Yee haw.
40 years ago, this very day, CP arrived kicking and screaming into this world, via Esther's caesarian. Certainly you don't think that Esther allowed me to pass through her vagina now, do you? No. That would require breaking a sweat and surely, we have all come to know...
Esther don't sweat shit.
In 1966, the world was graced with my presence. The first doctor that laid eyes on me said I was so beautiful. I offered to sleep with him because he was jewish and a doctor. I figured this would please my mother and keep me comfortably in the retail heaven I would soon become accustomed to. He declined and told me to call him back when I turn 40. He's 80 now. God bless you, Dr. Edelstein, wherever you are. I have the Viagra. All I need is your phone number.
In 1967, I was being raised by a gorgeous black woman named Lily. Esther was suffering from post partum depression and hasn't touched me in a year. I think I had this in common with my biological father. Apparently, she hadn't touched him in a year either.
In 1968, I was still under Lily's care. Thank goodness. If not for her, I would have white woman rhythm. I'd be doing the Carlton dance at Bar Mitzvah's.
In 1969, the first known human afterbirth dripped down Esther's thigh. They named him Brad. He's my brother.
In 1970, at the commencement of the disco era, my father, the sperm donor, left my mother, brother and I. He took off to Germany with his secretary. Very cliche, I know. I am ashamed that something so textbook took place in my rockstar life.
In 1971, I met the girl of my dreams. Her name was "Abby" and she was the first love of my little life. I was older and wiser by three months. Abby would remain a lifelong friend. This may soon end if she continues to make fun of my hitting 40 a full three months before her.
In 1972, I started first grade. I was fat, had stringy hair and I ate my boogers. Since then, I have stopped eating boogers. They're high in carbs.
In 1973, I was seven years old. Esther smoked pot. I think it stunted my growth.
In 1974, somewhere in a little city called Haifa in the country of Israel, my future mother in law was squeezing out a little turd who shall be known, eventually, as "the hotband".
In 1975, we would play Charlie's Angels. I was always Kate Jackson's character. Abby got to be Jacklyn Smith. She's a cunt. Damn, cute little fucker. Why did I always have to be the smart one?
In 1976, I was 10. I had a birthday party at Burger King. Mia Fineman shit in her pants right after the cake. Total buzzkill.
In 1977, The Son of Sam made me have to stay inside the house a lot. This meant more time with Esther. Suffice it to say, I wasn't a fan.
In 1978, I got pubic hair and tits. I didn't like either of them very much.
In 1979, I got pubic hair and tits. I realized why I should like them very much.
In 1980, I went to sleepaway camp and gave my first real blow job. I don't know if I was any good at it. The poor little fucker came the second my lips got near him. I'd like to think of it as a compliment and a sign of things to come (pun intended).
In 1981, my mother married Harry, her boyfriend since 1977. This would prove to suck ass as now I had a father figure. I also moved to Long Island from NYC. This meant saying goodbye to Abby. We'd find each other again via Classmates.com in about 20 years or so.
In 1982, I started taking college classes. I was a total prodigy. Sophomore by day. College student by night. Perfecting my blowjob skills on coke bottles in my spare time.
In 1983, I officially graduated high school a year early. However, due to lack of ambition, I hung around for my senior year and to take half a credit of gym class. This would prove to be the last known time that CP would ever exercise.
In 1984, I graduated high school as Valedictorian. Okay, no I didn't. But, I am sure Esther tells people that anyway. You know, bragging rights for me giving her that huge C-section scar on her stomach.
In 1985, I would begin college full time, while working full time and partying full time. I'd write more, but frankly, most of 1985 and 86 were a blur. I just remember a whole lot of cocaine and men. Maybe they were snowmen. Who knows? It was the 80's.
In 1986, I got knocked up with my daughter. This would prove to save my life.
In 1987, S was born, kicking and screaming into this world. Being a tougher (or dumber) woman than Esther, I pushed out 7 pounds of pure big head out of the ol' vajayjay. Without drugs. I hit on Dr. Edelstein again, for old times sake.
In 1988, I was deluged with diapers. I remember very little from this year. Just a whole lot of shit coming out of my daughters ass.
In 1989, I married the first of what would be my three husbands. He was a very sweet alcoholic. A lovely drunk. I threw his ass out 6 months later. The ink on our divorce was dry before the pictures from the wedding even came back.
late 1989-1991 were the "Tony" years. I refuse to document this shit on my birthday. If you don't know, well, ya just don't read my blog enough.
In 1992, I find love once more with an old friend of mine. Hope and faith in the future is renewed. So is my drivers license and my library card. Big landmarks in my life.
In 1993, I married husband number 2.
In 1994, I actually recall being happy, much to Esthers dismay. I was married to goyum (a non-Jew for all you...er, non-Jews) and it was enough to drive her to drink. Of course, the drink of choice would be an Italian wine. No different than what I was sleeping with really...I just preferred my wine on tap.
In 1995, I was knocked up again with my boys. I was the size of a battle barge. If the titanic would have hit me instead of the iceburg, there would have been no survivors. I would lose one precious son while bringing my other one into the world. Vaginally. Again, no drugs. Only this time, I shit on the table while pushing. For a moment, I questioned whose child it was...then I realized it was shit. Just...the shit looked SO much like my ex husband, ya know?
In 1996, we were living in Florida. I remember a big hurricane. I think it was my mother in law. I had my 30th birthday and got a tattoo and a belly piercing to mark the occasion. I also pierced my labia but removed it because it kept getting infected everytime I peed on it.
In 1997, I met a guy online and had an affair. He slept in a coffin. I have to admit, I found it somewhat erotic.
In 1998, I was over it. And separated. Hooray.
In 1999, I met this cute Israeli guy up at my school. I thought he was manly, mysterious and complex. Turned out he was quiet, shy...and pretty simple in the brain. It would be another 3 years and marriage before I realized that simplicity was in the form of complexity. I graduate nursing school. Short of stretching my vagina over the heads of two children, this will prove to be my greatest accomplishment.
In 2000, the future hotband and I broke all sorts of sex records. Go look us up in Guiness.
In 2001, the future hotband got smart and proposed to me on a carriage ride through Central Park on a crisp night in March. The horse took a shit during it. He didn't get me a ring. Asshole. My divorce is finalized. Hooray. Failure number two fully documented for public record. Sweet. Abby tracks me down and we reconnect after 20 years. This will prove to be the best thing to ever happen to me with someone that I have a) not given birth to or b) did not give head to.
In 2002, the future hotband officially takes his place as the Hotband. We get married on a Tuesday in a courthouse. We are both in jeans and sweaters. We don't have a honeymoon. He hasn't told his family he eloped. Again...asshole.
In 2003, I start to like my new husband a bit more than I did in the past two years. We get along great, laugh a lot and share a lot of things in common. We also have similar goals, like multiple orgasms. It's a match made in porn heaven.
In 2004, we celebrate our two year wedding anniversary by going on a cruise. Hotband spends the first night vomiting. I get to stay up, alone, watching the season finale of The Apprentice. I missed shrimp cocktail night. Hotband still has not lived this down.
In 2005, Hotband loses his job and finds a new one making kick ass money in order to take care of me in the lifestyle to which I have become accustomed. Oh, and Esther turned 65. I know it will make her SHIT if she gets wind that I made this announcment public. Ha. Fucker.
Which brings us to today. 2006. My 40th birthday. It's had its share of joys and sorrows, but I have to admit, it's been a helluva ride y'all.
Just be grateful I am not turning 65 today, or you would still be reading 25 more years worth of my life right now.
So, Happy Birthday, CP...you little rockstar, you!
Here's to 40 more years of non-stop drama in the life of a Jew Princess.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Monday, August 28, 2006
Patients. Patience.
I had two contrasting patients today.
One I had to calm down because she needed to get an injection to numb a little skin tag under her arm. The other, I had to calm because he was told he was dying.
I had the gentleman who is dying first thing this morning. He took the words of the doctor and myself with a great deal of applomb and grace. He stated that since he was nearly 80 that he had "seen a good life" and if this were the end of it, so be it. I saw the sadness in his wife's eyes, deep mournful sadness. The doctor and I assured the patient that we would do all we could to prolong his quality of life. We would monitor his progress with various oncologists and surgeons. We would be there for him every step of the way. He patted my hand when he left and said, "God will provide. Whatever is meant to be for me, will be."
So simple, so sweet and it almost felt as though he were comforting me, the bearer of his bad news. I appreciated him for this gesture and dabbed at my eyes after he left the room. I won't let a patient see me cry for them. It makes them feel hopeless.
A few patients later, "Lisa" come to our office. Lisa was a new patient who was "freaking out" over the thought of getting a skin tag removed. She asked me to show her step by step, every single thing I was doing before I did it. When she saw the needle, a tiny 30 gauge needle, she lost her ever loving mind. I mean, no exaggeration? She jumped up, ran to the other side of the room and stared at me in horror. After 10 minutes of this shenanigans, she finally collapsed in the chair, exasperated.
"I can't do it," she exclaimed!
"Then don't," I said. "It's entirely up to you. Just let me know one way or the other, because I have to either inject you or move onto another patient."
"What would YOU do, if you were me?"
"Me? I'd get the skin tag snipped without an injection. Needles don't scare me."
"Oh my God. I don't believe it. I don't believe this is happening to me!"
Now, normally? I am a bucketful of compassion. I am as empathetic as they come. I have the patience of a saint when it comes to my patients. This woman, however, was working my last nerve. How can she make such a statement? She can't believe this is happening to her? I just sent someone home with a death sentence no more than an hour ago, and this drama queen is hyperventilating over something that feels like an ant bite?
I bit my tongue. Hard.
"Lisa," I began, "have you ever had children?"
"Yes."
"Okay, this is far easier than childbirth. Have you ever had your ears pierced?"
"Yes."
"Okay, this is easier than that too."
"You don't understand," she said. "You're a nurse. You don't understand."
Her eyes welled with tears.
CP takes some deep, well-needed breaths. Out with the intolerance, IN with the patience. Out with the intolerance, IN with the patience. Admittedly, sometimes it is hard to cope with the people who are incessant whiners. It is more difficult after giving someone else a deadly diagnosis.
"Of course I understand," I countered, after taking some cleansing breaths. "Lots of people are afraid of needles."
"It isn't just that," she said. "My father had a normal little skin tag removed from his neck 15 years ago. It turned out to be melanoma. He died from it. Now I have one. It looks exactly the same."
It is in this moment that I once again learn a valuable lesson in life as well as nursing. Everything is not always as simple as it seems. It is quite easy to tell someone not to be afraid of the the things you don't fear yourself. Very easy to give advice to someone when you are not on the receiving end of the needle.
I reassured Lisa that the doctor does not think it is melanoma, but to give her piece of mind, we will send it out to the lab to be tested. I sit with her for a few more minutes, make some jokes, put her at ease and then, we set about the task of numbing her up.
She was freaking out, dramatic, losing her mind and screeching...but at least I knew where the fear was coming from this time. It made me feel a bit more compassionate for her and I took her flinching and flailing in stride.
I think about both patients, their completely different views of death. One accepts his fate peacefully, the other runs from it, kicking and screaming. I suppose, if I were 80 years old, perhaps I would have a bit more contented view and allow God to do His job. If I were 52, as Lisa was, maybe I would show a bit more gumption and not resign myself to accepting what could be the inevitable.
In either instance, it never hurts to empathize and show compassion toward your fellow man (or woman). A little hand holding and a soft word can go a long way.
Now, you know what's NOT a long way off?
My 40th birthday. That's right.
Are you done shopping for me yet? I turn 40 on Wednesday, so your remaining shopping days are few and far between. If you haven't shopped for me yet, you really must do so. I keep checking my mailbox and so far, I have only received two cards. This is really not acceptable, People. As my loyal minions, I would expect to see an abundance of cards that would have the postal service in a frenzy, just trying to stay afloat.
I truly hope that the turn out tomorrow will far exceed todays paltry numbers.
Sheesh.
*Goes back to filing my nails, eating bon-bons and generally serving no vital function in the world whatsoever.*
One I had to calm down because she needed to get an injection to numb a little skin tag under her arm. The other, I had to calm because he was told he was dying.
I had the gentleman who is dying first thing this morning. He took the words of the doctor and myself with a great deal of applomb and grace. He stated that since he was nearly 80 that he had "seen a good life" and if this were the end of it, so be it. I saw the sadness in his wife's eyes, deep mournful sadness. The doctor and I assured the patient that we would do all we could to prolong his quality of life. We would monitor his progress with various oncologists and surgeons. We would be there for him every step of the way. He patted my hand when he left and said, "God will provide. Whatever is meant to be for me, will be."
So simple, so sweet and it almost felt as though he were comforting me, the bearer of his bad news. I appreciated him for this gesture and dabbed at my eyes after he left the room. I won't let a patient see me cry for them. It makes them feel hopeless.
A few patients later, "Lisa" come to our office. Lisa was a new patient who was "freaking out" over the thought of getting a skin tag removed. She asked me to show her step by step, every single thing I was doing before I did it. When she saw the needle, a tiny 30 gauge needle, she lost her ever loving mind. I mean, no exaggeration? She jumped up, ran to the other side of the room and stared at me in horror. After 10 minutes of this shenanigans, she finally collapsed in the chair, exasperated.
"I can't do it," she exclaimed!
"Then don't," I said. "It's entirely up to you. Just let me know one way or the other, because I have to either inject you or move onto another patient."
"What would YOU do, if you were me?"
"Me? I'd get the skin tag snipped without an injection. Needles don't scare me."
"Oh my God. I don't believe it. I don't believe this is happening to me!"
Now, normally? I am a bucketful of compassion. I am as empathetic as they come. I have the patience of a saint when it comes to my patients. This woman, however, was working my last nerve. How can she make such a statement? She can't believe this is happening to her? I just sent someone home with a death sentence no more than an hour ago, and this drama queen is hyperventilating over something that feels like an ant bite?
I bit my tongue. Hard.
"Lisa," I began, "have you ever had children?"
"Yes."
"Okay, this is far easier than childbirth. Have you ever had your ears pierced?"
"Yes."
"Okay, this is easier than that too."
"You don't understand," she said. "You're a nurse. You don't understand."
Her eyes welled with tears.
CP takes some deep, well-needed breaths. Out with the intolerance, IN with the patience. Out with the intolerance, IN with the patience. Admittedly, sometimes it is hard to cope with the people who are incessant whiners. It is more difficult after giving someone else a deadly diagnosis.
"Of course I understand," I countered, after taking some cleansing breaths. "Lots of people are afraid of needles."
"It isn't just that," she said. "My father had a normal little skin tag removed from his neck 15 years ago. It turned out to be melanoma. He died from it. Now I have one. It looks exactly the same."
It is in this moment that I once again learn a valuable lesson in life as well as nursing. Everything is not always as simple as it seems. It is quite easy to tell someone not to be afraid of the the things you don't fear yourself. Very easy to give advice to someone when you are not on the receiving end of the needle.
I reassured Lisa that the doctor does not think it is melanoma, but to give her piece of mind, we will send it out to the lab to be tested. I sit with her for a few more minutes, make some jokes, put her at ease and then, we set about the task of numbing her up.
She was freaking out, dramatic, losing her mind and screeching...but at least I knew where the fear was coming from this time. It made me feel a bit more compassionate for her and I took her flinching and flailing in stride.
I think about both patients, their completely different views of death. One accepts his fate peacefully, the other runs from it, kicking and screaming. I suppose, if I were 80 years old, perhaps I would have a bit more contented view and allow God to do His job. If I were 52, as Lisa was, maybe I would show a bit more gumption and not resign myself to accepting what could be the inevitable.
In either instance, it never hurts to empathize and show compassion toward your fellow man (or woman). A little hand holding and a soft word can go a long way.
Now, you know what's NOT a long way off?
My 40th birthday. That's right.
Are you done shopping for me yet? I turn 40 on Wednesday, so your remaining shopping days are few and far between. If you haven't shopped for me yet, you really must do so. I keep checking my mailbox and so far, I have only received two cards. This is really not acceptable, People. As my loyal minions, I would expect to see an abundance of cards that would have the postal service in a frenzy, just trying to stay afloat.
I truly hope that the turn out tomorrow will far exceed todays paltry numbers.
Sheesh.
*Goes back to filing my nails, eating bon-bons and generally serving no vital function in the world whatsoever.*
Saturday, August 26, 2006
I'll get you, My Pretty...*hehehehehehheheeeee*
Tis the end of August, and with the end of August comes two things.
My birthday and the need for the ultimate sexy Halloween costume.
Halloween has always been my favorite holiday. Then, my son decided to be born on that day and ruin it for me. That didn't come out the way it should have. What I mean is, since his birth, I could no longer do the elaborate costume and party going thing that I always did in the past. Now, I tend to celebrate Halloween in a different way.
I get totally sexed up in some hot gear for my husband.
Sweet.
Now, he loves when I break my old nursing uniform out of the closet. It's white, sexy, form fitting but let's face it. I am a nurse everyday of my life. I don't particularly feel hot or sexy wearing a nurses outfit to bed. Feh.
Thus began my quest for the sexy Halloween costume.
I surfed the net for a bit, going to all the usual sites. I found too many "Sexy Nurse" costumes for my liking. One was PVC red with six inch stilettos. Now, I don't know about y'all, but I don't think I could work wearing that all day.
I found this site called Dimout.com and I think I have found some of the answers to my Halloween prayers. First things first, they have a terrific Plus Size Costume section. Now, y'all know the Princess is a full figured girl. Most costumes are made for the chicks who are shaped like the witches broomstick, but not the wicked witch herself. Imagine my delight in seeing a sexy belly dancer!
