Six Weird Things.

Laurie, the bitch from Beauty and the Beer, tagged some Princess ass. Now yes, I know. Others have tagged me before. I'm not big on the 'meme' thingies. They are boring for the most part. I really don't need to know 100 things about ANYONE, unless I am sleeping with them. Quite frankly I need to know three things:

1) You have a dick? Check.
2) Pulse? Check.
3) Stamina? Check.

There ya go. Interview over. You'll do just fine.

Okay, those were my PRE-marital requirements. Post marital, please add the following:

1a) Are we married? Check.

So Laurie tags me for the "Six Weird Things About Myself". I think I might try this one out because A) I have nothing of value to say today. B)...

Um, there is no B. "A" is sufficient.

Here we go:

1) I have a nail obsession. My nails have to be perfect constantly. CONSTANTLY. They cannot need a fill. They cannot have chipped polish. They cannot be misshapen, ragged or nappy looking. This goes for the toes as well. They must maintain the perfect mani/pedi at all times, or my day will go south real fast. No broken nails...EVERRRRRRRRRR!!! Not even during masturbation.

2) I am insane when it comes to the last thing in a box. Anything. I can't make a bowl of cereal if it is at the end of the box, without making sure that every Froot Loop, every raisin, every last flake is in my bowl. I get this nagging voice in my head that says, "CP, I just lived my entire shelf life to be eaten by someone, and now, you're throwing me away, just because I am at the bottom of the box!" Someone has got to have the last "O".

3) I have been bitten by a shark. Twice. Not twice in the same day. Rather, twice in one lifetime. Yes. It's true. Both times were in Florida. One I have no documentation of. The other I do. Go here. Please take note of the most excellent manicure/pedicure going on, despite the violent attack perpetuated upon me. Thank you.

4) I pee when I laugh too hard. Not a little dribble. No. A full outright stream of smokin' hot urine. My husband and children scarcely notice anymore. If we are watching any sort of comedy, they hand me a towel before it starts. I sit on that...just in case. Yes. I know you all want to invite me over your homes now. So, I'm not housebroken. Fuck it. I'm still lovable.

5) Whenever I get angry, I break into my second personality that I call Maria Conchita Applebutter. She's a mixture of Puerto Rican and Southern Belle. It's ironic that a New Yorker would have a downhome southern accent anywhere in her body...yet, piss me off and out flies Maria Conchita Applebutter. My husband laughs at me when I go "Southern Ghetto". I think he fondles himself to that voice and dreams of a threesome with me and Maria Applebutter. One day I will have to get angry and audioblog her for you.

6) I have a very vengeful side to me that few know about. Don't get on my bad side. That's all I have to say. I will do weird shit to you with various organisms of DNA...and I am a nurse, so I know how to combine things so that you will merely suffer, without dying.

There you go. Six weird things and some attachments to old archives for you new people who have to catch up on the sickness that is me. Moo ha ha. (evil laugh).

I'm really not all that weird. Well, except for the peeing thing. I wear Depends when I go to a comedy club, because I just don't trust my bladder. I also have a laugh that sounds like a Terradactyl. It frightens small children.

The peeing doesn't help alleviate their fears either.

Mmmmmmmmm. Shopping.

It's Memorial Day Weekend. My favorite time of year. Yes, I salute all the veterans who fought and died for my freedom. I honor them. I honor them...by shopping. If they had not defended my civil liberties, my rights, my ability to achieve the pursuit of happiness, I would not be able to shop with the rigorous abandon that I shop with.

I am a Jewish woman, ergo, I am blessed with the edge, the gift, the schnozz to pick out bargains. I shop at the most expensive retail outlets as I refuse to pay full retail for anything. ANYTHING. I will not even pay retail for Kraft Macaroni and Cheese if I don't have to. Moreover, being a Jew, I won't cook it either. That's why we have husbands and children. I shop...they cook, clean and do everything else.

It's the Jew Princess checks and balance system. I write the checks, my husband is left to balance whatever damage has been incurred.

It works.

I make great money. Hotband makes terrific money. Therefore, I have to admit, I am not nearly as thrifty as I should be. I take it for granted quite a bit. However, I tend to lay real low...

until Memorial Day.

I spent the day with my best work buddy, who shares my first name. We clicked from day one. She calls me Princess. I call her Diva. She is the 11 year younger version of myself, if myself ever was a size 2, had blonde hair or needed implants. But other than that, we are exactly alike.

We went to the Ellenton Outlets in South Central Florida. Oy. This is a bitches wet dream. I dashed into Coach (nothing I liked). Dove into Liz Claiborne (wasn't feelin' it). Splurged on clothes for the hotband and my son in GAP. And then, from across the way...I saw IT.

IT beckoned to me, from the window of the Guess store. IT waved to me, sparkling in the sun, its leathery texture caressing me like a long lost lover. IT glistened. IT dared me to come closer, oh you, with your come hither look. And I? I was lost, lost in the reverie of the moment.

I swooned. I held IT close in my arms. I posed with us, together, in front of a mirror. Oh, what a beautiful couple we made. How elegant. Our colors complimented one another. Together, we were radiant, exquisite. ITs skin was soft. The texture was flawless. I stroked it.

"Please," I whispered with breathless wonder, "come home with me. Please."

And oh, it teased me so. I fingered ITs tag, gently, slowly, reading the numbers in front of me. Would I? Could I? Could I get that deeply invested in another? There were so many others in my closet. Some far more expensive. Some, picked up on a streetcorner. Some were simply one night stands. Others, I look at and say "Oy, what was I THINKING?" But, at the time, I supposed they fulfilled a need.

But this one? Oh no. This one I will commit to. I will be loyal to. This one I will stay with for at least, the entire summer. A summer romance. Could anything be more divine? We were the perfect fit, a match made in retail heaven and now, that IT is home with me at long last, we will never be apart again. I will be true. I will be devoted. I will be faithful...



At least, until Labor Day.

You're Toxic, I'm Slippin' Under...

Did you ever realize that toxic people have a tendency to make you sick?

Mind you, I am not talking physically toxic. Like, not someone who has been wading around in biohazardous crap then like, licks your face.

I'm talkin' toxic as in emotionally toxic people. You know who they are. Hell, you might even be one of them. They are the people that perpetually have issues. Problems. Drama. They forever have a story.

Okay, I realize I am one of those "drama" people who always have a story. Maybe I am not making myself clear. I am talking about those people who are like "Oh woe is me" and then, feel the need to outdo you. You have a problem? They do too, only, theirs is worse. You have a headache? They do too, only, theirs is a brain tumor. You have toe fungus? They just had theirs amputated. You had twins? They had triplets. You had triplets? They gave birth to the first cloned llama.

You're gettin' my drift?

I have a woman in my office that is standing on my last nerve. She's gnawing on it. She's chewing on my cerebral cortex and dripping the crumbs of my psyche all over her drooping bosom. I can't talk to this woman. She's so nice, really a sweet kid, but I cannot talk to her for longer than 22.2 seconds before I feel the need to run out in front of a speeding bus and throw myself in its path.

Sample conversation:

CP: Hey, T. How are you doing today, hon?

T: Oh, I've been better.

CP: Alright, well, hope things get better for you! (See, I'm not stupid. I am NOT going to say..."Awww, what's wrong?" Those words are the trap. They set you up to hear nothing but misery for the next 20 minutes. I will not succumb to it.)

T: I doubt they will. My whole life is falling apart.

CP: That sucks, T. Well, good luck with all of that. I gotta get back to work.

T: You're a nurse, right CP? (Um, fucking DUH? We WORK together. I think, no, I KNOW you know what I do for a living. Freak.)

CP: Yes, T. Sure am. And right now, this nurse needs to get back to her patients! *Cheerful smile and wave*

T: I think I may have cancer.

CP: (slowly getting sucked into the vortex) *sighs* Why would you say that, T.?

T: Well, I have this lump, right here. You see it? It's gotten bigger. And then, I have this cold. And it won't go away, so I figure it is probably the flu-like symptoms of cancer. I want to go to my primary care doctor, but I don't have the money right now and...

CP: Honey? We work for doctors. Why don't you just ask one of them to check you?

T: I can't do that. I'm too embarassed. See, I have this body odor issue and I don't want the doctors to realize it. I sweat a lot. So, I have to keep buying this special deodorant that costs SO much money, I can barely afford it. I mean, I'd be able to afford it if my ex husband would actually PAY his child support once in awhile you know?

CP: Yes. I am familiar with that. I didn't get any from my ex either.

T: Oh, but like, MY ex hasn't paid like...a dime since both my kids were born upside down, backwards and with clown costumes on. Matter of fact, they barely ate for the first 54 months of their lives, because we are so poor. I can't even breast feed because I have that sweating problem, you know? The salt water would drip into their eyes when I would nurse them so they were both temporarily blind. Lucky for me, I got hit by a car one day, the guy was an opthamologist and he cured my sons. He was really nice, so I married him, only to find out that he was cheating on me with a dingo that he met while we were on our honeymoon in Australia. That was exactly the moment that I contracted this bird flu. *cough/sneeze/sniffle* and now I think I have cancerous lesions all inside my body because of these...(shows me her forehead).

CP: Those are pimples, T.

T: WHAT? Oh. My. God. See? The stress is getting to me and now I am breaking out. The last time I broke out was when I was 17 and I was about to fall off that cliff. IT was so scary that my face broke out. Fortunately for me, when I fell, I landed on my face and it pushed all the zits inside out, so you couldn't see them anymore. Of course, I was in ICU for about 16 years after that. They gave me antibiotics, but I was allergic to them and my face swelled up like a balloon and popped all my stitches, so I had to go back into surgery. That's where I met this guy, he was a surgeon and he put my face back together. I married him, only to find out that he was cheating on me with Condoleeza Rice, but he left her when his penis got caught in the gap between her teeth. So, even though he came back to me, I wasn't ready to get back into a relationship. So, I moved out of the house and I ended up homeless. Just me and my two kids. We had to live in a burned out taxi cab for about 72 hours until the CSI people came and confirmed that we were living in a crime scene. We had to vacate. Now I am sick. I probably got sick from inhaling all that fire fume, and now, I probably have black lung disease. What do you think, CP? CP??? CP???

