December 8, 2020 by Cowboys and Crossbones

The Yule Blog of 2020 Year in Review

What in the actual fuck 20fucking20?

Who could have predicted the surprising mess you would be? In honor of the longest, shortest, most eventful, confusing, defining, emotional, true color revealing, nothing surprises anyone anymore shitshow of a time, I’m doing a yule blog year in review. Starting with this overview, I’ll be breaking my “what-fucking-day-is-it-do-I-have-enough-toilet-paper-do-you-care-enough-about-others-to-follow-three-simple-rules-an-alarmingly-large-portion-of-Americans-are-in-a-cult-like-state-when-did-we-become-so-divided-did-that-just-really-happen-where-have-you-been-maskless-how-is-it-already-december” year down month by month in upcoming posts.

The eve of the new year, December 31, 2019…how the start of a brand new decade – let alone fresh year – felt exhilarating!

New decade prep.

The years between 2010 and 2020 were beyond rough. I started that decade leaving an emotionally and mentally taxing relationship where I wasn’t appreciated for me being me, moved in with my parents as an independent adult for almost 365 days and sandwiched in between those years, my immediate family crumbled before my eyes, I was sexually harassed at work and lost a career that took years to build, I was raped by my best friend’s boyfriend, I gained half of my pre-Rapegate bodyweight in the following four years, found myself abandoned by what I thought was a tight circle of girlfriends, the electoral college system in America yet again granted a victory to a person who didn’t win the popular vote, THE furball love of my life, Ted E. Bear (and star of this blog) passed away three weeks before I lost my Aunt Crazy Pants to fucking cancer.

Ted. Teddy Bear. Mr. Ted E. Bear. Tedstar. Teddy Krueger. How I miss you.

Fuck, during that decade I was ALWAYS ready for a motherfucking new year.

So young. So innocent. Not knowing the fuckery that was to come a knocking.

Byeeee 2014!

GTFO 2016. Worst.Year.of.My.Life.

…looking toward 2018?

You get the (literal) picture(s). Of course fabulous happenstances were included in the shit sandwich of a decade. The absolute best was the grand appearance of the two not-so-little anymore loves of my life. Sister CBXB and my BIL gifted our family with twins!

The introduction of a lifetime.

I lost my goddamned mind in 2016 after Rapegate one day at PetSmart and adopted three cats at one time.

The Pussy Posse was born that very day.

Princess Elsa Pants of the Mini Manse, Ruby Sue and Rocky.

We’ve since added three more pussies and a Pomeranian.

Fabio, Scooch, Prissy and Girlie Girl have rounded out The Pussy Posse nicely.

Yes. Yes I do realize I will be single forever and I’m OK with it. I also love candles, reading and watch The Bachelor franchise in a wedding veil I found in my dumpster. I’m just living my best life authentically, OK?

This decade, I found my true ride or die people. In person – and virtually. I’ve never “met” some of my most cherished friends who live all over the world. The outpouring of solid, lasting support after sharing my Rapegate story and its profoundly life altering aftermath is what kept me breathing and why I’m alive to type this today.

I sent out the S.O.S. and you answered in droves.

Another reason I still live and breathe is Superhero Sheila. My therapist. My literal lifesaver. We met days after I was raped and she will always be in my life. Thankful isn’t a strong enough word but then again, there isn’t one that exists to describe how grateful I am for her. I can’t take a picture of Superhero Sheila for confidentiality reasons but I named my new car after her. No. I’m not kidding.

OK, so I may be more excited about my Sheila than the actual Sheila but how many peeps can say they have a car named after them?

The excitement of a new decade dawning was cause for fabulous celebrating on my leopard couch December 31, 2019. Out with the awful old and in with all of the brand new!

It’s finally here!

Little did I know the entire world would soon collectively feel like…

The start of THE shitshow of all shitshows was just around the corner.

What kind of badassery do you think January 2020 bestowed to me? We shall soon see.

Cheers!

CBXB

Buy Me a Drink

October 29, 2019 by Cowboys and Crossbones

Meowloweens from Halloweens Past

If you think stuffing pets in costumes is ridiculous, you’re gonna wanna divert your eyes.