Hm. My husband is from the Middle East. This one might work, boys and girls!
I am probing around the site a bit more and found a Plus Sized Bustier in a size big enough to encompass the girth of the girls! Woo hoo! Now we're talkin'! One hot biker babe, coming up!
While we're shopping anyway, why not pick up a sexy costume for the Hotband too?
I think I shall buy this harness get up for the Hotband. I can wear the belly dancer costume and pretend that I am an Egyptian goddess while he is my Israeli slave. Then, he can peel me a grape and we can rock the Casbah! Heh.
I have a very overactive imagination, don't I?
Anyway, I just thought I would share some of my finds at Dimout.com with y'all. I know I have a bunch of sexy assed people reading and surely one of you has to be as big of a freak as I am. The prices are pretty good too, which satisfies the retail Jew Princess in me.
Hm. Maybe they have a sexy pirate for Laurie?
My birthday and the need for the ultimate sexy Halloween costume.
Halloween has always been my favorite holiday. Then, my son decided to be born on that day and ruin it for me. That didn't come out the way it should have. What I mean is, since his birth, I could no longer do the elaborate costume and party going thing that I always did in the past. Now, I tend to celebrate Halloween in a different way.
I get totally sexed up in some hot gear for my husband.
Sweet.
Now, he loves when I break my old nursing uniform out of the closet. It's white, sexy, form fitting but let's face it. I am a nurse everyday of my life. I don't particularly feel hot or sexy wearing a nurses outfit to bed. Feh.
Thus began my quest for the sexy Halloween costume.
I surfed the net for a bit, going to all the usual sites. I found too many "Sexy Nurse" costumes for my liking. One was PVC red with six inch stilettos. Now, I don't know about y'all, but I don't think I could work wearing that all day.
I found this site called Dimout.com and I think I have found some of the answers to my Halloween prayers. First things first, they have a terrific Plus Size Costume section. Now, y'all know the Princess is a full figured girl. Most costumes are made for the chicks who are shaped like the witches broomstick, but not the wicked witch herself. Imagine my delight in seeing a sexy belly dancer!
Hm. My husband is from the Middle East. This one might work, boys and girls!
I am probing around the site a bit more and found a Plus Sized Bustier in a size big enough to encompass the girth of the girls! Woo hoo! Now we're talkin'! One hot biker babe, coming up!
While we're shopping anyway, why not pick up a sexy costume for the Hotband too?
I think I shall buy this harness get up for the Hotband. I can wear the belly dancer costume and pretend that I am an Egyptian goddess while he is my Israeli slave. Then, he can peel me a grape and we can rock the Casbah! Heh.I have a very overactive imagination, don't I?
Anyway, I just thought I would share some of my finds at Dimout.com with y'all. I know I have a bunch of sexy assed people reading and surely one of you has to be as big of a freak as I am. The prices are pretty good too, which satisfies the retail Jew Princess in me.
Hm. Maybe they have a sexy pirate for Laurie?
Friday, August 25, 2006
This will make your weekend. Please...just trust a bitch.
Go HERE.
Then, click the link that says: Launch This File By Clicking Here
Have your speakers on and your little kids out of the room. Any of y'all from the South are so gonna appreciate this. Any of y'all from the North should take a lesson from this bitch on how to handle yo' bidnizz. Word!
Have a great weekend.
My husband is coming home tonight...so if you hear of an earthquake in Florida, it's just me getting laid. Sweet. Rockin' the casbah, baby!
Peace.
random shit: "The velaura raptosaurus, a rare breed of poisonous spew-spitter that isn't quite extinct enough, is found alive and well in New Port Richey.
Then, click the link that says: Launch This File By Clicking Here
Have your speakers on and your little kids out of the room. Any of y'all from the South are so gonna appreciate this. Any of y'all from the North should take a lesson from this bitch on how to handle yo' bidnizz. Word!
Have a great weekend.
My husband is coming home tonight...so if you hear of an earthquake in Florida, it's just me getting laid. Sweet. Rockin' the casbah, baby!
Peace.
random shit: "The velaura raptosaurus, a rare breed of poisonous spew-spitter that isn't quite extinct enough, is found alive and well in New Port Richey.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Just a quickie.
Phone conversation.
Nurse and patient.
Nurse: "Hi, Mrs. So an So? I am calling from your doctors office to give you your biopsy result."
Patient: "Wonderful!"
Nurse: "Unfortunately, I have some bad news. The biopsy reveals that you have skin cancer on your nose."
Patient: "My nose?"
Nurse: "Yes Ma'am. It was a basal cell carcinoma."
Patient: "My nose? The one on my face?"
I love my job.
Nurse and patient.
Nurse: "Hi, Mrs. So an So? I am calling from your doctors office to give you your biopsy result."
Patient: "Wonderful!"
Nurse: "Unfortunately, I have some bad news. The biopsy reveals that you have skin cancer on your nose."
Patient: "My nose?"
Nurse: "Yes Ma'am. It was a basal cell carcinoma."
Patient: "My nose? The one on my face?"
I love my job.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
The Countdown Continues...
I wish I could tell you I was fired.
I wasn't.
I wish I could tell you I made progress with the OM.
I didn't.
I wish you would send me THIS for my birthday.
You won't.
The day went by without anyone being throttled. I didn't have to shank, disembowel or slit the throat of anyone today. Everyone was being exceptionally nice to CP. Why? I think they are of the mindset that they have pushed me as far as I am willing to be pushed. If you keep poking a waterballoon with a pin, eventually, you are going to pop it.
I think they were concerned that my anger spew was reaching an all time high.
I noticed the autoclave was moved over, toward the middle of the counter, when I came into work today. So, while it is not back where I want it, it isn't dangling at the edge of the counter anymore either. Still impractical, but I now believe that if I just move it a half inch every day, in a months time, it will be back in a SAFE position.
I have to say, at the risk of sounding snobbish, I cannot believe the lack of intellect in my office. Seriously. I think the overall IQ, (not including the Doctors or the Physicians Assistant) is dangling somewhere around whatever Mary Kate Olsen weighs. Can't be more than 85, tops. I also believe that Mary Kate has more backbone than most of the people in the office. I say this, because at least you can SEE Mary Kate's backbone.
And, of course, a pool table has more balls than the people in my office as well.
It frustrates me to be around people who are less educated than I, even if that education is "street smarts". There seems to be a general lack of common sense. For example, we have a woman who takes messages for us. However, sometimes, when a patient calls, there is a nurse sitting at the nurses station. She will ring the call through first to see if we can take it. If we are there, certainly.
"Hello, this is CP."
"CP, there is a patient on the phone who wants her biopsy results. Can you take it?"
"Absolutely. What's the patients name?"
*silence*
"Um, I forgot it. Let me ask her again."
"No, that's okay. I'll ask her."
To me, getting back on a phone to ask a person their name when you have already asked them for their name is unprofessional and makes you sound a tad bit stupid. Then, there are these kind of calls:
"CP, I have a prescription request for you to call in!"
"Great, what's the pharmacy number the patient gave you?"
"Oh, I didn't get that."
"Why not?"
"She gave me her phone number."
"And that helps me how, exactly?"
It doesn't. And any person with an ounce of logic would recognize that. Those are the front desk issues (save for ONE woman up there who is my only reason for living sometimes! She GETS IT!!!) But then, we have the magnificent nursing issues. A patient calls our downtown office to get some information on the medication they were prescribed a few days ago. It's Monday, so we are in the uptown office today. One of the nurses in the downtown office will take the message and fax it up to our group in the uptown office. (We rotate offices and doctors). Now, I have this message in my hand. Great. However, I have no notes. Why? Because those are in the downtown office where the patients chart is. I, however, am in the opposite satellite office. So, instead of being a normal human being and just pulling the patients chart and answering their question for them, they will tell the patient that I am not in that office today, and that I am at the other office. They will fax me the message and now, this patient is on the phone.
Lovely. And me, with NO NOTES ON THIS PATIENT WHATSOEVER!
"I have a question about my medication."
"Okay, how can I help you?"
"I wanted to know how many times a day I am supposed to take it?"
"Hm. That's a really great question, Ma'am. Unfortunately, the girls I work with are inbred imbeciles who didn't realize that there is no way I could possibly answer that question for you without documentation. Do you happen to know what medicine it is?"
"Um, I'm not sure. It's a little white pill."
"Terrific! That narrows it down from 300 million potential drugs to a mere 27 million. Well! I am certain I can figure that out for you now...with NO NOTES!"
Do you see where I'm going with this, People?
I feel like a diamond that got tossed into a bucket of shit.
Now, I don't mean to sound arrogant. Okay, fuck that. Yeah I do. I'm arrogant. You know why? Because I am SMART. Painfully smart. Unreasonably smart. Smart to the point of obnoxious. Basically, I know everything. And, what I don't know, I am savvy enough to either find out, ask questions or beautifully bullshit my way through. Only smart people know how to do that. Dumb people are the ones that don't bother to inquire, don't make an attempt to find things out or just pass the buck to avoid putting themselves into a situation where they might find themselves even...GASP...educated, God forbid.
I love when people ask questions. I am from the school of thought that there are no dumb questions, usually. However, I have found, in my office...there are TONS of dumb questions. Such as...
"This patient is bleeding, what should I do?"
Here's a thought. BANDAGE THEM!
"This patient wants their biopsy result, but it's not back yet. What do I tell them?"
Um, try this. IT'S NOT BACK YET.
"I have a patient in room 4 that forgot to ask the doctor a question."
AND??? Go get the doctor then!
"This patient said she doesn't want to have surgery today."
Then guess the fuck what? LEAVE HER ALONE!
I mean, my head literally begins to ache when I deal with some of the girls in my office. And it trickles down from the top (I mean administration, not the doctors) when your Office Manager condones the stupid behavior. Instead of smartening them up, she has everyone else "dummy down". Instead of educating the people who aren't quite getting it, she will change heaven and earth around to accomodate the ignorance. This is why she can make statements like "The autoclave didn't burn anyone yesterday, so it will be just fine where it is!"
Right. Didn't burn anyone YESTERDAY. Swell. You're right. That means it should be perfectly safe. Excellent theory.
And, while we're on that theory...I guess it's safe to say that since I didn't have a car accident today, well, I should never have one again! Isn't that right? I mean, that IS the theory correct? Oh, and I didn't get the flu today, so I should probably never be sick a day in my life ever again! Sweet! Oh, and...I didn't gain weight today, so I am likely to stay this weight...FOREVER! Awesome!
Can you HEAR the distinct sounds of my eyes rolling back into my skull?
Can you TASTE the sarcasm?
I've just had it. Truly. I'm over it.
However, what I am NOT over is the fact that there are only 6 more shopping days until my 40th birthday, and I have not seen an increase in the overall economy to prove to me that you are all out making purchases to honor this day!
What are you waiting for? Gas prices to go down? Peace in the Middle East? Pamela Anderson to be considered classy? NONE of these things are going to happen, People, so you might as well get out there, now, while you can and do the right thing.
Get out there and get me my presents, dammit!
I wasn't.
I wish I could tell you I made progress with the OM.
I didn't.
I wish you would send me THIS for my birthday.
You won't.
The day went by without anyone being throttled. I didn't have to shank, disembowel or slit the throat of anyone today. Everyone was being exceptionally nice to CP. Why? I think they are of the mindset that they have pushed me as far as I am willing to be pushed. If you keep poking a waterballoon with a pin, eventually, you are going to pop it.
I think they were concerned that my anger spew was reaching an all time high.
I noticed the autoclave was moved over, toward the middle of the counter, when I came into work today. So, while it is not back where I want it, it isn't dangling at the edge of the counter anymore either. Still impractical, but I now believe that if I just move it a half inch every day, in a months time, it will be back in a SAFE position.
I have to say, at the risk of sounding snobbish, I cannot believe the lack of intellect in my office. Seriously. I think the overall IQ, (not including the Doctors or the Physicians Assistant) is dangling somewhere around whatever Mary Kate Olsen weighs. Can't be more than 85, tops. I also believe that Mary Kate has more backbone than most of the people in the office. I say this, because at least you can SEE Mary Kate's backbone.
And, of course, a pool table has more balls than the people in my office as well.
It frustrates me to be around people who are less educated than I, even if that education is "street smarts". There seems to be a general lack of common sense. For example, we have a woman who takes messages for us. However, sometimes, when a patient calls, there is a nurse sitting at the nurses station. She will ring the call through first to see if we can take it. If we are there, certainly.
"Hello, this is CP."
"CP, there is a patient on the phone who wants her biopsy results. Can you take it?"
"Absolutely. What's the patients name?"
*silence*
"Um, I forgot it. Let me ask her again."
"No, that's okay. I'll ask her."
To me, getting back on a phone to ask a person their name when you have already asked them for their name is unprofessional and makes you sound a tad bit stupid. Then, there are these kind of calls:
"CP, I have a prescription request for you to call in!"
"Great, what's the pharmacy number the patient gave you?"
"Oh, I didn't get that."
"Why not?"
"She gave me her phone number."
"And that helps me how, exactly?"
It doesn't. And any person with an ounce of logic would recognize that. Those are the front desk issues (save for ONE woman up there who is my only reason for living sometimes! She GETS IT!!!) But then, we have the magnificent nursing issues. A patient calls our downtown office to get some information on the medication they were prescribed a few days ago. It's Monday, so we are in the uptown office today. One of the nurses in the downtown office will take the message and fax it up to our group in the uptown office. (We rotate offices and doctors). Now, I have this message in my hand. Great. However, I have no notes. Why? Because those are in the downtown office where the patients chart is. I, however, am in the opposite satellite office. So, instead of being a normal human being and just pulling the patients chart and answering their question for them, they will tell the patient that I am not in that office today, and that I am at the other office. They will fax me the message and now, this patient is on the phone.
Lovely. And me, with NO NOTES ON THIS PATIENT WHATSOEVER!
"I have a question about my medication."
"Okay, how can I help you?"
"I wanted to know how many times a day I am supposed to take it?"
"Hm. That's a really great question, Ma'am. Unfortunately, the girls I work with are inbred imbeciles who didn't realize that there is no way I could possibly answer that question for you without documentation. Do you happen to know what medicine it is?"
"Um, I'm not sure. It's a little white pill."
"Terrific! That narrows it down from 300 million potential drugs to a mere 27 million. Well! I am certain I can figure that out for you now...with NO NOTES!"
Do you see where I'm going with this, People?
I feel like a diamond that got tossed into a bucket of shit.
Now, I don't mean to sound arrogant. Okay, fuck that. Yeah I do. I'm arrogant. You know why? Because I am SMART. Painfully smart. Unreasonably smart. Smart to the point of obnoxious. Basically, I know everything. And, what I don't know, I am savvy enough to either find out, ask questions or beautifully bullshit my way through. Only smart people know how to do that. Dumb people are the ones that don't bother to inquire, don't make an attempt to find things out or just pass the buck to avoid putting themselves into a situation where they might find themselves even...GASP...educated, God forbid.
I love when people ask questions. I am from the school of thought that there are no dumb questions, usually. However, I have found, in my office...there are TONS of dumb questions. Such as...
"This patient is bleeding, what should I do?"
Here's a thought. BANDAGE THEM!
"This patient wants their biopsy result, but it's not back yet. What do I tell them?"
Um, try this. IT'S NOT BACK YET.
"I have a patient in room 4 that forgot to ask the doctor a question."
AND??? Go get the doctor then!
"This patient said she doesn't want to have surgery today."
Then guess the fuck what? LEAVE HER ALONE!
I mean, my head literally begins to ache when I deal with some of the girls in my office. And it trickles down from the top (I mean administration, not the doctors) when your Office Manager condones the stupid behavior. Instead of smartening them up, she has everyone else "dummy down". Instead of educating the people who aren't quite getting it, she will change heaven and earth around to accomodate the ignorance. This is why she can make statements like "The autoclave didn't burn anyone yesterday, so it will be just fine where it is!"
Right. Didn't burn anyone YESTERDAY. Swell. You're right. That means it should be perfectly safe. Excellent theory.
And, while we're on that theory...I guess it's safe to say that since I didn't have a car accident today, well, I should never have one again! Isn't that right? I mean, that IS the theory correct? Oh, and I didn't get the flu today, so I should probably never be sick a day in my life ever again! Sweet! Oh, and...I didn't gain weight today, so I am likely to stay this weight...FOREVER! Awesome!
Can you HEAR the distinct sounds of my eyes rolling back into my skull?
Can you TASTE the sarcasm?
I've just had it. Truly. I'm over it.
However, what I am NOT over is the fact that there are only 6 more shopping days until my 40th birthday, and I have not seen an increase in the overall economy to prove to me that you are all out making purchases to honor this day!
What are you waiting for? Gas prices to go down? Peace in the Middle East? Pamela Anderson to be considered classy? NONE of these things are going to happen, People, so you might as well get out there, now, while you can and do the right thing.
Get out there and get me my presents, dammit!
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Control Freaks: A Prelude to a Doocing.
I hate them.
I hate them with a passion that I usually reserve for child-molesters, men who commit crimes against women or people who ass-rape goats in Uganda. People who feel the need to have everyone by the short hairs piss me off to the point where there is smoke coming out of my ears.
We have one of those at work, in the form of our office manager.