EDITOR NOTE: CP is long gone. She is in the bathroom vomiting from the parasite that is eating her cerebral cortex. She would stop and call for help, but would rather die than listen to another minute of this pissing and moaning.

Tell me. Please.

Am I the ONLY person in the world that has the fortune of knowing someone like this?

Please.

A bullet to my occipital lobe is riding on your answers.

Dear Patients of Any Doctor:

My name is CP and I am a nurse. As such, I would like to set you all straight on a few things. Adherence to the following will make your day, and mine, go a lot better when visiting your physician.

1) Don't flip the front desk girls a lot of bullshit. They come back and tell the nurses how rude you are. We, the nurses, being overprotective of our front desk girls then proceed to tell the doctor how rude you are. Doc will come into the room with an attitude. You will not like it. Nurse will also accompany him into the room with aforementioned attitude. Do not kiss our asses at this point. It is futile. We already know you were pieces of shit to our hard-working receptionists, ergo, we automatically believe you suck.

2) Where on the front door of my office do you see the sign that says "Walk In Clinic"? These are appointments, people. Not suggestions. If you cannot be there on time, call up and reschedule. Do not start giving me your life story as to why you were late. You have already screwed up my schedule enough. Now, you sit here, 45 minutes late and think I give a rats ass as to WHY you were late? Let me say for the record...I don't. I will now have to work 45 minutes longer to accomodate my other patients, who incidentally, are now griping at ME for running behind schedule because of you. I will not offer you coffee. You are on my shitlist. I don't care if your skin cancer explodes. I officially hate you.

3) What in Gods Good Green Earth makes you think that you are so special that you can walk up to the front desk and demand to talk to the doctor? Newsflash? You can't. Nope, not even when you tell me you have been his patient for 25 years. Get in line, fucker. You and everyone else, alright? Do you really think he goes home and utters your name in his sleep? Do you think he even KNOWS your name until I remind him of who you are? No, he doesn't. You wanna suck up on someone that's going to get you moving along faster? Suck a nurse, Pal. The doctors haven't a clue who you are until I tell them.

4) Why. Why would you walk into a busy doctors office and tell the front desk you need to speak to a nurse right now? Are you completely unaware of the fact that I have 14 other patients to see right now? Moreover, unless you are bleeding out of your eyes or shooting fire out of your ass...why would you think I care? You want your pathology report? Really? Here's a clue. MAKE A FUCKING PHONE CALL. I'll get back to you as soon as I am done with my morning patients.

5) Please. Please stop saying "my lunch hour is at noon, can I come in then?" No. You can't. Wanna know why? MY lunch hour is at noon, too. Do I have a right to eat? Do I have a right to go outside for a breath of fresh air after carving cancer out of peoples faces all day long? Is it all right with you that I rehydrate my body for at least 15 minutes of the half hour I get? Carry a Big Mac in through the front door with you next time, and maybe, we'll talk.

6) Where on my chest does it say "waitress"? It says NURSE. See? Look closer. N-U-R-S-E. I didn't spend four years earning my degree and then another year of nursing school beyond that to make you coffee. Do not demand it. If I offered it to you once before, it was probably because I was in a nice mood. It is not a given that I shall retrieve you a cup of coffee everytime you walk in the door. Again, see number 5. Maybe if you walk in with a box of Dunkin' Donuts, we'll talk.

7) Please pay attention to me when I am speaking to you. Do not daydream, talk to your spouse or get on your cellphone when I am trying to give you post operative instructions...then have the balls to be pissed off when you get home, because you don't know what you are supposed to do. Do not call me six times in an hour to ask me either, because I am not going to call you back until the end of the day. Why? Because you didn't LISTEN to me the first time. Am I stupid? Do I not notice that you are not listening? Of course I noticed. And now, you will notice that I am not listening when you ask for me to come to the phone. See how that works?

8) Speaking of which, do not walk into my exam room with a cellphone in your hand, actively yakking away while I am standing there, waiting to triage you. If you do this, and I have to stand there while you go over your grocery list with your husband or catch up on last nights "LOST" episode with your neighbor, I will tell you honestly what will happen. You will be the last person seen that hour. I will move your exam room number to the bottom of the pile for wasting my precious fucking time. Recognize the power of the nurse. Word.

9) Do I look quasi-retarded to you? Do not call me up and tell me you lost your prescription and ask if I can please call you in a new one instead. I know you have the damn thing in your purse/pocket. The answer will always be no for narcotics, so why are you standing on my last nerve? Go buy a bottle of wine and get drunk instead. There will be no pills for you tonight.

10) Lastly? Treat me the same way I treat you. When you walk into that door, do not take out your last three hours on me. I am not the reason you fought with your husband. I am not the reason your car didn't start. I surely didn't put that cancer on your body. I am not the reason that Taylor Hicks got into the finals of American Idol. And, I sure as fuck didn't vote for Bush. When you come to my office, I am courteous, professional, kind and loving. I am a very patient woman. I am understanding beyond reason. Yet, for some reason, you are being nasty to me. I ask you kindly not to. Why? Eventually, you are going to have to get an injection. I can do it slowly and easily...or I can just jab your fat ass for shits and giggles. I don't like to do that out of spite. Please don't make me.

Thank you in advance for your anticipated cooperation.

The Nurses.

The way things change...

You can't plan your day. I've never been a fan of plans. Whether it was for a vacation or even a blog post. Each day, pre-designed and pre-destined. God allows us for a little leeway in our game of life but ultimately, everything falls to His hand. I believe that wholeheartedly. I don't try to change the things I cannot. I try to accept the hand that is dealt. It's not always clear why we are going through the things we are going through, but eventually you are shown the way. It is what I call the "ah ha" moment. It's when you plan to do your laundry, but end up on the beach. You don't know why. Someone drowns. You are there to save them. You were supposed to be separating your wash, but you were at the beach. Why?

You were meant to be there.

I am certain you are all believing that this post is about to launch into one of my long-winded posts about a certain something that happened to me. It isn't. This post is meant to be nothing more than a reminder that each of you were placed upon this earth for a specific reason. There is nothing out there that is greater than you. There is nothing out there that is out of your reach. Most importantly, there is nothing out there that you cannot handle. You are never steering your ship alone. It may feel that you are perpetually alone. You aren't. Somewhere, out there, there is someone who is experiencing your pain, your suffering, your angst and your agony. Somewhere out there, someone is dealing with something far worse than you are.

Somewhere out there, someone gave up the fight.

Times are uncertain right now. War. Disease. Famine. Pain. Poverty.

Please remember, you are meant to be here. You may not understand why right now. It may seem overwhelming. You may just want to throw in the towel. Please reconsider. There is purpose in everything you say, everything you do.

No matter what you believe, someone out there would be devastated if you were no longer with us. Your life bears weight in someone elses. You are someones shining star and guiding light. It is easy to believe that you aren't.

You are.

Allow yourself time to question. Allow yourself time to grieve. Allow yourself time to forgive. Allow yourself time to forget.

Then, move on. You are part of the design. You are not fate. You are destiny. Reach outward. Reach upward and when you are most confused...

reach within.

The lunatic is in the grass.

Did you ever do something really, hugely irresponsible? I mean, really irresponsible. I'm not talking to you twenty-something single and childless people who have very little responsibility. This is more to you thirty-plus married/involved people with children.

I've had a very rough week. I needed to unwind. Big time. The little guy was at his fathers house for the night. The big girl? At work until at least 9:30 pm. Holy Empty House, Batman! That gives us at least an hour and a half alone!

Now, the quandry. What to do with all this alone time? I opened the refrigerator, staring into it with vacant eyes. Then, a bottle full of glistening red liquid caught my eye. Its dark, alluring, sanguinous color called to me. The bright label on the frosted glass, it spoke to me. It said, "Drink me, you felonious bitch. You know you want to, Convict."

Good heavens. The bottle was right! I did want to! Very much so! And suddenly, like a beacon in the night, clarity.

Drunk. Let's get drunk. Piss-assed, shit-faced, falling down, unable to control your bodily functions...drunk.

And so, last night, my husband and I got wassssssssssted. I'm not talking about a little buzzed. Not even kinda drunk. I am talking wasted. Like, useless. We locked ourselves into our bedroom, used his laptop to play Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon CD. I lit a bunch of aromatic candles. We snogged through a bottle of Merlot in twenty minutes flat. We got undressed and laid in our bed staring at the stupid Window Media Player graphics. I think we had a conversation about how deep Pink Floyd songs were. I think I said something about generational conflict and feelings of abandonment. I think my husband drooled a reply. I recall mentioning that Pink Floyd were the masters of intrigue because of their radical soundbyte usage. I think my husband grunted something like, "yeah".

We stayed like this for at least an hour. We had become Comfortably Numb.

Then, our daughter came home. She knocks on our bedroom door.

"What," we both yell in unison.

"You guys are so gross," she says, in her 19 year old Valley Girl speak.

Us: "What the hell is so gross!?"

Her: "I know you two are having sex in there."

Me: "'Fraid not, Miss Smarty-pants. We're too drunk to be having sex."

Her: "Real mature, Mom. Real mature."

Part Three: Sprung! But first...an advertisement.

Part Three will begin right after this word from my sponsor.

