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!

Weekend Winks – Super Hero, Sun and Snuggles

Life. Last week was a doozy in the fact that my chronic fatigue kicked into high gear. I was so ready for Friday at 5pm, I came home and when I laid down on the couch, I woke up two hours later. I’m not a napper but damn it felt ah-mah-zing.

While I was busy snoozing, Prince B was kicking ass and taking names as a super warrior ninja.

Even ninjas use jazz hands.

He was supposed to use his super power abilities to make it through the obstacle course.

Nailed it.

You know what else this handsome devil can do? Model. His love of books rivals my own and Sister CBXB has taken the twins to the library since forever. Proof is in the banner below.

Literature stud since birth. Yes, I can get you an autograph.

Speaking of autographs, I can also secure you one of Princess B when she becomes a hair model.

Curls on point.

I mean…can you even?

After my mini marathon of a nap Friday, I moved my ass to the bathtub and read to relax. I went to bed around midnight and woke up at 11:30am on Saturday looking nothing like the storybook princesses do. But damn was I rested.

A not so Sleeping Beauty.

As soon as I saw the sun was out, I met Rasta up at the pool where we had on matching swimsuits that were filled out a skosh differently.

Twinning.

My other gal pal, Voodoo found the.perfect.float at my mothership, Target. I will be purchasing this on my next payday because, how could I live without it?

MINE.

Saturday night called for a birthday party for my gal pal G (you know, the one who defended my honor and almost fought an 80-year-old man). It was a real treat to see these ladies.

Fab four.

I don’t get to see them as much lately due to the fact that they have procreated. And while I am extremely busy raising four lazy pussies, I can’t get them to play games with me. So I borrow everyone else’s spawn.

Don’t worry. There was a babysitter babysitting me, too.

Sunday was so dreary I could only think of one thing that might make it better.

The perfect Iowa trifecta of goods. Fresh sweet corn, Anderson Erickson Old Fashioned Cottage Cheese and their fucking bomb ass French Onion dip (which I always call french vanilla – sooooooo hard being blonde). Please, for the love of GAWD can a grocery store start carrying these products below the Mason Dixon Line?!

Throw in a steak and this could be my last meal.

Still feeling tired as all get out, I went back to bed to read only to be pounced on (a very, slow, lethargic pounce) by Rocky.

14 lbs of pussy.

My fucking arm and hand went numb because how could I move this face? HOW?

Dead weight.

While trying to do things with my non-dominant left hand, I happened to scroll passed a very accurate meme on Instagram.

Further fucking proof of a snoozing Pussy Posse.

Obviously Rocco moved and I was able to resume finishing my book. Then I was down a pussy in the bed and went on the hunt for Fabio who typically is demanding a head rub on my chest. I found him on the kitty condo enjoying some solitude.

He just needed a minute.

While I was getting ready to pour myself a cup of Sleepytime tea, these two clowns were still up at 8:30pm when their usual bedtime routine starts around 7pm.

Night caps of milk.

Monday started out in the loveliest way possible. As my alarm did its duty, the pussies that were sleeping in each arm pit and on my chest scattered, knowing it was feeding time. I rolled over and saw cat ass. Awe.

Best view in bed.

Here’s hoping you don’t already feel like this today, too.

Cheers!

CBXB

CBXB!

How to Almost Burn Down a Mini Manse

I’m a woman of many talents.

I photobomb like it’s my career, my dainty laugh makes 80-year-old men want to fight me,  I have a knack for getting strange dudes to send me dick pics and I’m on the brink of being Nashville’s cray cray cat lady.  However, I recently uncovered a new ability of mine when I almost burned my entire apartment complex to the ground with a microwave and a glittery paper plate.

All that glitters is not gold. It's more of an orange color with a yellow tint that when combined together create a blaze.

All that glitters is not gold.
It’s more of an orange color with a yellow tint that when combined together create a blaze.

It all started with these gorgeous red paper plates, rimmed in silver sparkles because an ordinary white hue was all too normal for me to purchase.