Our office manager has NO background in medicine whatsoever, yet, she has made herself the self-appointed "nursing supervisor". While this woman is great at managing funds, bookkeeping and black and white protocol, she has NO sense of gray. What I mean by that is, nursing is not a profession where the same thing applies day to day. She makes protocols that we have to break all the time. Then, her vengence turns upon us in the form of being ranted at or written up.
Last week, three girls in the office (one of whom is useless, one of whom is a "yes girl" and the other, a neurotic clean freak) decided it would be just charming to waste an entire day cleaning and re-organizing the nurses station. This of course pleases the control freak OM to no end, as she seems to believe that a clean office is an orderly office. I don't understand people like this. Sure, organized is great, but labeling EVERYTHING in the entire nurses station is a ridiculous waste of time. I mean, these girls even put a label that says "stapler" ON the stapler.
What. The. Fuck.
Our files were pulled apart. Pictures of my children and husband were removed from the nurses station.
"It looks tacky," they said.
"Um, no. It looks like we are human beings with families," I counter.
When I got into work this morning, after spending yesterday in our other office, I walked into disaster. Even Mr. Clean would have said "what the fuck happened here, bitches?" That's how organized it was. Organized to a fault, because we were unable to find anything. My partner and I stood there staring at this mess of stackers, paperclip drawers, thumbtack holders, color coded charts and pen holders.
It doesn't sound bad to you probably, but, it was.
However, the worst thing that I saw was something I could not sit idly by for. We have a machine called an autoclave. Autoclaves are sterilizers for instruments. They hit temperatures in excess of 200 plus degrees. We used to have it sitting catty-corner, in the corner of the nurses station, where only the nurses could come in contact with it.
These rocket scientists I work with, headed by their fearless leader, Controlfreakasaurus, opted to put that device at the very edge of the counter, where patients pass constantly. Now, this autoclave? When it is done with a course of sterilization, it POPS open! POW! It sounds like a gunshot. After 9 years of being around them, they STILL make me jump. But, more importantly, when they pop open, they vent out the steam that sterilized the instruments. This steam, if you are within 6 inches of the autoclave, will scald you. You WILL get a third degree burn. No questions asked.
So, by having the autoclave on the corner of the counter, the steam will blow out directly into the path of the hallway, where our patients walk past to get into the exam rooms. It's dangerous. It's impractical and most importantly, it is setting us up for a horrendous lawsuit.
I brought this up to the OM/CF last week, when she was first discussing rearranging the nurses station. I thought she was a reasonable human being and would understand this.
Apparently not.
So, my partner and I lift the autoclave and move it BACK to where it originally was.
You know, for safety's sake. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, right?
A few hours later, I am in an exam room, setting a patient up for surgery.
"CP!!!!!"
Rut Ro, Raggy. The OM/Controlfreak is looking for me.
She comes to the door of the room and says, "I don't care WHAT you have to do right now, but that autoclave gets moved BACK TO WHERE IT WAS this instant."
"OM, may I explain to you why we moved it?"
"NO! YOU MAY MOVE IT BACK!!"
"Okay, but OM, can you just listen for a seco..."
"I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU HAVE TO SAY. YOU JUST MAKE SURE THAT IT GETS MOVED BACK NOW!"
I rip off my gloves. I go down the hall. I stand there in the middle of the hall, caught between my desire to do the right thing and my desire to keep my job. My sense of duty always prevails. I couldn't move it back. On principle, it would be the wrong thing to do. While I would secretly LOVE IT if someone did get burned so I can say, "TOLD YOU SO, YOU FREAKIN' CONTROLLING TWAT!", I wouldn't be able to live with myself if someone got hurt because of it.
While I am standing in the hallway, letting the devil and angel on each of my shoulders battle it out, the doctor comes up to me.
"Did you get that patient set up yet," he asks.
"No. I got pulled out of the room to move the autoclave."
"Go set up the patient," he says.
Now, last I heard? I am a nurse. The doc says jump, you say "how high"? He is the one that signs my paychecks. So, I go back down the hall, back to the room I was in before She-Devil went all Charles Manson on my ass. I hear her say (from down the hall) "I want her to move that autoclave!"
Doc retorts with, "just let the girls get the patients done."
To which she replies: "NO. I WANT HER TO MOVE IT NOW!"
Hoooooooooo boy! I am sitting in that room wiping the DROOL offa my chin! Awesome! Now he is gonna tear her a new asshole! Whoop whoop! Here we go! He's gonna come to my defense and tell her that her wants, needs and flippant little desires are NOT the priority and that, as a nurse, I should be able to make the decision about whether something impacts a patients safety or not! Sweet! Here we go! Give it to her, Doc!!!
I peek out of the room just in time to see him slink off, tail firmly between his legs...castrated.
Damn.
She stomps into her office. Looking to make peace with the megabeast, I walk in behind her.
"Can I talk to you for a second," I ask.
"THIS ISN'T A GOOD TIME, CP!" (yes, she was screaming.)
"But, I just want you to hear my reasonin..."
"I SAID THIS ISN'T A GOOD TIME. NOW YOU GET BACK OUT THERE AND DO YOUR JOB AND LEAVE ME ALONE TO DO MINE! ALL I KNOW IS THAT THING GETS MOVED TODAY OR YOU GET WRITTEN UP!!!"
"You," I snarl back, "are seriously going to tell me you are going to write me up for trying to make something SAFER, just because it doesn't agree with your point of view? Are you serious???"
"MOVE IT, TODAY." (Yes, banchee-bitch is still screaming.)
I was about to turn and leave, when I realized I tasted blood in my own mouth. It was the distinctly metallic taste of biting ones own tongue. I didn't care for it much, so I spat it out at her verbally.
"You know what? The priorities in this place are really friggin' SCREWED!"
Mmmm. That felt good. Not quite as good as sex, but definately as good as a quickie masturbation session with a vibrator whose batteries were running a tad bit too low. What I really wanted to do was tell her to eat my ass with a spoon, yet, I feel that would be too good of a yummy treat for her. No. I will not reward her actions with allowing her to eat the royal ass of the Princess, not even if the spoon was silver.
I walk out. I call my husband. I piss and bitch. I feel better.
Lie. No I don't. But at least I vented.
The day goes by. She leaves the office. Not another word is said. I don't move the autoclave and neither does my partner. We agreed not to. Said we absolutely will stand on our morals and values as nurses and just say no. Nancy Reagan would be proud of a bitch.
She returns much later on in the day. I go about my business.
There is a very uncomfortable stink of dread in the air.
Or, it was her perfume. Not sure.
4:30 rolls around. It is time for me to leave and pick up my son. NOW she opts to have a conversation. Hm. Coincidence?
Think not.
So, partner and I walk into her office and this time, I say very little. I let the partner do all the talking this time. She has my back on this and is doing a pretty good job of handling her. OM barks at my partner to move the autoclave back. Partner says, "we won't."
"Fine," she says, as she pushes past us. "Then I will go do it myself."
"OM," I say, "it is not a matter of who physically moves it. It's about WHY it should be moved in the first place."
"IT WILL BE MOVED BECAUSE I SAY SO!"
"And if someone gets burned," I query.
"We had it like this yesterday. NO one got burned, CP. There were no problems."
"But that's only ONE day," my partner counters. "What if someone gets burned in the future?"
"We'll just have to deal with it then," is her intelligent reply.
She then proceeds to move the autoclave which is 50 pounds heavier than she is with us just standing there watching her. Neither of us moved toward it because, bottomline, our integrity as nurses was being challenged. If the doctor had told me to put it there and leave it there, I probably would have. He's my boss and I listen to him, regardless. If he feels it is safe, then fine, I'm all for it. It's his office, after all. If he is okay with getting his ass handed to him in court, so be it. But, I am NOT listening to a woman who has a certificate in office managment on how to be a nurse. Sorry. Not happening.
My job is in jeopardy right now. I realize that and I am ready to take on the responsibility of my actions. I will never compromise a patient to save my own ass. Not ever. This is what separates me from the medical assistants that I work with. I have a license to think about. I have meticulous training that will always make me intervene when I see a situation that I think could cause harm or injury to my patients. I would correct a doctor if I saw him about to do the wrong thing without hesitation. I am not the type to stand idly by with my fingers up my gooch and be all like...Um, OOPS!
That's not me. That ain't who Esther raised.
(Are you thinking this post is getting too long? Ask me if I give a rats testicle. Leave now or continue on. I am not writing to entertain you, damn it! Whaddya think? I'm a clown? I'm here to amuse you? Fuggedaboudit! I'm venting. Now, shut the fuck up and let me finish.)
Ahem.
Anyway, a friend of mine at work, (who I won't even give a pseudonym to on the off chance I should get dooced. I will not take her down with my ship), said something incrediblyaccurate poignant. She said, and I plagerize and embellish and paraphrase:
"The reason that OM has to exert so much control over everyone and everything in the office is because she has no control at home. She has a loveless marriage. She has a son who is out of control and a derelict. She has a grandaughter she is never allowed to see because the baby's mother hates her. She has a medical condition that she cannot control and that infuriates her. Hell, she is even angry she can't control the due date of her daughters baby! She has no control in every other facet of her life. So, she takes it out on us."
Did you ever want to make out with someone, simply based on the fact that they just fucking GET IT????
I LOVE her. She is simply the smartest bitch in the office. She just...gets it.
However, unlike me, she isn't a "speaker upper". I can understand that with her a bit more. She needs her job. She's a single momma of a beautiful baby boy and she, unlike the OM, understands priority.
Me? I have no sense of priority when it comes to my integrity.
I just refuse to be controlled.
If God wanted me controlled, he would have equipped me with a remote.
On a lighter note, I will be 40 in one more week.
August 30th.
Write it down. I accept cash, check, charge or THIS.
Please email me for the shipping address.
Thanks in advance. Have a great day.
I hate them with a passion that I usually reserve for child-molesters, men who commit crimes against women or people who ass-rape goats in Uganda. People who feel the need to have everyone by the short hairs piss me off to the point where there is smoke coming out of my ears.
We have one of those at work, in the form of our office manager.
Our office manager has NO background in medicine whatsoever, yet, she has made herself the self-appointed "nursing supervisor". While this woman is great at managing funds, bookkeeping and black and white protocol, she has NO sense of gray. What I mean by that is, nursing is not a profession where the same thing applies day to day. She makes protocols that we have to break all the time. Then, her vengence turns upon us in the form of being ranted at or written up.
Last week, three girls in the office (one of whom is useless, one of whom is a "yes girl" and the other, a neurotic clean freak) decided it would be just charming to waste an entire day cleaning and re-organizing the nurses station. This of course pleases the control freak OM to no end, as she seems to believe that a clean office is an orderly office. I don't understand people like this. Sure, organized is great, but labeling EVERYTHING in the entire nurses station is a ridiculous waste of time. I mean, these girls even put a label that says "stapler" ON the stapler.
What. The. Fuck.
Our files were pulled apart. Pictures of my children and husband were removed from the nurses station.
"It looks tacky," they said.
"Um, no. It looks like we are human beings with families," I counter.
When I got into work this morning, after spending yesterday in our other office, I walked into disaster. Even Mr. Clean would have said "what the fuck happened here, bitches?" That's how organized it was. Organized to a fault, because we were unable to find anything. My partner and I stood there staring at this mess of stackers, paperclip drawers, thumbtack holders, color coded charts and pen holders.
It doesn't sound bad to you probably, but, it was.
However, the worst thing that I saw was something I could not sit idly by for. We have a machine called an autoclave. Autoclaves are sterilizers for instruments. They hit temperatures in excess of 200 plus degrees. We used to have it sitting catty-corner, in the corner of the nurses station, where only the nurses could come in contact with it.
These rocket scientists I work with, headed by their fearless leader, Controlfreakasaurus, opted to put that device at the very edge of the counter, where patients pass constantly. Now, this autoclave? When it is done with a course of sterilization, it POPS open! POW! It sounds like a gunshot. After 9 years of being around them, they STILL make me jump. But, more importantly, when they pop open, they vent out the steam that sterilized the instruments. This steam, if you are within 6 inches of the autoclave, will scald you. You WILL get a third degree burn. No questions asked.
So, by having the autoclave on the corner of the counter, the steam will blow out directly into the path of the hallway, where our patients walk past to get into the exam rooms. It's dangerous. It's impractical and most importantly, it is setting us up for a horrendous lawsuit.
I brought this up to the OM/CF last week, when she was first discussing rearranging the nurses station. I thought she was a reasonable human being and would understand this.
Apparently not.
So, my partner and I lift the autoclave and move it BACK to where it originally was.
You know, for safety's sake. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, right?
A few hours later, I am in an exam room, setting a patient up for surgery.
"CP!!!!!"
Rut Ro, Raggy. The OM/Controlfreak is looking for me.
She comes to the door of the room and says, "I don't care WHAT you have to do right now, but that autoclave gets moved BACK TO WHERE IT WAS this instant."
"OM, may I explain to you why we moved it?"
"NO! YOU MAY MOVE IT BACK!!"
"Okay, but OM, can you just listen for a seco..."
"I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU HAVE TO SAY. YOU JUST MAKE SURE THAT IT GETS MOVED BACK NOW!"
I rip off my gloves. I go down the hall. I stand there in the middle of the hall, caught between my desire to do the right thing and my desire to keep my job. My sense of duty always prevails. I couldn't move it back. On principle, it would be the wrong thing to do. While I would secretly LOVE IT if someone did get burned so I can say, "TOLD YOU SO, YOU FREAKIN' CONTROLLING TWAT!", I wouldn't be able to live with myself if someone got hurt because of it.
While I am standing in the hallway, letting the devil and angel on each of my shoulders battle it out, the doctor comes up to me.
"Did you get that patient set up yet," he asks.
"No. I got pulled out of the room to move the autoclave."
"Go set up the patient," he says.
Now, last I heard? I am a nurse. The doc says jump, you say "how high"? He is the one that signs my paychecks. So, I go back down the hall, back to the room I was in before She-Devil went all Charles Manson on my ass. I hear her say (from down the hall) "I want her to move that autoclave!"
Doc retorts with, "just let the girls get the patients done."
To which she replies: "NO. I WANT HER TO MOVE IT NOW!"
Hoooooooooo boy! I am sitting in that room wiping the DROOL offa my chin! Awesome! Now he is gonna tear her a new asshole! Whoop whoop! Here we go! He's gonna come to my defense and tell her that her wants, needs and flippant little desires are NOT the priority and that, as a nurse, I should be able to make the decision about whether something impacts a patients safety or not! Sweet! Here we go! Give it to her, Doc!!!
I peek out of the room just in time to see him slink off, tail firmly between his legs...castrated.
Damn.
She stomps into her office. Looking to make peace with the megabeast, I walk in behind her.
"Can I talk to you for a second," I ask.
"THIS ISN'T A GOOD TIME, CP!" (yes, she was screaming.)
"But, I just want you to hear my reasonin..."
"I SAID THIS ISN'T A GOOD TIME. NOW YOU GET BACK OUT THERE AND DO YOUR JOB AND LEAVE ME ALONE TO DO MINE! ALL I KNOW IS THAT THING GETS MOVED TODAY OR YOU GET WRITTEN UP!!!"
"You," I snarl back, "are seriously going to tell me you are going to write me up for trying to make something SAFER, just because it doesn't agree with your point of view? Are you serious???"
"MOVE IT, TODAY." (Yes, banchee-bitch is still screaming.)
I was about to turn and leave, when I realized I tasted blood in my own mouth. It was the distinctly metallic taste of biting ones own tongue. I didn't care for it much, so I spat it out at her verbally.
"You know what? The priorities in this place are really friggin' SCREWED!"
Mmmm. That felt good. Not quite as good as sex, but definately as good as a quickie masturbation session with a vibrator whose batteries were running a tad bit too low. What I really wanted to do was tell her to eat my ass with a spoon, yet, I feel that would be too good of a yummy treat for her. No. I will not reward her actions with allowing her to eat the royal ass of the Princess, not even if the spoon was silver.
I walk out. I call my husband. I piss and bitch. I feel better.
Lie. No I don't. But at least I vented.
The day goes by. She leaves the office. Not another word is said. I don't move the autoclave and neither does my partner. We agreed not to. Said we absolutely will stand on our morals and values as nurses and just say no. Nancy Reagan would be proud of a bitch.
She returns much later on in the day. I go about my business.
There is a very uncomfortable stink of dread in the air.
Or, it was her perfume. Not sure.
4:30 rolls around. It is time for me to leave and pick up my son. NOW she opts to have a conversation. Hm. Coincidence?
Think not.
So, partner and I walk into her office and this time, I say very little. I let the partner do all the talking this time. She has my back on this and is doing a pretty good job of handling her. OM barks at my partner to move the autoclave back. Partner says, "we won't."
"Fine," she says, as she pushes past us. "Then I will go do it myself."
"OM," I say, "it is not a matter of who physically moves it. It's about WHY it should be moved in the first place."
"IT WILL BE MOVED BECAUSE I SAY SO!"
"And if someone gets burned," I query.
"We had it like this yesterday. NO one got burned, CP. There were no problems."
"But that's only ONE day," my partner counters. "What if someone gets burned in the future?"
"We'll just have to deal with it then," is her intelligent reply.
She then proceeds to move the autoclave which is 50 pounds heavier than she is with us just standing there watching her. Neither of us moved toward it because, bottomline, our integrity as nurses was being challenged. If the doctor had told me to put it there and leave it there, I probably would have. He's my boss and I listen to him, regardless. If he feels it is safe, then fine, I'm all for it. It's his office, after all. If he is okay with getting his ass handed to him in court, so be it. But, I am NOT listening to a woman who has a certificate in office managment on how to be a nurse. Sorry. Not happening.