Hey. You. You there. You with the miserable relationship. You. Single person. You. Unhappily married person. Yeah. You. Why haven't you gone over to Annie's blog yet? She's been in my sidebar for like, a thousand years! See? Right there. Look. See? Read it. Smart At Love. Yes, I've mentioned her before. Don't be haters. Aside from all of that, I am her Guest Blogger for today! Yes yes. Annie is a braaaaaaaave woman and gave me her Guest Star spot on Smart At Love and actually wanted to know my opinion on how to "get it right, finally" after years of dating/marrying the wrong men. Now mind you, I had the post written, at least in rough draft, prior to my husband letting me end up in the big house. Had it been after the fact, you might have gotten a completely different version. Heh. So, whatever. Just go to Annie's blog, Smart At Love, and READ me. Then, when you're done...STAY there and go back into her archives. The chick is brilliant. All full of PhD's and other affluent sounding initials. Your regularly scheduled program will begin shortly...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Did you read Part One? No? Then you need to or none of this will make sense to you.

Read Part One but not Part Two? Then, go back and do so. Why do I have to explain this shit to you? You see it says "Part Three" in the title. That means there were TWO other parts before this one. It's pretty simple shit. Oy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Onto Part Three:

The holding cell is really rank. The smell is unbearable. I would rather be in the "I can't hold my pee" room again. At least it was private. There are now six other women in this room with me. Kurt had just come to the gate to inform me that four hours will be about six now. No big deal. I'm patient. I can wait.

What IS making me insane is the amount of phlegm hocking going on in this little 15 by 10 room. Most of these girls have been here all night. It's cold. They're tired. Cranky. Some have their period. There is one potty in the middle of the room with a short 3 foot wall around it. No one has any feminine hygiene products with them, so they are shoving wads of toilet paper between their legs to keep the flow at bay. I am praying I do not get mine. I will seriously have to bust some ass if I cannot have my tampons and Always with Wings. Since the roll of toilet paper has become the community sanitary napkin, it means the girls with runny noses and phlemballs have resorted to their sleeves. CP is losing her ever loving fucking mind. I am not a germaphobe by any means. I couldn't be a nurse and be a germ freak, but...I do know that there are strains of diseases that I don't want to be in close proximity to. I am betting that at least six of those diseases were sitting near me.

The cell door slides open. We are all ushered to another area. There are telephones and televisions! Sweet! CP is happy. I walk to the phone to make a phonecall. SkankBitch yells out "Nursie! You have to have a PIN number to use the phones!" I sigh, hang up the phone.

"So, where do I get a PIN number from?"

"Sorry. I'm too DIRTY to tell you anything."

Yeah. I expected that. Left myself WIDE open for that one. Alrighty then. Up to the information desk. I ask some nice officer type person where I can get a PIN number from. SkankBitch behind me yells again.

"She can't have shit! I haven't gotten my phonecall yet!"

He tells her to shut up and mind her own business. Then, he hands me the private phone at the desk and tells me "Go ahead, use ours. Dial 9 to get out."

Flash to a scene from "Prison Bitches Gone Mad". Four of the six psychos I was locked up with all jump up, freaking the hell out. One threw a roll of toilet paper at me.

"What the fuck," one jailbitch screamed. "She's been here for two hours. She gets to use the phone. What's up with that?"

"I guess I just got it like that," I say to jailbitch. Officer laughs. Apparently he enjoys the fact that I am not letting these half-baked whores pick on me. No. I think not. There is a stick with each of their names on it. I saw "Bad Boys", "Slammer Girls" and "Chained Heat". I know I have to be a little hoodrat to survive here right now. I got the drill. Bring it on, Biotches! You know who you're playin' wit? You know who I am? Do you? Well? DO YOU?

Okay, they don't. And even if they did, I am certain they won't care.

I make my phonecall. It's to the hotband. Ring. Ring. Ring. Voicemail.

WTF???

Are you serious? VOICEMAIL? I'm in the slammer doing hard time and you are putting me through to your voicemail? Oh, son. You have no idea whatcha just gone and done did. Call number two. Bail bondsman office. Yes. That's where he is. Of course.

Hello? No? He hasn't been there? At all? Are you sure? 'Kay. Thanks.

CP is contemplating staying in jail a little while longer after she gets sprung, so as to avoid having to comeback on homocide charges. Is he fucking KIDDING me? Alright, CP. Breathe. Don't flip the hell out just yet. Just go chill. Watch the movie, "Project X", with Matthew Broderick on the American Movie Classics channel.

I'm watching the movie, trying to avoid the other bitches. I am getting pissed. The monkeys in the cages in the movie have more liberties than I do right now. They also have diapers on for when they have to pee. I have nothing, because you couldn't PAY me enough cash to sit on one of these dirty assed toilets. No wonder the person in the holding cell peed in there. Smart move. I'll have to remember that if I ever end up here again. If my husband doesn't get his ass moving, I'll be back in a few days. Fo' sho'.

Lunch is served. It smells good, I have to admit. I am starving. Yet, I can't erase the mental picture of some convict chick who had recently fingered another convict chick preparing the food. I am all about lesbian love. Truly. That doesn't mean I want to taste the shit without it being properly solicited by me personally. Yeah. Lunch. I think I'll pass.

"No thank you," I say to the felon handing out the fish sandwiches. Coincidence? I don't think so. Perhaps it was the scent that got that image into my head in the first place. Who knows.

"Bitch," yells SkankBitch, "take your fucking food! What the hell is the matter with you! IF you don't want it, give it to the rest of us!"

"Oh, alright. You want my food?"

"YEAH!"

"Okay, you should have said so." I take a tray from the food felon. I start walking towards SkankBitch. When I get within six inches from her, I pretend to stumble and dump my entire tray into the garbage can next to her.

"Whoopsie," I say, non-chalantly.

"Fucking whore," she calls me.

I blew a simple kiss in her direction. "You are what you eat, babe."

I go back to Matthew Broderick playing with monkeys. I hear a girl sobbing on the phone. Apparently, she hit some kid with her car accidentally. The kid died. She's being held on $100,000.00 bail. Ten-thousand to bond her out. This girls life is pretty much over. She's eighteen years old, and will probably not see the light of day for a long time. The girl to the left of me? Her name is Cindy. Her next door neighbor, a crazy elderly man tried to stab her dog with a box cutter. She knocked him down. He hit his head. Apparently, old man nutjob has a son on the force. Cindy is being held without bail for the time being. She didn't flee the scene like the first girl did. She stayed, and was actually the one to call 911. Now she's doing time. Girl number 3? Pulled over by a cop for having a tail light out. Boyfriend was supposed to fix it for her. He never did. Unfortunately for her, she was smoking pot right when the cop pulled her over. She's in on a thousand dollar bail, 100 bucks to bond out. Hello? She's smoking marijuana behind the wheel of a car, 100 bucks, she goes home. Me, I am making payments to the government...3/4's paid off, and I am here on a bail of FIVE grand, five hundred to bond out? Um, hello? Does anyone see a problem with these various scenarios.

But, luckily for me, it's not what you know, but rather who. At this point, I was willing to blow half the officers in the jail just to get the hell out of this wasteland. I'm tired. I'm falling asleep on two plastic chairs. I was so sick of hearing the phrase "but I didn't DO anything wrong", when I actually wanted to strangle their asses and say...Yes, yes you did! "I" didn't. You all suck. You are all beneath me. You are all turds on fleas! You are...

"CP! Get up! You're bonded out."

*silence*

"C? IS there a CP here?"

*silence*

Suddenly, I feel a poke on my arm. I jump out of the plastic chairs, ready to kick some jailhouse ass. I am in the crane position from 'The Karate Kid' and ready to drop someone like it's hot!

"WHAT??? WHAT???" I'm in my stance. I'm deadly. I'm threatening.

I'm ridiculous.

"You've been bonded out," said the cop standing over me.

"Yeah. Okay. Sorry 'bout that."

"No problem," he says.

I walk out past SkankBitch and blow her one last kiss.

"See you next week, Nursie. You'll be back. They always come back."

"Don't hold your breath, Skank."

('Course, I'm standing right next to a well-armed police officer when I say this. I'm not so sure I would have been so bold had I been alone with SkankBitch. I like to think I would. But, again...too many prison movies tell me this is a bad move for a newjack like myself. Word.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"May I ask you what the fuck took you so long," I say to my husband. I have to admit, as mad as I was earlier, he never looked so good to me. I hug him. He hugs me back. Tight. I think he was a lot more worried about me in there than I was about him out here. In the air. Air. Fresh-fuckin'-AIR! If I wasn't such a fat lazy bitch, I would have romped in the grass right then and there. Still, it was nice to know the option was mine, if I wanted it.

"Baby, you wouldn't believe what I had to go through..."

He is telling the story about this bondsman not showing, that he couldn't reach Kurt right away, blah blah blah. I'm not listening. I'm just looking at him, so grateful to be out of that hole. Right now, he's my superhero. Even though he is the dumb schmuck who landed me in here to start with, for now, he's my superhero. All I want to do is have unabashed, angry prison sex with him right now.

We hold hands for the entire drive home. Most of the time, we're silent. He's grateful for this, I know. He is waiting for me to explode all over him and threaten his existance on the planet for what I just went through. I'm not in that kind of mood. I'm too happy to be out, be free.

Besides, I had a lot of time to think in the big house. It was Thursday. Mothers Day was coming that Sunday. I'm thinking that the presents that will result from the guilt he was feeling will be SO worth the seven hours I spent in jail.

Wrong.

Bail is expensive. My $500 gift was my freedom. Wow. Sucks to be me, eh?

I wasted a perfectly good opportunity to rip the hotband a new asshole.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My entire office is calling me Felonia. They said it is Greek for "convict". I've taken to calling them all "assholes". You know, American for...asshole.

So, just remember, boys and girls, the next time you apply for unemployment, remember that there is always a chance in hell that three years later you will be doing hard time for it.

