Forgive me if I sound a bit convoluted.
I am typing on valium right now. Need to keep my nerves in tact.
The dinner with Steven went well. He answered all of our questions without any hesitation nor animosity for us doing the asking. Am I sure he is not a serial killer freak who is putting a life insurance policy on my child with the intent to kill her once they're married? No. I have no assurance of that whatsoever. I am just letting go, and letting God. Yes, I know it is cliche, but right now, that's all I have.
While we were dining at Outback, a beautiful girl in a white gown came strolling into the bathroom. Sammi and I were in there, talking. The girl was accompanied by a friend in a sparkly, completely wedding inappropriate dress. She looked more like the bachelor party entertainment than someones Maid of Honor. But, they were laughing, giggling and chatting up a storm.
"She just got married tonight," said the stripper-esque MoH. "Isn't she beautiful?"
"Congratulations," my daughter and I exclaimed in unison. "Yes, she is very beautiful," I added.
"You know," I said, "my daughter is getting married this Sunday. It's very good luck to see a bride before your wedding day!"
The girls gushed and fawned over my daughter for a moment and then, went back to their drunken celebration. Sam and I left them alone to enjoy this best friend bonding moment that will last long after her divorce papers are drawn up.
In that moment of inspirational best friend bonding, I felt it necessary to remember that my oldest child, my daughter, is and always has been my best friend. I have no gift to give her on such short notice. There is no house yet for me to "warm" for her. So, I opted to do the very best thing I could do for her.
I called Esther. I told her. I broke the news.
And, of course, my mother overreacted, feigned near fatal chest pains and got my father all hypertensive. They called me a bad mother for not putting a stop to it. I shrugged it off. They told me I was irresponsible for allowing this to happen. I sighed quietly. They told me I was letting her ruin her life by allowing her to make the biggest mistake she will ever make.
I finally felt the need to reply.
"In 1987, when I was seven months pregnant, I confessed to you that I was having a baby. You didn't know all along. I never told you because I never felt I could tell you. When I finally did tell you, you told me I would be a bad mother, because I was too young. You told me I was irresponsible for allowing myself to become pregnant. And you told me I was ruining my life by making the biggest mistake I could ever make."
I was dangerously collected and calm, despite my inner turmoil.
"That 'mistake' of mine is getting married in three days. That 'mistake' that you love more than you love me is going to ask you to support her decision. You have the opportunity to do the right thing this time and tell her you love her no matter what. Or, you can say the things you just said to me and assure yourself of never having a spot in her life again."
There was a moment of silence from both of us.
"Okay," she conceded. "I will talk to her and support her. I don't like it."
"I don't either, Mom."
"But I will be there for her."
"I know she will be happy about that, Mom."
I heard the disgusted voice of my father in the background calling me an "idiot". I could "hear" him walking out of his living room, leaving behind his precious remote control. I knew he was disappointed. I was too, but his admonishment hurt nevertheless.
He called shortly thereafter to apologize. I had already gone to bed. My husband passed the message onto me.
Last night, hotband and I went with friends to Universal Studios in Orlando to Halloween Horror Nights. For six precious hours, I was completely free of the situations that have been plaguing me for the past week. I was drinking, laughing, running around with my girlfriend, her police officer husband and my husband; totally acting the fool. Not a care in the world.
This morning, we came home and reality was sitting on my couch, awaiting my arrival.
This time, I was more prepared.
There has been a lot of crying and heartache tonight. I feel my daughter is neglecting our relationship, but hell, at least we have one. She showed me her wedding bands tonight. Sterling silver for her, titanium for him...temporary bands for now. She brought her little brother over to meet his new "big brother in law". It was sweet to see them leave together, chattering on about the fact that Steven can get him really cool UK variety Hotwheels.
A small flicker of hope surged within me.
So, dear reader, by my next installment, I will be a mother in law. It's not the ideal circumstance by any means, but it is still a memory that I will get to hold onto for a lifetime. I was blessed, truly, to have had you all accompany me on this ride. Your advice has been so important to me. The stories of compassion, trust and even the stories of disaster have weighed so heavily on my heart and mind. But, your support has been enough to make me feel a little less alone in this endeavor, this new chapter of my life.
Tomorrow, hopefully, there will be photographs to share with everyone.
Tomorrow, hopefully, will be a blessed day.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Thursday, September 28, 2006
I am going to do something a little unorthodox...
and no, I don't mean becoming the mother in law of a non-Jew.
I am going to answer comments and questions from the last post in a new post. If you need to know what is going on, please read this post. A lot of good questions were asked, so in order for you all to give me the best possible advice, I have to acknowledge these questions.
Caught up? Good.
Here we go:
1) No, Sam and Steven won't consider long distance dating. They have been corresponding for over a year online and they are just over it. They want to be together. Won't even remotely entertain spending any more time apart.
2) I have no intention of stopping her. I want to make that VERY clear. I am all about being the mother my mother never was. I will not drive that child away from me by trying to dictate her life. Whoever called me "the anti-Esther" was on the money.
3) If they apply for a fiancee Visa, he can be gone for months without being allowed re-entry into the country until the Visa is finalized. If they marry now, he can come and go as he pleases on a "Right to Follow" Visa. He can be here with her immediately. She won't have to sponsor him. She will be married to an American Citizen almost immediately. He will only have to take an immigration exam. (Mind you, she didn't tell me all of this. I researched the ever living fuck out of it.)
I am the goddess of Google. Recognize.
4) I considered telling Esther after the fact, but then, that will put me in a war with her. While I don't have to answer to her, because yes, I am 40 years old...I don't want to put any additional stress on myself or my daughter. My mother can be very vindictive. Because of the connections she has, she can make Steven's life quite miserable. Sam's too. Also, I don't want to hear her call me a shitty mother. I will then have to bring up the fact that SHE is the shitty mother, and that a REAL mother is supportive no matter what. Esther hold grudges. She will stop speaking to my daughter and that will hurt my child to no end.
5) I did tell Sam that it IS her responsibility to break this news to her grandmother BEFORE Sunday. I wanted to do it, to soften the blow...but, I think that if Sam was adult enough to make this decision, then she is adult enough to share that information with the rest of her family. I know I will be doing a lot of damage control. Bring it on. I upped my meds and I am ready to take on Esther in the ultimate battle...the battle over good and evil. I will prevail.
6) Someone asked if Steven had a job. He does. In fact, he makes incredibly good money. He works for the Enviromental Protection Agency in England. He owns a home there, has a car and a cat. He can easily transition to the EPA here in the US. He also made some side money DJ'ing in his fathers pub in England. How ironic that my daughter will not be able to drink at any bar he ever DJ's in here in the states. She's TOO FREAKING YOUNG to drink...but she can get married????? What the hell is up with this country??? Hell. I'd rather her drink quite frankly.
7) He does have family in England. He has a father who owns a pub. His mother and father are divorced and the mother is very happily remarried. His mother is apparently the AB-FAB version of Esther. She's a lunatic too. He has not revealed his wedding plans to his mother. He did tell his father.
8) He DOES know a lot about my daughter, little things that most men don't know or bother to notice about their girlfriends. He's either really into her, or has read her MySpace profile half a dozen times.
9) The age issue. Yeah. It's really more MY problem than it is theirs. I think it bothers me more that she is marrying a man who is my husbands age than it does anyone else. That's just plain Jerry Springer right there. There is an 11 year age difference between them. There is a nine year age difference between my husband and I. Not very dramatic at 31 and 40. Quite upsetting at 19 and 31. But, again, I think that is more MY issue. It just really weirds me out.
10) Tonight we are going out to dinner with them. My husband, my ex-husband and myself. This kid is going to get grilled like a rack of babybacks. But, if he is the right man for my daughter, he won't buckle. I also want to see how they interact with one another. I can spot phony affection from a mile away. I lived it for nearly three years with Tony. I won't put my baggage on their backs, but bet your asses I will be watching with both eyes WIDE the fuck open.
11) Why do I give a shit what my mother thinks? Good question. When I have had ample enough therapy, I will be sure to answer that one. I suppose that every girl cares what their mother thinks, even when they don't get along and feel very much to the contrary. Plus, I know the pain she is capable of inflicting...and I don't want her putting that hateful guilt upon my child.
12) I have made myself a promise. I will NEVER say "I told you so" to my baby. Never. Not ever. I will never do to her what my mother did and still does to me to this day. Not ever.
13) If I push her too hard, she will leave the country to be with him. I will never see her again. That thought brings me to my knees. It is a dagger to my chest and a crippling blow to the gut. At least if I am supportive and allow her to marry here, in peace, I can watch my baby...and I can be there for her. The thought of her calling me in the middle of the night, from overseas, crying for help...it makes me feel helpless.
14) While I love the idea of locking him in a room with Esther, my child will end up a widow before she is ever married. No can do.
15) I considered making him sign a pre-nup that states if it is ever found that he married her under false pretenses, he will be responsible for paying her the lump sum of $500,000.00. He will also owe her that, should he divorce her before 5 years. And, he shall owe her an additional $100,000.00 per child, if there are any.
Do you realize how insane that makes me sound?
I'm not doing it. It's pointless. No amount of money will ever make up for the pain and hurt he will cause her if he is just being a scoundrel. I'd rather her just make the clean break and be able to leave him.
And, I will just send him back across the pond in a bodybag. End of story.
16) Can't entice her with the big fancy wedding thing. She's not interested. Not even remotely. Matter of fact, I got a big kick in the ass for suggesting it. "Um, Mom? You and N. (hotband) got married on a Tuesday, at the courthouse wearing jeans and sweaters. I don't need a big fancy wedding either."
Oy. I love having my life thrown back up in my face.
17) There will be no cold feet. My daughter is headstrong, determined and fearless, like her mama. When she gets an idea in her head, consider it done. Unless he runs screaming from the inquisition tonight, I can assure you, I will be a mother in law by Sunday.
18) The shared stories from everyone have helped a lot. It's put things in perspective for me. And it was nice to read the stories of the "shotgun" weddings that DID work out for the best. I can only hope and pray that my daughter will have the fairytale ending she so richly deserves.
Thank you, one and all for the advice. And, feel free to keep giving it. I will be a basket case until Sunday, I assure you.
Alright. I have to get ready for the bloodbath, er, dinner with my new future son-in-law and daughter. Dear God. That is so hard to write. I am going to be the WORST mother in law ever! Worse than Esther. Esther is not real interested in my life, so she stays out of the hotband's as well. Me? Oy. I see Marie Barrone in Steven's future.
I hope he's ready for it.
I hope we all are.
I am going to answer comments and questions from the last post in a new post. If you need to know what is going on, please read this post. A lot of good questions were asked, so in order for you all to give me the best possible advice, I have to acknowledge these questions.
Caught up? Good.
Here we go:
1) No, Sam and Steven won't consider long distance dating. They have been corresponding for over a year online and they are just over it. They want to be together. Won't even remotely entertain spending any more time apart.
2) I have no intention of stopping her. I want to make that VERY clear. I am all about being the mother my mother never was. I will not drive that child away from me by trying to dictate her life. Whoever called me "the anti-Esther" was on the money.
3) If they apply for a fiancee Visa, he can be gone for months without being allowed re-entry into the country until the Visa is finalized. If they marry now, he can come and go as he pleases on a "Right to Follow" Visa. He can be here with her immediately. She won't have to sponsor him. She will be married to an American Citizen almost immediately. He will only have to take an immigration exam. (Mind you, she didn't tell me all of this. I researched the ever living fuck out of it.)
I am the goddess of Google. Recognize.
4) I considered telling Esther after the fact, but then, that will put me in a war with her. While I don't have to answer to her, because yes, I am 40 years old...I don't want to put any additional stress on myself or my daughter. My mother can be very vindictive. Because of the connections she has, she can make Steven's life quite miserable. Sam's too. Also, I don't want to hear her call me a shitty mother. I will then have to bring up the fact that SHE is the shitty mother, and that a REAL mother is supportive no matter what. Esther hold grudges. She will stop speaking to my daughter and that will hurt my child to no end.
5) I did tell Sam that it IS her responsibility to break this news to her grandmother BEFORE Sunday. I wanted to do it, to soften the blow...but, I think that if Sam was adult enough to make this decision, then she is adult enough to share that information with the rest of her family. I know I will be doing a lot of damage control. Bring it on. I upped my meds and I am ready to take on Esther in the ultimate battle...the battle over good and evil. I will prevail.
6) Someone asked if Steven had a job. He does. In fact, he makes incredibly good money. He works for the Enviromental Protection Agency in England. He owns a home there, has a car and a cat. He can easily transition to the EPA here in the US. He also made some side money DJ'ing in his fathers pub in England. How ironic that my daughter will not be able to drink at any bar he ever DJ's in here in the states. She's TOO FREAKING YOUNG to drink...but she can get married????? What the hell is up with this country??? Hell. I'd rather her drink quite frankly.
7) He does have family in England. He has a father who owns a pub. His mother and father are divorced and the mother is very happily remarried. His mother is apparently the AB-FAB version of Esther. She's a lunatic too. He has not revealed his wedding plans to his mother. He did tell his father.
8) He DOES know a lot about my daughter, little things that most men don't know or bother to notice about their girlfriends. He's either really into her, or has read her MySpace profile half a dozen times.
9) The age issue. Yeah. It's really more MY problem than it is theirs. I think it bothers me more that she is marrying a man who is my husbands age than it does anyone else. That's just plain Jerry Springer right there. There is an 11 year age difference between them. There is a nine year age difference between my husband and I. Not very dramatic at 31 and 40. Quite upsetting at 19 and 31. But, again, I think that is more MY issue. It just really weirds me out.
10) Tonight we are going out to dinner with them. My husband, my ex-husband and myself. This kid is going to get grilled like a rack of babybacks. But, if he is the right man for my daughter, he won't buckle. I also want to see how they interact with one another. I can spot phony affection from a mile away. I lived it for nearly three years with Tony. I won't put my baggage on their backs, but bet your asses I will be watching with both eyes WIDE the fuck open.
11) Why do I give a shit what my mother thinks? Good question. When I have had ample enough therapy, I will be sure to answer that one. I suppose that every girl cares what their mother thinks, even when they don't get along and feel very much to the contrary. Plus, I know the pain she is capable of inflicting...and I don't want her putting that hateful guilt upon my child.
12) I have made myself a promise. I will NEVER say "I told you so" to my baby. Never. Not ever. I will never do to her what my mother did and still does to me to this day. Not ever.
13) If I push her too hard, she will leave the country to be with him. I will never see her again. That thought brings me to my knees. It is a dagger to my chest and a crippling blow to the gut. At least if I am supportive and allow her to marry here, in peace, I can watch my baby...and I can be there for her. The thought of her calling me in the middle of the night, from overseas, crying for help...it makes me feel helpless.
14) While I love the idea of locking him in a room with Esther, my child will end up a widow before she is ever married. No can do.
15) I considered making him sign a pre-nup that states if it is ever found that he married her under false pretenses, he will be responsible for paying her the lump sum of $500,000.00. He will also owe her that, should he divorce her before 5 years. And, he shall owe her an additional $100,000.00 per child, if there are any.
Do you realize how insane that makes me sound?
I'm not doing it. It's pointless. No amount of money will ever make up for the pain and hurt he will cause her if he is just being a scoundrel. I'd rather her just make the clean break and be able to leave him.
And, I will just send him back across the pond in a bodybag. End of story.
16) Can't entice her with the big fancy wedding thing. She's not interested. Not even remotely. Matter of fact, I got a big kick in the ass for suggesting it. "Um, Mom? You and N. (hotband) got married on a Tuesday, at the courthouse wearing jeans and sweaters. I don't need a big fancy wedding either."
Oy. I love having my life thrown back up in my face.
17) There will be no cold feet. My daughter is headstrong, determined and fearless, like her mama. When she gets an idea in her head, consider it done. Unless he runs screaming from the inquisition tonight, I can assure you, I will be a mother in law by Sunday.
18) The shared stories from everyone have helped a lot. It's put things in perspective for me. And it was nice to read the stories of the "shotgun" weddings that DID work out for the best. I can only hope and pray that my daughter will have the fairytale ending she so richly deserves.
Thank you, one and all for the advice. And, feel free to keep giving it. I will be a basket case until Sunday, I assure you.
Alright. I have to get ready for the bloodbath, er, dinner with my new future son-in-law and daughter. Dear God. That is so hard to write. I am going to be the WORST mother in law ever! Worse than Esther. Esther is not real interested in my life, so she stays out of the hotband's as well. Me? Oy. I see Marie Barrone in Steven's future.
I hope he's ready for it.
I hope we all are.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Blog Buddies...I need your help.
Something just got thrown at me. I don't know how to respond. Forgive me if this post isn't as eloquent as my posts normally are.
I'm freaked.
My 19 year old daughter just announced to me today that she is getting married. Yes, married. And I don't mean engaged...I mean, married.
Like, this Sunday.
No, she isn't pregnant. I asked.
She has been talking to this boy, did I say boy? I'm sorry, I mean...MAN, because he is 31 years old. Yes, a year younger than my OWN HUSBAND! Fucking ew. But anyway, this guy is her best friend's brothers best friend. So, they have known each other a long time. Here's the kicker.
The kid, er, man...let's call him "Steven", lives in England. Not NEW England, like, um, northern United States. I mean, England...as in, tea and crumpets. God save the Queen. The Beatles. London Bridge.
England.
He is leaving to go back home this Sunday, the day they are getting married. He wants to go back there to sell his house, get his "things in order" and come back here to be with Sammi for the "rest of his life". Apparently, my little cherub went out and researched how to get a marriage license on her own. This from a girl who cannot manage to clean her room or balance her checkbook. They have already picked out gold bands and a notary to marry them.
Um, hello? I have a fucking headache.
Naturally, the New Yorker in me flew out, and I assumed that he is trying to marry my pure sweet innocent little girl to gain American citizenship. Am I being far-fetched? Suspicious? You bet your ass I am. What in God's holy hell of a name would a 31 year old want with my 19 year old daughter?
I went over to the house he is staying at to find out. Yes, I went there. Picked up my fat loady ass and drove up to the front door and demanded that he give me an explanation for this. You know what he said?
"I love her, Ma'am. I can't describe to you how she makes me feel. The best part of my day is when I come home and get on the telephone or IM just to talk to her. She has shown me the most incredible way of life. And I want to be with her forever."
Gotta admit, the kid is smooth.
Why the rush then, I ask him.