My job is in jeopardy right now. I realize that and I am ready to take on the responsibility of my actions. I will never compromise a patient to save my own ass. Not ever. This is what separates me from the medical assistants that I work with. I have a license to think about. I have meticulous training that will always make me intervene when I see a situation that I think could cause harm or injury to my patients. I would correct a doctor if I saw him about to do the wrong thing without hesitation. I am not the type to stand idly by with my fingers up my gooch and be all like...Um, OOPS!
That's not me. That ain't who Esther raised.
(Are you thinking this post is getting too long? Ask me if I give a rats testicle. Leave now or continue on. I am not writing to entertain you, damn it! Whaddya think? I'm a clown? I'm here to amuse you? Fuggedaboudit! I'm venting. Now, shut the fuck up and let me finish.)
Ahem.
Anyway, a friend of mine at work, (who I won't even give a pseudonym to on the off chance I should get dooced. I will not take her down with my ship), said something incredibly
"The reason that OM has to exert so much control over everyone and everything in the office is because she has no control at home. She has a loveless marriage. She has a son who is out of control and a derelict. She has a grandaughter she is never allowed to see because the baby's mother hates her. She has a medical condition that she cannot control and that infuriates her. Hell, she is even angry she can't control the due date of her daughters baby! She has no control in every other facet of her life. So, she takes it out on us."
Did you ever want to make out with someone, simply based on the fact that they just fucking GET IT????
I LOVE her. She is simply the smartest bitch in the office. She just...gets it.
However, unlike me, she isn't a "speaker upper". I can understand that with her a bit more. She needs her job. She's a single momma of a beautiful baby boy and she, unlike the OM, understands priority.
Me? I have no sense of priority when it comes to my integrity.
I just refuse to be controlled.
If God wanted me controlled, he would have equipped me with a remote.
On a lighter note, I will be 40 in one more week.
August 30th.
Write it down. I accept cash, check, charge or THIS.
Please email me for the shipping address.
Thanks in advance. Have a great day.
I think Tuesday's get a raw deal.
No one talks about Tuesday. No one.
Monday is the beginning of the week. Monday sucks ass. Wednesday is "hump day". Thursday is a day away from the weekend. Wee hoo. Friday, of course, rocks. Saturday and Sunday? Why, that's the weekend! We love those days!
But no one ever mentions poor Tuesday.
This is an entire post devoted to the history and honor of Tuesday. Let's start with Tuesday History.
From Wikipedia:
Tuesday is considered either the second or the third day of the week, between Monday and Wednesday.
Tres obvious, but alright. It's a start.
The word "Tuesday" comes from Middle English Twisday, from Old English Tiwes dæg, a rendering of Latin Martis dies. The English and Scandinavian names are derived from the Nordic god Tyr (in Old English, Tiw, Tew or Tiu. In Swedish, Tisdag, Danish: Tirsdag, Finnish: Tiistai and in Norwegian: Tirsdag.) Tyr was the Norse equivalent of the Roman war god Mars, hence Martis dies ("Mars's day").
Now, I think you should take this tidbit of knowledge and flail it before all your families and friends! Delight the masses! Show them your penchant for trivia!
In the Greek world, Tuesday (the day of the week of the Fall of Constantinople) is considered an unlucky day. The same is true in the Spanish-speaking world, where a proverb runs En martes, ni te cases ni te embarques (On Tuesday, neither get married nor begin a journey).
Did I not tell you that Tuesday has NO luck whatsoever? On Tuesday, I can't get married. That kind of sucks, considering I DID get married on a Tuesday back in December of 2002! Whoa. Someone should have told me this sooner. Nor can I begin a journey. Hm. Sweet. Back to bed for me. I think I have some sick time left.
And now, Tuesday culturally:
***In the popular rhyme, "Tuesday's child is full of grace."
I was born on a Friday. Friday's child is full of shit. At least, that's what Esther keeps telling me.
***"Tuesday Morning" is the name of a song by Michelle Branch, found on her 2003 album Hotel Paper. A different song of the same name by Melissa Etheridge can be found on her 2004 album "Lucky"
Wow. I wonder if there is going to be a sequel from either of them? Like, Wednesday Late Afternoon. That would be so hawt!
***Tuesday Morning is a chain of discount gift and home accessory stores.
***"Tuesday Afternoon" (Forever Afternoon) by The Moody Blues
I am suing these bitches. They stole my idea for the sequel!
And finally, Tuesday in Pictures. I googled the word Tuesday to see what images would come up in association with this fine, underappreciated day. Here's what the results consisted of:
The band "Til Tuesday". If you are old enough to remember them when they came out, you are probably half dead like I am. At very least, you are 35. They totally rocked in the 80's. Aimee Mann is still great. I think the other guys were sold into white slavery.
This womans picture came up. She's either a huge fan of Tuesdays or we caught her masturbating. I hear there is a holiday in England called "Happy Tuesday". Maybe this is why? If it is, I will honor that tradition here in the states, first thing in the morning. Now, where's my damn Shower Massage?
What. The. Fuck.
I have no words. All I was doing was looking for "Tuesday" related pictures. Apparently, at this school Tuesday is Cross Dress Day. No. Really. I swear it is. Click the link. I feel I would have been better adjusted in life had I attended this high school. I think everyday should be Cross Dress Tuesday. I shall wear a jockstrap to work today. My own private celebration.
Well, thank you for attending this lesson on Tuesday. Please come back again on Wednesday when our topic will be "How Wednesday Earned the Name Hump Day". Want a sneak preview? Go to Google. Type in "Hump Day". Click Images. Press search.
Niiii-iiii-iiiii-ce.
What the hell are you doing here?
8 more days til my birthday, Bitches!
Don't y'all have some SHOPPING to do???
Monday is the beginning of the week. Monday sucks ass. Wednesday is "hump day". Thursday is a day away from the weekend. Wee hoo. Friday, of course, rocks. Saturday and Sunday? Why, that's the weekend! We love those days!
But no one ever mentions poor Tuesday.
This is an entire post devoted to the history and honor of Tuesday. Let's start with Tuesday History.
From Wikipedia:
Tuesday is considered either the second or the third day of the week, between Monday and Wednesday.
Tres obvious, but alright. It's a start.
The word "Tuesday" comes from Middle English Twisday, from Old English Tiwes dæg, a rendering of Latin Martis dies. The English and Scandinavian names are derived from the Nordic god Tyr (in Old English, Tiw, Tew or Tiu. In Swedish, Tisdag, Danish: Tirsdag, Finnish: Tiistai and in Norwegian: Tirsdag.) Tyr was the Norse equivalent of the Roman war god Mars, hence Martis dies ("Mars's day").
Now, I think you should take this tidbit of knowledge and flail it before all your families and friends! Delight the masses! Show them your penchant for trivia!
In the Greek world, Tuesday (the day of the week of the Fall of Constantinople) is considered an unlucky day. The same is true in the Spanish-speaking world, where a proverb runs En martes, ni te cases ni te embarques (On Tuesday, neither get married nor begin a journey).
Did I not tell you that Tuesday has NO luck whatsoever? On Tuesday, I can't get married. That kind of sucks, considering I DID get married on a Tuesday back in December of 2002! Whoa. Someone should have told me this sooner. Nor can I begin a journey. Hm. Sweet. Back to bed for me. I think I have some sick time left.
And now, Tuesday culturally:
***In the popular rhyme, "Tuesday's child is full of grace."
I was born on a Friday. Friday's child is full of shit. At least, that's what Esther keeps telling me.
***"Tuesday Morning" is the name of a song by Michelle Branch, found on her 2003 album Hotel Paper. A different song of the same name by Melissa Etheridge can be found on her 2004 album "Lucky"
Wow. I wonder if there is going to be a sequel from either of them? Like, Wednesday Late Afternoon. That would be so hawt!
***Tuesday Morning is a chain of discount gift and home accessory stores.
***"Tuesday Afternoon" (Forever Afternoon) by The Moody Blues
I am suing these bitches. They stole my idea for the sequel!
And finally, Tuesday in Pictures. I googled the word Tuesday to see what images would come up in association with this fine, underappreciated day. Here's what the results consisted of:
The band "Til Tuesday". If you are old enough to remember them when they came out, you are probably half dead like I am. At very least, you are 35. They totally rocked in the 80's. Aimee Mann is still great. I think the other guys were sold into white slavery.
This womans picture came up. She's either a huge fan of Tuesdays or we caught her masturbating. I hear there is a holiday in England called "Happy Tuesday". Maybe this is why? If it is, I will honor that tradition here in the states, first thing in the morning. Now, where's my damn Shower Massage?
What. The. Fuck.
I have no words. All I was doing was looking for "Tuesday" related pictures. Apparently, at this school Tuesday is Cross Dress Day. No. Really. I swear it is. Click the link. I feel I would have been better adjusted in life had I attended this high school. I think everyday should be Cross Dress Tuesday. I shall wear a jockstrap to work today. My own private celebration.
Well, thank you for attending this lesson on Tuesday. Please come back again on Wednesday when our topic will be "How Wednesday Earned the Name Hump Day". Want a sneak preview? Go to Google. Type in "Hump Day". Click Images. Press search.
Niiii-iiii-iiiii-ce.
What the hell are you doing here?
8 more days til my birthday, Bitches!
Don't y'all have some SHOPPING to do???
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Sunday has been very good to me...
I am well-medicated, well-adjusted and well on my way to my temporary recovery.
'Til next month.
In the interim, TODAY starts my 10 day countdown to the big Four-Oh. 40. Dear Gawd who does art in Heaven. Or, something like that. 40? WTF? Who blinked and made me 40? How the hell did I get here? Wasn't I just 26 last week?
I started thinking that with the arrival of 40, it may very well be that my life is half over. Truly. The declination of youth. And, even if 40 is the new 30, well, shit still may be half over. Who knows?
Certainly, I am faring better at forty than many women. Despite being a loving and patient woman, I am still a woman nevertheless. This means I have kittyclaws. You know what I mean. It's when women sniff around other women and then...start belittling them in their minds.
"Oh, no! You look GREAT in that outfit! Not fat at all!!"
TRANSLATION: You look like you swallowed a Dunkin Donuts shop whole. I look thinner than you. Keep wearing it!
"Oh. My. GAWD. I LOVE your hair! Where did you get it cut?"
TRANSLATION: Yes, please tell me so I avoid that place like the plague.
"Absolutely! Your new boyfriend is GORGEOUS!"
TRANSLATION: I wouldn't touch his scaly dick with someone ELSE'S ten foot pole.
"Of course we're best friends! We should totally hang out!"
TRANSLATION: You're uglier than me. You make me look good. Let's always be together.
"That hair color is to DIE for!"
TRANSLATION: It makes you look like a rotting corpse.
"Where DID you get those shoes?"
TRANSLATION: 'Cause I think they are gonna look so hot on your boyfriends shoulders once I steal his ass away from you.
"Wow. I am SO jealous of your new job! You are so lucky! Congrats!
TRANSLATION: Die bitch.
It's the nature of women, People. Don't inundate my comments with "Oh my god, me and my best friend are so not like that! We totally support and love each other!"
Yeah. Til you start realizing that your man is checking out her rack...then RAWR! Watch those kittyclaws come flying out. Meow.
Don't get me wrong. I think examples like the ones above are more prevalent with girls in their late teens and twenties than they are with women in their 30's and 40's. But, let's be honest. You know that women check out other women more than men do. We take mental notes. We cat-claw even when we don't mean to. In our minds, we walk past other women and say:
"Psssht. I look better than her."
Of course, we don't say these things out loud, mind you. But, if you say you don't get that way, you are probably half man. You do. You just don't realize you do. All women do. It's in our nature to be naturally competitive. We like being the Alpha Babe just as much as the men. Now, in the spirit of sisterhood, I will admit that as I have gotten older, I have gotten less catty. When I like someones outfit, I will compliment them. I will fawn over it. I will ooh and ahh.
Then, I will get my ass to Macy's to purchase something superior.
All in all, I love my female friends and have gotten to cherish them far more over the years. I feel that this might due to a certain maturity that women my age develop. We become sophisticated compared to younger women. We are more worldly and less insecure...I think. We don't play games, we know what we want and we don't settle for anything less.
But boy oh boy. Do I miss wet T-shirt night at the local bar on occasion.
I remember a time in my early adult life when I would flash my breasts anytime, any place, any where.
Now, it's too much trouble to pull them out of the waistband of my jeans.
Ah well.
Youth is wasted on the young.
I am looking forward to growing old gracefully, without the benefit of Botox or any other enhancers that might be out there. I believe that each fine line on my face is nothing more than a delicate roadmap of where I have been. I earned those lines. I wear them around my eyes as a badge of honor.
I wear my tits around my ankles as a sign of gravity.
In either instance, I still feel I am doing better than most. My husband still finds me to be bootylicious. I still feel 20 and I believe I look 30...ish. I am vibrant, fun to be around and still pretty damn crazy. I WILL ask for the Senior Citizen Discount at the movies, just for shits and giggles.
Pretty wild, no?
I think we all have to work with what God gave us, learn to appreciate and love the skin we're in and in some cases, make the best of a bad situation. But, let me give you the BEST beauty tip I was ever given. Once you get to 40, stop going anywhere with makeup on. Then, when you finally do put it on...people will be astonished, surprised and stare at you with wide eyed wonder!
You will be more beautiful, because everyone is used to seeing you look like shit!
I live that rule everyday. It's what keeps my goddess status intact.
'Til next month.
In the interim, TODAY starts my 10 day countdown to the big Four-Oh. 40. Dear Gawd who does art in Heaven. Or, something like that. 40? WTF? Who blinked and made me 40? How the hell did I get here? Wasn't I just 26 last week?
I started thinking that with the arrival of 40, it may very well be that my life is half over. Truly. The declination of youth. And, even if 40 is the new 30, well, shit still may be half over. Who knows?
Certainly, I am faring better at forty than many women. Despite being a loving and patient woman, I am still a woman nevertheless. This means I have kittyclaws. You know what I mean. It's when women sniff around other women and then...start belittling them in their minds.
"Oh, no! You look GREAT in that outfit! Not fat at all!!"
TRANSLATION: You look like you swallowed a Dunkin Donuts shop whole. I look thinner than you. Keep wearing it!
"Oh. My. GAWD. I LOVE your hair! Where did you get it cut?"
TRANSLATION: Yes, please tell me so I avoid that place like the plague.
"Absolutely! Your new boyfriend is GORGEOUS!"
TRANSLATION: I wouldn't touch his scaly dick with someone ELSE'S ten foot pole.
"Of course we're best friends! We should totally hang out!"
TRANSLATION: You're uglier than me. You make me look good. Let's always be together.
"That hair color is to DIE for!"
TRANSLATION: It makes you look like a rotting corpse.
"Where DID you get those shoes?"
TRANSLATION: 'Cause I think they are gonna look so hot on your boyfriends shoulders once I steal his ass away from you.
"Wow. I am SO jealous of your new job! You are so lucky! Congrats!
TRANSLATION: Die bitch.
It's the nature of women, People. Don't inundate my comments with "Oh my god, me and my best friend are so not like that! We totally support and love each other!"
Yeah. Til you start realizing that your man is checking out her rack...then RAWR! Watch those kittyclaws come flying out. Meow.
Don't get me wrong. I think examples like the ones above are more prevalent with girls in their late teens and twenties than they are with women in their 30's and 40's. But, let's be honest. You know that women check out other women more than men do. We take mental notes. We cat-claw even when we don't mean to. In our minds, we walk past other women and say:
"Psssht. I look better than her."
Of course, we don't say these things out loud, mind you. But, if you say you don't get that way, you are probably half man. You do. You just don't realize you do. All women do. It's in our nature to be naturally competitive. We like being the Alpha Babe just as much as the men. Now, in the spirit of sisterhood, I will admit that as I have gotten older, I have gotten less catty. When I like someones outfit, I will compliment them. I will fawn over it. I will ooh and ahh.
Then, I will get my ass to Macy's to purchase something superior.
All in all, I love my female friends and have gotten to cherish them far more over the years. I feel that this might due to a certain maturity that women my age develop. We become sophisticated compared to younger women. We are more worldly and less insecure...I think. We don't play games, we know what we want and we don't settle for anything less.
But boy oh boy. Do I miss wet T-shirt night at the local bar on occasion.
I remember a time in my early adult life when I would flash my breasts anytime, any place, any where.
Now, it's too much trouble to pull them out of the waistband of my jeans.
Ah well.
Youth is wasted on the young.
I am looking forward to growing old gracefully, without the benefit of Botox or any other enhancers that might be out there. I believe that each fine line on my face is nothing more than a delicate roadmap of where I have been. I earned those lines. I wear them around my eyes as a badge of honor.
I wear my tits around my ankles as a sign of gravity.
In either instance, I still feel I am doing better than most. My husband still finds me to be bootylicious. I still feel 20 and I believe I look 30...ish. I am vibrant, fun to be around and still pretty damn crazy. I WILL ask for the Senior Citizen Discount at the movies, just for shits and giggles.
Pretty wild, no?
I think we all have to work with what God gave us, learn to appreciate and love the skin we're in and in some cases, make the best of a bad situation. But, let me give you the BEST beauty tip I was ever given. Once you get to 40, stop going anywhere with makeup on. Then, when you finally do put it on...people will be astonished, surprised and stare at you with wide eyed wonder!
You will be more beautiful, because everyone is used to seeing you look like shit!
I live that rule everyday. It's what keeps my goddess status intact.