Of course I had to have them.

Food tastes better when combined with glitter, yes?

Maybe it was because I had five one too many Skinny Pirates the night before but I thought it was a good idea to throw the shimmering piece of flimsy cardboard into the microwave in order to heat up chicken fingers (also from the previous evening that may or may not have sat on the counter all night long).

Don't worry. I'm sure I have at least 22 brain cells left.

Don’t worry.
I’m sure I have at least 22 brain cells left.

Upon closing the appliance door and setting the timer for 30 seconds, I stepped away from the kitchen, distracted by one of New Cat’s many attempts to commit suicide by sitting on the banister of my second balcony porch.

No energy to thwart suicide attempts by New Cat.

Thinking long and hard about how rough he has it in my mini manse. Fucker.

In the mere seconds I was away rescuing my idiot pussy, something started happening in the microwave.

A stench started to quickly fill the air.

By the time I got back to the kitchen, flames were bursting through the microwave door as the timer counted down to zero.

For a moment, all I could think about was the loss of my chicken tenders. My hungover ass then snapped out of it and flung the door of the appliance open to find a smoldering, disintegrating plate with burnt to a crisp pieces of poultry attached to it.

So glitter doesn't warm well.

So…… sparkles don’t warm well.

Mourning the loss of my food like broken high heel, I was further pissed off thinking that the manufacturer of this piece of shit plate didn’t list any danger warnings about putting a metallic glitter plate into the microwave for all of the dumb asses out there who apparently don’t know foil starts on fire in a microwave like yours truly.

Then I turned the crispy plate over.

WARNING

I may have missed something here.

Once I realized I wasn’t even close to being the most mediocre genius on the planet, my feelings of grief were geared toward the loss of my beloved red (because white is too normal) microwave that now smelled like a year-long bonfire had taken place inside and ceased to run properly.

Um...

The not so sparkly remnants of a small kitchen fire.

Much to my hungover delight, Target (my mothership) had a shiny red appliance just waiting for me on the store shelf later that day.

Forced to invest in a new appliance.

It’s a kitchen miracle.

Forced to utilize my lingering brain cells, I tried to figure out how to unplug the old glitter cooker from behind the refrigerator without having to move the 250 lb unit.

Not going well.

This might as well have been brain surgery.

You guys, it’s hard being a blonde with so many talents.

Help.

Help.

Who wants to come over for a fancy chicken tenders dinner and watch me put my new microwave to use tonight?

Don’t worry, I got new glitter plates.

CBXB

CBXB!

 

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.

Just

Not so bad the first time.

Can't

Second viewing a success.

Stop

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.

Willie!

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!

Perfected

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.

Snoozed

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…

CBXB

CBXB!

How Many Drunks Does it Take to Hang Wallpaper?

What seems like more fun after a few cocktails than trying to conquer a wallpapering project?

It’s what all the cool kids do on a Friday night, right?

Right?

Fun times

Happy and Happier about to embark on tasks better left to the sober.

While I was perusing my mothership Target last week, I discovered peel and stick wallpaper that stopped me dead in my tracks (the cart actually made screeching sound).

All the pretty paper

How could I refrain from the fabulousness?

You see, I have a pretty drab (i.e. not gaudy enough for me) wall that is screaming for some sprucing up in my mini manse and for $30, I could chevron the shit out of the bland area.

Ho hum wall.

No worries – help is coming by way of two drunks!

I was able to coerce my handy buddy Camo after a couple of Skinny Pirates at our local watering hole into hanging (of course the poor guy believed me when I said I’d help) the cool new decor I’d found.

Here are the supplies you will need:

Captain Morgan (or libation of your choice)

Wallpaper (we suggest peel and stick)

Scissors (leopard print cuts better)

Tape measure (to hopefully watch someone else use)

Razor blade (just in case things don’t work out)

Supplies

Winning with supplies.

You will also need one pissy pussy to assist as project manager.