I'd like to tell you there is a special lesson we can all take away from this. There isn't. However, if you ever find yourself being hauled off to prison, there are two things you must do first:

1) Insert a tampon. Even if you are a guy. Find a spot for it. It's worth big bucks on the inside.

2) Do not wear the expensive sneakers. You will be forced to burn them upon your release.

I hope all of you have learned from my mistake...and laughed at my expense.

There will be a Paypal logo on my blog as of next week to support the "Bail Out a Princess" fund. See how funny y'all think this is when I make you PAY to read the stupid shit that happens in my life. Yeah. Then what? Hm?

Don't fuck with me. I've done time.

Part 2: Jew Girl in Bondage.

Confused? Confuddled? Confounded? You will be, if you don't read PART ONE first.

For those of you who already have, our story leaves off with a very pissed off Princess being escorted by one Officer Henderson to his unmarked patrol car.

"I won't handcuff you until we get to the jail," he says, hoping to make a friend out of me, "we can do it once you get there, but don't tell anyone I didn't cuff you before you got in the car, alright?"

"Sure," I reply. "You don't have anything in white gold, do you?"

"Nah, just your standard stainless steel."

"Figures."

I kiss my husband goodbye. Yes. I kissed him goodbye. I am sure you are all aghast right now. The logic is quite simple. Suck up to the holder of your bail money...castrate the fucker later, when you're free. You have to keep thinking, ladies. Always keep thinking.

"I'll get you out of there as soon as possible, honey," he says.

"Mmmmmmm-Hmmmmm. Please do."

"I'm sorry, baby."

"I bet you are, darling. I bet you are."

And so, off I go with my new escort, Officer Henderson. We are making small talk in the stank vehicle known as his squad car. I cannot even find the right words to describe the odor. I am twitching in my scrub pants. I feel my ass tightening up as I know that some drunk who pissed himself has probably sat here at some point. My skin is crawling. There are some blood stains on the light beige carpet. Swell. Hepatitis C can survive on a surface for at least 72 hours. I wonder when that blood got there. Hm. In front of me, a grill, separating me from the police officer in the front seat. One good slam of the brakes, and I will look like an Eggo Waffle.

"I see this happen all the time, ya know," he says from the front seat.

"What?"

"This. This thing that we had to pick you up on. The unemployment issue. It happens all the time."

"Yeah," I said, not really caring that it happens all the time. Just moreso that it happened to ME. "But, you know, it doesn't make sense. We were paying! We had the bill down from $3200.00 to the last $700.00. Three more payments and it was over. So, why now?"

"Well," he began, "it is up to the Unemployment Bureau if they want to call in the note. It's all political really. For every prisoner that stays in jail overnight, even on a bullshit warrant, the state makes a certain amount of money."

"Interesting. And precisely how much is my fat ass worth?"

"Three hundred thirty-one dollars."

"'Scuse me? That's IT? I am going to jail on a FIVE THOUSAND dollar bond over three hundred dollars?!?!"

"Three hundred and thirty-ONE dollars."

"Oh, well. If you put it like that," I reply, sarcastically.

More silence. Sound of the car humming. Sound of my mind racing. How exactly do I explain this to my office manager without her saying BULLSHIT to me! I know that if someone told me this story, I probably wouldn't believe it either.

"You know," I said to Officer Henderson, "I am really surprised my friend Curt didn't come to arrest me."

"Curt? Curt who?"

"Curt Carlson. He's a warrants officer at Land O'Lakes. His wife is my best friend at work."

"ARE YOU KIDDING ME? Why didn't you say something back at your house????"

"Well, what was I supposed to do, Sir? Name drop like a desperate woman trying to get out of a situation? I don't know! I didn't think of it! You told me I was under arrest! Checking my social calendar for who works where didn't really cross my mind at the moment."

"Oh hell. Curt's my commanding officer! I'll just radio ahead and let him know you're coming! They'll take GREAT care of you there!"

"Wow. So like, I get a VIP cell? One with a view, I hope?"

"Well, nothin' like that. But, at least you'll have a friend on the inside."

"Great."

We pull up in front of the jail. Henderson comes around with the cuffs.

"I have to put these on you now."

"Be gentle, please," I say coyly. "It's my first time."

"It is?"

"Okay, no. It isn't. But still, be nice."

"If I had my furlined ones," he said, "I would use those on you instead."

"Um, ew! But okay, thanks for the mental picture!"

(Laughter ensues between policeman and convict. Very touching moment.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
After Henderson says goodbye to me, I am put into a holding cell. Let me tell you about the holding cell. Someone didn't take the word "HOLD" into consideration while they were in there. Someone pissed on the floor. So much for "holding". I stand on the other side of the room (bah, four by six cave is more like it) and make sure not to lean on any walls. Note to self: These sneakers will be disposed of the second I am sprung from the joint. Ew. I am looking out of the window of the "I couldn't hold it any longer" cell. There are dirty assed people everywhere. Foul people. Smelly people. People with vomit in their hair. People with blood on their shirts.

Um, helloooooo? Why does Martha Stewart get "Camp Cupcake" and I get "The Rock"? What the hell? Do these people not understand? I owed SEVEN HUNDRED DOLLARS! Martha heisted MILLIONS. She gets to knit ponchos for inmates. I get to stand in piss. Where the fuck is the justice in this world?

Suddenly, the door to the cell slides open. It's Curt. He greets me with a warm hug and a smooch on the cheek.

"What the hell, CP?"

"Dude please. Don't even start. This is a bullshit rap." (I thought I would sound cool if I used some 'joint' lingo.)

"Absolutely, it is! Don't worry, hon. We'll have you out of here in no time. Just be patient. I'll make sure you get treated right."

"You have furlined handcuffs?"

"What?"

"Nothing. Did my husband call you?"

"Yeah. He did. I'm on my way to go meet him over at the bail bondsman office. Do you know what they set your bail at?"

"Five large." (More joint lingo. I was getting the hang of it. This is where watching the Soprano's really begins to pay off.)

"Whoa. Five big ones, eh? Well, five hundred bucks will bond you out. Then, we'll take care of everything after that, get it off your record. Wow, CP. That's a felony! Nice work!"

"Hey. Nothing but the best for this princess. I mean, if I am gonna go to jail, I gotta make it count, ya know?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am led from holding to the processing center. I am fingerprinted. I get a mugshot taken. I asked the lady if I could retake it, because my hair was in my eyes. She laughed and said "sure!" So I did. I turned in my sneakers and was now walking around in my socks (Note to self: Burn socks along with sneakers once sprung from the big house.) I get put into a cell with six other women. They are all in prison garb, many of them from the night before. There I am in my bright green neon scrub pants and my hawaiian flowery scrub top.

"Hey," says one particularly raunchy looking chick as she hocks a phlegmball into a tissue. "Why you ain't got dressed out?"

"Dressed out?"

"Yeah. Where's your gear?"

"My gear?"

"Your prison clothes, bitch. Where's your prison clothes?"

*CP raises a perfectly arched eyebrow in the direction of said skank.*

"Not that it is any of your business," I began, "but I won't be staying very long."

SkankBitch bursts out into uncontrollable laughter.

"Yeah, we all said that, right, Girls?"

Now everyone is laughing. Great.

"You got some food on you?" asks SkankBitch.

"No. I don't. And if I did, I certainly wouldn't share any with you."

"Whatsa mattah, Nursie? I ain't your type? You like da black girls bettah?"

"No, you're right. You're not my type."

"Oh yeah? What's your type then, Nursie?"

"Clean. Clean is my type. You don't qualify."

"Fuck you, Nursie."

"I just told you. Shower, and we'll discuss the possibility."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Curt comes to the door of the holding cell.

"CP, come here."

"'Sup?" (Mind you, I'm trying to look like some badass with connections right now, so that no one else fucks with me. I see that they notice, but I don't think anyone is too impressed. Sigh.)

"Just spoke to the bondsman. He'll have you out of here in about four hours."

"FOUR HOURS, CURT???"

"Sssshhhhhhhhh. Yeah. Don't go yelling that out though! These girls have been here since yesterday! We put you at the top of the pile. If they know you are ahead of all of them, they'll give you a really hard time while you are in there."

"Yeah. I figured that out already."

"Just be patient, CP."

"All I got is time, Curt."

Stay tuned for PART 3: HOT BISEXUAL BABES BEHIND BARS...or, CP gets sprung.

Whoa! Remember me? Guess where I was!

Yes, I have been absent for awhile. Venus has not aligned with Mars this week and unfortunately, I am reaping the fruits of the destruction. I don't even know what that sentence was supposed to mean. It sounded a lot better in my head.

Anyone care to guess where I was? Anyone? Someone? Bueller?

Take this little quiz:

If I had to think of where CP was on Thursday, May 11th, 2006 that would keep her away from her beloved blog and blog buddies it would have to be that she was:

A) Making a porn movie.
B) Winning NASCAR.
C) Writing the great American novel.
D) In jail.

If you said "A", you are incorrect. If I was making a porn movie, you all would have received copies of it by now. If you said "B", you are wrong again. No NYC-raised Jewish Princess would have a thing to do with NASCAR, 'cept maybe to be gold-diggin' on one of the drivers. If you said "C", well, you are still wrong. Not entirely though. I am still working on that novel, but alas, that is totally NOT what I was doing on Thursday that stole me away from blogging.

The answer, my friends, is "D". Yes, you heard me. CP was in the pokey, the slammer, the big house. More specifically, I was in Land O' Lakes jail in beautiful downtown Pasco County, Florida. Now, what was a nice girl like me doing in jail for a whopping seven hours? Easy. I was playing the role of a felon, only, someone forgot to get me an agent, a script or a paycheck for that matter.

It all began as I was walking out the door for my job at 8:30 am on Thursday morning. I was just kissing the hotband goodbye when I heard "BANG BANG BANG" on my front door. I glance outside my window and see a police officer standing there.

