Masturbation...Jewish Princess style...

so there I was, minding my own business.

No. Really. I was.

"Minding my own business" is probably a very polite way of saying "so I was in front of the computer, getting myself off, when all of a sudden..."

Oh yeah. Like you don't. Pffft. Whatever.

Let me take you back, back, back...way back, to a time before the hotband was in the picture. To a time when internet porn reigned supreme in CP's life, because frankly A) I was checking out women, not men, B) The ex was a little lacking in the "give it to me night and day, baby" department and finally C) I don't know. I was bored, it was there.

Again. Don't judge me. You know damn well you do it too. You just don't admit it on your blogs.

So there I am, in my computer chair. No kids at home. No (ex) husband was home at the time. It was just me, my computer and my portable little friend, Buzz Lightyear.

*blinks* Yeah. Like you don't have a name for your vibrators (and/or penises!).

Lawdy, so judgmental!

I am pullin' up some sweetass lesbo porn, a few threesomes, some gangbangs, couple of upskirts...you know, your average male porn, except it was being enjoyed by me...a female. Isn't that so erotic? *eye roll* (I can literally hear my hotband panting all the way from NYC) *snort* HONEY! You've heard this story already. Get over it.

Anyway, when I feel I am primed and supremely ready for the thrills to begin, CLICK! On goes Buzz Lightyear! Yes! TAKE ME THERE! To Infinity...and BEYOND! Mouse in the right hand, Buzz in my left (yes, I am ambidextrous. I am also sodium free and low in monotriglycerides) and going to funky town! Wee hoo! When all of a sudden...

*snap*

My nail breaks.

Now, most women would have ignored this completely and continued with their quest to find the honeypot, the top of the mountain, the promised land. Nope. Not CP. I cannot bear to look at the brunette babe, spread-eagle in front of me, a vision of celluloid perfection...WHILE I AM SPORTING A BROKEN NAIL! No. The Jewish princess in me takes over. This simply will not do. I mean, come on. How tacky is this? I won't even look at porn that has a poorly manicured or pedicured model. It's not that I am a porn snob, it's just that I am...well, okay, so I'm a porn snob. But if I expect the most from my porn, then dammit, I will be nothing less than perfect when I cum too!

I place Buzz down on my bare lap, pants down around my ankles and lean down to my purse to get out my nail glue.

SQUEEZE.

Nothing.

SQUEEZE.

Nothing.

*stab stab stab the top of the tube of glue with safety pin and SQQQQQQQUUUUUUUUUUEEEEEZE...*

SPLOOGE!

Crazy glue explodes everywhere. CP drops her fingernail. Bends over to pick up said fingernail, gluing her extremely large tits to the crazy glue that has pooled in her lap.

"SHIT!" exclaims CP.

"Bzzzzzzz," replies Buzz Lightyear with a muffled cry from below my mammaries.

"HA!" snorts extremely hot brunette spread eagle on my computer screen. If she could be laughing at me, she would be.

"What the fuck could be worse than this," thinks CP aloud, while trying to dislodge her vibrator from between her nipple and her labia.

*sound of garage door opening*

"HOLY FUCK," I shriek, and jump jump jump, bent over, ass out, tits glued to thighs, into my bathroom and turn on the shower.

"Honey," says the (ex) husband, "are you here?"

"I'm in the shower," I call back.

"But I'm here," says the hot brunette still dangling on the computer screen.

Fuck.

It was sort of hard explaining to my (ex) husband why there was a naked woman on my computer monitor.

"There was??? Really???" I feign complete ignorance. "Oh my gosh, someone must have sent me a virus."

*blink. blink*

After 8 years, I think the patch of skin on my upper thigh is finally the same color as the rest of my thigh. For a long time, I had a tell-tale dildo shaped white spot where my tan tore away in the shape of my vibrator.

I now refer to it as my "birthmark". It's this version of the story that allows me to keep my PTA membership intact.

Bruce, Demi and Ashton: Redeux...

I am in the very enviable position of getting along with my ex-husband. Actually, it is a little better than "getting along". We refer to one another as brother and sister. Might sound disconcerting to some, because after all, we do live down south, and brother/sister/father/mother/sheep couplings are all the rage here. But, that is just how it is.

"A" and I met when I was 19 years old. 20 years ago. At the time, I was 3 months pregnant with my daughter. I was no longer with her father. I was in a club with a girlfriend of mine who was just gushing over this "hot guy" that she was "in love" with. The friends name was Chrissie (I reveal this, because I no longer know her). Chrissie smelled like barnyard, ass and filthy socks combined. It wasn't her fault. She had a glandular problem. She was a very wealthy girl, Greek girl, and daddy spoiled her rotten. Rotten. Like the way she smelled. But, despite being scent-challenged, she was a great girl to hang out with. She was funny. She was rich and, of course, she smelled bad. This meant any guys that came up to us were automatically mine. This was very important at the age of 18.

The year is 1986. Now I am 19 years of age, soon to be 20, and going to a club in Long Island with Chrissie to meet the flavor of the week. She searches the club, looking in every nook and cranny (what IS a cranny anyway?) for this person who simply rocks her world.

All of a sudden, she shrieks and mad dashes across the room. I don't bother chasing her. I know her. She will grab him by his hair like a cavewoman and drag him over to me, beaming, looking for approval on her recent kill. She brings this short, muscular "guido" dude up to me. He has Vanilla Ice Ice Baby kind of hair, a smug look and a long rat moustache.

"CP, this is A. A., this is my girl, CP."

"'Sup," we both query to one another at the same time, neither of us really looking at the other, both of us quite focused on whatever is better out on the dancefloor.

It is obvious to me that A. is not interested in Chrissie at all. It is obvious to everyone, except Chrissie. She's hanging all over him like a cheap suit. He looks like he wants to crawl out of his skin and throw himself into an incinerator just to get away from her. Sort of like that female skunk/cat looks, when Pepe Le Pew grabs her and starts laying the kisses on her, ya know? It is a look of utter disgust. I am offended by it. I mean, this is my friend! How are you not in love with her, dammit? Okay, I find her to be a bit rank too...but hell, she's a nice girl. Can't you overlook the smell of bile and rotting flesh and find the inner beauty?

Long story longer, we all dance, hang out and make small talk. I think he's a jackass. I can tell he thinks I am a stuck up bitch. That would be really accurate actually. I was. The club closes at 4am and we all head over to the local diner for breakfast. Everyone who was in the club is now in the diner, so basically we have just replaced music and dancing with pancakes and coffee. Same bullshit conversations, same flirting and everyone still deciding if they are going to be hooking up, or heading home alone.

While the three of us are at this table, Chrissie sitting on the same side with me and A. sitting opposite her, I discover something about A. that I did not notice while we were in the club.

He's a really funny bastard.

Now, I don't care if you look like Patrick Dempsey, John Cusack, Mel Gibson, Brad Pitt or any other "ideal" hottie who is in Hollywood. If you have the personality of a stump, I can't deal with you. The opposite is also true for me. If you look like CarrotTop, Steve Buscemi, Lyle Lovett or any other type of yuckface and you can make me laugh...you practically own me.

A. looked like Jean Claude Van Damme a bit (mind you, I am SO not into that type) but he was as funny as Andrew Dice Clay, Sam Kinison, Howie Mandel and Robin Williams all rolled into one. He could impersonate ANY voice. He had an intellectual sense of humor too, like Dennis Miller and the sarcasm of Denis Leary.

All of a sudden, A. became VERY attractive to CP.

He pays the bill for the three of us and we all go back out to his car so he can drive us back to the club to get my car. Chrissie is all over him in the front seat. I am sitting alone in the backseat, all the while, watching him smile at me through the rear view mirror. It is obvious that he is attracted to me for the same reasons I was too him. I'm a pretty funny bitch. *snort* We had a great sense of comedic timing together and played off of one another. It was then that I did something I had never done before and have never done since.

I sold out a "sistah".

My friends are always the world to me. Always. I am supportive of them and every other female on the planet. I am very pro-woman. I always feel that we should never compete for the affections of any man. But I found myself writing down my telephone number, catching his attention by waving it at him when he looked at me (again) in the rearview mirror and gesturing that I was leaving it in the backseat.

He called me the next morning. Chrissie had slept over my house. Uh oh.

I told him that I couldn't talk and that he should call me later. He did. And we talked. We talked for hours upon hours. We hung up. He called me back an hour later and we talked some more. We went on a date the next night. I told Chrissie I couldn't hang out because I had a stomachache from some Italian sausage I ate earlier in the night (wouldn't dare tell her I was planning on eating the Italian sausage she was so hopelessly in love with). I know. Coward. I agree with you. It was a shitty thing for me to have done. *hangs head for all of three seconds* There. I've repented. Get over it. I ended up marrying the man for Gods sake!

Fast forward many years later. Thirteen to be exact. After years of being "best friends" and lovers on and off, we got married. He was very supportive of me having my daughter. He never turned his back on me. We went through relationships with other people, but somehow, we always gravitated back to one another. So, when we got married, no one was surprised. Not even Chrissie, who had long since moved on to find some equally smelly Greek guy and married him. They had smelly children and lived happily ever after.

Seven years later, A. and I are divorcing. We discover that some people are better off as friends. We are two of those people.