Plus one grounch project manager who just wnated to cuddle

Someone is miffed that wallpapering comes before cuddling.

After removing the mirror, I documented the transformation as Camo carefully laid the first piece of paper with ease.

Watch Document

He’s hired.

Ted dictated our his every move.

Watch  Supervise

Overbearing authority.

Camo had everything under control until I saw bubbles forming underneath my wall sticker.

Wrinkles be damned!

Wrinkles be damned!

Then in between sips of Skinny Pirates, I got my paws on the stuff and wrinkled it into a crumbly mess.

Made worse by yours truly WRinkle ruiner

CBXB wallpaper fail.

After I managed to single-handedly thwart any and all wallpapering attempts, Camo suggested a paint job which I thought sounded like a genius idea as I could sit and watch document for this post.

Drunk painting party!

Drunk painting party!

Supervising

My arms got tired taking pictures.

And after all of the nonsense, the wall turned out pretty damn perfect.

Tah-Dah!

Tah-Dah!

So obviously two drunks don’t make a wallpapering right.

But what would happen if one went at it alone?

Second round of tools

Supplies for one, round two.

Bound and determined I was going to get this damn wallpaper up in my mini manse if it was the last thing I ever did, another boring wall was selected for me to manhandle.

Blah

My prey.

Rolling out the chevron sticker in my kitchen kinda made me wish this was a rug (wine makes the mind wander, doesn’t it?).

Chevron carpet

Mesmerized by measuring.

Once I thought the wallpaper was ready to go up, I quickly had to stop and guzzle a glass of vino as the fucking wrinkles, bubbles and creases reared their ugly heads again.

Not so much...same outcome, different night?

Why is this happening? WHY?!

Upon using wine as an alternative to Xanax, I calmly kept forging ahead in my not-so-perfect project because by God this was going to work.

After two hours of cussing, sweating, swearing, drinking and fighting through the urge to burn the wallpaper, the stars suddenly aligned and my luck turned a corner for the better.

As I stepped back to admire my minor accomplishment, I had a feeling I’d soon be known as a world-renowned wallpaper hanger upper.

Nope!

One drunk = a wallpaper success!

Until I got a little closer for a look at remaining imperfections from the sloppy installer.

Don't look too close

Too bad you can’t Botox walls.

Upon taking a further step back, I realized the job was lacking something pretty major…

Completion.

Half assed from one drunk

Half-assed wallpapering at its finest.

Maybe three drunks will be my lucky charm?

I’ll keep you posted.
CBXB

CBXB!

Crazy Cat Lady Lingerie

Oh yeah, I know. This is adult onesie just oozes sex appeal.

yep.

Hubba Hubba.

My love for the feline species apparently started at the tender age of birth and as far back as I can remember, cats have always been in my life.

Here kitty, kitty, kitty, kitties....

Here kitty, kitty, kitty, kitties….

Instead of playing with doll babies, I was busy trying to burp a kitten.

Easy does it there, Ernie.

Easy does it there, Ernie.

In lieu of stuffed animals or Barbies, I took cats down slides as playmates (a desperate shout out for a sibling, you think?). This was as natural to me as all get out, further solidifying my future as a maniacal lover of all things that meow.

Oh you're going down with me. And you're going to love it.

Oh you’re going to slide down with me. And you’re going to love it.

So it’s no surprise that my entire family is well aware of my life long obsession with my cats (all typical grown ass women love cats, right? Right?).

I received a text photo from my extremely insightful cousin Dom one afternoon…

My eyes were in instant ecstasy.

It took all of .02 seconds to wonder why he thought of me when he saw these footie PJs at Target.

Our ensuing conversation went something like:

Me: Where?

Dom: Target. Your mothership.

Me: Holy shit! On my way to buy STAT.

I rushed out my mini manse with such speed that Ted’s fur was still swaying in my created whirlwind when I slammed the front door.

As I laid eyes on the animal print threads, my internal dialogue was saying “I really love leopard print. And I REALLY am crazy about my cat but who in the hell would want one of these jumpsuits, let alone wear it around the house?”