He claims it is because he can get here faster as a married citizen than to wait for years on a visa from the UK/US. Now this statement had me worried. However, he also said that Sammi told him she would move there. He said he didn't want her to leave her college education and her parents behind. Okay, so I liked that answer.
He knew her favorite color is shocking pink. He knows that Def Leppard is her favorite band. He knows that she will turn up "Take Me Home Tonight" by Eddie Money and sing it at the top of her lungs whenever she hears it. He knows she doesn't like spicy food because her tongue is sensitive to them.
Then again, anyone who has ever read her MySpace page would know those things.
Except the spicy food thing.
Now, of course, I have two options. I either A) freak the hell out, hogtie her in her room and don't let her out until he goes home on Sunday or B) I be supportive of her, while not condoning or being happy about it. I just be there for her.
I have reluctantly opted to be the anti-Esther, and chose option B.
And Esther! Oy the fuck VEY! What the hell am I going to tell her????
I can hear it already:
"This is YOUR fault, CP. You and your free spirited love everyone and everything attitude. Now look, she's marrying some foreigner to get him into the country. He's not even a Jew, for God's sake!"
I need some input, folks. I really do need someone to shake me by my shoulders and tell me what the hell to do. My husband is beside himself. My daughters father is ready to make cement booties for this guy. And my parents? Oy. They are going to DIE...DIE, when they hear this. Do I tell them before...or after the fact?
Jesus.
I almost wish she WAS pregnant so I can justify this marriage.
Fuck the Queen.
God save the Certifiable Princess.
I'm freaked.
My 19 year old daughter just announced to me today that she is getting married. Yes, married. And I don't mean engaged...I mean, married.
Like, this Sunday.
No, she isn't pregnant. I asked.
She has been talking to this boy, did I say boy? I'm sorry, I mean...MAN, because he is 31 years old. Yes, a year younger than my OWN HUSBAND! Fucking ew. But anyway, this guy is her best friend's brothers best friend. So, they have known each other a long time. Here's the kicker.
The kid, er, man...let's call him "Steven", lives in England. Not NEW England, like, um, northern United States. I mean, England...as in, tea and crumpets. God save the Queen. The Beatles. London Bridge.
England.
He is leaving to go back home this Sunday, the day they are getting married. He wants to go back there to sell his house, get his "things in order" and come back here to be with Sammi for the "rest of his life". Apparently, my little cherub went out and researched how to get a marriage license on her own. This from a girl who cannot manage to clean her room or balance her checkbook. They have already picked out gold bands and a notary to marry them.
Um, hello? I have a fucking headache.
Naturally, the New Yorker in me flew out, and I assumed that he is trying to marry my pure sweet innocent little girl to gain American citizenship. Am I being far-fetched? Suspicious? You bet your ass I am. What in God's holy hell of a name would a 31 year old want with my 19 year old daughter?
I went over to the house he is staying at to find out. Yes, I went there. Picked up my fat loady ass and drove up to the front door and demanded that he give me an explanation for this. You know what he said?
"I love her, Ma'am. I can't describe to you how she makes me feel. The best part of my day is when I come home and get on the telephone or IM just to talk to her. She has shown me the most incredible way of life. And I want to be with her forever."
Gotta admit, the kid is smooth.
Why the rush then, I ask him.
He claims it is because he can get here faster as a married citizen than to wait for years on a visa from the UK/US. Now this statement had me worried. However, he also said that Sammi told him she would move there. He said he didn't want her to leave her college education and her parents behind. Okay, so I liked that answer.
He knew her favorite color is shocking pink. He knows that Def Leppard is her favorite band. He knows that she will turn up "Take Me Home Tonight" by Eddie Money and sing it at the top of her lungs whenever she hears it. He knows she doesn't like spicy food because her tongue is sensitive to them.
Then again, anyone who has ever read her MySpace page would know those things.
Except the spicy food thing.
Now, of course, I have two options. I either A) freak the hell out, hogtie her in her room and don't let her out until he goes home on Sunday or B) I be supportive of her, while not condoning or being happy about it. I just be there for her.
I have reluctantly opted to be the anti-Esther, and chose option B.
And Esther! Oy the fuck VEY! What the hell am I going to tell her????
I can hear it already:
"This is YOUR fault, CP. You and your free spirited love everyone and everything attitude. Now look, she's marrying some foreigner to get him into the country. He's not even a Jew, for God's sake!"
I need some input, folks. I really do need someone to shake me by my shoulders and tell me what the hell to do. My husband is beside himself. My daughters father is ready to make cement booties for this guy. And my parents? Oy. They are going to DIE...DIE, when they hear this. Do I tell them before...or after the fact?
Jesus.
I almost wish she WAS pregnant so I can justify this marriage.
Fuck the Queen.
God save the Certifiable Princess.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Naughty Nursie Fantasies...
Please.
Save a nurse from total meltdown. Follow these simple rules:
When I walk into the room and say "Hi, Mrs. So and So, what are we seeing you for?", please do not reply with "I don't know". One of us needs to know. It certainly isn't me. I didn't make this appointment for you. You did. I never asked you to come back in. That was YOUR decision.
"Okay, Mrs. S., well, do you have any problems that you need to see the doctor for?"
"No. I don't think so."
FANTASY ANSWER: "Then tell me, Mrs. S., do you have nothing better to do than to come into this office, make me want to stab myself in the eye trying to figure out what is wrong with you, while waiting for the early bird special at Shoney's barbecue????"
REALISTIC ANSWER: "Alright then. How about we just have the doctor come in and give you a quick once over, make sure you don't have any skin cancers."
"But I just had a check up."
FANTASY: "Then why don't you pick your ancient ass up, walk it down the hall, get in your cadillac and drive it on out of my sight, okay??? I have other patients to see!!!"
REALITY: "Would you like to make this a no charge visit and perhaps reschedule when you have a concern to talk to the doctor about?"
"Oh, no thank you. Since I am here, I will have the doctor give me a check up."
*blink*
This is a surefire way to get your nurse to throw herself into a pile of dirty syringes. If you hate your nurse, please follow the above example.
Here's another one:
If you truly hate your nurse, walk into the exam room while in the middle of an active conversation on your cellphone. Take your seat on the table in the room and continue blathering on about the party you went to over the weekend. Keep staring at me and giving me the "1 more second" gesture with your index finger. Oh how I long to take that finger and poke you in your own eye with it. Keep me standing there while I am tapping my pen on the counter. No problem. Don't think for a second that my time is valuable. After all, I only came in today because you and you alone are my single and sole patient of the day.
See Nurse. See nurse frown. See nurse turn red. See patient. See patient on the phone. FANTASY: See nurse shove phone straight up patients ass. REALITY: See nurse leave the room. See patient hang up immediately and come to the door after the nurse.
"I'm off the phone now," mighty mouth says.
"I'm sorry," says nurse. "I have other patients."
"But," starts mighty mouth.
See nurse give patient the "1 second" gesture with her perfectly manicured index finger. Nurse wishes it could be her middle finger instead.
In other words, if you want MY attention, please be ready to give me YOURS.
Finally, if you really want your nurse to hate you, please emulate the following patient:
"I have a rash."
"Where's the rash located, Sir?"
"Can't you read? I wrote it down."
"Yes, Sir. I can read. However, you wrote it down on the "reason for visit" sheet at the front desk, which I do not have in your chart. Where is the rash located please?"
"In my crotch."
(lovely) "And how long have you had this rash in your groin area, Sir?"
"I don't know. A long time."
"How long is a long time? A few days? A week? A year?"
"I don't know," says Mr. Crotchrot. "I guess a few weeks."
"Do you know how the rash started?"
"NO! That's why I am here!"
REALITY REPLY: "What I mean, Sir, is did you come into contact with anything that might have given you that rash in your groin?"
FANTASY REPLY: "You know, did you have your dick sucked by a gonorrhea ravaged hooker on your last trip to Vegas? Or perhaps, you are allergic to the handcream you use to choke the chicken with?"
"I have no idea."
REALITY: "Great. I'll let the doctor know you are ready to be seen."
FANTASY: Would include bending you over the exam table, ripping down your pants and shoving a very wide speculum, sans lube, straight up your ass. Bet that rash won't bother you so much NOW, will it???
So, the lesson to take away from all of this is, be considerate of your nurse. She is merely doing her job and that is to assess your problem. Please know why you are seeing the doctor. Please be off your cellphone. Please be patient when the nurse is assessing you.
Believe me, she doesn't want to be talking about your skanked up, stank crotch area any more than you do. More than likely, you will be the patient that prevents her from eating her lunch. Please empathize and act accordingly.
Oh, and one more thing. I implore of you. Bathe before your appointment.
Thank you.
Save a nurse from total meltdown. Follow these simple rules:
When I walk into the room and say "Hi, Mrs. So and So, what are we seeing you for?", please do not reply with "I don't know". One of us needs to know. It certainly isn't me. I didn't make this appointment for you. You did. I never asked you to come back in. That was YOUR decision.
"Okay, Mrs. S., well, do you have any problems that you need to see the doctor for?"
"No. I don't think so."
FANTASY ANSWER: "Then tell me, Mrs. S., do you have nothing better to do than to come into this office, make me want to stab myself in the eye trying to figure out what is wrong with you, while waiting for the early bird special at Shoney's barbecue????"
REALISTIC ANSWER: "Alright then. How about we just have the doctor come in and give you a quick once over, make sure you don't have any skin cancers."
"But I just had a check up."
FANTASY: "Then why don't you pick your ancient ass up, walk it down the hall, get in your cadillac and drive it on out of my sight, okay??? I have other patients to see!!!"
REALITY: "Would you like to make this a no charge visit and perhaps reschedule when you have a concern to talk to the doctor about?"
"Oh, no thank you. Since I am here, I will have the doctor give me a check up."
*blink*
This is a surefire way to get your nurse to throw herself into a pile of dirty syringes. If you hate your nurse, please follow the above example.
Here's another one:
If you truly hate your nurse, walk into the exam room while in the middle of an active conversation on your cellphone. Take your seat on the table in the room and continue blathering on about the party you went to over the weekend. Keep staring at me and giving me the "1 more second" gesture with your index finger. Oh how I long to take that finger and poke you in your own eye with it. Keep me standing there while I am tapping my pen on the counter. No problem. Don't think for a second that my time is valuable. After all, I only came in today because you and you alone are my single and sole patient of the day. See Nurse. See nurse frown. See nurse turn red. See patient. See patient on the phone. FANTASY: See nurse shove phone straight up patients ass. REALITY: See nurse leave the room. See patient hang up immediately and come to the door after the nurse.
"I'm off the phone now," mighty mouth says.
"I'm sorry," says nurse. "I have other patients."
"But," starts mighty mouth.
See nurse give patient the "1 second" gesture with her perfectly manicured index finger. Nurse wishes it could be her middle finger instead.
In other words, if you want MY attention, please be ready to give me YOURS.
Finally, if you really want your nurse to hate you, please emulate the following patient:
"I have a rash."
"Where's the rash located, Sir?"
"Can't you read? I wrote it down."
"Yes, Sir. I can read. However, you wrote it down on the "reason for visit" sheet at the front desk, which I do not have in your chart. Where is the rash located please?"
"In my crotch."
(lovely) "And how long have you had this rash in your groin area, Sir?"
"I don't know. A long time."
"How long is a long time? A few days? A week? A year?"
"I don't know," says Mr. Crotchrot. "I guess a few weeks."
"Do you know how the rash started?"
"NO! That's why I am here!"
REALITY REPLY: "What I mean, Sir, is did you come into contact with anything that might have given you that rash in your groin?"
FANTASY REPLY: "You know, did you have your dick sucked by a gonorrhea ravaged hooker on your last trip to Vegas? Or perhaps, you are allergic to the handcream you use to choke the chicken with?"
"I have no idea."
REALITY: "Great. I'll let the doctor know you are ready to be seen."
FANTASY: Would include bending you over the exam table, ripping down your pants and shoving a very wide speculum, sans lube, straight up your ass. Bet that rash won't bother you so much NOW, will it???
So, the lesson to take away from all of this is, be considerate of your nurse. She is merely doing her job and that is to assess your problem. Please know why you are seeing the doctor. Please be off your cellphone. Please be patient when the nurse is assessing you.Believe me, she doesn't want to be talking about your skanked up, stank crotch area any more than you do. More than likely, you will be the patient that prevents her from eating her lunch. Please empathize and act accordingly.
Oh, and one more thing. I implore of you. Bathe before your appointment.
Thank you.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Home Improvement?
We are finally taking the plunge.
The hotband and I are looking at homes. I think we found the one we want too. Oy. It gives me migraines. I can be married a dozen times, have seventy children and still, I find home ownership to be the ultimate commitment.
The house we are looking at is beautiful. There are three bedrooms, two baths and a living room. Plus, there is a dining room, which I consider useless, for I don't cook. There is also a kitchen. I consider this room useless as well, for the same reason, however, someone told me it is a necessary evil. I suppose I do need a microwave and a fridge, but beyond that...no. That thing with the burners and the big door that opens in the front? No. That big metal hole you stick your dirty dishes into? Um, ew? No. This house also has a "family room". Now, forgive a bitch...but, isn't a family room any room your family happens to be in? And, living room? Why do they call it a living room when you are never allowed to do any living in it? I don't know about y'all, but Esther has hers roped off with laser beam alarms. If you walk in it, you have to walk with the weave of the carpet. If you muss it up, you're in for an ass beatin'.
Anyway, there is also a big, screened in Florida room. Seeing as I live in Florida, I don't know that they necessarily call it a Florida room here. I'll call it a New York room, just to be difficult.
I want to rip it out and put a big gaping hole in my backyard. I wanna fill it with cement and call it a pool. That's the only thing this house needs. If money was no option and I could do any home improvement I wanted to, I would raise the roof of this house and make a loft with a long, winding, twisty spiral staircase leading up to it. It would be my own little princess haven. It would be pink, poofy and ever so Barbie doll looking. It would house my computer, my jewelry and all my shoes and purses. It would only be accessible to me alone. Yes, that would be my dream home improvment.
Well, maybe a hot tub.
Or perhaps, a deep jacuzzi bathtub in the Master bedroom.
Or a room with nothing but mattresses called the "get busy" room.
Or a glass shower with five shower heads shooting in every direction.
With a maid to clean it all.
But for now, just the pool will do.
The hotband and I are looking at homes. I think we found the one we want too. Oy. It gives me migraines. I can be married a dozen times, have seventy children and still, I find home ownership to be the ultimate commitment.
The house we are looking at is beautiful. There are three bedrooms, two baths and a living room. Plus, there is a dining room, which I consider useless, for I don't cook. There is also a kitchen. I consider this room useless as well, for the same reason, however, someone told me it is a necessary evil. I suppose I do need a microwave and a fridge, but beyond that...no. That thing with the burners and the big door that opens in the front? No. That big metal hole you stick your dirty dishes into? Um, ew? No. This house also has a "family room". Now, forgive a bitch...but, isn't a family room any room your family happens to be in? And, living room? Why do they call it a living room when you are never allowed to do any living in it? I don't know about y'all, but Esther has hers roped off with laser beam alarms. If you walk in it, you have to walk with the weave of the carpet. If you muss it up, you're in for an ass beatin'.
Anyway, there is also a big, screened in Florida room. Seeing as I live in Florida, I don't know that they necessarily call it a Florida room here. I'll call it a New York room, just to be difficult.
I want to rip it out and put a big gaping hole in my backyard. I wanna fill it with cement and call it a pool. That's the only thing this house needs. If money was no option and I could do any home improvement I wanted to, I would raise the roof of this house and make a loft with a long, winding, twisty spiral staircase leading up to it. It would be my own little princess haven. It would be pink, poofy and ever so Barbie doll looking. It would house my computer, my jewelry and all my shoes and purses. It would only be accessible to me alone. Yes, that would be my dream home improvment.
Well, maybe a hot tub.
Or perhaps, a deep jacuzzi bathtub in the Master bedroom.
Or a room with nothing but mattresses called the "get busy" room.
Or a glass shower with five shower heads shooting in every direction.
With a maid to clean it all.
But for now, just the pool will do.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
It's Official. I'm Psycho. (long post, get coffee)
I lied to my psychologist.
Yep. I did. I went in there like a clean slate. I told him all my problems, my issues, my fears, my concerns.
What I didn't tell him is that I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder back in 1993. I wanted a brand new fresh take on my mind. I wanted to tell this man everything, but nothing at all. I didn't want him to have a head start into my analysis by telling him I was already diagnosed. At $85 an hour, why the hell should I make his life easier?
I told him about my sexual addictions. I told him about my nightmares from my years with Tony. I told him about the affairs I had on my first husband in the late 90's. I told him about my horrible relationship with Esther. I told him about my risk taking behaviors and my deep, deep depressive lows. I told him that I used to cut myself to relieve the pain within me. I told him how much I enjoyed looking at the blood that came out of myself...because I felt I was releasing toxins.
What I didn't tell him was that I am already medicated for these things.
What kind of lunatic must one be to lie to their psychotherapist on their initial visit?
I want his help. I need his help. I just don't want him to have pre-conceived notions about me. I suppose I just need confirmation that Dr. Levine was right about me all those years ago.
I feigned ignorance about Bipolar Disorder. He asked me about some of my "symptoms". I spoke with a childlike innocence, like this was all new to me. Like I finally had some revelation about how fucked up I really am.
I bored myself to tears with this talk.
He did a lot of chin-stroking and Mmmm-hmmmming. He even yawned a few times. I could almost hear him thinking "Great. Another open and shut case of BPD. How boring." I could relate to those thoughts. I felt the same way. I walked in there knowing all about it. And, I think that I am enough of an actress in a completely drama queen sort of way...the way only a Jewish woman can be, to know that I had him in the palm of my hand.
I am ashamed of this behavior. You can't start therapy on a lie anymore than you can begin a relationship with anyone based on a lie.
He pushed a book towards me, across his desk.
"CP, I want you to read this paragraph. Tell me if you ever experience any of these things."
I read it. I cried afterward.
I am so nauseatingly textbook that it shames me. I would love to be schizophrenic or someone with multiple personality disorder. Something intriguing. Something exotic. I am the ultimate definition of a person with bipolar. No wonder he was yawning.
He wants me to see a psychiatrist to manage my medications. Hm. This alone forces my hand. I will have to come clean with him at the next visit and let him know I am already ON those medications. Of course, a lightbulb will go off in his head when I reveal this dirty little secret. Wow, he will think, what a psycho! She lied to me about having BPD in order to be told she has BPD! How positively and lusciously sick!