Now that you have some background, let's get to the point of the post. I would like to know why, when you remain friends with your ex husband, do people feel the need to say the following things to you:

1) Oh my god! You two are so funny together! Why did you ever break up?

We broke up because we are funny together, just not to one another. We are wonderful stand up performers. We have the capability of making everyone around us laugh for hours. However, behind the scenes, we were not able to "perform" for one another. We had issues between us that were larger than any laughter could have possibly gotten us through.

2) Doesn't your husband get so jealous when you are hanging out with your ex-husband?

Why? Because we get along? That's insane. My husband has no reason to be jealous. I left my ex-husband for a reason...and I assure you, the reason was not to try to get him back by marrying someone else. Hello? Can we follow a reasonable pattern of thought here? If I wanted the man, why would I have divorced him to begin with?

3) If you ever break up with your current husband, do you think you and your ex will get back together?

My standard answer to this should just be "no". However, I don't feel that "no" quite drives the point home. So, what I normally say is "If my ex husband was the last man on earth and there was a dog, a woman and a hot curling iron near by, I would be getting it doggystyle from the Labrador, while talking with the woman and shoving the curling iron up my OWN ass, before I would ever get back with my ex husband." Generally, that makes my feelings on the matter pretty clear to them.

Next up comes the subject of the hotband, the ex and I doing things together with the kids. Many people think it is weird that we all spend major holidays together. At Christmas, we all go over to the ex's house. We hang out there. This is wonderful for the children who get to see both of their parents AT THE SAME TIME, PEOPLE...and not go through the dilemma of dividing up their day. Who is getting who when and for how long and I got them last year for this long so you get them this year for that long and thats not fair and thats not fair and I have plans so you take them no I have plans so you take them...

BLAH.

When A., and I divorced, we agreed on one thing and one thing only.

We would co-parent these children to the best of our ability. After all, if you loved someone enough to marry them and have children with them, once upon a time, then you can find enough respect in your heart for that other person. You can raise your children together without raising your voices at one another. Just because the marriage fails, doesn't mean the parenting has to. Ultimately, it is about the children. If you can't understand that, then please stop asking me questions. To me, this answer is fundamentally the easiest explanation I can give.

And still, they look at me quizically.

I don't claim to be mother of the year. I know I am closer to Roseanne than I am to June Cleaver. But, I do know that it is my number one priority to never have my children feel about their parents the way I feel about MY own mother and biological father. They fought constantly, used my brother and I as pawns in their sick games against one another and made me resent them both terribly.

So, if we are the newstyle, not rich, not famous version of Ashton, Demi and Bruce...so be it. I like the fact that my husband and ex husband get along, pal around together and do everything in the interest of my kids. The one rule???

No one is allowed to talk about being married to CP.


This seems to be an easy one for both of them to follow.

Friday Freak of the Week...

comes to you in blog form. It's not my story this time. It's Laurie from "Beauty and the Beer" (she's a dot com now, you know!) Anyway, I jumped back into her archives, just reading, because frankly...she's a really funny bitch. Now, normally, I don't do white trash. *snorts* She actually calls herself that, which I find more hysterical than anything in the world. But Laurie is contagious (in a non-fungal sort of way) and I got absolutely addicted to her nutjob ways. This story, however, is so damn funny that I nearly wet myself reading it.

So, please, allow Laurie to host my blogpost for this evening.

Me? I have to get the hell out of here and pick up the hotband from the airport before some ugly fat bitch has her way with his jetlagged ass. *snort*

Please read: Swollen Lips: An Ode to My Vagina

This will complete the requirement for CP's Friday Freak of the Week. No picture necessary. Laurie's story is really all you need to know. Heh. Oh, and when you're done? Put the words "vaginal ants" into a Google Internet Search. It's amusing to say the least.

Crap! Outta here! Airport! Billy, you comin' or what???

It's 10:30 pm. Do You Know Where Your Right Hand Is?

Normally, Thursdays are a real cakewalk for CP. Surgeries in the morning, clinical patients in the early afternoon and then, paperwork until the freedom bell chimes at 4pm.

Someone apparently didn't get the memo.

Around 2:30 pm, my co-worker walks up to me looking completely distraught. Not crying kind of distraught, but rather, pure fear kind of distraught.

"What's wrong, M.," I ask her, my blood pressure already rising. I knew there was something REALLY wrong when I looked at her.

"Uh campt moo mah han," she said back to me, heavily slurring her words.

"What? Say it again," I say.

This time, it comes out clearly. "I can't move my hand".

She is clutching her right hand with her left one. For a short moment, her right side of her face had drooped, causing her to slur. Now it seemed fine again, but her right hand was gnarled. It looked like she was holding an invisible bowling ball. Her fingers were tightly together and contracted. I started to rub her hand, hoping that it was just a charley horse or muscle spasm. I knew it wasn't...but I hoped anyway. No, this was clearly a contracture and she couldn't open her hand. Her face was turning pale and diaphoretic (sweaty). I sat her down and did what any good nurse would do in this sort of panic situation.

I ran and got the doctor. *L*

After a quick assessment, we opted to run her over to the emergency room. Our office manager got her settled in over there. I ran over there, got her keys, brought her truck to the ER parking lot, went and picked up my son and then brought him back to the hospital with me. We sat there while she was taken down for a CT scan.

My son thought going to get some cheese fries in the cafeteria was a much better idea than waiting around in the ER for my friend to come back.

I concurred and we went for some cheesefries.

I saw a woman there who was short on cash for her purchases. She was buying food for her husband and she didn't realize she didn't have enough to get herself a sandwich as well. The woman was so flustered and embarassed. I remember being in that position a few years ago, when I was that woman...and my husband was in the hospital with some serious life threatening injuries. I got up and gave the woman a few dollars. She was so grateful and it made me feel good to do that for her. All I asked of her was to say a prayer for my friend.

Cheesy, I know.

My son says, "Mom? Why did you do that? You just gave a complete stranger some money?"

"Well," I began, seeing a nice opportunity for a lesson in human kindness and compassion, "the woman was in trouble, honey. So I tried to help her out."

"Oh," he says, his little brow furrowed. And then, "Mom?"

"Yeah, baby?"

"How come when I'm in trouble, I don't get money? I only get punished."

Aren't kids great?

Anyway, sent son over to stay with dad. Daughter is at work. I stay with my friend until just now, when I get to come home and unwind with you guys.

You know, she's 41 years old. Only two years older than I am. The thought of someone that young having a heart attack or a stroke just discourages me immensely. She diets, eats well, exercises, doesn't smoke and is very cautious with herself and contact with germs, handwashing and the use of gloves at all times. Me? I pig out. I don't exercise. I take pain medication for headaches like it's Pez Candy and I throw all caution to the wind when it comes to health and safety issues. I could give a rats ass who has what or what I might or might not catch from them.

I'm fine. She's in the hospital tonight.

Strange and mysterious ways, I tell you. Strange and mysterious ways.

Buggin' out...

i got bugs
i got bugs in my room
bugs in my bed
bugs in my ears
their eggs in my head
bugs in my pockets
bugs in my shoes
bugs in the way i feel about you
bugs on my window
trying to get in
they don't go nowhere
waiting, waiting...
bugs on my ceiling
crowded the floor
standing, sitting, kneeling...
a few block the door
~Pearl Jam

Many blogposts ago, I shared with you something that a friend of mine once said to me. To paraphrase her, there are some people in life that things just happen to. They happen to these people, because these people were meant to tell great stories.

I am "one of those people".

I am not throwing a pity-party. I am not saying "oh why oh why oh why is life always picking on me?" No. I take things in stride that others would hit the bottle over. Truthfully, I enjoy my animated life because, yes, I do have great stories to tell. What a boring blog this would be if I had nothing to say, right? I mean, surely you all don't come back to read about me tying my shoes or that I threw an extra creamer in my coffee for shits and giggles. Oooooh, CP, you wild woman, You! An extra creamer! Lawwwwwwwdy! You put the "shame" in shameful, Girlfriend!

Anyway, onto the story:

So I was minding my own business, right? (I think I may change the title of my blog to "So I was sitting here, minding my own business", because it seems that is the way EVERYTHING in my life begins). I am working. I am a nurse. You all know that already. Blah. Hang in with me a moment. I'm getting to the point.

Woman comes in. Pretty girl. Blonde, early 40's, kind of plain but in a pretty way. She is carrying a shopping bag. Okay. No big deal. I bring her into a room to begin my assessment.

"So, (insert patient name here), what are we seeing you for today?"

You know how there are some words you wish you NEVER said and want to suck them right back into your throat the second the last syllable escapes you? Yeah. It was one of those moments.

I am not going to sit here and try to tell you verbatim what she told me. Instead, I will transcribe what I wrote in the assessment of the office note. (Incidentally, this is not a violation of the HIPAA Privacy Act as I have not mentioned where I work, for whom I work, the patients name, date of birth or social security number. This is being published for educational purposes. Okay, so no it isn't. It's being published for entertainment purposes. Yours. So shut up and don't rat me out, alright?)

