Jumping on the "Neighbor" wagon...

I grew up in the greatest city in the world. New York City. Refute it. Debate it. Question it. I care not. *snobby upturned nose look*
There is NO city in the entire world like New York City. I lived in Forest Hills, Queens. I lived in Rego Park, Queens. I lived on 74th and Riverside Drive in Manhattan. I went to Caesar's Bay Bazaar in Brooklyn to shop. I rocked out at Yankee Stadium in Da Bronx. I cruised the miracle mile in Lawn Guy Land and lived out near the Hamptons for many glorious years. I am a New York City girl, through and through. (No mention of Staten Island, because, well frankly...it's skanky).
In all of those years, I have had many, many, many neighbors. In high rise condos and trendy brownstones, that's all you have are neighbors. Those, and roaches. And, in all of those years with neighbors and roaches, I can't really recall ever having any "problem neighbors". Everyone served their purpose, from the building gossip, to the hot janitor that my mother called a little to often to "snake the pipes". Even the raggy old woman with the beat up looking Pekingnese had a purpose in our building. It was always a blast getting her to chase you with her umbrella, trying to swat you like a bug while her little fleabag yipped at your heels.

Fast forward 30 years to Florida.

When I say I live "just north of hell", I say this with no sarcasm. People in Florida are whacked. Seriously disturbed in the head. Now, I am not referring to transplants, like myself. I am referring to the rare born and bred Floridian. Without making generalizations, I simply wish to provide proof of my theory. On the show "COPS", Florida is featured more than any other state in the union. On the website "Fark.com", Florida has it's own featured area. State with the highest rate of crimes committed against children? Florida. State with the highest rate of domestic violence? Florida. State with the largest cockeroaches? Florida. Don't give me this "palmetto bug" bullshit. That's just a big, fancy-assed name for "huge mother fuckin' roaches that fly".

Flying roaches. Enough of a reason for Florida to just fall back into the Atlantic.











Did you know, that at Christmastime, the people here decorate their palm trees?


Anyway, back to my neighbors in Florida.

Since I moved to Florida I have been:
1) shot at.
2) involved in major altercations.
3) called to testify at numerous trials.
4) dialed "911" more than I have at any time in my entire life.

When we first moved down here, I was very preggers. I recall sitting out at the pool with a woman who I came to know as "Stevie". Stevie, as it turns out, was the neighborhood whore. I kid you not. She subsidized her welfare checks by blowing the men in the apartment complex at fifteen bucks a "pop". She was a great lady in every other way though. She had seven kids, each with a different father. She named them all after different cities and states she had lived in. There was Cheyenne, Dakota, Virginia, Houston, Dallas, Brandon (a town in Florida) and lastly, her twins Hudson and Holiday (two more towns in Florida). One afternoon while lounging poolside at Casa de Ghetto, we heard gunshots. 30 years in New York, never heard a gunshot. One month in Florida, and my pregnant ass was running for the hills...with all of Stevie's brood in tow.

We moved out the following week. Several days later, I saw Stevie's pic in the St. Petersburg Times. She apparently was wanted for money laundering and counterfeiting in every place she had ever named a child after. Hence, it was easy for me to tell the police where she had been when they came knocking at my door. "If you want to know where she is going," I told him matter of factly, "wait til she has another kid. That's usually a clue."

Private house for rent. Yep, seemed safe. Nope. Wasn't. Crackhead on the left of me. Psycho divorce happening in house to the right. Creepy old people across the street who always peered out their blinds but you never saw them come or go.

WASband and I divorced shortly thereafter.

Moved into a new apartment complex. Brand new. Gorgeous apartments. Never, ever, ever let the "model apartment" fool you as to what might be lurking below. I didn't do my homework, boys and girls. I lived two apartments down from a convicted sexual predator. Across the hall, crack dealer. Further down, drug dealer. Below me, a teenage guy and his girlfriend who were perpetually at war with one another. The opposite breezeway, a guy who liked to jerk off in public. Next door to him, a woman with her twelve kids in a two bedroom apartment.

In the three years that I was there I lived among three murders, two rapes, two assaults that were near fatalities, four arrests for prostitution and children getting carted away by the Department of Children and Family Services by the truckload.

You know who the best neighbor turned out to be?

The sexual predator. He never came outside, never talked to anyone and never made eye contact with anybody.

The ultimate "perfect neighbor".

We moved.

Now we are living in a very quiet neighborhood, where the worst offense turns out to be the local stray cats overturning your garbage cans. I have to admit...when the crickets are chirping a little too loudly, I get homesick. For New York City, that is. But, living in the ghettos of Florida was soothing. Nothing like falling asleep to the sounds of wailing sirens, gunshots
and a woman who just caught her husband cheating throwing his personal property off the balcony.

To fall asleep at night...I often have to leave the TV going.

I usually tune into "COPS", just so I can catch up on the whereabouts of my former neighbors. It's a nice way to keep in touch.

Let's talk revenge...psycho revenge...

and I AM tagging people for this one.

I want to know what the worst thing you ever did for vengeance was. I'm not talking about short sheeting your little brothers bed. I'm not talking ratting out your best friend to get her grounded just because you were grounded too. I am talking Fatal Attraction "boil the bunny" type of vengeance.

I will start.

I had a co-worker named Debbie P. many years back. Debbie was a sow. I couldn't stomach the bitch. I was new to the job, she had been there for many years and she was one of those people that would not share information with you so that you would look inept. The sow had a husband, I will call him, Pork Lover. Pork lover was having an affair with someone in his office and everyone knew it, except for the Sow. But, he would always send the Sow flowers now and then, to appease her loady ass. (Sow had money, Pork Lover did not. They were the Spears/Federline union of the Obese Set). After one particularly trying day at work, Sow DEMANDED that I put yet another of her grazing flowers in water, as she was too busy at her desk. (Translation: She had bought an entire thing of Snak Paks and she was still scarfing them down when the flowers had arrived.) I said, sure thing, Debbie.

I took two boxes of her flowers and two vases to the ladies room to fill them up with water...when I made a snap decision.

I brought both vases into the stall...and peed in them. A nice, long, healthy, pungent piss. Times two. I added a (VERY) small amount of water, to dilute, and then carefully arranged her flowers in them. Then I brought them back to her desk and watched.

I tittered with glee every time I saw her wrinkle up her nose, sniff the air, and then shake her head. Apparently, the urine was wafting around her head and finding its way to her snout. At one point, I even watched her sniff her own armpits to figure out where the smell was coming from. I would have pissed myself laughing, but alas, all my urine was in her vases.

I probably would have shit in her potted plants eventually, but I eventually lost that job on the pig farm.

That is one of the less heinous things I have done in my life for revenge, but it is really the only one that is embarassing to me and shareworthy. I feel that self-degradation builds character, don't you?

TAGGING: TJ, Maven, The Divine One, The Big Pissy One and Billy...because I am convinced that each of these people have worse stories than mine.

Spill it, bitches! And then, tag a few people to confess...or boil their bunnies.

Yee Haw...Aunt Flo(w) has moved in!!!!

Got to the airport. Nuttin'. Got to my husbands hotel room. Nuttin'. Got down to the deed...and eureka! He struck gold! Amen. Period Panic for the month of January has ceased. I'd like to thank you all for sticking by me during some of the most hideous posts that a blogger could have ever made. All the "relax" comments really helped. However, I have to hand it to those who said "plunge away!" What a wonderful way to get things moving!

