Let's start the year off right...

There. That should take care of everything.

See you next year.

Oy vey, my aching thighs.

I am still under the impression that I am 18 years old.

A long time ago, I used to dance for a living. Not topless, although I would have made huge money for my mammaries. Rather, I was what was called a "club dancer". I was paid to wear skimpy outfits, dance in cages, on speakers, on platforms...wherever, to get the party started. I worked as a Bud Light girl. I worked for Coors for awhile. I was all over the Hamptons in Long Island, dancing at the finest venues. I danced at Malibu, Marakesh, Summers, Paladium, The Limelight and a ton of other clubs stretching from Manhattan out to Jersey and back to the Island again. I was great at what I did, never pushed the envelope by feeling the need to take off my clothes.

I just danced and that was always enough.

The other night, I decided I wanted to show my husband what I did for a living. I dressed up in a crazy outfit. Red bra and panties. Tied a white blouse a la Britney Spears over my cute little plaid skirt. I threw my hair up in pigtails, donned knee socks and high heeled loafers. Very sexy. We threw on the "Spawn" soundtrack and some Enigma, and I danced for him. Lap danced. Pushed the envelope that I never had to push as a party dancer. I can, because he is my husband. What could it possibly hurt?

My thighs. My poor aching thighs.

I used to dance 5 out of 7 nights a week as a teen/young adult. I haven't danced in the provocative sense in YEARS. Decades, actually.

After 3 hours of dancing and...um, er...the aftermath of my sexiness, I was wiped out. However, I was still very proud of myself, because it appears I haven't lost my moves. Judging from my husbands "standing ovation", I am still just as sexy as I was two decades and seventy pounds ago.

During one particularly interesting manuever, I felt a "snap" over the top of my knees. I paid it little attention, because my husband was panting like an old bloodhound after a 5 mile trek in the woods. There was drool coming out one corner of his mouth and the little general was at full attention.

He loved me long time.

The next day (which was only 2 hours later), I got up and went to work. I was tired and a bit worn out, but unscathed. By the end of the day, I felt terrible pain in my thighs. Excrutiating pain. Pain that knocked me on my huge ass. I went to sleep. When I woke up, I couldn't walk.

Apparently, fat chicks should not lap dance.

I tore both of the muscles in my upper thighs. I can scarcely walk. To sit, I have to fall backward into a chair. To stand, I need the assistance of my husband and son. Peeing is torture. The toilet bowl feels a thousand miles away from my ass. I can't bend my knees at all. I have taught myself how to pee standing up. I walk up to the bowl, facing it. I spread a leg on either side of the bowl, and just let gravity do its thing. Men have it made.

So, I have been spending the day with heat patches on my thighs, scarfing down Percocet like it is going out of style. I am dying here.

My husband, in the interim, is walking around like a cock in a henhouse. While he hasn't said anything, you can just see it in his posture.

"Yeah, I fucked her up. I made her into a quivering, shaking torn up mess. That's right, who's the man? I'm the man. I'm the MAN, baby."

Sadly, I think he truly believes this.

Poor, poor delusional man.

I Have Nothing and then, Something...

I was thinking I had nothing imparticular to say this evening, so I was going to skip tonight. However, I am committed to putting time into this blogging shit, as I find it to be highly therapeutic. I was just going to say a few words about New Years, but then...something else came along.

N.

I won't say her name, because again, the anonyminity thing...I'm a bit paranoid still. There's reason for that. I will delve into that story another time. Anyway, long story longer, I spoke with N. tonight. She was/is/always will be my best friend. We met in nursery school (I think they fancied that name up to "pre-k" now.) Well, actually, we didn't meet there. I went there, and she just used to be around. We became friends in kindergarten. Mrs. Cohen's class. That was many decades ago. She was like...a sister. I never had a sister, and after seeing N. interact with her sister, M., I really never wanted one either! *chuckle* M. was a great girl, but I was scared of her. She was much older, very intimidating...and she used to pick on us (me and N.) all the time. I wasn't a fan. Now, I am. She turned from tomboy to beauty queen somewhere in the past 25 years.

Anyway, I digress.