Here we go:

I have a parasite in my body. I have worms coming out of my nose and bug parts coming out of my eyes, my feces and my urine. I have seen seven psychologists. They all tell me I'm crazy, but I see them. They are little hairy claws that dig to the surfaceof my skin. I brought my microscope in. I see them in my microscope all the time. I have a pupa and a cocoon that came from a homeless person. It got into my body from the homeless person who stayed at my house for 6 hours. The bug crawled into an incision from my back surgery in November. They don't itch, but I get 50-70 bites a night. I used Elimite (a product to treat scabies) two times and it didn't help. It made me face grow hair. I took a bath in petroleum, filled up the whole bathtub with vaseline to kill them. I sat in it. They didn't die. I've used 4 different antibiotics including a z-pack. I was told that I was delusional, because I pulled a winged creature out of my face."



Um, yeah.

Now, I've been a nurse a pretty long time. I have seen my share of crazy shit. I have even dislodged a Barbie doll from a patients anus back in the ER. Just about every nurse has a "what I found in this patients anus" story if you ever worked ER. Most of the time, those are patients who were experimenting with different sexual things and got a little carried away. No harm, no foul. But this woman...Maaa-aaa-aaaan. I have to admit, she scared me a little.

She lined up her microscope, her slides and her multiple little packets of plastic bags, each with "bug specimens" in them. She had a frantic look in her eyes, sort of like a caged animal when they are about to strike back at you. Her eyes got enormous and I could see her pupils were completely dilated. Check back to her med sheet...Oh, lookie there. 800 miligrams of morphine daily by pump pack (self infused by the patient). Hm. NO wonder she is feeling bugs all over her.

She pulls me over to the table and says:

"Do you see them? Can you see them? Do you see their teeth? Their ferocious! They won't let me alone!"

So I examine her specimens, very cautiously handling them. Turns out her "bugs" were nothing but piles and piles of scabs that she picked off her own body.

Yes, you have my permission to vomit now.

Not just scabs, but what my son affectionately calls "eye snot", along with your regular garden variety snot and yes, some actual bugs (ants, gnats, fruitflies) that were dead in bottles of alcohol.

"Do you see the teeth," she whispered, real soft, like she was afraid she would wake them if she spoke any louder.

"I definately see where you could think those are teeth," I reply, with the diplomacy of a savvy politician. I don't want to tell this woman she's a delusional bitch. I may be one statement away from getting an AK-47 put to my head. She could be a former postal worker for all I know! I wasn't risking it.

Doctor finally comes in and opts to biopsy a few of her "spots" where the bugs were coming out of her. Mind you, the woman looks like she has healing chicken pox. Tons of scabs everywhere, all over her body. He knows she has what is called "delusional parasitosis" but wants to appease her, probably for the same reason I opted to. She had that psychotic look in her eyes that told you she was just a stones throw away from gettin' all Matrix on your ass. As she is talking to him, she is pulling scabs off her body and saying "See? There's another one. Do you see it? Do you? DO YOU????"

Okay, that last one made me dribble a scant amount of pee in my drawers. Nothing that a good pantyliner wouldn't have protected me from, had I been wearing one.

I left the room.

The woman spent 45 minutes in our office, talking to herself, writing down notes on every scab she ripped off her skin, mumbling under her breath and reapplying her lipstick over and over and over...round and round and round.

After we finally got her to leave the building, bugs and microscope firmly in hand, she sat out in the parking lot for another hour and a half. Every once in awhile, she would walk back into the office, with a scab in her fingers telling the front desk to let the doctor know she had another sample for him. The poor girls at reception were horrified. By the third time she returned, we ushered her out and promptly locked the door.

I have to admit, this is the reason I became a nurse. Never a dull moment. Don't bother with Grey's Anatomy, ER or House. Just sit in the waiting room of your local doctors office and just watch. I promise you cheap and free entertainment.

It's why I only need basic cable.

Humans Being...

"There is just enough Christ in me
To make me feel almost guilty
Is that why God made us breed
To make us see we're Humans Being?
You break this, I'll break all that
You break my balls with all your crap
Spread your disease like lemmings breeding
That's what makes us Humans Being."

~Van Halen.

You know, they say (whomever THEY are) that "everything happens for a reason". Normally, I am a subscriber to that theory. While I am not particularly religious, I do believe there is a higher power out there, just waiting to bitchslap my fatass into hell, should I stray from the path of righteousness.

Oh, and babies? I have STRAYED.

There is probably a nice cozy seat next to God for me. Not hell, because while I have been bad, I haven't been "spit on the 10 commandments" kind of bad. So, the way I figure it, is I will get a desk right next to where the teacher can keep an eye on me, as opposed to detention.

Every once in awhile, I miss a "Godly" task and I am given a make up test. This is what will be addressed in this story called: The Agony and Ecstacy of Humanity. Or, Only in New York, Folks. Or, I Was Almost Arrested In New York and All I Got Was This Lousy Warning.

Pick whichever title floats your boat.

As all my stories begin, I was minding my own business...when all of a sudden:

Don't scoff. It's true! I really WAS minding my own business.

I'm standing at Gate A7 in Long Island's MacArthur Airport. I am on time and on line. This should have been my first hint that disaster was about to strike. I spy to the right of me a mother and daughter bidding each other farewell. The young girl can't be more than 14 years old, at best. Mom was probably about my age. From the gist of the conversation, it appeared that teenager was flying alone to go meet her grandparents in Tampa. Mom was nervous/worried/overanxious about her flying alone. Understandable. I used to (read: still do) get that way when my daughter flew by herself for years. Mom was wondering whether her precious cargo was eligible for "pre-boarding", as she was a minor traveling alone. I suppose I look like a "woman in the know", so she asked me. I wasn't sure about the rules but I told mom that if it would make her feel better, I would be more than happy to escort her daughter onto the plane.

"Would you really," she asked, excitement oozing from every motherly pore.

"Absolutely," I replied. "No trouble at all."

Sign #2 of pending disaster. In the Jewish religion we have a thing called a "kinehura". It's not too much different than Murphy's Law, except that if you SAY everything will be fine, you can almost guarantee that it won't be. You are supposed to fan the air and "pooh pooh" the bad spirits away. Since this woman just entrusted her child to me, I didn't think it would be appropriate to start waving my arms in the air screaming "POOH POOH". So I didn't.

Mistake #3.

I invited the young lady to stand in front of me on line. Yes, she was cutting, technically...but she was cutting with MY permission. All of a sudden...

"WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?"

"'scuse me?"

"WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE LETTING PEOPLE CUT IN FRONT OF YOU?"

I look up and see the hugest, most mammoth elderly beast monster that I have ever seen, wagging her gnarled up finger at me. Now, mind you, this woman is NOT behind me. Matter of fact, she is two people IN FRONT of me. I would understand if the person behind me got annoyed, but someone two parties in front? Why would they care?

"WHAT KIND OF LESSON ARE YOU TEACHING HER, THAT SHE CAN GET WHATEVER SHE WANTS," the elderbeast continues to shriek.

"And what kind of lesson are YOU teaching her, Ma'am? The value of human kindness?" I say, all sweet and sarcastic like.

I suppose I incensed the elderbeast, because she reached behind her, over her elderbeastly husband and grabbed the young girls arm. She pushed her out of the line. Now, there is chaos, because Mom had not left the gate area yet. She was watching her little girl board the plane. Mom saw the elderbeast grab her child in fury and shove her off the line. Mom hurdled over me like I was a bench in an OJ Simpson/Hertz Rental commercial.


"DO NOT DARE TOUCH MY CHILD," the MegaMom roared.

"THEN YOU TEACH HER BETTER MANNERS," the Elderbeast countered.

"Excuse me, but I LET this young lady in front of me," the Certifiable Princess declared. "She was not cutting. She is a 13 (I was guessing) year old girl, traveling all alone! Where is your compassion???"

In the background I hear a bunch of faint "Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Where's your compassion?" But in no way, shape or form was I prepared for what happened next.

MegaMom got right up into Elderbeasts face and said (again) "DID YOU HEAR ME??? DO NOT TOUCH MY CHILD EVER A---"

And before the tail end of the word "again" made its way out of MegaMom's mouth...



POW! Elderbeast slaps MegaMom not once, but TWICE, right before my eyes! I have to admit, I was in shock! Child starts to cry, MegaMom starts to shriek and CP suddenly kicks into Charlie's Angel mode, getting into a karate stance and telling the Elderbeast to "BRING IT ON, SISTAH!"

I even did the little Matrix "come closer" gesture. *snort*

All of a sudden at least 50 of New Yorks Finest are swarming all over the gate. They run onto the airplane (which I now understand to be "protocol" when a fight aka "a diversion" is underway). After searching the jetway and plane, they came back out, with the Air Marshall (who turned out to be a really cute, nerdy guy who I would have NEVER believed to have been the Air Marshall in a MILLION years). I have two cops grabbing me, two grabbed MegaMom, one female officer swept away the teenage girl and a whole bunch of spectators were yanked from the line.

But...out of the corner of my eye, I see the Elderbeast making her escape! She and her evil Elderbeast Henchman of a Husband, hightailing it onto the plane! You must be shitting me, sistah! I don't THINK so.

Knowing full well I could get arrested for this manuever (and frankly, Charlie's Princess not caring a whole lot), I run around the cop who was detaining me, over to the opening of the jetway and screamed at the top of my (very large) lungs:

"THIS WOMAN JUST COMMITTED ASSAULT AND BATTERY ON A MINOR CHILD AND ANOTHER WOMAN. SHE CANNOT BE ALLOWED ON THE PLANE! SHE IS A THREAT TO EVERYONE!"

