The Underdog

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.

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.

That period of time was as beautiful as I look in this photo.

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 616 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. Because that’s what this last year and over a half has dealt…an excruciatingly slow climb out of (or rather up) the lowest of extreme lows, seeking the summit of a mountain top that appeared further and further away by the day.

What happens when I hike.

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 tirelessly acted as my own advocate with a less than helpful (and that description is extremely nice) 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 a month ago, ten days after I suddenly lost the fur ball love of my life, Ted. The searing losses felt 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 Iowa versus Iowa State. It was a thrillingly unexpected day jam-packed with tailgating shenanigans.

The fun of family…

Mama CBXB, Uncle Toddy and Aunt Crispie host tailgating done right.

Friendly family rivalry.

OR WAS IT?!

The fun of the endless booze all around…

I hate tailgating.

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

Shotski for three please.

The catching up with old friends…

Game ready.

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 loudness…

A beauty and a sparkly beast.

Embarrassing my youngest cousin with all the right moves…

Cousin love is acceptable below the Mason Dixon line.

Seeing a live marching band was fulfilled for the season…

March on.

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.

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.

It was a much needed reminder that I’m doing the best that I can every goddamn day. Aren’t we all?

Happy tailgating!

CBXB

Weekend Winks – Ass Hats, Ass Slaps and Lazy Asses

Is the weekend ever here fast enough?

Not for this duo who couldn’t wait long enough for me to take a piss before expressing their delight in having their mother smother them for two whole days.

We spent Friday lounging around the mini while I guzzled wine like Kristen Wiig in an SNL skit.

My dream come true.

Sunny Saturdays in Nashville call for pool parties. Since I don’t do beer and sipping on Skinny Pirates all day can make for an early evening, I’ve discovered spiked seltzer water. It’s the shit – 4.5% alcohol, 90 calories per can and 0 sugars.

Truly. Madly. Deeply in love.

After an all day sunfest, our pool crew decided to hit up my fave watering hole, Dalts for the aforementioned Skinny Pirates and home cooked food.

Feed me.

Thirst quenching fun with Cat Boy, Pool Mom and Rasta.

You see, we chose Dalts for our after hours pool party because last weekend, we ran into a bit of trouble at another local bar. After several rounds of cocktails and bar snacks, I got up to sing one of my fave AC/DC songs with the band. Complete with a greasy bun, prescription sunglasses on at night (’cause I’m douchy like that – oh, and also sunglasses hide sins, requiring no makeup after a pool day) and a maxi dress.

After my non-Grammy winning performance, on the way back to our table, some guy at the bar smacked my ass so hard my bun fell out. Some guy who I hadn’t spoken to all night. Some guy who I hadn’t ever laid eyes on before. A stranger. Trying to get some semblance of dignity back after the unwanted, unmerited slap of a stranger, I made my way back to our table. Just in time to find Cat Boy in the dude’s face, defending my honor…and thankfully so. Who knows what I may have done once I garnered my wits?

Girls just having some fun.

We were immediately asked to leave the bar and I inquired whether or not both parties were being asked to leave. I was told yes and I must say that I understood why – alcohol combined with angry tempers don’t mix but not one person – not the ass hat who slapped me, not the bouncer, not the employee who asked me to leave a very busy bar acknowledged what had happened. And as we stood outside waiting on our Lyft, we witnessed the stranger who smacked me being served another round of drinks with his buddies.

Isn’t that nice?

Daily reminders compliments of Metal Marvels.

This kind of shit isn’t OK. It bothered me all week and so after a few days, I called the owner of the bar who went back, looked at the tape and called back to apologize. He also said that as an owner of this establishment of 13 years, he’d never had any issues brought to his attention like this and wondered out loud how many other times something of this nature happened. Which is so fucking true.

If you see something, say something.

Violence isn’t the answer but fuck. There is never an appropriate time to spank a grown woman – a stranger to you – like she just hit a home run in the 9th inning of the World Series. Hands off.

Luckily for me, these two were just happy to be scarfing down on celery and pizza and I got picture proof of it.

Are your diners this cute?

Princess B got a new leotard and hates it. Obvies.

Hot shit and she knows it.