This is about N. We had been out of touch since I was 13 years old. Lives changed, my parents moved me away...and best friends forever doesn't always work at 13. But, I find that since 20+ years have passed, I was wrong. Best friends forever DOES exist. I mean, this girl knows EVERYTHING about me. Our first periods. Our Judy Blume books. Our delving into witchcraft (we were the original "Charmed"). We played Charlie's Angels. (She was always Jacklyn Smith's character. I somehow got stuck with Kate Jackson...you know, the smart one.) Our mutual friend Lee...she got Farrah because she had the blonde hair.

Whatever.

Anyway, N. somehow managed to track me down about 4 years ago. Amazingly, when we talked, it was like no time passed at all. We started talking about Jay Kiss (my crush), Ricky Kasman (my crush that she got), Scott Raifer (the anti-crush, but I went out with him anyway). We talked about Alyssa, Galit, Gooney, Joey, Maurice, Mia, Mitchell, Crazy Charlie, Sanford and his nutty grandmother, etc.

If I look at her for a long time, I can see the skinny little crazy girl she always was. She has the same glittery, mischievous look in her eyes that she had as a kid. She smells the same. There was a scent to her that I would never forget and when we met up again, years later, with our mutual children in tow...she had that same scent. Suddenly, I was 6 again.

Friendship with her is like a pair of old, worn jeans, the skinny jeans that you think you are never going to get back into. The kind you keep at the back of your closet, hoping against hope that someday, they'll slide back over your ample hips again.

She fits me like a glove.

I love this girl. While our lives took us in very different directions (she is like...June Cleaver while I am more like Roseanne) there is still that deep connection that can't be severed. I can't tell this girl anything that she doesn't already know about me. It's incredibly amusing to be able to say "Hey, remember 30 years ago, when such and such happened?"

30 years ago? Are we supposed to remember three decade old events?

While I only get to see her maybe once a year, there is a certain distinct safety in knowing that she is only 2 hours away from me. A phone call. An email. She's always there, just as she always had been. She is zany, eclectic and neurotic. She hasn't changed at all. I feel like my life has come full circle, so it is not suprising that N. has found her way back into my world.

Last year, we spent New Years Eve together. This year, we are going to her home again. It seems appropriate to be spending the start of the new year with the girl who was there with me from the beginning of time.

I love this girl. I do. And if I was ever to have a "go gay" girl, it would be her, because she is everything I love and appreciate in a human being. She is vibrant, alive and willing to do anything to make someone smile. Not to mention she still has a really great bod! Bitch.

From our vacation

Thought I would throw a few vacation photos up here. Don't really know why, as none of them are going to have my picture in them. I am trying to stay anonymous. I don't know how long that will last. I'm not real good at being discreet. Discretion is the better part of boring. I am, however, going to give it a go.

The Chalet we stayed at in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. I think I had the audacity to refer to this as "camping in a cabin in the woods". However, for a Jewish Princess, this qualifies. My friends think I am a tad spoiled, as this "cabin" was larger than most of their homes are. Whatever.
The notorious hot tub...from here on out known as "The Sperm Bank". Explanation to follow. Not for those with weak stomachs.


This is the view from the hot tub on the balcony of the chalet we rented in Tennessee. It was so beautiful. Amazing how a 96 degree hot tub can keep you so warm in 22 degree weather. Well, that...and the amazing sex. Makes me wonder how many people have left behind their unborn children in that hot tub. Heh. Pretty gross.
This is the view as we drove up the mountain to the Chalet. If you are really quiet, you can hear the sound of me screaming at my husband for taking the turns a little too fast. Yeah.
More view of the same mountain. Try to stay awake.
The very sexy fireplace in the upstairs bedroom. There was one in the downstairs living room area too. I didn't like that one, as it made a noise like the house was going to blow up everytime you turned it on. Turned it on? Yes, it is a propane fireplace. Surely you don't think two New Yorkers were gonna rub sticks together and start a fire now, did you? Mwahahahhahaha...

My husband meowed at a deer to call it over to him. We have NO country skills whatsoever.

Moving right along...