Well, I just got home and I am VERY freakin' tired and have rounds at 7am in the morning. Off to bed for me...just me and Aunt Flo. I love the woman. I am grateful to see her. I just wish she hung around for less than a week, ya know?

Can't wait to catch up with all my favorite freaks! Yes, TJ...I'm talkin' to you!

*mwah!*

Friday's Freak of the Week...

Horn Woman. How hot is that? Do I make you horny, baby? *snickering*

Anyway, lovebugs, I am off to Jersey for the weekend to rock my husband's world. Period Panic is now at 12 days, but I am not going to care about that. Know why? Cause the world is a fucked up place, God loves practical jokes and now that I am going to see my husband for the first time in a week...I'm sure it will happen for me on the plane. Hope the seats are Scotgarded.

Have a faboo weekend, babies and babyettes! *smooches all around*

the strength of a mother...

There are certain news stories that you can pass over while scanning the headlines. There are certain news stories that give you pause and you give them a double take. Then, there are the stories that grab you. They run right off the page and seep so deeply within you that your stomach becomes tight. Your hands tremble a little. Your mouth runs dry.

All you can do is cover your mouth and mumble "Dear God".

In Florida recently, a 15 year old girl was driving a car, filled with her six brothers and sisters. She had a learners permit, but was driving the car illegally as she did not have an adult with her. Long story short, call it a case of wrong place/wrong time. A truck lost control and slammed into the car which was stopped for a schoolbus that was letting children off. The truck sandwiched the vehicle with the seven children between it and the stopped schoolbus, trapping all seven children inside. The car then burst into flames, killing all the children. All seven were pronounced dead on the scene. The children on the schoolbus were injured, but thankfully, alive.

All I could do was swallow hard. To lose all your babies in one insane act, in one fleeting moment. Each one of these children were adopted from foster care. They were not part of the foster system any longer, but rather, were chosen by this mother to be a family. To me, this makes the story all the more tragic.

As you can imagine, mother was grief-stricken. It fell to her to call extended family members and let them know what had happened to the children. This is where the story takes yet another tragic turn. One I can relate to.

Another story for another day.

Upon telling her father, the children's grandfather, that the children were all killed, her father suffered a massive heartattack from the shock of the situation. He died instantly, leaving this woman to mourn yet another family member.

"I lost my daddy tonight," Barbara Mann said Wednesday. "My dad died of a massive heart attack tonight over all this. He lost all seven of his grandkids ... I can't deal with this."

And you want to believe she can't deal with that. You really do. Look at her picture, the anguish. Who could deal with such a thing? Yet, so goes the power of a mother. Mothers grieve. They wallow. They endure and then, they rise. I firmly believe that nothing is stronger than the love of a mother for her children. That love, when pure, when true, is capable of amazing things. It is capable of surviving the ultimate pain...the pain of losing your child.

But, seven children and your father? Somehow, I think the odds are stacked against her own survival, let alone sanity. I hope she perseveres and goes on to find her way back to being a mother again. I hope that she can take that grief and heal, while giving her love to more foster children who need her. Most of all, I hope she realizes that in the short time that her precious children were under her care, they were loved. These children were throwaways. Their own families didn't want them. Several of the children were related already, either as cousins or siblings. This woman strove to keep these children together in life, just as they were in death.

Instead of a more comedic and playful post, I am choosing to give this space to the children who lost their lives in a split second, the blink of a blind eye.

Cynthia Mann, 15; Elizabeth Mann, 15; Ashley Keen, 13; Johnny Mann, 13; Miranda Finn, 9; Heaven Mann, 3; and Anthony Lamb, 20 months.

Rest in peace, delicate angels. Know that in this world and the hereafter, you are loved.

Meanwhile, back on the raunch...

Okay, so I stopped myself from any further period discussion last night to share a sweet, compelling and poignant moment in life.

I am over it. Let's move on, shall we?

Back to my issue. I am still without a period. We are now at DAY 10, People! If this were the Titanic, we'd be sinking fast. This, henceforth shall be known as "Period Panic". There are several levels to Period Panic.

Level I - Consists of day 1 through 2 of missed period. We will also refer to this as the "Reasonable Doubt" phase. This is the point where you look at the calendar over and over again. Did I miscalculate? I must have. You consider buying a pregnancy test, but then...don't, because you realize it is WAY too early to do so. Besides, you rationalize, I am:

A) Under a lot of stress lately (though it is really no more than usual)
B) Gaining/losing weight ergo, my period will be affected
C) Not having sex right now, so what am I worried about?

Level II - A bit more challenging than Level I, Level II consists of day 4 through day 6. This phase is also called the "What the Fuck?" phase. In the earlier parts of the WTF phase, the notion of purchasing a pregnancy test becomes nearly compelling. By the latter part, you find yourself in your local drugstore (one that is far from the town you live in) purchasing them. This is also the point where you realize that you did not miscalculate. You are NOT under more stress. You have not gained or lost weight. You even start to hallucinate that you had sex, even if you haven't. The story of the Virgin Mother comes to mind. You will buy a bar of chocolate to reduce your stress. You will take your pregnancy test, pissing on your own hand in the process. It will show one of two results, both of which you will be in denial over.

Level III - More dangerous than the previous two levels, Level III consists of day 7 through day 9. This is the "Oh My God, Oh My God, Oh My God" phase. It is at this point that you are thinking about baby names while simultaneously making adoption/termination plans. You will become schizophrenic. You will start speaking to God, even if you aren't religious. It is in this time period that you shall take three more pregnancy tests to confirm what you already know, be it positive or negative. Every positive and negative will be a "false" one. You will start talking to everyone and anyone about your periods. You will blog about it. You will ask people if this ever happened to them before. They tell you yes, and then, go on to show you pics of their kids. In this timeframe, you will subconsciously start eating for two. Your hair will fall out. Every stomachache will convince you that it is a baby kicking. You will swear your tits are getting bigger. The notion of being pregnant or not will become consuming and you will scarcely function in society.

Level IV - This is the level I am at right now. This is the "Take Charge" phase. During this portion of the Period Panic, you will do absurd things to your own body to get your period to start. You will:
A) push shopping carts that are way too heavy, in hopes of popping an ovary.
B) do sit-ups, to get things moving along.
C) visit the toilet 47 times a day, to wipe, hoping to see a spot, smear, stain or smudge that might indicate a period. You wipe so often that you are now bleeding. That excites you momentarily, until you realize what you've done.
D) go to the store and buy sanitary napkins and tampons, hoping that your body recognizes the power of suggestion.
E) eat cake. No reason for that really. You just want some cake.

I hope this gives you all some insight into the delicate and complex world of Period Panic. Stay tuned tomorrow for our next adventure with Dick and Jane.

See Dick. See Dick panic? See Dick buy an EPT for Jane. See the EPT turn blue in both boxes. See Jane have a nervous breakdown. See Dick sob? Sob, Dick, Sob!

Profound.

I was talking with a patient of mine recently. I shall call her "Jane". Jane is 94 years old, bless her heart. She is unnaturally hunched over, osteoporosis has taken over her spine. Her fingers are gnarled and she often wrings them in pain. Jane moves slowly with her walker, taking her time, cautious not to allow the vertigo that plagues her to topple her over. To see Jane on the street, you would think nothing of her. Not much more than "sweet old lady", if you even chose to devote that much time to the thought.