You know who else is hot shit? Former Iowa Hawkeye, Karl Klug, who has played for the Tennessee Titans since 2011. As Dada CBXB says “Klug is what hard work and not great talent is all about.” Does he sound like a former football player and coach? It’s been beyond fun having a defensive end on our professional team to cheer on every Sunday (after our college football Saturday fun). Klug signed autographs after practice last weekend and my friend’s boys were lucky enough to get a little pep talk, as well as an autograph.

Football season can’t get here fast enough!

You know what else can’t get here fast enough? Tourists leaving Nashville. Us locals can’t even go downtown anymore without fighting asses to elbows…I mean, I’m sure Robert’s Western World is wondering where in the hell the folks who come and sit in he front row for 10 hours have been. Although the Music City has grown so much in the past five years, we may have to get there at 10am just to see our fave band come on at 10pm.

Winding down the weekend, there was a packed couch.

The gray duo on one side of the couch.

Balanced by the human sized Rocky on the other.

Somehow, some way we made it to our usual wind down spots, naturally.

All’s well that ends well.

Here’s hoping you have an ass slappin’ fabulous week – for all of the right reasons.

CBXB

 

 

 

Sayonara 2016

Know anyone who had a ridiculously fabulous 2016?

Me either.

Not to say great things didn’t happen for folks in this dumpster fire of a year but seriously, although my Gma used to say, “don’t wish your life away,” I couldn’t think of anything more that I would wish for than the goddamn clock to strike midnight on December 31, 2016.

Yes. How we all feel about this past fucking year.

Yes. How we all feel about this past fucking year.

While I kicked my year of with bad shit happening to a good person (yours truly) last January, there have been highlights and honest-to-goodness reminders as to why I wished I was a mother fucking super hero (or ass kicking princess).

I tried taking a cue from Elsa early on…

Elsa's help.

But I’m not a sexy smoker (see below). Nor do I know how to inhale. And lastly, I hold grudges like my net worth (let’s be real…I’m elated when I have triple digits in my checking account, so not really saying much), therefore this wasn’t going to be my outlet to let 2016 the fuck go. Also, it was just February.

Not a Sexy Smoker

Trying to heed advice of my fave, fearless lighting designer, Hawaiian Housewife (I know you’re rolling your eyes to the back of your skull M), who seems to let any/everything roll down her back (except puke – in which case she likes to displace on moi) with her famous line of…

Good Advice

Well, I didn’t try a bag of dicks per se but instead used an Iowa ear of sweet corn.

Corn Bag

While delicious, this didn’t help in the hate that seethed out of my soul for the year of all shitacular years.

So what did I do? I sprinted, ran, happened to be at PetSmart on an adopt-a-pussy Saturday sponsored by Sweet Faces Cat and Kitten Rescue (yes, I am now officially the face of their rescue and I will give you an autograph) and I did what any sane person does. I picked out three cats to add to my brood because in the end, you really can buy love.

Three's a Crowd

And in the end, you now have four feline mouths to feed.

Mouths

Plus I gotta fill the tiny yapper of my Ewok resembling chug, Precious.

Chug Life

But in the end, I got my loving therapy through this….

2016 at its Finest

All of the extra feline lovin’ seemed to help my in heart failure main squeeze, Mr. Ted E. Bear rekindle his love for life. And that made me feel like one extremely lucky lady – even though I will forever be recognized as the crazy Nashville cat lady. I give zero fucks for that title if this little pussy can still be by my side daily.

Better Tedder!

Friends tried to help by burning some of my past hurts away, while I ignited flames with lighter fluid.

Fire Starter

The fire didn’t really cure anything BUT this shirt did reflect my outlook…

Win Win

So I’d call that a win-win, wouldn’t you?

Being involved in a traumatic, life changing event, I enlisted the help of a f.a.b.u.l.o.u.s. therapist that I regularly see on Thursdays (#therapythursdays anyone?). Upon completion of sessions, copious amounts of vino is required. And while I don’t mind drinking with my five (yes I said fucking FIVE fur balls), my sister and gusband (gay husband) are more than ready to join me in Iowa and Missouri, respectively, when I need the company.

Therapy Thursday

IOWA!

My kind of pour.

My kind of pour.

