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Today

Posted 16 June 2017 / By MC / Archives/ Featured/ Miss Clariss Musings

Today is the greatest

Day I’ve ever known

Can’t live for tomorrow,

Tomorrow’s much too long

I’ll burn my eyes out

Before I get out

I wanted more

Than life could ever grant me

Bored by the chore

Of saving face

– Smashing Pumpkins

It’s been so, so very long since I last posted.

People ask me why I don’t write much anymore. I don’t really have much of a response. Am I uninspired? I’m not sure. I have stared at my computer screen countless times, started hundreds of sentences, and left many pages blank. Maybe I just don’t have much to say?

But I do.

A lot has happened over the past few months.

 

CCB

In How to Love, I had just finished filing paperwork for my adoption. My adoption has since been finalized. I am now playing phone tag with Raleigh and Columbia trying to figure out how to get my last name changed. This – the name part – is the piece of the puzzle that means most to my family. Ironically though, it is the most troublesome detail for me to handle. Since I was adopted, I must be issued an entirely new birth certificate. But having my name changed this way isn’t as “simple” as it is to have it changed by marriage. I have to deal with two states, and certified court orders, and asshats at the State Department, and dumb whores not answering the phones, etc. Even Tayler’s dad said we should just hurry up and get married to save me the trouble of having to change my name twice…

Long story short, sooner or later, I will officially be CCB.

In the meantime, we just go ahead and put it on shit anyway…

 

So long Hickory! 4-ev-er.

I sold my house!

Yep, I sure did! In April, I put my first little baby home on the market. The one I bought when I was just 24-years-old. That tiny 960 sq. foot, three bedroom, two bath starter house I bought on a whim. The place I was supposed to “not be in for long”… and ended up keeping for four years. It’s finally, officially gone.

It sold within a week.

The buyers offered only a few thousand under listing price. So, when they asked for my window treatments, I gladly left every single curtain hanging on the wall. “What else do they want?” I asked my agent. I was willing to give them anything! I thought she was crazy for listing it as high as she did and thought for sure it would sit on the market for months. When I received a nearly full-price offer and the only condition was closing costs and curtains? I almost threw in a box of wine (Like, a case of multiple wine bottles, ya cheap asses. Not a box of Franzia. Geez. [Though, probs could’ve gotten away with tha Franz…]) for good measure but then thought better of it. “We’re in Bethlehem – the heart of Bibletown, U.S.A. – better not risk it.”

The sell of that house was the easiest thing I have ever had to do in my life – literally, figuratively, and emotionally. As much as it meant to me to buy 36 Redwood Ct., now, it just seemed to hold nothing but sour memories. Momma and I took an entire day to pack the house up. The next afternoon, my whole family helped pack everything in a U-Haul. The day after that, I went to my lawyer’s office, signed the last of the sale papers, and then I drove the 20-foot U-Haul in the pouring rain all the way back to Charleston – by myself.

It was cathartic.

Even though I have Tayler now, and even though he would have helped if I had asked, it was nice to do this one last thing “alone”. To finally finish what I had started those couple of years ago. Once again, I proved to myself that I don’t need anyone. I can figure things out all on my own. I can sign the important papers, and make the necessary phone calls, and negotiate the deals, and drive the big trucks.

Sure, I might need my Momma’s support from time to time. Oh, and Dad and Bubba to do the heavy lifting. And maybe even Mace too, you know, for some comic relief when Momma starts actin’ a fool…

But I can do all tha shits my.seff.

 

Freedom.

So, I took that huge chunk ‘o frackin’ change I made from the sale of the house annnnnnnddddd… I paid off all of my debts.

Every.

Single.

Fucking.

One.

Of.

‘Em.

I owe nobody nothing.

Like, not even Dad for our upcoming family cruise in December.

