January 22, 2022 by Cowboys and Crossbones

The Birthday of Your Bestie

The birth of Sister CBXB was the best thing that has ever happened to me. I didn’t know it at the time but I needed a yin to my yang, a Meredith to my Christina, a Nicky to my Paris, a Sasha to my Malia, a Serena to my Venus, a Solange to my Beyoncé.

However, we all know I love a glaring light on myself (also known as a spotlight), so don’t think I wasn’t pissed when bébé Sister CBXB was showered with gifts for just appearing out of what seemed from nowhere (I know Mama CBXB will beg to differ, delivering an 11 pound baby). I remember our neighbors Winnie and Clyde came to visit and while everyone coo’d and ooh’d over the bundle of joy, I got a bag of underwear. I think that may have been the first time I thought “what the fuck?” to myself.

I was always quick to remind folks that I was still around while they were admiring new life.

*Gpa Morris ALWAYS had her binky (it’s on his right finger). And she always whined for it.*

I was quickly schooled that two is better than one. I had someone to boss around, throw the blame on and found celebrating, well, everything was better with my forever plus one.

*So many things to cheers to over the years.*

*Easter celebrations from Wonder Girls to Wonder Women.*

*Snow fort celebrating compliments of Dada CBXB and Uncle LewAss with the Morris Boys.*

*She’s always a fab sport when I wanna do a celebratory marathon day at the Iowa State Fair.*

*Never not fun at an Iowa Hawkeye tailgate.*

We’ve always known how to say buh byeeeeee to the prior year, letting our hair down, throwing our hands up with a side of snacks we never let go to waste. You haven’t really lived if you’ve never dipped a pizza roll in Rotel cheese dip. Follow us for more classy tips.

*Who needs more than two to ring in a new year?*

Then, she met my future BIL (bro-in-law) and we had fun ushering him into trashtacular new year’s fun.

BIL was always a good sport, even when we put on booth concerts at local bars.

*Never a better duo screaming LIVIN’ ON A PRAYER!*

Our audience was always so enthralled they could hardly keep their eyes open,

Before popping the question, I’m sure BIL had to consider what he was getting along with Sister CBXB.

*HI. It’s me. I will be your forever third wheel.*

BIL put a ring on it anyhow and a round of celebrating properly ensued.

Bachelorette shenanigans were nothing but drunken fun. So much so, we had our folks in tow.

*Whose dad doesn’t bachelorette party it up?*

The big day came and it was so apparent how happy and excited she was to start this next chapter of life.

As newlyweds, she rang the bell with her new hubs, sealing the deal at the Little Brown Church. A photo caught my thoughts…thank fuck it’s not me, it’s you!

*The forever and always single, cray cray cat lady.* *Not mad about it.*

Although it was her wedding day, I somehow still managed to bring out her sisterly love in a way.

This life that’s sometimes a party just kept getting greater. Sister CBXB and BIL welcomed twins and the festivities and hoopla got bigger and better.

Seeing her kill it as a mom is no surprise but fuck – no one lied when they say time flies.

How in the actual fuck are these two already nine?!

I’m forever indebted to her for taking any partnering up and kid pressures off of me. I get to be the outrageous aunt, thankfully.

Sister CBXB has put up with me her entire life. Often reacting with the “holy fuck, did she just say/do that?” face in her hands of hilarious embarrassment to be related to yours truly.

She never had any choice in the matter.

No option but to be my forced side kick.

Sisters are a special crew. We lucked out having Mama CBXB and Aunt Crazy Pants as an example of that extraordinary bond. The millions of times we laughed until our stomachs hurt and tears ran down the legs of the older duo, are some of the best times I have tucked away in my memory bank.

My sis has often carried me through life in fab times and the horribly bad. Maybe I’m a reason her back hurts? That can’t be, rather, I taught her how to lift with her legs, right? RIGHT?!

I’m always helping her put her Michelle Obama arms to great use.

Even though it looks like we could possibly be inbred in the photo below, I know she’s always got my back and me hers, no matter the woe. But for real, why does it look like we’re posing for a prom pic? We were on the lookout for Dada CBXB to arrive at his surprise party.

Sister CBXB has never met a cake that didn’t meet the inside of her belly.

