Weekend Winks – Feelings of Funk

I have been in the worst mood the past few weeks. Nothing self inflicted – mostly my reaction to first world problems kind of bad mood. I haven’t been able to shake it the fuck off (where is Taylor Swift when I need her?!) and it’s been an emotional and mentally exhausting time. The kind that sucks the joy from your bones.

Anyone else been stuck in a foul funk?

All the feels.

Luckily for me, aside from implementing the coping skills gained from therapy, my fur babies just know when mama needs extra TLC.

Prissy leading the snuggle pack.

I can never stop gazing at her purrfectly imperfect underbite. It’s the fucking cutest thing to me.

No need for canine braces.

My middle boy, Fabs, is the pussy most attached to my side by demanding attention, head rubs, head butts and figure eighting between my legs in horrible attempts to trip his already klutzy as fuck mother. But damn do I love the companionship (and let’s be honest, constant attention).

As for my twins, Rocky and Ruby Sue (aka Thundercunt), they may as well be attached at the hip. At night, this is their exact position, only I’m in the middle.

The snuggle is real.

Coming home and being surrounded by The Pussy Posse is a tremendous aid in the day-to-day bad mood struggle. You know what else helps? Weekends. And booze.

First Mate has been busy running around the world traveling for her new job, so we needed a catch up on a fabulously fall weathered Friday.

My kind of happy hour.

What the fuck would we do without our friends?

Hawk chomp.

College football is also another sanity sidekick I eagerly anticipate every Saturday. My Iowa Hawkeyes lost two of the last three games, so there was some extra added bubbles into the mix, as our family tradition shots have been shockingly sobering the last two weeks.

Champs. The only thing fun about an 11am kickoff.

Still touchdownless during the first half against Purdue, we overindulged in all the tailgating snacks.

Snack attack ingredients combined.

Then FINALLY, Iowa scored two touchdowns, double shots went town smoothly and our livers were back up and running.

Two touchdowns and a WIN!

While I was celebrating Saturday away, my two little monsters in Iowa were busy prepping for Halloween.

Cutest pumpkins on the planet.

I’m not exactly sure what was in this concoction, or which witch is gonna consume but brewing took place outside of their palace.

Witches brew, anyone?

Princess B has become quite the “baker” as she learned how to deep fry an Oreo.

Chef BoyarePrincessBee

She hated it.

The grocery chain Trader Joe’s is one I have never stepped foot in, mostly because it’s in the middle of a highly congested area of Nashville (and we all know how I feel about the fucking traffic here nowadays). A new store opened in my neck of the woods, so I decided to make my way in for their CBXB priced wine I’m always hearing about.

Trader Me Happy!

I got a cart (buggy if you’re from below the Mason-Dixon Line) and soon remembered why I don’t go to grocery stores on Sunday. Especially stupid since this Trader Joe’s had its grand opening this week.

Superfuckingmarket Sweeps.

There is no way the store wasn’t at its capacity, as every aisle I tried to venture down was asses to elbows to shopping carts nipping at my fucking ankles. Therefore, I just stayed in the wine aisle and gazed lovingly at the gigantic assortment offered.

Still worth the pennies on the vino I paid.

After the shitshow of Trader Joe’s, I went to my mothership, Target and ran into First Mate. Obvies it’s obvies why we’re besties. Afterward, we headed to Dalts for our new favorite Sunday cocktail, the poinsettia (champs with cranberry juice).

Watering hole.

After settling back into the Mini Manse, I practiced my Sunday selfcare for two hours (yes, I have to drain the tub and add more hot water but soooooo worth it).

As for the funky feelings, they are still lurking around the corners of my mind but what can’t be cured by pumpkins and wine?

Cheers!

CBXB

CBXB!

Weekend Winks – Like a Boss

Sometimes the end to a loooooooong work week requires day drinking on Friday. Like this past one, where I met up with Camo and Dada CBXB well before 5pm at our favorite watering hole, Dalts.

Wasn't even 5:30 yet.

Pretty as pictures before happy hour started.

But we quickly recovered in the beauty department.

Much better.

Not quite as special looking two minutes later.

Being that I’m always down for an extended celebration, my sister sent some fingerless Iowa Hawkeye gloves for a belated birthday gift that made me start to crave the tailgating season (which starts in t-minus five months).

