Weekend Whatever Week You’re On Winks

Oh the things being stationed from home 24/7 will make you do…like take in a kitten who just had her own litter. Therefore, making me not a grandma but a GLAMma.

Oops I did it again. And again. And again. And again. And again.

I have an outside brood of seven pussies that I’ve been feeding the last two years. I was able to trap and release (TNR) each one last spring. TNR is when you catch a cat in a trap, take it to the vet for a spay or neuter and then release it where you found it. I’m making this sound easy but it takes a goddamn act of the stars being aligned even if Mercury is in Retrograde to accomplish this because feral cats are basically wild animals.

I missed a female last spring and she had kittens. And now, I am a Glamma and have four sweet, teeny, tiny Glammies inside the Mini Manse quarantined in their own Rona hell to my bedroom. They are now known as The Glam Squad and I almost lost an arm and two eyes trying to get them into the Mini Manse but that’s a story for another day.

Girlie Girl feeding Maverick and Ruth.

The Glammies are almost fully weaned off of Mama. I’m on a waiting list at Value Vet and Nashville’s Pet Community Center (that has 600 felines afuckinghead of me) for spaying and neutering. These little nuggets won’t be going back outside, either. They’ve entered the Mini Manse and are now accustomed to a boxed wine luxury lifestyle with Glamma. It’s been a shit ton of work but definitely, a welcomed distraction from whatever this thing is we now call the world. All of the babies will be up for adoption. Don’t you think you need a new friend?

Girlie Girl, Fauci and Nelly enjoying their breakfast buffet.

All of this pussy momming has given me even more reason to dive right into my Crazy Cat Lady status that I have not one ounce of shame over.

Light Friday night reading compliments of M.Star.

So how do Prissy and The Pussy Posse feel about acquiring temporary residents?

WHAT. THE. FUUUUUUUUUUUCK?

Because The Pussy Posse, Prissy, and yours truly all sleep in my Princess and the Pea bed, I’ve had to do some distracting to avoid immediate punishment from the permanent feline residents in the Mini Manse. The weather has been quite fabulous, so I am able to leave the Pussy Patio wing of the Mini, Teddy’s Terrace open for their recreational habits of napping all day every day and night.

Fabio has no complaints.

Thundercunt would like to speak to the manager.

While I’ve been trying to keep my cat hoarding situation under control, Sister CBXB has been entertaining her duo with her fabulous versions of summer camp.

So far they’ve been to France, Japan, and space.

Day camps can be exhausting, so they get a little happy hour every day.

Summering so hard.

Princess B also got a visit from the tooth fairy twice last week.

I could run a summer camp on how to find shit in the garbage can. Remember when I found my dumpster wedding dress (that is still in my possession, I mean, just in case, you never know)? Well, when I was leaving the Mini Manse on Saturday, what to my wondering eyes did appear but a gigantic framed fancy photo of some golfer. And you know who loves her some golf?

First Mate.

One woman’s trash is First Mate’s treasure.

I snapped a pic of it and sent it to her as a joke. Turns out she really wanted it and I unshamefully backed my ass up and it’s now anchored at her beige palace.

You who else needs to back their asses up? Every single motherfucker in this photo from Kid Rock’s bar in downtown Nashville taken this weekend. What do you want to bet every single person in this photo has bitched and moaned about businesses reopening and how masks are an infringement on their personal fucking freedom?

Thanks for helping Nashville inch back to Phase 1.

EVERYONE I know wants to get out and about and have some sense of pre-Rona normalcy. But when a very large handful of peeps take the conveyed Tennessee message “proceed with common sense,” in establishments that completely ignore city set guidelines (6 feet apart, wear a mask), it’s inevitable to not feel like these folks aren’t being wise. Nashville is in a four-phase reopening plan. Currently, we are on Phase 2, with many businesses waiting for Phase 3 to reopen. Selfish folks, like Kid Rock’s establishment, accompanied by many other downtown Nashville bars are completely ruining it for other businesses waiting for their economic means to starting flowing again. Get your shit together you selfish fucks and maybe, just practice compassion for others.

In London over the weekend, great compassion was shown for a counter-protester to the Black Lives Matter march. Patrick Hutchinson saw a white counter-protester on the ground, about to be trampled. Hutchinson picked the man up, and with help from friends, got him out of the large crowd and to safety. Remarkable compassion and integrity.

Selflessness at its finest.

I think some people have become frustrated with what may seem like a lull after two weeks of full-on worldwide protesting (so yeah, the entire universe thinks black lives matter). It’s important to remember that Black Lives Matter is a movement, not a moment. It will take time, education, resources, protests, reform, and….compassion.

