My Gma the Great

I’ve never been one to take my family or time with them for granted, so it was real bummer when my Gma passed away two years ago. Not only was she one of my best buddies, I know I inherited her brutal honesty, ornery streak and love of having my fingernails polished.

To celebrate what would have been her 94 birthday today, an ode to my Gma the great!

Gma

Always one to laugh at surprises…

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…you took to my photobombing like it was one of your most treasured prizes.

Photo Bomb!

You never let anyone forget…

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…when it was time to celebrate you bigger than the national debt.

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I learned from the best…

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…how to celebrate my life full of zest.

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Now seriously Gma, you taught me to party harder than Mae West.

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A love of leopard you instilled….

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…which is now being passed down to the next generation, who’s thrilled.

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It’s so fun you two met at a skating rink…

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…even if after 44 years you still had to steal kisses quicker than an eye blink.

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Although I took after Gpa avoiding kisses, rather craving a hard drink…

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…you always insisted on showing your love, making sure everyone was in sync.

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Beauty sleep and a hairnet was apparently all that you needed…

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…but truly it was your hair ‘dos that always succeeded.

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So it was with glasses and confidence that I superseded…

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…the grace and confidence that you always heeded.

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I wish I would have felt more impeded.

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The Iowa State Fair you never did love,

probably because you couldn’t wear foot gloves.

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It will never be the same, not bringing you a corn dog…

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…and discussing how I ate my way through the fair like a prize-winning hog.

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Circled blacked out dates always meant you had a companion…

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…you always loved attention bigger than the Grand Canyon.

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Attending every homemade Christmas pageant we made…

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…and most likely secretly prayed…

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…that I would never end up a lonely old maid.

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The first to pass of five sisters, who lived out their misters,

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…you loved being pampered more than a fever blister.

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Your nails were painted the day before you passed…

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…and Jell-O shots without you will seem so miscast.

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Regardless of view near or afar, life will never be the same…

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…without you as my shining rock star.

Love and miss you Gma.

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

 

 

 

My Billion Dollar Pussy

Who knew you could buy a knight in shining armor?

He refuses to wear the armor.

This is a busted ass version of a fairy tale (what other version would you expect from me?), where I’m not the queen. That role is of course, has been occupied by His Royal Highness Teddy Bear ever since I rescued his ass seven years ago. I’ve happily played the role of loyal servant (and I still do) however, the perils of life turned me into a version of Humpty Dumpty…. one that weebles, wobbles and falls the fuck down (typically face first).

Me speedy recovery remedy after a fall.

While I’m the damsel in distress, my feline has caused me more torment as he’s decided to test the waters of almost every single ailment known to catkind while I was trying to trudge through the forest of life, getting us into some semblance of a kingdom. Even though his dramatic ailments added to my worry, he pulled the fuck through every time. Just like a knight in shining armour.

Just scaring mom for shits and giggles.

I couldn’t love my cat Teddy Bear more than if I birthed him from my own loins (but let’s be real, I’d pay a surrogate because ew, pain) and I would take a bullet the size of Donald Trump’s ego to save his furry life. Although over the years, the amount of cold hard cash I’ve shelled out to keep the love of my life alive and kickin’ rivals the amount NASA spends to put an astronaut on the moon. But it’s worth every fucking penny.

Like the start of many fairy tales, ours was love at first meow. Never mind the fact that he had an upper respiratory infection and ringworm due to being crammed in a one-bedroom apartment of 30 other felines before he was rescued (save your fucking jokes about this being me one day for later, please and thanks). Being such a trashtacular high maintenance gal myself, it felt nothing other than natural that this soon-to-be drama king chose me as his human soulmate.

Forced Soulmates.

After His Majesty’s ringworm and respiratory infection subsided, we learned that he had a food allergy to chicken (through several visits to the vet) as he would develop what basically looked like kitty chicken pox. The little red dots would scab over and Tedstar got to wear a cone, which ever pet owner knows is the best time ever.

The most pissed off cone head on the planet.

All the feels about the cone, complete with puke.