The fur ball love of my life, Ted E. Bear has been gone for two years now. I couldn’t love any of my Pussy Posse more if I birthed them myself (and yes, I mean that with all of my fucking heart) but Teddy…Tedstar was THE ultimate love of my life. I would give almost anything to have him back with me although I know he’s mauling my Gma, Aunt Crazy Pants, Precious, New Cat and Nicodeamus up above not patiently awaitng my arrival.

When Mr. Bear and I first became connected, he had such a nervous disposition, it took almost two years of work to let me hold him (talk about being careful what you wish for). Once that happened, he was my shadow and I didn’t hate it. So when the art of dressing pets entered my mind, I had some ideas.

His looks could kill. So maybe a bodyguard costume was in order?

The stare that gazed through souls.

Ted always liked to be in control (obvies my baby), so when we’d road trip, he insisted on being in the driver’s seat. So maybe a truck driver costume?

~~Jesus~~ Teddy take the wheel.

Dental hygiene isn’t something that pussies are fond of but then again, TB was no average feline. And being that we shared everything, he always used my toothbrush. So maybe a dentist costume?

Pearly whites.

Cheese.

Then there was the time I considered how much time I was spending watching my fave TV show, Forensic Files, as Ted mimicked a crime scene. He did this by jumping off the porch into a neighboring bush, leaving an outline of his body and himself ferociously confined to the bottom branches. The removal process should have been filmed for Forensic Files, as you can imagine how calm and tranquil and non dramatic a stuck cat can be.

Maybe a kitty CSI agent costume?

I slowly started introducing props to our costuming atmosphere. I began with a simple cowboy hat, as we lived in Nashville, the home of country music. He really loved it. So much so, he had the hat on for .000000000002 seconds.

Yeefuckinghaw.

After the western attire was a success, why not take it even more south of the border with a sombrero and poncho?

Mad hombre.

Since he obvies loved gussying up, I went out on a limb one Halloween and turned him into a member of the Apidae family, a bee.

Buzz.the.fuck.off.

Not so honey lickin’ good.

I had so much past success, the following year, I decided to not only gussy Ted up but join in on the fun with him. Why couldn’t I do a couple’s costume with my cat? That’s not weird. At all.

We went as Miley Cyrus and Robin Thicke. This was after Miley casually dry humped Robin in front of the world on live television at the MTV Music Awards earlier that year.

No gyrating here.

While it may look like I easily capture award winning selfies, about 8,325,910 photos were taken (I had to take resting breaks for my arm) in order to get the money shot.

Blurred lines.

Tongue lashing.

If Ted could wear sunglasses, he could certainly don a wig, right? The following Halloween, he was the Princess Leia to my Darth Vader.

Ted, I am your mother.

It was super easy getting him into wardrobe.

He don’t want none unless he gets his buns, Hon.

While we didn’t know it was our last time for dress up together, our Batman theme was our best Halloween ever.

Catman.

We’d taken in a sidekick, a cat I found at the dumpster (now that I think about it, I find a lot of fucking things at my dumpster…) and refused to give a name because I didn’t want to keep him even though we all know what happened. He stayed. And kept the name New Cat.

Poor New New had all kinds of anxiety and instead of audibly sighing so loudly the neighbors could hear like Bear, he preferred to hiss and bat his declawed paws at me (people who declaw animals and then dump them have a special place in hell) in defense of looking like a dressed up asshole.

A forced Robin.

Batman, Catwoman and Robin together ~~furever~~ about a split second.

Wishing they had superhero powers to use on their super whack job mama.

Robin’s revolt.

Upon New Cat’s divaesque behavior, Bear and I cuddled up only as a not-awkward-at-all mother and son duo could for our Halloween photo.

Purrfect pair.

I can almost hear the heavy sighs from Ted above right now. Only this time instead of being from forced costume insertion, they’re signs of relief. He was always such a little bitch.

Happy Meowloween!

July 3, 2018 by Cowboys and Crossbones

Dog Days of Summer

If you know me in the slightest, you know that my fur kids are people to me (whenever I walk in my front door, no matter if I just took the trash out, I holler “where my peeps at?”). My world revolves around them. And, suffice to say, I have had the greatest honor and pleasure of rescuing a small zoo.