To speak with Jane, you would be enthralled.

A former English dignitary, Jane is buried in the body of a 94 year old woman, but her mind is a spry 22 years old at least. She has lived in over thirty different countries. She has skiied the Alps of Switzerland and has strolled along the Serengheti River. Jane has posed in front of the Great Pyramid, Stonehenge and the Eiffel Tower. Romanced by some of the most powerful men in Europe, she married and divorced thrice, in a time when divorce was unheard of. It was for scandalous for women to be called "divorcee". Jane took it in stride and purposefully wore red at even the most inappropriated times. She relished her role as a "strumpet". Jane was a strong powerful woman with ties to both dignitaries and kings. She spent many of her young adult years in New York City, hosting grand parties on behalf of the hotels who hired her.

Everytime she comes into my office, she bears another newsclipping, another photograph, another postcard. Jane knows that I am not patronizing her when I gush over her treasures. I am not only interested, I am envious of her life. I tell her all the time, and she waves a hand at me, telling me to hush.

One day, Jane tells me that she feels like she is in prison. I ask her what she means by that. Her reply, slow and tear-filled moves me deeply.

"Imagine what it is like, CP. Imagine yourself to be a queen. Imagine yourself to be a pilot. A mountain climber. A socialite. Imagine your mind is as sharp as a tack and people are captivated by your rapier wit and personality. Now, imagine all that...surrounded by this."

She gestures at her own body.

"This, CP, is my prison. I am a 30 year old woman, trapped in a body that no longer serves me. Bloody hell, CP. Don't envy my life. I envy yours. You stopped long enough to have children. Friends. Family. I burned every bridge I ever crossed. And now, I am left with only this...and memories."

I can't reply, because the sob that is choking in my throat would surely escape and give me away. I am not as stoic as Jane. Yet, she is right. She is not as rich as I am. Not anymore, anyway. I lean forward and give her a big warm embrace. Her gnarled hands pat my back lightly. She gives me a light kiss on the cheek and says:

"Now get this bloody surgery over with. I haven't got all bloody damn day, you know!"

Yes, Jane. I know.

More Nasty Girl Talk...

Do you seriously think you all are the only people I talk this disgustingly to? No. Everyone I meet knows my life history in 20 minutes. It's part of being a Jewess. If we have spoken for longer than 3 sentences, you are now part of my inner fold. Sample:

"Ma'am, would you like paper bags or plastic?"

"Paper's fine, thank you."

"Do you have your super saver card with you?"

"Why, yes, I do...thank you for asking!"

"That will be $36.73"

"I gave my husband the hottest blow job last night."

See? I have no control over my mouth. Apparently, I have even less control of my fingers. So, here I am blogging the most disgusting, hysterical conversation that I have ever had in my entire life.

As you all know, I am panicking over being preggers. Two tests told me I am not. My not sore tits and my non bloated belly and my not existing zit tell me differently. At the end of work today, I sigh. (Not a soft sigh, but the huge inhale, loud exhale sigh that only a total attention whore can conjure up.) Naturally, my co-workers ask me what is wrong. Not that I was looking for that response or anything...

*blink*

Anyway, I blurt out that I am 8 days late. For what, they inquire?

For work, I reply sarcastically..."MY PERIOD, I haven't gotten my damn period."

THIS POST IS ABOUT TO GET VERY GRAPHIC: BE WARNED!

In an office filled with women, two things tend to happen. There is either all out war on a daily basis, catfights at every turn. Or, there is nothing but a bunch of mother hens, all clucking around one another, making sure everyone and everything is okay. All the nastiness is practically non-existant (mainly because we are all gossiping behind each others backs). And so, I happily decree that my office is more the latter than the former. We have nothing but love for one another.

"Have you been under a lot of stress, CP"

"No more than usual."

"Did you recently have a lot of rough sex that might have damaged your cervix?"

"Hm. Well, no rougher than usual. Some deep doggie. Nothing crazy."

"Are you ovulating, CP?"

"How the hell would I know that," I reply.

"Are you leaking any vaginal fluid?"

"Well, sure. I mean, nothing different than usual, I guess."

"Is it mucousy and stringy..."

"Scuse me?"

"Mucousy and stringy, you know, like eggwhites?" (With this comment D. starts to make these eratic hand gestures, like she's stretching pizza dough out.)


"Yeah," yells out another goddess of advice, "is it thick? Like milkshake thick?"

"Guys, I never really paid attention to that. Y'all sound more like you are making a cake than trying to figure out if I am ovulating."

"Go look," says another helpful soul.

And so, I mosey off to the bathroom. Dropping my drawers, I check for eggwhites that stretch like pizza dough that might be mistaken for a milkshake. Inspection of the crotch tells me that there is desert conditions. So I come back out.

"I don't see anything," I say.

"Did you actually WIPE, or did you just look."

"No, I didn't wipe. You didn't SAY I had to wipe."

Back in the bathroom, I am now wiping. I am staring at the bathroom tissue. It is mocking me. Terribly. How the hell do you tell if this is stringy or not? So, I take another piece of tissue paper, press it against the fluid soaked paper and slowly stretch it apart.

Holy Shit! It IS just like eggwhites!

39 years old, and I never noticed that I produce egg white consistancy goop before? This is great! I can hardly wait to tell my husband about my goop! My goop. My lovely lady goop. And it was thick...like a milkshake! And, I am certain that if I chose to splash around in it...I could mold it like pizza dough!

I passed on that part of the revelation.

I wash my hands (yes, I did) and emerge from the bathroom, feeling victorious!

"Hey, you guys! I think I'm ovulating," I yell triumphantly...

just in time to see the courier from our local lab walk in through the door.

"Congratulations," he says, and slinks backwards out the door to the sounds of the hysterical laughter of all the fucking hyenas that I work with. Bitches.

Stork Update...

Okay, I suppose I can take down my registry at Babies R Us. I will not be a pre-menopausal mother. No preggie yoga classes. No excellent excuse to get fat(ter). No chance to wear those obnoxious "Baby on Board" shirts.

I admit, I feel a little bummed. For a millisecond, I considered having children with this man. Then, I re-read my last post, and that idea flew right out the window. Freedom, sweet freedom. No carseats. No diapers. No breastfeeding...at least, not for the baby. Now, if I could only wean my husband.

So, the stork delivered nothing...but, all was not lost. I drove my husband to the airport tonight, feeling a tad melancholy. I stopped at WalMart on the way home to drown my sorrows in a two for one mayonaise special. Treated myself to some of the good shampoo. Nothing was giving me a thrill. Although, if you are a quasi attractive woman, boy oh boy, will you get a real ego boost from the slimy men at WalMart. Doesn't matter if their wife is with them or not, they will stare at you like a piece of raw meat dangling over a lion's cage. I had one guy walk past me, with his BABY in his arms, by the toy cars that my son was looking at. Yes, because it was his desire to get a Hot Wheel for his 6 month old daughter at 8pm that drove him down my aisle. I felt like I was getting eye-raped. I don't really care, because men stare at me all the time. Not cause I am drop dead gorgeous or anything, but because of the breasts the size of a cough medicine (44F). I could be a total dog, a real bow wow...but that wouldn't stop the pigs from oinking.