So I received a prescription card to purchase $80 per bag cat food that’s a mixture of peas and duck. Maybe I should have known when I walked into the kitchen one day and saw this…

Bitch Peas

Forcing Ted to be my bestie took a solid two years, as he was skiddish, nervous and full of anxiety due to the lack of human contact while he was one of 29 others the first year of his life. But one miraculous day, my shy little pussy morphed into a full on stalker. I couldn’t sit (and still can’t) down for 15 seconds without him creeping onto my lap or darting like a figure skater through my legs while I tried to walk or wanting to partake in chores as he sat on my hip (mostly pouring Skinny Pirates and applying lipstick) but he does love to assist…

…with laundry…

…with dishwasher loading…

…and unloading…

…and letting me know when the shitter’s full.

He even started presenting me with lavish gifts only a pussy could deliver to his mother.

Prancing in one night with a cardinal in his mouth while I was relaxing in the bath.

He proudly corralled tampons like John Wayne did cowboys.

Once, he even tried to reenact scenes from my favorite crime show, Forensic Files, by creating an outline of his body in a bush, as he misjudged it being a solid surface.

Forensic feline body outline.

As life tends to twist and turn, shit hit the fan after our first three years together. I went through what might as well have been a divorce, losing a long-term relationship, my house, my job AND getting to move in with my parents all in the same week.

WHAT. THE. ACTUAL. FUCK.

Trying to get back up on my own paws, I moved four times in three years. During this tumultuous time in life, Ted remained steadfast by my side. Although he continued to be high maintenance as fuck, making his mother stress to the max about her sidekick literally kicking the bucket. Among his many ailments:

Kitty Celiac Disease which forces me to feed my cat rather than myself the week his food runs out.

Fancy fucking feast.

Bi-yearly upper respiratory infections that always allow us a road trip to the vet.

Kitty colds suck.

And often require overnight stays for fluids.

Skin sensitivity at the most random times of the year.

Also, requiring visits to the vet, along with medication.

In more than one place, at different times naturally.

Resting bitch face.

No cost for me.

Motion sickness that was a super fun thing to discover.

The utmost dignity for the unattractive regurgitating of food in his mother’s lap.

A case of curiosity as he went missing from the mini manse for 24 hours and I spent my last dime making color copies and plastering car windshields in my apartment complex.

Every. single. car. But worth the $300, as he was found.

Fleas…after being outside one time in his entire life. It was like he had a one night stand….with fucking fleas.

This dip was fun before a trip to the vet.

Inflammatory Bowel Disease that took three weeks to uncover through exploratory surgery, endless testing and finally the right medications.

The gift that keeps on giving.

Congestive heart failure brought on by the steroid medications he was put on for Inflammatory Bowel Disease.

Which also took weeks of fun in the kitty ICU to uncover.

He’s been living with congestive heart failure for over a year now, which requires five medications daily, that I shove down his throat in a ball of cheese.

My own version of Walter White’s lab.

We single-handedly keep our veterinary’s lights on, where Ted is a motherfucking celebrity. He is their fave patient (most likely because we pay their mortgage bills).

Ted with his loyal and loving vet tech, Danielle.

Why go this far for my baby? Why the fuck wouldn’t I?

In the last two years, I’ve lost a career I’d spent years building, I lost the type of immediate family I thought would never be shaken, I lost friends who chose sides, I lost emotional, mental and financial stability I thought I’d created for myself. And then, I was raped. So this cat (and I want to punch people in the throat who say “it’s just a cat”), is – and has been my knight in shining armor.

Sometimes a smothering knight in shining armor.

He greets me at the door daily. He eats, shits, commands all of the attention, helps me put my make-up on every morning, sunbathes on his terrace daily, sleeps on my chest, demands the food in his martini glass be filled to the brim so as not to strain his neck, enjoys an occassional glass of wine (kidding…kind of…I mean he is my cat).

This little love has put up with his big hearted mother and accepted the siblings introduced – who KNOW the pecking order of the mini manse. It’s like the seas part and Ted’s fucking Moses when any of my other four fur balls are on my lap and the Bear decides he’d like to sit there instead.

My pussy posse.

Adding to the brood just made the love grown. And animal rescuing always begs the question…who rescued whom?

Currently his home on my chest remains the same when I’m flat on my back. Although now, due to his congestive heart failure,  he’s like a sprinkler system, as every time he exhales through his nose, my face gets a hydrating snot mist (I should probably bottle this up and sell it). It’s even more adorable when I’m yawning and he occasionally sneezes into my mouth. It’s like a snot shot.