Saturday, August 19, 2006
My Sister In Law...
Never at a lack for material when it comes to my family.
I am reading through the 600 emails I have received over the past week. You people all have my "CP" email address. I like letters from you guys. The family? La Familia De Psycho? They have an "alternate" email address for me. One I don't read very often. It's my way of preserving the little bit of sanity I have left.
For shits and giggles, I delve into that email, once a month or so, to see what sort of malignant shit they are delivering to me. I get all the stupid assed forwards like "Microwaves Give Women Breast Cancer" and "Man Found In Bathtub with Kidneys Removed" or "Missing Girl Named Penny Brown". Ooh ooh, or my all time favorite! "Foward this Email to Everyone You Know and Microsoft Will Pay You a Dollar for Each One!" You know, all the internet idiocy, circa 1995. Most of my family is just catching up with modern technology. For them, these emails are about as crucial and real as if they just came off the ticker from Reuters or CNN. I know better. I try to educate them. Enlighten them. Mostly, I try to make them feel like morons, because, well, it's a lot of damn fun.
I send them links to Urban Legend websites to show them that their garden variety stupidity is well-documented for at least a good 10 years.
I never get replies. I wonder why that is? Heh.
Anyway, I get an email from my brothers wife, Cally. She's a flaming mook. Don't get me wrong, I love the girl. She's my sister in law and the mother of the most beautiful children in the world, except for mine. HOWEVER, the fact remains that she is a bubble headed, gum cracking, zit popping bigot. Ergo, she blends in beautifully with the rest of my family. Me? I'm the outcast. I believe in equality among the races, sexes and religions. I am the pariah.
"So," Esther would say to me, "you'd be okay if S. (my daughter) came home with a black man????"
"Um, Mom," I'd venture, "I'd be fine if she came home with a black WOMAN, so long as she treated her right."
Bring on the Sarah Burnhardt routine. The fainting. The gasping. The "Oh Harry, call 911, I think I am having a heartattack" shpiel that I have heard since the day I told my mother I was a Democrat.
Anyway, back to Cally's email.
This email, forwarded from another one of her friends, consists of political rhetoric that includes "blow up all the camel jockeys, immigrants and foreigners and let God sort them out."
Now, last I checked? My husband IS a camel jockey. He is also an immigrant and a foreigner. The letter also included nonsense like "This Is America, Why should I Dial a "ONE" to Continue In English" and of course, my personal favorite, this lovely photograph:
(There was a photo here. It was something about "Sand Niggers". It has since been removed~ CP 1/4/11)
Disgusting.
Needless to say, I was one pissed off Jew girl this morning. I write Cally the following letter and, for good measure, forward it to my entire family and all her friends as well:
Esther calls me about 5 minutes after I send out that email.
The theme from "Jaws" starts playing in the background and for the first time in my life, I am truly afraid.
I begin talking to her. She doesn't seem to know anything of the email. I ask her if she has checked her email yet today. She says, she has not.
"Why, CP," she queries, "What did you do now?"
"Nothin'," I reply, kicking at the ground like a 7 year old who was just busted with her hand in the cookie jar.
"CP" she bellows in her foghorn Jew accent. "TELL ME!"
"Well, I sent an email to Cally. About that thing she sent, about immigrants."
"What KIND of email, CP?"
"The um, liberal kind?"
"You got all over her for it, didn't you?"
"Well, yeah, Mom! But only because she was throwing around the 'camel jockey' stuff and I am married to a camel jo...er, I mean, Israeli, and I don't like all the talk of immigrants and foreigners! It bothers me! She knows that! She sends this stuff to me on purpose!"
"Wait a minute. She insulted your husband?"
Ah! CP likes! She will not defend CP's liberal/democrat attitude, but she DOES worship my husband like he has the staff of God between his Holy Thighs! Hmmm. Methinks I shall play this angle!!!
"Yeah, Mom. N. got the letter. HE was really hurt by it. HE was very insulted. HE thought he was an accepted and loved part of this family. HE was very sad. I think I can hear HIM still crying now!"
*silence*
"CP?"
"Yeah, Mommy?" (I throw in the Mommy out of fear, nothing more)
"He never even saw the letter, did he?"
"Um, not really."
"You know, this is why no one in the family likes you, CP. You take things waaaaaay too seriously. You have no sense of humor. Cally was just trying to be funny and right away, you have to jump on the politics of everything. Now, if N was upset, then I would be upset too. It would be insulting to my son in law and I don't like that. But you? No. We expect this from you. Stop trying to push your politics on everyone, CP!!!!! You'd find that your family would spend a lot more time with you if you would!!!"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Wow. This is the threat?
My family won't want to spend time with me?
Praise JESUS and everything holy!
I guess my evil plan has been working all along. My family refuses to spend time with me because of my politics. Who knew it was so easy to alienate a bunch of bigots, freaks and Republicans?
Okay, Republicans aren't so bad. They're just misguided folk.
If my sister in law replies, I promise to share it with you all.
Just don't bet too heavily on hearing back from her. I mean, I used some pretty big words in my letter and she will be too busy with a dictionary and thesaurus trying to decipher the content. Could be weeks before she figures it out. Months even.
This might work out really well after all.
If I send her one letter a month, I should never hear from them again.
Just when I thought things couldn't get better.
I am reading through the 600 emails I have received over the past week. You people all have my "CP" email address. I like letters from you guys. The family? La Familia De Psycho? They have an "alternate" email address for me. One I don't read very often. It's my way of preserving the little bit of sanity I have left.
For shits and giggles, I delve into that email, once a month or so, to see what sort of malignant shit they are delivering to me. I get all the stupid assed forwards like "Microwaves Give Women Breast Cancer" and "Man Found In Bathtub with Kidneys Removed" or "Missing Girl Named Penny Brown". Ooh ooh, or my all time favorite! "Foward this Email to Everyone You Know and Microsoft Will Pay You a Dollar for Each One!" You know, all the internet idiocy, circa 1995. Most of my family is just catching up with modern technology. For them, these emails are about as crucial and real as if they just came off the ticker from Reuters or CNN. I know better. I try to educate them. Enlighten them. Mostly, I try to make them feel like morons, because, well, it's a lot of damn fun.
I send them links to Urban Legend websites to show them that their garden variety stupidity is well-documented for at least a good 10 years.
I never get replies. I wonder why that is? Heh.
Anyway, I get an email from my brothers wife, Cally. She's a flaming mook. Don't get me wrong, I love the girl. She's my sister in law and the mother of the most beautiful children in the world, except for mine. HOWEVER, the fact remains that she is a bubble headed, gum cracking, zit popping bigot. Ergo, she blends in beautifully with the rest of my family. Me? I'm the outcast. I believe in equality among the races, sexes and religions. I am the pariah.
"So," Esther would say to me, "you'd be okay if S. (my daughter) came home with a black man????"
"Um, Mom," I'd venture, "I'd be fine if she came home with a black WOMAN, so long as she treated her right."
Bring on the Sarah Burnhardt routine. The fainting. The gasping. The "Oh Harry, call 911, I think I am having a heartattack" shpiel that I have heard since the day I told my mother I was a Democrat.
Anyway, back to Cally's email.
This email, forwarded from another one of her friends, consists of political rhetoric that includes "blow up all the camel jockeys, immigrants and foreigners and let God sort them out."
Now, last I checked? My husband IS a camel jockey. He is also an immigrant and a foreigner. The letter also included nonsense like "This Is America, Why should I Dial a "ONE" to Continue In English" and of course, my personal favorite, this lovely photograph:
(There was a photo here. It was something about "Sand Niggers". It has since been removed~ CP 1/4/11)
Disgusting.
Needless to say, I was one pissed off Jew girl this morning. I write Cally the following letter and, for good measure, forward it to my entire family and all her friends as well:
Dear Family members who insist on sending me Forwarded
Emails that spew Hate and Intolerance...
Please do not send forwards like this to me ever
again. My husband is a "camel jockey", a foreigner
and a legal immigrant. Everyone in this country is an
immigrant from somewhere. And, further, our legal
immigrants who come here from spanish speaking
countries come in willing to accept crap ass wages to
do the dirty jobs that no one else wants. Ask Brad (my brother)
why he "loves Mexicans". "They work hard and they work
cheap." That's out of his mouth, not mine.
I think that people who perpetrate propaganda
like this are hate mongers. In our family alone,
Cally, we have Jews from Austria and Scotland, we have
Russian immigrants, people from India, Italians,
people from Ireland and of course, my Israeli camel
jockey. I think we need to be a little mindful of
that fact before sending out emails like this. It's
offensive and disgraceful.
You're my sister in law and I love you, but I don't
want to see things like this in my email box again. I
don't agree with it, I don't feel the same way and I
find it highly offensive. HIGHLY. I'm certain you
only thought it was funny and you probably sent it
with only innocent intentions. That's fine. I have
an amazing sense of humor. However, I don't see the
humor in hatred. I just don't share that value
system. Please respect that.
It hurts knowing that this kind of intolerance exists
in our world. I don't want my children seeing signs
like that along the highway. I don't want them
subjected to the hateful ways of people who feel the
need to piss all over others in order to justify their
American existence.
We're ALL Americans. All of us. And everyone should
learn to embrace others. I know my point of view is
not popular, but it is mine. All I ask is that it be
respected.
Love to our WHOLE family.
C.
Esther calls me about 5 minutes after I send out that email.
The theme from "Jaws" starts playing in the background and for the first time in my life, I am truly afraid.
I begin talking to her. She doesn't seem to know anything of the email. I ask her if she has checked her email yet today. She says, she has not.
"Why, CP," she queries, "What did you do now?"
"Nothin'," I reply, kicking at the ground like a 7 year old who was just busted with her hand in the cookie jar.
"CP" she bellows in her foghorn Jew accent. "TELL ME!"
"Well, I sent an email to Cally. About that thing she sent, about immigrants."
"What KIND of email, CP?"
"The um, liberal kind?"
"You got all over her for it, didn't you?"
"Well, yeah, Mom! But only because she was throwing around the 'camel jockey' stuff and I am married to a camel jo...er, I mean, Israeli, and I don't like all the talk of immigrants and foreigners! It bothers me! She knows that! She sends this stuff to me on purpose!"
"Wait a minute. She insulted your husband?"
Ah! CP likes! She will not defend CP's liberal/democrat attitude, but she DOES worship my husband like he has the staff of God between his Holy Thighs! Hmmm. Methinks I shall play this angle!!!
"Yeah, Mom. N. got the letter. HE was really hurt by it. HE was very insulted. HE thought he was an accepted and loved part of this family. HE was very sad. I think I can hear HIM still crying now!"
*silence*
"CP?"
"Yeah, Mommy?" (I throw in the Mommy out of fear, nothing more)
"He never even saw the letter, did he?"
"Um, not really."
"You know, this is why no one in the family likes you, CP. You take things waaaaaay too seriously. You have no sense of humor. Cally was just trying to be funny and right away, you have to jump on the politics of everything. Now, if N was upset, then I would be upset too. It would be insulting to my son in law and I don't like that. But you? No. We expect this from you. Stop trying to push your politics on everyone, CP!!!!! You'd find that your family would spend a lot more time with you if you would!!!"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Wow. This is the threat?
My family won't want to spend time with me?
Praise JESUS and everything holy!
I guess my evil plan has been working all along. My family refuses to spend time with me because of my politics. Who knew it was so easy to alienate a bunch of bigots, freaks and Republicans?
Okay, Republicans aren't so bad. They're just misguided folk.
If my sister in law replies, I promise to share it with you all.
Just don't bet too heavily on hearing back from her. I mean, I used some pretty big words in my letter and she will be too busy with a dictionary and thesaurus trying to decipher the content. Could be weeks before she figures it out. Months even.
This might work out really well after all.
If I send her one letter a month, I should never hear from them again.
Just when I thought things couldn't get better.
Friday, August 18, 2006
Good morning...and yes, it is good...
because everyday we wake up is a good thing.
I am not going to apologize for yesterdays post. I thought I would. I told the hotband last night, via phone, that I am going to be hating myself for that post today. I don't. As a matter of fact, it was probably the best mode of therapy I have given myself in some time. I used this blog for its original intent. That intent was to clear my mind, re-organize my thoughts and remind myself that I serve a purpose in this world, even when it is unclear what that purpose is.
What I will do, in lieu of apology, is express thanks. Express thanks to those who have been there all along and to those who came out from "lurk" mode. It is truly a testament of the human spirit to see people who do not know one another in "real life" (whatever the hell THAT is) be there for someone in their time of need.
Bloggers are a rare breed. I told Mr. Fab, during our lunch meeting last week, that I believe most bloggers to be people in need of creative outlet. Most are depressed. Some are certifiable. A few have nothing else in their lives. But mostly, they are people who are looking for like minded individuals whom they can share their life with. Many of us are looking for validation and acceptance. We haven't necessarily found the people we "click" with in our everyday lives, so we search other venues to find them.
I have to say, I have found more than my fair share of them online over the years.
I began chatting in September 1995, shortly before the birth of my sons. I was on bedrest for a very rough pregnancy. My then husband bought me a computer to pass the time with. Little did he know, he was creating a monster of the worst kind. My addictive personality kicked into overdrive and I spent 90% of my waking hours online talking to people from all over the world. I was beyond fascinated at the prospect of having England, Guam, Africa and Australia at my beck and call. I felt there was nowhere that I couldn't travel via this wonderful instrument. And, with time zones as they are, there was always someone available to talk to, any hour, any time of day or night.
I never felt alone from that day forward.
However, at some point, I realized that the computer was becoming all consuming. I was neglecting my duties as a wife, mother and at that time, a student in nursing school. My priorities were severely divided. My husband at that time didn't realize that the computer was my outlet, my freedom in a world that was so tightly closed around me. We had literally fled to Florida, in 1995, to escape the man who battered me. He was being released from prison. I was pregnant. I did not want to fall prey to him anymore. We ran, leaving our family and friends behind in New York to start a new life in Florida. The computer was my only connection to the life I left behind. I was always a very social girl, and now, in this new tropical hell, I knew no one. I had nothing. Nothing but my computer. My daughter was in school. My sons were not born yet. My husband was working double shifts at his job. I had scarcely the time or ability to have worked through the extreme trauma I had gone through. Instead, I created my own fantasyland online and lived there.
I was slowly slipping away.
Fast foward to 1999. This marriage starts to crumble. The mutual love is gone. I met someone online who I truly believed would be my savior. He wasn't. He was just someone that I could have a good time with. I had an affair. It lasted a year. It wasn't fulfilling, but it was something that I could call my own. It was my secret. It was my release from the pressures of a failing marriage, the insane schedule of nursing school and being a mother to a precocious 12 year old and her 4 year old brother.
By November of 1999, my affair was revealed.
It was my own doing. I took responsibility for it. I came home from New York, where this man lived, and my house was empty. My husband had moved out. My children were gone. I didn't begrudge him this. He was right for doing it. I was out of control and needed a good wake up call. Removing my children from me did just that. I left that empty affair with no intention of going back to my husband. He was just as toxic to me as the man I ran from. While the ex husband was never abusive to me physically, he never understood my pain. He never quite forgave me for moving us to Florida where we fell into ruin. He never understood the nightmares that plagued me and why the tiniest sounds outside would send me into a panic. We were doomed from the start. I hadn't gotten the help that I needed to get me through such a traumatic event. There was no way I should have pushed forward into another relationship with anyone until I was able to get my life back on track. But, my ex husband was a man I had known for most of my young adult life. I thought he would be the answer to my problems. He wasn't.
During this time, I met a man at school. He was a very sweet person. Quiet. Humble. Different from anyone I had ever known. While I was physically attracted to him, I never considered another relationship at this time. I had too much going on. I needed to move. I had a divorce pending that was getting rather ugly. I needed to see my children whenever the ex would allow me to. I had to take public transportation everywhere I went, because the ex took my car away. I was, once again, abandoned. Please understand that I know...I did this to myself. My actions were selfish and wrong. While I do not regret the break up of my marriage, there were other ways to have gone about it. I should have taken the high road, told him it was over and then, went about my life in the right way.
Water under the proverbial bridge.
The man I met at school turned out to be a wonderful friend to me. He drove me to school and home again. He helped me to get established in my new apartment. He moved all my things for me. He loaned me money so that I could afford the downpayment on my new place. And, while he never told me he loved me, his actions spoke differently. Slowly, this man became a part of my life. He didn't judge me. He didn't berate me. He was careful with me. He allowed things to progress at their own pace, rather than allowing us to rush to the finish line before the race even began. When I told him I loved him, he didn't feel pressured to say it back to me. Instead, he remained silent...but loving through gestures, not words.
He was like no one I had ever met before, or have since.
Eventually, I married this man, in December of 2002. I was hesitant. I was scared. If you saw our wedding pictures from that day, you would see the fear in my eyes. Everything I ever loved either left me, or I ran from it. We had our share of problems in the beginning. The first year of our marriage, I was certain we were never going to make it. I was aggressive, confrontational, mean, arrogant and spiteful. I suppose, in my heart, I felt it would be better if I drove this person away by sabotaging our marriage, instead of waiting around for this to leave me too. I did everything I could. Everything.
Eventually, he left.
He got into his car and drove away. Away to the other side of Florida. And he stayed away. He gave me an ultimatum. Change your ways or this is done. I couldn't change my ways. I was sick. I was still haunted by a man who beat me repeatedly within an inch of my life. I was forever on the defensive, waiting for the next blow, be it verbal or physical. I had parents who were ashamed of what I went through, so they swept it under the rug. NO one discussed it. I hated them. I felt betrayed by them. I felt like a pariah. They spoke about me in hushed tones, adding to my shame. I was left an epileptic as a result of the last and final beating I ever received from Tony. This fact embarassed my mother. I had seizures. I was defective merchandise and was treated that way.