Of course, he will then fall in love with my mind. This brings chills to my spine.
I have always loved manipulating people who think they are smarter than I am because they possess PhD's in whatever they have their doctorate in. I appreciate people who have their doctorates, but it doesn't make you smarter. It just means you had opportunities afforded to you that I couldn't have access to. But oh, I would daresay that I would match wits with any of you anytime. I read everything. I suck up every ounce of knowledge ever thrown my way. I ask questions. A lot of questions. I retain everything, not just water like most of my vapid friends. I am a fount of useless information, but I am also a living library. I enjoy, more than anything, giving psychologists headaches.
This makes me evil. Silly and contrite, but evil.
What makes me laugh more than anything is how honest I am about my dishonesty on this blog. Everything I say here is 100% truth. What I am thinking, what I am feeling, what I am saying to others and what they are saying to me. In my real life, I feel like I am the puppetmaster, getting everyone to dance to my rhythm, plucking their strings and manipulating situations. Here, I feel vulnerable. Here is where I share my regrets over that sort of behavior. I don't like that side of me very much. This was the original intent of this blog...to be one long apology for my exasperating real life behavior.
So, I pour my heart out here, hoping for a little tea and sympathy. Sympathy for the Devil, if you will. I don't even mind the virtual bitchslaps; the people who write me and say, "who the hell do you think you are?"
They're right. Who the hell do I think I am, indeed.
Tomorrow, I will re-read this post and be completely ashamed of my behavior. But, I won't apologize for it. I won't lose sleep over it. It is how I am feeling today, September 23rd, 2006. Forgive the venom in my tone. I told y'all September is not an easy time for me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I called Esther today, to wish her a happy birthday. She wanted to know what I got her. I told her I got her the best gift of all. I told her I started psychotherapy, like she has told me to do for years. She gushed!
"Oh, Oh CP. That is the best thing ever. You are going to be so glad that you did. You will finally get over this thing you have, telling everyone about how crazy you are. He will tell you you don't have that polar thing you always say you have."
*raised brow*
"Really, Mom? Go on..."
"I always thought you were a very angry child, CP. You were never very nice to me."
"I know, Mom. I was a very angry child, I guess."
"Well your therapist will tell you why. And he will get you to stop blaming me for all your anger. You'll stop hating me and then we can really be a mother and daughter! Isn't that terrific!"
"Can't think of anything better," I replied.
"Truthfully, I blame your father. He was a sexual pervert. He was a free spirit, like you. Always did and said the most inappropriate things at the most inappropriate times. He was very...whorish that way."
"Whorish?"
"Oh yes, absolutely! He wanted sex 24 hours a day, seven days a week. He was so vulgar and crass."
"Mom? May I asked why you married him then?"
"Oh, well, at the time...I thought that was very sexy."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I got a letter from an ex-boyfriend today. The one I mentioned in my "40 at 40" post. The one who slept in a coffin. That was more a private joke than anything else, but he was literally a vampire. The kind of man that would suck the lifeblood right out of you and left you wanting/needing/desiring more. Strange that he would show up again now, just as I enter myself back into therapy. He came up in my therapy session, because he is also the man I had the affair on my ex-husband with. This man, M., was physically and mentally draining. He was overtly sexual, which thrilled me to no end, but he was also extensively needy. At the time, I needed needy. I was feeling very vacant, empty...and I needed something to fulfill me. He fit the bill perfectly. He was engaged. I was married. There were no strings. It was nothing but a very heavily lust engorged relationship. I convinced myself that I loved him. What I loved was that he worshipped the ground I walked on, but in a completely different way than my hotband does. My husband worships me by repsecting me, loving me, cherishing me, putting me before all others. This ex-boyfriend worshipped me by catering to my every whim in a physical aspect. It was erotic. It was sexy. It was blatantly abusive on both ends. We tortured one another and eventually, we blew up. A relationship like that could only combust. It doesn't taper. It doesn't die off slowly. It explodes.
I knew the hotband during this time with M. We were just friends. Nothing more. Not even any flirting going on. But eventually, I realized that living life as a porn star is not what I needed. I needed affection more than erection. And, I got that from the hotband via his friendship. He genuinely cared about me, my well-being and my heart.
It wasn't a difficult decision to figure out who I belonged with.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Feel free not to share that with me, Mom."
"What, CP? You think you're the only one who ever had good sex? I'll have you know that your father (my stepfather, Harold) and I used to have incredible sex when we were your age! We used to be very hot for one another, I'll have you know!"
"Thank you for that image, Esther. Excuse me while I vomit in my mouth a little."
"Oh, suddenly you're a prude?"
"No, Mom. I think we know I am not a prude. But, you are talking about my father. And...just ew, Mom, okay?"
"Fine. Whatever. So I won't speak anymore."
"Okay, here comes the drama."
"What? What drama? I just thought we could talk like that with one another!"
"And we can, Mom. When I tell you about the great sex my husband and I have, that's fine! But when YOU talk about it...you're talking about my DAD!!!!"
"LIKE I WANT TO HEAR YOUR STORIES ABOUT YOU GETTING LAID????"
"Alright," I conceded. "No more stories about who is fucking who anymore, agreed?"
"Fine."
"Good. Happy Birthday, Mom."
Yep. I did. I went in there like a clean slate. I told him all my problems, my issues, my fears, my concerns.
What I didn't tell him is that I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder back in 1993. I wanted a brand new fresh take on my mind. I wanted to tell this man everything, but nothing at all. I didn't want him to have a head start into my analysis by telling him I was already diagnosed. At $85 an hour, why the hell should I make his life easier?
I told him about my sexual addictions. I told him about my nightmares from my years with Tony. I told him about the affairs I had on my first husband in the late 90's. I told him about my horrible relationship with Esther. I told him about my risk taking behaviors and my deep, deep depressive lows. I told him that I used to cut myself to relieve the pain within me. I told him how much I enjoyed looking at the blood that came out of myself...because I felt I was releasing toxins.
What I didn't tell him was that I am already medicated for these things.
What kind of lunatic must one be to lie to their psychotherapist on their initial visit?
I want his help. I need his help. I just don't want him to have pre-conceived notions about me. I suppose I just need confirmation that Dr. Levine was right about me all those years ago.
I feigned ignorance about Bipolar Disorder. He asked me about some of my "symptoms". I spoke with a childlike innocence, like this was all new to me. Like I finally had some revelation about how fucked up I really am.
I bored myself to tears with this talk.
He did a lot of chin-stroking and Mmmm-hmmmming. He even yawned a few times. I could almost hear him thinking "Great. Another open and shut case of BPD. How boring." I could relate to those thoughts. I felt the same way. I walked in there knowing all about it. And, I think that I am enough of an actress in a completely drama queen sort of way...the way only a Jewish woman can be, to know that I had him in the palm of my hand.
I am ashamed of this behavior. You can't start therapy on a lie anymore than you can begin a relationship with anyone based on a lie.
He pushed a book towards me, across his desk.
"CP, I want you to read this paragraph. Tell me if you ever experience any of these things."
I read it. I cried afterward.
I am so nauseatingly textbook that it shames me. I would love to be schizophrenic or someone with multiple personality disorder. Something intriguing. Something exotic. I am the ultimate definition of a person with bipolar. No wonder he was yawning.
He wants me to see a psychiatrist to manage my medications. Hm. This alone forces my hand. I will have to come clean with him at the next visit and let him know I am already ON those medications. Of course, a lightbulb will go off in his head when I reveal this dirty little secret. Wow, he will think, what a psycho! She lied to me about having BPD in order to be told she has BPD! How positively and lusciously sick!
Of course, he will then fall in love with my mind. This brings chills to my spine.
I have always loved manipulating people who think they are smarter than I am because they possess PhD's in whatever they have their doctorate in. I appreciate people who have their doctorates, but it doesn't make you smarter. It just means you had opportunities afforded to you that I couldn't have access to. But oh, I would daresay that I would match wits with any of you anytime. I read everything. I suck up every ounce of knowledge ever thrown my way. I ask questions. A lot of questions. I retain everything, not just water like most of my vapid friends. I am a fount of useless information, but I am also a living library. I enjoy, more than anything, giving psychologists headaches.
This makes me evil. Silly and contrite, but evil.
What makes me laugh more than anything is how honest I am about my dishonesty on this blog. Everything I say here is 100% truth. What I am thinking, what I am feeling, what I am saying to others and what they are saying to me. In my real life, I feel like I am the puppetmaster, getting everyone to dance to my rhythm, plucking their strings and manipulating situations. Here, I feel vulnerable. Here is where I share my regrets over that sort of behavior. I don't like that side of me very much. This was the original intent of this blog...to be one long apology for my exasperating real life behavior.
So, I pour my heart out here, hoping for a little tea and sympathy. Sympathy for the Devil, if you will. I don't even mind the virtual bitchslaps; the people who write me and say, "who the hell do you think you are?"
They're right. Who the hell do I think I am, indeed.
Tomorrow, I will re-read this post and be completely ashamed of my behavior. But, I won't apologize for it. I won't lose sleep over it. It is how I am feeling today, September 23rd, 2006. Forgive the venom in my tone. I told y'all September is not an easy time for me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I called Esther today, to wish her a happy birthday. She wanted to know what I got her. I told her I got her the best gift of all. I told her I started psychotherapy, like she has told me to do for years. She gushed!
"Oh, Oh CP. That is the best thing ever. You are going to be so glad that you did. You will finally get over this thing you have, telling everyone about how crazy you are. He will tell you you don't have that polar thing you always say you have."
*raised brow*
"Really, Mom? Go on..."
"I always thought you were a very angry child, CP. You were never very nice to me."
"I know, Mom. I was a very angry child, I guess."
"Well your therapist will tell you why. And he will get you to stop blaming me for all your anger. You'll stop hating me and then we can really be a mother and daughter! Isn't that terrific!"
"Can't think of anything better," I replied.
"Truthfully, I blame your father. He was a sexual pervert. He was a free spirit, like you. Always did and said the most inappropriate things at the most inappropriate times. He was very...whorish that way."
"Whorish?"
"Oh yes, absolutely! He wanted sex 24 hours a day, seven days a week. He was so vulgar and crass."
"Mom? May I asked why you married him then?"
"Oh, well, at the time...I thought that was very sexy."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I got a letter from an ex-boyfriend today. The one I mentioned in my "40 at 40" post. The one who slept in a coffin. That was more a private joke than anything else, but he was literally a vampire. The kind of man that would suck the lifeblood right out of you and left you wanting/needing/desiring more. Strange that he would show up again now, just as I enter myself back into therapy. He came up in my therapy session, because he is also the man I had the affair on my ex-husband with. This man, M., was physically and mentally draining. He was overtly sexual, which thrilled me to no end, but he was also extensively needy. At the time, I needed needy. I was feeling very vacant, empty...and I needed something to fulfill me. He fit the bill perfectly. He was engaged. I was married. There were no strings. It was nothing but a very heavily lust engorged relationship. I convinced myself that I loved him. What I loved was that he worshipped the ground I walked on, but in a completely different way than my hotband does. My husband worships me by repsecting me, loving me, cherishing me, putting me before all others. This ex-boyfriend worshipped me by catering to my every whim in a physical aspect. It was erotic. It was sexy. It was blatantly abusive on both ends. We tortured one another and eventually, we blew up. A relationship like that could only combust. It doesn't taper. It doesn't die off slowly. It explodes.
I knew the hotband during this time with M. We were just friends. Nothing more. Not even any flirting going on. But eventually, I realized that living life as a porn star is not what I needed. I needed affection more than erection. And, I got that from the hotband via his friendship. He genuinely cared about me, my well-being and my heart.
It wasn't a difficult decision to figure out who I belonged with.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Feel free not to share that with me, Mom."
"What, CP? You think you're the only one who ever had good sex? I'll have you know that your father (my stepfather, Harold) and I used to have incredible sex when we were your age! We used to be very hot for one another, I'll have you know!"
"Thank you for that image, Esther. Excuse me while I vomit in my mouth a little."
"Oh, suddenly you're a prude?"
"No, Mom. I think we know I am not a prude. But, you are talking about my father. And...just ew, Mom, okay?"
"Fine. Whatever. So I won't speak anymore."
"Okay, here comes the drama."
"What? What drama? I just thought we could talk like that with one another!"
"And we can, Mom. When I tell you about the great sex my husband and I have, that's fine! But when YOU talk about it...you're talking about my DAD!!!!"
"LIKE I WANT TO HEAR YOUR STORIES ABOUT YOU GETTING LAID????"
"Alright," I conceded. "No more stories about who is fucking who anymore, agreed?"
"Fine."
"Good. Happy Birthday, Mom."
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Woman in Chains.
September is drawing to a close.
Bear with me. This is a hard time of year for the Certifiable One.
20 years ago, on September 27th, my biological father died.
I've written about the bizarre circumstances surrounding his death before. I make light of it so the pain doesn't scald me. It's always been hard to mourn someone you scarcely knew. It is akin to picking a scab, over and over, and then wondering why you are bleeding. It's so much easier to cover the wound with a band-aid, let it heal, and then...uncover it weeks later to find the wound has disappeared.
September 23rd is my mothers 65th birthday.
You all know I have Esther issues. However, I find as she is getting older, as I am getting older, I am becoming more fearful of not having her to fight with any longer. She was a terrible mother, boys and girls. Awful. But, when I read things from people who have lost their mothers, I wonder if I am better off having an awful mother to fight with, than having one I loved...and having to mourn her.
September 26th is Tony's birthday.
Many of you may remember these five stories, a collection, a five post saga dedicated to the man who nearly killed me. These stories are not for the faint of heart. Admittedly, they are a hard read...even for me.
Part One: The Saga Begins
Part Two: Keep Your Eyes On The Road
Part Three: Queen of Lies
Part Four: Girl, Interrupted
Epilogue: Beyond You.
It was probably the most honest and painful posts I have ever made. It is also the one that garnered more responses than any other before, or since. I received emails from women all over the country, all over the world...sharing their stories of pain and suffering with me. I was humbled by the stories of the survivors. I was proud to be standing with them, and of course, I cried for the ones that were written by mothers, sisters or friends of the women who weren't as lucky.
Why then would I remember the date of birth of the man who beat me within an inch of my life? I wish I knew. I am so bad with dates, and yet, I can't manage to release this one from my mind. I think every year that goes by and I know he is still alive, it reminds me that at any time, any place, he can still catch up to me. The last time Tony ever put his hands on me, I swore it would be the last. He swore I would never live a day in peace until I was dead. And, it seems we are still competing. It is still a draw. He's never laid another hand on me.
I still haven't lived a day in peace.
Before you know it, October will be here. There is no change of season in Florida. Nothing to remind you that another fall is coming, nothing to signal the arrival of winter. There is no white snow to blanket the ground, to make everything look new. That saddens me greatly. I love the fall. To me, it is the antithesis of the Spring. It is when everything dies, changes or goes away until the Spring. Every October, I am reminded of that fact.
My son was born. My other son died. I have to relive that every October.
With October also comes the recognition of Domestic Violence Awareness Month. This too is a confusing time in my life. It is the time I speak out the loudest about the awareness. It is the time I speak the softest, because I relive the experience of every single woman who has ever bled, cried or died for the cause. I get so sick and tired of reading the statistics. I am nauseated everytime I hear about a politician flailing the Domestic Violence flag around election day.
Unless you have been there, unless you have walked on the eggshells that cut your feet to ribbons, you have no clue.
The safety plans? Bullshit. Again, bureaucrats making promises their wallets can't keep.
Let me show you an example of "The Safety Plan" for women in abusive relationships.
Think of a safe place to go if an argument occurs - avoid rooms with no exits (bathroom), or rooms with weapons (kitchen).
Why this doesn't work? There is no safe place when you partner is violent. When an abuser wants to hit you, he will, regardless of where you are. Anything in the home can be used as a weapon. But, his fists are something he takes with him everywhere. You can't escape those.
Think about and make a list of safe people to contact.
Safe people to contact. Are you kidding? "Hi, Mom? Yeah, can you come over? Tony's beating the living shit out of me while I am making this phonecall." It doesn't work that way. And, sometimes, the people you think are safe turn out not to be. They don't want you. You're a pariah. If you come to their home, you are going to bring violence and the police with you. No one wants that in their home. By the time I would have gotten an opportunity to call someone, Tony would have wrapped the phonecord around my neck and strangled me.
Keep change with you at all times.
More crap. Anyone who has ever been abused by a compulsive abuser knows that they are far too savvy to allow you to have ANY money on you, let alone change. It allows them to keep you feeling desperate. No money equals no options. Even rolled pennies are out of the question. They add up to dollars. Dollars add up to freedom.
Memorize all important numbers.
Have you ever tried to remember phone numbers when someone is beating you? Right now, write down the phone numbers of the 10 most important people in your life, without referring back to your cellphone or speed dial. Now, try to recite them again, only this time, with someone kicking you in the ribcage. Good luck.
Establish a "code word" or "sign" so that family, friends, teachers or co-workers know when to call for help.
This is great in theory, and it works well with children. You know, when you send someone to pick up your kid at school, if they don't know mommy and daddy's code word, you don't go with them. However, most men who abuse do not let their victim out of their sight. They listen keenly for "code words" and watch carefully for out of the ordinary behavior. Most men who beat their women establish beforehand what you can and cannot say with regard to your black eye or your bloody lip. If you stray from that story, rest assured, you will be beaten...again.
Think about what you will say to your partner if he\she becomes violent.
This has to be the stupidest one of all. Think about what you will say. Let's see. How about this? "Honey? I really don't like it when you hit me. It interferes with the color of my skin and occasionally makes me bleed." I think I would get laughed at and then punched. How about "If you touch me again, I will ram this fork up your ass." I think I will get laughed at, get punched and potentially, wind up with a fork in my own ass. Try this! "Darling, can we work it out first? Perhaps you would like to have sex instead?" Now I will get punched...AND fucked during it. Sweet, but not my idea of "angry sex".
While I appreciate where the Coalition Against Domestic Violence is going with their thought process, it is impractical and mostly, it is absurd. I am a very strong woman. I am a dominant force to be reckoned with. I have a mouth like a truckdriver and will think nothing of kicking your ass if you fuck with me or my family.
Tony reduced me to a pile of sniveling snot.
