drunk dial | Cowboys and Crossbones

So what the fuck has everyone been up to these days? You back at the office (I have been since March and boy, do I miss working from home)? Your kids in school? Or are you still virtual everything? Can you even go back to work if your kids are at home? Are you vaccinated? Do you wear a mask when you’re in large groups even if you are vaxxed? How you doing since the two week “flatten the curve” of 2020?

WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!?!

I mean holy fucking hell. This year went from being a fresh start and then I blinked and it’s fucking October. After working from home nearly a year, I’ve found it rough “wasting” four hours of my day I didn’t realize I was missing out Before Rona. I would leave my house at 7am and get home at 7pm if I worked out, lugging my bags (usually forgetting my lunch on the counter) and sometimes even DOING SOMETHING after all of that in the evening. How did I have the energy?!?! Rona has made me lazier and like most of the world, my hair got washed about once a month during the deep throes of the pandemic.

Me. Trying to acclimate to sort of Post Rona Times but obvies not handling it well.

There hasn’t been much activity to report because my weekends were filled with the pool, Skinny Pirates, Netflix, snacks, wine, repeat. But now that college football is in full swing, you know what that means?! Dada CBXB and my Family Tradition Touchdown Shots are baaaaaaaack!

My Iowa Hawkeyes have been killing it so far this season. This team plays for a win but isn’t “showy or sexy” as one commentator put it last weekend. But ya know what? We are number three in the nation after schooling the Maryland Terps on Friday night 51-14.

It’s been years since we needed two hands for a photo op! Dada CBXB got the number six in our last pic, accompanied by the evening ending shot. Don’t worry, we had very fancy snacks for the game to help soak up the Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Fire.

A very fucking cool initiative college football is undertaking is creating awareness regarding mental health. An often taboo subject, (which of course it shouldn’t be because just like physical health, we all have mental health) this is helping change the narrative for young athletes and people. I’m so here for this shit.

Because the Hawks played on Friday night, I was able to hang with The Silent Indian on Saturday of whom I hadn’t seen since the night of the Nashville tornado in March of 2020. Hot dayum.

Of course I got to talking at him about the most important element of the football game. The outfits. Which most refer to as uniforms but not me. They’re outfits. And, I’m pretty sure that the Iowa Hawkeyes have the best outfits in all of college football. Of course TSI thinks his team’s blah hunter green and white outfits are better, so I took to the inaccurate IG story polls for reassurance.

WELP……..

Obvies that argument is settled.

After the outfit chit chat, I thought it would be fun to FaceTime everyone we knew because who doesn’t do that on a Saturday night?

All in all a successful round of drunk dial FaceTime.

While I was very busy sitting on my ass, watching football and drinking Skinny Pirates all weekend, my twins had their first soccer game! And yes, I know they look like actual kids instead of little kids. Time please slow down.

In recovery on Sunday, I enjoyed a gluten free chicken pot pie, in which I also add a bag of peas. Therefore, it is called Pea Pie.

By Sunday night I could hardly keep my eyes open due to all of the fucking social time spent with two men in my life that have known me forever and which I didn’t have to make small talk. But it’s the first time since….2019 (?) that I’ve done something two nights in a fucking row. Our night ended early like this….

Happy 3,820 week in Rona hell. Hope you are all keeping your sanity and if you ever think you’re on the brink, just remember I always have been and always will be a walking shit show. So know that you aren’t alone.

Love ya, Mean it!

CBXB

Buy Me a Drink

Attitudes are the shit and I burst onto this planet with one in tow. I was born with the confident “I can do anything” stance somehow and my folks continued to nurture that temperament as I grew up. The only thing they cautioned me on was to not get married until I was at least 25 (they may be wishing they’d sung a different tune as I’m a candle lovin’ lady with four pussies, a chug and would now be considered an ‘old maid’ in a different era). Before Rapegate, there was never an issue with me adjusting my attitude – being able to kick my own ass back into shape as needed.

Lately I’ve been exceedingly inundated with cheerful “I’m thankful for…” countdowns, “reasons for merriment,” and “I resolve to…” positive posts on social media. Going into the holiday season, I struggled to gear up for anything festive – and I hated my attitude. As some of us were excited to be knee deep in gravy for a solid two months, I was hoping this holiday season didn’t linger as long as my 21^st birthday hangover.

I may or may not have drunk dialed my boyfriend’s mother at 3am. She answered.