#relationship goals

We’ve kept one another going during the shit show of our lives over the past several years. I seriously look this pussy in the face (and you know you’re not supposed to do that because cats can see into your soul but let’s be real, mine’s still dark and twisty so there’s no harm done) and instruct him to hang on as long as possible.

You go, I go.

Thing is, without the constant companionship and unconditional love of the bitchiest feline on the planet, I may have ceased my emotional fight. Sound crazy? I don’t give a fuck. This pussy and I have been through the good, the bad, the ugly and the worst.

Shoulders to lean on.

From all of my family and all of my friends, Teddy’s lead my army in putting this busted ass version of Humpty Dumpty back together again. And while I may be trying to pay off pussy debt well into my golden years, he’s worth every goddamn penny.

He sure as shit knows it, too.

Our goodbyes in the morning on my way out the mini manse to work go something like this, “I love you Baby Bear. Don’t go dying on me.”

I’m going no where…you’ve purchased me an additional 46 lives.

Phew.

I think I’ve earned a bumper sticker that reads “My fur kid costs just as much as your human spawn.” Because there’s no one else in life I would rather have in the driver’s seat with me.

All aboard for the shit show.

Cheers!

CBXB

CBXB!

 

 

 

Weekend Winks – Face Stuffing, Pool and Panic Attacks

The sun will come out….tomorrow. Or at least that’s what you wanna believe. In my case, I just wear a shirt that makes me my own sunshine. Of course, having a little snuggly Teddy Bear helps, too.

Love of my life.

Lately Rapegate therapy has been pretty intense. To the point where afterward, instead of crying my eyes out immediately upon my return home in bed, this week I morphed into what could be the most white trash way to consume supper. Guzzling wine in the bath, trying to read while eating toilet pizza and then bawling my eyes out in bed.

Pretty much sums it up.

Being that my therapy is on Thursday nights, I have an emotional hangover no matter what on Friday, that sometimes lasts through the weekend. Sometimes it doesn’t but you know what helps? Friends who know your deep down hopes and dreams, friends who know what will make you smile, while your heart races with thanks that somebody fucking finally brought this idea to fruition…door delivery wine. *swoon*

           

However, even this wonderful news of not having to leave my mini manse in order to get my vino fix didn’t knock me out of my therapy hangover. Running one errand to the grocery store, as I was leaving in the 100 degree heat, a full on fucking panic attack rushed over my body out of nowhere, like an asteroid dropped out of the sky and plummeted me into the middle of the scorching Earth.

If you’ve never had a panic attack (mine is a leftover perk of rape – yay!), I hear they mimic a heart attack. For me, I feel like a cat the size of a lion is hanging out on my chest, I sweat, shake, can’t catch my breath (which shouldn’t shock anyone who knows me as I once hyperventilated when I ran the mile in track during junior high – although I did redeem myself years later jogging slowly through a marathon), clinch my fists so hard my nails almost poke through the tops of my hands and I lose all comprehension that this sudden sense of overwhelming dread will ever end.

But it does.

And I end up looking (and feeling) I’ve been on a four-week cocaine bender with no sleep, when in all actuality, it was a mere 10 minutes.

Panic…but not at the disco.

After regaining semblance of normal heart rate and the ability to breathe in and out like a typical human, I resorted to the little Iowa faces that always drag me out of my low points.

How could these two not take away feelings of being blue?

Being that I’m not a quitter, the typical pool crew and I packed our coolers and headed up to beat the Tennessee heat.

Dada CBXB, Rasta, the shit show of the weekend (yours truly) and Cat Boy kept cool in the Saturday sun.

I refrained from my usual pool snacks, as I was invited to the hottest party in Nashville Saturday night.

A black card to the Waffle House is equivalent to $25,000 gift card to Target. And not only did we class the joint up, we sure as shit tried to spend the entire amount.

Not unhappy campers.

We’ll have one of everything. Thanks.

While we didn’t even come close to cashing out the entire card, we were able to leave a $100 tip for our waitress with remaining funds and boy, did it feel fucking fantastic watching her reaction from the car. A dance, a hug from the cook, a high-five from the other wait staff. Pretty cool of my gal pal to pay it forward.