I lived my life by coping, not living. I dealt with everything that came my way. I was forever laying in wait. Waiting for the next slap, the next punch, the next kick, the next time I would raped. And don't kid yourself. It was always rape. Yes, he was my boyfriend...once upon a time. But, once you are beating the woman that you claim to love, you are no longer making love to her. You are being taken over by a stranger. In many ways, it is worse. This person promised to love you. They promised to take care of you and never let harm come your way.
I'd rather be fucked and left for dead by a stranger than beaten within an inch of my life, strangled by the very hands that held my face with love and tenderness only months earlier.
It's confusing and disorienting. It steals away your trust from everyone you love. You can't depend on anyone any longer. Not even yourself.
Your life becomes a lie, to the point where you can no longer decipher the truth.
And a part of you dies, forever. No getting it back. You never recover.
As fall approaches, and all this torment comes back to me, I have opted to get back into therapy. While my life now is happy and safe, filled with love and joy, there is a Pandora's box in the recesses of my mind that gets flung open. The contents are strewn about carelessly.
I need someone who can pick up those pieces, fold them neatly and place them back into storage. I can't go through another year of believing that I am too strong to receive help. I owe myself this. I owe myself validation. I owe it to myself to allow someone to lead me along the path to healing. I have managed for so long, but, on auto-pilot. I have managed. I have again, merely coped.
I refuse to live another day like that.
Please. Read the saga above. Understand the hopelessness that accompanies victims of domestic violence. Understand how, 15 years later, a woman who seemingly has it all is still struggling with the demons of her past.
Abuse never goes away. The scars fade. The wounds heal, but the pain that is inflicted upon your head, your heart and soul never leave.
I have spent a good portion of my life saving others.
This time, I think I shall take the time to save my own.
Bear with me. This is a hard time of year for the Certifiable One.
20 years ago, on September 27th, my biological father died.
I've written about the bizarre circumstances surrounding his death before. I make light of it so the pain doesn't scald me. It's always been hard to mourn someone you scarcely knew. It is akin to picking a scab, over and over, and then wondering why you are bleeding. It's so much easier to cover the wound with a band-aid, let it heal, and then...uncover it weeks later to find the wound has disappeared.
September 23rd is my mothers 65th birthday.
You all know I have Esther issues. However, I find as she is getting older, as I am getting older, I am becoming more fearful of not having her to fight with any longer. She was a terrible mother, boys and girls. Awful. But, when I read things from people who have lost their mothers, I wonder if I am better off having an awful mother to fight with, than having one I loved...and having to mourn her.
September 26th is Tony's birthday.
Many of you may remember these five stories, a collection, a five post saga dedicated to the man who nearly killed me. These stories are not for the faint of heart. Admittedly, they are a hard read...even for me.
Part One: The Saga Begins
Part Two: Keep Your Eyes On The Road
Part Three: Queen of Lies
Part Four: Girl, Interrupted
Epilogue: Beyond You.
It was probably the most honest and painful posts I have ever made. It is also the one that garnered more responses than any other before, or since. I received emails from women all over the country, all over the world...sharing their stories of pain and suffering with me. I was humbled by the stories of the survivors. I was proud to be standing with them, and of course, I cried for the ones that were written by mothers, sisters or friends of the women who weren't as lucky.
Why then would I remember the date of birth of the man who beat me within an inch of my life? I wish I knew. I am so bad with dates, and yet, I can't manage to release this one from my mind. I think every year that goes by and I know he is still alive, it reminds me that at any time, any place, he can still catch up to me. The last time Tony ever put his hands on me, I swore it would be the last. He swore I would never live a day in peace until I was dead. And, it seems we are still competing. It is still a draw. He's never laid another hand on me.
I still haven't lived a day in peace.
Before you know it, October will be here. There is no change of season in Florida. Nothing to remind you that another fall is coming, nothing to signal the arrival of winter. There is no white snow to blanket the ground, to make everything look new. That saddens me greatly. I love the fall. To me, it is the antithesis of the Spring. It is when everything dies, changes or goes away until the Spring. Every October, I am reminded of that fact.
My son was born. My other son died. I have to relive that every October.
With October also comes the recognition of Domestic Violence Awareness Month. This too is a confusing time in my life. It is the time I speak out the loudest about the awareness. It is the time I speak the softest, because I relive the experience of every single woman who has ever bled, cried or died for the cause. I get so sick and tired of reading the statistics. I am nauseated everytime I hear about a politician flailing the Domestic Violence flag around election day.
Unless you have been there, unless you have walked on the eggshells that cut your feet to ribbons, you have no clue.
The safety plans? Bullshit. Again, bureaucrats making promises their wallets can't keep.
Let me show you an example of "The Safety Plan" for women in abusive relationships.
Think of a safe place to go if an argument occurs - avoid rooms with no exits (bathroom), or rooms with weapons (kitchen).
Why this doesn't work? There is no safe place when you partner is violent. When an abuser wants to hit you, he will, regardless of where you are. Anything in the home can be used as a weapon. But, his fists are something he takes with him everywhere. You can't escape those.
Think about and make a list of safe people to contact.
Safe people to contact. Are you kidding? "Hi, Mom? Yeah, can you come over? Tony's beating the living shit out of me while I am making this phonecall." It doesn't work that way. And, sometimes, the people you think are safe turn out not to be. They don't want you. You're a pariah. If you come to their home, you are going to bring violence and the police with you. No one wants that in their home. By the time I would have gotten an opportunity to call someone, Tony would have wrapped the phonecord around my neck and strangled me.
Keep change with you at all times.
More crap. Anyone who has ever been abused by a compulsive abuser knows that they are far too savvy to allow you to have ANY money on you, let alone change. It allows them to keep you feeling desperate. No money equals no options. Even rolled pennies are out of the question. They add up to dollars. Dollars add up to freedom.
Memorize all important numbers.
Have you ever tried to remember phone numbers when someone is beating you? Right now, write down the phone numbers of the 10 most important people in your life, without referring back to your cellphone or speed dial. Now, try to recite them again, only this time, with someone kicking you in the ribcage. Good luck.
Establish a "code word" or "sign" so that family, friends, teachers or co-workers know when to call for help.
This is great in theory, and it works well with children. You know, when you send someone to pick up your kid at school, if they don't know mommy and daddy's code word, you don't go with them. However, most men who abuse do not let their victim out of their sight. They listen keenly for "code words" and watch carefully for out of the ordinary behavior. Most men who beat their women establish beforehand what you can and cannot say with regard to your black eye or your bloody lip. If you stray from that story, rest assured, you will be beaten...again.
Think about what you will say to your partner if he\she becomes violent.
This has to be the stupidest one of all. Think about what you will say. Let's see. How about this? "Honey? I really don't like it when you hit me. It interferes with the color of my skin and occasionally makes me bleed." I think I would get laughed at and then punched. How about "If you touch me again, I will ram this fork up your ass." I think I will get laughed at, get punched and potentially, wind up with a fork in my own ass. Try this! "Darling, can we work it out first? Perhaps you would like to have sex instead?" Now I will get punched...AND fucked during it. Sweet, but not my idea of "angry sex".
While I appreciate where the Coalition Against Domestic Violence is going with their thought process, it is impractical and mostly, it is absurd. I am a very strong woman. I am a dominant force to be reckoned with. I have a mouth like a truckdriver and will think nothing of kicking your ass if you fuck with me or my family.
Tony reduced me to a pile of sniveling snot.
I lived my life by coping, not living. I dealt with everything that came my way. I was forever laying in wait. Waiting for the next slap, the next punch, the next kick, the next time I would raped. And don't kid yourself. It was always rape. Yes, he was my boyfriend...once upon a time. But, once you are beating the woman that you claim to love, you are no longer making love to her. You are being taken over by a stranger. In many ways, it is worse. This person promised to love you. They promised to take care of you and never let harm come your way.
I'd rather be fucked and left for dead by a stranger than beaten within an inch of my life, strangled by the very hands that held my face with love and tenderness only months earlier.
It's confusing and disorienting. It steals away your trust from everyone you love. You can't depend on anyone any longer. Not even yourself.
Your life becomes a lie, to the point where you can no longer decipher the truth.
And a part of you dies, forever. No getting it back. You never recover.
As fall approaches, and all this torment comes back to me, I have opted to get back into therapy. While my life now is happy and safe, filled with love and joy, there is a Pandora's box in the recesses of my mind that gets flung open. The contents are strewn about carelessly.
I need someone who can pick up those pieces, fold them neatly and place them back into storage. I can't go through another year of believing that I am too strong to receive help. I owe myself this. I owe myself validation. I owe it to myself to allow someone to lead me along the path to healing. I have managed for so long, but, on auto-pilot. I have managed. I have again, merely coped.
I refuse to live another day like that.
Please. Read the saga above. Understand the hopelessness that accompanies victims of domestic violence. Understand how, 15 years later, a woman who seemingly has it all is still struggling with the demons of her past.
Abuse never goes away. The scars fade. The wounds heal, but the pain that is inflicted upon your head, your heart and soul never leave.
I have spent a good portion of my life saving others.
This time, I think I shall take the time to save my own.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
CP: Coming on...I mean, to, a blog near you!
I get lots of emails on a daily basis.
Lots.
Sometimes, my box is so overwhelmingly filled. No, not that box, and not that my husband doesn't do a wonderful job of keeping that one full. I mean, my INbox, thank you very much. Please. Heads up out of the gutter, chi'dren.
Anyway, I get mail quite often with regard to "you have been selected" and then, proceed to tell me how one of my posts are going to appear on their blog. Yee haw. I try to check every single one of these places out. On occassion, I have asked people to remove my post from their website because either:
A) I don't feel my post was taken in the context in which it was written.
B) I don't feel their blog reflects well on the type of person I want to be associated with. (Yes, some of Esther has rubbed off on me over the years. I am a bit of a snob.)
and lastly:
C) I just don't want other benefitting from my greatness. (Read: blog traffic)
However, every so often, a blogger comes along who asks me to allow them to sponsor an article I have written on their site and I am grateful and gracious for having been asked. One of those bloggers is Lingual X. When I encountered her page, her header starts off with this quote:
"Rage is to writers what water is to fish. A laid-back writer is like an orgasmic prostitute -- an anomaly."
You tell me how I could possibly turn that down? Please?
I can't.
So, I invite you over to Lingual Tremors who is running her 23rd "Carnival of Feminists". Along with my post about abortion, My Body, My Choice, she also features female writers who are blogging about their solely female experiences. Things like one womans tale of chemotherapy, another womans experience with a broken condom and denial of emergency contraceptives, female experiences with homphobia and a fabulous article on motherhood and rage. This blog is a must read.
Now, y'all know I generally don't whore out other people's blogs. I leave the pimpin' to Mr. Fab, the Huggy Bear of the blog world. However, this particular blog is so savvy and the writing is so good that I just have to remove my bra and burn it for the feminist cause.
Go show a sister some love...and while your there? Go tell her how much you just love love love the Certifiable Princess and that I should be a monthly feature.
Not that I'm pimpin' or anything. *batting mah lashes all innocent-like*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It's getting close to Esther's birthday.
September 23rd is the day that this beacon of light was brought into this world. My mother. And, just to be sure you understand, I do think her birthday should be a national holiday. I mean, she DID give birth to me. That alone is deserving of mad props, don'tcha think? But, all that aside, this is the year that she turns 65.
Oy.
Therefore, Esther is VERY death oriented right now.
She and my grandmother, Evelyn, are forever in competition...wondering which one is going to have the honor to die first. They compete over everything. Death shouldn't be any different.
Anyway, there are eight cemetary plots in the Jewish cemetary in New York that bear the name of my family members...and five more open for those who are going to be taking a faceplant in to the ground within the next few years. Esther and Harold (mom and dad) have already put dibs on the first two. My Uncle Kevin will get the third. That leaves two. Once a year, usually near MY birthday, Esther decides it is time to take inventory. Who wants what plot, who wants to lay next to who for all eternity and who wants to be buried where. Yes. It's a required conversation in my home. And it's sort of sweet, in a way, that my birth makes her think of people dying, don't you think?
Well, my birthday has come and gone...but Esther still hasn't gotten her satisfactory answers from the hotband and I. I want to be cremated. Nothing else. She refuses to accept this answer because, she reasons, "You are a JEW, CP, and you should be buried in a Temple! You should be enshrined!"
Nah. I prefer people to erect shrines to me while I still have a pulse, thank you very much.
This afternoon, I get two phone messages from Esther. I suppose as her birthday nears, her mortality is becoming a factor at the forefront of her mind. That, and when the Entemann's Outlet store is having their next sale on Chocolate Chip Crumb Loaf.
Here are the unedited, unrevised messages from Esther.
And y'all wanna know why I'm so fucked up?
Lots.
Sometimes, my box is so overwhelmingly filled. No, not that box, and not that my husband doesn't do a wonderful job of keeping that one full. I mean, my INbox, thank you very much. Please. Heads up out of the gutter, chi'dren.
Anyway, I get mail quite often with regard to "you have been selected" and then, proceed to tell me how one of my posts are going to appear on their blog. Yee haw. I try to check every single one of these places out. On occassion, I have asked people to remove my post from their website because either:
A) I don't feel my post was taken in the context in which it was written.
B) I don't feel their blog reflects well on the type of person I want to be associated with. (Yes, some of Esther has rubbed off on me over the years. I am a bit of a snob.)
and lastly:
C) I just don't want other benefitting from my greatness. (Read: blog traffic)
However, every so often, a blogger comes along who asks me to allow them to sponsor an article I have written on their site and I am grateful and gracious for having been asked. One of those bloggers is Lingual X. When I encountered her page, her header starts off with this quote:
"Rage is to writers what water is to fish. A laid-back writer is like an orgasmic prostitute -- an anomaly."
You tell me how I could possibly turn that down? Please?
I can't.
So, I invite you over to Lingual Tremors who is running her 23rd "Carnival of Feminists". Along with my post about abortion, My Body, My Choice, she also features female writers who are blogging about their solely female experiences. Things like one womans tale of chemotherapy, another womans experience with a broken condom and denial of emergency contraceptives, female experiences with homphobia and a fabulous article on motherhood and rage. This blog is a must read.
Now, y'all know I generally don't whore out other people's blogs. I leave the pimpin' to Mr. Fab, the Huggy Bear of the blog world. However, this particular blog is so savvy and the writing is so good that I just have to remove my bra and burn it for the feminist cause.
Go show a sister some love...and while your there? Go tell her how much you just love love love the Certifiable Princess and that I should be a monthly feature.
Not that I'm pimpin' or anything. *batting mah lashes all innocent-like*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It's getting close to Esther's birthday.
September 23rd is the day that this beacon of light was brought into this world. My mother. And, just to be sure you understand, I do think her birthday should be a national holiday. I mean, she DID give birth to me. That alone is deserving of mad props, don'tcha think? But, all that aside, this is the year that she turns 65.
Oy.
Therefore, Esther is VERY death oriented right now.
She and my grandmother, Evelyn, are forever in competition...wondering which one is going to have the honor to die first. They compete over everything. Death shouldn't be any different.
Anyway, there are eight cemetary plots in the Jewish cemetary in New York that bear the name of my family members...and five more open for those who are going to be taking a faceplant in to the ground within the next few years. Esther and Harold (mom and dad) have already put dibs on the first two. My Uncle Kevin will get the third. That leaves two. Once a year, usually near MY birthday, Esther decides it is time to take inventory. Who wants what plot, who wants to lay next to who for all eternity and who wants to be buried where. Yes. It's a required conversation in my home. And it's sort of sweet, in a way, that my birth makes her think of people dying, don't you think?
Well, my birthday has come and gone...but Esther still hasn't gotten her satisfactory answers from the hotband and I. I want to be cremated. Nothing else. She refuses to accept this answer because, she reasons, "You are a JEW, CP, and you should be buried in a Temple! You should be enshrined!"
Nah. I prefer people to erect shrines to me while I still have a pulse, thank you very much.
This afternoon, I get two phone messages from Esther. I suppose as her birthday nears, her mortality is becoming a factor at the forefront of her mind. That, and when the Entemann's Outlet store is having their next sale on Chocolate Chip Crumb Loaf.
Here are the unedited, unrevised messages from Esther.
CP, I hate to bother you with these little things, but I can't get in touch with Mitchell (my attorney cousin) so until I do, I have to tell you this. Your father and I decided, being that we're at the cemetary and being that we are visiting all our dead families, we want you to be buried in a jewish funeral. We don't want you to be cremated. Dead is dead. We just want you to know. Call your cousin Mitchell and tell him to add you to the plot. Call him today. He's waiting for your call. Oh, and, just in case you needed to know, put me in a nice sweatsuit and matching socks and that's it. Nothing fancy. So, you know, in case we die in a plane crash on the way to your house for Thanksgiving, I just want you to know. Maybe you should save this message and record it for history. We want to be buried in a regular jewish hamish funeral. You should too. Bye. Oh, I love you."
Then, It was followed by THIS call:
"Hi CP, its mom again. (Like the nasal voice that sounds like bagpipes didn't give it away). Thought I'd let you know I sent regards from you to and told grandpa and nanny all about "Hotband" and how happy you are. They said take your time coming to meet them. Ha hah ha...that was a Joke. Did you get it? Oh and guess what? I brought Max (her pitbull) so I can introduce him to your Grandpa Max so he can see who he is named after. Isn't that the cutest? He was so good, CP. He didn't even pee on any of the graves. So anyway, I just wanted to say hello and let you know we sent your regards to everyone here at the cemetary. They are all thinking of you. Bye. Love you. Don't forget. Bury me and your father. Okay. Call me! Bye."
And y'all wanna know why I'm so fucked up?
Sunday, September 17, 2006
My Body, My Choice.
In 1983, I had the first of two abortions.
I was fifteen years old and at that time, smart enough to know better. Yet, I became pregnant anyway. I can't tell you why. I don't know. We used a condom. Perhaps it broke. Perhaps it fell off. Perhaps we got careless.
By my own account, it was immaculate conception.
I remember going with my then boyfriend, Andy Smith and my then best friend, Carrie Liebman, to the abortion clinic in Coram, New York. There were protesters out front. I defiantly gave them the finger as I walked to the building. One woman shouted...
"Don't kill your baby!"
I shouted back: "Will YOU raise it if I don't?"
She didn't answer.
I kept walking.