Yeah, I got detained again...but at least everyone was wise to the sitch, ya know?

Well Elderbeast took her Geritol and shrunk back down to a bleeding heart "I am 70 years old. I have a heart problem. These women attacked me!"

*blink* HUH?

Long story longer still, a dozen witnesses stepped forward to state that they did in fact see the Elderbeast strike the MegaMom and grab the child. She then stated that the "other woman" (re: me) instigated the whole event by getting her family to beat up on her.

My family? I told the police officer that I didn't even KNOW these people! I was just merely sticking up for a little kid who was left to travel alone. I was so appalled by everything. They asked MegaMom if she wanted to press charges. MM said yes, she did. (Good for her!) Then, the air marshall informed us that NONE of the involved parties will be flying this night. Now, don't get me wrong, I have a job and kids to get back to...but, it's really no skin off my ass if I am forced to stay another night in New York. MegaMom wasn't flying anyway, so I knew she didn't care. And the Elderbeast and her Henchband lived in New York. So, all the way around it would only be a minor inconvenience for everyone...

Except for Stephanie.

Stephanie was the young lady that got lost in this mix of violence and insipid adult behavior. She was going to Tampa to see her "Ya ya" and "Pa pa" (Greek for Grandma and Grandpa) and in actuality, they would be the only ones getting hurt. I asked the Air Marshall to reconsider his stance. I told him I would be happy to give up my seat on the plane for Stephanie. She hadn't done anything wrong but follow the rules of her mother. Why was she being penalized for that?

In the end, calmer heads prevailed. The MegaMom did press charges and Elderbeast and her Henchband were hauled off to jail (can you imagine???) We all had to turn over our licenses and give statements of what happened. I was told that I may be called upon as a witness, should this go to court. I agreed to that. Finally, I was allowed to fly and had to agree to be responsible for Stephanie's behavior on the plane. Stephanie's behavior? The child was the portrait of goodness and grace! If I had seen MY mother getting bitchslapped at that age, I would have grown eight feet tall and turned green, blowing out of all of my clothing...just before rupturing this woman's spleen with my teeth! Not Stephanie.

After a long chat on the plane, she showed me her notebooks with letters to friends. Hearts, doodles and flowers. She showed me her iPod, loaded with wholesome Christian music. She was reading a book about one of the victims of the Columbine shooting and how her family turned to God to answer the hard questions in their lives...like, Why?

When we got to the other side, I was greeted with hugs and kisses from Yaya and Papa. They were so happy that someone was willing to step up to bat for the granddaughter and keep her safe. I felt like some sort of hypocritical superhero. After all, it was my "gesture" of kindness that ended with this childs mother being hit in the face. It didn't seem right or proper to accept thanks, but I did, humbly. I got a warm embrace of thanks "for EVERYTHING..." from Stephanie, and a promise of a phone call the next time she's in town with her grandparents.

On days where I question why things happen...how everything can happen for a reason, I have a feeling that perhaps I was supposed to get involved with Stephanie and her plight. I was in a great deal of personal despair when I was getting on the plane, leaving my husband. Fighting for this kid made me feel purposeful again.

So, Stephanie K. of Holbrook, Long Island...if we never see one another again, I will always know that I will be a part of one of the craziest stories you ever get to tell to your kids and grandkids. With that burden shared, I feel a part of your family...and a little bit more assured that you took away the lesson of human kindness, not human hatred.

As for the Elderbeast, well, I am hoping she gets the chair.

A nice rocking chair in a local looney bin.

The wedding is off.

Well, boys and girls, I am blogging to you from beautiful Lawn Guy Land, New York. Today was the day I was going to meet my future wife, Madelene. You may also know her as "Deb's Lover/Girlfriend/Partner/Mamacita" etc. Then Deb, the two timing tramp, ups and marries Mike of "A New Random". Being the lovely lady I am, I felt compelled to step in and mend Maddie's broken heart by sweeping her off her feet in Manhattan today. I came complete with Tiara and Veil, waiting to meet my Latin loveerrrrr...but then, Deb had a change of heart. She obviously knew the competition was too great. Deb is just a greedy little wench. She wants her cake and to eat Maddie too. ."Oh no. Oh no she just di'in't" So, I do not get to meet Madelene in Nueva York today. But that's okay. The day shall come when Madelene and I are united as one, and Deb will be standing by the side of the road, waiting for Mike to come along in his tractor and take her away from all the heartache and misery.

As for my hotband, don't feel too bad for him.

Maddie and I will need a cabana boy and hotband will do quite nicely wearing a banana hammock and serving us drinks poolside.

SHE WILL NOT WIN, MADELENE! I WILL HAVE YOU...come hell or high water, YOU WILL BE MINE.

Slowly, I pack away the veil and tiara, assured that someday, I will get what is mine. Moo-ha-ha.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So, now you know. I didn't get to meet up with Deb and Mad this weekend due to "issues". I won't say whose issues or what they were. Okay, yes I will. My husband had a rampant case of jockitch and didn't want to be around a bunch of females while scratching his nads all day. Okay, that's not really it. What it actually was was...I was having that "not so fresh" feeling. Okay, that's not it either. Whatever. Bottomline is, the meeting of two lesbians, bisexual and a straight man will have to be postponed for a few weeks.

Doesn't that sound like an NBC comedy?

Thanks for watching "Will and Grace". Stay tuned for "Two Lesbians, A Bisexual and a Straight Man" coming up next. *LOL*

I miss you guys this weekend.

*smooches*

CP.

I'm feeling a little blue tonight...

So instead of posting my usual rant or some of my faux intellect spew, I will just post a few pictures that make me smile. Mi familia. I suppose this post can also double as an HNT post. I'll go with that.

The beautiful girl on the left is my daughter. I love this picture of her and her best friend (on right), because I am positively in love with my daughters smile. Being a moody 19 year old, you don't get to see those smiles as often as you would like. But that one? That one just warms my heart and literally fills me with joy. It is also evidence of her perfect teeth, and the fact that I will never have to put braces on them, saving me a cool six grand. Thank Dog for good genetics. She's my love. My firstborn and my bestest girl.

This pic is of my 10 year old son. He is a friggin' freak. He can do that with his eyes on purpose. He knows whenever I am pissed at him, he just does that with his eyes and I crack the hell up. He looks quasi-retarded when he does it and frankly, it is embarassing as all get out. He resembles his father (my ex husband) when he would make his "O" face, so I find it disturbing to say the least.

Ah, there we go. My son next to the ONLY person whose "O" face I ever want to see. Ever. Big N. and little N. Those two are the loves of my life. NO one makes me laugh like these two do when they are together. You never saw a sweeter stepdad and son before. My son is hyperintelligent. My husband is hugely immature. I think they meet somewhere around age 20. They are priceless to watch together, because they are in love with one another. They do everything together. I would swear that somehow, I met Big N. years earlier and he impregnated me. This boy and this man couldn't be anymore alike if they were biologically connected. Plus, they both love me, proving that good taste is both a product of nature and environment collectively.

This is me, post hospitalization for pneumonia, in bed with three of my four animals. The psycho cat is Fred. Fred is the nastiest cat alive. He wouldn't pee on you if you were on fire. He beats the crap out of my two dogs. Snoop is the black dog. He is almost as full of dark black hair as my husband. His nickname is Fatass. I'm glad my husband stopped calling me that, and started referring to the dog with it. Anyway, he is half dachshund and half labrador. He is full moron. If you can figure out that coupling and who was on top, please write me at certifiableprincess@yahoo.com and explain the logistics to me. The white dog that looks like a mogwai or an ewok is my pekingnese Suzu, affectionately known as Pissbucket for her lack of urinary control. When sleeping in the wetspot at night, if you didn't have sex, you can be assured that Suzu was around. She licks Snoops ass every night. My husband thinks Snoop is the full out mac daddy pimp dog. I look like crap in that picture because I just got out of the hospital earlier that morning. I told my husband that when I finally get home, after 3 weeks in the hospital, that I wanted a total animal in bed. Obviously, he didn't get that I was talking about him.

This is my kitten, Mini-Me. He belonged to my boss. He is all about cat rescue, so he suckered me into this bundle of joy. Mini is a fancy version of a sewer rat. He scavenges in the garbage and will pull the food right out of your mouth if you are eating. Unlike Fred, he can be very affectionate. Like Fred, however, he wouldn't piss on you if you were on fire either. Hence the name "Mini Me". He was named in honor of Fred, who, by the way...was named by my daughter after the movie "Drop Dead Fred". I have used that expression when talking to that cat more times than I probably should and still consider myself an animal lover.

This is me and the hotband in the Bahamas. This was the last time I remember being genuinely happy. He was with me for a wonderful two full weeks. It was the best and most romantic vacation ever. Check out the coconuts. There's some on the tree too.

That's it. Just thought that since I leapt from the closet of anonyminity, I would out the rest of my family as well. Why should I have to take this fall from grace alone? There will be no post tomorrow. I am on a plane, bound for Manhattan to meet up with my husband for the weekend. If you don't hear back from me by Monday, it is because Deb and Madelene are holding hotband and I hostage and using me as their animated sex toy. Hotband is only there because, well, someone has to hold the camera steady, right?

Please don't come looking for me. Trust me, I'm happy.

Oh. My. Gaaaaaaaaaaawwwwwwwwwd.