Apparently, yours truly.

Because externally I couldn’t help myself from stashing it into my cart (next to the 13-year-old girl who was also throwing the identical outfit in her mom’s cart) and galloping to the check-out.

How can you say no to kitty feet? You don’t (or rather I don’t).

After purchasing, I couldn’t wait to get home and slip into my new something comfortable.

Taking it up a sultry notch with jazz hands.

As it turns out these pajamas are not only sensible, provocative fashion for the cat lover, they are also quite practical.

Puurfect pockets to stash cat toys and treats.

All moms need a little “me” time and this lounge wear will whisk in to rescue you. And to be honest, isn’t camouflage all the rage these days? My interpretation is just a tad different…

Yep. I own this couch. And matching pajamas.

Cat Camouflage. For the times you need a break from your fur ball and wish to escape by blending in with your surroundings.

Because this sultry lingerie comes with attached footies, you never have to worry about turning your heat on in the winter time.

Ted and I now have matching pink paws.

After all of my prancing around, I was wondering if Mr. Bear was EVER going to acknowledge my new giddy up…

Tb

Tedstar tested and approved.

With the added pep in my step from frolicking around in this slinky adult version of a baby’s nighttime attire, I’ve been waiting by the phone for Hugh Hefner to call offering me a spread in an upcoming Playboy magazine.
I mean, how could he resist?
CBXB
CBXB!

Weekend Winks – Hawkstar Style

Is there anything better than a weekend filled with football, booze and sun?

Friday night called for some leopard kicks and a lot (accidentally) of cocktailing.

Party Patio

A bit of teetering and tottering in these bad boys lead to a leisurely Saturday.

What kind of fan would I be without sporting my team’s attire? I threw on one of my fave Iowa Hawkeye t-shirts from Victoria’s Secret PINK line on Saturday as I prepared for a tailgate (well, really an ‘ingate’ as we don’t really go outside).

Hawkstar

That’s right. I party like a Hawkstar.

Ted could have cared less about all of the pre-game prep Saturday afternoon.

Can't be bothered

Why do I spend money on cute beds for Ted when he prefers a plastic Target bag?

Being that I was in deep recovery from Friday night, I wore my prescription sunglasses all day, forgetting they were on as I went on a football food run.

Yep. I'm somebody in the spaghetti aisle.

Yep. I’m somebody in the spaghetti aisle. An asshole wearing sunglasses inside as a matter of fact.

The trashy touchdown tradition ingredients sat on the counter calling our name, waiting for points to be thrown up on the Hawk’s scoreboard.

Moonshine primed and ready to go for TDs.

C’mon touchdowns!

Tedstar, still underwhelmed at the pre-party, stayed snuggled down with his plastic.

Yay

He loves football. No, seriously.

Not even the sight and smell of the tailgating treats could muster The Bear up from his slumber.

Tailgating spread.

The spread…including the my blogfamous Shit Dip (click here for recipe).

But my little kit cat could not get enough of his Grammie’s new hair product as he sniffed and sniffed and sniffed his way up one side of her head and down the other as we watched the game.

You smell so...well, let me smell you again. And again.

You smell so…well, let me smell you again. And again.

With a Hawkeye win of 27-21, we were feeling pretty foxy with all that moonshine pumping through our veins. That evening while asleep, I had visions of the 3.1 Phillip Lim for Target (the store is my mothership) collection dancing in my head (did anyone score anything yesterday before it sold out?).

As I sauntered to my mothership Sunday morning, I was happy to know that the love of the store has been instilled in my niece and nephew up in Iowa.

Instilling the love in my niece and nephew.

First trip to Target! Starting the red bullseye love early for B & B.

After all of the lost brain cells over the weekend, the only thing I could do was sit my ass by the pool one more time this season and watch the sun go down.

Sunday sundown.

Sunday sundown.

Here’s hoping you have a fabulous week!

CBXB

CBXB!