We went straight from that little shindig to our cruise to the Bahamas. (Okay, yes...I am a bit spoiled. I admit) Lovely ship called the Fantasy. Bahama bound. This was our second trip to the Bahamas in a years time. It's our "anniversary" thing.

To the left is the straw market. I love this place, because I buy Prada, Gucci, Louis Vuitton and Channel bags at dirt cheap prices. Again, the Jew in me prevails. Yes, I must have the labels. No, I must not pay retail. It is the genetics of my ancestors that disallow the practice of paying full price for anything. I love to barter. The boat we are on now is the party boat that takes us to Blackbeard's Cay. It is a boat that supplies endless rum. Both ways. Rum rhymes with yum. It also makes my husband vomit. That's always a treasure to behold.
Blackbeard's Cay. Beautiful.

Well, before I bore you all to sleep, that's it. You get the gist.

As promised...The Candy Cane Mobile...

There we go. The candy cane mobile being disassembled for re-entry into the world of being one color again. That is on the left. On the right, the candy-cane car is now known as "Rudolph The Red Nosed Contour", as we had everything replaced in white...save for the "nose" (bumper) which was unavailable.

Any way you look at it, I am driving a Christmas car.

Hopefully, 2006 will bring me a new automobile...or a white nose.

Better than a brown nose, I guess.

Long time gone...

I was away for awhile. Did you notice? Probably not. I think the only people that did notice were the people I work with. They had to double up on their work to compensate for the lack of me. Blah.

I am not going to get into where I was. Not important. It is sufficient to say that I was away for the holidays, having a lovely time with someone very important to me. It was amazing, it was incredible. It was the best of times...it was the worst of times. Well, no. Nothing about it sucked at all. I was just being dramatic.

What else is new?

I am more interested in reading the blogs of others than I am writing my own. There are so many interesting and talented people floating around out there. I have a lot to say, but not a whole lot of time to say it in. I'd rather spend that time reading about the insanity of others. Makes my world a better place, in a vicarious sort of way.

I think I used to be amazingly interesting, until my life became "normal". Now, there is no drama. I have to get my thrills by watching "The Real World", because I no longer have any drama in my own life. My life is so stable now. So...ordinary. It reminds me of the final scene in "Goodfellas" where Henry Hill has entered the witness protection program. You see him standing in his doorway, somewhere in "Happyville, USA", with a newspaper in his hand...bitching about how he can't even get a decent marinara sauce anywhere.

And that's the hardest part. Today everything is different; there's no action... have to wait around like everyone else. Can't even get decent food - right after I got here, I ordered some spaghetti with marinara sauce, and I got egg noodles and ketchup. I'm an average nobody... get to live the rest of my life like a schnook.

Is it terrible to feel this way? I don't know. Jury is still out. I have had so much drama in my life, starting from childhood. I could write a damn book. People tell me to do that, all the time, even though half of them who tell me to write the book wouldn't like what I would have to say about them in it. Of course, they don't know this. They think they would get top honors for being my inspiration...a dedication on the first page.

"And I'd like to thank my mother, for making me the neurotic mess that I have been for the past 30 some odd years. If not for you, I would have nothing to say."

Then, I would get Kathy Bates to play her in the movie version of my book. She, on the other hand, would think that Cher should play her. We would end up not speaking for a year or so, because I would have embarassed her in front of her friends. *rme*

I refuse to turn into her. I refuse. She is a hypocrite to the umpteenth degree. She states how she embraces all cultures, but then, refers to a group of black kids as "gangbangers". She says, "Indian doctors are so filthy, how can you work for them?" *Incidentally, by "indian", she means those who hail from India, not woo woo woo woo cowboy and indian indians. Not that one would be any better than the other, but I wanted to clarify.* If you're italian, you are automatically gaudy and have bad taste. She can't stand "orientals", though I have explained to her a million times...PEOPLE are ASIAN. Objects...like rugs...are oriental.

To no avail. She just doesn't get it.