Over the course of this year, I’ve let my pride of self-worth sit on a back burner and simmer (due to uncontrollable reactions to aforementioned bad shit happening).  With the help of friends who aren’t afraid to tackle the CBXB monster and family who’ve dealt with me forever, I was forced to not only wash my hair but show face at my fancy salon (with my fabulous chug in tow, of course) to get my pink rejuvenated and remain blonde.

Gussy

Those same folks about keeled over seeing me in flats and also forced me into my pre-2016 daily shoes…stilettos. I mean, I’ve always been known for my practicality.

Heeled UP

Counting on those who know you best, I hung in like a champ for my Iowa Hawkeyes football tailgates – and kept the family tradition of moonshine touchdown shots alive with Dada CBXB.

Tailgating

Cheering it on with family as often as I could.

CHEER

Speaking of cheering, you all have sent nothing but positivity, well wishes, fab karma, and outrageous juju my Aunt Crazy Pants’s way after her cancer diagnosis this summer. While she’s my end-all-be-all-twin, she’s still kicking some fucking cancer ass. And that’s the way we prefer.

Holla!

Aside from my family and very, very close circle of now known friends (funny how tragedy, traumatic experiences, etc. leads you to your faithful peeps) these two twin monkeys have done nothing but keep my rails from coming fully off the track. I mean, look at their faces. How lucky am I? Even if it was the most dismal year in the history of histories in my lifetime?

For real.

Speaking of rails on the track, while my job is typically a full-on shit show, I have people surrounding me in the office that are full of life, love and overall kindness. Their humor, wit and ability to deal with crazy on a daily basis has made my 2016 a better place.

Work

What made this year – day after day – hour upon hour – minute upon minute – second upon second – all the more difficult was the constant issue of rape culture and the shaming of women, men and any human who has suffered this intolerable situation. From Brock Turner getting a fucking six month sentence after raping a woman in public on a campus, to the published accounts of victims reading letters to their accused in court, to a fucking presidential nominee with 12 – yes 12 women accusing him of inappropriate conduct…one being recorded on tape resulting in a TV anchor’s dismissal from a network by simply being in the situation and not stopping it.

But then, America voted that man president. Women I know voted for that man. Women I know that have daughters voted for that man. Men I know who have daughters voted for that man. Why? It’s beyond me.

Not only does he “grab pussy” because he’s a “star” but he’s totally going to “Make America Great Again.”

FUCK YOU TRUMP

TRUTH

I’m all for voting and standing by your decisions. And I’m also not saying I loved the other choice on the ballot but fuck. Nominating a male chauvinist pig (among many other indecencies as a human being) as POTUS made the end of the year almost unbearable as a person in my standing.

TRUTH TRUTH

This year has proven unbelievable in the most horrific ways. Unbelievable in the most humane ways. Unbelievable in the amount of support I have garnered at the hands of acquaintances, friends, social media buddies, family – the outpouring was (and still is) something that I can’t even still comprehend in the best way possible. To that, I am grateful. To that, I dedicate my first bottle (of tonight) champs to you.

CHAMPS!

I will put on my finest threads and ride out the rest of the hours 2016 has to offer.

MOTHERFUCKER

I will most likely headbang my way into 2017, giving zero fucks about the neckache I will endure.

Bangin'

Because if you are reading this, you have aided me through the darkest 365 day chapter of my life thus far. And I love you for being there digitally, emotionally, physically, snail mailingly, social medially, FaceTimingly, textingly, etc. You have no idea how much one message, like, encouraging word can carry me through days.

Together

The motto I have stuck to and lived by every moment of 2016…

MOTTO

And now, it’s time for a fresh start. Not to say I – or anyone else – is immune to bad shit. It happens. It’s life and makes up the DNA of our souls. But sometimes enough is enough.

I say enough.

FUCK YOU 2016

Sayonara 2016.

FUCK YEAH 2017!

Cheers!

CBXB

CBXB!

 

 

Weekend Winks – Winos, Weirdos and The Walking Dead

For some, weekend work functions can really suck if you let them. However, the right mix of co-workers (that you’re lucky to also call friends) can make any event more tolerable…especially if the event revolves around any sort of libation. Like a wine festival.

Trashy, classy and a tad sassy mix.

Sandwiched between trashy and classy. #heaven

I mean, who wouldn’t be pumped to be stuck between two blondes who know how to act incredibly VIP-ish.