Sunday while I was trying to detox from the overload of hash browns and eight orders of bacon the night before, my little fur balls were pretty pissy that they couldn’t go out on the porch due to the extremely high temperatures.

They really wanted to be baked pussy.

Guess who was just fine with the inside time?

The pussy that never turns away attention.

It was a much needed, uneventful Sunday at the mini manse. Complete with binge watching and burgers.

Here’s hoping there’s no panic in any of our lives this week and cheers to being our own rays of sunshine!

CBXB

CBXB!

 

Weekend Winks – Rapegate, Pool Parties and Fang Fingers

You guys really know how to help a gal when she’s down and out! The overflowing abundance of support from my Rapegate post restored any questionable faith in humanity I may have had prior to posting. Not only was writing about the trauma cathartic for me, as now the matter is out in the open and I can talk about it, but also I didn’t expect the feelings of relief – conflicted with a little bit of fear when I hit the ‘publish’ button on the post.

What’s a gal who likes to celebrate do with mixed emotions and feelings of waves as large of a tsunami? She cracks open a bottle of champs given to her by gal pal Saving Grace (I was saving it for a momentous occasion – and this felt like one) while bawling and laughing at the same time. Yes, I’m still a hot mess.

Cheers to the release of yesteryear! Oh, and of course, FUCK 2016.

The outpouring of your support – my army that each and every one of you reading right now is a part of – lifted me up so high, so fast I just can’t thank you enough for the kind words, comments, messages, cards, letters, sharing of your own traumas, calls, texts and visits. While I might be Captain Sparkly Pants, you all have been nothing short of soldiers supporting one of their own. For that, I thank the fuck out of you.

Every single portion of Rapegate has been riddled with road bumps. So it’s onward and upward as I move forward, navigating unknown terrain even to my Sex Crimes Detective. We’ll get that worked out, I’m sure.

The wrong woman was fucked. Literally and figuratively.

Warm fuzzies are creeping back into the cracks of my emotions. My heart swelled a little when my phone reminded me over the weekend of cherished moments my sister and Gma shared on the last days of our grandma’s life. Of course, I had a picture of my stank-eyed pussy Ted, too, from that day.

Three of my favorite peeps still today.

When I texted the photos to my sister, we talked about how fast it’s gone – feeling like maybe it should be the first year.

It’s true. In two years, our extended family has gone through two divorces, a birth (yay!), rape (that’d be mine), cancer (that’d be Aunt Crazy Pants), a cross-country move for a cousin….just to name a few.

While reminiscing over the last two years, Facebook had an amusing memory from five years ago of Dada CBXB and I having a patio party, after we’d done some planting (in pots, to which didn’t make of course).

Funny, we already had plans to ‘decorate’ my mini manse loggia (fancy word I learned from a previous, rich employer that means back porch as I kept saying back porch and she kept correcting me that it was a loggia). So we hit up the flower hot spot for ferns, all pink flowers and some sort of palm thing that is going to go great with my pink flamingo (of course a gal like me has plant accessories before the actual plant).

Green thumbs galore.

Because that thirty minutes was so exhausting, we spent the rest of the day playing at the pool.

Fun fun in the sun.

My favorite pussy also likes to relax in the rays but I just can’t help myself and have to take a picture. This is always the glare I get when I get caught mid snap.

Resting bitchy face with a case of the side eye.

Wanna know what those two Iowa twins are up to? Well, first off they have graduated from pre-school.

Get out the caps and gowns.

Naturally, this meant celebrating was in order and they didn’t hate one minute of it.

Starting with snow cones.

Celebration splash pad style.

Their parents even took them to see where it all began. At the bar in Iowa City, where my sister approached her future husband at the very booth below for a cigarette (obviously the trashtacular classiness runs in the family). He didn’t smoke (neither did she) but it all worked out and here we are today…

Taking it back to where all of the magic began.

Being that they’d visited a festival, Princess B had to get her face painted – and clearly thought it was poorly done as you can see from the photo below.

Hello gorgeous.

Graduating from pre-school also calls for dessert.

Sweets for the sweets.

Dessert that was good to the last drop.

Yep. Definitely takes after her aunt CBXB.

