Say Yes to the Dumpster Dress

There is zero shame in my game.

While holy matrimony has never been high on my list of hopeful accomplishments (although I can train the fuck out of a man. Ex-boyfriends that were once couch potatoes, allergic to family encounters, bitched about having to go to out-of-town weddings, were closeted alcoholics, verbally abusive – all matters leading to break ups are now treating ladies right. Now I get to sit back and watch my masterpieces practice my long, hard efforts in their current love lives. Bitter much…who moi? You’re welcome girls).

Whipping male asses into shape for fellow females.

Often classifying myself as trashtacular, it will come as no surprise that when I was driving by one of the many dumpsters near my mini manse, my interest was beyond piqued when I spied a gigantic white box big enough to store body parts beside the filthy green trash receptacle.

I did what any classy person would do…I slammed on the brakes, leapt out of my rust bucket, just knowing that the headless corpse I was about to discover would land me on my fave TV show, Forensic Files without having to be deceased.

Instead, as I slowly opened the box, an even bigger surprise awaited my eyeballs.

A fucking wedding gown. Preserved to perfection.

Was this a sign? An omen? Bad juju (I mean Jesus, is there any luck in finding a wedding dress dumpster diving? I mean, aside from it being free and all). I suddenly became a woman more excited about a wedding dress than finding a stray pussy that needs a home (JUST KIDDING. I would first home the cat and then set my sights on my pretend wedding).

This dress had been abandoned once before. Who was I to do it again? The chiffon pouf found a home in the back of my rust bucket, along with a Christmas tree and anything else I don’t have room for in the mini manse. It resided there until one evening at a gathering of gals for Supper Club. Among the convo, I mentioned my dumpster diving prowess skills and with zero urging, ran out to my car and got the box.

The shenanigans began.

Upon opening the box, we not only discovered there was the dress but also the veil AND THE SHOES – which revealed the previous owner’s practicality, as they were ballet flats. Ew.

My new favorite bad hair day ‘do.

Suddenly, I became a flushed bride trying to stuff myself into polyester chiffon (I mean, I didn’t go on a wedding dress diet because I didn’t know I would be so fortunate to be all dressed up…with no altar to go).

I haven’t tried to stuff myself into anything chiffon since, well, ever. I mean, naturally my prom dresses were sequins and any bridesmaid dress that I will “totally wear again” (and never, ever have) were more on the silk/satin side of the material world.

With a touch of fake tulips off my gal pal’s mantel, I was a (literally) hot bride – one lit cigarette butt from going up in flames.

While half of the group was trying to get me in and out of the dress, the other ladies were playing private detectives. We had a name from the alteration receipt, which was from a dress shop in Hoover, AL. WHAT WAS THE STORY BEHIND THIS DRESS?

I mean, if it was cheating, wouldn’t one burn the dress? A nasty divorce, even, maybe donate the dress? But to leave it unscathed at the dumpster really proved that this former bride had a sliver of regard for the giddy-up that once promised her forever, which may now be my forever. But whatever.

With the small paper trail and armed with her maiden name, our investigators were able to peruse social media, locate her, see second wedding photos (with a far more updated gown) and we all now know she lives three buildings down from me. Maybe we should all quit our jobs and become private detectives?

Lost but found.

OR maybe I will just quit my day job, go down to Broadway Street in Nashville in my new threads and pretend I got left at the altar for sympathy and free Skinny Pirates.

OR better yet, I can be the runaway bride and charge tourists (who pay for any and everything) $5 for a picture with this damsel in distress.

OR do I plan a wedding to myself for myself and register for all the things like Louis Vuitton bags, Christian Louboutin heels, a Go Fund Me account for vet bills, and a collection for a new car (i.e. Range Rover)?

OR do I wear this on every second date I go on?

While I have yet to ever online date, this for sure will be a profile picture if I ever do. Accompanied with one single tag line:

Must love cats.

I betcha they’ll be lining up to say, “I don’t,” even if I’m not looking for anything but casual.

Regardless, I can’t stop wearing the fucking veil.

Don’t mind me. Just a crazy lady parading around in a stranger’s veil.

Here comes the bride…to the nearest dumpster near you.


How to Make an Ass of Yourself Acting Like a Local

Find yourself feeling awkward while in a city other than your hometown? While on a trip to Key West, I practiced the art of acting like a fool local to better fit in with the citizens of the beautiful destination.

While trying to be mistaken as a local, it’s best to try to blend in with your surroundings.