Ready for tailgating season.

Perfect tailgating practice makes for perfect tailgates.

While I was busy lounging in winter gear at the bar, the Iowa twins were kicking back and unwinding after a long day of play.

Chillaxin.

Chillaxin.

Due to the fact that our family doesn’t use traditional monikers (shocking, I know) for extended relatives (Grandma is Gigi, Grandpa is Cray Cray, Auntie CBXB is Aunt Juju) we went bananas seeing the twins in giddy ups that appeared to be custom-made.

Cray Cray for their Cray Cray, who they loving refer gpa.

Cray cray for their Cray Cray.

When it comes down to snack time, these peeps know how to do it up right. What to do with left over Easter candy? Why you make a Peep s’mores, of course.

Peep s'mores

Delicate deliciousness for Prince B.

 Marshmallow mania.

Not so delicate marshmallow mania for Princess B.

Dada CBXB decided to splurge on some new living room attire, in which my expertise was needed. Naturally, I suggested he go with an animal print but he went with boring old brown instead.

Furniture shopping with

Trying to put flair in the furniture shopping.

Speaking of flair, I have a new office that was in dire need of being CBXBfied. So, trying to stay true to my subtle self, Camo helped haul and hang accessories that made me feel right at home.

What office is complete without zebra print chairs?

What office is complete without zebra print chairs?

Of course there is a Hawkeye nook.

Of course there is a Hawkeye nook.

Saturday Work Day

Like a boss.

Since I stole art from my mini manse for my office meant I had a bare wall (THE HORROR) to deal with, which I quickly remedied.

Stole from home, so had juje the dressing room walls back up.

Eeeew gross.

After about four hours of arranging, I executed my new design in my dressing room (you know, what us single gals do with extra  bedrooms).

I hate skulls, the color pink and sparkles, obviously.

I hate skulls, the color pink and sparkles, obviously.

While I was slaving away doing loads of laundry and redecorating small spaces, Ted, Rocky and Elsa Pants were a huge help while waiting for new sheets to be put on the bed.

Lots of laundry help.

Paw patrol.

Sweetest scene of the weekend was seeing Ted’s shadow, Elsa Pants follow him any and everywhere.

Ted and his shadow, Elsa Pants.

The Bear cannot escape but secretly loves it.

Speaking of cats, this crazy feline lady cannot wait to take in the moving Keanu this weekend. Guess what my household of pussies will be this year for Halloween?

Halloween outfit decided.

Gangsta pussies.

While the work week has begun, I can most certainly say this is what I will be having for happy hour this evening.

Today feels like that kind of Monday.

Care to join?

Here’s hoping you’re already owning your week like a boss.

Cheers!

CBXB!

How to Be an Anybody on a Red Carpet

If you need a reminder of where you’re at in the food chain, try attending a fancy award show like I did for work a few years ago at the Country Music Awards ceremony (we’re there again this year, too).

IMG_1878

An anybody surrounded by major somebodies.

Here’s a little tutorial in being somebody vs. anybody…

If you’re somebody, you get dropped off at the red carpet in a tricked out Chevrolet sponsored event car.

Lady Antebellum, being chauffeured to the red carpet entrance.

If you’re anybody else, you get to park two miles away, fending off a Chatty Cathy parking attendant (who also happens to be from Iowa and wants to talk your face off about it) and make your grand entrance on foot.

Obviously everyone awaiting my arrival.

If you’re somebody, you wait for the photographers to shout your name before appearing on the carpet.

Begging for the celebs.

Shawn Johnson, the retired Olympic gold medalist and Dancing With the Stars alum being cat called from the peanut gallery.

If you’re anybody else, you hide in this hallway while the star you’re accompanying soaks up the flash bulbs.

Where the star wranglers hunker down during red carpet photo moments. This hallway is directly behind the “stand and pose” photo wall.

Being somebody, you don’t need any announcement when you appear on the red carpet. Photographers and fans just know you and shout your name accordingly.

Lisa Marie Presley (yes, that Presley) needs no introductions (and yes, I was dying as I was snapping this photo).

When you’re anybody, your name appears in marker on a clipboard that is held up for the photographers just before you turn the corner to be photographed, ensuring people know who the hell you are.

Courtesy applause for the anybodies, please.

