Weekend Winks – Smiles for Miles

There’s something about Memorial Day that makes it feel like summer has arrived. This past holiday weekend was no different. Van Waffles and I kicked off the fun with brunch at The Sutler that serves bottomless mimosas for $17. I’m sure I ruined that fabulous deal for everyone after my guzzling appearance.

I was more excited about the mimosas. Clearly.

One large group of tourists ordered four rounds of 16 shots while we were there. Four rounds of 16 shots. I can only imagine that their total bill was roughly about what I pay for rent monthly, as they were all having mimosas and food.

My Iowa twins are officially first graders! They celebrated their year in kindergarten by taking a mini vacay to Chicago.

Just a scosh excited about school being out.

Long legs in the Windy City.

Ice cream dreams.

Sometimes you forget the excitement about experiencing something for the first time. Smiles for miles about their first ride in a taxi.

It’s the little things.

Princess B got to go to the American Girl Doll store (which is apparently a rite of passage for kids when visiting Michigan Avenue). Instead of selecting a doll, she opted for a puppy which made my heart just about burst.

Mini me.

Sister CBXB was keeping me updated on the dog shopping and I about died when I received the following message.

Remind you of anyone?

Wonder where she gets it.

A very fancy piece of art was commissioned during the vacay.

Along with a fabulous view.

The fam made it back to Iowa in time for Princess B to attend her last dance class of the year.

Dancing Queen.

Speaking of last classes, I partied it up in honor of VooDoo’s baby girl who is all grown up and now a graduate.

A fabulous future lies ahead.

This was also a bon voyage party for VooDoo who is moving to Alabama in two weeks. Bittersweet but so thrilled for her new adventure.

VooDoo, Boob, First Mate and the Captain.

Because we never have any fun when we’re together, our selfie game got a little sideways. First Mate’s arms lack the length to get more than one face in the frame.

That’s Boob in the way back.

Problem solving skills get better the more booze you consume so when it was time to open the wine with no opener, another genius party goer had the best solution ever. A screw and screwdriver got us thirsty gals our vino.

Red neck wine opener.

Due to the holiday, it was important that we stocked up on libations Sunday evening on the way home from VooDoo’s partay. Although the Nashville Predators failed to make the Stanley Cup this year, the swag was still out and we took full advantage of it for photo ops.

Helmet heads.

Van Waffles was kind enough to carry our loot.

I found the purrfect liquor in which I should be the spokeswoman.

My new favorite shot.

Speaking of cats, The Pussy Posse was in full relaxation mode this weekend. Fabio helped me eat leftovers taking up space in the fridge.

Do leftovers make my body look big?

Ruby Sue lived up to her nickname Thundercunt. She tried to commit suicide by constantly walking my porch railing, she enjoyed scaring the shit our of me while opening and slamming cupboard doors, and tried to suffocate herself in a plastic bag more than once.

Who could stay made at that face?

Scooch is taking cues from Elsa Pants (who can’t make an appearance on this week’s blog because she won’t sit still long enough for me to get a photo of her) and runs like a mad man is chasing him whenever I try to pet him. Poor thing.

Rocky just wanted to sleep and loves to lay on my arm while doing so. He just couldn’t because I had a dry cough that kept him from getting his normal 22 hours of shut eye.

Annoyed.

While we were all in relaxation mode, the weather was really making the rounds. Iowa City West High School students had to take cover at their graduation due to an EF-1 tornado. Thankfully no fatalities have been reported.

No Digity texted me from Vail where it was fucking snowing. At the end of May.

Colorado vs. Tennessee

Winding down after a full weekend ended the way it always does for me. In bubbles.

The purrfect ending.

Here’s hoping your start to summer made you smile.

Cheers!

CBXB

CBXB!

Hometown Tourist

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

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

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

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

Country. When country wasn’t cool.

I digress.

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

There’s enough crazy in town already, bachelorettes.

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

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

Gorgeous lobby.

Intricate ceilings.

Most importantly, the bar.

The views from this spot did not disappoint.

Three ladies and an asshole.

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

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

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

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

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

Recovered.

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

You AGAIN?!

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

Yeehaws all around.

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

 

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

Mama Jones.

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

We didn’t hate it.

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

No pillow talk for me.

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

Not so sleeping beauty.

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

 

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

Controls for the entire room.

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

No shame in my game.

“West Nashville.” Ever heard of it?

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

Oldies but goodies.

Party on.

CBXB

CBXB!

 

 

 

 

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.

CBXB

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.

Exhausting

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.

Cluck

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.

Chatty

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.

CBXB

CBXB!

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.

Shoemazing!

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?).

holla

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?

CBXB

CBXB!

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.

blah

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.

blah

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!

SECURITY!

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?

CBXB