"Hm," I said to the hotband. "Must be fundraising. Get the door, babe. I'll get my checkbook."

Hotband opens the door.

"Is C (insert my real name here) P here, Sir?"

Uh oh. Generally, people who are fundraising don't know my first and last name. This can't be good. Quick assessment. Son in bedroom, sleeping. Daughter at work, safe. Hotband standing right next to me. Okay, so no one died. What the hell is...

"I'm CP, Sir," I said, moving toward the front door. "How can I help you?"

"Ma'am, I am sorry to do this to you this morning, but apparently there is a warrant out for your arrest. You're going to have to come with me."

"Um, 'scuse me?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"What's the charge?" (Trying to sound all CSI/Law and Order professional)

"States the charge is...unemployment fraud."

"Whaaaaaaa-aaaaaaaa-aaaaaaaaat????"

Then, I look over at the hotband. I catch a glimpse of him just in time to catch him swallowing hard. Oh no. Oh no no no. NO he di'in't.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
FLASHBACK: 3 years ago, I was working for a doctor who let me go from my job without any reason whatsoever. I was never told why I was dismissed, only that I was. Naturally, I applied for unemployment. I received it. Three thousand dollars worth, before I went back to work. Yes, I milked it. So what? I needed the vacation. Heh. Besides, we PAY into unemployment so it is there when you need it. I needed it. End of story.

Or so I thought.

The doctor, being the douchebucket that he was, opted to contest it. He made up a bunch of documents stating that I was reprimanded for all sorts of things that never took place. He had the office manager (who hated me) write an affidavit stating that I was always making long distance phone calls (what?!), that I was always late (HUH?) and then the kicker, that I was stealing office supplies. THAT was the biggest crock of horse puckey of all of the allegations. However, I had no way to prove my innocence, so he won the appeal for the unemployment. Therefore, I was now responsible for paying back the $3,200.00 that I collected while on unemployment.

(This is called karma backfiring in your face. It smells bad. Don't let it happen to you. Never milk the system. Bad judgment call on my part.)

Anyway, hotband called up the Florida Dept of Unemployment and we made payment arrangements for the money to be paid back. $200 per month for however long it took to pay it off at that rate.

Two years later, I lost another job, this time due to illness. I was in the hospital with pneumonia and the new place I had just started at had to let me go. I completely understood. They have a business to run. I can't be hocking a lung and green goo all over their patients. So, I was back on unemployment once more. However, since I had an outstanding balance with them, I was not collecting the money, but rather, they kept the money I should have been getting and applied it towards the debt. Sweet! Completely fine with that. After six weeks, I started working again. We called and requested an invoice to be sent to us with the NEW amount owed, as we weren't sure how much our balance was, since they were applying my unemployment toward the debt.

"Will you take care of that for me, babe," I asked the hotband.

"Absolutely, honey. Don't worry. I'll take care of everything."

Those words will now haunt him forever more.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Unemployment fraud," I said to the officer at my door. "That's not possible! We have been making payments! Everything was taken care of. My husband told me that he took care of everything!"

I turn to the hotband. He appears to have gotten shorter. Could be because he is trying to slip his head inside of his own body, like a turtle. He looked like he was praying for the ground to open up and swallow him.

"You DID take care of this, right, Babe?"

"Well, yeah honey. I thought I did," he replied.

"What do you mean you THOUGHT you did, Sweet-HEART?"

"I called the woman back in December and told her to send the new invoice."

"Okay, and?"

"And, she never called me back."

"Okaaaaaaaaaaaay, and?"

"So I called her again after we came home from the Bahamas."

"Riiii-iiiii-iiight. AND?"

"She never called me back."

"OKAY! AND?!?!?!?!"

"Well. Um. That's it. She never called me back."

"Honey," I said, trying desperately to be patient and not commit a homocide with a police officer standing at my door. "You told me you took care of it. What precisely did that mean?"

"I called her. I asked for the invoice. I never got it. I called her back. I just got it two weeks ago, finally!"

"And did you PAY it, Darling?"

"No. We just got it!"

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the police officer wince. He must be a married man. He knows where this is going. He knows my husband is sinking...fast. Policeman is grateful he is only there doing his job...and that he is armed with a stungun and handgun.

"Sooooooooo, when you said you 'took care of it', you meant...what?"

"That I made the phonecalls and um, I um, got the new invoice and..."

"You forgot to pay it."

"Yeah."

"Alrighty then," I say to the officer. "I guess you have to take me to jail then, huh?"

"Yes Ma'am. But, if it makes you feel better, I see this happen all the time. It's usually due to a clerical error. Someone just didn't post a payment or something, or realize that you have been making payments all along."

The three of us just stand there looking at one another. I contemplate pulling a move out of "Alias" or "The Fugitive" and dashing across the backyard, hopping a few fences then, boarding a plane to freedom. Reality kicks in. I just got done with knee surgery. I'm not "dashing" anywhere. I'm too old and fat to hop fences and apparently, any money I was going to use to board the plane to freedom was now going to become BAIL.

"Okay, then...er, Officer Henderson," I say, looking at his badge, "let's go to jail then!"


Stay tuned for Part 2: What's a Nice Jewish Princess Like Me Doing In a Jail Like This?

Gimme some G-D danged HONESTY!!!

Picture the scene:

Office meeting. 17 women. Most of us married. Most of us with children. Each of us wanting to get the hell home to start our REAL full time job, which of course, is managing the homefront. God forbid our husbands could make a meal by the time we get home, right???

Er, sorry. Still some PMS left over from the last post.

Anyway, 17 of us. We're all on the same "cycle", so, save for the chicks who have already gone through menopause...we are a pretty cranky bunch. I've asked our office manager if we could move our monthly meetings to perhaps the THIRD Wednesday of the month, instead of when we are all in the throes of PMS. Why? Let me tell you how our meetings go.

I am NOT the nursing supervisor, but I play one in my office. What do I mean by that? Simple, and you don't need to be nurse to get this theory. There is always ONE person in EVERY office that EVERYONE comes to with their complaints about others. That person would be me. Does this surprise you? It really shouldn't. These girls know TWO things about me that are VERY key. Let me give you a little CP 101.

1. CP is a total sucker when it comes to a sob story. For some reason, she thinks it is her sole responsibility to care for the entire world. She has a major God complex.

2. CP is a control freak. Everyone knows that if someone complains to CP, that she will not only handle it...but then, give YOU the credit for it, when the bosses ask who did it, because she cannot stand to see anyone get in trouble.

3. CP cannot stomach injustices of ANY KIND WHATSOEVER. If someone is being taken advantage of, CP runs her mouth at them. If someone got shorted on their hours? CP goes to the office manager for them. Someone needs time off? CP says, "go ahead, I'll cover your shift." In essence, CP is a sucker. Read #1 again.

4. CP is honest to a blatant fault. You fuck up? She will correct your ass. You pass the buck one too many times? She will call you on the carpet for it. But, most of all...LIE? CP will slaughter you, skin you, cook your ass on the grill and serve you up, bloody and rare. Then, her fat ass will eat you.

Now sure, once upon a time, when I was younger, honesty was not that important to me (except maybe in a boyfriend). However, now that I am older and wiser (read: INTOLERANT) I simply cannot stand people who cannot take responsibility for their actions. If you fuck up, for Gawd's sake...SAY SO! Who cares? Did you kill anyone because you misfiled a chart? No, you didn't. Will life go on if you forget to get an authorization for surgery? YES. It will. You forgot to give someone a message from a patient? Don't LIE and say you didn't take the damn message. 'Fess the hell up and TELL them so life can move forward!

What the HELL is the damn issue with taking responsibility for your actions???

Seventeen women. All in the same room. Each one of them is pissy about something that another nurse/biller/receptionist/esthetician/file clerk did. All of them have come to me at some point, complaining about someone else. I write down each of their little complaints. I compiled them into a nice anonymous list. I pass it out to the masses. I say "If you recognize yourself as any of the people on this list, please do what you can to correct the situation."

For example, there is one particular nurse who thinks it is far more important to organize the sample cabinet than to do her actual WORK. This overloads the other nurses TERRIBLY and tires them out. There is another co-worker who tends to go on way too many smoke breaks. There is yet another who spends most of the time in the kitchen, eating. (No, not me, wiseasses!) There is still another who mysteriously disappears from the nursing floor whenever syringes need to be drawn up. It's tedious. I don't blame her for not wanting to do it, but bottomline? It's your damn job! Suck it up!

I ask the frenzied felines, "does anyone want to get out any of their frustrations? Talk about something that is bothering them? Now is the time to do it."

Silence.

"Are you sure, ladies? Because over the past three weeks, there have been a lot of complaints and I think it is best that we air these grievances and remove some of the animosity. Anyone?"

Silence.

"Okay, ladies. This is bullshit. If one of you do not start speaking up, I am going to start naming names and we will go about this in a very aggressive manner. Now, last chance...would anyone like to volunteer to speak about something in the office that is REALLY bothering them?"

Silence...and then...

"I would," a soft voice says from the back.

"Great! Belle? What would you like to say? What's bothering you?"

"Well, actually, CP...it's about you."


*blink* um. okay. this is certainly a turn of events i had not expected. what the hell is going on here? do you not know who the hell i am, woman? how dare you start my grievance meeting by griping about me! are you insane? do you want me to de-bone you like a fish? mind racing. mind racing. what did i do. think stupid. what did i do? what could i have possibly done? im perfect, dammit. perfect! what the hell is wrong with you that you need to bitch about...


"Sure, Belle! What's on your mind? Give it to me both barrels! I can take it!"

(CP straightens up a bit in her chair, smiling broadly, trying to be the shining example of a person who can accept constructive criticism. Bitch.)

"Okay, sure, um...CP?"

"Yes Belle, go ahead!"

"I have to admit. I'm really not crazy about your new haircolor."