Speaking of viruses, my vehicle has been nothing but bad juju and decided to finally piss out on me two weeks ago. It’s just been sitting in the parking lot (silver lining of remote working compliments of Rona) at the Mini Manse until yesterday. And when I started to drive it to CarMax, seeing if I could muster any kind of moola out of them for it, the old rust bucket came up with the soundtrack to 2020.

The brakes completely went out about 15 seconds in the car. I was able to emergency brake it the entire way to the dealer. When the mechanic took it out for a test spin, before giving me my appraisal, I warned him that if he valued his life, he may want to stay in the parking lot.

The rust bucket in better days, when I wished it was a Range Rover.

Turns out, the make and model of my car holds value. WHAT? WHAT? Exsqueeze me? 

GOOD NEWS?

How awful is it that I’m accustomed to the very worst scenario always panning out? I’m not a pessimist but I am just always prepared for the defeat of a situation these days. Instead, I got so much for my rust bucket, I was able to get a better vehicle in my price range that I love.

Car salesman Harry and I are now best friends.

My new beaut is being transferred from Maryland and is the exact same make, model and color as my old one. Just newer and minus the rust, the duct tape, the myriad of dashboard lights on 24/7, and no power steering fluid leak. HOW LUCKY AM I?!

For those of us who didn’t have my luck yesterday, (which applies to every other area of my non-vehicular life) might I suggest some sage to last us the next six months as we patiently await 2021?

Let me know when you want me to come sage your place. I have a new ride, you know.

Stay safe.

CBXB
CBXB!

 

 

 

 

Buy Me a Drink

The Wapatoolie

You know the old saying ,”the family that Wapatoolies together, stays together?”

Oh you’re not familiar? Allow me to explain…

Our first Wapatoolie.

My dad and me sharing our first Wapatoolie. How sweet.

Every summer, my family tends to meet up at the Lake of the Ozarks and act like misfits from the Griswold family.

Heathens at their finest.

Heathens at their finest.

It was at the Ozarks where yet another one of our classy family traditions (which also include Jell-O and moonshine shots) was born.  Allow me to introduce you to…

The Wapatoolie

Yum

Looking just as refreshing as lake water, I know.

According to family legend (which was told by my dad, who is known for streeeeeeeeetching out a story or two), the Wapatoolie was first introduced to him and his twin (yes, there is a replica of my father….a story for another day) while at a college party with the Wisconsin football team.

Blow Hard 1 and Blow Hard 2

Blow Hard 1 and Blow Hard 2 sharing the same farmer’s tan.

As the story goes, a party was unfolding where the two twins above were innocent bystanders.  With zero prodding, my dad boasted that he bravely took a shot of a Wapatoolie (ingredients consist of whatever the hell is in your bar at the time). Hand to Jesus, I swear I could see his chest puffing up with each oooh and ahhh he received from the Band of Griswold Misfits.

The story ended with a quote only a college football legend (again, a story for another day) could utter….”The Badgers started it but it took a Hawkeye to refine it.”

No shit.

Recipe for tastiness.

Definitely not from a college kid’s bar but a recipe for tastiness nonetheless.

Before the last syllable of the tall tale could be sputtered, us cousins were extremely busy at work mixing a Wapatoolie for the bullshitter storyteller.

Mix masters.

Mix Masters.

Down the hatch.

Tequila, bourbon, whiskey, white and spiced rum, margarita mix, vodka and gin topped with a dash of creamy Bailey’s…

Mmmmm

Feels so good when it hits the lips.

The following evening, my cousins (all of whom are male on this side of the family, which probably just explained everything you needed to know) decided if their stud of an uncle could stomach a Wapatoolie, they could too.

The Village of Idiots and their leader.

The Village of Idiots and their leader.

The rest of us gleefully skipped to the bar to concoct the next round of poison potion.

Back to the mixing board.

Back to the mixing board.

Tough Guys...

Tough guys in the beginning…

Not so tough

….not so tough the first round…

or second round...first you don't succeed? Try, try again. Shoot, shoot again.

…or round two the following year…

And just like that, from one year to the next, the timeless, trashy tradition of the Wapatoolie was born.

Now, we extend the pleasure of this shot to anyone who dares to hang with our family…

Just get engaged to one of my male cousins?  A Wapatoolie for you!

First time to party with us at the Lake of the Ozarks?  A Wapatoolie for you!

Want to date my sister?  A Wapatoolie for you!

Think you can hang with us during football season?  A Wapatoolie for you!

Oh and for those of you who don’t drink liquor of any kind, we can mix a non-alcoholic version for you. Don’t worry.

Think you can hang with me and my dad?

So you wanna hang with us? You sure?

C'mon over to my bar and let me mix you a little something...

C’mon over to my bar and let me mix you a little something…

Yum

Your personal rite of passage into CBXB’s clan.

