A BAD-ASS BITCH by Bella Bardot

I was called that this week. A “BAD-ASS BITCH”. I admit, I shrieked with delight. And then fear. What exactly is a Bad-Ass Bitch?

In this age of Generation Y, does that term mean that because my waist is smaller than my butt, someone thinks that I can twerk on command while pointing at a person as I tell them off? I took a quick inventory of the situation and the circumstances around the comment to better decipher its meaning.

We had just left an after-party where band members were gathered for a jam session. Someone within the group we were hanging with suggested we go to a nearby casino to try my luck (I’m notoriously known for being lucky).

Every time I walk into a casino a complete other lady takes over. I was a blackjack baby–taught the game by my daddy  when I was three.

I was going to Vegas and sitting on the sidelines when the Rat Pack was still in town, and I learned to give generous tips, accept comps, and to always play 3rd base in the game to be able control the table.

was a blackjack baby when Vegas was still old school, and when  good moral code meant you weren’t selfish on a play and passed up winning when a bigger fish was at the table and they could stand to lose.

In certain casinos to date, when I go to their high limits sections, they still sweep up whomever I’m there with, and take them to the what is jokingly called the “Wives Club” — a secret  room upstairs away from the tables where the guests are assigned their own butler and can enjoy food, drinks, movies and other entertainment options.

They call it the Wives Club because usually the bigger gamblers tend to still be male, and this is so that he can be left alone in peace to enjoy his game without distraction (and hopefully to give him enough time to stay and lose his money, because the “house” knows one thing all too well– it’s always just a “matter of TIME” before a gambler loses if given enough of it.)  A casino, therefore, is a familiar ocean I navigate myself in rather well.

Once we arrived, I sat down with the majority of the band to talk at the bar.  And I don’t’ know about you, but when you are sitting down with a touring band who have lived most of their lives on the road living a life of excess and bliss, you don’t talk about the fact that last night you stayed up late gluing a saint to a surfboard on a hat because it was hat day at school today and the theme was “Surfing Saints”.

I quickly did a count of the exciting parts of my life way back when, and told them about the time I dated a gangster. I told them about the traveling, the lifestyle,  the excitement, and the fact that at one point he told his guards he was afraid of me because I was crazier than he was (true story).

It didn’t last long, we had different viewpoints in life– so much so I ended up marrying a cop soon after, but it was a story the band could raise an eyebrow to.

One of the guys then started telling the story of a near death experience a couple of weeks before, on the way home from a tour. The car he and his girlfriend were in hit a railing and spun out of control going 70mph. He said he felt lucky to be here. We all exchanged near death experiences. Except for me, I don’t have a near death experience. I have a death experience.

I caught a virus in my heart when I was 17, and after battling for a month at the hospital my organs failed and I succumbed. I flat-lined for 2 minutes 26 seconds (also true story). I kept this part short because I don’t really talk about this– but I did tell them one thing: “we’re all just walking each other home boys”.

It was then that I got up to go play that the lead singer grabbed me and told me , “You’re a bad-ass bitch, you know that?”

As I walked to the single hand deck table I smiled as a streaming flash of all my memories played in my head–

A graduation, learning to walk again, a funeral, a wedding, a birth, a birth, and another birth, three  more funerals, cakes and barbecues and hospital visits with broken arms, sleepless nights watching fevers, and long talks with girlfriends about relationships.

Urban Dictionary defines the term “bad-ass bitch” as:  1. an above-par cool girl. Supportive and loving but also will call you out on things and fight if needed. Sometimes they can be dangerous if you get on their bad side, and usually they dont give a fu#k about things.

I will add to that. A bad-ass bitch is a friend, a wife, a mother, a girlfriend, a daughter, a sister. She’s the woman you know AND the woman you are, and what makes her “bad-ass” is the fact that she has lived through the cards that she has been dealt.

She does not fear failure or rejection because she continuously seeks new opportunities to make things better. This is her strength, and there is not one woman that I know that does not operate this way, no matter what their circumstances are.

I won at the table that night, of course. The next morning I was home making breakfast for my children on 2 hours sleep. Their lunches were made, their clothes were pressed and their tummies were full as I sent them off on their day. On their way out, my oldest daughter turned around and told me that she had gotten an A on that test in the class she is having trouble with.

Of course she did. She’s a bad-ass bitch. 🙂badass

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  1. Love love love this post! Thanks Chica! Bad-Ass Bitches need to stick together. 🙂

  1. October 7th, 2015

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