But there are always fur babies that hold an extra special spot in your heart and I’m sad to share that I came home from work last week and found that my chug, Precious, had passed away. She was in the exact spot where she normally awaits my arrival home. Although, upon calling out, her little tail didn’t wag and her head didn’t pop up in excitement of seeing her mama after mere hours away from one another.

Coolest chug on the planet.

To say that I am devastated is an understatement. I am having a hard time writing this now – and yet as we all know too fucking well – life moves on. For me, I’m trying to comprehend the timing. I’ve lost my two best fur friends within a year. Two fur peeps that were like guns in holsters by my side, one on each hip constantly. My chest has been heavy and my heart is honestly in pieces. But with my constant support system of the fabulous humans in my life, I’ve managed one moment at a time. One bestie told me that if she didn’t know me, she’d think I had Munchausen Syndrome of drama because so much shit has rained down in the last few years. But unfortunately, it’s all true. Which is why I always let people go first when we talk about how our day has been.

Ted and Presh. Best buddies playing forever over the Rainbow Bridge.

I dread walking through the front door where I found Presh but on the first day the task had to be done, I had a bouquet from the most kick ass friends in which a girl could wish greeting me. They were sitting right outside my door, easing the burden of the inevitable door walk through.

Flowers are a grieving gal’s best friend.

While I wanted to wallow in bed with the covers over my head, I realized I do have rent to pay, lights to keep on and four pussies to feed. When I came into work, pink roses awaited my arrival.

Team members showed their love.

My cousin and his wife were thankfully in town Friday and Dada CBXB and myself went to meet them for a much-needed Skinny Pirate(s) after the longest fucking week. While I do pride myself in being current, I couldn’t help but die when I snapped a pic of our cocktails and saw that a walker was in the background. If you get to Dalts before 5pm, you’ll be sharing the bar with people who make you feel like a newborn. And I don’t hate it.

Can you tell we’re related?

In my Iowa twin news, there were getting prepped for the arrival of Coo Coo (yes, that’s the phrase we use for grandpa – always keeping it classy).

Hunk of the month. I’m talking about the boy, not the dog.

Swish swish full of swag.

Coo Coo made it just in time for cocktail hour on Saturday.

Jazz hands run in the family, obvies.

Another thing that runs in the family? Fabulous nails. Princess B set out to give Auntie CBXB a run for her patriotic mani money.

Red, white and blue-hoo!

Tootsies too.

Same color scheme, slightly different approach for this old broad. I can’t wait to make Sister CBXB give me a manicure next time I see her since she’s got mad mani skills.

Patriotic claws.

While Coo Coo and the twins were living it up in Iowa, I was having a time getting my ass outta the bed.

Rasta and the sun coaxed me out of the mini where I floated the day away.

We were slightly alarmed after seeing the obviously-required-by-the-codes-department-sign hanging at the pool that missed vital information…

Who’s gonna save me?

Getting ready for a bath (full of bawling my eyes out) post swim, First Mate called and saved the day. She swung by with Bota Box Rosé (seriously the best box of wine on the market at the moment) and we chit chatted and then started to binge watch the show Younger (seriously an easy-to-watch-thirty-minutes-of-fuff). And then my main TV crapped out. Did we let ruin our slumber party?

The Gulp ‘n’ Go.

Nope. We moved the cheese platter, popcorn and the pussies into the bedroom.

Our Cardboardeaux Rosé accompanied us.

Nothing like nestling in for a binge…until someone says “I just need to rest my eyes,” and it’s lights out. So First Mate saw herself out of the mini after her host rudely passed out.

Slumber party shenanigans.

Starting the newest novel by Ruth Ware, I decided it was better to get more vitamin D while reading than complete and utter darkness under the covers. Sunday Funday found me back at the pool in 95 degree heat. While I have gained 40 pounds since Rapegate, the one perk of the extra LBs has been the enhancement of my flat chest (oh and I have pride in photos and videos that make the rounds to friends).

Wallowing in the sun.

Complete package.

With must needed thirst quenchers.

Again when I was side eyeing the bath tub (Precious would sit on the toilet while I bathed – again, nothing but classy white trash), knowing it would cause a tearfest, Bird Lady happened to call and suggest a cocktail and snack outing.