Dude, I was itching so badly to get that money and start doling it out that I was nearly breaking out into hives. That’s how I get. I love paying bills. I love being able to pay things off and see that shit go away. I literally check my credit score more than I check my checking account. I’ve always been that way. So, the past few years have been absolute torture for me. Only being able to afford minimum payments? No way, José.

Anywho, I am proud to say that all but one of my cards have been cut up for nearly a year now. And luckily, I am no longer in a position financially that I need credit cards to “keep my head above water”. That was how I was living in California. I lived pay check to pay check and used credit cards to supplement my income. It was stressful. I would pay 200 bucks down on a card just to charge $220 back to it later that week. Robbing Peter to pay Paul is no way to live, y’all.

But do I regret my time out there? Of course not. I needed that time. I needed that place and that experience. I needed everything San Diego provided. Do I wish I would have asked for help? Yes. Maybe? No. I’ve always been so bull-headed and so proud of the fact that I’ve never asked for help.

However, I don’t recommend doing things just exactly the way I did.

I knew I was sitting on the house. I knew the market was in an upswing. I knew that I would make money off the sale of my property because I had originally bought it as a foreclosure. I knew that I could at least make money enough to pay off my debt. I knew that I’ve always been lucky in money…

Praise the sweet baby Jesus everything worked out in my favor.

I took a gamble and it paid well. Literally.

My recommendation to you: Don’t take your chances. There’s probably a better way to quit your life. Do it that way.

 

And then I bought a new one…

In typical Chelsea fashion, I bought the first house I saw in Charleston the day the house closed in Hickory. My realtor, Donna, Tayler and I stood in the kitchen of the house in Charleston. I looked at Donna and said, “Okay, so how do we write up an offer on this thing?” They both stared at me, mouths open. “Wait. You don’t want to see any other properties? This is it?” Donna said. I nodded matter-of-factly, “Yep. This one’s it.” Tayler sort of chuckled, “Babe, seriously. You don’t want to go look at anymore houses?”

That’s when I gave my full explanation, “Look, the other night when I was driving the U-Haul home, Tayler and I had a long conversation. I told him that I hadn’t had one of my feelings. I get feelings about things. I had a feeling about the Hickory house, a feeling about San Diego, etc. When you sent me this house… I got a feeling about it. The only thing it was missing from our list was a back porch/deck. But then, we show up, and there’s a huge deck in the backyard. This is my house. Oh, and I want the fridge too.”

So, that’s how the cookie crumbled.

The house is perfect! It is an all brick home, 4 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, formal living and dining, one car garage, and privacy fence for the pups. The whole house was updated about three years ago. It’s only 15 minutes away from Nana and 10 minutes away from T.J. Maxx. I. can.not. wait to get in there and decorate!

Meanwhile, back at the bank, everything has went swimmingly.

I close Friday, June 30.

Please continue to send me good vibes over the next few weeks!

 

Never say never.

We were sitting at our favorite Mexican restaurant having lunch. He made me ask because it’s technically my house, “Ugh. Whatever. Well, are you trying to live with me and the bubbies, or what?” After he said, “Yes,” I tied a straw paper around his pinky.

Guess that means Tayler and I should maybe consider making our shit Facebook official.

Or not.

He might still want to keep his options open.

I do have to admit, it is weird. We’ve “known” each other for nearly a year but only dated for five months. Now, we’re moving in together! What tha what? Who the hell am I? I have never lived with a boy. I’ve always said I wanted to do that part the right way – get engaged, married, and then move in together. But with him, I just don’t care.

I don’t care about “the right way”, or what people think, or how something looks, or if someone’s granny finds out that we are living in sin. It is what it is.  I know this is where I am supposed to be. I know we are supposed to be together. Sometimes, the cards just don’t fall in the order you imagined they would, and that’s okay.

I am happier now than I have ever been before. For the first time in my life, my relationship is the best thing going on in my world. We are healthy, and happy, and good. We enjoy each other. We talk. We genuinely like to be around one another. Tayler and I are often times the best couple in any room. I never thought I would ever get the opportunity to say that about myself. I never thought I would find true happiness with someone. But I have!