*crickets chirping*






"Okaaaaaaaa-aaaaaaaay...um, great start! Thanks, Belle! Anyone else?"

Seventeen women. One room. Seventeen mouths slammes shut. No one has anything to say. They are looking at the floor, examining their shoes, picking at their cuticles, twisting their hair around their fingers.

"No one?"

Silence.

"Okay, great. Then I am going to assume that everyone has worked out their issues, everyone is doing a terrific job and everything that everyone has told me in the past three weeks have been nothing more than lies, rather, excuses...to sit in the office for a nice long twenty minute conversation. So, since my time is being utilized more for breaks as opposed to actual problem solving...I am expecting to not hear another complaint ever again about whoever is not doing whatever. From this point on...you're all on your own."

Silence.

"Alright! Then let's call it a day!"

Seventeen women get up and leave the room. They get their purses. They clock out. They walk out the backdoor and congregate in little groups of twos and threes.

Let me share some excerpts that I heard through the window:

"Can you believe CP? She never even brought up what Lisa did!"

"I know! And she totally didn't let Marie know that we are ALL aware that she goes out to her car when a surgery needs to be prepped!"

"Do you believe that CP didn't bring up the fact that Courtney takes five smoke breaks a day! I told her about that, and she never brought it up!"

"God, CP didn't even say a word about Sue not putting any stock away!"

"CP told me that she was going to do something about Katy not doing syringes, but she didn't even say anything to her."

Is this a good time to come to the realization that no good deed goes unpunished?

So, I am leaving the building. The felines are still prowling about, mooing like little bitchass cows about what I did or didn't do. Finally, one comes up to me.

"I thought," she whispers, "that you were going to bring up about Sue."

"And I thought," I said, "that YOU were going to be a big girl and speak up at the meeting about it, like we discussed privately. I have no problem with Sue stocking for ME, because I don't let her take advantage of me that way. You do. So, I thought you were going to 'finally tell her so'. Remember?"

"Well, yeah...but," she began.

"Nope. No buts. The time for this was fifteen minutes ago, in the meeting."

Suddenly, Sue steps up behind me.

"Excuse me," she says, "did I just hear my name?"

"Yes, Sue. Yes you did. Melanie over here wanted to talk to you about not stocking rooms."

"What??? I stock rooms all the time, Melanie!"

"No you don't," Mel replies. "You OR Beth! Neither of you do that!"

From four feet away...Beth perks up.

"What are you guys saying about me?"

"Oh," I said. "Hey Beth. Melanie was just saying that you never stock rooms. I think that is kind of weird, because YOU told me that Sue never does, but you and Melanie always do!"

"BETH," screeches Sue, "why would you say that? That's not true!"

"Well," starts Beth, "'cause you really don't."

"That is SO not true," Sue freaks. "And that's pretty messed up that you would rat on me to CP that way. I NEVER rat ANYONE out."

"Now, Sue," I say, "that's not true. You were the one that told me that Lynn is forever in the kitchen, eating, while you are doing all the stocking. Yet, these girls, (gesture toward Melanie and Beth) say that you never stock rooms."

"WHAT ARE YOU GUYS SAYING ABOUT ME," calls Lynn from across the parking lot.

"Sue ratted you out to CP, Lynn. Said you are always in the kitchen and never help her stock rooms," Beth replies.

"Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaah??? Why would you say that about me, Sue?"

"Cause it's true! You don't! You or Sharon! You are both always either on your cellphones or eating while I am stuck taking all your messages," screamed Sue, "Pam told me that YOU both said to give ME your messages."

Pam: "That is NOT what I said...exactly."

CP: "Then what DID you say, exactly? Because you told ME the same thing!"

Then, as sixteen women proceed to blow gaskets...CP slowly backs away, careful not to rouse the beasts and make them sniff in her direction. She moves deliberately, purposefully to her car and makes her getaway. The only sound she hears are the sounds of sixteen women screeching like banchees and getting out all of their animosity and aggression. Who knows? There might even be a catfight or ten. No matter. I'm in my car, driving home to my family. I'm off the clock.

I figure I will clean up the remaining corpses in the morning.

Moving right along...PLEASE!

Alright, I am done with the below subject. We are all entitled to our opinions. You are more entitled to mine than anyone elses for few great reasons:

1) This is my blog.
2) I am a Princess. Nyah.
3) I am a Jew. We are the Chosen People. You have to listen to me.

Did I mention this is MY blog?

Let me quote Prince:

"People call me rude.
I wish we all were nude.
I wish there were no black and white.
I wish there were no rules.
Life is just a game.
We're all just the same."

~Controversy.

Can you feel the Purple Rain, mah babies? This is what it sounds like, when doves cry. All the worlds gospel comes out of a 5'4 tightassed Purple Prince. There is nothing more you need to know.





Alright then, moving right along.

GIRL TALK ALERT! (I'll give the men a chance to leave the room. I'll give a chance for men who date men to leave the room too. Yes, I am a fag hag, absolutely, but this subject, lovedolls, is completely unrelatable to you.) *mwah* Love ya. Really.

Actually. Maybe you men should stay. Call it an education. Call it a warning. Call it a defense technique that may very well save your life someday.

Ready?

Why. Why do men feel the need to antagonize women during our tender menstrual cycles? Is it me, or do the IQ points of most men slouch by at least 30 points with the arrival of OUR periods? Why?

Let me explain.

I haven't had a period in a VERY long time. No, I am not menopausal. Please do not suggest that in the comments. I will ban you. Mmkay? Thanks. I had a teensy bout of uterine cancer some years ago. I have been on hormone therapy for many years. I just started getting periods again last October or so. Don't quote me. I don't remember. The ones I have been getting seem to show up, willy nilly like, whenever the hell they feel like it. Kind of like your in-laws, you know? Anyway, I have recently fallen into the hell that is PMS. Before my cancer issue, which was very small compared to the wars that most women have had to wage, I never had PMS. Or at least, I never admitted to it. I was in a foul mood all the time anyway. My mother used to tell me she knew when I was getting my period...because I would get nice.

Ha. Real comedian, that Esther. Post-menopausal bitch.

I never had cramps. No bloating. No pain. No headaches. No migraines. No cravings. Nothing. Zero. Zip. Nada. I used to be able to track my periods better than a homing device. I was able to detect my period down to the very last minute. If Bush had me looking for the WMD's, bet your ASS they would have been found, if it meant me not wrecking my Seven jean white capri's, a'aight? Are you feelin' a bitch yet? Good.

Now, hang with me another moment.

Last week, out of nowhere, I was crying at American Idol. Whaa-aaa-aaat? Alright. It's not the first time, I admit. I cried once before. Then, I cried at a "No More Fleas On Me" flea collar for puppies commercial. Uh oh. Red Flag Territory. Last straw? I sobbed, literally opened the floodgates and sobbed unrelentlessly for the guy who won...

(This is so embarassing)

I cried like a clubbed baby seal...at the guy who won "Deal Or No Deal."

TERROR ALERT: HIGH RED! HIGH RED! ALERT! WARNING! DANGER!

I knew what was to follow.

If I read the "Female's Guide To Pre-Menstrual Syndrome" properly, the next phase would be "RAGE". No. I was not going to allow myself to be sucked into the stereotypical, freakin' the fuck out, chocolate eatin', commercial cryin', road ragin' female that all men have come to know...and fear.

I tried, ladies. I really tried.

I woke up violent this morning. VIOLENT, I tell you. I thought I suffered a cerebral hemorrhage in my sleep. I was craving red meat. Uncooked. Preferably still on the bone. Of a live person. Moo. Oy vey, I said to myself. I've been sucked into the vortex. You know when you are watching your actions like an outer body experience, yet you feel powerless to stop yourself? Of course you do. Any of you who have ever fought with your significant others over something stupid know what I am talking about. In your brain you are screaming at yourself "STOP IT! You are acting like an asshole! You don't want to be fighting with this person! You love them!" Yet, all your mouth can manage to say is:

"DIE, YOU USELESS BASTARD WHO LEECHES ON MY LIFE BLOOD! MOW THE LAWN, FUCKER!"

Y'all been there. Don't lie. If you're laughing right now, then I know you are relating. I see all. Don't front.

However, I do love my husband dearly. With all my heart and soul and a few other body parts. He is my everything to me and normally, I worship the ground he walks on (in a non-cultish, non-stepford wife sort of way). So, with the last ounce of gentle flower left in my violent being, I managed to squeak out the following:

"Baby? I think I have PMS. I'm not sure. I feel pretty violent. Can you please just keep your distance until this passes? I don't think I can control it."

I recognized the look of horror on his face. Kind of like when you are faced with a 14 foot grizzly bear. You don't know whether to stand still, curl up in a fetal position or run for your life. I pitied my husband in that moment. I did. Truly. He very humbly nodded in understanding and slowly backed away from the demon woman.

"I'm going to lay down for a little while more, okay?"

Again, he nods.

I close my eyes to get a few more minutes sleep. I hear my beloved go out to our front porch to talk to the landscaper. Smart move. I'd leave the house too. All of a sudden, from the living room...completely out of my reach since I am in my nice warm bed...I hear:

"DA DAAAAA DA DA DAAAAAAAAAA DA DAAAAAAAAAAAA DA DA DA DAAAAAAAAAAA"

My husbands cellphone. Set on alarm. Blaring "TAPS" in my brain. I duck under the covers. No refuge from the sound. A minute passes. I come out from under the blankets, drooling blood. I grab the phone. I walk it out to my husband who is standing out on the front lawn. Lawn guy must be a married man because he immediately noticed my crazy twitching eyes and enlongated fangs as I hurled the phone toward my husband. Lawnguy jumps back and yells "Uh oh."

"DO SOMETHING WITH THIS!!!!!!!!"