Change my ways? I didn't know how. I didn't know where to begin.
I was alone again.
When the man I was now married to finally came home, five days later, we went to Miami together. Not a honeymoon, but a time for us to get out of the house, away from our feuding families and see if anything could be salvaged.
We discovered that there was one, tiny, mutual thing holding us together.
We loved one another.
Despite the tears, the arguing, the crying, the screaming...there was love. Pure, unadulterated love. And we agreed to go home and start the process of healing, together. We went to marriage counseling. We tried to talk more openly to one another. We learned to stop letting our families interfere with the life we were trying to build. We began talking to one another with respect. I learned to control my temper. He learned to stop being so passive/aggressive. I decided to open up to him more and more about what happened to me. He became more affectionate, which was something I desperately needed.
In 2003, my husband nearly died.
He broke his leg. What should have been a simple broken thighbone (femur) repair turned into a nightmare when a blood clot made its way into his lungs. He spent a week in ICU. More clots formed and a piece of fatty tissue (pulmonary embolism) also made its way into his lungs. The doctor told me most people don't recover. The medical staff told me to call his family. At one point, the doctor told me they didn't expect him to make it through the night. He had a high fever, 106 degrees at one point, and his breathing was extremely labored due to the infection and fluid accumulating in his lungs.
But I wasn't ready to let him go.
I stayed with him, day and night. I never left his side. I bathed him. I held his hand. I combed his hair. I did passive range of motion exercises on his legs and arms to help dissipate some of the clot factors that were plaguing him. There was no one else in the world but he and I. My family never came. His family never came. It was just us. The two of us. Alone, fighting for his life.
And, it was precisely the turning point that we needed.
When he came home, I realized that I never wanted to be without this man. He realized that I was there for him when everyone else wasn't. It bonded us. It drew us even closer. The desperation of the situation was what we needed to make us discover that we never wanted to know what life would be like without one another.
In essence, it healed us.
Fast forward to today. I am sitting in the living room of our home. It's three years later. My husband is coming home tonight from Georgia, where he is working a second job in order to make sure that our family is well taken care of. We talk just about every hour. He calls to check on me, to make sure I am doing okay after my episode yesterday. He offers to come home immediately, if I need him. I don't take him up on that, though I know he means it. Just the thought of him coming home tonight is enough to make me feel better. I'm not back to Princess/Rock Star just yet, but I am feeling somewhat human again. I garnered the energy to shower. It hurt my fingertips, which I have bitten raw and bloody. I ate breakfast, something I generally don't do when I am on the downside of a depressive episode. I am looking around my house and realizing, damn, I need to get my shit together. Another good sign. It means that the normal might start kicking in. I welcome the manic portion of my disorder. I embrace it. I can deal with the extreme highs. It is the bottomless lows that kill me.
With the hotbands arrival tonight is the guarantee that I will be held, loved, cherished, adored and coddled through the remainder of this downward swing. His acceptance of my disorder overwhelms me at times. I often wonder why he stays. "Because I love you," is always his simple reply. I suppose I have never believed that love was enough. There had to be more. But, in his mind, love has always been enough to see someone through anything. Perhaps he believes that because he feels I loved him back to life. He feels he was given a second chance, another shot to do the right thing as a husband and a father. He is taking that chance and running with it. Me? I am holding his hand for the entire run, running alongside him. Sometimes, I falter. My pace slows and I can't keep up. But he circles back and always grabs my hand again. He pulls me up. He makes me realize that if we don't run this race together, we might as well not run it at all.
Better than any medication, better than any therapy...my husbands undying and devoted love towards me and my children continues to see me through. Better still, he accepts that I need to get online and write. That this is what helps to fulfill me. To bring me full circle. I need my friends out in blogland and he embraces that, rather than denying me. He has come to love my friends because he sees how they love and support me as well. He doesn't find my friendships to be "weird" or freakish because they aren't taking place face to face. To him, any love is good love. There can never be too much of it.
I am in my living room, void of all sound save for the clicking of my very painful fingers on my keyboard. I am alone in this room. But, I know by tonight, it will be filled with the sounds of my husbands voice, my daughter asking me for money so she can go out with her friends, my son screeching about his latest video game conquests and my dogs barking with delight. My husband brings life into this house and makes it a home. And for the first time in my life, I truly feel a part of a home. I feel loved. I feel complete.
While I have my days of doubt and despair, I know that, if I can just be patient, there are better days on the horizon. I am blessed with a man who loves me so much just that his mere presence can move me to tears. And, when he came into my life, he gave my children the missing piece they needed. They only had half a mother until he came along. With him in my life, I can be devoted. I can manage their needs because someone is helping me with mine.
When I see him changing my daughters oil in her car with her or nestled with my son, playing a video game, I exhale. I can truly breathe. I know that when I have times where my depression envelopes me, that my husband will be there for those kids, making sure they never feel a lack of love, attention or devotion. I can close my eyes and sleep off my pain in peace.
And when I wake up, they greet me with smiles, laughter and embrace me.
It isn't easy battling the monster of bipolar disorder. It's not a quick fix and you can't simply wish it away. However, I am more fortunate that most. I have the love of my family and my friends, all of you, to help me through. I have understanding. I have prayers. I have people who have never seen me face to face caring about me moreso than my "real life" friends.
You ARE real life friends. This IS real life. It is beauty and pain. It is laughter and sorrow. It is good times and bad. It is sickness and health. And through it all, we remain devoted via the cables and wires that bind us.
And what more could a certifiable princess ask for?
I am not going to apologize for yesterdays post. I thought I would. I told the hotband last night, via phone, that I am going to be hating myself for that post today. I don't. As a matter of fact, it was probably the best mode of therapy I have given myself in some time. I used this blog for its original intent. That intent was to clear my mind, re-organize my thoughts and remind myself that I serve a purpose in this world, even when it is unclear what that purpose is.
What I will do, in lieu of apology, is express thanks. Express thanks to those who have been there all along and to those who came out from "lurk" mode. It is truly a testament of the human spirit to see people who do not know one another in "real life" (whatever the hell THAT is) be there for someone in their time of need.
Bloggers are a rare breed. I told Mr. Fab, during our lunch meeting last week, that I believe most bloggers to be people in need of creative outlet. Most are depressed. Some are certifiable. A few have nothing else in their lives. But mostly, they are people who are looking for like minded individuals whom they can share their life with. Many of us are looking for validation and acceptance. We haven't necessarily found the people we "click" with in our everyday lives, so we search other venues to find them.
I have to say, I have found more than my fair share of them online over the years.
I began chatting in September 1995, shortly before the birth of my sons. I was on bedrest for a very rough pregnancy. My then husband bought me a computer to pass the time with. Little did he know, he was creating a monster of the worst kind. My addictive personality kicked into overdrive and I spent 90% of my waking hours online talking to people from all over the world. I was beyond fascinated at the prospect of having England, Guam, Africa and Australia at my beck and call. I felt there was nowhere that I couldn't travel via this wonderful instrument. And, with time zones as they are, there was always someone available to talk to, any hour, any time of day or night.
I never felt alone from that day forward.
However, at some point, I realized that the computer was becoming all consuming. I was neglecting my duties as a wife, mother and at that time, a student in nursing school. My priorities were severely divided. My husband at that time didn't realize that the computer was my outlet, my freedom in a world that was so tightly closed around me. We had literally fled to Florida, in 1995, to escape the man who battered me. He was being released from prison. I was pregnant. I did not want to fall prey to him anymore. We ran, leaving our family and friends behind in New York to start a new life in Florida. The computer was my only connection to the life I left behind. I was always a very social girl, and now, in this new tropical hell, I knew no one. I had nothing. Nothing but my computer. My daughter was in school. My sons were not born yet. My husband was working double shifts at his job. I had scarcely the time or ability to have worked through the extreme trauma I had gone through. Instead, I created my own fantasyland online and lived there.
I was slowly slipping away.
Fast foward to 1999. This marriage starts to crumble. The mutual love is gone. I met someone online who I truly believed would be my savior. He wasn't. He was just someone that I could have a good time with. I had an affair. It lasted a year. It wasn't fulfilling, but it was something that I could call my own. It was my secret. It was my release from the pressures of a failing marriage, the insane schedule of nursing school and being a mother to a precocious 12 year old and her 4 year old brother.
By November of 1999, my affair was revealed.
It was my own doing. I took responsibility for it. I came home from New York, where this man lived, and my house was empty. My husband had moved out. My children were gone. I didn't begrudge him this. He was right for doing it. I was out of control and needed a good wake up call. Removing my children from me did just that. I left that empty affair with no intention of going back to my husband. He was just as toxic to me as the man I ran from. While the ex husband was never abusive to me physically, he never understood my pain. He never quite forgave me for moving us to Florida where we fell into ruin. He never understood the nightmares that plagued me and why the tiniest sounds outside would send me into a panic. We were doomed from the start. I hadn't gotten the help that I needed to get me through such a traumatic event. There was no way I should have pushed forward into another relationship with anyone until I was able to get my life back on track. But, my ex husband was a man I had known for most of my young adult life. I thought he would be the answer to my problems. He wasn't.
During this time, I met a man at school. He was a very sweet person. Quiet. Humble. Different from anyone I had ever known. While I was physically attracted to him, I never considered another relationship at this time. I had too much going on. I needed to move. I had a divorce pending that was getting rather ugly. I needed to see my children whenever the ex would allow me to. I had to take public transportation everywhere I went, because the ex took my car away. I was, once again, abandoned. Please understand that I know...I did this to myself. My actions were selfish and wrong. While I do not regret the break up of my marriage, there were other ways to have gone about it. I should have taken the high road, told him it was over and then, went about my life in the right way.
Water under the proverbial bridge.
The man I met at school turned out to be a wonderful friend to me. He drove me to school and home again. He helped me to get established in my new apartment. He moved all my things for me. He loaned me money so that I could afford the downpayment on my new place. And, while he never told me he loved me, his actions spoke differently. Slowly, this man became a part of my life. He didn't judge me. He didn't berate me. He was careful with me. He allowed things to progress at their own pace, rather than allowing us to rush to the finish line before the race even began. When I told him I loved him, he didn't feel pressured to say it back to me. Instead, he remained silent...but loving through gestures, not words.
He was like no one I had ever met before, or have since.
Eventually, I married this man, in December of 2002. I was hesitant. I was scared. If you saw our wedding pictures from that day, you would see the fear in my eyes. Everything I ever loved either left me, or I ran from it. We had our share of problems in the beginning. The first year of our marriage, I was certain we were never going to make it. I was aggressive, confrontational, mean, arrogant and spiteful. I suppose, in my heart, I felt it would be better if I drove this person away by sabotaging our marriage, instead of waiting around for this to leave me too. I did everything I could. Everything.
Eventually, he left.
He got into his car and drove away. Away to the other side of Florida. And he stayed away. He gave me an ultimatum. Change your ways or this is done. I couldn't change my ways. I was sick. I was still haunted by a man who beat me repeatedly within an inch of my life. I was forever on the defensive, waiting for the next blow, be it verbal or physical. I had parents who were ashamed of what I went through, so they swept it under the rug. NO one discussed it. I hated them. I felt betrayed by them. I felt like a pariah. They spoke about me in hushed tones, adding to my shame. I was left an epileptic as a result of the last and final beating I ever received from Tony. This fact embarassed my mother. I had seizures. I was defective merchandise and was treated that way.
Change my ways? I didn't know how. I didn't know where to begin.
I was alone again.
When the man I was now married to finally came home, five days later, we went to Miami together. Not a honeymoon, but a time for us to get out of the house, away from our feuding families and see if anything could be salvaged.
We discovered that there was one, tiny, mutual thing holding us together.
We loved one another.
Despite the tears, the arguing, the crying, the screaming...there was love. Pure, unadulterated love. And we agreed to go home and start the process of healing, together. We went to marriage counseling. We tried to talk more openly to one another. We learned to stop letting our families interfere with the life we were trying to build. We began talking to one another with respect. I learned to control my temper. He learned to stop being so passive/aggressive. I decided to open up to him more and more about what happened to me. He became more affectionate, which was something I desperately needed.
In 2003, my husband nearly died.
He broke his leg. What should have been a simple broken thighbone (femur) repair turned into a nightmare when a blood clot made its way into his lungs. He spent a week in ICU. More clots formed and a piece of fatty tissue (pulmonary embolism) also made its way into his lungs. The doctor told me most people don't recover. The medical staff told me to call his family. At one point, the doctor told me they didn't expect him to make it through the night. He had a high fever, 106 degrees at one point, and his breathing was extremely labored due to the infection and fluid accumulating in his lungs.
But I wasn't ready to let him go.
I stayed with him, day and night. I never left his side. I bathed him. I held his hand. I combed his hair. I did passive range of motion exercises on his legs and arms to help dissipate some of the clot factors that were plaguing him. There was no one else in the world but he and I. My family never came. His family never came. It was just us. The two of us. Alone, fighting for his life.
And, it was precisely the turning point that we needed.
When he came home, I realized that I never wanted to be without this man. He realized that I was there for him when everyone else wasn't. It bonded us. It drew us even closer. The desperation of the situation was what we needed to make us discover that we never wanted to know what life would be like without one another.
In essence, it healed us.
Fast forward to today. I am sitting in the living room of our home. It's three years later. My husband is coming home tonight from Georgia, where he is working a second job in order to make sure that our family is well taken care of. We talk just about every hour. He calls to check on me, to make sure I am doing okay after my episode yesterday. He offers to come home immediately, if I need him. I don't take him up on that, though I know he means it. Just the thought of him coming home tonight is enough to make me feel better. I'm not back to Princess/Rock Star just yet, but I am feeling somewhat human again. I garnered the energy to shower. It hurt my fingertips, which I have bitten raw and bloody. I ate breakfast, something I generally don't do when I am on the downside of a depressive episode. I am looking around my house and realizing, damn, I need to get my shit together. Another good sign. It means that the normal might start kicking in. I welcome the manic portion of my disorder. I embrace it. I can deal with the extreme highs. It is the bottomless lows that kill me.
With the hotbands arrival tonight is the guarantee that I will be held, loved, cherished, adored and coddled through the remainder of this downward swing. His acceptance of my disorder overwhelms me at times. I often wonder why he stays. "Because I love you," is always his simple reply. I suppose I have never believed that love was enough. There had to be more. But, in his mind, love has always been enough to see someone through anything. Perhaps he believes that because he feels I loved him back to life. He feels he was given a second chance, another shot to do the right thing as a husband and a father. He is taking that chance and running with it. Me? I am holding his hand for the entire run, running alongside him. Sometimes, I falter. My pace slows and I can't keep up. But he circles back and always grabs my hand again. He pulls me up. He makes me realize that if we don't run this race together, we might as well not run it at all.
Better than any medication, better than any therapy...my husbands undying and devoted love towards me and my children continues to see me through. Better still, he accepts that I need to get online and write. That this is what helps to fulfill me. To bring me full circle. I need my friends out in blogland and he embraces that, rather than denying me. He has come to love my friends because he sees how they love and support me as well. He doesn't find my friendships to be "weird" or freakish because they aren't taking place face to face. To him, any love is good love. There can never be too much of it.
I am in my living room, void of all sound save for the clicking of my very painful fingers on my keyboard. I am alone in this room. But, I know by tonight, it will be filled with the sounds of my husbands voice, my daughter asking me for money so she can go out with her friends, my son screeching about his latest video game conquests and my dogs barking with delight. My husband brings life into this house and makes it a home. And for the first time in my life, I truly feel a part of a home. I feel loved. I feel complete.
While I have my days of doubt and despair, I know that, if I can just be patient, there are better days on the horizon. I am blessed with a man who loves me so much just that his mere presence can move me to tears. And, when he came into my life, he gave my children the missing piece they needed. They only had half a mother until he came along. With him in my life, I can be devoted. I can manage their needs because someone is helping me with mine.
When I see him changing my daughters oil in her car with her or nestled with my son, playing a video game, I exhale. I can truly breathe. I know that when I have times where my depression envelopes me, that my husband will be there for those kids, making sure they never feel a lack of love, attention or devotion. I can close my eyes and sleep off my pain in peace.
And when I wake up, they greet me with smiles, laughter and embrace me.
It isn't easy battling the monster of bipolar disorder. It's not a quick fix and you can't simply wish it away. However, I am more fortunate that most. I have the love of my family and my friends, all of you, to help me through. I have understanding. I have prayers. I have people who have never seen me face to face caring about me moreso than my "real life" friends.
You ARE real life friends. This IS real life. It is beauty and pain. It is laughter and sorrow. It is good times and bad. It is sickness and health. And through it all, we remain devoted via the cables and wires that bind us.
And what more could a certifiable princess ask for?
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Below the Castle Walls.
I hurt myself today.
To see if I still feel.
I focus on the pain.
The only thing that's real.
The needle tears a hole
the old familiar sting.
Try to kill it all away,
but I remember everything.
What have I become?
My sweetest friend.
Everyone I know goes away
in the end.
And you could have it all.
My empire of dirt.
I will let you down.
I will make you hurt.*
The day my blog blew up was a bittersweet day.
Along the way, I have made some incredible friends and contacts. There is a downside to your blog "blowing up". There is no longer privacy. There is no longer a sense of freedom. Your blog starts becoming a commitment or an obligation as opposed to your secret outlet. I go back into my archives and realize that I used to write when the urge struck, as opposed to feeling like I have let people down when I don't.