I am breaking my own rule. I am making a second post in one night. Ugh. I hate when people do that. Add that to Mike's list of pet peeves (See: A New Random--->sidebar thataway). But I have to there. I have to. I just freakin' have to.

I just got off the phone with my credit card company.

The cellphone rings. I am on my home phone with my husband making plans for me to join him in NYC this weekend. I answer said phonecall with a chirpy "HELLO????"

This is what I get back:

"Yeah, hi. I'm CAWLIN' because you haven't PAID yaw Visa or Mastah Cawd bill."

"I haven't?" I reply. This is funny, because A) I don't have a Master Card, yet I feel guilty for not paying the one that this person is accusing me of not paying and B) The person on the phone doesn't seem to know who I am, but they are truly convincing me that I haven't paid my bill.

Then, the loudest laughter you have EVER heard in your life followed by...

OH NO, NO SHE DI'IN'T!!!

Holy CRAP! It was DEB! Yes, DEB...was on the phone with ME! Little ol' ME! The OCD Queen herself, took the time out of her regularly scheduled disinfecting to call ME! Hello? Do we all understand what an honor this is? The Queen of OCD? The Gem of Germs? The Babe of Bacteria?

Well, we talked for a half hour...(on her dime, shit, sorry Deb! I should have offered to pay you back, but alas, I don't apparently PAY any of my bills...*snort*)

If I were not already the funniest bitch alive, I would have to say that she is. Truly.

Deb, you absolutely, posi-freakin'-tively made my night.

Now, sadly, I have to go crawling back to my husband and beg his forgiveness for throwing him off the phone so I can talk to you. I am probably going to get severe lockjaw for the blowjob he is going to demand in order to atone for my sins, but oh girl, you were worth every salty drop.

Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww! *snort*

Love ya dollface!!! Give my Maddie a big smooch for me and let her know that Mama's is comin' home! *LMAO*

*Throwing Roses*...thank you, thank you...

Y'all made me feel like a 16 year old debutante at her coming out party after that last post. Holy crap, it IS liberating to get back in front of the camera and out in the public again. Of course now, it will be easier for my co-workers to identify me when they realize I've been blogging about their bitch-asses.

Whatever. What I do on my time is MY business.

Anyway, thank you all for the warm welcome with regard to hubby and my pics. It's very refreshing to see positive posts now and then. It's light, airy, it's...

Boring.

And besides, we all know how THAT turned out, don't we?



*ahem* Let's get on with the pissing, shall we?

I have been reading a lot of blogs over the past few nights. New ones. None that are in my sidebar, and some that I think I might add over time. However, one theme seems to run consistant.

Birds of a feather flock together.

It kind of reminds me of high school. The cool kids sat here, the preps sat there, the jocks were down there and the geeks...well, who the hell cares where they were, right?

For example, I got to Blogger A's blog. She's writing about how lonely she is despite being "happily" married. Not enough time for me and the kids, yada yada blah. Then, I got Blogger A's sidebar and discover Blogger B. Blogger B is the male form of Blogger A. His wife doesn't get him. His kids resent him. His boss is an asshole and he is lonely at home. He wishes his wife would just, for once, watch sports with him instead of sit on the phone all night with her friends. I go to Blogger B's sidebar and find Blogger C. Blogger C seems completely content with his wife. They do everything together. They have so much fun and are the envy of every couple at the Little League Field. Blogger C is a soccer coach on his sons team. He is a T-ball coach on his daughters team. He just loves sports! It's insane! He does mention though that sometimes, he feels a little lonely in his marriage. Go to his sidebar and...HOLY COINCIDENCE, Batman! There is Blogger A, on HIS list.

Six degrees of separation? Hardly.

As I am forming friendships here (something I hoped/swore/prayed I wouldn't do) I am finding the common denominator that binds everyone. That common factor is the want to be heard. We all want to be heard. Some of us don't have big voices. Some of our voices are too big for our little bodies *ting*. But here, everyone is on a level playing field. The people that make you laugh are the ones that you generate to, if your life is lacking laughter. The people who make you think are the ones you gravitate to, if your mind is empty or filled with utter nonsense.

When I go to my sidebar, I am always surprised at the people I find linked to other people. In this enormous blogger world, there are still the same forty or fifty people who I see over and over again. The cool kids, in a world where it doesn't matter if you have a double car garage or a double wide trailer, still manage to float to the top and be the cream of the crop. It is absolutely uncanny.

It also sucks a whole lot of ass.

When I got online, back in 1996, I had no idea what I was in for. I did the whole "cyber" thing. I masqueraded as someone I wasn't for a little while, because it was so much fun to be someone else! I came clean and got dirty again more often than a pigpen in a whorehouse full of showerstalls and deodorant. (That line made more sense in my head than it does "on paper"). Now, 10 years later, I feel like I have come full circle. I can be the person I am, because she is completely a blast to be with! (Just ask any of my other personalities, they will vouch for me). No need to cover up who I am, what I am or who I believe because this is no longer a competition. There is no contest. I don't have to get half naked if I don't want to...and I can still have the ability to attract attention. Or, I can put a picture up of my ass in a thong for any of you who are dieting and want to practice diet techniques. Nothing says portion control like a fat chick ina G-string. It simply doesn't matter.

Why? Because beyond the monitor, we are all who we are. Just human beings that are simply trying to be heard in a very noisy world.

I've discovered that a whisper generates more attention than scream. A scream just feels a whole lot better. So, somedays we will whisper, others we will thrash our vocal cords via our fingertips. In the end, we are all better people for having connected on some level. We are all more divine for taking the time to get to know one another. Some of us will forge lifelong friendships. Others will just fall away unnoticed. Yet somehow, you still manage to come home, curl up in front of your computer and sip your coffee, content in knowing that here, if nowhere else...

you are one of the cool kids, and this, my friends...is your school.

For my hotband...Mr. CP.

To my husband:

I knew this anonymous thing was not going to last very long. How could it, when I have you for a husband?

My gift is my song. And this one's for you.

My darling, six years have come and gone. Six Valentines Day's tucked neatly away in the velvet lined vault that have become the place where I store the memories of you and me. Six glorious Valentines Days...from the first note that you wrote me.

Remember this?

Subject: monday
Date: Thu, 10 Feb 2000 23:17:49 -0500
From: "**********" <***@atlantic.net>
To: <****@atlantic.net>

Hey you.

I've called your house about three times and I tried to get you on the net but I can't find you anywhere so i'll just send you an e-mail. Keep Monday night open. There, that's all I wanted to tell ya. We have to be there at 9:00
p.m. ok?? Figure we'll leave your house at around 7:30. Cool.

See Ya

******

Our first "real" date. You were so handsome that night. That white glove dinner at the five star restaurant. The strolling violinist who wouldn't leave us alone. The veal puree' that I thought was soup. And of course, the tower of chocolate that I went down on in the middle of the restaurant. You dressed me up...and couldn't take me anywhere. But don't think I don't know that giving head to that dessert didn't make you want to commit in a big way.

Anyway, fast forward through furious fights, laughter and tears. Fast forward through the past six amazing Valentines. Through all the roses, the cards, the poems and the love notes on the mirror.

Fast forward to now. Right now.

This is our first Valentine's Day apart. I am not sure what to do with myself but sit here, listening to music that you like and miss you like mad. And although we have talked about twenty times by phone, I still can't say enough to you. So, I will do it in the way I do it best...

in words.

I decided to reveal our picture on this blog, this night...because it is hard for me not to be able to share the love we have. It is hard for me to see pictures of other happy couples and families and not give anyone an inkling as to what you have given me. See that smiling face on that woman? You did that. You. You with your quiet, boyish ways. You, with your dry sense of humor. You, with the beautiful, chocolate brown eyes that I simply drown in every time you look at me. You, with the rolled up jeans. You, with the hairy chest that I lay my head on every night. You, with the amazingly crooked smile.

You did that to me. You made me find my smile...the gift that others have tried to give me, but failed miserably.

You have made me want to laugh. You have made me sing outloud in public. You have made me throw care to the wind. You have reminded me why I exist.

I exist to love you. You, and our babies.

Late at night, I watch you sleep. Sometimes, I will run a finger along your cheek. Occasionally, that finger will run into a puddle of your drool. More often, though, it memorizes the lines of your face. The angles. The way your nose breaks into that cute cleft. The pattern of your goatee. The sweet fullness of your lips.

All of these things, emblazoned in my memory to be taken out on nights like this, when I am alone...1200 miles away and missing you.

And although I want this post to go on and on and on, I cannot. My eyes are awash in tears, tears of joy, tears of pain and tears of longing. But I would not trade one drop of them for anything. Each tear that falls from my eyes is a soft reminder of all the days gone by, and all the days yet to come.

I am the luckiest woman alive. And you, are my knight, my hero and the love of my life.

I hope you don't mind that I put into words, how wonderful life is...now you're in the world.

I will love you 'til the end of time.

Forever,
Your wife.

Haters. Lovers. Gossipy Bitches.

My hotband sent me a dozen roses and a dozen balloons at work today. He's such a love-butt. But, just for information sake, he does something romantic and sweet like that every year. He also does it for no reason. Example, last week, hotband sent me flowers to "cheer me up", because I was having a bad day. He's also come into my office with doughnuts for the girls and a special decaf coffee for me. He's very thoughtful like that.