So, why wouldn’t I carpe that fucking diem?!

It’ll be fun, and exciting, and so much less expensive! Granted, the kitchen Nazi will most likely ban Hot Pockets, Kid’s Cuisines, and Little Debbie cakes. That kinda blows. On the other hand, I will have a live-in chef who’s into makin’ dranks and ish. I won’t have to drive all the way to West Ashley anymore! I mean, Tay will have to drive further to work. Sucks for him. But sometimes you have to sacrifice for love, and life, and granite counter tops. Plus, he gets a man cave, a garage, and a yard… I think he’ll live.

We’re excited.

Honestly, y’all, I really do only have two concerns about this whole moving in together bit:

  1. His inability to put anything away. (Momma Barbie, can I get an “Amen!”) Well, unless it has something to do with the kitchen. He loves cleaning the kitchen.
  2. Probably my biggest concern… all the farting. Legit think homeboy has a medical issue. (Momma Barbie, can I get a “Praise tha Lawd!”)

 

I was due for another.

Remember how my gyno told me I had to get an IUD or I was screwed?

Yeah, well, I put it off for a bit.

Like, four months.

I don’t know. Just the idea of something getting shot up into my lady places – buuuuhhh – frigs me out, man. And then, and then, I’m supposed to let it hang out in there for five years! Weird. Fucking weird.

So, last Thursday, I roll up to the OB/GYN to have the Mirena put in. Looking back, I was fucking cocky. I was cocky and ignorant. You know why? Because it didn’t freakin’ occur to me that getting birth control would, you know, hurt like a son of a bitch. But holy actual hell did that bastard fucking hurt! I think the exact words that came out of my mouth to Tayler were, “If this is how bad it hurts to not have a baby, I’m not sure I want to have one!”

I guess the two pairs of scissors, elephant size Q-Tips, and sword didn’t tip me off.

I’m an idiot.

Y’all, I was sweating profusely all over. I felt light-headed and weak. My stomach was cramping terribly. I couldn’t stand up straight. Every time the doctor asked if I was okay, I smiled and said, “Yes, ma’am!” Because I’m an asshole. I refuse to show weakness.

As I sat writhing in pain, I had a few fleeting thoughts, “I should call Nana to come pick me up. Auntie Crystal should be off by now. Maybe I should call her to come get me. I probably shouldn’t drive.”

I could barely stand long enough to schedule my follow-up appointment. When I made it to the car, I turned on the air and sat there for a while. After a bit, I headed home. I prayed the whole way, “God, please just let me get home safely.” I said that over and over again. “God, please just let me get home safely.”

And then, I turned left without really paying attention.

The car I turned in front of was able to slow down enough to lessen the impact. I’ve got to buy a new back bumper. Luckily. It could have been horrible. It wasn’t. But it could have been.

The guy in the other car had literally just drove off the CarMax lot in his new Malibu. He had never been in an accident before. At least, not before he met me. He was nice. Called his Momma first thing. The deputy who came out didn’t even write me a ticket. That was sweet. I told Tayler he was flirting with me after Devin (the other driver) and his Momma left the scene. Yeah, he was. Deputy was all smiley and chatty as he tried to shove my bumper back into it’s rightful spot. Whatever. If he’s into sweaty, braless, deathly lookin’ broads who can’t drive for shit… I’ll throw him a bone. The last thing I need is another fucking ticket to deal with.

Anywho, moral of the story here: Don’t IUD and drive.

If you’re considering getting an IUD: They hurt like a mother. Now that I know what I know, makes a loooooot more sense why they only recommend for women who have had children. Why? Because they are basically shoving a mini one (child) back up in there. Got it? Need more info? Drop me a DM. 😉

 

#29andlookingfine

My twenty-ninth birthday was Saturday.