Mind you, I am not complaining. It is certainly an honor and a privilege to have a readership, and while I am no Britney Spears or Madonna and feel the need to duck the paparazzi, there is such a thing as overexposure. Sometimes, I feel like I haven't been able to bare the scars I have created for myself over the years. We (in general) have a specific idea of what we will read when we stop by CP's blog. She will be funny. She will be insightful. She will be political. She will be charming. Mostly, she will be entertaining. We can always count on her to cater to her audience with only the best of her funny little MTV rock and roll lifestyle.
Sometimes the fascade is a bit hard on the poor old girl.
Forty years old is two weeks away. I am not distressed about it in the least. I am 40, I look 30 and I feel 20. I have no complaints. I have been fortunate in that arena. I have good self esteem and truly love my fat ass. I look in the mirror when I am having sex with my husband and I assure you...I'm looking at me. I really do believe I am the sexiest bitch alive. And, while hotband is no slouch, I more enjoy watching how sexy he makes me look!
Demented, I know. I could just videotape a masturbation session and be just as content. I have no regrets about feeling this way. I love myself. I've earned it. I worked hard at it. And, there is nothing wrong with a nice healthy dose of self-esteem. I refuse to be sorry for it, as obnoxious as it may sound.
Which is why it is hard for me to suffer with my disease of depression. Depression is all consuming. It changes me. It makes me feel low-key. It makes me feel ugly. It makes me burnout. It causes me to fall when I dance, choke when I sing and cry when I want to be laughing. It eats away at me like a starving predator and whittles down my happiness to nothing more than a core. It makes me call in sick when I am in the throes of a crying jag. I cry to the point of migraines. They hurt and I can't function. It makes me hurt myself in passive aggressive ways, like biting my nails until they bleed.
It lays me bare...open, exposed and bleeding.
This is the part of me that I hate, the only part that I hate. The part when I cannot escape the irrational fears, the sickness and the disease that courses through my veins. It is times like this that I wish I could start over. Make it all go away. Make it stop. Wake up from the nightmares that plague me and make damn sure that they don't sit and make themselves at home in the recesses of my mind.
15 years later, I am still punishing myself for the crimes someone else committed against me. Don't tell me not to do that to myself. I can't help it. Don't say get help. I have. Don't tell me not to blame myself. I do...sometimes.
On a normal, more rational, sunshiney kind of day, I am a survivor. On these off days, I am a victim. I am wallowing in my own private pain. I am the guest of honor and the only guest as well at my own pity party. I raise a glass to me, break it and then, cut my proverbial wrists with the crystal...as the champagne serves only to burn the self-inflicted wounds.
Am I getting too deep for you? Probably. Welcome to the dirty white underbelly of CP.
I vaguely remember being 25 years old and someone strangling me, cutting off my oxygen, telling me I would never see tomorrow. I remember beating my fists on the perpetrator, begging them to stop. Let me go. I don't want to die by their hand.
I realized that hand was my own.
15 years after putting "him" behind bars, he still has a hold on me. I have never been the same since. Never. And until I can make myself grasp the concept that each one of these bouts of depression is no different than him throwing me into a wall physically, I will suffer without reprieve.
I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and borderline personality disorder and post traumatic stress syndrome many years ago. They fed me pills. They electrocuted me. They locked me away for a little while. They made me talk until my voicebox was hoarse.
Eventually, I was a shell of myself with nothing more to say.
I realized that the only way I was going to get well was to take hold of the situation myself. Get myself off of the drugs that they said would help me. Get myself out of the containers they kept me in. Stop making me talk to people who don't have a clue about what I went through. I had to get up, get interested. I had to force myself out of bed. Brush my damn teeth, wash my face and rip a brush through my hair. That was going to be my only commitment. I was going to start there. Baby steps. After that, if I wanted to go back to bed and cry, or rip open my own flesh, so be it. But for now, the goal was being vertical.
I am a high functioning manic depressive. That is my own creative title. Don't try to heist it from a bitch. I am very possessive of it. I know how to make the world look shiny and pretty while bombs are falling all around me. In the midst of blood and carnage, I will manage to find the one clean spot to stand in and say, "Oh pish tosh, it isn't THAT bad."
I missed my calling. I should have been an actress. Or, at very least, a kindergarten teacher.
They can make nuclear war sound like fun.
So, this is me, today. I am utilizing my blog for its true intention; for baring my emotions, allowing me to read them back to myself and say, "Hey! Stop that!" No one is better at slapping me back into reality than I am. Granted, I still rely on my Prozac and my valproic acid and the occasional course of Cymbalta to guide me there, but at least I am willing to get on the tour bus.
It's raining.
My fingers are bleeding and raw.
I have bitten them down to the quick.
I can't bring myself to shower.
I'm too strong to cry and
to weak to admit that I may really need to.
Why don't you stop by again, tomorrow. You know, like you usually do. There will be tollhouse cookies by the front of the Castle gates and the moat will be filled with Noodles, beach balls and floatie toys for you to play with.
Today, I fear the pirrhanas have taken over and the cookies taste like shit.
Today, I only feel the Certifiable portion of Certifiable Princess.
Perhaps tomorrow, when my Prince comes home, I will go back to being the Princess you all know and love, like, hate, laugh at. Whatever it is you do.
Just come back tomorrow and do it.
I wear this crown of thorns
upon my liars chair.
Full of broken thoughts
I cannot repair.
Beneath the stains of time
the feelings disappear.
You are someone else.
I am still right here.
What have I become?
My sweetest friend.
Everyone I know goes away
in the end.
And you could have it all.
My empire of dirt.
I will let you down.
I will make you hurt.
If I could start again
a million miles away...
I would keep myself.
I would find a way.
THE CLOSING CREDITS:
-Lyrics from "Hurt" by Nine Inch Nails.
-Pity Party Acccesories and Decor courtesy of Martha Stewart
-Emotional Handbasket by Baskets are Us.
-Manicure courtesy of my perfect teeth.
-Hair done by Britney's stylist.
-Dog shit on the throwrug by Suzu and Snoop.
-Laundry done by No One.
-Noticeable stench by Paris Hilton's inner thighs.
-Correction: It's the dishes in the sink. My bad.
-Future Doocing courtesy of my office manager, if she reads this.
-Stain on Pajama top courtesy of Subway. Eat Fresh.
EDIT: I think this post is pretty incomplete if I don't include the reason for the way I am feeling. It won't make sense to a lot of you. And for those of you who already read it, don't revisit it. It's ugly...and it clashes with the shower curtains.
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Finale
To see if I still feel.
I focus on the pain.
The only thing that's real.
The needle tears a hole
the old familiar sting.
Try to kill it all away,
but I remember everything.
What have I become?
My sweetest friend.
Everyone I know goes away
in the end.
And you could have it all.
My empire of dirt.
I will let you down.
I will make you hurt.*
The day my blog blew up was a bittersweet day.
Along the way, I have made some incredible friends and contacts. There is a downside to your blog "blowing up". There is no longer privacy. There is no longer a sense of freedom. Your blog starts becoming a commitment or an obligation as opposed to your secret outlet. I go back into my archives and realize that I used to write when the urge struck, as opposed to feeling like I have let people down when I don't.
Mind you, I am not complaining. It is certainly an honor and a privilege to have a readership, and while I am no Britney Spears or Madonna and feel the need to duck the paparazzi, there is such a thing as overexposure. Sometimes, I feel like I haven't been able to bare the scars I have created for myself over the years. We (in general) have a specific idea of what we will read when we stop by CP's blog. She will be funny. She will be insightful. She will be political. She will be charming. Mostly, she will be entertaining. We can always count on her to cater to her audience with only the best of her funny little MTV rock and roll lifestyle.
Sometimes the fascade is a bit hard on the poor old girl.
Forty years old is two weeks away. I am not distressed about it in the least. I am 40, I look 30 and I feel 20. I have no complaints. I have been fortunate in that arena. I have good self esteem and truly love my fat ass. I look in the mirror when I am having sex with my husband and I assure you...I'm looking at me. I really do believe I am the sexiest bitch alive. And, while hotband is no slouch, I more enjoy watching how sexy he makes me look!
Demented, I know. I could just videotape a masturbation session and be just as content. I have no regrets about feeling this way. I love myself. I've earned it. I worked hard at it. And, there is nothing wrong with a nice healthy dose of self-esteem. I refuse to be sorry for it, as obnoxious as it may sound.
Which is why it is hard for me to suffer with my disease of depression. Depression is all consuming. It changes me. It makes me feel low-key. It makes me feel ugly. It makes me burnout. It causes me to fall when I dance, choke when I sing and cry when I want to be laughing. It eats away at me like a starving predator and whittles down my happiness to nothing more than a core. It makes me call in sick when I am in the throes of a crying jag. I cry to the point of migraines. They hurt and I can't function. It makes me hurt myself in passive aggressive ways, like biting my nails until they bleed.
It lays me bare...open, exposed and bleeding.
This is the part of me that I hate, the only part that I hate. The part when I cannot escape the irrational fears, the sickness and the disease that courses through my veins. It is times like this that I wish I could start over. Make it all go away. Make it stop. Wake up from the nightmares that plague me and make damn sure that they don't sit and make themselves at home in the recesses of my mind.
15 years later, I am still punishing myself for the crimes someone else committed against me. Don't tell me not to do that to myself. I can't help it. Don't say get help. I have. Don't tell me not to blame myself. I do...sometimes.
On a normal, more rational, sunshiney kind of day, I am a survivor. On these off days, I am a victim. I am wallowing in my own private pain. I am the guest of honor and the only guest as well at my own pity party. I raise a glass to me, break it and then, cut my proverbial wrists with the crystal...as the champagne serves only to burn the self-inflicted wounds.
Am I getting too deep for you? Probably. Welcome to the dirty white underbelly of CP.
I vaguely remember being 25 years old and someone strangling me, cutting off my oxygen, telling me I would never see tomorrow. I remember beating my fists on the perpetrator, begging them to stop. Let me go. I don't want to die by their hand.
I realized that hand was my own.
15 years after putting "him" behind bars, he still has a hold on me. I have never been the same since. Never. And until I can make myself grasp the concept that each one of these bouts of depression is no different than him throwing me into a wall physically, I will suffer without reprieve.
I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and borderline personality disorder and post traumatic stress syndrome many years ago. They fed me pills. They electrocuted me. They locked me away for a little while. They made me talk until my voicebox was hoarse.
Eventually, I was a shell of myself with nothing more to say.
I realized that the only way I was going to get well was to take hold of the situation myself. Get myself off of the drugs that they said would help me. Get myself out of the containers they kept me in. Stop making me talk to people who don't have a clue about what I went through. I had to get up, get interested. I had to force myself out of bed. Brush my damn teeth, wash my face and rip a brush through my hair. That was going to be my only commitment. I was going to start there. Baby steps. After that, if I wanted to go back to bed and cry, or rip open my own flesh, so be it. But for now, the goal was being vertical.
I am a high functioning manic depressive. That is my own creative title. Don't try to heist it from a bitch. I am very possessive of it. I know how to make the world look shiny and pretty while bombs are falling all around me. In the midst of blood and carnage, I will manage to find the one clean spot to stand in and say, "Oh pish tosh, it isn't THAT bad."
I missed my calling. I should have been an actress. Or, at very least, a kindergarten teacher.
They can make nuclear war sound like fun.
So, this is me, today. I am utilizing my blog for its true intention; for baring my emotions, allowing me to read them back to myself and say, "Hey! Stop that!" No one is better at slapping me back into reality than I am. Granted, I still rely on my Prozac and my valproic acid and the occasional course of Cymbalta to guide me there, but at least I am willing to get on the tour bus.
It's raining.
My fingers are bleeding and raw.
I have bitten them down to the quick.
I can't bring myself to shower.
I'm too strong to cry and
to weak to admit that I may really need to.
Why don't you stop by again, tomorrow. You know, like you usually do. There will be tollhouse cookies by the front of the Castle gates and the moat will be filled with Noodles, beach balls and floatie toys for you to play with.
Today, I fear the pirrhanas have taken over and the cookies taste like shit.
Today, I only feel the Certifiable portion of Certifiable Princess.
Perhaps tomorrow, when my Prince comes home, I will go back to being the Princess you all know and love, like, hate, laugh at. Whatever it is you do.
Just come back tomorrow and do it.
I wear this crown of thorns
upon my liars chair.
Full of broken thoughts
I cannot repair.
Beneath the stains of time
the feelings disappear.
You are someone else.
I am still right here.
What have I become?
My sweetest friend.
Everyone I know goes away
in the end.
And you could have it all.
My empire of dirt.
I will let you down.
I will make you hurt.
If I could start again
a million miles away...
I would keep myself.
I would find a way.
THE CLOSING CREDITS:
-Lyrics from "Hurt" by Nine Inch Nails.
-Pity Party Acccesories and Decor courtesy of Martha Stewart
-Emotional Handbasket by Baskets are Us.
-Manicure courtesy of my perfect teeth.
-Hair done by Britney's stylist.
-Dog shit on the throwrug by Suzu and Snoop.
-Laundry done by No One.
-Noticeable stench by Paris Hilton's inner thighs.
-Correction: It's the dishes in the sink. My bad.
-Future Doocing courtesy of my office manager, if she reads this.
-Stain on Pajama top courtesy of Subway. Eat Fresh.
EDIT: I think this post is pretty incomplete if I don't include the reason for the way I am feeling. It won't make sense to a lot of you. And for those of you who already read it, don't revisit it. It's ugly...and it clashes with the shower curtains.
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Finale
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
The Utter Spew that Flies from my Mouth.
I am standing at the reception desk of my job, chattin' it up with my awesome friend, Dee. Behind her, sits "Jean". We are talking about how children need boundaries and rules to feel safe and secure as well as loved. I completely agree with Dee's assessment of parenting and tell her and Jean that I received NO rules or boundaries as a child and grew up with a very "loose" value system. I told them that my mother was one of those mothers who let me make my own decisions and to "use my own judgment". But, let's be honest here. How much judgment could a nine year old possibly have? We all agree on this as well.
Jean says, "my parents were so strict that we couldn't wait to get married just to move out of the house!"
Dee, ever the politician, replies with "Okay, Jean, but in the meantime, you are a great person with a good head on your shoulders and an excellent credit report!"
(There's that "moral fiber" I've been lacking!)
I emphatically agree with Dee and make sure that Jean knows this.
"Yeah, Jean! You are a terrific person," I concur. "Me? I am the worst person alive, my credit sucks ass and I have no sense of obligation or responsibility. That's because no one ever really taught me about limitations and boundaries."
Jean nods her grandmotherly sweet head. She digs where I'm coming from and acknowledges that perhaps her parents had the right idea after all. "You know," she says, "I never even had sex until WAY after I got my period!"
(Okay, perhaps too much information from Jean, but she's sweet.)
"Lawd!" I counter. "I think my first period was brought ON by having sex!"
We all laugh. Tee hee. There goes CP being nasty/whorey/piggy again.
Oink.
Jean shakes her head at me. Haughty nasty girl I am. Bad me.
"My husband was the first man I ever had sex with," she whispers in a conspiratorial tone.
"Oh please," I reply. "I think I dated so much before I actually settled down. Actually, I think I sampled every guy in the world before finally getting married."
I look at Dee. Normally, she is laughing when I say things like this.
Dee is not laughing. Dee is staring at me with HUGE BIG BABY BROWN EYES. You know, the kind of eyes you get when you are talking shit about your boss and they are standing RIGHT BEHIND YOU???
Only this was worse.
I turn around to come face to face with an older couple who are longtime patients of ours.
Oy.
"REALLY," the Mrs. screeches in my direction. "That's nice to know."
She tosses a "you should be ashamed of yourself" look in my direction.
It works.
And, as if I am not feeling humiliated enough...her husband joins in.
"WOW! Did I really hear what I thought I just heard?!?!?!?!"
*sighs*
"Yes, Sir. You did. And I apologize. I didn't mean that quite the way it came out."
"I only have one question for you, Young Lady," he says, sternly.
"Yes Sir," I mumble, still smarting from his wifes dirty look.
"I just wanna know where I was when you were doing all that sampling!! Where the heck were you back then?"
*crickets chirping*
This is when Dee decides it would be great to burst out into huge whooping cough, diptheria type of laughter...the kind only smokers can produce. You know, that gagging, HACKCOUGHLAUGH sound???
Yeah. Thanks GIRL!!! MY FRIEND! LOVE YOU, BABE!!!
Thanks for having a bitches back!
So, Dee, Jean and the Mr. are all standing there with a case of delirious laughter. The Mrs. is pretending not to notice but you can see the green haze of fumes pouring out from her ears. I hide behind a wall, trying to stave off the embarassment I only seem to feel once a decade.
Add insult to injury?
Mr. comes around from behind the other side of the wall, sees me leaning there, red-faced and near dead from sheer mortification and bellows:
"AW LOOK!!!! SHE'S HIDING NOW, LIKE SHE HID FROM ME WHEN SHE WAS SAMPLING!!!"
Ooooooooookay. Thank YOU!
I run to the nurses station. I can't get no reprieve.
My shame follows me everywhere.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I'm on the phone, ten minutes later, with another patient. I am trying, very hard, to regain my excellent professional status by being the best nursie in the world.
Dee walks by. Probably on her way out the door for a cigarette.
"I'll have the sample platter, please," she mumbles under her breath as she passes me.