Yet, as I moved through my day, I heard the sweet nothings of the haters. You know who they are. They are your work "friends" that smile to your face, squeal with glee over your joy, revel in your happiness while you are standing there...and then, the second you turn your back:



In goes the knife. That stabbing pain you feel is the icy hot pain of interoffice gossip. Hooooooey, was I a hot topic today!

"I heard that he does this all the time for her because he cheated on her."

"Really? I heard SHE was having the affair, and he's trying to win her back!"

"He must be having an affair while he's gone. Those are guilt flowers!"

"Ooooh, he must be in some serious doghouse with CP!"

And then, my all time favorite:

"She told me that she gave him anal this weekend. No wonder she got flowers."

*blank stare*

Now, I can assure all my fellow bloggers, I am not having an affair. I would have blogged about it by now. And, I certainly wouldn't let my husband know about my blogsite if I had. I also know, without an ounce of doubt, that he is not having an affair. Why? Two reasons. One, he can barely handle me. Two, 17 seconds is not worth having an affair over. Heh.

Hotband is NOT in serious doghouse with CP. Actually, hotband is very much romping the backyard and peeing wherever his little puppy heart desires. CP would even clean up his poop for him, should he opt to crap in the backyard. That's how good of a puppy he has been for most of our married life together.

But that last one??? I am as candid about my life as anyone. Truly. I am a completely open book. Really. However, I can assure one and all that I NEVER told anyone at work that my husband and I had anal sex. (Yes, CP, but are you admitting that you HAVE had it? Move to strike, your Honor, bloggers are leading the witness.) I mean, are you for real? Are your home lives so absolutely full of NOTHING that we are discussing why my husband sent flowers to my office? Is it my fault that none of you got flowers from your husbands today?

And, if I had given him anal this weekend, haven't I EARNED those flowers? Can we at least revel in my happiness and hemorrhoids for a few minutes before all the spiteful talk?

Sadly for my husband, the anal part simply did not happen this weekend. He got this weekend what he gets every weekend, which is the very best of my love.

My husband really needs to teach a class to these other husbands and boyfriends.

"Flowers Out the Ass: How to Romance Your Wife into Givin' Up the Anal"

or...

"Go From Thorny to Horny: Husband 101"

how about...

"From Backyard to Backdoor: The Connection Between Honeysuckle and Hershey Highway"

Do you think it would catch on?

Okay, enough passive/aggressive bullshit.

because that is SO not who I am. I lay it out on the line. I hold no punches back and I am tired of tiptoeing around the bullshit as of late.

I want to decree, here and now, that I am not going to expend another ounce of energy on the website that belongs to Twatwaffle Jones. No more emails to me asking me "holy hell, what happened between you two?" because I haven't a clue. I am also not linking that name, because I refuse to give her an ounce more traffic than she deserves. As it is, I am grateful as hell that she removed me from her sidebar, lest I be guilty of being a lunatic by association. I also will not remove the ability for anyone to make a comment on my blog because I am deathly afraid of confrontation from both sides. That is so NOT me either. If I am going to talk shit about someone, then I leave a LOT of room open for them to talk shit about me as well. Knock yourself out. Bring it on. Snark away. However, I didn't come here to make "best pals forever and ever and ever". I started my blog because I needed/wanted a creative outlet. I spent a LONG time reading the blogs of others before even starting mine, because I wanted mine to take a certain direction. And it did. I have met the most amazing people via this blog. *Points to my sidebar* There are a number of people on that sidebar that NEVER comment over here. That is A-OKAY with me. I know they read me. They know I read them. I am sure as buffalo ass not going to reprimand someone for not posting to me as much as I would like. That's crap. Real time prevails, people! We all have families and lives to attend to. So, if I only get to read half of Deb's daily tirade and finish it in the morning, so be it. If I only get to catch bits and pieces of Mike's diatribes, good for me. I am sick and tired of people saying "I don't read long posts" like blogsnobs. All of my posts aren't long. All of them aren't short either. They are whatever I feel is in my heart and head for that day. Nothing more. If you don't want to read my long post, please feel free not to...and remember that I will not be DELETING YOU FROM MY SIDEBAR for not doing so.

I mean, really. Is this supposed to be a form of cyber-punishment? I am no longer of Twatwaffle's elite society. Oh gads no. How will I sleep tonight? *sarcasm*

I am nearly 40 years old and have long since discovered the lack of room I have for toxic people in my life. There is just way too much negativity over there...all covered under a thick blanket of pure SNOW (as in "snowjob").

Anyway, she had me snowed like she has many of the present newbies snowed too. That's okay. *nods* People warned me about her, but I opted to draw my own conclusion over time. And in time, I learned that those people were absolutely 100% on the money. *sweeping bow to KB for being the brave one*

Eventually, the sun comes out...and snow melts away, leaving nothing but muck and slush behind.

With that said, CP is done with this issue. I wash my hands of it. Please do not think if you are friends with her that you are no longer friends with me. I never played those games in kindergarten and I certainly won't be starting them in my late 30's.

I have already devoted too much bandwidth to this nonsense, but I am always willing to entertain your thoughts on the matter, without fear of censorship or reprocussion.

*stands back to watch the pretty fireworks...* *snort*

Mondays suck ass.

This one sucks more than most. Hubby left this morning to return to Manhattan. At least he got snowed out last night, so I had one extra night with him. Tomorrow is Valentines Day and while I am trying not to give a rats ass, I can't help giving a rats ass. I don't need candy, don't even care too much about flowers. I don't need jewelry or the fancy assed dinner. I just want my husband to be home. That too much to ask? Apparently so. To say I am not a tad upset with my husband is an understatment. But again, I am trying not to be selfish and trying to accept that he does what is best for our family.

Still, it blows like a balloon. It sucks like a vacuum. It stinks like a skunk.

I HATE THIS SHIT.

Anyway, I don't have too much to say right now. I have a thrashing migraine that has me on the verge of vomitus projectilus. I am going to get offline now.

In the meantime, I hope you marrieds have a blissful Valentines day (fuckers). I hope you singles have a great day whether you have dates or not (double fuckers). I hope all of you who are divorced are revelling in this day of hearts and flowers and are very happy to be free of all of it.

And to those who cannot be with your loved ones, because they were TOO DAMN SELFISH TO WAIT ONE EXTRA NIGHT BEFORE GOING BACK TO WORK. *ahem* I wish them a happy valentines day too...and hope they brought lube and photos of their wife with them to NY, because that is ALL you are going to be getting on Valentines day, honey.

As for me, I plan on taking a nice, long soak in a bubble bath. Lit candles, a bottle of wine, some soft music. I intend on pinning up my long dark hair and making the water really hot, so that light beads of sweat form all over my body. Then, I will slowly soap and lather my leg, my arms, my large breasts, my tummy. Then, I think I will roll over and...

Oh my...am I saying all of this outloud? My poor husband might hear this and get even more lonely! That poor darling!

Not.

Husband, I love you to the ends of the earth...but I AM NOT PLEASED WITH YOU RIGHT NOW. *sniff sniff* Hm. Smells like jewelry in my future.

Jewish guilt. Gotta love it. Give him hell, girls. Let him have it for me!

Some catching up and a funny story...

To summarize:

Yes, I had to be the one to apply the scabies cream. I lost.

Yes, my husband ended up rocking my world. Well, over eight seconds. I think it was like seventeen this time. Nah, I'm kidding. He did the gramma trick all night and a successful evening was had by all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I went into Racetrac gas station to pay for my gas. I was looking pretty righteous for an old babe. (Was on my way to the airport to pick up the HOTband). A gaggle of 18 year old girls walk in behind me. I guess they were feeling a little threatened that someone their MOMS age was getting all the attention. (Hello, this was a gas station, not a nightclub. Who cares if the sleazy guy with the suitcase of beer and seven teeth is checking you out or not?) One of the little primadonna's starts saying (very loudly):

"Isn't it great to be this young? Isn't it the best thing in the world being EIGHTEEN? Don't you all love being so young?"

To which her sheeplike minions all starting bleating:

"Hell yeah! It's so hot being this age. Like, we get ALL the cute guys."

"Yep, all the hot guys want us. All the young, hot guys love young hot girls."

I had had my fill.

As I was getting my receipt, and listening to the instigator make yet another comment about "how hot 18 year old girls are" and that "they get all the cute guys" I finally turned around and said:

"No you don't."

"Excuse me," she said.

"No. You don't get all the cute guys. We do. See, when you all go home, back to your parents houses, at your curfews...those cute young guys come over to OUR houses to get laid PROPERLY."

Last words I heard as I was walking out the door was the sound of the guy behind the register yelling out...

"OH DAMN! SHE SMOKED YOU! YOU GO, LADY!!!!"

Couldn't get the shit eating grin off my face all night.

Screw Half Naked Thursday...

We got some Full Frontal Fuck Naked Fridays goin' on in this here joint. Sho' ya right.

Problem is, none of y'all are gonna see it. *snickering*

My husband is coming home tonight and I am gonna hit that shit like A-Rod on 'roids...steroids, that is. Not hemorrhoids.

This post isn't coming out nearly as cool as it sounded in my head. *snorts*

Lemme tell you something. Dave depressed me. He said I was getting too deep. *slaps Dave for two reasons, one, it's fun. Two, I like it.* And yes, I have a very deep, complex side to me.