Husband comes back in the house. Cellphone is silent. So is the house. I know hotband is scared. Silence usually indicates calm before the storm. Wanting to make the best of a bad situation, he grabs my scrubs out of the dryer and offers to help put together an outfit for me.

"Do you want these pants, honey"

"NO. They make me look fat."

"How about these?"

"Fine."

"Let me go iron this top for you, the collar is wrecked."

"THEN JUST PICK ANOTHER TOP OUT!"

"Oh. Alright, honey. How about this one?"

"Fine."

"Do you want to wear your pink 'princess' socks?"

"DO THEY MATCH WHAT I'M WEARING?"

"Um, no?"

"Right. So WHY would I want to WEAR them????"



You get the drift. Did I mention the poor hotband is colorblind? I'm normally very forgiving of that transgression, when he calls my taupe Louis Vuitton "BROWN" or my magenta Kate Spade "PURPLE". *shudders* Worst still? "Babe, I like you in pink!" Yes, loverdog. But I'm wearing orange. *eyeroll* But I love him, and I forgive him.

There is no forgiveness this morning.

At around noon, I send hotband an email, asking him to forgive me. I've been a shit. In a moment of clarity, I realize this. This is HUGE for me. I know he knows this and so, he sends me back a very loving sweet email. He promises to be there for me no matter how many homocides I may commit. All is right in the world once more...

Until I get home.

So, I tell the hotband that I am going to write a blog post about how men just truly do not understand when women get like this. It almost seems like they are provoking us! He says, why write about that, babe? No one is going to want to read that!

*blink*

Not want to READ that? Oh no you di'in't. You did NOT just go there!

"What do you mean by that," I ask.

"I mean, after the whole big controversy, no one is going to want to read that."

"Why would that be?"

"Well, because, not everyone can relate. I mean, men can't relate to that. And then, you have to consider your friends."

"My friends? WHAT friends?"

"Like, your gay female friends."

"What ABOUT my GAY FEMALE FRIENDS, Darling?" *said with a snarl*

"Well, what are they going to know about the stupid things men do while women go through PMS?"

"'Scuse me?"

"Like, what would two women know about the stupid things that men say when women have PMS if they are just...well, two women."

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaand, you think that lesbians don't get PMS?"

"No, they do. But, I'm just sayin'. There is no man in the house for them to be able to say stupid things, you know what I mean?"


Oh, yes, hotband. I know EXACTLY what you mean. We ALL know what you mean. Even the lesbians (who are probably rejoicing in their sexual preferences right about now.)

Anyone need a rental husband? One week a month. Cheap.

Comes complete with Advil, Midol, Ben & Jerry's Cherry Garcia, bags of Hershey's Kisses, ice packs, lotion for foot rubs and most importantly?

A gag.

God don't like ugly...or gay bashers.

I don't profess to be religious. I go to Temple when I can. I know my Jew girl prayers. I know a few words in Hebrew, thanks to my Israeli hotband. But, I do believe in God. More than that, I believe that God wants each of us to be happy in our own little way, so long as it doesn't hurt the health and welfare of others.

It's nice in my world. Come visit some time.

I head over to Deb's page. Y'all know Deb. Don't act like you haven't been there. She's the ubergoddess of all things christian and lesbian. She also has a bunch of disorders that are all named by initials. She's mad hot. In short, she is the greatest girl on the planet. I love her dearly. Her laugh makes me orgasm. I love her partner, Madelene, dearly too, because...well, anyone that makes Deb happy, makes CP happy. Plus, Maddy is a spitfire latina hottie. That's another story altogether.

Anyway, I am reading Deb's page and I keep noticing a name popping up over and over.

Hell, thy name is Dani.

Now, I am not happy with the fact that I am about to give Dani some blog traffic. I know it will be short lived. Anyone who reads her who has a single brain cell in their head would not go back. Especially anyone who reads and enjoys me. Then again, I went back there twice, because I couldn't believe her hatespew! There are no similarities between our blogs whatsoever. None. Except maybe the standard, boring blogger template.

So why am I bringing Dani onto my board?

Dani is a delusional, gay-bashing freak. In her own words? She's a homophobe. Now, I have no problem with this. Why? Because I am a "live and let live" kind of girl. I know I have a right to love and be loved by the gay community as much as she has a right to hate them. However, I don't go around professing my love of God and all his children under the guise of being a righteous Christian while simultaneously hating a group of people for their sexual orientation. I don't refer to gay people as abominations and then hide under a shroud of God as to why I feel that way.

Nope. I definately feel we are all free to be you and me...and that God loves each and every one of us, including the murderers, rapists and even homophobes like Dani.

I am thinking I should be Christian. Yet, I am comfortable in my Jew-ness. So, there I shall stay.

Now, have any of you ever watched the show "My Name Is Earl"? If you have, then you know it is all about karma. If you haven't, then NOW you know...it is all about karma. I was heading to Dani's site, in order to talk some sense into her hypocritical, homophobic head. When I got there...I found this Google ad at the top of her page:

"God Loves and Accepts Gays"
Read what the Bible says and
doesn't say about Homosexuality"

And then, THIS LINK was connected to the ad...

(For those of you who don't want to open the link, the link sends you to a site called "Soulforce.org" whose purpose is "The purpose of Soulforce is freedom for lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender people from religious and political oppression through the practice of relentless nonviolent resistance.")

Now, I am so sorry, y'all. I find humor in the stupidest things. But this? This was classic. Because Dani was desperate to whore out her hate spew for a dime a click on Google, her politics were compromised on the top of her blog.

If this is not God's idea of a sense of humor, then I don't know what is.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
NOTE: DON'T FORGET TO READ THE COMMENTS! THE NOTORIOUS DANI HAS SHOWED UP THERE TWICE! THIS POST SIMPLY WOULD NOT BE COMPLETE WITHOUT HER PRESENCE AND I WOULD LOVE FOR EVERYONE TO READ WHAT SHE HAS TO SAY, PROCESS IT...AND THEN, SHAKE YOUR HEADS AND SIGH. ENJOY!

This is a stolen post. Stop. Thief.

This post is totally stolen from Laurie at Beauty and the Beer. Now, those of you who are in the know, understand that I have a long-standing love affair with Laurie. My goal in life is to move where she is and marry her. I don't just want her for the sex. No. I want to spend my life with this woman. Go to her page and you will understand why.

So, since I can't have her right now, I will do the next best thing, and steal her blog post. She wrote a post asking about fears. Not just your "Ooh, scary movie" kind of fears. Not just the "I don't like cats/dogs/birds" kind of fears. We are talking COMPLETELY IRRATIONAL fears.

For example:
Laurie has these fears about driving next to tractor trailers, drowning in waterbeds or getting her eyes pecked out by a bird. That got me thinking about my irrational fears. Like Laurie, I have a real issue with tractor trailers too. Could be cause my father was squashed like a grape by one. I also have an issue with guns. I grew up around them my whole life, BUT, I was held at gunpoint a few times and admittedly, it makes me break a sweat on my well-arched, perfectly tweezed brows.

BUT, and it's a big but...nothing makes me sweat like cockroaches. Nothing. I won't even post a few pics for effect because the last time I did that for a blog post, I nearly gave myself heart failure. I won't even read this post because I put a picture of a roach on it. I know which post it is, by heart, and avoid it like the plague. I have no issues with other bugs. If I did, I couldn't do THIS for a living. And, I definately wouldn't be able to tolerate situations like THIS one.

Got a minute? Let me explain, in detail, the way I did on Laurie's blog.

I was ass-raped, literally gang banged by a group of New York City roaches when I was 9 years old, living in Queens. I was a fat little kid and I used to heist food in the middle of the night and sneak eat in my bed. Well, one night, I guess I fell asleep, mid-scarf, and I left a cupcake wrapper and half eaten cupcake in my bed with me. Around 2am, I got itchy. I started scratching. Then, my poohnonny (read: va-jay-jay) started itching. My asshole was itching. My little baby girl boobies were itching. Everything was making me itch! I clicked on the light next to my bed and I was COVERED in a blanket of COCKROACHES...each one dancing around in my nightgown, getting out all the crumbs that fell between the fat girl folds. Yes, they were feasting on my cooch because of all the crumbs in my lap.

Little cockroaches with their blue and red bandanas..."Yo! Gringo! You gots some more of dose frosteed vaneela cupcakes? Dose were dee BOMB, Baby!"

I started to scream and smack the fuck out of myself, getting dead roach goo all over me. My mother came running in while I was flailing about looking like Linda Blair in The Exorcist. My mother, in a panic, picked up a shoe and started beating me, to get the roaches off of me. Thank God I only wore Pro-Keds at the time! If I was in my Jimmy Choo/Manolo Blahnik phase, I would have been skewered by my own mother!

Anyway, since that day/night, I have had a completely irrational fear of roaches.

Now, my biggest fear?

Showering...and finding one of those large palmetto fuckers in the shower with me, while my fat naked ass flails about, trying to find an escape route. One time, not too long ago, my husband dashed into the shower from me letting out a blood curdling scream. It was the outline of a big mother fuckin' roach, the size of GUAM, on my shower curtain...the opposite side of it than I was on, but WAY too close for comfort. I screamed like I was getting it up the ass like a virgin on prom night without lube, alright?

I cannot be in the room with a roach. If you ever put me on one of those "Maury" shows, where he tries to help people get over their fears, I would probably gnaw through my own leg just to get out of the room. My blood pressure goes up, I cry hysterically, I scream and worst of all, I develop a case of Tourette's unlike any you have ever heard before in your life.

My bastard of a 10 year old put a plastic roach on my computer chair one time, "as a joke", he said, shortly before I strangled him. I nearly beat him right into the foster care system, a'aight? Beat the little fucker until his NAME swelled.

Okay. So no, I didn't. But I REALLY wanted to. Does that count?