After the procedure was over, I was back to being a teenager again. We went to McDonalds. I had cramps. I was bleeding. I just wanted to go to sleep. I never wanted to think of it ever again. It didn't prevent me from having sex with Andy again some six weeks later. Actually, it had very little impact on me as a teenager. As an adult, I can't help counting backwards and realizing that I would have a 23 year old son or daughter right now. The fifteen year old me couldn't comprehend that. Couldn't wrap my teenage mind around it. All I knew was I had plans. I was going to college. I was going to be an attorney. No way I was being tied down to a baby.
Although, in a diary entry dated 9/29/1984, I did write the following:
"...and while I don't think I love Steve anymore, I know that if I ever got pregnant again, I would have it. I'll never have another abortion."
Steve? I thought it was Andy. Hm. What a difference a year makes.
Regardless, I think I had it pretty straight in my mind that I would never terminate another pregnancy. It's not that I didn't agree with the right to choose. I certainly did. I just knew that the next choice I made would be the choice to be a mother, whether planned or not. And so, I was careful. Careful with my body. Careful with my mind. Careful with who I entrusted them to.
In 1986, the Mets won the World Series. It was a time to rejoice! It was a drunken night! Beer glasses clinking everywhere! Strangers kissing strangers in absolute elation. The Mets won! New York celebrated...and so did I, by finally sleeping with my boyfriend of a year.
2 months later, I'm vomiting. I'm pregnant.
Our first time, and I am pregnant. It was also our last time. I broke up with him shortly after baseball season ended. Apparently, at 20 years old, I wasn't savvy enough to know that antibiotics can kill the effects of your birth control pills. I had had an upper respiratory infection during that time. No condoms were used. This was my boyfriend of a year, for goodness sake. And of course, AIDS was a million miles away from my 20 year old invincible mind.
I toyed with the idea of terminating my pregnancy. I toyed with the idea until it was no longer feasible for me to do so. I toyed with the idea of adoption. I toyed with it until the first time I felt the baby kick. I toyed with the idea of being a mother.
It scared the living shit out of me.
In July, 1987, I gave birth to my daughter. She literally saved my life. She put things in perspective for me. She reminded me of what my priorities were and that I could no longer be selfless or selfish. Sure, she put my law school plans on hold, but what she gave me in return was pure, unadulterated joy. She gave me unconditional love. She reminded me that there were other things more important in life than your next fix, the next guy you are going to conquer or the what the hottest new club is that week. And while my 21st birthday came, the one where you look forward to drinking legally, finally...I stayed at home, nursing my infant daughter.
She was the only one who was drinking legally that night.
My life continued and brought me my sons. Well thought out, well planned little boys. It also brought me face to face with the reality of losing a child. One child lived, the other one died. In the midst of mixed emotion, I tried to celebrate the life of one while mourning the death of the other. In the back of my mind, I thought about 15 year old me and the abortion I had.
Was this karma? Retribution for a juvenile error in judgment?
I poo-poo'ed the thought. No. My God was loving. If He were truly angry with me, He would have taken both my sons from me. And while my surviving son dangled dangerously close to the precipice of life and death...he survived and with that, allowed me to pack up 15 year old me and put her away again. She has been absolved. She can go back to being a little girl who made a mistake.
Fast foward to the year 2000. I had been dating the man who would become the future "hotband" for nearly a year. In the interim, I had been receiving harsh medical treatments for a condition I had at the time. I was sick constantly. I had toxic drugs pumped into my system. I was gaunt. I was fighting for my life. I was depressed.
And, once again, I was pregnant. Another cruel joke. Another decision between life and death. Mine...or the fetus in my womb who could one day be my child.
In this final pregnancy, there were no choices. We were advised by doctors to terminate this pregnancy.
"Birth defects," they told me matter of factly.
"My sons had birth defects," the defiant 15 year old shouted from within me, silencing the 33 year old confused woman she had become.
"Low survival rate," the nurses whispered in comforting, hushed tones.
"Your body is too weak," the future hotband said. "Please don't, baby."
"You could die," said my best friend.
Again. My body. My choice.
Over the years, I had chosen to abort a child. I had chosen to have a child as the result of an unwanted pregnancy. I chose to have my boys, fully knowing that they may die at birth and had the amazing fortune of keeping one of them in my life, while the other resides in my heart. And now, this time...I have the ability to save my own life. I have two existing, viable children who are alive and well. They needed me. I was all they both had in the entire world. I can't take a chance on losing my life and destroying theirs in the process.
Hand in hand, the future hotband and I walked into the hospital. We talked. We kissed. We cried. We loved one another.
We said goodbye to our baby.
Three years later, he had a vasectomy and I felt free for the first time in my reproductive life.
Is this commentary pro-abortion? No. What it is is a woman's story of choice, the ability to make decisions that affect my body and my life. A decision made that could have potentially left my children without their mother. A decision between what is, and what is yet to be.
It is about choice. My choice. And the ability for my daughter to be able to make those choices for herself one day, without animosity, shame or guilt. It is about self-preservation. It is about being responsible despite your dalliance with irresponsibility. It is about forgiving yourself. About letting go. About realizing that everything happens for a reason, but sometimes, we have to take fate into our own hands.
I am a mother. I am a wife. I am a sister. I am a daughter. I am a friend. I made three different choices with three different outcomes. Same woman. Same life.
I am a woman with a body, a mind and a soul. I own all three.
I should have the ability to use all three without burden, without peril, without fear. I should have the right to choose what develops within me, be it my thoughts or my child. And while I know that I will never have to face these decisions ever again, I love the fact that once upon a time, I could. They were my decisions to make. They were my choices. And I am willing to live with them.
Can't you?
I was fifteen years old and at that time, smart enough to know better. Yet, I became pregnant anyway. I can't tell you why. I don't know. We used a condom. Perhaps it broke. Perhaps it fell off. Perhaps we got careless.
By my own account, it was immaculate conception.
I remember going with my then boyfriend, Andy Smith and my then best friend, Carrie Liebman, to the abortion clinic in Coram, New York. There were protesters out front. I defiantly gave them the finger as I walked to the building. One woman shouted...
"Don't kill your baby!"
I shouted back: "Will YOU raise it if I don't?"
She didn't answer.
I kept walking.
After the procedure was over, I was back to being a teenager again. We went to McDonalds. I had cramps. I was bleeding. I just wanted to go to sleep. I never wanted to think of it ever again. It didn't prevent me from having sex with Andy again some six weeks later. Actually, it had very little impact on me as a teenager. As an adult, I can't help counting backwards and realizing that I would have a 23 year old son or daughter right now. The fifteen year old me couldn't comprehend that. Couldn't wrap my teenage mind around it. All I knew was I had plans. I was going to college. I was going to be an attorney. No way I was being tied down to a baby.
Although, in a diary entry dated 9/29/1984, I did write the following:
"...and while I don't think I love Steve anymore, I know that if I ever got pregnant again, I would have it. I'll never have another abortion."
Steve? I thought it was Andy. Hm. What a difference a year makes.
Regardless, I think I had it pretty straight in my mind that I would never terminate another pregnancy. It's not that I didn't agree with the right to choose. I certainly did. I just knew that the next choice I made would be the choice to be a mother, whether planned or not. And so, I was careful. Careful with my body. Careful with my mind. Careful with who I entrusted them to.
In 1986, the Mets won the World Series. It was a time to rejoice! It was a drunken night! Beer glasses clinking everywhere! Strangers kissing strangers in absolute elation. The Mets won! New York celebrated...and so did I, by finally sleeping with my boyfriend of a year.
2 months later, I'm vomiting. I'm pregnant.
Our first time, and I am pregnant. It was also our last time. I broke up with him shortly after baseball season ended. Apparently, at 20 years old, I wasn't savvy enough to know that antibiotics can kill the effects of your birth control pills. I had had an upper respiratory infection during that time. No condoms were used. This was my boyfriend of a year, for goodness sake. And of course, AIDS was a million miles away from my 20 year old invincible mind.
I toyed with the idea of terminating my pregnancy. I toyed with the idea until it was no longer feasible for me to do so. I toyed with the idea of adoption. I toyed with it until the first time I felt the baby kick. I toyed with the idea of being a mother.
It scared the living shit out of me.
In July, 1987, I gave birth to my daughter. She literally saved my life. She put things in perspective for me. She reminded me of what my priorities were and that I could no longer be selfless or selfish. Sure, she put my law school plans on hold, but what she gave me in return was pure, unadulterated joy. She gave me unconditional love. She reminded me that there were other things more important in life than your next fix, the next guy you are going to conquer or the what the hottest new club is that week. And while my 21st birthday came, the one where you look forward to drinking legally, finally...I stayed at home, nursing my infant daughter.She was the only one who was drinking legally that night.
My life continued and brought me my sons. Well thought out, well planned little boys. It also brought me face to face with the reality of losing a child. One child lived, the other one died. In the midst of mixed emotion, I tried to celebrate the life of one while mourning the death of the other. In the back of my mind, I thought about 15 year old me and the abortion I had.
Was this karma? Retribution for a juvenile error in judgment?
I poo-poo'ed the thought. No. My God was loving. If He were truly angry with me, He would have taken both my sons from me. And while my surviving son dangled dangerously close to the precipice of life and death...he survived and with that, allowed me to pack up 15 year old me and put her away again. She has been absolved. She can go back to being a little girl who made a mistake.
Fast foward to the year 2000. I had been dating the man who would become the future "hotband" for nearly a year. In the interim, I had been receiving harsh medical treatments for a condition I had at the time. I was sick constantly. I had toxic drugs pumped into my system. I was gaunt. I was fighting for my life. I was depressed.
And, once again, I was pregnant. Another cruel joke. Another decision between life and death. Mine...or the fetus in my womb who could one day be my child.
In this final pregnancy, there were no choices. We were advised by doctors to terminate this pregnancy.
"Birth defects," they told me matter of factly.
"My sons had birth defects," the defiant 15 year old shouted from within me, silencing the 33 year old confused woman she had become.
"Low survival rate," the nurses whispered in comforting, hushed tones.
"Your body is too weak," the future hotband said. "Please don't, baby."
"You could die," said my best friend.
Again. My body. My choice.
Over the years, I had chosen to abort a child. I had chosen to have a child as the result of an unwanted pregnancy. I chose to have my boys, fully knowing that they may die at birth and had the amazing fortune of keeping one of them in my life, while the other resides in my heart. And now, this time...I have the ability to save my own life. I have two existing, viable children who are alive and well. They needed me. I was all they both had in the entire world. I can't take a chance on losing my life and destroying theirs in the process.
Hand in hand, the future hotband and I walked into the hospital. We talked. We kissed. We cried. We loved one another.
We said goodbye to our baby.
Three years later, he had a vasectomy and I felt free for the first time in my reproductive life.
Is this commentary pro-abortion? No. What it is is a woman's story of choice, the ability to make decisions that affect my body and my life. A decision made that could have potentially left my children without their mother. A decision between what is, and what is yet to be.
It is about choice. My choice. And the ability for my daughter to be able to make those choices for herself one day, without animosity, shame or guilt. It is about self-preservation. It is about being responsible despite your dalliance with irresponsibility. It is about forgiving yourself. About letting go. About realizing that everything happens for a reason, but sometimes, we have to take fate into our own hands.
I am a mother. I am a wife. I am a sister. I am a daughter. I am a friend. I made three different choices with three different outcomes. Same woman. Same life.
I am a woman with a body, a mind and a soul. I own all three.
I should have the ability to use all three without burden, without peril, without fear. I should have the right to choose what develops within me, be it my thoughts or my child. And while I know that I will never have to face these decisions ever again, I love the fact that once upon a time, I could. They were my decisions to make. They were my choices. And I am willing to live with them.
Can't you?
Why Isn't the Whole World Doing This?
I'm confused.
We clip coupons, drive around to find the cheapest gas stations and deprive ourselves of premium cable, just to save a few bucks. I was thinking about something. With everyone and their mother owning a cellphone and a PC, why isn't everyone doing the VoIP thing? For those of you who do not have the honor/privilege of sleeping next to a geek every single night, VoIP (or rather, Voice over Internet Protocol) is a way to call the entire world, without the expenses of long distance or overseas charges. The hotband and I use this constantly to transmit our steamy, hot...um, to discuss the kids and other household issues, while he travels the country! I mean, if you have a computer (and you must, if you are reading this blog right now) then you are obviously already paying for Internet service. WHY KEEP YOUR HOME PHONE and the additional expense?
Surely, I cannot be the only one doing this, no? Plus, we bloggers live all over the world. If you want to talk to say, DutchBitch over in Dutchyland or even make an obscene phone call to Mr. Fab over here on the southeastern coast of hell, this is the way to go! (If Mrs. Fab answers, don't hang up. She takes messages for him. Grunts, groans and all!)
I think the hotband and I have saved trillions of bucks in long distance goodness by using our VoIP instead of our cellphones and home phone. Plus, it enables the kids to get in touch with him anytime, anywhere! ("Stepdad? Mom's not feeding us again. Can you please talk to her?")
See? A useful tool, indeed! And, it is brought to you by a Jew. Now, who knows better the ins and outs of saving a penny or two than we do? Oy. No one. Now go away. You're making me ferklempt.
Happy Sunday.
We clip coupons, drive around to find the cheapest gas stations and deprive ourselves of premium cable, just to save a few bucks. I was thinking about something. With everyone and their mother owning a cellphone and a PC, why isn't everyone doing the VoIP thing? For those of you who do not have the honor/privilege of sleeping next to a geek every single night, VoIP (or rather, Voice over Internet Protocol) is a way to call the entire world, without the expenses of long distance or overseas charges. The hotband and I use this constantly to transmit our steamy, hot...um, to discuss the kids and other household issues, while he travels the country! I mean, if you have a computer (and you must, if you are reading this blog right now) then you are obviously already paying for Internet service. WHY KEEP YOUR HOME PHONE and the additional expense?
Surely, I cannot be the only one doing this, no? Plus, we bloggers live all over the world. If you want to talk to say, DutchBitch over in Dutchyland or even make an obscene phone call to Mr. Fab over here on the southeastern coast of hell, this is the way to go! (If Mrs. Fab answers, don't hang up. She takes messages for him. Grunts, groans and all!) I think the hotband and I have saved trillions of bucks in long distance goodness by using our VoIP instead of our cellphones and home phone. Plus, it enables the kids to get in touch with him anytime, anywhere! ("Stepdad? Mom's not feeding us again. Can you please talk to her?")
See? A useful tool, indeed! And, it is brought to you by a Jew. Now, who knows better the ins and outs of saving a penny or two than we do? Oy. No one. Now go away. You're making me ferklempt.
Happy Sunday.
Friday, September 15, 2006
A Chat with the Hotband on Yahoo IM.
Hubby has been in Georgia and Chicago for the past week. We rely heavily on our cellphones, emails and IM's to get us through the separation period. I thought that I would share a typical conversation between CP and the Hotband for your weekend viewing pleasure. And no, he didn't know of my intention to share this with the world. And no, I didn't know of my intention to share this with the world. I am a bit of a cheeseball and always save our IM conversations until I know he is home safely. As for MY weekend viewing pleasure, well, he'll be arriving around 2am this morning. Please don't be mislead by the sappy beginning. We get gross, disgusting and obnoxious shortly thereafter. See you all on Monday. Have a lovely weekend.
Cast of Characters:
CP is me.
HB is the Hotband referred to as "N" to our children.
Nick is my 10 year old son.
Sam is my 19 year old daughter.
Esther is the beast who bore me.
Brad and Callie are my brother and sister in law.
Show Recent Messages:
CP: (barfing sound)
Hotband: that was wrong...just while i was eating
CP: hehehehehhe.
HB: Ohhhhhh snap!
CP: finish eating. I'll talk to you later.
HB: no no no
HB: where u going?
CP: um...okay.
CP: no where.
CP: i just thought you were eating.
HB: i like chatting with you
HB: i am...but so what
CP: you miss me...don't you.
HB: i fucking miss you so much
CP: me too.
CP: i cried tonight about it.
HB: tomorrow night baby
CP: i know.
HB: aw, baby
CP: im just so over this.
CP: i know its temporary.
CP: and its for the best.
CP: but still...i miss you.
CP: i miss having you around to talk to.
HB: i know...i feel that way too
CP: i wanna go to halloween horror night this year.
CP: pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease.
CP: PLEAAAAAAAAAAAAASE!!!!
CP: do i sound like nick?
HB: yes u do
CP: come Oooooooooooooooon...PLEASSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSE?????
HB: oh, ok
HB: y not
CP: i just saw the commercial. its the 16th anniversary. they are bringing back all the old characters.
CP: The photographer, the old woman, the crazy clown, the undertaker~!
HB: i didnt even see the new ones yet
CP: SICK!!!!!
CP: Starts September 29th.
CP: weekend in orlando?
CP: come on...it will be FUN!!!!
CP: make it happen.*L*
HB: heehe
HB: i heard that 1 b4
CP: yep.
CP: probably hear it again lotsa times over the next 30 years or so.
HB: cool by me
CP: after that i will be too tired to do anything.
CP: the only thing i will need to make happen by then will be my bowel movements.
CP: i will bend over for you and say...make it happen, big daddy!
CP: *snorts*
HB: ew babe...now that does NOT go with eating right now
CP: oh yeah.
CP: eating.
CP: sorry.
CP: heh.
HB: It's ok
CP: did i tell you that nick was playing with my vibrator last night?
HB: scuse?
CP: ya heard.
HB: Whaaaaaaaaat!
CP: It was under your pillow.
HB: what did he say?
CP: From when we couldn't have phone sex because you were too busy telling me you were taking a shit.
CP: I came into our room...and he was turning it on and off.
CP: He says...
CP: Mom? What's a mini massager for?
HB: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
CP: I couldn't even shut my mouth, babe. I just stood there staring at this thing that I ooze goo all over in the hands of my baby son, alright?
CP: MORTIFIED.
HB: Ohhhhhh DAMN!
CP: anyway, I said as calmly as I could...
HB: well...what did you say
CP: thats for headaches honey.
CP: he said...headaches?
HB: For headaches?
CP: I said yeah...its just to give you a neck massage when you have a tension headache.
CP: So the child starts rubbing my vibrator all over his head!!!!
CP: *LMAO*
HB: WHAT?!?!?!?!?!
CP: I didnt' want to grab it out of his hands like it was a huge deal.
CP: He's like...Mom, this does not feel good at all.
HB: Oh my god...thank god he did not pull a napoleon on it
CP: I said...I know baby, that's why N. doesn't use it anymore.