Blending in with my surroundings fail.

Blending fail.

You’ll want to take as many pictures of the ocean as possible while you sit your ass on a beach chair all day. You won’t look like a tourist. At all.


Salt water photo #461.

To ensure your native status, find a local celebrity and become fast friends.

Hello? Peter Cottontail? Bombard the E. Bunny's house.

Stalking Peter Cottontail. We’re now besties.

Throw yourself in front of tourist traps, like ghost story trolleys. Locals hate that kind of shit.

Throw yourself

The only thing scary on this tour is me.

Do as the residents do and hop on any car with one million stickers and repeat the world welcome every time another human walks by.

Car model Price is Right just called and offered me a job.

Pretty sure I almost caught chlamydia by sitting on that damn car.

Hit your concierge up for local hot spots that mostly residents frequent. Once you’ve arrived, act like you’ve never been out of the damn house before as you ooh and ahh over the gravel floor, the open air ceiling and the patio lights that are a staple at every other beach restaurant (and that you also have hanging on your own porch).

Blue Heaven is truly heaven on earth.

Blue Heaven is truly heaven on earth.

Even though you grew up in a small farming community and own two cats, be sure to document the strange creatures roaming around the restaurant that seem so foreign. All locals get picture happy in native establishments.

A cat?!

A cat?! Where’s my camera?

Peeps! In real life!

Peeps! In real life!

Coax those little chicks to sit on your finger in between every bite of delicious nourishment.  Everyone that lives in Key West does this. Trust me.

Polly want a cracker?

Polly want a cracker?

Spot a mama hen cuddling with her newly hatched chick and suddenly long for a feathered baby of your own.


I need that beaked baby!

Proceed to cluck and grow your own wings to entice the real, live Peeps to follow you out of the restaurant.  I promise you will not look like an ass clown.

Mama Hen

Mama Hen at her worst.

When the Great Poultry Heist fails miserably, console yourself (and solve all of the world’s problems) by swinging in a hammock under palm trees talking in a voice just loud enough to keep your fellow vacationers up ’til dawn.


Are you there God? It’s me, CBXB.

Be sure to pack your finest sleep accessories as you will be amazed at the energy it takes to act like a resident of whatever community you’re visiting.

Clucking and talking is hard work.

Clucking and talking is hard work.

As you can see, acting like a local is exhausting but if you follow my tips, you’ll fit right in.



How to Make an Ass of Yourself in a Fancy Vegas Bar

Hey, is that Kate Upton?

Hey, is that Kate Upton? Nope. Just an asshole tourist trying to tear diamond decor from the wall.

It all started with good intentions.

On the last morning of my inaugural Vegas trip, I realized that I’d barely ventured outside of any hotel property I’d stepped foot in (MGM Grand, Hard Rock Casino) and thought it’d be best to check out the strip before heading to the airport to catch a late afternoon flight.

The problem is, we started at The Cosmopolitan where I immediately morphed into a raccoon with all of the sparkly, shiny, lighted decor glowing all around me.


A lady who could live in a shoe. A fabulous, high-heeled shoe.

The height of my sensory overload peaked at The Chandelier bar which was a must stop for a late morning cocktail (it’s Vegas, don’t judge. And plus, it’s football season and perfectly acceptable to drink liquor before noon, right?) and where I threw any remaining ounce of classiness out of my body.

Hello Heaven.

Hello Heaven.

We thought one drink wouldn’t hurt before heading out to catch a few last hours of sun and fun down the Las Vegas strip.

Happy breakfast cocktail!

Cheers for breakfast cocktails!

But then we made new friends like Olga from Germany (who had harsh love advice for me but kept padding it with liquor, so I listened).

And this started happening. Over and over.

Then this happened.

Three times the fun!

As the libations kept being poured, we didn’t want our Vegas vacay to end (and I didn’t really want to leave the confines of another hotel property), so we pushed our flight back a few hours in order to keep the day party going (who cared if the new arrangements had us landing at 1am and we had to work the next morning? We certainly didn’t mind. Until the next morning arrived, of course).

If we hadn’t changed our flight, this photo shoot would never have taken place (who really needs to walk the strip, anyhow?).


That’s right. A daytime photo shoot on Vegas hotel stairs might have given me an elbow rash.

And if we’d kept our previous travel plans, I never would have been able to strain my back trying to attain the perfect arch for my new modeling portfolio.