Thing is, I never thought I would fall into latter category, as typically on America’s birthday, I’m salivating like Dracula does over a neck – thisclose to getting my Halloween décor out on the fifth of July. But mentally for the past two years, it’s been a monstrous war inside of my skull, emotions swinging back and forth more extremely than POTUS’s hourly tweets. Not just regarding holiday cheer but being cheery about life in general. Oh Rapegate, thank you for PTSD, adjustment disorder, severe stress, insomnia, panic attacks and all of the insecurities I gained at your reckoning.

Previous multi-seasonal head cheerleader.

In my experience, PTSD (can go fuck itself) is exhausting – not only mentally but physically as well. I’m constantly on edge, have nightmares, difficulty staying asleep, experience major loss of interest in activities I used to love the fuck out of and feel ultra-guilty about “letting” myself be raped (how fucked up is that feeling?). Accompanying these symptoms are feelings of alienation and self-inflicted detachment from friends, family and my old self. Problem is, I’m having trouble kicking my own attitude back into shape and I loathe being out of control of my emotions (so you can imagine how comfortable the last 23 months have been for me).

I think I’ll just stay in bed and wallow.

With mental issues, one can rationally know how lucky they are (or know what happened to them isn’t their fault)– no matter what bad shit has happened to them – or people they love. With this being the first holiday season without Aunt Crazy Pants and the fur ball love of my life, Ted, grief has also been a constant companion even though there are crazy fun memories of hilarity, hijinks, pee-your-pants fun to fall back on. The heaviness of grief crashes like tsunami waves, compounding the sense of loss I carry with me daily due to my personal trauma. I can almost feel my heart hardening at times.

Miss you something crazy.

Miss you something terrible.

Thing is, it super sucks because I missed my old holiday pukes all over the place self (and I mean all over – the mini manse, my office, fucking reindeer antlers on my car, Christmas underwear, socks, sweaters (that others might wear to an ugly sweater Christmas party I wear on the December regular), adorning Santa hats like they’re simply a part of my noggin, blasting holiday music from my car like I’m Santa himself, watching fa-la-la-la-la Lifetime movies that are so full of cheesiness, I want to kick my own ass for loving them).

Christmas Gaudy Queen of yesteryears.

In therapy, I’m tits high into the thick of processing the act – the moment of my rape and my feelings (ew) – while also constantly reminded, triggered, (whatever you wish to call it), daily by the super cool humans who apparently never learned fucking body basics in kindergarten. Thursday afternoons I see my own personal super hero, Sheila, and as she guides me toward a semblance of my old self, sessions almost always leave me with an emotional hangover that can last days. The mental, emotional and physical fatigue I fight daily, barely leaves me any energy to gussy up for work, so the thought of getting in any kind of holiday spirit was simply draining.

I woke up like this. And just want to go to work like this.

But I’m at a point where I must ban myself from a weekend full of bed lingering when I’m not trying to be social (stepping out of my mini manse and Dalts bubble little by little). I forced myself to get Halloween decorations out to the max because I hadn’t for two years. The fucking nerve of me.

There’s a glimpse of my old holiday mistress.

So, too, it is time to get in the motherfucking thankful, celebrate everything, CBXB spirit again YEAR-ROUND. Period.

When Dada CBXB and I were watching the Iowa Hawkeyes win their first bowl game in four years (yeehaw!) and he suggested I keep my Christmas tree up a little longer because it looked so pretty. (Side note – my buddy Camo insisted that I put my worldly pink, sparkly possession up and almost forced the ornaments on the fucking thing himself – and I’m glad he did).

Once the goddamn thing was up, I couldn’t help but be excited about turning the lights on when I got home from work. I also raced home every evening to see if anyone from my pussy posse knocked the pink tinseled delight over (remained in tact all season) being that this was their first experience with an actual Christmas tree. Turns out, they just like to sit underneath it and stare up at the lights, much like their mother.

Hello Gorgeous.

Speaking of moms, mine suggested that if I still had mine up, I should decorate it with Valentine’s attire. And just like that – I had an Oprah AHA! moment.

If I kept my tree up all year round would that make me:

a) Festive
b) Red neck
c) White trash
d) Crazy as fuck
e)All the above

Guess what my answer is?

f) I don’t give a fuck

So, there you have it. I’m keeping my tree up all 2018 in celebration of celebrating.

Getting my ass back into the habit of loving everything about any little out-of-the ordinary thing of the day/week/month/year. If you visit the mini manse, best bring me something to hang on the pink tinsel (yes, mini bottles of Captain Morgan count).

I have a sparkly army – and if you’re reading, you’re a part of it – who has done nothing but encourage me every step of the goddamn way. Via comments. Messages. Snail mail. Phone calls.