Anyway, I decided that everyone was right. My missing menses is due to stress. Stress that I was not realizing I was suffering. Feeling better about the situation, I walked in my front door...and found THIS:



Nothing like a hot steaming pile of green dog vomit to make you feel better about your current situation. Though, its uncanny resemblance to baby shit after formula did kind of remind me why I don't want more kids. So, gagging, choking and dry heaving, I go about the task of cleaning up the vomit. My kids are useless. The 18 year old simply leaves...laughing her ass off. The 10 year old offers help by handing me some paper towels. Yeah. Thanks kid.

So I get up the first truckload...and I puke. Puke so hard that I peed myself. Now I am balancing puke in one hand, while hopping to the bathroom...dry heaving the entire way. Great. I have a handful of dog puke to throw away, I'm stuck on the toilet. I can't exactly wipe right now, because I am balancing dog vomit and can't reach the TP. As it was, I could scarcely get my pants undone.

I give up and drop the dog puke on the bathroom floor. Thankfully, it didn't fall off the papertowel. I peed the most heavenly pee. Glory.

Then, collecting my dog puke, I set back on the task of cleaning up the rest of the vomit...and now, MY vomit, which is sitting side by side with it. I look left. I look right. There is NO vomit! Can it be? Did my son actually bend down and clean the rest of it? Did he decide that his mother was worth wiping up vomit for?

Alas, no.

I look over at my dog who is licking his lips.



Very considerate of him to clean his own vomit and ingest mine as well. For some reason I can't exactly pinpoint, I feel violated, knowing that my DNA is now floating in my Dachshund.

Gee. I can't imagine WHY I haven't gotten my period yet. *sarcasm*

WARNING: Girl talk ahead. Men with weak stomachs...

should leave the premises at once.





This is your final warning.



Okay. Today makes exactly ONE week that I am late with my period (see guys? I warned you!) I am normally like clockwork, the 15th of every month. I get a telltale zit the week earlier. I get boob soreness and some swelling of the tummy around the 7th or 8th of the month. Then blam. Period. Noonish on the 15th every single year, save for those years that I was actually pregnant. Or the years that I got treatment for a low grade cervical cancer. Other than that, you could set the atomic clock by my periods.

I was figuring stress was playing a part. But, I really haven't had more stress than usual. Then I thought, weight gain? But no, my weight has been pretty consistant. Cancer returned? Nope, pap smear was fine and so was my bloodwork.

I mean, my husband had a vasectomy in April of 2005 (my wedding anniversary gift!) so I couldn't possibly be...pregnant, right?

I know you are particularly vulnerable to post op pregnancies within the first 3 months or 20 ejaculations after a vasectomy. We made sure to bang 22 out of him first, before I let him get back on the ol' horse. This old mare wasn't taken any chances. Plus, I was still on birth control at the time, so there was that double whammy of protection. I've since gotten off of it (my last Depo shot was back in January of last year, and it lasts three months). The dates coincided with my husbands surgery, so it was perfect.

Three days ago, I took a pregnancy test. It was negative and I almost laughed at myself for being so ridiculously nervous.

Now, it's a week later.

I'm not laughing anymore.

Being the little nursie that I am, I started doing some research online. And much to my chagrin and dismay...I uncovered this little tidbit of joy:

Dr. Denise Jamieson of CDC and colleagues studied 540 women ages 18 to 44 whose husbands underwent vasectomies in five U.S. cities and who were enrolled in the U.S. Collaborative Review of Sterilization. The women were interviewed by telephone one year after their husbands' vasectomies and again at two, three and five years following the procedure (Jamieson et al., Obstetrics and Gynecology, May 2004). Three of the pregnancies occurred within the first three months following vasectomy, a time when most providers advise couples to use other contraception or avoid intercourse because of an increased risk of pregnancy, the researchers said, according to Reuters Health.

Ah. Sweet affirmation. There will be no booties in my home, other than the sweet mass of flesh in my own jeans. Yet, my joy was shortlived, for in the very next sentence was the clincher...the ominous "HOWEVER":

However, two of the pregnancies occurred more than 12 months after the procedure.

*blink*

'Scuse me?

Obviously, there is some sort of mistake. See, I am THIRTY FREAKIN' NINE years old. I should be going through peri-menopause any second now. I have an 18 year old daughter and a 10 year old son. You know what that means??? It means FREEDOM! Freedom to go to the grocery store without a carseat and a baby on my nipple. It means the ability to go to a restaurant and have a conversation with my husband that doesn't include "Owwowowowow...does de idgy bidgy baby wanna baba?" It means I can stay up as late as I want to without fear of a 1am, 3am and 5am feeding schedule.

This concludes our segment of "Watching CP Freak Out". Please stay tuned for our next episode..."Fun with Pregnancy Tests".

*sighs*

he's leaving...

i hate this.

Overheard in my office...

Dawn: Candi, when you tell patients when their biopsies are coming back, do you tell them two weeks?

Candi: No, they don't like to wait that long. I usually tell them 10-14 days.

I had a patient, elderly, the other day who was making his first visit to the dermatologist. He had a few biopsies done and several actinic keratosis frozen off. All in all, he seemed pretty impressed that there is a doctor that specializes in skin. As he was leaving the office, bandaged up by moi, he pulled me to the side:

"Missy, do you have another dermatologist here?"

"Yes, Sir. We do. Why? Did you have a bad experience? Is something wrong?"

"No, I was just wondering something."

"Okay, shoot."

"Well," he says, "I obviously saw the doctor for white skin. You probably gathered from my name that I was white. I'm polish, you know. So, I was just wondering if your other dermatologist is the black dermatologist?"

"No Sir, he isn't black," I reply, more than a little confused. "He's white..."

"No, I mean...is he the black people doctor."

"Excuse me?" (I admit, I did giggle a bit)

"Is he the doctor the blacks go to?"

"No Sir, both doctors see people of all colors."

"How do they see things on dark skin? Isn't it too dark?"

"No, they see moles on dark skin as well as we see moles on white skin."

"Oh," he said with a pause. "Do blacks get freckled skin?"

"Yes Sir, they do...and if they get cut, they even bleed red. Can you imagine?" *sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm*

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I'm cutting him some slack for several reasons:

1) He is elderly. He doesn't have long for this world. I won't make his last days miserable with my battery acid tongue.
2) I always think it is smarter to educate than humiliate.

3) I think he felt a little stupid after my last statement.

4) He grew up in West Virginia. 'Nuff said.

What is Your Inner Child Like?

Your Inner Child Is Naughty

Like a child, you tend to discount social rules. It's just too much fun to break the rules! You love trouble - and it seems that trouble loves you. And no matter what, you refuse to grow up!

How Is Your Inner Child?

I've always known I was a naughty girl. Those of you with children, surely you have seen "Rugrats"? I was Angelica. I used to beat up the boys and make all the girls give me their Barbie dolls to keep. One time, I pooped on my brothers head while he was taking a nap. My mother admonished me horribly...wanted to know WHY I would do something like that. (I was about 6). I explained to her that my friend, Monique, older and wiser at age 9, told me her brother was a poophead. I didn't know what that meant. She said it meant "someone that bugs you a lot". Since my little brother annoyed me a lot...I thought I was supposed to poop on his head, like Monique told me to. Not one of my prouder moments in CP history, but funny nevertheless.

Don't know why mom was so mad. I was just trying to be a good girl!!!

*bats lashes*

Don't you simply wish you could just take a dump on the head of EVERYONE who pisses you off?

