes. Embossing cards. We would stay in our dorm on the weekends and fucking craft homemade greeting cards. We were beyond cool.

Obvies.

Heading to her house after class to meet her offspring and hubs, she informed me that I am doing a fabulous job educating the youth of America.

Oh be still my beating heart. This is truly one of the highest honors of my life. Teaching kids the F-bomb and S-word is basically my equivalent to winning the Nobel Peace Prize.

Tdawg’s hubs, Cdawg was celebrating his birthday and when he offered me a mimosa to start his celebratory weekend, who was I to turn him down?

My Uber descended to their house and both the Dawgs could not have been more gracious, offering me a full-to-the-brim roadie I happily accepted. “Hopefully one day you’ll come out of your shell,” Cdawg’s dad said as I doled out departing hugs.

Shyness doesn’t become her.

Next up? I showered, gussied up in my finest sequins to meet a friend who until today was only a virtual friend. She’s a fellow blogger who lives in Boulder and when I reached out to let her know about my last second trip, she was available to meet! IN PERSON! When does this happen?

It’s Viv in the flesh!

We’ve been virtual friends for almost six years and she’s known me before the twins, before Rapegate, before losing my music business career…so it’s like we knew each other because we did. It just took it to an entirely new level being in the flesh. Best long lunch date ever.

I told her I didn’t smoke at the concert the prior evening because I don’t like smoking but maybe I would try an edible while in Denver. She said if I did, to nibble on the ear of a gummy bear because peeps usually over do it (and let’s be honest, I could eat a bag of regular gummy bears, so eating just the ear off of one would seem like an underperformance on my end).

After lunch, she sent me this very ominous meme.

I chose not to edible.

Avoiding edibles proved to be the best possible thing because I wanted to keep my eyes open to meet up with yet another gal pal SS. Our mammas were sorority sisters in college and we were childhood friends. I hadn’t seen her since 4th fucking grade.

Not much has changed since we were 10…

Then we went and met up with the rest of the Nashville crew.

Hanging with the gang.

Although I didn’t get high, just mostly drunk, I still had the munchies on the way back to the hotel and it was very upsetting when passing a gluten-free bakery that was closed. I handled it like a lady.

I was just trying to fuel up for the flight home, which was occurring in a matter of hours after our night out.

Too many people before coffee, a bloody mary and 6am.

Best part about the early flying is I got to sit by the Easter Bunny and I scored her phone number!

Furever friends. For real.

Immediately upon arrival home in Nashville, I got a bloody nose that was the gift that just kept on giving all goddamn day long.

Dry Denver air don’t care.

Once the door to the Mini Manse opened, Van Waffles looked at me and said in all seriousness, “is your birthday over now?”

What the fuck do you think?

Cheers!

CBXB

CBXB!