HB: You said what?
CP: Please. I was holding my breath, dying. If that boy would have brought that thing to his nose...I would have slit my wrists. *LOL*
CP: So, I said, lets put it away. He hands it to me.
HB: slick baby, slick
HB: so now its mine huh?
CP: well, then he says to me...does dad have one of those?
CP: I said, how the hell should I know what you dad has!
HB: oh lord
CP: He gets up and gets the PHONE!
CP: I said...who are you calling.
CP: He says, Im calling dad.
CP: Im like...why?
CP: He says, I want to know if dad has one of these. I want to tell him they are good for headaches because he always gets headaches.
HB: oh dear lord
HB: how did you stop him from doing that?
CP: So, I told him that I think I vaguely remember buying his dad one years ago for Christmas and that he didn't like it either.
CP: So nick was like...Oh, good...because I can't see how this thing helps a headache.
HB: smooth baby
CP: Then, I made him go wash his hands.
HB: amen to that
CP: He's like...I'm already in bed! Why do I Have to wash my hands now????
CP: I said, because you were just touching the dogs and I don't want you rubbing your eyes and having an allergy attack...now go wash your hands.
HB: did he do it?
CP: He shot me a look like "bitch please, i know you want me to wash my hands to wash away the traces of your foul sinning masturbating ass from them". *LMAO*
CP: But yeah, he washed them.
HB: hahahahahaha
CP: Babe, I thought I was going to die. I wanted the earth to swallow me whole.
HB: im sure you did
CP: No. You don't know. Trust me. *L*
HB: I can imagine
CP: mortified. worse than the time sam told him i had a yeast infection and they called me Yeast Va-gi gi for three months straight.
HB: now that is funny
CP: Nooooooooooo. That is NOT funny. That is humiliation at the hands of your children. That is NEVER funny...except when it is happening to the OTHER parent.
CP: Or like the time I convinced Nick that if you don't shower, your penis falls off...and told him to look at his father for the example.
CP: Now see? THAT was funny shit.
HB: Oh no you didn't
HB: thats just wrong
CP: Yes I did! You were sitting right here, dumbass!
CP: You don't remember?
HB: How long ago was that
CP: I told Nick if he didn't take a shower, that first he would develop bugs all over him...and then, eventually, his penis would fall off.
CP: It was like...maybe 4 months ago?
HB: Your funny...thats hysterical
CP: I told him one ball at a time would fall off. And then, when I said, go ask your father, you looked at me like you were in absolute horror! You really don't remember this? I told him to ask his dad! *L*
HB: 4 months ago babe...we're talking about me here
CP: I guess you are so used to me saying things like that, they all start to blend after awhile.
CP: and you are quasi retarded.
HB: yeah..i'd go with both of those
CP: It's amazing, you can remember every single position I ever did you in, but can't remember me telling your stepson that his balls would fall off if he didn';t shower.
CP: And yet, you can remember the production date of every single car ever made in US history.
HB: Well, what can I say...cars + your ass = happiness...fuck Hersheys, I got the true happiness
CP: I am not so sure if I should be flattered...or, if I want a chocolate bar.
HB: Hershey highway
CP: Gross...Mrs. Brady takes it that way.
CP: From Greg Brady.
CP: Old school style.
HB: Haha...oh yeah, and Mr Brady too
HB: sorry...that was wrong
HB: couldnt help it
CP: You know, it never ceases to amaze me.
CP: I never ever ever get embarassed about anything...ever.
HB: what baby...how stupid I can be?
CP: Well, yeah...how stupid you are...but also...how humiliated my kids can make me.
CP: They are the ONLY ones who can do that to me! *L*
CP: DONT tell them that.
HB: I'm sending them an e-mail about that
CP: only if you want YOUR dick to fall off...suddenly...during a blow job...*smirk*
HB: ouch...that just wrong
CP: yeah. thought so.
HB: bobit
CP: Im not Bobbit. Im smarter than her.
CP: I would have thrown that shit down the garbage disposal after ripping it off.
CP: No reattachment surgery for MY husband...mwahahahahhaaaaa.
HB: HA! A new catch phrase for women who are sick of men..."Just Bobbit!"
CP: Baby. You know I love you, right?
HB: Of course
HB: Why??????????????????????
HB: What did you do?
CP: I didn't do anything.
CP: You did.
HB: what did I do?
CP: You came up with a catch phrase that um...has been used for about the last 13 years...and seriously believe you are clever enough to have thought of it on your own?
CP: Let me spare you the embarassment.
HB: Too late
CP: I guess so...*LMAO*
HB: I was still clever to think of it
CP: You're lucky you are an immigrant and I feel compelled to let you get away with your lack of knowledge when it comes to pop culture of America.
CP: No baby...you really weren't clever. You were late. There's a difference.
HB: Late being clever, thats all
HB: I gotta wake up at 5 AM tomorrow.
CP: are you trying to hint to me that you need to hang up?
CP: Cause, I do understand straightforth english you know.
HB: no no no...remember, its only 8:30 here
HB: i got time before I need to go to sleep
CP: Yeah. Time zone. Right. Got it.
CP: So, I would totally have phonesex with you tonight...since the kids aren't here and you obviously aren't taking a shit right now. However, I don't think I could bear to ever touch my vibrator ever again, knowing the last place it was was on my childs head.
CP: Actually, I think I may be visiting "PurePleasure.com" and ordering a new one.
CP: Any requests?
CP: I know...just make sure it isn't bigger than yours.
HB: I'll take you to that plac we went to last time
CP: What place did we go to?
CP: The one across from IHOP?
CP: Have a nice breakfast, then go pick out a new dildo? Sweet!
CP: Breakfast of champions.
HB: but of course
CP: Nah, I think I will order it online. That floor was sticky in that place.
CP: I don't want to know why.
CP: I just kept feeling like I was sloshing around in DNA.
CP: Stepping on unborn children. *LOL*
HB: ew baby, thats nasty
CP: Right. this from the guy who jerked off in a peep show booth at his brother in laws bachelor party.
CP: Claaaaaaaaaaaaassssssy, baby.
CP: You're lucky I love you.
HB: You know you would have wanted to be in that booth with me
CP: Um, honestly? No.
CP: Because first of all...you wouldn't need a freakin' movie peep show thingie if I was there.
CP: Second? I would not want to be where thousands of other men jerked off before, thank you very much.
CP: That's Paris Hilton's job...not mine.
HB: Poor Paris, always the butt end of a joke
CP: yeah. why don't you spray her with a faceful of your "compassion".
HB: no thanks
CP: didn't think so.
CP: She might start to laugh at ya. Or worse...sing to you!
HB: I think laughing at me would be worse
CP: She'll be all like...OMG...you didn't shower when you were little! You're dick fell off, didn't it! That's Hot.
CP: *LMAO*
CP: God, I slay me.
HB: Oh yeah, you're funny...I forgot
CP: Don't hate, bitch. Love the princess. Worship the princess. Eat a mile of diarrhea just to get a taste of some princess ass.
CP: You know Im worth it. *L*
HB: oh lord babe, you are sick
CP: Baby. I feel yucky. I got my period. A whole day early.
CP: my boobies hurt.
HB: oh baby, I'm sorry
CP: and I am eating like a cow in some newly mown grass.
HB: i wish I could massage them for you
HB: now that part is funny - the cow part.
CP: now why would i want them massaged if they hurt?
CP: yeah...tee fuckin hee.
CP: you men just dont get it.
CP: no massage on achy titties. Just backrubs and lots of chocolate.
CP: i aint gettin' neither right now.
HB: i'll bring you home so chocolate
CP: and i can't even use my vibe now either...to have some nice uterine contractions and stave off the cramps!
HB: put the phone on vibrate and I'll call you
CP: I don't want chocolate tomorrow. I want it now. NOW, fucker. NOW!!!!!
CP: Um no.
CP: So I can answer the phone tomorrow and get a big blood shmear down my face?
CP: I don't think so.
HB: now that would be fucked up
CP: And of course, NIck would find the phone first and say...mommy? Why is there red stuff all over your phone? It looks like syrup or something...
CP: And then, of course, fat girl would die of a heart attack.
HB: now that would suck big time
CP: Esther called me today. Apparently, she wanted to know where you and I want to spend eternity.
CP: She is offering us spots in the Jewish Cemetary in brooklyn...my family plot.
HB: didnt she just call you about that a few days ago?
CP: If that bitch thinks I am spending eternity next to her...she's outta her fucking mind.
CP: Yeah...but she wants an answer.
CP: Or she's giving the plot to Brad and Callie.
HB: i thought you wanted to be creamated
CP: I told her I wanted to be cremated.
CP: Not CREAM-ated, honey. It's not a gooey soft drink we're talking about here.
HB: and then spread your ashes all over her tomb stone
CP: MY ASHES ON HER STONE??????
CP: ARE YOU FUCKING INSANE, MAN?????
HB: "Cream-ated...the soft drink you will die for"
CP: Now see??? THAT was clever, baby!!!!
CP: *hee hee hee* Good one!
HB: Heehee, that was!
CP: Babe, you aren't going to really put my ashes near her, are you?
HB: no no no...I'll spread them all over that place that has good fries
CP: *ROFLMAO* You know the way to my heart, angel. *LOL*
HB: *smile*
CP: She doesn't want Callie in the burial plot, because and I quote "She's goyum". *LOL*
HB: Oh lord, so what
CP: So, she figured since you and I were a pair of jews, she'd give them to us.
HB: Is she going to spoil her soul or something?
CP: Can't bury goyum in a jew cemetary, apparently.
CP: reserved for kikes only. *L*
CP: I love reverse semitism, don't you?
HB: Slip the Rabbi a c note
CP: You and I both have tattoos. We cant' be buried there anyway.
CP: Neither can Brad and Callie.
HB: Again, nothing a c note cannot take care of
CP: Very nice. Making religion all about the c notes. Like a good jew boy.
HB: but of course
CP: I dont want to be buried. I want to be cremated and stay in your pocket.
CP: And once a week, I want you to take out a pinch of me...rub it on your penis...and go to town on yourself.
CP: Lucky for you Im so fat...so you'll get a WHOLE shitload of ashes to use!
HB: that woulkd be a bit abbrasive, but I'll try
CP: Oh, and on ash wednesday? put some of me on your forehead..so I can be sitting on your face.
CP: And you'll blend in with everyone else...and no one will notice!
CP: Im so thoughtful, aren't I?
HB: You know...that shit spooked me out in NY
CP: what...all the ash dots? Yeah, I guess they don't do that in Israel much...*L*
HB: Ash Wednesday...people looking like manson with crosses on their heads
CP: Manson has a swastika on his forehead, darling.
CP: not a cross.
HB: I know...just as weird though
CP: Nick thought the word was SWAT sticker. something you get if you are in the police department special forces.
CP: *snorts*
CP: He's so silly.
HB: that makes sense though
CP: Only to you, babe....because you and that 10 year old have the same mentality.
CP: I think he might be more mature than you though.
HB: damn right
CP: Anyway, can we move this lovefest to the phone?
CP: I want to go lay down and bleed to death in my own bed.
HB: sure
HB: call you right now
CP: Okay...give me a few minutes.
HB: ok
HB: love you
CP: No, not right now. I have to change supersoakers. *LOL*
CP: I love you, baby.
HB: *KISS*
HB: I'll call you in 15.
Cast of Characters:
CP is me.
HB is the Hotband referred to as "N" to our children.
Nick is my 10 year old son.
Sam is my 19 year old daughter.
Esther is the beast who bore me.
Brad and Callie are my brother and sister in law.
Show Recent Messages:
CP: (barfing sound)
Hotband: that was wrong...just while i was eating
CP: hehehehehhe.
HB: Ohhhhhh snap!
CP: finish eating. I'll talk to you later.
HB: no no no
HB: where u going?
CP: um...okay.
CP: no where.
CP: i just thought you were eating.
HB: i like chatting with you
HB: i am...but so what
CP: you miss me...don't you.
HB: i fucking miss you so much
CP: me too.
CP: i cried tonight about it.
HB: tomorrow night baby
CP: i know.
HB: aw, baby
CP: im just so over this.
CP: i know its temporary.
CP: and its for the best.
CP: but still...i miss you.
CP: i miss having you around to talk to.
HB: i know...i feel that way too
CP: i wanna go to halloween horror night this year.
CP: pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease.
CP: PLEAAAAAAAAAAAAASE!!!!
CP: do i sound like nick?
HB: yes u do
CP: come Oooooooooooooooon...PLEASSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSE?????
HB: oh, ok
HB: y not
CP: i just saw the commercial. its the 16th anniversary. they are bringing back all the old characters.
CP: The photographer, the old woman, the crazy clown, the undertaker~!
HB: i didnt even see the new ones yet
CP: SICK!!!!!
CP: Starts September 29th.
CP: weekend in orlando?
CP: come on...it will be FUN!!!!
CP: make it happen.*L*
HB: heehe
HB: i heard that 1 b4
CP: yep.
CP: probably hear it again lotsa times over the next 30 years or so.
HB: cool by me
CP: after that i will be too tired to do anything.
CP: the only thing i will need to make happen by then will be my bowel movements.
CP: i will bend over for you and say...make it happen, big daddy!
CP: *snorts*
HB: ew babe...now that does NOT go with eating right now
CP: oh yeah.
CP: eating.
CP: sorry.
CP: heh.
HB: It's ok
CP: did i tell you that nick was playing with my vibrator last night?
HB: scuse?
CP: ya heard.
HB: Whaaaaaaaaat!
CP: It was under your pillow.
HB: what did he say?
CP: From when we couldn't have phone sex because you were too busy telling me you were taking a shit.
CP: I came into our room...and he was turning it on and off.
CP: He says...
CP: Mom? What's a mini massager for?
HB: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
CP: I couldn't even shut my mouth, babe. I just stood there staring at this thing that I ooze goo all over in the hands of my baby son, alright?
CP: MORTIFIED.
HB: Ohhhhhh DAMN!
CP: anyway, I said as calmly as I could...
HB: well...what did you say
CP: thats for headaches honey.
CP: he said...headaches?
HB: For headaches?
CP: I said yeah...its just to give you a neck massage when you have a tension headache.
CP: So the child starts rubbing my vibrator all over his head!!!!
CP: *LMAO*
HB: WHAT?!?!?!?!?!
CP: I didnt' want to grab it out of his hands like it was a huge deal.
CP: He's like...Mom, this does not feel good at all.
HB: Oh my god...thank god he did not pull a napoleon on it
CP: I said...I know baby, that's why N. doesn't use it anymore.
HB: You said what?
CP: Please. I was holding my breath, dying. If that boy would have brought that thing to his nose...I would have slit my wrists. *LOL*
CP: So, I said, lets put it away. He hands it to me.
HB: slick baby, slick
HB: so now its mine huh?
CP: well, then he says to me...does dad have one of those?
CP: I said, how the hell should I know what you dad has!
HB: oh lord
CP: He gets up and gets the PHONE!
CP: I said...who are you calling.
CP: He says, Im calling dad.
CP: Im like...why?
CP: He says, I want to know if dad has one of these. I want to tell him they are good for headaches because he always gets headaches.
HB: oh dear lord
HB: how did you stop him from doing that?
CP: So, I told him that I think I vaguely remember buying his dad one years ago for Christmas and that he didn't like it either.
CP: So nick was like...Oh, good...because I can't see how this thing helps a headache.
HB: smooth baby
CP: Then, I made him go wash his hands.
HB: amen to that
CP: He's like...I'm already in bed! Why do I Have to wash my hands now????
CP: I said, because you were just touching the dogs and I don't want you rubbing your eyes and having an allergy attack...now go wash your hands.
HB: did he do it?
CP: He shot me a look like "bitch please, i know you want me to wash my hands to wash away the traces of your foul sinning masturbating ass from them". *LMAO*
CP: But yeah, he washed them.
HB: hahahahahaha
CP: Babe, I thought I was going to die. I wanted the earth to swallow me whole.
HB: im sure you did
CP: No. You don't know. Trust me. *L*
HB: I can imagine
CP: mortified. worse than the time sam told him i had a yeast infection and they called me Yeast Va-gi gi for three months straight.
HB: now that is funny
CP: Nooooooooooo. That is NOT funny. That is humiliation at the hands of your children. That is NEVER funny...except when it is happening to the OTHER parent.
CP: Or like the time I convinced Nick that if you don't shower, your penis falls off...and told him to look at his father for the example.
CP: Now see? THAT was funny shit.
HB: Oh no you didn't
HB: thats just wrong
CP: Yes I did! You were sitting right here, dumbass!
CP: You don't remember?
HB: How long ago was that
CP: I told Nick if he didn't take a shower, that first he would develop bugs all over him...and then, eventually, his penis would fall off.
CP: It was like...maybe 4 months ago?
HB: Your funny...thats hysterical
CP: I told him one ball at a time would fall off. And then, when I said, go ask your father, you looked at me like you were in absolute horror! You really don't remember this? I told him to ask his dad! *L*
HB: 4 months ago babe...we're talking about me here
CP: I guess you are so used to me saying things like that, they all start to blend after awhile.
CP: and you are quasi retarded.
HB: yeah..i'd go with both of those
CP: It's amazing, you can remember every single position I ever did you in, but can't remember me telling your stepson that his balls would fall off if he didn';t shower.
CP: And yet, you can remember the production date of every single car ever made in US history.
HB: Well, what can I say...cars + your ass = happiness...fuck Hersheys, I got the true happiness
CP: I am not so sure if I should be flattered...or, if I want a chocolate bar.
HB: Hershey highway
CP: Gross...Mrs. Brady takes it that way.
CP: From Greg Brady.
CP: Old school style.
HB: Haha...oh yeah, and Mr Brady too
HB: sorry...that was wrong
HB: couldnt help it
CP: You know, it never ceases to amaze me.
CP: I never ever ever get embarassed about anything...ever.
HB: what baby...how stupid I can be?
CP: Well, yeah...how stupid you are...but also...how humiliated my kids can make me.
CP: They are the ONLY ones who can do that to me! *L*
CP: DONT tell them that.
HB: I'm sending them an e-mail about that
CP: only if you want YOUR dick to fall off...suddenly...during a blow job...*smirk*
HB: ouch...that just wrong
CP: yeah. thought so.
HB: bobit
CP: Im not Bobbit. Im smarter than her.
CP: I would have thrown that shit down the garbage disposal after ripping it off.
CP: No reattachment surgery for MY husband...mwahahahahhaaaaa.