Started off as Gisele

Can someone help me flip over? Please? Seriously. Help.

What would fancy Las Vegas casino bars do without trashtacular tourists such as myself?

Be a million notches classier, perhaps?



Trashy Track

While in Miami, I was fortunate enough to visit Gulfstream Racing and Casino Park. It’s an all-encompassing venue that includes horse races, a casino, shops, restaurants and bars. For me, it was sensory overload. I felt like Teddy seeing sequins reflecting off the wall (what is that? where did that go? which one should I chase first?).

But the best part (for me) was being able to sip a cocktail (surprise!) while casing the joint for our next adventure. So of course, I kept it classy, with a side of trashy tourist (I know you’re shocked) during my visit (I was just missing a gigantic camera with a long lens around my neck to complete my look).

I wanted to jump in the cage, just to run out of it.

On your mark…get set…I wanted to run behind the bars, just to ‘make an appearance’ as the doors flew open.

There was a scoreboard that I couldn’t read but had pretty palm trees all around, so of course a picture was snapped.


The actual track seemed huge while they pranced the pretty ponies around (I took this picture for the poinsettias).

What horses?

Keeping my dream as a Price is Right model alive (I mean, did you see me hand gesture the hell out of a Bently? Better click here if you didn’t), I tried to look as spokesperson-like as possible by my favorite sign.

Much like my Price Is Right dream

Keepin’ the game show gesture model hope afloat!

Hello home away from home….

Called my name.

Calling my name.

As soon as I laid eyes on the tiki joint, I put a sold sign up by a chair.

Permanent Residency

Permanent residency.

Of course all of the sitting and drinking makes one hungry, so we shelled out the big bucks for the fanciest (worst) nachos in the history of the universe (and at every last crumb).

Nothing but the best, Clark.

Gut bomb.

We had to take a break from the nachos and horses to perform emergency sliver surgery. Don’t worry, we sterilized the needle with a lighter. High class, I know.

Emergency sliver surgery

Not sure how this was acquired but needed immediate removal. At the dining table.

Bored waiting on the horses to actually start trotting, we ventured to watch the teeny tiny jockeys (which made me feel as tall as Khloe Kardashian and I am 5’5″ on a good day) prepare to race at the Saddling Paddock. I wanted to ask to get my picture made with one of the jockeys but too terrified I would look like the Jolly Green Giant.

So, I took a picture of the sign instead.

We caught a glimpse of the horses as they were paraded around in a circle.

My favorite being paraded.

My favorite number 8! Really, I just like this one because it wore pink, duh.


Look guys, more palm trees!

Once back at our seats we appeared so swanky, our endless movie quoting buddy (“remember that line from Airplane when…” kinda dude) stopped by our table so that we could place bets without having to get up from our very comfortable plastic chairs.

We were so swanky, our movie quoting buddy stopped by our table so we could place bets (then stopped at everyone else's, too).

So flattered…until he walked to the next table.

Our place betting friend only collected money, so we had to run (literally from excitement) to collect any winnings.

Running to collect his $2. Exciting!

Uncle Jimmy sprinting for his $2. Exciting!

I didn’t want to bet because I like keeping the money I have (to spend on Captain and clothes), so I went to the bar for another cocktail. And what I saw inspired me to immediately go on a liquid only diet.

Thinking my bar tender would look a little like the gentlemen who took bets, I decided I needed to double fist after this view.

Bartenders don’t look like this in Nashville.

To start my food cleanse, I decided it best to double up on the liquids.

Seeing her

Thank God I don’t bar tend in Miami!

Two handing vodka lead to an impromtu photo shoot of all surroundings.

Ooh a tractor in MIami definitely calls for a picture, right?

A tractor in Miami definitely calls for a picture, right?

I acted like I’d never seen a tattoo sleeve in my life when I walked briskly behind this guy to get a picture.  Any closer and his girlfriend might have decked me.

Acting like I'd never seen a snake or tattoo sleeve in my life, I took a picture - like any good tourist would do!


And I tried to have a little swagger as I moved around the place, trying to look like I ‘fit in.’

Just prancing around the track

Who me? I’m a local.

I never made an appearance in the casino but really wished I did when I saw what playing the quarter slots could land.

Where this dude spends most of his days..

Where this dude spends most of his days.

Hundred dollar bills, y’all!

Aunt Eenie was the big winner by playing the quarter slots!

Drinks on Aunt Eenie!

Anyone got a quarter I could borrow?