That night, I threw a fortieth birthday party for Auntie Crystal (her birthday is the day before mine) because I’m super selfless and really pretty.

I planned a drinking tour on King Street and dinner at Bay Street Biergarten. It was perfect weather, a good turnout, great bars, booze, and food. We all had a great time! Everything started at Prohibition. There we had the Yeamans Collins. It was good! Tasted like lemonade. From Prohibition, we went to Kingdom. Our drink at Kingdom was a French 75. Collectively, it was our least favorite drink from the tour; however, the wings – off.the.chain. Totally recommend the BBQ Hoisin ones. The tour finished at Republic. Chris, our bartender, made some sort of fish bowl with gin, cherry liqueur, and really spicy ginger ale. Even though I hate everything cherry – I was digging this drink. The ginger ale really cut the grossness of the cherry. It worked.

Tayler, Marissa (my cousin’s fiancée), and I left the tour of drinkers at Republic and headed over to the Biergarten to decorate. We had picked up some photo booth accessories, a Little Mermaid cake, and a few other things to make the area pop. Some how, we managed to fit 20-ish people around a 15 top for dinner. Everyone sang happy birthday, drank, ate, and had a good time.

She didn’t hate it.

Later that evening, Tayler, Marissa, and I stopped for one last beer on King Street before going home. Marissa and I were basically wearing the same top (different cut/same print). So, I joked to the bouncer that Tayler was taking his sister-wives out on the town. The bouncer thought I was hilarious.

You know who didn’t think I was so hilarious?

Jesus.

‘Cause when we got back to the car – 45 fucking minutes later – there was a boot on the Acura.

Tay was pissed. For the record, he used to work downtown and knows you can (*used to could) park in this particular lot without issue. We have parked here no less than 817 times. He called the number on the flier and we waited. Two chumps in a Ford Ranger pulled up. They looked like college kids. Naturally, I immediately started talking trash to them, “Baby, don’t worry about it. Put your card up. I’ve got cash. How much is it?” Cody responded, “It’s $50.00.” “Oh! Fifty bucks, is all? That’s a steal! Back when I was in college it was $60.00! Shit. You got change for a twenty? I just gave my last two fives away.” “No, I don’t have any change. But that other $10.00 could be our tip!” said dumbass Cody. “Cody, have you lost your damn mind? I’m not tipping you for booting my car!” “Dude, I make more money in tips booting people’s cars than I ever did waiting tables!” “Well, the people who tip you for booting their cars are fucking idiots. I’m not a fucking idiot, Cody. And I’m also not tipping you. Baby, don’t you fucking tip him!” I went on to tell Cody and Korey that it was my birthday. Cody asked me if I turned, “like, 22 or something.” “No, Cody. I’m 29.” “Holy shit! Twenty-nine! Are you freaking out right now?! Man, I freaked out when I turned 24!”

First of all: Kids. Gah they’re fucking dumb.

Secondly, what kinda dickbag puts a boot on your car, asks for 20%, and then calls you old? I should have broken that scrawny bastard’s other arm. I should have said, “Yeah. Freaking out about who’s gonna pull my foot outta your ass.” I should have asked to see his boot and then stuck it on his silly little truck. Does it sound like I’m “freaking out”, Cody? Yeah, well maybe I am. Or maybe, I’m just fucking crazy, Cody. Maybe 29 has me all hopped up on anti-depressants, gin, and cake icing. Or could be, having people tickle your cervix with a fire poker gives you an edge you never knew you had. Ya feel me, little fucker. So, check.your.shit.

Instead, I said, “No, Cody, I’m not freaking out. Why would I freak out? I’m not dead. And what kind of douchebag gets a complex about turning 24?”

 

My stars.

A few weeks ago, after everything with the house was put into motion, Tayler and I were laying in bed. Out of the blue, I looked over at him and said, “You know, I think we should get a cat. An outside cat. One that kills things around the house.” He was totally against it, “No! Baby, we’re not getting a fucking cat!”