HB: HA! A new catch phrase for women who are sick of men..."Just Bobbit!"
CP: Baby. You know I love you, right?
HB: Of course
HB: Why??????????????????????
HB: What did you do?
CP: I didn't do anything.
CP: You did.
HB: what did I do?
CP: You came up with a catch phrase that um...has been used for about the last 13 years...and seriously believe you are clever enough to have thought of it on your own?
CP: Let me spare you the embarassment.
HB: Too late
CP: I guess so...*LMAO*
HB: I was still clever to think of it
CP: You're lucky you are an immigrant and I feel compelled to let you get away with your lack of knowledge when it comes to pop culture of America.
CP: No baby...you really weren't clever. You were late. There's a difference.
HB: Late being clever, thats all
HB: I gotta wake up at 5 AM tomorrow.
CP: are you trying to hint to me that you need to hang up?
CP: Cause, I do understand straightforth english you know.
HB: no no no...remember, its only 8:30 here
HB: i got time before I need to go to sleep
CP: Yeah. Time zone. Right. Got it.
CP: So, I would totally have phonesex with you tonight...since the kids aren't here and you obviously aren't taking a shit right now. However, I don't think I could bear to ever touch my vibrator ever again, knowing the last place it was was on my childs head.
CP: Actually, I think I may be visiting "PurePleasure.com" and ordering a new one.
CP: Any requests?
CP: I know...just make sure it isn't bigger than yours.
HB: I'll take you to that plac we went to last time
CP: What place did we go to?
CP: The one across from IHOP?
CP: Have a nice breakfast, then go pick out a new dildo? Sweet!
CP: Breakfast of champions.
HB: but of course
CP: Nah, I think I will order it online. That floor was sticky in that place.
CP: I don't want to know why.
CP: I just kept feeling like I was sloshing around in DNA.
CP: Stepping on unborn children. *LOL*
HB: ew baby, thats nasty
CP: Right. this from the guy who jerked off in a peep show booth at his brother in laws bachelor party.
CP: Claaaaaaaaaaaaassssssy, baby.
CP: You're lucky I love you.
HB: You know you would have wanted to be in that booth with me
CP: Um, honestly? No.
CP: Because first of all...you wouldn't need a freakin' movie peep show thingie if I was there.
CP: Second? I would not want to be where thousands of other men jerked off before, thank you very much.
CP: That's Paris Hilton's job...not mine.
HB: Poor Paris, always the butt end of a joke
CP: yeah. why don't you spray her with a faceful of your "compassion".
HB: no thanks
CP: didn't think so.
CP: She might start to laugh at ya. Or worse...sing to you!
HB: I think laughing at me would be worse
CP: She'll be all like...OMG...you didn't shower when you were little! You're dick fell off, didn't it! That's Hot.
CP: *LMAO*
CP: God, I slay me.
HB: Oh yeah, you're funny...I forgot
CP: Don't hate, bitch. Love the princess. Worship the princess. Eat a mile of diarrhea just to get a taste of some princess ass.
CP: You know Im worth it. *L*
HB: oh lord babe, you are sick
CP: Baby. I feel yucky. I got my period. A whole day early.
CP: my boobies hurt.
HB: oh baby, I'm sorry
CP: and I am eating like a cow in some newly mown grass.
HB: i wish I could massage them for you
HB: now that part is funny - the cow part.
CP: now why would i want them massaged if they hurt?
CP: yeah...tee fuckin hee.
CP: you men just dont get it.
CP: no massage on achy titties. Just backrubs and lots of chocolate.
CP: i aint gettin' neither right now.
HB: i'll bring you home so chocolate
CP: and i can't even use my vibe now either...to have some nice uterine contractions and stave off the cramps!
HB: put the phone on vibrate and I'll call you
CP: I don't want chocolate tomorrow. I want it now. NOW, fucker. NOW!!!!!
CP: Um no.
CP: So I can answer the phone tomorrow and get a big blood shmear down my face?
CP: I don't think so.
HB: now that would be fucked up
CP: And of course, NIck would find the phone first and say...mommy? Why is there red stuff all over your phone? It looks like syrup or something...
CP: And then, of course, fat girl would die of a heart attack.
HB: now that would suck big time
CP: Esther called me today. Apparently, she wanted to know where you and I want to spend eternity.
CP: She is offering us spots in the Jewish Cemetary in brooklyn...my family plot.
HB: didnt she just call you about that a few days ago?
CP: If that bitch thinks I am spending eternity next to her...she's outta her fucking mind.
CP: Yeah...but she wants an answer.
CP: Or she's giving the plot to Brad and Callie.
HB: i thought you wanted to be creamated
CP: I told her I wanted to be cremated.
CP: Not CREAM-ated, honey. It's not a gooey soft drink we're talking about here.
HB: and then spread your ashes all over her tomb stone
CP: MY ASHES ON HER STONE??????
CP: ARE YOU FUCKING INSANE, MAN?????
HB: "Cream-ated...the soft drink you will die for"
CP: Now see??? THAT was clever, baby!!!!
CP: *hee hee hee* Good one!
HB: Heehee, that was!
CP: Babe, you aren't going to really put my ashes near her, are you?
HB: no no no...I'll spread them all over that place that has good fries
CP: *ROFLMAO* You know the way to my heart, angel. *LOL*
HB: *smile*
CP: She doesn't want Callie in the burial plot, because and I quote "She's goyum". *LOL*
HB: Oh lord, so what
CP: So, she figured since you and I were a pair of jews, she'd give them to us.
HB: Is she going to spoil her soul or something?
CP: Can't bury goyum in a jew cemetary, apparently.
CP: reserved for kikes only. *L*
CP: I love reverse semitism, don't you?
HB: Slip the Rabbi a c note
CP: You and I both have tattoos. We cant' be buried there anyway.
CP: Neither can Brad and Callie.
HB: Again, nothing a c note cannot take care of
CP: Very nice. Making religion all about the c notes. Like a good jew boy.
HB: but of course
CP: I dont want to be buried. I want to be cremated and stay in your pocket.
CP: And once a week, I want you to take out a pinch of me...rub it on your penis...and go to town on yourself.
CP: Lucky for you Im so fat...so you'll get a WHOLE shitload of ashes to use!
HB: that woulkd be a bit abbrasive, but I'll try
CP: Oh, and on ash wednesday? put some of me on your forehead..so I can be sitting on your face.
CP: And you'll blend in with everyone else...and no one will notice!
CP: Im so thoughtful, aren't I?
HB: You know...that shit spooked me out in NY
CP: what...all the ash dots? Yeah, I guess they don't do that in Israel much...*L*
HB: Ash Wednesday...people looking like manson with crosses on their heads
CP: Manson has a swastika on his forehead, darling.
CP: not a cross.
HB: I know...just as weird though
CP: Nick thought the word was SWAT sticker. something you get if you are in the police department special forces.
CP: *snorts*
CP: He's so silly.
HB: that makes sense though
CP: Only to you, babe....because you and that 10 year old have the same mentality.
CP: I think he might be more mature than you though.
HB: damn right
CP: Anyway, can we move this lovefest to the phone?
CP: I want to go lay down and bleed to death in my own bed.
HB: sure
HB: call you right now
CP: Okay...give me a few minutes.
HB: ok
HB: love you
CP: No, not right now. I have to change supersoakers. *LOL*
CP: I love you, baby.
HB: *KISS*
HB: I'll call you in 15.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
I have been silent long enough...
I am going to say this once and only once.
If you don't like my blog content, don't read it. I cannot fathom receiving emails that say "how long are you going to keep up your 9/11 post?"
How about I just keep it there forever, hm?
I wanted to devote a week to Mr. and Mrs. Selwyn. I fell a day short due to my frustration with a bunch of inconsiderate assholes. I am also sick of something else. Ready? I am sick and tired of the backpeddling assholes who had conversations with me that went like this:
Asshole: "9/11 sucks. It's stupid. I don't like it. I won't bother with it."
CP: "But it is something that is a part of our history, we should remember the people who died."
AH: "Why? Are they special people? Why should we remember them?"
CP: "Well, to me, they were special. I lost loved ones that day."
Then, I get this --
"Oh, well then, that's different. YOU can post memorials because you actually lost someone. I didn't mean that for you. I was talking about other people."
No. It's not different. It's still exactly the same. Why is it suddenly okay that I memorialize people? Because you are uncomfortable with what you just said to me? Because now you are trying to justify your insensitivity? That makes me think of people who say, "everyone who works here is a jerk, not YOU of course, just everyone else."
Riii-iiii-iiiight. I would respect your opinion much more if you would stick to it and with some conviction.
I chose to memorialize a stranger over one of the people I knew because I wanted to make sure everyone got treated with the love and care they deserved.
Okay, I'm over that. I have other shit to discuss.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Two days ago, my office manager walks into my office and announces that we are going to have a big office meeting on Wednesday. Yippee. I'm so excited I could just plotz. Truly. She gives us an "assignment" to do for the meeting. Each of us are to write down three things we really like and three things we really don't like in the office. She says it is going to be part of an exercise to make things really proactive at the workplace again.
Yee haw.
So, we are all buzzing around like baby bees, scurrying to come up with the best possible "I hate" stuff. The "I love" stuff was pretty obvious. We all love the docs we work for. They are two of the greatest men/bosses/doctors on the planet. We love our hours. Love our pay. Love the perks. Love our benefits. Love the flexibility that is extended to us when extenuating circumstances arise at home. We even all love one another, on a personal level. There's not one woman there (well, okay, there IS one woman there) that I wouldn't do anything in the world for. I like some people more than others, true, but there is no one (okay, ONE person) that I can say I dislike. And, even the one I dislike, I treat in a professional manner. It's not her fault she's an idiot.
I blame cloning and global warming.
The "what I don't like stuff" was harder because there is so much of it. Some of the things we came up with were the fact that we are micromanaged. We are not heard. We are nit-picked constantly. We get yelled at (not by the docs) in front of patients (VERY unprofessional). There is very little communication between departments. And, lastly, there is absolute favoritism going on in that office. There are a few dumbasses that mentioned things like "I want on-call pay". Major eyeroll on that one. I'm a nurse. I don't support the on call pay thing. When we have to go into the office and handle a patient emergency, we get paid time and a half. I think that is pretty damn fair. People are pissing because when you are oncall, you can't really leave town at all. Here's a thought, whiney bitches...
SWITCH WITH SOMEONE.
These women are acting like they have lives. Puh-leez. Out of the seven nurses, myself and two other nurses are the only ones who ever go places and do things that are out of town. I have been oncall while going away to the beach before. If I can wash the sand out of my crack and go back to the office to care for a patient, so be it. And you get paid time and a half from the time you leave where you are...so if I am two hours away, then...*shrugs* so be it! What's the pissing about? This company spends so much money on us between a well-stocked fridge, a HUGE holiday bonus and uniform allowances that it is ridiculous. Plus, they send us away to classes and seminars to further our education. While there, we have free use of the docs credit cards to pay for our rooms, our meals and things to do when we are not at the seminar.
I want to know right now...which one of you people reading this right now can say that about your job? Seriously?
So no, I will not jump on the on call pay bandwagon with the rest of the greedy bitches I work with. Sorry. Count the fat chick out. Y'all will have to find yourselves a new official big mouth to back you up on that one.
Back to the "homework" assignment...
We are all somewhat psyched because we think we are going to read these complaints outloud (they were all anonymously written) and perhaps, we can fix a few issues. Yep. This will be totally proactive. Even the doubters (like myself) started to believe some good would come out of this.
The office meeting begins. Our office manager has been in a very bad mood all day. By the time the meeting has started, it appears that she is much happier. We all breathe a collective sigh of relief. We have been dreading this all day.
She talks to us about days off, insurance issues, Bosses Day and a bunch of other fluff stuff. She's being so nice, so sweet, so happy and funny...that I have to admit, it scared the fuck out of me.
She collects our little anonymous notes and then, makes hard copies of them. We are all in the other room chatting about how well this all seems to be going. Myself and my friend D. are not convinced. We still have a very pessimistic puss on our faces. I think we are a tad smarter than most of the others we work with. If not smarter, I will definately say...more savvy. We "get it". I've got a baaaaa-aaaa-aaaad feeling about this.
OM comes back into the room and drops the pile of letters in the middle of the floor. She's not smiling any longer. Here comes Mr. Hyde.
Rut ro, Raggy.
"I want all of you to read these letters, review them one by one and come up with solutions to all of the problems."
That was it. She starts to walk out of the room again and then, turns around and says:
"By the way, if any of you think you can do my job better than I can, then just let me know and I will tender my resignation right now."
Then she turned, oh so dramatically and walked out of the room.
Whoa.
We have just been Punk'd. She got to read all of our opinions and problems (most of them having to do with managment) and now, she's angry with us. Great. Can you say career suicide? We can't take back our letters, because she has hard copies of all of them. We all sat there somewhat stunned for a few moments while two of her more favorite lapdogs tried to continue the meeting. I got up, got my letter out of the pile and tore it up.
"That's not fair, CP," D. said.
"Reach in and rip up yours then," I countered. (Mind you, D. and I normally never disagree on anything) "She's got a copy of mine. She can read it. I don't see the need for everyone else to read it now, since it obviously doesn't mean anything."
She didn't say anything in return. We'll talk about it at another time. I know we're cool with one another.
After listening to the lapdogs drone on for the next 10 minutes about their business issues, I grabbed up the letters again and said, "let's go through these".
And we did. Line by line.
My letter hadn't said anything different than anyone else's. It was just more detailed. I don't just do the "problem" thing without offering a solution. To do one without the other is pointless. Besides, two of my three things were nursing issues anyway, and I didn't see the point of bringing them up in a full staff meeting.
What was accomplished? Nothing really.
We all agreed on the things I mentioned above. We all disagreed on the same things. We all know what the problem is. It's our OM. And now, she has walked out of the meeting like Sarah Bernhardt in her last on stage debut, bowing out dramatically and leaving us there to perform the encore without the star of the show.
Ridiculous.
I wrote our OM a letter after the meeting broke up. She wouldn't open her door to her office for me to give it to her. So, I sent it to her printer, where I know she would have to see it transmitted and read it.
I told her that we do not want her to leave. I explained that we all know we cannot do her job, none of us would attempt it. We don't want it. I told her that we all respect her and care about her. She is like a mom to many of us and sometimes, like a mom, she gets a bit overbearing. I asked her to please allow us to talk to her without feeling attacked. We are all hanging onto a lot of hostility and frustration.
But I ended the letter by telling her we all love her.
And in honesty? It made my heart hurt to see her so angry and sad.
I resent what she did with those letters. I resent that she asked us to do something incriminating under the guise of being potentially proactive. I feel deceived and angry by her actions. I know others do too...but, not another word will ever get spoken. We will all tiptoe around her, hanging our heads in shame like haughty little children. She will show these letters to the doctors and they will look at us like disappointed fathers, shaking their heads in disapproval at the disrespect we have shown to Mother.
Sabotaged.
I took off today because my son was sick. I have never been so thankful to have my son be sick. I was grateful, because I wear my heart on my proverbial sleeve. I cannot contain myself when I am angry. I can smile and get through my day professionally, but the people I am hurt or angered by will always know it. I am not good at the emotional hide and seek that others seem to do so effortlessly.
I don't feel like ever going back there again. To me, this was a stunt that Esther would have pulled on me as a child. "here darling, come confide in me. let me be your friend. trust me. you can tell me anything." and then, when you finally do, WHAM...grounded or beaten or ridiculed.
I had that dynamic at home. I don't need it at work as well.
I have a lot to think about this weekend.
If you don't like my blog content, don't read it. I cannot fathom receiving emails that say "how long are you going to keep up your 9/11 post?"
How about I just keep it there forever, hm?
I wanted to devote a week to Mr. and Mrs. Selwyn. I fell a day short due to my frustration with a bunch of inconsiderate assholes. I am also sick of something else. Ready? I am sick and tired of the backpeddling assholes who had conversations with me that went like this:
Asshole: "9/11 sucks. It's stupid. I don't like it. I won't bother with it."
CP: "But it is something that is a part of our history, we should remember the people who died."
AH: "Why? Are they special people? Why should we remember them?"
CP: "Well, to me, they were special. I lost loved ones that day."
Then, I get this --
"Oh, well then, that's different. YOU can post memorials because you actually lost someone. I didn't mean that for you. I was talking about other people."
No. It's not different. It's still exactly the same. Why is it suddenly okay that I memorialize people? Because you are uncomfortable with what you just said to me? Because now you are trying to justify your insensitivity? That makes me think of people who say, "everyone who works here is a jerk, not YOU of course, just everyone else."
Riii-iiii-iiiight. I would respect your opinion much more if you would stick to it and with some conviction.
I chose to memorialize a stranger over one of the people I knew because I wanted to make sure everyone got treated with the love and care they deserved.
Okay, I'm over that. I have other shit to discuss.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Two days ago, my office manager walks into my office and announces that we are going to have a big office meeting on Wednesday. Yippee. I'm so excited I could just plotz. Truly. She gives us an "assignment" to do for the meeting. Each of us are to write down three things we really like and three things we really don't like in the office. She says it is going to be part of an exercise to make things really proactive at the workplace again.
Yee haw.
So, we are all buzzing around like baby bees, scurrying to come up with the best possible "I hate" stuff. The "I love" stuff was pretty obvious. We all love the docs we work for. They are two of the greatest men/bosses/doctors on the planet. We love our hours. Love our pay. Love the perks. Love our benefits. Love the flexibility that is extended to us when extenuating circumstances arise at home. We even all love one another, on a personal level. There's not one woman there (well, okay, there IS one woman there) that I wouldn't do anything in the world for. I like some people more than others, true, but there is no one (okay, ONE person) that I can say I dislike. And, even the one I dislike, I treat in a professional manner. It's not her fault she's an idiot.
I blame cloning and global warming.
The "what I don't like stuff" was harder because there is so much of it. Some of the things we came up with were the fact that we are micromanaged. We are not heard. We are nit-picked constantly. We get yelled at (not by the docs) in front of patients (VERY unprofessional). There is very little communication between departments. And, lastly, there is absolute favoritism going on in that office. There are a few dumbasses that mentioned things like "I want on-call pay". Major eyeroll on that one. I'm a nurse. I don't support the on call pay thing. When we have to go into the office and handle a patient emergency, we get paid time and a half. I think that is pretty damn fair. People are pissing because when you are oncall, you can't really leave town at all. Here's a thought, whiney bitches...