You will not being hearing from her tonight.

So, without further ado, here are the 10 Things I Intend To Do In the First Five Minutes of my Husband Getting Home:

10)er.
9) um.
8) ah.
7) hm.
6) yeah.
5) uh huh.
4) Mm.
3) okay.
2) riiii-iiii-ght.
1) yep. That's what I thought.

All ten things are exactly the same...just in different positions.

*MWAHAHAHAHA*

I admit it. In this relationship, I am the guy. I am the total horndog. Don't get me wrong, my husband is certainly aggressive in bed, if no where else. And, he is as good at giving orders as he is at getting them.

But, he is also a guy.

And I am so sorry, but there is only so much of me that one man can handle before having to think about his grandmother getting a wet-down, oil slicked nude massage by your equally nude wrinkly grandpa...just to be able to hold on another three seconds.

Not saying I am perfect by any means.

Oh to hell with that. Of course I am. I was blessed with BGB (black girl booty) and I use it to the fullest extent of the law. While I am "thick" by many mens standards, and I am fat to other men...to my hubby, I am a goddess. It's not because of the way I look necessarily. It's the way I treat him. When he comes home, the porn star comes to life. I may be a "Desperate Housewife" monday through friday, but when Friday night roles around, I git mah freak on!

I have even had some major injuries while investing in my husbands pleasure. Substantial bouts of rug burn. No problem. A little neosporin will handle that. Bruised ribs? Excellent. Nothing a little R & R couldn't take care of. Muscle aches? Great. A nice hot shower (with hubby) and a rub down (from hubby) will take care of that quite nicely. Whatever it is, I will handle it in the name of fulfilling my husband. Why? Because he deserves it.

There was one time though that I went to the hospital and had an ultrasound done on my right thigh after sex. I had convinced myself I had a DVT (blood clot) in the deep tissue of my leg. I could barely walk on it at all. The doc I work for wrote me a script to have the doppler done. There was no DVT. It was simply me being a drama queen. It was "Severe Muscle Strain from Overactivity".

Yeah. Nothing like having to go back to your office with THAT report in hand. Basically, I pulled a muscle in my groin. The entire office was laughing their asses off at me, limping past me going "Oh! I had sex last night! I must have a DVT! I need a surgeon! Please, come and help me."

Assholes. *snort*

If you are interested in reading the story of how I received THAT injury, go here. It's a very funny and embarassing story that I told, back when no one read my blog.

Ah, well. Those are the joys of being on top. I have to remember I am riding my husband, not some big ass El Diablo looking bull.

I get confused, because both of them seem to toss me off after 8 seconds.

I think the bull would actually last longer.

I'm not ragging on my husband. Not by any stretch. He is an amazing, accomplished lover and always makes sure I "get mine" be it before or after he does if it doesn't occur during. So, don't let the fact that I call him Quicky McQuick Quick mar the fact that he is exceptional at what he does.

Well, it is time for me to get the kitty all lathered up in the shower, shave the golden cooze, slick down the thighs all baby smooth and fluff up the girls. It's gonna be a long night in the ol' CP house tonight.

And Billy? If you hear that there is an earthquake in Tampa tonight, relax and go back to bed. It's just us.

Lonely Hearts Club...

I am really not into the "three times in one night" posting thing.

I put a quickie up, over the "scabies" post, because I realize that some people found that mildly offensive. I won't take down anything I write, because if I wrote it, then it was for a reason. I will, however, move it down the board so that it isn't the first thing you confront when you pull up my page. If you are interested, it is a very gross post and it is two flights down *points two posts back*.

With that said, I have something else that I need to address.

I found myself on someones blog tonight. I read his first five most recent posts and then, dove into his archives. I went back a full seven months into this mans life. I was absolutely compelled. It's not that he is a great writer. He speaks his mind, which is always interesting...but he speaks it to the wrong people. He speaks his mind to the blogworld, and not to his wife.

This mans entire blog is about how much he wants his wife, needs his wife, desires his wife, loves his wife...and then, falls into a world of porn, online dalliances, strip clubs, etc. Now, I am NOT judging this man. I know what it is like to live in a loveless marriage. It's a desperate world. You slip away from your family slowly, while convincing yourself that you are still there. You aren't. I visited that place with my last husband. It started out innocently enough. I wrote some erotic stories. I emailed a few people who seemed interested in my work. I chatted with the until the wee hours of the night. We engaged in "cybersex". Eventually, that became phonesex. Finally, I was meeting men online and going to meet them in person. More often than not, they never lived up to the man they said they were online. These clandestine meetings would end in dinner, conversation and nothing more. On occasion, there was the man I slept with.

Then, there was the one I fell for. Hard.

This man was an absolute piece of garbage. I knew I was better than him in every way, shape and form. I knew I deserved better. Hell, I might have even HAD better in my husband, had I been bothered to re-visit that scenario. After 7 years of an extremely tumultuous marriage, I was no longer interested in trying to repair what was irretrievably *at least in my eyes* broken. Instead of doing everything I could to conceal my affair, I did everything I could to lay it out in my husbands face. However, our marriage was already so dissolved, he scarcely noticed that I was having an affair. That was okay with me. It allowed me to keep living my "normal" life while living my lie. It was having your cake and eating it too. I loved every single second of it.

Until the affair blew up in my face. Presented with physical evidence of my indiscretions, the husband filed for divorce (no big deal, we were heading in that direction anyway). He attempted to fight with me for custody of the children, and while it was a valiant effort, in the end he opted to not try to destroy my relationship with my children. For that, I will always be grateful. Our divorce could have been much uglier than it was. Now, in the wake of our destruction, suddenly, the affair was no longer my priority. That relationship slowly waned, no longer whetting my appetite.

That, coupled with the fact that he wasn't nearly the man he presented himself to be ruined it for me. Online and on the phone, he presented himself as the type of man that would really give me a run for my money...emotionally, sexually and mentally.

No dice. He ended up to be like every other man I have ever encountered, loved or married. He was scared to death of me. He wasn't able to control me. My lust in the bedroom FAR exceeded his physical capabilities. Once again, I found myself in the role of "the man", demanding sex all the time. He simply couldn't keep up. In my dysfunctional world, affection for me equates with sexual pleasure. I am not a very tactile person. I don't like people to touch me. I don't like my mother to hug me. I don't like it when my friends hug up on me either. I do love warm long snuggles with my children though...because there is nothing impure about them. They don't make my mind race elsewhere. Not that hugs from my mother do that to me...let me clarify that right now. Her hugs simply feel false. We were never very close so why pretend to be with the false "pat pat pat" hugs and the air kisses?

The only man that was ever able to handle me...was a WO-man. Her name was Alisa and while I was never in love with Alisa, she was always more demanding than I. She was a raging bitch lunatic, like I am, but she had something on her side that I didn't. She was extremely beautiful and very hard to say no to...about anything. I am not insinuating for a second that I am not a beautiful woman. I am. What I am saying is that Alisa had those "holy fuck she won the gene pool lottery" kind of looks. Insane beauty that you have to rub your eyes when you look at. You double and triple take, because there is just no way anyone could be that amazing. And with the throngs of men that would bang on her door and ring her phone all hours of the night, she only wanted me. She was a full-fledged, card carrying lesbian who loved to flirt with men. Most men didn't realize that she was a lesbian (I mean, let's face it, when you say lesbian to most men two images appear. Either a Playboy model lipstick lesbian or your quintessential bull dyke. No happy medium with men.) and she wasn't blatant about her sexuality either. When we started dating, back in college, everyone thought we were "best friends". Our hand-holding and occasional kisses were those of "best friends". *eye roll* It was as apparent as can be that we were together, but Alisa and I would deny deny deny. Nope. Just Best Friends Forever.

Right. Because all best friends go down on one another to say goodnight.

Anyway, back to this mans blog. As I was reading it, I was getting immensely angry for his wife, terribly sad for him and simultaneously, overwhelmingly grateful for my present husband.

It is pretty obvious to me that, despite this man stating otherwise, he is well on his way to having an affair. Not with anyone imparticular from what I have gathered, but he isn't crossing the notion of his list. Again, I don't begrudge him that. I just wish that those of us who are/were in unhappy relationships would grow a set of balls and get the hell out of them. To this day, right to this second, I wish I had been brave enough to tell my then husband that this was just not working out for me. I cannot live in a loveless marriage. I cannot stay here, pretend to be the superwife and mother and know that I am coming home to nothing. I wish I had the strength to have packed my bags and left before I would have allowed another human being into my life. Why? Because all these years later, the Wasband now believes that the reason we split up was because I had an affair. Nothing could be further from the truth. We were divorced long before the divorce papers were drawn up. But, because I opted to fulfill my own personal life with these dalliances, he will always believe me to be the bad guy, the one who ruined his life, his marriage and his dreams. He will always be able to tell the children "your mother had an affair, that is why we broke up".

That reason is so far away from the truth, that it has its own zipcode.