Something else seeping back in through the cracks of this gal is nail painting and t-shirt bedazzling. Nashville’s NHL team, the Nashville Predators have made it to the Stanley Cup finals (for those of you who don’t know hockey – it’s like the Superbowl. For those of you who don’t know what that is, just look at the nails and sparkly shirt below) for the first time ever in our franchise’s history. I joined in on the fanfare with Predator colored nails and blinged up a shirt to boot.

Fang Fingers is what the crowd does here in Nashville when the opposing team has to go to the penalty box. They play the music from the shower scene in Psycho and fans seriously stand there and move two fingers from both hands in a clawing motion. We may look like ass clowns but we don’t care. Also, I was so pumped to get this shirt because aside from getting to see our mascot Gnash come down from the ceiling before every game, I can’t ever wait to do Fang Fingers.

All out sparkle for my fave Cinderella NHL team.

The Predators were on no one’s radar and have had the heart, fight and spirit of Nashville behind them. For real, the entire city could not be more proud. This is a photo of the main artery in Nashville on game day. It stemmed from the stadium with an overflow of people who couldn’t get in to the game (due to the insane ticket prices) down ten blocks to the river. Not to mention the packed bars and restaurants.

Game day in Smashville.

While the Preds are behind in the series 2-1, you can help cheer them on with me at 7pm CST on NBCSN.  They whooped some ass on Saturday with final score being 5-1. Badasses.

Speaking of badass, here’s how I pumped up my mental state closing out the weekend.

The inner badass is coming back…

You guys are my badasses. My army of badasses. I love each and every one of you.

Hooah!

CBXB

CBXB!

Weekend Winks – Bunny Booze Bonanza

Bunny shenanigans were underway all weekend – especially after Mama CBXB shared the genius idea of using a chocolate hollow bunny as a glass for guzzling champs. A+ start to the weekend.

If you know me, you are well aware of my inabilities in the kitchen. However, there is one art I have perfected over the years and it’s a bunny cake. Yeah, you read that right. So when my baking Betty Crocker of a sister asked yours truly for my special recipe, here’s what she received via text:

My exquisite bunny cake directions.

Easy to follow, right?

Right!

Pretty sure I should make a baking book solely on bunny cakes and Jell-O shots. I’m thinking it would be a best seller.

In other Easter prep, Princess B made sure the rabbit sneaking into her castle wouldn’t leave empty handed.

Masterpiece Easter.

While the twins were busy prepping for their furry visitor, I was also anticipating the arrival of Peter Rabbit. I had planned on leaving the libation for him by the door but accidentally drank all of the champagne in advance…

Easter cheers!

While I guzzled on the leopard throne, my youngest three patiently awaited the bunny’s arrival in the front window.

Triple watch.

My older two…well, could give two shits what was on the way.

We get what we want, when we want it.

You know you’re truly sisters when your attire matches on the same day. Princess Rah picked out her mom’s attire for the holy day. I did my own closet perusing.

Nasty Woman “preppy” style in Iowa.

Nasty Woman “trashy” style in Nashville.

Prince B put his mohawk helmet to good use when he trekked out on a spring bike ride around the driveway.

Hell on training wheels.

What beats some good, clean Easter fun once the bunny has departed?

Nothing. Nothing beats double the fun in mud.

Except maybe a jet tub full of bubbles and balls.

You know my gaggle of fur balls mean the world to me, so we were sad to hear that our cousin, Foxi Brown traveled to the rainbow bridge earlier today.

Foxy lady.

While she had a fabulously long and fun life, it’s never easy on the humans who love their fur babies. So tonight, join me in cheersing to the snorting, snotting, grunting ball of love that is now chasing New Cat around up above us.

Cheers to Foxi Brown!

Here’s hoping the bunny found you and you squeeze the furry loves of your life a little tighter tonight.

CBXB

CBXB!

Alive and Kickin’

Holla!

Did you think I fell off the face of the fucking earth? Well, I kinda did.

My 2016 in a nutshell.

My 2016 in a nutshell.

After the start of this year, I knew January was going to be a doozie, so I stuck my head in proverbial sand, pretending I was the world’s most glamorous ostrich.

A leopard print ostrich.

The first month of 2017 marked the initial 365 days without my sweet J.Bean on the planet. The absence of this fiery young force is missed tremendously by her family and friends.

First anniversary of a devastating loss.