*sighs*

Alas, it is only a dream...just a dream.

Wheee Hooooo!!! Hubby comes home tonight!

Happy dancin'!!!!

Freaky Friday.

I am trying to think of a theme for my Friday posts. I've seen Half Nekkid Thursdays. I have seen Cockblogging Wednesdays, a special treat for the ladies (or guys too! Thank you, thank you, Avatar!). I have come across "Free Boobie Tuesday", a wonderful play on words (Ruby Tuesday? Rolling Stones?) Anyway, go check out my Tampa homeboy, Billy for all the boobies you can want.

Now, I have this cute little name...Freaky Friday, but no theme.

Then it struck me. There are plenty of psychos in the world. So, every Friday I will have a "Freak of the Week" photo. Hooray! I have a purpose in life again. Sure, it isn't thick cocks or bouncing boobies...but Femur Friday would be dull. Foot Friday, perhaps for the fetishists out there? Nah. Finger Friday? I'm afraid what I will find on Google Image Search with that one. Forehead Friday? Hm, thinks...Jennifer Love Hewitt, Reese Witherspoon...but I think I would run out after awhile.

We'll just stick to freaks.

Therefore, here is my first Friday Freak of the Week:



I have no clue if this is photoshopped or not, but the possibility of it NOT being altered freaks me out to no end.

What the hell. I happen to have a photo ready.

I don't get into the whole "Half Naked Thursday" thing. Not knocking it, because it is a lot of fun to look at peoples pics. I enjoy everyones enthusiasm. Some people are piggish about it. Some people, a bit more coy. There are some that are very artistic...and others that are, well, not.

But, since it is Thursday, and I happen to have a photo, I thought I would throw it up here. Along with the story that will separate this from your run of the mill "HNT" post.




This is my leg. My poor, injured left leg. Please note the incredibly cute pink pedicure with the matching heels. Note the Seven flare leg jeans. Note my daughters foot in the Old Navy black flipflops.

I am a statistic. I am a one in a million.

I have been bitten by a shark. Twice.

Of course, if it was the SAME shark, that would be even more monumental. Alas, it was not. This shark bite was in the Gulf of Mexico, compared with the other one that I received, also on my left foot, in the Atlantic.

The joy of living in Florida is that I can receive shark bites in two completely separate bodies of water. How cool am I?

My first sharkbite was when I was 18. I was in Miami, on Spring Break and was waterskiing. If you are familiar with Miami at all (this was well before SouthBeach was the hot spot) then you would know that they take their shark problems very lightly. They had roped off a pen of sharks out in the ocean. I felt very "Fonzie" that day and decided to "jump the shark". Needless to say, I did not jump the shark. I got caught in the roped net...just in time for one of the little suckers to yomp my ankle. I am fortunate that this shark was a baby. (Mind you, baby means at least 4 feet long, about 200 pounds and HUNGRY). I left Miami with the coolest story ever, and 17 stitches in my foot.

I was a fucking superstar!

Flash forward 20 years later. This time, living on the Gulf of Mexico. Vacationing with my husband down in Treasure Island. A sweet, loving romp in the ocean. We swim together, we kiss, we laugh as waves knock us off our feet. And, when our feet finally come down...one of the four is struck with a searing hot pain. A searing hot pain that is reminiscent of a searing hot pain I had suffered two decades earlier.

I screamed, as anyone would when they realize that they are, for the second time in their life, shark bait. Only this time, I wasn't a superstar. I was the fat forty year old woman flailing about, punching the water and screaming "GET IT OFFA ME...GET IT OFFA MEEEEE-EEEEEEEEE!" As a nurse who has worked in the ER and the OR trauma department, I would had hoped to react with a bit more decorum and applomb.

No such luck.

Humiliated, I hobble back to the hotel, battered and torn...in need of stitches once more. Apparently, sharks don't like it when you step on their heads.

To add to the embarassment, this was a nurse shark.

So I ask you, where IS the professional courtesy?

Happy Half Nekkid Thursday anyway.

In one ENDO and out the other ENDO...

You know what I can't stand?

Innuendo. I hate implications.

You know why they call it Innuendo? Cause it sounds like "IN YOUR END-o"...and when it finally comes OUT of your other "END-O"...it is exactly as the name depicts.

A bunch of CRAP.

I mean, if you have something to say, then for God sake, SAY IT!! Don't candycoat. Don't waiver. Don't flip flop. Spill it! I hate people that have to hide behind their words and aren't brave enough to take the heat. To me, they are cowards in the same league as the scumbuckets of the world that prey on small children.

I have little tolerance for either one of those things.

I find it nauseating when people berate and belittle people and then hide behind a pseudonym or some dumb ass "nome de coward".

I probably sound like some freak ass chick raging with PMS hormones that eek out of every pourous orifice of my body. *glancing at the calendar to double check* Okay. I am, but it's strictly coincidental, I assure you. I didn't even like the Lion in "The Wizard of Oz", cowardly assed hairy bitch. I was hoping Toto would realize his canine proclivity and take a hearty YOMP outta his furry balls. I just cannot stomach a craven personality in any degree. See "ad nauseum".

However, I'm not preaching what I don't practice.

I don't do it. I don't hide behind a veil of anonyminity, online or off. If I have something to say, I say it. Plain and true, sometimes at the risk of making an ass out of myself. Sometimes at the risk of hurting someone I care about.

I don't mind sacrificing popularity for integrity.

Or, as my homegirls back in Queens say, I don't front. Holla.

The only time I will take on a different name is when I am posting a poem online or writing stories for various magazines (pen names or nome de plumes are not included in this rant). There is a reason for this. People tend to have preconceived notions with regard to certain names. Your name ends in "berg", you're jew. Tyrone must be black. If my name was Ming, you're Asian. I would rather people not have their prejudices enter into my literary genius, thank you very much.

But, when entering into discussions online and off, I use my name. I state the facts. When someone says "who the hell left the dirty stuff in the sink", I have no problem saying it was me. Then again, if it was YOU...I would say that too, so be careful of my double-edged sword.

In other words, if you have to cower beneath your words, then you aren't worthy of the pen and ink (or Blog) they are written on. Matter of fact, you are lower than a case of psittacosis on a parrots privates. If you have something to say, stand up and say it with conviction. Right or wrong. Be prepared to say "This is how I feel" and then, be strong enough to say "I'm sorry", if you are. Be strong enough to say "I'm not sorry", if you aren't.

To me, the conviction of my words are an extension of me. As important to me as my morning run is to the old guy up the street that digs the fact that my sports bra never quite does the trick. It is as important as brushing your teeth to prevent all sorts of diseases that end in "itis". It is as detrimental to your health as getting enough fiber.

If you think about it, fiber intake and innuendo go hand in hand.

Both are conducive to spewing shit.

Stand up, be counted and get the hell real already.

"What makes you a coward?" asked Dorothy, looking at the great beast in wonder, for he was as big as a small horse.

"It's a mystery," replied the Lion. "I suppose I was born that way."

Black? White? Indifferent?

What the holy hell is wrong with people?

I just got done having a knock down, drag out argument with this...this...TOOLBAG at another site with regard to racial prejudice. Why I bothered to engage myself in this diatribe is beyond me.

It started simply enough.

He made a comment, in passing, that he could never date a woman who ever had sexual relations with a black man. I should have kept my mouth shut and said "that's nice, you have a great day", but I couldn't. Why, CP? Why couldn't you keep your big ol' Jewish piehole shut? Easy.