This amazes me, because we grew up in such a multi-cultural area. New York City. Is there a bigger melting pot in the world? My mother used to be a really cool woman. She doesn't think I remember her hippy days, but I do. She smoked pot. She had LOTS of sex *she was a single mom. I don't begrudge her any of that*. She used to stay out until all hours of the night. Again, she would probably die if she knew I remembered any of that.

So, one day, I opt to confront her about it...well, not so much confront as "discuss" it.

You would think I was talking about a complete stranger.

"I never did ANY such thing," she would reply incredulously.

"Sure you did, Mom! I remember the smell of pot coming from your room."

"You're out of your mind, CP."

"Nooooooooo, I'm not. It's not a big deal, Mom. We all did crazy things as younger adults. What's the big deal with admitting it now?"

"Because it isn't true!"

And I would watch the indignance cloud her face. She actually believed her own lie. That, or she wanted to put so much distance between who she was...and who she is now, that she literally created a new persona. THIS woman was always married to the same man. THIS woman never gulped down valium by the handful. THIS woman always knew where her children were and who they were with. THIS woman was never abusive to her kids. THIS woman never smoked pot, went braless, had multiple young lovers, stayed out all night long partying with her friends, etc. She had created this entire "normal" persona, embraced it...and never had any desire to look back at her old life.

I left the subject alone. I wasn't going to take the fantasy from her.

"You're right, Ma. I was just messing with you."

Subject closed.

There's something I need to tell you...

I have seen everything.

I use this phrase so often that it can't possibly be true. Everytime i think I have seen it all, something comes along, bitchslaps me upside the head and says "Nuh-uh".

Picture this...

You're sitting at home, checking your email. You get an email from someone that apparently knows your e-addy. Could be junk mail, I suppose...it's from getchecked@inSPOTLA.org. Curiousity gets the best of you, so you open said email...only to read the following post card:

There's something I need to tell you...

I found out that I have an STD. You might have one too.

You should get checked if you haven't recently.

Then it directs you to the originating website of www.inspotla.org.

Mind you, this is only your basic "grey and white let's get down to business no small talk" kind of card. The possibilities of ways to tell your loved one (or the one you loved for a night) are endless. You can send a card of a strapping young man, half naked, that says "It's not what you brought to the party. It's what you left with." Then, you get to actually select the STD of your choice. Choose from several varieties such as Spicy Syphillis, Garden Gonorrhea, Heavenly Hepatitis (A), Crabs with a side of Scabies...or, how's about a nice case of HIV to end the perfect evening?

I see the pros and cons to this type of communication.

Pro: People might be afraid to discuss this with someone face to face.
Con: People won't discuss this with someone face to face.

Pro: Some communication is better than no communication.
Con: Sometimes, ignorance is bliss.

Pro: This mode of contact gives people the ability to send important information privately.
Con: This mode of contact gives bitter, dumped lovers the ability to do some really hateful damage to someones reputation, self-esteem and/or mental stability.

I chose to send one to myself, to see how it would look to me in print.

No Sir...I don't like it.

I don't think I would like to be told via email that I was given an STD. I mean, if you thought enough of me to fuck me, could you possibly think enough of me to call me with word of the parting gift you left me with? We exchanged body fluids. Surely we can exchange a mature phonecall? I mean, seriously...you were willing to let me finger your anus, cum in your mouth and slap your ass while calling you "Daddy", but can't bring yourself to mention an STD to me in person?

I simply don't like it...at all.

Plus, thanks to anti-spam systems...the email ended up in my junk folder.

That pretty much sums up my thoughts on the entire matter.

Suddenly...

after reading the last entry, I have to disagree.

75 pounds of cat litter dumping out into your trunk in front of Sam's Club does not make for a great story. It makes a huge mess. Nothing more.

Incidentally, I have the bag in the back of my trunk...still. There is a big cup stuck in the mound of cat litter, so I have to scoop fresh litter into their boxes from my car.

I figure, after 30 some-odd litter changes, the car should be pretty well cleaned up.

30 changes, or 10,000 miles.

Whichever comes first.

Interesting things people say...

Someone at my place of business (which shall remain nameless) said this to me yesterday:

"There are people in this world that things just happen to, CP. You are one of those people. They happen to you because you were meant to tell great stories."