We. Are. Somebodys.

We. Are. Somebodys.

Or, maybe he has a point….

Can you just carry everything? Thanks.

Can you just carry everything? Thanks.

We hightailed it to my beloved Dalts just as soon as we could to carry on the out-of-office shenanigans much to the rest of the bar’s dismay.

What

She loves us.

We critiqued all 4,09,265 selfies taken over a three hour period.

Ew.

Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew.

And then took one more.

Trashy is easily rubbing off.

My trashtacularness seems to be rubbing off on The Golden Girl.

While I was working on my wino wind down, the Iowa twins were frolicking in all of the fun that fall has to offer.

Double the fall fun!

Traipsing through the leaf debris.

Halloween bake-off.

Baking Halloween treats with creative flair.

Starting their Christmas lists a little early this year.

And starting their Christmas lists a little early.

After rehydrating my liver with a bloody mary Saturday morning, I was prepped and ready for the Iowa Hawkeye football game kick-off at 11am.

I even made my blogfamous Pigskin Sushi.

I even made my blogfamous Pigskin Sushi.

It may not look pretty but pickles and ham taste mighty fine together. Since the inception of our trashtacular family tradition of touchdown shots, we have yet to go a game with no moonshine. However, we were sorely disappointed when our team not only lost but only made field goals.

Losing like we mean it.

We’re thirsty after a 17-9 defeat.

It

Poor, lonely shot glasses.

The remainder of the weekend required a lot of lounging with my pussies (Rocky would like you to know this was snapped from a bad angle).

David and Goliath. Or Arnold and Danny.

David and Goliath. Or Arnold and Danny. Or the difference between my g-string and bra size.

The snooty duo of Ted and Presh stuck side-by-side, warming my leopard couch up for the premiere of The Walking Dead (holy fuck!) and promptly left the area when my less than quiet reactions to what was happening on screen turned into screeching.

The duo.

Patiently waiting for the flesh eating zombies.

The show forced me to lift my one night ban on drinking due to the high anxiety the events of the episode caused yours truly.

I might have gone overboard.

I might have gone overboard…

In closing, many of you know my bestie Scooby, who makes often appearances on this blog (although he doesn’t read it, so his husband Mr. Scooby has to tell him when he appears). Scooby is the friend that holds your hair back when you puke (while laughing at the back of your head), rushes to your aid when bad shit happens to good people, and will stuff a body into a trunk for a laugh.

So it’s suffice to say we’re family. And this family member is about to go to Atlanta on a manhunt because Scooby was involved in a hit and run while he was walking at a crosswalk yesterday. HE WILL BE OK. But he had to scramble to the curb after the vehicle ran him over and then the car fled the fucking scene.

I'll cut a bitch.

I’ll cut a bitch.

While his multiple broken bones will require surgery, he’s going to be OK after this scariest of incidents. Please send him and his family all of the good juju you can muster while he’s traveling home to Kansas City to prep for surgery and recover.

I’m way the fuck over 2016.

CBXB

CBXB!

Weekend Winks – Jazz Hands, Chugs and Pussy

You know I love the word pussy – a word I use quite frequently on this blog in describing my beloved feline fur balls. However, hearing it come from a dirty old man’s mouth, in regard to grabbing a woman’s crotch (any woman’s crotch for that matter) because he’s a ‘star’…. fucking please. So, to tune out all of the P word debate nonsense, I chilled with my fave P word – Precious the chug on the mini manse porch Friday evening.

My punkin with a full pumpkin.

My punkin with a full pumpkin.

We had to take it easy, as I was bleary eyed for an 8am appointment at the hair house on Saturday. Luckily, I get to bring my mascot – who needs no primping with a face like hers.

Salon style.

Louis Vuitton salon style puppy.

Even though I feel very Paris Hilton circa 1999, annoyingly toting my squatty bodied pooch in my purse, it’s too fun to resist – so I don’t.

Sunglasses hide sins.

Sunglasses hide sins. Yes, even inside.

Hurrying home after my gussy-up, I filled my fave wine glass with a Skinny Pirate for an 11am Iowa Hawkeyes kick-off.

Resembles our team's season falling apart.

My glass is resembling our team’s season falling apart.