We both hate cats. Our dogs hate cats. We’re a family of cat haters. What the hell was coming out of my mouth? Was I feverish? I bitch and complain about Papa’s cat, Boy, all the time. It creeps me out that there is literally a box of shit just chilling in the house at all times. I’m always fighting the dogs from eating the cat food and the cat poop. It’s just a big ordeal, this cat. A huge set back for me and my zen.

But our cat would be different.

My vision for our cat was, well, he was going to be a killer. Like, the Tony Montana of North Charleston. Just a fucking ball-busting son of a bitch who didn’t take no shit, ya know. The real chupacabra, the guy, that dude, the whole enchilada of the cat scene in our ‘hood.

Seven and a half seconds later, I got the, “Whatever, babe. We’ll get a cat.”

Because that’s how he is.

“My baby gets what my baby wants.”

He’s down for every one of my hair-brained ideas. He’ll roll his eyes and mutter something under his breath, but for the most part, there’s not much he doesn’t support me on. Where there is a will there is a way… and he will find a way to make something happen for me or us.

Then there was Steve.

We found Steve on the Humane Society website. He was an all black cat. Ahh. I loved him. He marked all the boxes – lived well with dogs, inside/outside, had all of his claws, wasn’t a kitten, didn’t have balls – the whole bit. So, I sent an email and requested more information on him.

I was promptly sent back an application form.

Let’s pause for a second.

If I have said this once, I’ve said it a bajillionty-eleven times: I am fucking honest. Honest to a GD fault. And this time, my honesty costed me Steve-Gemi.

You see, I was gonna change Steve’s name to Gemini. Gemini for my star sign. At that point, I would have my sun, moon, and my stars. I could be done. Finito. Animals – got ’em. Check.

But then, Karen had to go and be a bitch and ruined everything.

Here are some health benefits of neutering:
http://www.lakeseminoleah.com/index.php?page=medical-reasons-to-neuter-your-dog-2
We had an owner surrender their intake male dog to us when it started having trouble pooping. Three surgeries later, the poor dog can final potty. His perianal adenoma could have been prevented if the owner had neutered him.
Please talk to your vet about the benefits of neutering.
As for Steve, the director requires every animal in the home to be spayed or neutered, up-to-date on shots, and on heartworm prevention. Please let us know if you decide to neuter your Bassett. Thanks.

I. was. PISSED.

First of all, cut the judgy tone, Karen. For the last three emails, you were all exclamation points and fucking rainbows, now you’re nothing but hard periods and shit? What’s up with that? I thought we were on the same page here – rescuing the children and whatnot. Maybe we aren’t? Or maybe, I missed the MSN update that a fucking Basset-cat epidemic is on the rise. Not sure. But what I am sure of, Karen, is that my intact Basset WILL NEVER be surrendered. EVER. His balls, or lack there of, are my business and my business only. And, if you must know, he is one of the most well-cared for animals I have ever met. Hell, I care for my animals better than I care for myself! They eat grain and gluten-free. I carry them to the vet for every little thing. Me? I typically get some Ibuprofen and one of those knock off Monistat inserts for everything and hope for the fucking best. Everytime I go out, they go out. They get something everytime I go to the store. They stay inside 23.25 hours a day and receive more love than their little hearts can handle. In reference to the health “benefits” (there were only two – cancer and tumors) listed, I guess you could say my baby is a real ball-buster. Sonny is nine, and at his last exam (full blood panel was done) in August, he showed a clean bill of health. I’m 29, and at my last exam (full blood panel was done) three weeks ago, I had high cholesterol.

So, basically, what I’m trying to say here is… Karen, you fucked up.

Sure, I’ve got a dog with a sack. (A prize-winning sack, might I add.)

But I’m not a shit Momma.

I hope you break a toe. On each foot. At. the. same. time!

Whore.