I truly empathize with this man. As much as I wanted to comment to said blogger and tell him what I think, I have opted to keep my opinions to myself. Okay, well, not to myself, obviously...but I am not commenting on his blog. First of all, I don't want to wallow in someone else's marriage. To do so might be misconstrued as being "interested". I value my present marriage FAR too much to fall into that trap ever again. My husband is my world. I would rather slit my own throat than bring him a millisecond of emotional or physical pain. Second, the blogger seems to enjoy having a gaggle of female admirers who say "oooh, I wish you were my husband" and then, give him victory cheers when he finally scores some ass from his wife. It's his band-aid on the bullet wound, so I understand him completely. When you have nothing, you have to hold onto the little things that make you feel better about your existance.

Been there, done that...lost the T-shirt in the divorce.

Got milk?

DAR ES SALAAM, Feb 9 (Reuters) - A Tanzanian mother went into hysterics when she found her six month-old baby suckling dog's milk, a local daily reported on Thursday.

The mother left her son on a mat while she went to hang clothes in the yard of her Dar Es Salaam home, Uhuru newspaper said. When she came back to find him suckling on the dog, she screamed and rushed to her brother's house to seek advice.

But the brother managed to convince her dog's milk was harmless. "Since that day the baby is doing well and hasn't had diarrhoea or any signs of illness," he was quoted as saying.

Another relative, who witnessed the incident on Monday, was also unperturbed.

"The baby was satisfied, since his belly was full and his lips had traces of milk," he told Uhuru.

Scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch...

You itchy yet?

You will be when we're done.

60- something year old patient comes into my office today scratching everywhere. She's digging her fingernails into her skin like someone trying to get out of quicksand. Dig dig dig dig...on old dry skin. You can hear the "scritching" sound it is making, sort of like when you rub corderouy together. (Those of you who had fat thighs in the 1970's will know the sound I am referring to.)

After close consult, it was determined that said patient had "SCABIES".

Education time:

Scabies is a common skin infection that causes small itchy bumps and blisters due to tiny mites that burrow into the top layer of human skin to lay their eggs. The burrows sometimes appear as short, wavy, reddish, or darkened lines on the skin's surface, especially around the wrists and between the fingers. Scabies is contagious, and is usually transmitted by skin-to-skin contact or through sexual contact with someone else who is infected with it. The infection spreads more easily in crowded conditions and in situations where there is a lot of close contact - like child-care centers or nursing homes. (Did we mention DOCTORS OFFICES???)

Are you vomiting yet? No? Good, let me get to the kicker:

A scabies infection begins as small, itchy bumps, blisters, or pus-filled bumps that break when you scratch them. Itchy skin may become thick, scaly, scabbed, and crisscrossed with scratch marks.

Mmmmmmmmmmm. Makes you want to run right out and have a bowl of New England Clam Chowder, doesn't it?

Tasty.

I mean, who around here wouldn't wanna wrap their lips around this bundle of love? Or how about mount this love shack full of sexual excitement?


Seriously. I can feel the heat rising from your thighs as we speak.

Or is that the vomit that just hit your lap?

Regardless, said patient was covered in the nasty stuff. And to reiterate, boys and girls, scabies are BUGS. They are mites. They are parasites. They are nasty, dirty blood-sucking leeches that are HIGHLY contagious.

There is a cream that you can put on your body to help resolve this little issue. It is called Elimite. You are supposed to slather your whole entire body in this cream. We are talking in the vagina, behind the scrotum (whichever you have goin' on in your pants), up the crack of the ass, under the breasts, between the toes, under the fingernails, under the toenails, in the bellybutton and if you are a chunky person, between the fat folds of skin.

And lovers, let me tell you. IT STINKS TO HIGH HOLY HELL as well.

For some reason, the doctor I work for thought it would just be a-okay with me and the other nurses I work with to have this woman come INTO THE OFFICE so that WE may apply this cream for her. Most of our patients do it themselves, in the privacy of their own home. This woman, however, was a WHINER.

"I caaaaaaaaan't do it myself. I caaaaaaaaaaaan't reach my baaaaaa-aaa-aaaack. I can't see my feeeeee-eeeeee-eeeeet. I caaaaaaaan't reach all of those plaaaaaaa-ces. I neeeeee-eeee-eeeed heeeeeeeeeelp."

*blink*


*crickets chirping*


None of the nurses said a word even though the doctor was looking right at us in hopes one of us would offer to help. Nope. Not us. I would stand knee deep in someones regurgitation. I will suction phlegm out of a throat. I will hold my bare hand over a bloody wound to stop bleeding if I don't have a glove readily available to me.

But scabies? Oh, HELL no.

Long story short, doc "volunteered" us to apply her Elimite for her at 8am tomorrow morning. Um, hello? I don't stick my fingers up my OWN ass, let alone someone elses. The three of us nurses were scratching the crap out of our OWN skin just thinking about those little buggers floating around all over her. Even as I am sitting here, my scalp is twitching and my skin is crawling!

I am sensing a little car trouble in my future. Sometime tomorrow preferably in the A.M.

What is in a name?

I love the "undercover lovers". That's what I call the people who lurk here and don't comment. I am not being sarcastic at all. I know they are here and eventually, they venture toward you by sending you an email. I've had three undercover lovers ask me the same thing...

"CP, what does the name of your blog mean?"

Admittedly, it is a strange name. Wouldn't have been my first choice of names if I were looking to grab attention. Plus, it's a LONG name, so for those of you who added me to your blogrolls, I appreciate you using two lines to do so! *L* Those who chose to go with "CP" or "Certifiable Princess", I completely get it. No worries.

Anyway, back to the name. Got time for a mildly amusing story?

Once upon a time, 10 years ago, I was forced to move from New York City where I was born and raised, to Florida. It was a very sad decision to have had to make. I was 7 months pregnant with my little boy at the time. Not the most ideal time to have to leave your family behind. Needless to say, my parents and my (ex) husbands parents were quite dismayed by our decision to move. While they understood the reason why we had to leave, tensions on both sides of the family were running REAL high. My parental units were mad at the husbands parental units. In turn, they were mad at my parents. Each set of parents were blaming the others child on the reason why we had to move away.

So, when my ex-husband proposed the idea of all of us getting together for a last meal at a restaurant to say goodbye, I wasn't too keen on it. Neither were our respective parents.

For any of you who watch "Everyone Loves Raymond", then I can sum this up for you very easily. My former mother in law is Marie Barrone. My mother is more like Debra's mother on the show. My parents are well to do, well-educated and frankly, they believe that they shit rosepetals. They know everything. They have seen and done it all. Family dinners consisted of Chinese takeout and family communication consisted of post it notes on the fridge. My parents are your quintessential "Type A" personalities. The ex's parents however, are laid back and very Type B. They are your typical italian family. Everything they do resolves around marinara sauce. Have a problem? Mangia. Failed a test? Eat some pasta fazul. Car broke down? A little garlic in oil on angel hair will make it all better. They ate dinner ate the table every single night. Together no less! Foreign concept in my family. His parents were not financially as strong as mine and their house was a trainwreck, but there was a lot of love there. People actually talked to one another in that house. I think I was about 13 before I finally met my mother for the first time. Prior to that, she was just the person on the answering machine who showed up with Kentucky Fried Chicken or Pudgies take-out every so often.

Our families were as different as night and day.

The day of the final goodbye dinner came and honeychild, I was DREADING it. But, it was already in motion so I was going to go with the flow and make the best of it.

We all met at our favorite diner out in Long Island. Me and the Wasband. My daughter S., who was 9 at the time. My parents, Harold and Esther. His parents, Maria and Antonio. His Uncle Vito and my brother and sister in law, Brad and Callie.

Lo and behold, the evening was going very well! The parental units were actually talking with one another in a decent manner. The Wasband and I were getting along quite nicely. Little S. was very well behaved and my brother and sister in law were not fighting in public for the first time ever.

It was glorious. A treasured moment in time. A portrait of the epitome of family love, interaction and bonding. A Norman Rockwell moment for the 90's.

Until the waitress came.

Both Esther and Maria have one thing in common. They are both VERY particular with their food orders. The words "minced garlic", "on the side", "hold the mayonaise", "drizzle lightly with au jous", "the inside has to be dark pink, almost a lavender", "al dente, not overcooked", etc. flew around the table to the point where it was almost embarassing. Wasband and I would always cringe when these two would order their meals from a Greek Diner in Long Island like they were dining at the Rainbow Room in Manhattan.

So, when ex-monster in law stated that she didn't want the "little shrimp cocktail but the one with the jumbo shrimp", my dad tried to lighten the mood (and calm a very flustered waitress) by saying...

"Oh! Jumbo Shrimp! Now, THAT'S an oxymoron for you."

Suddenly, Maria jumped up, threw down her napkin and barked:

"I don't care who you are and how rich you are. I will not be spoken to like that!"

Then, she stormed out of the diner.

We all looked at one another quizzically.

WASband ran out after his mother.

"Harold," says Esther "you know she isn't very bright. She probably thought you were calling her an IDIOT WITH A BAD COMPLEXION!"

Of course, my brother and I were in absolute hysterics. We couldn't stop laughing if we tried. Funnier still was listening to the WASband trying to explain to his mother that my father did not just insult her.

"But he called me a MORON," she exclaimed! "He might have said it scientifically with that oxygen comment, but he still called me a moron!"

From that night forward, whenever my family wanted to call someone an idiot to their face without directly saying so, we would mutter the word "oxymoron" under our breath. Hence, the Certifiable Princess proudly names her blog after one of the most idiotic miscommunications in her history.

I hope you "undercover lovers" found this enlightening.

The End.