While we’re tried and true fans, our tradition of touchdown shots was sidelined due a measly two field goals. So we chose to do sympathy shots in the third quarter.

Sympathy shot.

Forced to shoot out of boredom.

Then finally in the last two minutes of the game, Iowa scored a touchdown and we were able to celebrate family tradition style.

Winning!

Blurry celebratory shenanigans.

While we were day drinking our brains out, my Iowa twins were modeling for family photos.

Divine

I mean….the cuteness factor here almost makes my head pop off my body.

I mean...that hair.

That hair.

While I planned on detoxing Sunday, the realm of crazy surrounding the presidential debate forced encouraged me to take the edge of all of the nonsense with a little vino.

Proper debate prep.

Proper debate prep.

When did debate coverage become similar to College Game Day? When posters that made me piss my pants started showing up behind the commentator’s heads.

Best. Sign. Ever.

Best. Sign. Ever.

Even baby Elsa Pants was in dire need of a drink after the word devil was used by one candidate to describe the other.

Even Elsa Pants was

And Presh could only muster a side eye glance at the shit show.

One eyeing the madness.

One eyeing the madness.

Naturally, I guzzled. Well, in truth my sister and I played a game where we drank every time Donald Trump sniffled. Which meant we guzzled every other minute.

Forced to guzzle

Somebody give that man a fucking tissue.

The best thing I’ve seen since the debate was posted by Taraji P. Henson on Instagram in reference to pussy grabbing.

I hope Trump never comes near mine.

Grab these pussies? We'll cut a bitch.

You can’t grab this. We’ll cut a bitch.

Here’s hoping no one forcefully grabs anything of importance to you this week.

Cheers!

CBXB

CBXB!

In Heaven There is No Beer…

It’s the most wonderful time of the year (aside from my birthday, Ted’s birthday, Christmas and the Iowa State Fair)!

IMG_7503

The white trash classiness that is my life continues as another season of college football kicks off this weekend!

My dad and I started a tradition a few years ago to celebrate every touchdown that our favorite college football team, the Iowa Hawkeyes, scored with a shot of moonshine (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).

First shot of the season.

First shot of the season feels so good!

Our freezer stash of Popcorn Sutton’s Tennessee White Whiskey is prepped and ready to go for the season opener.

Iced

Chic shenanigans await.

Problem is this year, Dada CBXB is heading up to see my fave duo on the planet as I type, so we’ll have to resort to our trashtacular tradition via Facetime, which we’ve already mastered in years past.

Miles schmiles.

Miles schmiles.

Being that the Hawks were 12-0 in the regular season last year, we hope our liver tolerance remains in tact for alcohol that makes chest hair grow whether you like it or not. While we’ll be celebrating apart, we have everything we need to round out the first college game day.

Double fisting at its finest.

Double fisting at its finest.

W-I-N.

Who’s with us?

CBXB

CBXB!

The Perfection of Stinky Roses

IMG_9497

Iowa is not a word many folks associate with perfection (unless, of course, you’re me and think everything about the damn state is pretty spot on with being mistaken for heaven as Kevin Costner so kindly did in his 1989 movie).

However, perfection touched the state I hold so dear to my heart in a way that before 2015 was unimaginable. My Iowa Hawkeyes had a perfect – yes I said perfect – regular college football season. The Hawks are typically mediocre (but full of heart!), and us fans were just hoping for a winning season to get to a bowl game. So you can imagine our surprise when our team kept winning game after game after game….after game (and we kept doing shot after shot after shot…).

Our livers love us.

Our livers love us.

Our perfect record granted the Hawks a slot in the Big Ten Championship game held in Indianapolis, so you bet your ass our classy clan was there.  It was going to be an especially fun game, as my buddy The Silent Indian is a Michigan State Spartan fan – the team Iowa was up against.

An unbiased Camo, The Silent Spartan Indian, Dada CBXB and some drunk Iowa cheerleader.

Because I’m psycho (and also an asshole), I made our foursome leave Nashville at 3:30 am so our arrival to Indianapolis would be in conjunction with my Saturday morning staple College Game Day – who was finally broadcasting live from an Iowa game.

Worth it.

Running to secure a spot. The only exercise my body received all fall.

Sunglasses hide early morning sins.

Sunglasses hide early morning sins.