When you’re somebody and you recently got caught stepping out on your high school sweetheart wife, you go to the awards show with her anyway (and they’re since divorced and he’s remarried, which sounds like a sad country love song, doesn’t it?).

Jason Aldean and his now very unforgiving ex.

If you’re anybody else and everyone knows you’re a cheat, you stay at home and watch the awards from your couch in your pajama pants you haven’t taken off for three days, a stale beer and yesterday’s pizza, feeling very remorseful.

My pussy caught in a blatant act of cheating and not giving a fuck.

My pussy caught in a blatant act of cheating and not giving a fuck.

When you’re somebody, you know you look good and work it all the way up and down the red carpet.

Lady Antebellum’s Hillary Scott strikes a pose in a form fitted dress.

Jake Owen pranced around in a leopard blazer that I wanted to rip off his shoulders and keep all to myself (therefore giving him a complex that I was stalking him because I literally took 12 pictures of him down the carpet due to his jacket).

When you’re anybody else, you blog about the perils of what to wear to work the award show.

Does this vest make me look like somebody or just anybody?!

When you’re somebody, you get interviewed live by TV stations.

Tim Allen being interviewed by Evan Farmer of CMT.

When you’re anybody else, you crouch down in the corner ninja-style, trying to stay out of the camera’s shot or you’ll be kicked off the carpet. The horror.

Hiiieeeee! Don't mind me. Just over here taking 4,098,461 photos and maxing my phone's memory out.

Hiiieeeee! Don’t mind me.
Just over here taking 4,098,461 photos and maxing my phone’s memory out.

If you’re somebody, you have no problems finding a plus one to be your date.

Lisa Marie Presley with her hipster hubs make one handsome couple.

When you’re anybody else, you have to hang with all of the other people who are working the show.

Workin’ it with men in uniform. Poor me.

When you’re somebody, you perform on the massive stage.

A CMA Award show stage.

When you’re anybody else, you’re perfectly fine asking a stranger to take your picture in front of it.

Anybody want to take my picture? Anyone? Hello?

When you’re somebody, your entourage follows you up on stage to get you gussied up before the live performance.

Hair, make up and wardrobe folks putting the final touches on Carrie Underwood before her performance.

If you’re anybody else,  you have to take pictures back stage to remember where the bathroom is located, so you can brush your hair and reapply lipstick.

Which way to the ladies?

When you’re somebody, you blow the roof off the joint, then head out to the after party.

Aided by the foggiest fog machine ever and blasting confetti, you would have thought it was New Year’s Eve during Carrie Underwood’s performance.

When you’re just anybody, you get to go and walk the empty red carpet before tearing it down.

Long walk to fame…and I finally arrived.

And then pose like just anybody else while no one calls your name.

**Insert crickets chirping here**

It’s rough trying to be anybody! Wish somebody would have told me.

CBXB

CBXB!

How to Be a Fictitious Rich Bitch

Do you have any idea how tough it is to show up to work and be requested to ride in a Rolls-Royce?

Do you?

Rough ride in the Rolls Royce...

My chariot of the morning.

And, I assume you also have no clue how to carry on the facade of wealth while inside the insanely pimp ride. You must dress the part, of course – complete with riding gloves and a sparkly skull pinkie ring.

I'm rich, Bitch.

I’m rich, Bitch.

Oh Daaahling, do you know how good your feet feel when placed upon furry, plush, cashmere floor mats?

Cashmere Dahling!

Not a feature in your Ford Focus?

Can you imagine how difficult it is steering a wheel that probably costs as much as your college education?

Wheelin' and dealin'

Could most likely be hawked for a small house.

Do you have any idea how hard it is to read a proper clock in an automobile? Do you?

blah blah

Who needs digital?

Now you know the difficulties of trying to appear like a rich, high profile person (and pretending to conceal said richness) while traveling in a Rolls.

You’re welcome.

How high maintenance can this rich bitch be?

Not smiling makes you look wealthier, right?

The drive home from work is going to be oh-so-ordinary tonight but that’s nothing a Skinny Pirate can’t fix.

First world problems are such a bitch.

CBXB

CBXB!

Tales of Personal Assisting

Most of my working adult life has been spent kissing ass (which, when it boils down to it unless you work for yourself, comes with career territory), as I’ve found myself being a personal assistant (job description: therapist, mom, chauffeur, wife that goes home at night, nurse, pet wrangler, girl Friday, psychoanalyst, chef, medical doctor, maid, laundress, child care provider) more than once.