So today, eat all of the sugary confections with a side of that fancy bubbly!

Thanks for always being the straw holding this camel’s back.

I can’t wait until this cunt Rona is gone and I can come maul you and force you to carry me around for fun. You’re the best of the best, crème de la crème, I hope this birthday celebration grants you with everything you deserve. I’m forever thrilled that I get to be your sister. Thanks for being my bestie.

Cheers, Bitch!

Love ya, Mean it.

March 29, 2018 by Cowboys and Crossbones

Say Yes to the Dumpster Dress

There is zero shame in my game.

While holy matrimony has never been high on my list of hopeful accomplishments (although I can train the fuck out of a man. Ex-boyfriends that were once couch potatoes, allergic to family encounters, bitched about having to go to out-of-town weddings, were closeted alcoholics, verbally abusive – all matters leading to break ups are now treating ladies right. Now I get to sit back and watch my masterpieces practice my long, hard efforts in their current love lives. Bitter much…who moi? You’re welcome girls).

Whipping male asses into shape for fellow females.

Often classifying myself as trashtacular, it will come as no surprise that when I was driving by one of the many dumpsters near my mini manse, my interest was beyond piqued when I spied a gigantic white box big enough to store body parts beside the filthy green trash receptacle.

I did what any classy person would do…I slammed on the brakes, leapt out of my rust bucket, just knowing that the headless corpse I was about to discover would land me on my fave TV show, Forensic Files without having to be deceased.

Instead, as I slowly opened the box, an even bigger surprise awaited my eyeballs.

A fucking wedding gown. Preserved to perfection.

Was this a sign? An omen? Bad juju (I mean Jesus, is there any luck in finding a wedding dress dumpster diving? I mean, aside from it being free and all). I suddenly became a woman more excited about a wedding dress than finding a stray pussy that needs a home (JUST KIDDING. I would first home the cat and then set my sights on my pretend wedding).

This dress had been abandoned once before. Who was I to do it again? The chiffon pouf found a home in the back of my rust bucket, along with a Christmas tree and anything else I don’t have room for in the mini manse. It resided there until one evening at a gathering of gals for Supper Club. Among the convo, I mentioned my dumpster diving prowess skills and with zero urging, ran out to my car and got the box.

The shenanigans began.

Upon opening the box, we not only discovered there was the dress but also the veil AND THE SHOES – which revealed the previous owner’s practicality, as they were ballet flats. Ew.

My new favorite bad hair day ‘do.

Suddenly, I became a flushed bride trying to stuff myself into polyester chiffon (I mean, I didn’t go on a wedding dress diet because I didn’t know I would be so fortunate to be all dressed up…with no altar to go).

I haven’t tried to stuff myself into anything chiffon since, well, ever. I mean, naturally my prom dresses were sequins and any bridesmaid dress that I will “totally wear again” (and never, ever have) were more on the silk/satin side of the material world.

With a touch of fake tulips off my gal pal’s mantel, I was a (literally) hot bride – one lit cigarette butt from going up in flames.

While half of the group was trying to get me in and out of the dress, the other ladies were playing private detectives. We had a name from the alteration receipt, which was from a dress shop in Hoover, AL. WHAT WAS THE STORY BEHIND THIS DRESS?

I mean, if it was cheating, wouldn’t one burn the dress? A nasty divorce, even, maybe donate the dress? But to leave it unscathed at the dumpster really proved that this former bride had a sliver of regard for the giddy-up that once promised her forever, which may now be my forever. But whatever.

With the small paper trail and armed with her maiden name, our investigators were able to peruse social media, locate her, see second wedding photos (with a far more updated gown) and we all now know she lives three buildings down from me. Maybe we should all quit our jobs and become private detectives?

Lost but found.

OR maybe I will just quit my day job, go down to Broadway Street in Nashville in my new threads and pretend I got left at the altar for sympathy and free Skinny Pirates.

OR better yet, I can be the runaway bride and charge tourists (who pay for any and everything) $5 for a picture with this damsel in distress.

OR do I plan a wedding to myself for myself and register for all the things like Louis Vuitton bags, Christian Louboutin heels, a Go Fund Me account for vet bills, and a collection for a new car (i.e. Range Rover)?