SWITCH WITH SOMEONE.
These women are acting like they have lives. Puh-leez. Out of the seven nurses, myself and two other nurses are the only ones who ever go places and do things that are out of town. I have been oncall while going away to the beach before. If I can wash the sand out of my crack and go back to the office to care for a patient, so be it. And you get paid time and a half from the time you leave where you are...so if I am two hours away, then...*shrugs* so be it! What's the pissing about? This company spends so much money on us between a well-stocked fridge, a HUGE holiday bonus and uniform allowances that it is ridiculous. Plus, they send us away to classes and seminars to further our education. While there, we have free use of the docs credit cards to pay for our rooms, our meals and things to do when we are not at the seminar.
I want to know right now...which one of you people reading this right now can say that about your job? Seriously?
So no, I will not jump on the on call pay bandwagon with the rest of the greedy bitches I work with. Sorry. Count the fat chick out. Y'all will have to find yourselves a new official big mouth to back you up on that one.
Back to the "homework" assignment...
We are all somewhat psyched because we think we are going to read these complaints outloud (they were all anonymously written) and perhaps, we can fix a few issues. Yep. This will be totally proactive. Even the doubters (like myself) started to believe some good would come out of this.
The office meeting begins. Our office manager has been in a very bad mood all day. By the time the meeting has started, it appears that she is much happier. We all breathe a collective sigh of relief. We have been dreading this all day.
She talks to us about days off, insurance issues, Bosses Day and a bunch of other fluff stuff. She's being so nice, so sweet, so happy and funny...that I have to admit, it scared the fuck out of me.
She collects our little anonymous notes and then, makes hard copies of them. We are all in the other room chatting about how well this all seems to be going. Myself and my friend D. are not convinced. We still have a very pessimistic puss on our faces. I think we are a tad smarter than most of the others we work with. If not smarter, I will definately say...more savvy. We "get it". I've got a baaaaa-aaaa-aaaad feeling about this.
OM comes back into the room and drops the pile of letters in the middle of the floor. She's not smiling any longer. Here comes Mr. Hyde.
Rut ro, Raggy.
"I want all of you to read these letters, review them one by one and come up with solutions to all of the problems."
That was it. She starts to walk out of the room again and then, turns around and says:
"By the way, if any of you think you can do my job better than I can, then just let me know and I will tender my resignation right now."
Then she turned, oh so dramatically and walked out of the room.
Whoa.
We have just been Punk'd. She got to read all of our opinions and problems (most of them having to do with managment) and now, she's angry with us. Great. Can you say career suicide? We can't take back our letters, because she has hard copies of all of them. We all sat there somewhat stunned for a few moments while two of her more favorite lapdogs tried to continue the meeting. I got up, got my letter out of the pile and tore it up.
"That's not fair, CP," D. said.
"Reach in and rip up yours then," I countered. (Mind you, D. and I normally never disagree on anything) "She's got a copy of mine. She can read it. I don't see the need for everyone else to read it now, since it obviously doesn't mean anything."
She didn't say anything in return. We'll talk about it at another time. I know we're cool with one another.
After listening to the lapdogs drone on for the next 10 minutes about their business issues, I grabbed up the letters again and said, "let's go through these".
And we did. Line by line.
My letter hadn't said anything different than anyone else's. It was just more detailed. I don't just do the "problem" thing without offering a solution. To do one without the other is pointless. Besides, two of my three things were nursing issues anyway, and I didn't see the point of bringing them up in a full staff meeting.
What was accomplished? Nothing really.
We all agreed on the things I mentioned above. We all disagreed on the same things. We all know what the problem is. It's our OM. And now, she has walked out of the meeting like Sarah Bernhardt in her last on stage debut, bowing out dramatically and leaving us there to perform the encore without the star of the show.
Ridiculous.
I wrote our OM a letter after the meeting broke up. She wouldn't open her door to her office for me to give it to her. So, I sent it to her printer, where I know she would have to see it transmitted and read it.
I told her that we do not want her to leave. I explained that we all know we cannot do her job, none of us would attempt it. We don't want it. I told her that we all respect her and care about her. She is like a mom to many of us and sometimes, like a mom, she gets a bit overbearing. I asked her to please allow us to talk to her without feeling attacked. We are all hanging onto a lot of hostility and frustration.
But I ended the letter by telling her we all love her.
And in honesty? It made my heart hurt to see her so angry and sad.
I resent what she did with those letters. I resent that she asked us to do something incriminating under the guise of being potentially proactive. I feel deceived and angry by her actions. I know others do too...but, not another word will ever get spoken. We will all tiptoe around her, hanging our heads in shame like haughty little children. She will show these letters to the doctors and they will look at us like disappointed fathers, shaking their heads in disapproval at the disrespect we have shown to Mother.
Sabotaged.
I took off today because my son was sick. I have never been so thankful to have my son be sick. I was grateful, because I wear my heart on my proverbial sleeve. I cannot contain myself when I am angry. I can smile and get through my day professionally, but the people I am hurt or angered by will always know it. I am not good at the emotional hide and seek that others seem to do so effortlessly.
I don't feel like ever going back there again. To me, this was a stunt that Esther would have pulled on me as a child. "here darling, come confide in me. let me be your friend. trust me. you can tell me anything." and then, when you finally do, WHAM...grounded or beaten or ridiculed.
I had that dynamic at home. I don't need it at work as well.
I have a lot to think about this weekend.
Friday, September 08, 2006
Howard Selwyn.
Howard Selwyn.
You wouldn't know his name just from reading it here. He wasn't famous. He wasn't legendary. He wasn't scandalous or anyone worth gossiping about in the Enquirer.
Howard Selwyn was a husband, a father, a business partner, a brother and a son.
Howard Selwyn died on September 11th, 2001 on the 84th floor of the World Trade Center Tower Two, the South Tower. He was last seen by one of his colleagues, making a phone call from his desk. Without a doubt, Howard woke up and drove from his home in Hewlett, Long Island, fighting the traffic on the Long Island Expressway in order to be at his place of business on time. I feel his pain. I, too, drove from Long Island into New York City during rush hour traffic on the L.I.E. It's not pretty. It's really only something a true New Yorker could learn to love.
Howard was from Leeds, England originally, so in my mind, I see him stopping for a cup of tea as opposed to the cliché cup of coffee from Starbucks that morning. As the vice president of Euro Brokers, he rode up the elevator to the 84th floor as he probably did thousands of times before. I suspect he wore very masculine cologne. He has a dashing, roguish look to him and I am certain he charmed everyone he met. It is also my theory that he shook quite a few hands and said "Good morning" to everyone; everyone from the President of the company to the person who emptied the wastebaskets.
Howard just had that look about him. Eyes that twinkled and a warm friendly smile.
He was probably pretty irresistible.
Unless you were part of his family, one of his co-workers or perhaps a friend of his, Howard Selwyn wouldn't mean much to you. However, over the course of the past few weeks, he has come to mean the world to me. When I joined Project 2996, I was reticent. I suffered personal loss that September day. I did not think that I would have the strength or the ability to blog a tribute to a man I didn't know. I didn't want it to sound like a half-assed obituary for a man whose life didn't affect mine. No, this man deserved more than that.
So, I read. I researched. I studied. I Googled.
Eventually, Howard became my friend. He was no longer a stranger to me. His wife, Ruth was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. It was so obvious, so very obvious that he was completely smitten with his bride, despite their being married for a couple of decades.
He is the father of two beautiful boys, James and Alex, both of them dark eyed and dark haired like their handsome father was.
Soon, the coincidences began.
Howard's children, James and Alex, were the same ages as my children; nineteen and ten years old, respectively. Howard was an avid lover of soccer. So am I and both our children played it. He moved to Long Island from the City in 1981. I made that same move that same year as well. Howard worked in the same building of the World Trade Center that my father worked in. As a little girl, I painted those offices with my now deceased father and rode the same elevator that Howard did. Howard lived his dream and opened a soccer sporting goods store named "Soccer Central" in Hewlett, Long Island. He opened that store on August 30th, 2001, the same day I turned 35 years old.
Apparently, Howard and I both were celebrating that day.
His business partner at the soccer store, Joey Zydor, remembers Howard's love for that store and has fond memories of that opening day.
His wife, Ruth, was loving and supportive of her husbands dream. Everyday, after their youngest son, Alex, would get out of school they would head straight to the soccer store.
When he wasn't at the store, he was coaching his son's soccer team, the Hewlett Blue Blasts. Ruth also recalls these moments with a certain fondness and admiration.
All these weeks of studying Howard Selwyn and I finally felt that I had a feel for who he was a person. I felt confident in my ability to honor this man the way he would have wanted, with his love of family being his most outstanding trait. I was proud of what I learned about Howard Selwyn and wanted to share this knowledge with his wife, Ruth.
From all accounts, she and Howard had a marriage much like my husbands and mine. They spent a lot of time laughing with their children, having fun at their own expense and making their way in the world one sweet day at a time.
I wanted to share this with Ruth, a gesture as a mother, wife and fellow American who has not forgotten the events of that day. I wanted her to know what an amazing man I thought he was. I wanted to write her emails and perhaps, start a correspondence or maybe even a friendship that would last a lifetime.
Before I put the final touches on Howards tribute...I would just take one last little peek at his corporate guest book, to make sure I hadn't missed anything. I wanted Ruth and her boys to be able to read it and beam with pride.
And then, much to my dismay...I found this on Howard's guest book page:
Date: 8/28/2006 4:57:26 PM
Name/Hometown: Russell / Leeds
E-Mail: russell@*******.com
Message: Howard, Today you are together with Ruth, who sadly passed away at 6:35 this morning. Tracy, I and Josh love and miss you both so much. We will always be there for Alex and James, we are family and I promise you that we will be there for them unconditionally.
Your loving brother, Russell xx
Allow me, if you will, to include my tears for this woman. Ruth Selwyn had to have been a strong, feisty and incredible woman. My heart remains firmly lodged in my throat, having read this. It brings me peace to know that Howard is now back in the loving arms of his beautiful bride who he married in England back in 1979. It grieves me just as deeply to know their boys are now without their parents.
I could only imagine that every single day that Ruth had to walk this earth without her beloved Howard was a day spent in agony. Although, knowing her as I have come to know her, she probably put on her best and bravest face for her sons. She more than likely remained a stoic presence for them, allowing them to grieve while putting her own feelings of loss on the proverbial backburner.
She strikes me as just that kind of mom.
While some cruel twist of fate stole Howard away from his wife, another twist of fate - or perhaps, destiny - brought them back together once more.
I refuse to mourn Howard and Ruth Selwyn. I refuse to bring up the events of September 11th, 2001 and taint what should be a tribute to a life, not the memory of a death.
I celebrate their life together. I honor them by remembering how fortunate we are to have love enter our lives, even if only for a little while. I will respect their values as parents and always remember that family is first and foremost. Work can always wait a day. Our dreams are what we need to live for.
Neither of you died in vain. Both of your time on this earth was well spent. Your lessons have been bestowed. I have listened and I have learned...and I love you both as much as any friend can love another friend they have never met. No one understands that better than the blogging community.
God bless you both, Howard and Ruth.
Sleep peacefully in one another's arms once more and remember that now you can watch your children live, learn and grow from the most glorious view in the world. I leave you with this, one of my most favorite songs...one that I always sang to my children.
Once there was a way to get back homeward.
Once there was a way to get back home.
Sleep pretty darling, do not cry
and I will sing a lullabye.
Golden slumbers fill your eyes.
Smiles await you when you rise.
Sleep pretty darling, do not cry
and I will sing a lullabye.
"Golden Slumbers"
~The Beatles.
Tonight, I will sing it for you both, for your sons and for the feelings of love, inspiration and hope you have given to me during this time of loss and rememberance.
Sleep well, Mr. and Mrs. Selwyn.
You wouldn't know his name just from reading it here. He wasn't famous. He wasn't legendary. He wasn't scandalous or anyone worth gossiping about in the Enquirer.
Howard Selwyn was a husband, a father, a business partner, a brother and a son.
Howard Selwyn died on September 11th, 2001 on the 84th floor of the World Trade Center Tower Two, the South Tower. He was last seen by one of his colleagues, making a phone call from his desk. Without a doubt, Howard woke up and drove from his home in Hewlett, Long Island, fighting the traffic on the Long Island Expressway in order to be at his place of business on time. I feel his pain. I, too, drove from Long Island into New York City during rush hour traffic on the L.I.E. It's not pretty. It's really only something a true New Yorker could learn to love.
Howard was from Leeds, England originally, so in my mind, I see him stopping for a cup of tea as opposed to the cliché cup of coffee from Starbucks that morning. As the vice president of Euro Brokers, he rode up the elevator to the 84th floor as he probably did thousands of times before. I suspect he wore very masculine cologne. He has a dashing, roguish look to him and I am certain he charmed everyone he met. It is also my theory that he shook quite a few hands and said "Good morning" to everyone; everyone from the President of the company to the person who emptied the wastebaskets.
Howard just had that look about him. Eyes that twinkled and a warm friendly smile.
He was probably pretty irresistible.
Unless you were part of his family, one of his co-workers or perhaps a friend of his, Howard Selwyn wouldn't mean much to you. However, over the course of the past few weeks, he has come to mean the world to me. When I joined Project 2996, I was reticent. I suffered personal loss that September day. I did not think that I would have the strength or the ability to blog a tribute to a man I didn't know. I didn't want it to sound like a half-assed obituary for a man whose life didn't affect mine. No, this man deserved more than that.
So, I read. I researched. I studied. I Googled.
Eventually, Howard became my friend. He was no longer a stranger to me. His wife, Ruth was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. It was so obvious, so very obvious that he was completely smitten with his bride, despite their being married for a couple of decades.
He is the father of two beautiful boys, James and Alex, both of them dark eyed and dark haired like their handsome father was.
Soon, the coincidences began.
Howard's children, James and Alex, were the same ages as my children; nineteen and ten years old, respectively. Howard was an avid lover of soccer. So am I and both our children played it. He moved to Long Island from the City in 1981. I made that same move that same year as well. Howard worked in the same building of the World Trade Center that my father worked in. As a little girl, I painted those offices with my now deceased father and rode the same elevator that Howard did. Howard lived his dream and opened a soccer sporting goods store named "Soccer Central" in Hewlett, Long Island. He opened that store on August 30th, 2001, the same day I turned 35 years old.
Apparently, Howard and I both were celebrating that day.
His business partner at the soccer store, Joey Zydor, remembers Howard's love for that store and has fond memories of that opening day.
"We were tired, because we had to rush everything to get it open, but he was in a great mood," Zydor said. "I miss him. I miss seeing him every day."
His wife, Ruth, was loving and supportive of her husbands dream. Everyday, after their youngest son, Alex, would get out of school they would head straight to the soccer store.
"It was a dream for him, and he saw it through to fruition," she said of her husband's work with the store.
When he wasn't at the store, he was coaching his son's soccer team, the Hewlett Blue Blasts. Ruth also recalls these moments with a certain fondness and admiration.
"He was a well- loved coach," she has said of her husband. "He imparted the love of the game to those he coached."
All these weeks of studying Howard Selwyn and I finally felt that I had a feel for who he was a person. I felt confident in my ability to honor this man the way he would have wanted, with his love of family being his most outstanding trait. I was proud of what I learned about Howard Selwyn and wanted to share this knowledge with his wife, Ruth.
From all accounts, she and Howard had a marriage much like my husbands and mine. They spent a lot of time laughing with their children, having fun at their own expense and making their way in the world one sweet day at a time.
I wanted to share this with Ruth, a gesture as a mother, wife and fellow American who has not forgotten the events of that day. I wanted her to know what an amazing man I thought he was. I wanted to write her emails and perhaps, start a correspondence or maybe even a friendship that would last a lifetime.
Before I put the final touches on Howards tribute...I would just take one last little peek at his corporate guest book, to make sure I hadn't missed anything. I wanted Ruth and her boys to be able to read it and beam with pride.
And then, much to my dismay...I found this on Howard's guest book page:
Date: 8/28/2006 4:57:26 PM
Name/Hometown: Russell / Leeds
E-Mail: russell@*******.com
Message: Howard, Today you are together with Ruth, who sadly passed away at 6:35 this morning. Tracy, I and Josh love and miss you both so much. We will always be there for Alex and James, we are family and I promise you that we will be there for them unconditionally.
Your loving brother, Russell xx
Allow me, if you will, to include my tears for this woman. Ruth Selwyn had to have been a strong, feisty and incredible woman. My heart remains firmly lodged in my throat, having read this. It brings me peace to know that Howard is now back in the loving arms of his beautiful bride who he married in England back in 1979. It grieves me just as deeply to know their boys are now without their parents.
I could only imagine that every single day that Ruth had to walk this earth without her beloved Howard was a day spent in agony. Although, knowing her as I have come to know her, she probably put on her best and bravest face for her sons. She more than likely remained a stoic presence for them, allowing them to grieve while putting her own feelings of loss on the proverbial backburner.
She strikes me as just that kind of mom.
While some cruel twist of fate stole Howard away from his wife, another twist of fate - or perhaps, destiny - brought them back together once more.
I refuse to mourn Howard and Ruth Selwyn. I refuse to bring up the events of September 11th, 2001 and taint what should be a tribute to a life, not the memory of a death.
I celebrate their life together. I honor them by remembering how fortunate we are to have love enter our lives, even if only for a little while. I will respect their values as parents and always remember that family is first and foremost. Work can always wait a day. Our dreams are what we need to live for.
Neither of you died in vain. Both of your time on this earth was well spent. Your lessons have been bestowed. I have listened and I have learned...and I love you both as much as any friend can love another friend they have never met. No one understands that better than the blogging community.
God bless you both, Howard and Ruth.
Sleep peacefully in one another's arms once more and remember that now you can watch your children live, learn and grow from the most glorious view in the world. I leave you with this, one of my most favorite songs...one that I always sang to my children.
Once there was a way to get back homeward.
Once there was a way to get back home.
Sleep pretty darling, do not cry
and I will sing a lullabye.
Golden slumbers fill your eyes.
Smiles await you when you rise.
Sleep pretty darling, do not cry
and I will sing a lullabye.
"Golden Slumbers"
~The Beatles.
Tonight, I will sing it for you both, for your sons and for the feelings of love, inspiration and hope you have given to me during this time of loss and rememberance.
Sleep well, Mr. and Mrs. Selwyn.
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