When she saw me she said, “Your hair looks really great. What did you do?”

“I finally washed it.”

So fresh and so clean cocktail hour.

Thanks again from the bottom of my heart for helping this gal, who is seriously trudging through the muck of life (I mean fucking seriously, was I a serial killer in a past life?), feel loved, important and heard. Words, gestures and hugs go the longest way.

Can’t wait to see her again and Bear again. Two great loves of my life.

Take care of yourselves. Look both ways before crossing the street. Make sure you don’t fall down any stairs. Wear a floatie in the lake. Make sure that seat belt snaps. Because if you’re reading this, I love you. And my heart can take no more losses at the moment.

XOXO –

CBXB

May 18, 2018 by Cowboys and Crossbones

The Pussy Posse

While we all know I’m batshit crazy over cats (and animals in general), I have yet to really introduce my latest brood in proper fashion.

The bitchy love of my life, Teddy Bear, died suddenly last August. I’ve wanted to write about it so many times but the hole his departure left in my heart literally feels like molten lava spilling into my body when I try. Then the volcano eruption of uncontrollable scalding tears rush down my cheeks, so it’s best I save his obituary for another day. Or year. Or century.

My ride or die.

Yes, I’m talking about a cat. Many days and nights I long to be over the Rainbow Bridge with him. He was the last link I had to my previous life and endured the hardships into the one I now lead. But as we all know, the world keeps turning and so, now, I run a fucking zoo.

After Rapegate occurred, Ted kept vigil by being my constant companion, not leaving my side unless he was stuffing his pie hole.

Literally would not leave me.

When my mom came to stay with me, she thought it’d be a good idea for Bear and me to have another furry friend around. Now, I already have joint custody of Precious the Chug but Mama CBXB thought a kitten for Valentine’s Day would be the best gift in 2016.

Um….do we have a say?

We went to see my crazy cat lady gal pal, Penny, who runs Sweet Faces Cat and Kitten Rescue (in which I am happy to be the poster child since I have adopted six animals over two years from her – yes you read that right). Typically, I adopt adult cats, who stand a lesser chance of getting permanent homes as they grow older. But mom thought a baby would be good cuddle therapy.

Crazy Cat Lady 1 and Crazy Cat Lady 2.

Once the cage of kittens opened, the first one I picked up was named Elsa and the decision was immediately and easily done. My Iowa twins love the movie Frozen (what fucking kid doesn’t), so since I grabbed the princess from the movie, it was fate in my eyes.

Princess kitty cat.

Deal sealed.

Then, I stood up and locked eyes with this majestic beauty.

Hello Gorgeous.

Deal not done.

I mistakenly asked to hold her and as soon as I put my face in the kennel, she rubbed her noggin against mine, purring loudly.

Fuck me.

Then Penny pointed out her enormous brother in the back of the cage I never noticed because he didn’t move a muscle from the ball in which he was curled. She explained that they were brother and sister about three years old, surrendered by their owner. The big brother wasn’t coping well in foster care.

Double fuck me.

Well, really triple fuck me.

Who was I to split up a pair of siblings? The black beauty and myself already bonded in .00004 seconds. And her brother was so shy and sad that I was warned I may never see him come out from behind the dryer or under the bed. So yes, I lost my goddamned mind that Saturday and walked out with not one, not two but three motherfucking pussies.

An instant mom to triplets.

Now, on a side note, the always charming actress Drew Barrymore adopted three cats at once and made national headlines for her big heart.

I, on the other hand received sweet messages of support like…

And love notes left on my car…

On the way home from Pet Smart, not a fucking peep was uttered. As soon as I got to the mini manse, the boxes were opened and from that moment on, it was harmonious until Tedstar died a year and a half later.

Love, love, love, love.

RIP Baby Bear.

Penny reached out when she heard the news about Ted and offered my pick of the litter (pun so intended), when I was ready. I knew I wanted another Russian Blue mix and about a month later, Penny sent word that a handsome, shy gent was at Pet Smart. When I ~~raced~~ arrived to check him out, there was a sticky note on his kennel door that read, “needs extra TLC.”