OR do I wear this on every second date I go on?

While I have yet to ever online date, this for sure will be a profile picture if I ever do. Accompanied with one single tag line:

Must love cats.

I betcha they’ll be lining up to say, “I don’t,” even if I’m not looking for anything but casual.

Regardless, I can’t stop wearing the fucking veil.

Don’t mind me. Just a crazy lady parading around in a stranger’s veil.

Here comes the bride…to the nearest dumpster near you.

CBXB

March 9, 2018 by Cowboys and Crossbones

Lucky Charm

Cinderella once sang “you don’t know what you got till it’s gone.”

I’m talking about the hair metal 80s band, not the princess of course.

I think we all can relate to the sentiment in one way or another. However, when it comes to peeps in my life that I love, you’re either in or out. One quality that I gratefully possess is I am never regretful of time spent with folks that I hold in my heart, nor do I take time with them for granted. That’s why for me, when you love the fuck out of someone and they no longer roam the earth, it can be a heart yanking time when their milestones still appear annually.

Aunt Crazy Pants celebrated her first birthday above on February 23, and in honor of this occasion, Mama CBXB came to Nashville and we par-tayed the only we way our family ever does. Trashtacularly.

On ACP’s actual day of birth, we took her to get her cocktail of choice, gin rickeys, at my fave local watering hole, Dalts.

A hungover day later, we went to get permanent tributes of the lady whose favorite color was green, loved shamrocks and owned one of the most unique signatures ever, which is what we were going to have tattooed on our wrists. I gussied up in my green heels I fashioned at the celebration of ACP’s life, perfected my mani to match and we were ready to go.

Naked and afraid.

While mother/daughter bonding over tattoos may seem odd to you, it’s sort of a family tradition in my clan (which should shock no one hence Jell-O shots with Gma at Christmas and Iowa Hawkeye moonshine touchdown shots are also custom family practices, well shared on this blog).

In summers of yesteryear, our families would spend Fourth of Julys at the Lake of the Ozarks. Which entailed not only in boating and booze but often tattoos and belly button piercings. Yes, yes, you read that right. I even think we made each new girlfriend of our dude cousins get belly button rings on their first Fourth with us. (A dream come true family that acts like a fraternity right here folks).

I was with ACP when she got her first ink from none other than the not even close to being world famous Tattoo Ted in the Ozarks.

We may have had one or eight drinks with sun poisoning but what did it matter?

With our history of classiness, we brought ACP along with us in spirit as Mama CBXB and I rolled into the Rebel Yell Tattoo and Social Club that came highly recommended.

When we traipsed through the doors, I’m fairly certain all four folks in the shop on a bright and sunny Saturday afternoon were well aware that this wasn’t a past time in which we often partook. Especially when I wondered aloud with Justin, our extremely patient artist, how a tattoo on my wrist would look when I do jazz hands. Because I use them a lot. Like, we seriously had a five-minute conversation about it, he put a stencil on my wrist with ACP’s name facing me and let me look in a mirror before I decided how I wanted the fucking three-inch artwork done.

I mean you guys. Obvies we use them.

All.the.time.

Maybe our novice was a dead giveaway when I asked my mom 400 times in the seven minutes it took Justin to tattoo her wrist if she was going to cry when it was over (she did – Tearfest 2018).

My defense mechanism against physical pain is apparently laughing because it’s all I did the entire time my four-minute ink was being perfected. Justin kept stopping to ask if I was OK and all I could do was giggle in the most unquiet way possible.

All in all, mission accomplished.

Shortest time frame yet most annoying tattoo subject ever to grace Rebel Yell.

Getting any type of tattoo makes one a bad ass motherfucker, right?

I mean, look at my recovery plastic.

So what did these bad ass mother fuckers do? Celebrated with cocktails of course!

And it just so happened that two of ACP’s grandgirls came through Nashville that night, so we all cheersed our hearts out to the lady we love and miss.

Bittersweet without sharing the experience with ACP, there’s something ultra comforting to know she’s right here on my wrist. There have been some dark days for me recently, and I’ve found myself flipping my wrist over, admiring her signature, reminiscing on conversations, knowledge, 1,573,982,400 laughs and love we shared over her lifetime.