Throughout the conversation he kept saying "but I'm not racist".

*blink*

'Scuse me? You won't date a woman who has ever slept with a black man, but you are not racist. Okay, 'splain to me. Perhaps there is something I am missing. So, he explains. Allow me to quote him, please:

The finale of my criteria, and a rule that I will absolutely not bend on any circumstances...oh boy, this will piss some people off...is that I will not go out with a girl that has ever had sexual relations with a black guy. Before you go off dismissing me as a racist prick, understand that it has nothing to do with prejudice. Hell, I have black friends like most people, and I respect a good degree of black people as I respect everyone else. It's just a kind of belief that has been insinuated in my head ever since I was a child. I grew up around a lot of racism, (as you can imagine, living in TN), probably surprisingly, there is equal racism in the black communities against whites as there are for whites against blacks, here. I, personally, am not racist in the least, but this one set belief I have never been able to get past. I do not date girls that have been with black dudes, just a simple state of fact. For one reason, typically girls that are attracted to black males are ONLY attracted to black males, and another reason is that it just kind of churns my stomach to see that type of diversity around me. Not racist, just picky...technically, I don't have a huge list of criteria, as most of it is just what I prefer.

Allow me to share my reply to him with all of you:

Now, Joe...I like you and all, but I feel the need to say this. I don't care how you slice it, how you pretty it up, how you candycoat it and how you justify it.

Dude, you are a racist.

If you say: "I won't go out with a girl who dated a black dude" and then attempt to qualify it with "I'm not racist"...newsflash, Buddy.

You're a racist.

If you say: "...and another reason is that it just kind of churns my stomach to see that type of diversity around me."

You're a racist.

Now, on the flipside, if you say: I am not attracted to women with dark skin or women with blonde hair...then, you are not a racist. You are, as you put it, picky. But Joe, love...no matter how many times you say "I'm not a racist", you are. Having a token black friend does not absolve you of your prejudices. Stating the blacks hate the whites too does not validate you either. If you cannot see a group of people and say...

"Hey, now that's a group of people" and all you see is color...

You are a racist. I'm not saying a racist of the KKK variety, but you are prejudiced against people of color. That makes you a racist. You date girls who have dated white guys, and that's okay...but a girl who dated a black guy is not?

Racist.

And lastly, this? "...typically girls that are attracted to black males are ONLY attracted to black males"

No. That is a generalization. I am not attracted to blonde men in general, but I have had the occasional blonde boyfriend. Why? If I love him as a person, I can get past the hair color. Same thing with skin. I have dated black men, hispanic men, asian men and white boys like you. I don't "stick to a kind" because the man I want to be with is the one who makes me happy...no matter WHAT his skin color is. Don't blame your childhood. Don't blame Tennessee. Don't blame the way you were raised. Don't blame your family. Don't blame anyone but yourself. I grew up with an extremely racist set of parents and even worse grandparents. I do not see color. Neither do my children. You do not have to be your surroundings. You are choosing to be. Perhaps I am being harsh. If so, well...I don't apologize. *L* Maybe you can substitute "ignorant" for "racist" but either way, Cinderella, the shoe fits.

Um, do you think I was out of line? *eye roll* Like I give a shit. Mind you, this is a person who is under the age of 21, so I am hoping that there is hope for him. However, I have a feeling that he is going to be unwavering. I imagine he has a huge rebel flag on his car. I bet he thought his childhood tire swing on the tree was for lynching. It never ceases to amaze me that in this day and age, there are still people with such...such...hatred and disdain in their hearts and minds.

The only comfort I take in all of this is that someday, he will meet the woman of his dreams. He will be swept away, gazing at her with a longing and loving unparalleled to any he has ever known in his lifetime. They will marry. Their love will flourish. They will have children...lots and lots of beautiful children. They will celebrate their 15th wedding anniversary just in time to go to her high school reunion.

Just in time to meet the huge, gorgeous black man, the former quaterback who was her first love...in EVERY single way.

When that happens, I will make Carson Daly the Dalai Lama, Earl can throw away his list and karma will be laid to rest forever.

Have You Seen Me Lately?

Hi. Do you know me?

If you said "Yes, your name is CP" then you are mistaken.

Look closer. Closer...CLOSER...

Do you see the words written on my forehead?

What do they say? They say:

Help me. I am the parent of an 18 year old. Once upon a time I had an identity. I had a life. I had money in my wallet. Now all I have is gray hair, anxiety attacks and on the verge of needing food stamps. However, my child needs me as I am not only known as MOM but as ATM as well. Knowing that my child can finagle my money out of me on a daily basis gives me a sense of worth. If it were not for my credit cards, my child would not know I exist. I would be a speedbump in her road of life. Then again, if that road had a tollbooth, I'd be paying for that too. Not that it makes a difference, because I paid for the car, the insurance, the gas and even the Slurpee she buys everytime she stops to refill the tank. I am the parent of an 18 year old, the lowest scum on the food chain...except for every other week, on payday.

In otherwords, my forehead says, "SUCKER!"

Can I get an AMEN????

Insecure? Party of One?

All hail my mother.

For all her faults (chews with her mouth open), all her flaws (racist beyond belief), she is a good woman. She raised me with so much self-esteem that I am found utterly intolerable by most people. That means that I automatically weed out the insecure. They seem to just fall away from my type of personality. It also assures me that I am surrounded by the most egotistical, narcissistic human beings alive.

Sounds like a bad thing to some. To me, it is the next best thing to an orgasm that I didn't have to do a thing to achieve.

I cannot stand people who don't feel good about themselves. I hate people who wallow in the well of self-pity.

"I'm fat!"
Shut your piehole and get on a treadmill.

"I'm stupid!"
Do something to educate yourself rather than continuing to state the obvious.

"I'm ugly!"
Not much you can do if you were smacked with the ugly stick, but hell, find something positive and work with what your momma gave you, you know?

"No one likes me!"
Gee. I can't imagine why that would be? Could it be the incessant whining that spews from that gaping maw of yours everytime you speak?

Please don't call me insensitive. I am willing to work with the insecure. I am quite the little motivator (though admittedly, you would have to disagree with me after reading this entry). In the real world, I am much more patient and kind (read:phony). But, blogs are meant for venting, so no punches pulled here.

Before I continue, let me say that I am, by no means, perfect. I could stand to lose some weight by medical standards. But, by my own standards, I like the way my fat ass fills out a pair of jeans. I dig my curves completely. I like that my tits arrive to work 20 minutes before I do. That is because I feel completely comfortable in my fat (phat?) body. This is NOT akin to calling myself "fat" as in obese and unhappy. I am very happy. I am all wiggly, jiggly woman and I enjoy it.

My nose has a nice Jewish bump in the middle of it. My daughter calls it "roadkill". My mother has told me, from early on, that it gives me character. She never mentioned that the character she referred to might be Jimmy Durante (or Toucan Sam, for you younger folks that don't have a clue who JD might be.) While all my other Jewish female counterparts went in for the traditional nose job at 16, I didn't. I love my nose. I do think it fits my face.

I am loud. Loud and obnoxious in a Roseanne Barr kind of way. I am inappropriate. I say the rudest things at the worst times. I am so without tact that it is almost sad. In short, I am my mother.