Tayler was sorta pissed to. Not nearly as pissed as I was, but he was ticked. Mainly because he knew my feelings were hurt.

“But, babe. I really wanted Steve-Gemi,” I whined at dinner. I kept going on, and on about it. “Baby, do you want me to adopt him?” “You caaaaaannnn’t! I put you down as my Emergency Contaaaaact!” “Well, maybe we can get Al to do it for us.” “Will you? Will you get Steve-Gemi for me?!” My boyfriend was willing to commit adoption fraud just so I could have the cat I didn’t really want. Now, if that ain’t love…

Later that night, while I was washing my face it hit me. I went too hard about the cat. He’s gonna get me a cat for my birthday if I’m not careful. With my face dripping wet, I walked into his bedroom, “Babe. DO. NOT. get me a fucking cat for my birthday. I’m serious. Don’t. We don’t need one right now. We’ll just wait until we’re in the house to get one.”

After my wreck (two days before my birthday), he texted me, “Wanna go adopt a cat next week? At Petsmart?” “No we need to wait until we’re in the house.” “It can stay with me at my place. I’d like that.” “I don’t know.”

On the morning of my birthday, he calls to tell me he is on his way to pick up my gift. I’m sort’ve perplexed. I can’t think of what he could’ve gotten for me, you know, other than a cat. Maybe jewelry? Or something for the house? Humm. He’s not asked and I’ve not said anything.

He FaceTimed me about an hour later:

T: “BABY! Wanna see your birthday present!”

C: I hear meowing – no, screeching – in the background. “Why do I hear a cat? I told you not to get a fucking cat, babe.”

T: “But he’s soooo cute! Look at him!”

C: “Okay. That’s great. But babe we discussed this. Why did you get me a cat.”

T: “Baby! You should just be glad I didn’t get these two kittens!”

C:Tha hell!!!”

T: “They were brothers! I couldn’t have gotten one and left the other!”

C: “Well, is this cat potty-trained?”

T: “His name is Stache.”

C: “Sorry (eye rolls). Is Stache potty-trained.”

T:

C: “Awesome. Did you ask if he got along with dogs?”

T:

C: “Baby! Seriously. You didn’t ask if he got along with dogs?”

T: “Looks away from the camera… “Hey Stache, you like dogs, man?”

C: (eye rolls)

T: “Babe, they said he just turned two, eight days ago! He has all of his claws and he’s been neutered.”

C: “How do they know his birthday was eight days ago? Did the cat tell them that?”

T: “Humm, good point. I don’t know. But babe, they say these cats are the best cats to have.”

C: “What. Strays?”

T:

C: “Tayler I can’t believe you! They fed you every line of bullshit they had and you ate it all up! You got sold, man! Used Cat Salesman’d! Ugh. Now who knows what we’ve ended up with!”

T: “I fucked up, didn’t I?”

C:

Meet Thomas Gemini Winterbottom Fulton.

He also goes by:

  • Stache-Steve-Gemi
  • Bruce
  • That fucking cat

But mostly, we call him Gemi.

Gemi’s an asshole. He likes Tayler and I entirely too much. He comes up to me meowing about shit sometimes and I’m all, “What do you want cat?” He doesn’t respond. Last night, he sat at the front door meowing. So, naturally, I put a leash on him and tried to take him for a walk. He wasn’t into it. I mean, just what the hell am I supposed to do with that? He lays on us, and sleeps in the bed with us, and does other un-cat-like things. And it pisses me off. I wanted a murderer. Not some pussy-ass lap cat that won’t walk past my dogs in the hallway.

Oh.

Yeah.

Speaking of Stache-Steve-Gemi’s brothers… I was lucky enough to capture their first meeting on film:

Truly a heart-warming moment, huh?

This morning, I woke up with a hound in Tay’s spot, a mutt on my legs and the cat on my head.

I’m telling you, these next few weeks… gonna be ruff.

 

XOXO,

MC

 

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