What I come to think of most is right after Rapegate, ACP was one of the first phone calls I received as the news made its way through my family. Her first words were, “you’re already one helluva strong lady – but you’ll be the strongest woman you know now.” The same words rang true when we found out she had terminal cancer six months later – and I repeated her words of wisdom back to her.

While cancer can go fuck itself, I’m comforted by the fact that I knew what I had with ACP before she was gone. Which is why her absence is ever present, more so now that I’m a bad ass mother fucker with a fancy signature on my wrist.

Know what you’ve got before it’s gone.

Now who wants to go get tattoo sleeves with me?

It could be the experience of your lifetime.

CBXB

July 4, 2017 by Cowboys and Crossbones

Griswold Family Style Fourth of July

Driving a boat at Lake of the Ozarks…

…is a party girl from Tennessee.

As cousins gather every Fourth…

…to be with family

From Jell-O shots…

…with whipped cream.

Constant fights over the mic…

to sing karaoke.

Trivial Pursuit winners, always reign supreme!

From new tattoos…

…to pool dunks…

…with drunken dancers around a hunk.

Our favorite toy is the aqua bar…

…that prevents us from floating too far.

I’m proud to be from my family!

Where at least I can be me.

And they never, ever let me forget

Just how handy my booty can be.

Cousins blowing their muscles up…

…next to me

so I won’t cry and feel left out.

There ain’t no doubt I love my clan –

Thank God for my family!

Here’s hoping your version of the Griswolds has a safe and booze filled 4th.

Cheers!

CBXB

July 22, 2015 by Cowboys and Crossbones

The Fabulousness of White Trash

Only chic people bathe in the kitchen sink, ya dig?

Can white trash be fabulously classy?

It’s all in one’s perspective.

I picked up all kinds of trashy tips from my youth – like wrapping a can of pop (soda, Coke, whatever area of the world you live in insert word here) in aluminum foil is a poor gal’s koozie (my mom would do this to chill my beverage for field trips), keeping a wet wash cloth in a plastic baggie is just the same (and much cheaper) than a wet wipe (again, my clever mother), and ketchup between two slices of bread will make you feel like a chef (my genius shining through).

Ketchup sandwich for one, please.

Any of these tips ring a bell to you? If not, you’re a classy person – in my book anyway.

To me, being white trash is knowing better (eating the piece of cheese after removing the moldy corner, blaming the broken basketball hoop on me, your cousin when I saw you break it with my own two eyes, proudly announcing that your entire family’s favorite movie is National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, digging the bag of chips out of the garbage because you want to be sure you ate them all or wearing a mini skirt with heels – that are just a tad too high – but doing it anyway), while not giving a rat’s ass what anyone thinks.

An early mini minus the heels.

I grew up in a rural Iowa town where it was a big deal if Dad decided to get a Casey’s gas station pizza on Friday night, a small hog (yes hog, not dog) house served as my backyard playhouse where mud pies were served abundantly and you were never short a friend or cousin to play alongside and smoke sugared cancer sticks.

Classy candy cigarettes on the smoking deck after a long day of play.

I was also raised in a world where it was perfectly acceptable (in my family, anyway) to come home from the pool for lunch, play a round of baseball with Dad in the yard (not opting for a wardrobe change – sticking with the classy bathing suit), then head back to swim the rest of the day away.

Quick round of batting practice while home from the pool.

Being in a small town, we made our own fun. If there were no toys around or activities for a kid to do, my parents entertained me with a brown grocery bag, which I obviously enjoyed with enthusiasm.

No toys? No problem.

Preschool graduation days were also classily creative due to my mother’s knack of using paper and a plastic bowl in lieu of a real hat.

Kiddie College graduation day at its finest.

Thankfully, the tricks of the white trash trade I acquired while growing have remained in perfect tact.

Classy drunk girl gracefully aging through life with a red roadie and one shoe.

White trash? Or fabulously trashy?

Fabulous in my book.

CBXB

Cowboys and Crossbones

All things that kick ass!

Tag Archives: trashy

The Birthday of Your Bestie

Say Yes to the Dumpster Dress

Lucky Charm

Griswold Family Style Fourth of July

The Fabulousness of White Trash