Anyway, what are your completely irrational fears? What are the crazy things that you think about during the course of your day that you KNOW won't happen...but the thought that they COULD possibly happen freaks you the hell out?

Shhh. Come. Lay your head on big mama's breast. There, there. Tell mama, Bubbala. We promise not to laugh.

At least, not in front of you.

Intelligence is in the eye of the breast-holder.

Yesterday was my first day back to work on full duty after three weeks of absence and/or light duty. Patient "Smitty" has a cyst on his back. It's large. It sort of looks like an ant hill on the middle of his back.

Smitty is wasted. He appears to be a lovable stoner. Smitty is telling me how pretty I am. Can't really blame the man. I understand that my blatant beauty is intoxicating. However, he was probably stoned before he even encountered me. Yes, Smitty was slurring his words, stumbling while walking and being a bit of a pain in the ass.

Stoned.

Smitty begins his visit to our office by telling me that he is claustrophobic and that he "needs something to calm him down" before we remove the cyst. I tell him that we do not do that sort of thing for a little cyst to be drained. We simply numb the area locally.

"But I am very panicky! I get very nervous! I'm very jumpy!"

"Then perhaps you would rather have this another time, when your primary care physician can prescribe you something to calm your nerves."

"I ain't got a primary care doc."

"Might be a good idea to get one then, considering all the problems you have with your nerves and all."

Then out of nowhere:

"CP, you wanna go to dinner with me?"

"No Sir, I don't. But thank you."

"You sure?"

"Absolutely sure, Sir. And I think my husband would agree with my answer."

"Yeah. My wife probably wouldn't like it much either."

*sigh*

"Sir, can you turn around, face the wall. I have to numb that area for you."

"Are you goin' to give me a pill or somethin'?"

"No Sir. We already went over this. Do you want to proceed?"

"Are you going to go to dinner with me if I am brave and do this?"

"No Sir. I will not. Honestly, it doesn't matter to me whether you remove the cyst or not."

"It doesn't?"

"Not at all. Now, are we doing this or not?"

"Sure."

"Fine," I say, and go about the task of numbing the area.

"I'll need pain medicine when this is over too," he says.

"Yeah. I kind of figured you were going to ask."

"No dinner? You sure? I love you, you know."

"Positive, Smitty. I promise you. I'm sure."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The cyst is removed and sitting on the tray next to Smitty. I walk back into the room when the doctor is done to set about bandaging the man. I catch him sticking the scalpel, blade and blood soaked gauze into his pocket.

"Smitty! What are you doing?"

"You don't keep these scalpels. I want them!"

"We do keep those blade handles, Smitty. We cleanse them, sonic clean them and then sterilize them."

"What about the blade?"

"No, we dispose of the blade."

"I want to keep mine."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because it is not safe for you to stick a blade in your pocket first of all. Secondly, it is covered in biohazardous material and I cannot let you leave with it. Or the bloody gauze you stuck in your pocket either."

"It's mine though!"

"No, Sir. When it was still in your BACK, it was yours. Now that it is on MY surgical tray, it is MINE and my responsibility to dispose of it."

"You're no fun, CP."

"So I've been told, Smitty."

He hands me a few pieces of bloody and gooey gauze. None of them contain the cyst we just excised from his back.

"All of it, Smitty."

"Huh?"

"Give me all of the gauze. All of it. Now."

He reaches in his pocket, reluctantly, and hands me the rest of the gauze.

"I was gonna practice being a doctor, CP!"

"Well, I imagine you are going to have to go about it the old fashioned way and read a book and go to college."

"Nope. I'm gonna be a doctor and I am going to start right now, by giving YOU a breast exam."

He proceeds to make 'squeezing' gestures at my breasts with his hands.

"Great," I say, with a very menacing smile. "And I will play pretend to be a plastic surgeon by giving you a face lift with my right hook. Try me."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Smitty finally leaves the exam room and heads to our coffee station, where we offer our patients the courtesy of free coffee or tea. Smitty proceeds to open the cabinets, rumage through them and then, inexplicably sticks his hand under the hot water tap and runs the water on his hand.

"Oh SHIT! That burned! I'm gonna sue!"

"You poured the coffee water on your own hand, Smitty. I don't think you have a case."

"Some lady made a million dollars at McDonalds for doing that!"

"Hers was an accident and she wasn't stoned."

"I'm not stoned."

"Sure you aren't, Smitty."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Smitty is now at the front desk, sticking handfuls of candy into his pocket while waiting to be checked out. Much to my dismay, I notice that our doctor has written him a prescription for Tylenol 3 to manage his pain. I sigh. Great. Feed a drug seeker. Now he'll never leave us alone. Smitty is on his third handful of candy. I take the bowl away and move it further behind the desk where he cannot reach it.

"Aw, CP, c'mon! Come out to dinner with me."

"No."

"Then at least give me back the candy. I was a good boy."

"No."

Smitty then proceeds to climb up onto the counter on the front desk in a feeble attempt to make another grab at the candy dish.

"Smitty!"

"Huh?"

"I have your narcotic prescription for pain in my hand. If you do not get off the counter and out of my office RIGHT NOW...I will stick it in the shredder. Do you WANT your prescription?"

"Yeah."

"Get down off the counter."

"'Kay. I'm down. Give me my pills. I'll go. And CP?"

"What Smitty?"

"I still love you."

"Makes my day, Smitty."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Fast forward three hours later.

Receptionist: "CP? Phone call for you. Line 4. I think it is that guy from earlier."

Huge, heavy sigh.

"Yes, Smitty."

"CP? That you?"

"Yes, Smitty. How can I help you?"

"I lost my prescription."

"Hm. Sorry to hear that."

"I'm gonna come up to get another one."

"No can do, Smitty."

"Why not?"

"I cannot give you another prescription for a controlled substance, knowing there is another one floating around out there somewhere. It is against the law for me to give you two prescriptions for the same controlled substance on the same day. So, I would suggest you pick yourself up some Extra Strength Tylenol and make the best of it."

"But I'm in pain, CP!"

"Sorry, buddy. Can't help you. Next time, be more cautious with your prescriptions."

"I love you, CP. Don't tell your husband."

"No problem there, Smitty. I assure you."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Fast forward to today. I am at our other satellite office.

Receptionist: "CP? Line 2. It's Lynn."

"Hey, Lynn. How are you?"

"Great, CP. Hey listen, we just got a call from a guy named Smitty."

"Oy."

"You know him?"

"You can say that. He offered to feel me up."

"What?"

"Nothing. So, what did he want?"

"He told me that he found the prescription that he lost. He filled it. He wanted to tell you that. And he also said now he is out of the pills because he accidentally dropped them in the toilet. He wanted to know if you could refill them for him now, since it's the next day. He also said you were supposed to call him about your...dinner date?"

HUGE, HUGE, HEAVY AUDIBLE SIGH.

"Lynn, do me a favor? Call him back. Tell him that NO ONE is filling his prescription for him."

"Oh yeah, he told me to tell you that he is a recovered alcoholic. Sober for two years, so that you don't have to worry about him abusing his drugs."

"Great. I feel so much better now that I have that information. I think I will order him a morphine pump."

"Really?"

"No, Lynn. NOT really. Just please tell him there will be no more drugs. There will be no more refills. There will definately be no dinner date and, if he doesn't stop with this nonsense, there will be NO MORE appointments with this office, got it?"

"Got it."

"Swell, Lynn. Have a great rest of your day."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Fast forward several hours later.

"CP," says the doctor, "I hear you had an incident with that cyst guy yesterday."

"An incident? I don't know that I would classify it as an incident, necessarily."

"I hear he said some inappropriate things to you."

"You heard correctly."

"Well, next time he comes in for a follow up, make sure to keep the door open."

"Excuse me, Sir?"

"I said..."

"No, Doc. I heard you. I just mean...what do you mean by next time?"

"When he comes in for his follow up..."

"You are having him come BACK? May I ask why?"

"He has a follow up scheduled and he has a second cyst to remove."

"Sooooooooo, what you are telling me is that it is okay for him to come in, steal equipment and biohazardous material, burn himself, be disruptive to the staff and sexually harass me. Is that correct?"

"Well, even if I discharge him as a patient, I have a legal responsibility to him to continue his care for at least 30 days."

"What about your legal responsibility to ME?"

"What do you mean?"

*blinks*

"What do YOU mean, what do I mean? I mean, lets call a spade a spade here, Sir. I am not exactly threatened by this man. If he attempted to give me a breast exam, I would have twirled him like a baton, snapped him like twig and disposed of him in a dumpster. However, someone who is NOT like me, who does not have my personality might feel very intimidated to have someone who is obviously a drug addict make a sexual remark and gesture in their direction. Further, what if that remark and gesture was made toward your front office staff. Or what about one of your patients in the waiting room? Perhaps a young girl who is here for acne or something? Do you want that sort of responsibility and liability?"

"Unfortunately, that is my responsibility as a doctor."

"What about your responsibility as a man, Doc? Would you want to know that your wife or daughter encountered a person like that at their work or school? Incidentally, if I press charges against him for sexual harassment or the like and get a restraining order, he can't come within 500 feet of me or my place of business. How would that conflict with your duty to this patient?"

"Hm. Let me see what I can do about this."

"Good idea, Sir. Very good idea, indeed."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Given all this information...one can only wonder. How is it that someone with so much experience and intelligence have so little common sense when it comes to such an important matter? Is a the cyst of a drug seeking addict more important than maintaining the integrity of your office or the safety of your staff?

Sure, you took an oath to uphold the health and welfare of your patients. However, what happened to just doing the right thing as a human being?

The nurses are all extremely pissed off and considering to walk out, should this man be allowed back in the office.

Me? I kind of liked the idea of playing plastic surgeon on the fucker...but alas, they just won't let me play make believe.

Shame.

I really wanted to change Smitty's reproductive organs with a hacksaw, you know, just to practice.