A devastating loss last year.

Couple the above situation with the first anniversary of bad shit happening to a good person (yours truly) within days of one another, I almost hunkered down in my dressing room to cry the rest of my life away (with all of my furry pussies, of course). I was hoping a sparkly asteroid would hit my mini manse.

Awaiting the Glitterbombpocalypse.

Instead, almost one year to the day of my bad shit, I found motivation to get my ass the size of Iowa out of the closet. I chose to march with millions of other folks in hundreds of cities across the globe in solidarity with the Women’s March on Washington (if you’re one of the people still wondering why this took place (has your head been in the sand – or perhaps my purse from above?) I’ll be addressing that in a later blog). The Nashville march expected around 4,000 people. Over 15,000 showed up and peacefully flowed through the downtown streets.

#imarchwithlinda

#imarchwithlinda

Surrounded by thousands of fellow citizens made me feel less alone (which seems utterly ridiculous, since I have a support system that rivals the American military). On the actual anniversary evening of my incident, gal pals came over to the mini manse and at midnight, we cheersed the fuck out of surviving various bad shit that happens to all of us.

Cheers to

We survive. We persevere. We kick ass.

Starting the second month of 2017 off on the right high-heeled foot, I found myself feeling empowered, emotionally stronger and proud that I trudged through the worst few hundred days life has presented me thus far. Still struggling with PTSD, adjustment disorder and severe stress caused from one single traumatic event – I finally felt some of my happy seep back in. Happy – the one thing this lonely lady has needed most out of the many things stolen from her in an instant. And anything that makes me feel better seems like a goddamn victory.

Yay me.

I also found myself suddenly unemployed – but can’t say I was sad.

At all.

Although my wallet is waaaaay lighter, my spirits are brighter, not breathing fumes from a toxic environment. Stumbling into unemployment presented all kinds of fun. Like getting into a small fender bender on the way to a therapy session minutes after cleaning out my office.

I mean, C'MON.

Nothing a glass of vino can’t fix. With a side of car insurance…

Life Savers

… and a round of life savers.

Time away from the daily grind has been fabulous. It’s allowed me to arrange a long trip to Iowa, aiding Aunt Crazy Pants in kicking some cancer ass.

Aunt Crazy Pants

Jazz hands for Crazy Pants!

When bad shit happens to good people, sometimes they (who moi?) lose their fucking minds and adopt three cats at once without first consulting their existing pussy and chug.

Some of us were more happy than others on adoption day last year.

This milestone gave a big reason to celebrate! I mean, what pussy wouldn’t be thrilled to come home to a trashtacular mini manse and doting (albeit almost certifiably cray cray) mama?

Happy kit cat adoption day!

Dada CBXB and I threw down a party so hard, the cats needed to snooze the entire next day. And night. And then the next day. And night.

One year later…taking the damn manse over.

Having extra time on my personally manicured talons also means I can stare at these two mugs all day long.

Uh, yeah. Smiles for Miles

Uh, yeah. Smiles for miles from Iowa.

Waaaaaaay too cool for school.

Waaaaaaay too cool for school…

I'm waiting patiently to be their auntager.

… but not too cool to be models for their local library’s website. I’m waiting patiently to be their auntager.

While we creep into a Nashville spring, the reminder that human beings are generally kind has enveloped over me like a hangover seeps out of your pores on a Sunday morning. There’s finally a light at the end of the longest fucking tunnel I’ve ever looked down (maybe it’s more of a Grand Canyon type deal but you get the point, right?). Mind you, the hue is fuchsia with flecks of pink sparkle slowly falling all around. It doesn’t twinkle or glisten.

It glows. Radiating the biggest, brightest, fuchsia light I’ve ever fucking seen down a tunnel I’m starting to walk down. A tunnel I’m starting to run down. A tunnel I’m starting to sprint down. When I finally arrive at the other side of the tunnel (way out of breath needing a gallon of water but instead opting for a bottle of champs), watch out. Because it will be then that I’ll have gained the ability to pick up my rusty, once broken spirit and kick my ass into high gear.

Imthisclose.

Until then, I’m satisfied being just a little bit of a happier shit show.

At least I’m alive and kickin’!

Now, how the hell are you?

Cheers!

CBXB

CBXB!