All these "flaws" just add up to the equation that is me. I am content with each and every one of them. When I hear women whisper that I am so conceited and that they can't understand why, I have to laugh. This is not conceited, Ladies. This is convinced. I am the triple threat that would steal your boyfriend away, because I have confidence, self-esteem and a sense of humor. I do not order a salad on the first date, because I like to eat! Gimme a damn 16 oz steak and a lobster tail.

I think men appreciate that in a woman far more than a girl who just pushes her olive all over her salad plate and says, "Hee hee hee hee, I'm watching my weight."

Watching your weight? You don't HAVE any weight! You make the kids in Ethiopia look well nourished.

Anyway, I digress. It isn't all about weight. It is about the substance of a person.

So, this post turns into a thank you, to dear old mom, for instilling me with so much self-esteem and self-love that all my relationships boil down to survival of the fittest.

There is only room for one ego in this girls bed.

You know what drives me nuts?

Stupidity.

Stupidity in any shape and form. I have no tolerance for it. I am a pretty patient woman. I understand that children are not stupid. They can't be, because they are still learning and growing. No. The stupidity I cannot tolerate is the stupidity of adults. I am not referring to the elderly either, as sometimes, the mind slips away long before the body does. Stupidity in the age 21-60 category.

I work in the healthcare industry. I get phonecalls like this all the time:

"I was just in there for a biopsy earlier today. I'm bleeding. What should I do?"

This comment is out of the mouth of a 50 something woman. A woman who has raised children. How do you NOT know what to do if a little scrape is bleeding? How did you give birth? Do you know that when you bleed monthly, you need to slap a maxi pad on or a tampon in? Yeah? You do? Good, then you should understand that if you have a bleeding boo boo on your arm...you need a BAND AID.

"I am running a fever. What should I do?"

*blink*

T-Y-L-E-N-O-L. Next?

"Whenever I wear these particular shoes, I get a bad blister on my toe. What should I do about it?"

Throwing out the shoes would be a good start, no?

But here...this is my all time favorite.

"Hello! This is Mrs. so and so. I have an emergency! I need to see the Doctor right away! This is an emergency! I am bleeding pretty badly!"

"Okay, Mrs. so and so, why don't you come in right now and we will take care of it."

"Now? Right now? Oh, I'm not even dressed yet. I still have to shower. Then, I work until about 2pm. Do you have anything after that?"

*crickets chirping*

Rule of thumb. If they cannot come into the office for their emergency RIGHT NOW...then it probably isn't that much of an emergency.

People throw around words like "migraine", "hemorrhage", "emergency" like it is going out of style. They use things like that so they can get into their doctors office ASAP. Then, when you get them in, it's a tiny dot of blood...BUT, you also find out that there are forty other things that they wanted to talk to the doctor about, but used the little blood drop to get into the door.

Another peeve in the healthcare industry?

Please do not come to your appointment an hour late and NOT expect to get rescheduled. These aren't suggestions. These are APPOINTMENTS. 10 o'clock means 10 o'clock. It does not mean when you feel like strolling in. And please, don't come in at 4:00 when we are leaving and ask to talk to the doctor. I have a family just like you do. I have the right to go home.

Don't call my office 17 times a day to ask a question. When the receptionist tells you that I make my callbacks at noon and at 3:30, then that is when I make my calls. Calling me 90 times will not make me call you faster. If anything, it will make me inclined to place your message at the bottom of the pile. I may even decide to lose it altogether.

Please do not call my office manager and say "No one ever called me back with my biopsy results" when I have, in fact, called you a dozen times. Try checking your answering machine before saying "no one called me".

Please do not be rude to me because you are having a rough day. I am having a rough day too, but I am not being rude to you. When you do this, you are making me very eager to make sure you have a biopsy done, so I can cause you much pain when I inject your wound. Do not be so sweet to the doctor and then, act like crap to me. Do not talk down to me because your life is not fulfilling.

The number one pet peeve?

When I call you into the room from the waiting room, DO NOT BE ON YOUR CELLPHONE. My time is just as valuable, if not more valuable, as yours is. When I am standing there waiting to ask you questions about the reason for the visit, I do not want to compete with your cellphone. What I will do is walk out of the room and not put your number up for the doctor to come in to. I will make sure you will wait for over an hour if you do something like this.

Do not ask me to get you a cup of coffee. I am a nurse, not a waitress. If I offer you a cup of coffee, different story. But don't feel that your co-pay is a sense of entitlement. It is not my tip.

Tipping. That's another thing that chaps my ass.

Can I ask you why people at Dunkin' Donuts put out a tip cup near the register? They are to be tipped...for doing the job they are hired for? I don't get it. They make an hourly wage. Why would you ask for a tip? Especially at the drive thru window. What did you do that deserves a tip, may I ask? I get paid to do my job everyday too. I run my fat ass ragged all day. Do I get to shake a tip cup and say "hey, if I did a good job stitching you up, gratuities are appreciated". Ridiculous. I am all for tipping. A waitress who is busting her ass because she makes 3 bucks an hour and is splitting tips with four other people on her shift deserves the money. But, someone who merely rang up my order and stuck it in a bag? What the fuck? Even at the chinese take-out place, they have a tip cup out. For what? For sticking my food in a bag? You didn't even deliver it to me, I'm gonna tip you for that? No. I don't think so.

Wow. I'm certainly pissy tonight.

May have something to do with the fact that I was in the middle of fucking my husband when my teenage daughter opted to come home early, and I was forced to get up just as I was about to visit God. The kid is NEVER fucking home, but I am finally gettin' mine...and she decides to have family night.

Love that kid, just hate her sense of timing.

Whine whine whine whine...

I am so sick of whiners. I am so exhausted with people who are so quick to find the problems, but when it comes to looking for solutions, they bow out. I hate people who run their damn mouths constantly about what is wrong with the world, with their job, with their kids, with their lives...yet, continue to do the same things over and over and over.

Isn't that the definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results?

I am over it. Completely.

So, how was your day? *laugh*

From the Desk of a Fat (Phat?) Chick...

I was never thin.

I was never able to wear those strappy little sundresses that were popular in the 70's. Couldn't do the tube tops that were the rage of the 80's. Wouldn't be caught dead in the daisy dukes of the 90's. The low-riders and the thong bikinis of the new millennium are definitely out of the question.

Over the years, I have sweated to the oldies. I have stopped the insanity. I worked out with Susan Powter, Richard Simmons and Jane Fonda. I subjected myself to an hour of watching Cindy Crawford bounce around, only to find myself drinking Diet Pepsi on the couch while watching her break a sweat. I have dieted with Dr. Atkins. I have been in "The Zone". I have had dinner with Jenny Craig.

I have been up and down the scale more times than Elton John warming up before a concert.

In a society where we are appalled at the word "nigger" to describe a black person, "kike" to describe a Jew, "ho" to describe a woman...why is "fat" still socially acceptable? Why are fat people the victim of the last acceptable prejudice in this country?

We have had our share of martyrs for the cause. Carnie Wilson, the most notorious of all, who preached to American women that your shape is something to be proud of, no matter if you are a size 2 or size 22. We mourn the loss of Carnie Wilson...and her rotund body, when she underwent gastric bypass surgery. She is now a size 6. She is now...one of "THEM".

Kirstie Alley isn't far behind, well on her way to being one of "Them" as well.