I spit out my soda in my patients ear and gag on the phone.
I am choking.
I hang up the phone on my patient.
I am plotting Dee's untimely demise.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I opt to tell a cute joke to someone while stocking my rooms.
"Hey, Mare," I call out. "Why doesn't Peter Rabbit have testicles?"
"I don't know! Why?"
"Because he has...COTTON BALLS," I scream as I hurl a huge bag of cotton balls at her unsuspecting head. I am positively doubled over at my clever little joke. I had props and everything! My comedic timing was perfect! I can't wait until my eyes stop tearing up so I can see how hard Mare is laughing too!
I wipe my eyes.
Mare is not laughing.
Mare is giving me the same wide eyed, buggy brown eyed look that Dee had given me an hour earlier. You know, the kind of look someone gives you when your boss is standing RIGHT BEHIND YOU???
He was.
"Funny, CP," he says, smirking as he walks past me.
I punched out.
Hopefully, I will still be on staff tomorrow.
Jean says, "my parents were so strict that we couldn't wait to get married just to move out of the house!"
Dee, ever the politician, replies with "Okay, Jean, but in the meantime, you are a great person with a good head on your shoulders and an excellent credit report!"
(There's that "moral fiber" I've been lacking!)
I emphatically agree with Dee and make sure that Jean knows this.
"Yeah, Jean! You are a terrific person," I concur. "Me? I am the worst person alive, my credit sucks ass and I have no sense of obligation or responsibility. That's because no one ever really taught me about limitations and boundaries."
Jean nods her grandmotherly sweet head. She digs where I'm coming from and acknowledges that perhaps her parents had the right idea after all. "You know," she says, "I never even had sex until WAY after I got my period!"
(Okay, perhaps too much information from Jean, but she's sweet.)
"Lawd!" I counter. "I think my first period was brought ON by having sex!"
We all laugh. Tee hee. There goes CP being nasty/whorey/piggy again.
Oink.
Jean shakes her head at me. Haughty nasty girl I am. Bad me.
"My husband was the first man I ever had sex with," she whispers in a conspiratorial tone.
"Oh please," I reply. "I think I dated so much before I actually settled down. Actually, I think I sampled every guy in the world before finally getting married."
I look at Dee. Normally, she is laughing when I say things like this.
Dee is not laughing. Dee is staring at me with HUGE BIG BABY BROWN EYES. You know, the kind of eyes you get when you are talking shit about your boss and they are standing RIGHT BEHIND YOU???
Only this was worse.
I turn around to come face to face with an older couple who are longtime patients of ours.
Oy.
"REALLY," the Mrs. screeches in my direction. "That's nice to know."
She tosses a "you should be ashamed of yourself" look in my direction.
It works.
And, as if I am not feeling humiliated enough...her husband joins in.
"WOW! Did I really hear what I thought I just heard?!?!?!?!"
*sighs*
"Yes, Sir. You did. And I apologize. I didn't mean that quite the way it came out."
"I only have one question for you, Young Lady," he says, sternly.
"Yes Sir," I mumble, still smarting from his wifes dirty look.
"I just wanna know where I was when you were doing all that sampling!! Where the heck were you back then?"
*crickets chirping*
This is when Dee decides it would be great to burst out into huge whooping cough, diptheria type of laughter...the kind only smokers can produce. You know, that gagging, HACKCOUGHLAUGH sound???
Yeah. Thanks GIRL!!! MY FRIEND! LOVE YOU, BABE!!!
Thanks for having a bitches back!
So, Dee, Jean and the Mr. are all standing there with a case of delirious laughter. The Mrs. is pretending not to notice but you can see the green haze of fumes pouring out from her ears. I hide behind a wall, trying to stave off the embarassment I only seem to feel once a decade.
Add insult to injury?
Mr. comes around from behind the other side of the wall, sees me leaning there, red-faced and near dead from sheer mortification and bellows:
"AW LOOK!!!! SHE'S HIDING NOW, LIKE SHE HID FROM ME WHEN SHE WAS SAMPLING!!!"
Ooooooooookay. Thank YOU!
I run to the nurses station. I can't get no reprieve.
My shame follows me everywhere.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I'm on the phone, ten minutes later, with another patient. I am trying, very hard, to regain my excellent professional status by being the best nursie in the world.
Dee walks by. Probably on her way out the door for a cigarette.
"I'll have the sample platter, please," she mumbles under her breath as she passes me.
I spit out my soda in my patients ear and gag on the phone.
I am choking.
I hang up the phone on my patient.
I am plotting Dee's untimely demise.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I opt to tell a cute joke to someone while stocking my rooms.
"Hey, Mare," I call out. "Why doesn't Peter Rabbit have testicles?"
"I don't know! Why?"
"Because he has...COTTON BALLS," I scream as I hurl a huge bag of cotton balls at her unsuspecting head. I am positively doubled over at my clever little joke. I had props and everything! My comedic timing was perfect! I can't wait until my eyes stop tearing up so I can see how hard Mare is laughing too!
I wipe my eyes.
Mare is not laughing.
Mare is giving me the same wide eyed, buggy brown eyed look that Dee had given me an hour earlier. You know, the kind of look someone gives you when your boss is standing RIGHT BEHIND YOU???
He was.
"Funny, CP," he says, smirking as he walks past me.
I punched out.
Hopefully, I will still be on staff tomorrow.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
My Space.
Today, CP is going to do another PSA (Public Service Announcments) for those of you with teens, pre-teens or think they are teens but still have quite a way to go.
I have a friend at work. Her name is...nevermind. Her name is "C". There ya go. "C" has a 14 year old stepdaughter named "Tara". Tara is the daughter of a police officer. You might remember him? Officer Kurt? This is the same police officer that helped spring me from the big house when I was convicted of manslaughter and homocide (okay, it was actually petty larceny, but that sounds really fuckin' cheesy) this past May.
If you don't know or don't remember the story of my arrest this past year, please, ignore the rest of this post. Go read the three part story below, because I assure you, it is worth the piss in your pants that you will make. If you weren't already a fan of mine, this story will assure you a place of worship in my Kingdom. Trust a bitch.
Part 1: Guess Where I Was?
Part 2: Jew Girl In Bondage.
Part 3: Sprung!
Then, bring your ass back here and read this post. It is pretty important stuff and well, frankly, you have nothing better to do than read it, right?
As for the rest of you? Jump ahead and keep reading.
Anyhoohaa, Friend "C" finds out that Tara has a MySpace account, despite the fact that she is really not supposed to have one. Bad Tara. Bad. To the outside world, said page looks very innocent. Sweet, even. Frou frou little girly girl pictures with lacy bows and cutesy poo piccies. Sparkly things that go blinkie blinkie blinkie. You know, typical MySpace bullshit.
However, THIS mommy (me) knows that the juicy shit is ALWAYS buried within the contents of the "private" page. Moo ha ha. Hey, I have a nearly 20 year old daughter. There's nothing she can do that I haven't already wrote the damn book on. So, I assure "C" that I will get the goods on Tara.
I create a profile on MySpace.
My name is now "Nick". I am 17 years old and go to a different high school than Tara, but one that is close enough so that we could "hook up" and "hang out" if she ever wanted to. Now I had to decide on a photo that would make Tara go "WHOA BABY! HE'S HOT!" I do a google search on "cute guys" and find this hunka hunka cowboy lovin'. Tara is into country music and so, I selected this picture:
Don't I...er, I mean, doesn't HE look like a country version of Vanilla Ice? Horse, horse, baby! Uh. Yeah. Anyway.
I named my page "saveahorserideacowboy88". Popular country tune with a very safe 88 to reflect the year I was born. I am a senior this year, you know. *bats lashes* Next, I went on a friend rampage. I pinged every cute girl online that I could find. Ping! Ping! Ping! And, I kept a criteria! Had to be brunette. Had to be at least 16. Had to be online. And, had to be NOT NEARLY as cute as Tara. I also pinged some guys for good measure, you know, so Tara wouldn't think I...um, I mean, Nick, was a playah. Not good in the hood for a brutha who's a playah. Word.
After a few days of getting some responses, comments and holy crap -- even a few propositions from some local girls -- I finally decided to target Tara to get her to "add" me. Those of you familiar with MySpace know that you cannot look into the private area without an invite. Those of you who didn't know, well, consider yourselves schooled. I waited for a time I knew Tara would be online. 11 o'clock pm. Boing! There she was! Online and all ready for Nick to come a-callin' on her. I dropped an "add me" request to her and I tell you, in a hot 3 MINUTES an invite came flying back! I was added. Moo ha ha.
Now, I could look into the dirty underbelly of Tara's site. Sweet!
I start probing around and a few things strike me as parentally negative.
1) Tara has herself listed as 16. Tara is 14.
2) Tara calls herself a "hot single chick". Hm.
3) Tara has a picture of her father on her MySpace account. Why is that bad? Daddy is an undercover narcotics agent who busts local kids for possession. Hm. Not really good for Tara to reveal this as her "popo daddy-o", ya know?
4) Bikini picture, page 3 of her photo pages.
Now, bikini pictures are acceptable. I mean, after all, if she were on a beach, this is what she would look like, right? But, on a MySpace page? Well, it's not a picture any longer. It's more like an...advertisement. Get mah drift? Plus, the comments underneath her picture consisted of things like:
"u r so hawt"
and
"omg u hve tig bitties"
and
"u r fuckin' foine. i wood so do u!"
None of these comments are a fathers wet dream, I would imagine. I have Tara emailing me. Um, Nick. She wants to get together. Hang out. With friends. She wrote me/him and enclosed not only her address but her cellphone number.
Now, it is bad enough that I am a 40 year old co-worker of her stepmothers, setting her up. However, the part that scares the flying fuck out of me is that...she doesn't KNOW THIS! For all she knows...I could be this guy:
Granted, our tits are about the same size, but that is pretty much where the similarities end. I have to admit, it frightens me to know that she is so naive, so accessible and so...so...willing! I do a bit more poking around and find that she has put her cellphone and her homephone numbers on the pages of a boy or two around the web. One of them, who lives near her and goes to her school, has had the privilege of sleeping with this little girl. And yes, to me...14 still qualifies as a little girl, despite what the Jerry Springer mentality of this nation might represent to the contrary.
I have Officer Kurt come up to the office. I show him the results of my research. He is not happy. Not at all. Not in the least.
A few days later, Tara's MySpace page is no longer on the internet and so, I opt to put "Nick" into early retirement.
Damn shame, cause, if I was Nick...I could have gotten me a whole boatload of barely legal ass if I wanted.
Ah well.
The moral of the story is, boys and girls, if you aren't familiar with MySpace, GET FAMILIAR with it. If your kids tell you they have an account, you tell them they either give you their password or they don't use the damn computer anymore. Don't trust your sweet sixteen year old to tell the truth. Liar is just a four letter word for teenager.
It is important as a parent, an aunt, an uncle...whatever, to take a bold stand against the predators that lurk amongst our children.
Today, it was only me. Tomorrow, it could be Ted Bundy.
Do what you can to protect your children, even if it is at the expense of their freedom and privacy. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.
And honestly, when it comes to protecting your children, is there any such thing as excess?
In the meantime, if anyone needs a good spy...just email Nick, um, I mean, me! I'm in there like swimwear, baby.
Hm. Certifiable Princess: Mommy Detective. Private Dick. Goliath of Girls Gone Wild! Chastity Belt of the Internet! Cock Block Extraordinaire! Protector of pre-teen pussy and Vigilante of Virginity!
CP = Coochie Police!
I think I'm onto something!
I have a friend at work. Her name is...nevermind. Her name is "C". There ya go. "C" has a 14 year old stepdaughter named "Tara". Tara is the daughter of a police officer. You might remember him? Officer Kurt? This is the same police officer that helped spring me from the big house when I was convicted of manslaughter and homocide (okay, it was actually petty larceny, but that sounds really fuckin' cheesy) this past May.
If you don't know or don't remember the story of my arrest this past year, please, ignore the rest of this post. Go read the three part story below, because I assure you, it is worth the piss in your pants that you will make. If you weren't already a fan of mine, this story will assure you a place of worship in my Kingdom. Trust a bitch.
Part 1: Guess Where I Was?
Part 2: Jew Girl In Bondage.
Part 3: Sprung!
Then, bring your ass back here and read this post. It is pretty important stuff and well, frankly, you have nothing better to do than read it, right?
As for the rest of you? Jump ahead and keep reading.
Anyhoohaa, Friend "C" finds out that Tara has a MySpace account, despite the fact that she is really not supposed to have one. Bad Tara. Bad. To the outside world, said page looks very innocent. Sweet, even. Frou frou little girly girl pictures with lacy bows and cutesy poo piccies. Sparkly things that go blinkie blinkie blinkie. You know, typical MySpace bullshit.
However, THIS mommy (me) knows that the juicy shit is ALWAYS buried within the contents of the "private" page. Moo ha ha. Hey, I have a nearly 20 year old daughter. There's nothing she can do that I haven't already wrote the damn book on. So, I assure "C" that I will get the goods on Tara.
I create a profile on MySpace.
My name is now "Nick". I am 17 years old and go to a different high school than Tara, but one that is close enough so that we could "hook up" and "hang out" if she ever wanted to. Now I had to decide on a photo that would make Tara go "WHOA BABY! HE'S HOT!" I do a google search on "cute guys" and find this hunka hunka cowboy lovin'. Tara is into country music and so, I selected this picture:
Don't I...er, I mean, doesn't HE look like a country version of Vanilla Ice? Horse, horse, baby! Uh. Yeah. Anyway.I named my page "saveahorserideacowboy88". Popular country tune with a very safe 88 to reflect the year I was born. I am a senior this year, you know. *bats lashes* Next, I went on a friend rampage. I pinged every cute girl online that I could find. Ping! Ping! Ping! And, I kept a criteria! Had to be brunette. Had to be at least 16. Had to be online. And, had to be NOT NEARLY as cute as Tara. I also pinged some guys for good measure, you know, so Tara wouldn't think I...um, I mean, Nick, was a playah. Not good in the hood for a brutha who's a playah. Word.
After a few days of getting some responses, comments and holy crap -- even a few propositions from some local girls -- I finally decided to target Tara to get her to "add" me. Those of you familiar with MySpace know that you cannot look into the private area without an invite. Those of you who didn't know, well, consider yourselves schooled. I waited for a time I knew Tara would be online. 11 o'clock pm. Boing! There she was! Online and all ready for Nick to come a-callin' on her. I dropped an "add me" request to her and I tell you, in a hot 3 MINUTES an invite came flying back! I was added. Moo ha ha.
Now, I could look into the dirty underbelly of Tara's site. Sweet!
I start probing around and a few things strike me as parentally negative.
1) Tara has herself listed as 16. Tara is 14.
2) Tara calls herself a "hot single chick". Hm.
3) Tara has a picture of her father on her MySpace account. Why is that bad? Daddy is an undercover narcotics agent who busts local kids for possession. Hm. Not really good for Tara to reveal this as her "popo daddy-o", ya know?
4) Bikini picture, page 3 of her photo pages.
Now, bikini pictures are acceptable. I mean, after all, if she were on a beach, this is what she would look like, right? But, on a MySpace page? Well, it's not a picture any longer. It's more like an...advertisement. Get mah drift? Plus, the comments underneath her picture consisted of things like:
"u r so hawt"
and
"omg u hve tig bitties"
and
"u r fuckin' foine. i wood so do u!"
None of these comments are a fathers wet dream, I would imagine. I have Tara emailing me. Um, Nick. She wants to get together. Hang out. With friends. She wrote me/him and enclosed not only her address but her cellphone number.
Now, it is bad enough that I am a 40 year old co-worker of her stepmothers, setting her up. However, the part that scares the flying fuck out of me is that...she doesn't KNOW THIS! For all she knows...I could be this guy:
Granted, our tits are about the same size, but that is pretty much where the similarities end. I have to admit, it frightens me to know that she is so naive, so accessible and so...so...willing! I do a bit more poking around and find that she has put her cellphone and her homephone numbers on the pages of a boy or two around the web. One of them, who lives near her and goes to her school, has had the privilege of sleeping with this little girl. And yes, to me...14 still qualifies as a little girl, despite what the Jerry Springer mentality of this nation might represent to the contrary.
I have Officer Kurt come up to the office. I show him the results of my research. He is not happy. Not at all. Not in the least.
A few days later, Tara's MySpace page is no longer on the internet and so, I opt to put "Nick" into early retirement.
Damn shame, cause, if I was Nick...I could have gotten me a whole boatload of barely legal ass if I wanted.
Ah well.
The moral of the story is, boys and girls, if you aren't familiar with MySpace, GET FAMILIAR with it. If your kids tell you they have an account, you tell them they either give you their password or they don't use the damn computer anymore. Don't trust your sweet sixteen year old to tell the truth. Liar is just a four letter word for teenager.
It is important as a parent, an aunt, an uncle...whatever, to take a bold stand against the predators that lurk amongst our children.
Today, it was only me. Tomorrow, it could be Ted Bundy.
Do what you can to protect your children, even if it is at the expense of their freedom and privacy. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.
And honestly, when it comes to protecting your children, is there any such thing as excess?
In the meantime, if anyone needs a good spy...just email Nick, um, I mean, me! I'm in there like swimwear, baby.
Hm. Certifiable Princess: Mommy Detective. Private Dick. Goliath of Girls Gone Wild! Chastity Belt of the Internet! Cock Block Extraordinaire! Protector of pre-teen pussy and Vigilante of Virginity!
CP = Coochie Police!
I think I'm onto something!
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