What a fucking interesting concept!

I never really thought of it that way, but now that she said it, it makes sense. I am a storyteller. I love to tell stories...whether fact or fiction. I have realized that real life is far more comical and ironic than fiction.

Which brings me to my next story...

We "adopted" families for Christmas instead of buying the bosses things that they will never need, never use and more than likely...would never want anyway. I had a few families in mind, but since one of them was my own, I opted to keep my opinion to myself. Not my own IMMEDIATE family, mind you...but extended family. A few kids that have had a rough go of it.

So, we call the school guidance counselors and ask them to be on the look out for "needy" families. We get four families, each one a little worse off than the next.

We had a wrapping party for these families. We spent all afternoon giftwrapping toys, games, clothes, gift cards, etc for these kids. I was assigned "Family 1". I said to one of the women I work with "what are the kids names so I can put them on the gift tags?"

She replies with "There are three kids, the first one is Tricia. The second one is Matthew..."

And I am thinking to myself..."what a coincidence...those are the same names as my niece and nephew."

You see where this is going, right?

In case you are a bit slow, I will finish the story.

"The third kid is Nathan."

"Is their last name Smith?" I ask.

"Yeah! How did you know that?"

(Are you caught up yet?) I told the entire office that those were my nephews and my niece. Seems that Christmas spirits were listening to my Jew ass this year, because my own extended family will have a very beautiful holiday this year.

(****kids names were all changed to protect what little of their innocence they have left****)

That's my beautiful "Merry Chiristmas to all and to all a goodnight" fa-la-la story to tell for years to come.

I do have another one. It involves a 75 pound bag of kitty litter breaking open in the trunk of the candy cane car...but somehow, that one pales in comparison to the one above.

I was born to tell stories. That's why things happen to me. I like that. I like that a lot.

Yes, Virginia...there is a Santa Claus.

She just happens to be a fat Jewish chick from Queens, New York. Don't scoff. It could happen. Jesus was a Jew. Then again, he wasn't treated kindly by the local gentiles either.

Let me tell you about the "Candy Cane Car".

As they say at "Fark.com", this will be useless without pictures. So, when my digital camera arrives home, I will add photos to the debauchery.

I had a car accident on November 19, 2005. Not your run of the mill "holy shit I just got hit" kinda accident. No no no...when CP does something, she does it right. It was more like the "I swerved to avoid an accident and got into one" kind of accident. The kind where the person you swerved to avoid continues on their merry way, scot free, while you are left standing there going..."what the fuck???"

I slammed into the back of a truck. And in doing so, I learned a few things:

1) Airbags do not deploy when they should.
2) Trucks do not suffer damage.
3) I know what those big metal sticks that hang off the bumper are for.

They are to stop people like me from going under the truck and decapitating themselves.

My car was gouged. Is that a word? Gouged? Let's check m-w.com. Be right back.

(Okay, technically? Gouge means to scoop. It also means "to press ones thumbs in their eyes and force an eye out". Let's pretend that the grill of my car is an eye, and the big metal stick on the bumper...a thumb.)

Anyway, so fine. Car gets mutilated. Exterior, fine. Interior...not so much. Radiator, crushed. Headlights, demolished. Bumper, shredded. Grill...well, gouged. But, the hood and quarter panels are fine.

Husband orders the front end of a Contour to be sent to the bodyshop to replace the demolished parts. 3 weeks later, and many many miles on a rented Mazda 3 (which will be on future Christmas lists) I am finally getting my Contour back. My beautiful, WHITE Contour.

I pull up in front of the body shop to find out that the rocket scientist who fixed my car not only removed every single part that was NOT damaged...but then, added the BRIGHT RED FRONT END from the parted out Contour that my husband ordered. Why? I have no idea.

All I know is that coming...I am red. Going, I am white.

My car is now officially the office joke...and I am a jew in a candy cane mobile.

You can't make this stuff up, Folks.

Well, you can...but then it is called fiction...and not nearly as amusing as reality.

It can only get better from here.

This is the first entry. How do you like it? Are you happy? Do you know it?

Clap your hands.

All hail the Certifiable Princess.