Being that I live in Nashville, I once scored a job as a member of an “up and coming country music artist’s” management team (translation: personal assistant).

Getting shit on. Literally. All part of personal assisting.

Getting shit on. Literally. All part of personal assisting.

This up and comer had more money than God. Like hundreds of millions of dollars to live on and wipe her ass with, allowing her to not work a day in her life. Ever. So what’s a gal with all of that money and limited talent to do? Be a country singer -DUH!

My first day on the job, I was supposed to fetch lunch for this budding superstar. My list said chicken broth and Sprite. Surely this was supposed to read chicken noodle soup and Sprite, yes? Nope. I sat there and watched a grown woman with the body of a 4th grader slurp chicken broth for lunch – you know, to keep that girlish figure.

That being said, I should have known better when I was requested to bird sit (yes, you read that right) her three fine feathered friends and she told me to help myself to anything in the fridge. But when I ran to see what kind of name brand goods a rich up and comer ate, I was sadly disappointed to see that A) I would be starving over the weekend and B) it was all food for the birds except for mustard, Jell-O cups and eggs.

Help yourself to my bird food. Literally. Her birds' food.

Help yourself to my bird food.

Of course, being that this is Music City and I worked for a mover and shaker, I experienced all kinds of fun events. Like the Country Music Festival held in Nashville every June. Before we headed there for her first appearance, she said to my colleague, “Better not tell anyone you work for me or you might get mobbed.”

Tens of tens

Clearly I feared for my safety as she performed.

Other events I was able to experience included red carpet moments for her gigantic showcases. One time, as I was laying out her very high-end designer dress out for a show she ran in after a facial and screamed, “MY FACE IS RED!” I glanced up at her and agreed by saying, “Your face is red,” as she’d just had her mug rubbed, poked and prodded. Her response? “Eat shit and die.” I’m surprised I have any tongue left after all of the biting I had to do in order to keep a paycheck…

Your face matches the empty carpet.

Did I mention that your face matches the empty carpet?

I also got to be a personal stylist when we were getting ready for “big” magazine shoots (you know for a free city publication).  While helping her skeletal frame in and out of outfits, touching up her lip gloss, assuring her that her hair was just big enough but not too big I often got to hold her beautiful diamond jewelry between shots.

Sweating

Who wouldn’t spend $56,000 on a toucan ring? WHO?

This lovely creature of a woman also purchased a puppy for her manager on Valentine’s Day. Because nothing says “I love you” like a dog you (i.e. the assistant) get to take care of. Forever. A puppy was beyond an appropriate gift for a guy who travels three weeks per month. Perfection. So you all know that this goddamn dog became my pet, right?

Mells

The bane of my existence, pain-in-the-ass, little love of my work life.

As we all know I’m much more of a cat lady, although I couldn’t help but fall in love with that flipping happy face.  Which ended up being a good thing as the puppy single-handedly destroyed my office one night, managed to eat a bag full of mini Snickers over lunch one day therefore shitting gold for three weeks (after I was assured by the vet she wouldn’t die), chewed through the hose on my personal washing machine when I took her to my house and managed to eat through every single can of a 12 pack of Sprite, spraying the sugary liquid from floor to ceiling. FUN TIMES.

Such a good listener

Sit. Stay. I’m magic with dogs.

While wrestling with the dog became part of my daily duties, I also got the pleasure of carting this woman to and from very important appointments (mani, pedi, massage, hair appointments).  And what better way to use my double degree from a fine university than to balance her three pet birds on my body while driving through the streets of Nashville (you know, to socialize them)?

Goddamn Bird I ended up loving...ugh.

No Polly, I don’t want a mother f’ing cracker. I want you to keep your crest from obstructing my view of traffic.

Amazing what one will do for a paycheck, isn’t it? While I happily, thankfully, fortunately, get down on my hands and knees and praise Jesus every day that I don’t work for this woman anymore, here’s how I always wanted to respond to her requests….

No reading between the lines needed for what I was thinking

No reading between the lines needed for what I was thinking most all of the time.

Safe to say I don’t miss her! One bit.

The dog…that’s a different story.

CBXB

CBXB!