One of my favorite things about College Game Day are the signs fans make in hopes of making it to the broadcast. And these fans didn’t disappoint.

The Silent Indian left speechless.

The Silent Indian left speechless.

Truth

Truth

Even Tay knows a thing or two about the lack of respect given to the Hawks.

Even Tay knows a thing or two about the lack of respect given to the Hawks.

The Silent Indian and yours truly snuck our way up into the fourth row, so I could get a better look at my 81-year-old commentator boyfriend, Lee Corso.

A Hawkeye and a Spartan friends...for now.

A Hawkeye and a Spartan – friends…for now.

We also became famous for .00001 second during the broadcast.

Famous. Obvi.

Blink and you missed it.

After standing for four solid hours in freezing temps (I’d still be standing there if I could be), we headed into warm up next door with my boyfriend Captain Morgan at a party sponsored by my favorite rum.

My boyfriend, his girlfriend and me.

My boyfriend, his girlfriend and me.

We had no fun.

We had no fun.

After the Captain shenanigans, it was time to take our seats and watch one helluva heartbreaker as Iowa lost in the last seconds of the game.

Time.

A fabulous view of a tough loss.

The Gloating Indian

The Gloating Indian. Yes, we let him stay and watch the Spartans get their trophy. Sometimes I have a heart.

Aren’t you glad this wasn’t your four-hour ride home with a sore loser?

FullSizeRender_2

No explanation needed.

So Iowa loses one game post season but do you know where that got us in the line-up of bowl games?

For the first time in 25 years, the Iowa Hawkeyes were going to grace Pasadena, CA with their presence at The Rose Bowl against the Stanford Cardinals.

HELL YEAH BABY!

HELL YEAH BABY!

And while the richer Iowa fans with jobs swarmed the fuck out of California, my unemployed ass  hosted a game watch at the mini manse on New Year’s Day.

Who needs Cali when I had a green carpet for a step and repeat?

Who needs Cali when I had a green carpet for a step and repeat?

Booze at the ready.

Booze at the ready.

Tailgating treats galore.

Tailgating treats galore.

Mascots in their best giddy up.

Mascots in their best giddy up.

Front row seats acquired.

Front row seats acquired.

There was just one teeny, weeny tiny problem. My Iowa Hawkeyes apparently left all of their motivation in 2015. It was 21-0 before the end of the first quarter and we were left with empty shot glasses in our hands. So we did the next best thing.

Sympathy shot.

A sympathy shot.

And then there was sympathy shot number three.

Thank God someone was keeping track.

Thank God someone was keeping track.

Followed by sympathy shots four and five…

Thank god my jazz hand also communicates the number of shot we're on.

Jazz hands for the number of shot taking!

After a very dismal final score of Stanford 45, Iowa 16, I laid down on the green carpet for a well deserved tantrum.

Tantrum

I wanted to win dammit!

Dada CBXB tried to join me but found the ground was too far for him to reach, therefore conducted his tantrum on all fours.

As far as he goes.

Losing at its finest.

While the post season games for my Hawkeyes didn’t come out with wins, I couldn’t be more proud of the team, my favorite coach on the planet, Kirk Ferentz, and the fans who are tried and true season after season.  For all of the haters who are going to lecture me on our lack of a tough schedule, mediocre players and how the Big Ten Conference is weak, you can go fuck yourselves.  I love the fact that most of the Hawkeyes are from the Midwest, many walking on from small Iowa towns (although I also love the fact our quarterback is from Nashville!), going on to become great college football players and going on to play in the NFL. I love the fact that Coach Ferentz will make a stand out player miss an entire quarter of an important game because he was late to practice (please don’t do that again Desmond King –  you’re my favorite player and THANK YOU for coming back for your senior year!).  And I love that there typically no more than a total of eight four star prospects on the entire roster, making us always seem like somewhat of a Cinderella team.

Thank you to the Iowa Hawkeye football team for putting some much needed pep in my 2015 step. Your two biggest fans can’t wait until September!

We're still your number one fans.

We’re still your number one fans.

Until then, we’ll be drinking moonshine shots every time the Iowa Hawkeye basketball team sinks a bucket to keep our livers in tact for next football season.

Just kidding!

Or am I…?

Cheers!

CBXB!