Sweet baby is on the right, afraid to come out.

Penny had instructed me to pet him on his head – hard – and as soon as I did, he cautiously came to me. When I lifted him out of the cage, he put both of his paws around my neck. You know what the fuck happened next.

Crazy cat lady shopping spree with an actual cat in the carrier!

Nothing strange here.

I texted Penny his photo on the way to his new home after the impromptu shopping spree at Pet Smart.

Mine. ALL MINE.

Obvies Fabio was meant to be mine and this was how he spent his first night in the mini manse.

Head rubbin’ on the bed.

So, in no particular favor order, I’m thrilled to introduce The Pussy Posse to you…age before beauty.

Precious the Chug

Age 12. Acts like a puppy. Looks like an Ewok.

Also known as Preshy, Presh, P, Pweshy (as my Iowa twins call her).

Presh is pretty much my sidekick in everything that I do. Without her emotional support after Rapegate and Ted’s passing and everythingfuckingthingelseinbetween…I’m not sure the state I’d be in.

We garden together.

We outfit shop together. DUH.

We drink together. Also DUH.

We take work meetings together.

We get groomed together.

And when I can, I like to match her to my hair.

She loves it. Obvies.

Rocky the Gentle Giant

Age 5. Also known as Bigs, Rocco.

Thinks he’s the size of a mouse.

Could teach pussy yoga.

Remember how he was sad and unable to even look at a potential owner until I got my grubby paws on him? He’s now happily the king of the mini manse.

Ruby Sue the Menace

Age 5. Also known as Thundercunt, Thundy, TC.

Wondering how she earned the endearing moniker of Thundercunt? I found her hanging on the blinds after she’d taken down the curtains.

Greetings of salutation after work one day.

The usual set up of the area.

Waiting on accolades as I tried to work around her mess to hang everything back up.

No shame in her game.

She has an obvious infatuation with curtains, as one night around 2 am this happened…

The actual fuck.

As I bolted out of bed, thinking I was going to end up on Forensic Files, I followed the evidence and concluded that in fact, it was TC. Rocky tried to help me hang the curtain back up but I said to hell with it and showered in my other bathroom the next few days.

Ruby Sue also apparently hates her life of rags to riches and walks the plank on my second level balcony every chance she gets. And she’s clumsy as fuck. So fate will be fate – and she’d land on all fours. C’mon, she’s a cat.

Fabio the Fuck Face

Age 3. Also known as Fabies, Faabs (pronounced Fahbs), Fartio and Fabio Le Pew.

This gorgeous guy farts and darts when he gets nervous. He has zero apprehension prancing around the mini manse and head butts like it’s his paying gig. He also has the regal look of daring you to a death match but couldn’t be more of a sweetheart, hence the nickname Fuck Face.

And his tail…oh that’s his best accessory.

Fabio Le Pew.

Princess Elsa Pants of Resting Bitch Face

Age 2. Also known as Pants, Stank Face and Smalls.

Remember how my mom thought a kitten to cuddle would be the best therapy for me? I’ve gotten my hands on this little shit for a good 29 minutes in the last two years I have had her.

But she loves her siblings and that’s all that really matters (except really, her world should revolve around me – there I said it).

She also loves sparkly accessories.

While I sound like a walking, talking billboard of how to remain single for the rest of one’s life, I don’t give a fuck (I also love candles and reading books – DREAM GIRL).

Just a natural weekend run for cat shit.

Except I do keep my dumpster wedding dress and veil in my car just in case I run into Mr. Right getting an equally large cat tree one day.

Oh hi there. You love cats, too?

There’s really nothing like coming home, being greeted by my brood with figure eights performed between my calves, head butts, tail wags and a game of tag with Stank Face. It’s also fabulous to pour supper in their margarita glasses (food, mind you), pour supper into my wine glass and settle in for an evening of furry snuggles.

So glad they’re mine.

I do expect you regular readers to memorize all names for the entire Pussy Posse, with nicknames included if you want to be true super fans. And if that’s too hard, I will let you buy me a Skinny Pirate next time we run into each other and I quiz you.

Cheers!

January 19, 2018 by Cowboys and Crossbones

It’s All in the ‘Tude

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.