And if you’re too chicken shit, we understand and will be happy to cocktail with you anyway.

Until then...

Equal opportunity drinkers.

Just remember, the family that Wapatoolies together, stays together.

Cheers!

CBXB

CBXB!

Weekend Winks – Summertime Blues

Summer sniffles and sneezes found their way into CBXB’s mini manse this weekend…

1,402,734th sneeze of Friday night.

1,402,734th achoo of Friday night.

Thinking that I was going to beat the snot out of a cold before it got the best of me, I turned to my old friend, vino.

A little whine for the whiny.

A glass of wine a day keeps summer colds at bay. Right?

WRONG.

It turns out that gigantic glasses of wine do not thwart off watery eyes, itchy, drippy noses or soothe your vocal chords that now sound like you’ve been smoking cigarettes since gracing the world with your presence.

Crusty face

Rising but not shining.

Ted and New Cat were so concerned with my minor condition that they laid on the porch all day long.

I. don't. care.

Oh you don’t feel well? We don’t give a rat’s ass.

Leaving my empathetic felines behind, I tried jogging the cold away. Until I started up the first hill of the course and turned into what felt like a two ton puppy with the drippiest nose in all of Nashville.

Panting like a two ton puppy in the Tennessee heat. Made my nose run more. Runny nose running

Runny run.

While attempting to chase my summertime blues away, the twins were mauling my mom who is always hands on when she visits Iowa.

Twin wrangler.

Twin wrangler.

Prince B received his first hair cut with the bribe of a sucker.

Getting the hair did with the bribe of a sucker.

A little sucker for sweets.

Being that Prince B not only got to visit a stylist first AND got candy, Princess B went shopping and got a haul that makes Auntie CBXB’s heart pitter patter.

Little CBXB in the making

Skulls, cats and studs? A little CBXB in the making, my friends!

Wallowing in my whiny self-pity, Ted stonewalled me when I asked him to pay me some kindness.

Shut the fuck up.

Again with this sickness nonsense? Shut the fuck up.

I turned to a cinnamon shot Saturday night, hoping to ease my scratchy throat.

Grandpa's cough syrup

Grandpa’s cough syrup on double time.

Even Cameron Diaz couldn’t believe I braved the polar vortex with my cold to see her new film, Sex Tape (wait and rent at home).

AH!

The lengths I go to for entertainment…

Knocking myself out cold with medicine, I was sure Sunday would greet me with a little healthier fun.

Can't stop. Won't stop.

Can’t stop. Won’t stop.

When I realized the sneezes were here to stay, I braved sweating it out at the pool.

Sweating it out at the pool

Just what the doctor ordered…sunshine and a bloody mary.

Unable to keep my eyes open and fearful of passing out, resembling a drooling beached whale at the pool, I retreated back to the mini manse where I was finally given deserving bedside manner.

Sniffles snuggled away.

Snuggling the sniffles away.

Proving that Nurse Ted is the cure for my summertime blues.

CBXB

CBXB!

 

 

 

Who Shit in the Baby Pool?

Growing up, my sister and I had the fortune of being raised alongside our kinfolk (I live in the South now, so I can use that word like it’s no big deal and still relevant in this century. Although I only ever heard it once growing up, in a history book).  A batch of our cousins would visit for weeks at a time in the summer and being in such a small town, we made our own fun. Like getting the garden hose out and filling up a plastic pool on the deck to swim (even when you feel WAY too grown up to get into it).

As it goes with family, you often times become so comfortable, you can let it all hang out (sometimes quite literally).  On the specific day in the photo below, we had an absolute surprise from my cousin T.  He was particularly lazy, not wanting to get out of the pool for a bathroom break.

What's that smell?

What’s that smell?

That’s the little shit (pun intended) T in the back, concentrating on his masterpiece. My sister is on the left, splashing with oblivious delight, as I sit next to her in my Rainbow Brite swimsuit, not amused. Of course T’s big brother in front thinks it’s all kinds of hilarious.  Being trashy is knowing better but doing it anyway, not giving a rat’s ass what anyone thinks.  And T absolutely knew better but rejoiced in seeing our squeals of disgust and overreaction to the floater in the baby pool.

Although, I’m thinking a turd in a plastic pool was a step up from where my folks originally took me to swim…in mud puddles (because that’s all kinds of sanitary, yes?) where it looked like someone had previously taken a dump.

Mud buddies.

The original Honey Boo Boo.

No pool? No worries. Just find a hole on a gravel road and insert kids! Luckily for me, I had on long pants unlike my teeny weeny friend Erica who got to soak in all of the benefits of a gravel pit with her short overalls.

Now that’s nothing if not fabulous trash.

CBXB

CBXB!