You know who they are. Those waif-like figurines whose tummies barely bulge after finishing a 20-ounce bottle of water. The ones who can wear low-rider jeans to the very tip of their pubic bone...and still have room to spare. These are the women who adorn our fashion magazines, from Cosmo to Glamour. These are the women who make up the ideal.

These women are imports from Fantasy Island, Ladies and Gentlemen. They are bred in a land far away and dropped here for Sports Illustrated and Cosmo photo shoots only. Have no fear. They return to their planet when the shoot is over.

Truth be known, the average American woman is approximately a size 12-14 based on women in the age range of 25-40. We do not shop in Rave, The Body Shop or 5-7-9. Rather, you find us at Lane Bryant, Sears, JC Penney’s or even Target, desperately seeking fashion that is funky, fun...but at the same time, flattering to a rubenesque figure. We are the women who groan with dismay when we realize that Victoria Secret whispers only to those whose breasts are 36D or under. We are the women who own more shoes than our thinner peers.

When all else fails, shoes always fit. The heavenly mantra of the plus sized woman.

It's the one place where I am a size 6.

The trick, my voluptuous vixens, is not to feel animosity toward our waif-like counterparts. Rather, listen to them speak to one another in a clothing store. They wish for hips to fill out this mini-skirt. They envy our fuller, rounder bodies that look so heavenly in slinky dresses. The grass is always greener in someone elses dressing room.

When I look at my body, I like what I see. Sure, the tummy pooches out from where I had my babies, but it only serves as a reminder of a landmark in my life. My breasts are pendulous and large, but they nursed my children and drive my lover mad with desire. Yes, the tuchus is wide, but it fills out a pair of jeans like nobodies business. Besides, bootylicious is in style. (Thank you, Beyonce')

Bottom line is, when all is said and done, you are the one that has to be comfortable in your own skin. Certainly, I am not advocating being obese beyond the point where you have breathing troubles or are setting yourself up for a heart attack. For those with some extra pounds on, who have fought the good fight only to be met with futility, I say...learn to love yourself. Don't be afraid to be naked in the light. The sight of a not-so-perfect thigh or a rounded belly does not freak most men out. They love YOU. Besides, to a man, naked is naked...and that's good enough for them. Remember, you are always going to be your own worst critic. The special man or woman in your life will never see you as "fat", just a beautiful person...with more of you to love.

Slowly, the wave of change is washing over us. Magazines are adding plus sized models to their line-up of fashion spreads. Commercials are not showing super-model moms (except for Pepsi...but, give Cindy her due, she was chunky at one time too), but rather, real looking women in real looking situations. We admonished movies like "Shallow Hal" for portraying large women as slovenly and lazy. Critics winced at "American Sweethearts", showing Julia Roberts in the role of the "fat sister", who does not win over her love interest until she loses weight. When calling someone "fat" becomes the same disgusting word that the "N" word is, it will be a better world to live in. Our skin colors vary: black, red, yellow and white. Our bodies vary as well, each one different by design, created with care. Every curve along the highway of our bodies is a road waiting to be traveled and explored.

When women can finally look in the mirror and say "Sure, I'm fat...but I'm also ___________" (insert POSITIVE adjective here) it will be a battle well won. We are so much more than our bodies belie. We are strong, beautiful, sensitive, encouraging, nurturing. We are mothers, wives, lovers, friends, sisters and daughters. We have great skin, pretty smiles, a warm touch, an infectious laugh.

In the big picture, does "fat" make the woman? No more than clothes make the man.

I don't foresee myself shopping in "5-7-9" anytime soon.

There are far too many shoe stores in the world.

Man, what a fucked up mood!

My daughter is dancing with our pekingnese to "Money for Nothing" by Dire Straits. Hm, 80's flashback. Odd thing is, she was like...a fetus when that song came out. How the hell does she know it. Anyway, she is bouncing around with the dog and it looks friggin' ridiculous.

My husband left a "spit-up" amount of milk in the container. Is there a point to this? Why? Why leave pissdribble amounts of milk?

Oh yeah, so I can eat my ONE leftover Cheerio (ducks the slap from TJ) *heh*

Why the hell is he even still home? His job bumped the start date to Monday. NEXT Monday. I am so over it. *eye roll*

I have been listening to the song "Fuck It" by Last Girl on Earth (whose blog I shall place up here soon.) What a talented little freak she is! This song has managed to get me through my workdays. I have all these hot, smart, talented blogger chicks coming over here...

Damn, I wish I had a penis. I suppose I could go buy one.

Anyway, I am fed up with buck-passers. There is this supervisor person woman thing at my job who feels the need to make the word "supervisor" and "delegator" into one...long...superdelegator. For example, when our boss gets really pissy that he found something wasn't done, and she overhears this...she will dash down the hall and find someone to assign the task to. Then, he will come to her and say, "K., who didn't do this this this this and that?" And the loserwhore will answer "Oh that? That's CP's job. You mean she didn't do it yet? Sheesh and we just talked about that this morning too!"

*blank stare*

Can I slap this bitch into oblivion?

So, in light of this, I started listening to the "Fuck It" song and that, along with doubling up my meds, allowed me to let this bitch live to see another day. I'd like to do a root canal on her ovaries, frankly, but the Fuck It song will make sure I stay out of jail for now.

I am playing the song and dancing to it...

Fuck it, fuck it...FUCK IT!!!

All that boo-fucking-hooing...

for nothing.

Husbands job got bumped up to tomorrow. *sheesh* I spent all night crying and losing sleep, over what? He's still friggin' home! So now what are the options...do I start getting weepy all over again or do I say, ah screw it. I mean, he already got the big dramatic goodbye, the supersonic obligatory good bye fuck and the tearful departure email.

If I have to go through all of that again, I will exhaust myself.

I think I will opt out. When he leaves tomorrow, I will say...

"Remember Sunday night? Yeah, well...ditto."

Good enough for Patrick Swayze, good enough for CP.
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I have bloggie friends now! How cool is this?

Shout out to Avatar, TJ and Maven! *waves*

These have to be three of the coolest bitches online, truly.
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I have a problem.

It probably borders on OCD or something. I don't flick lights on and off. I don't count steps as I walk. I don't have to check, check and re-check that irons, toasters and other appliances are off before I leave. I don't check that I have locked the doors and windows 90 times before getting out the door.

No, my problem is far deeper than that.

I have a "last O in the box" problem.

What this is is the need to put the last Cheerio, Froot Loop, Apple Jack...whatver, in my bowl. It works with pretzels. It happens with Goldfish crackers. The box can be completely empty...save for that nasty powder on the bottom, and a single "cereal O". I cannot throw that box out.

I feel as if the little "O" was never really given a chance to live out its lifelong ambition of becoming a part of someones digestive tract. I feel like it cries out to me..."Cp, CP. Please don't throw me away. I was destined to be cereal. Please make my life complete by eating me. All my life was devoted to waiting for the right moment to be eaten...and now, my dreams are about to be dashed. All I ask is for my one chance. PLEASE CP!!!"

And if I try to get over my issue by throwing the box away, I will return to it. I will come back to the box and do one of two things:

1) If the box is still on top of the garbage, I will pluck out the remaining "O" and eat it from the box. OR....

2) If the box has slid down to the bottom or other trash has accumulated since, I will search out the little "O" and toss it to one of my dogs. Or cats.

So far, I haven't successfully been able to throw the last "O" away.

I am open to suggestions on how to treat this compulsion.