Happy Birthday to my Halloweenie!

Halloween.

My favorite holiday. Love it. Went dressed to work as a witch today. OM tells me "My, that's not really appropriate work attire." I told her "I am merely dressing what everyone thinks of me anyway. Witch with a B, isn't that right?" Then, we both did that "hehehehehhe" fake laugh that women do at one another that loosely translates to 'fuck off and die, rag'.

Left work at noon. Nick had his appointment with the cardiologist today. Bittersweet. The same day I lost my other son, I am going back to the very place where it all happened, to make sure that my surviving baby is in tact, doing well and that the old heart is doing what it should be. I am thrilled to report that Nick's heart is banging away like a hooker during "Fleet Week". The fluid around his heart is gone and his EKG came back completely normal.

This merely reaffirms my love of Halloween. Love. Love. Love.

I take my baby trick or treating tonight. He is a little zombie. I am his witch mother. I am not sure who the hotband is supposed to be. Kind of like a dead Fred Durst. Limp Bizkit afterlife I think. Still looked sexy as hell, for a dead guy. Here are some pics from the evening. My son went trick or treating in one of the more high falutent areas near by, so his haul was pretty impressive. Of course, I have already removed all the candy that I deemed too dangerous to be consumed by him. (Translation: All the good shit that mom wants to eat). He accused me of leaving him all the "crappy candy". I feigned being hurt, said something about motherly concern and my duties and responsibilities to him as his mother. He apologized. I ate all his Twix bars as compensation for the duress he caused me.

Here's a pic of me getting the zombiechild ready:
I think that I am some sort of make-up artist. Look how seriously I am taking my job. No one can apply 99 cent K-Mart makeup in quite the same fashion as I can. You can just see the talent oozing out of my pores. Either that, or you can gaze lovingly upon the obvious nip slip I got going on. Yes. Falling out of my top. I am bringing sexy back, and sticking it all up in my childs face. Someone call the cops. My son, however, is strangely unaware of this and once again restores my faith in mankind. He either A) Remembers that that breast used to be an all you can eat buffet or B) he is the gay prodigy I always believed he would become. Perhaps there is a C) He is just really not paying any attention. I'm gonna put my money on B...but with a hopeful C rising.

Here is the finished product. My little zombie. Doesn't he look awesome? I really don't feel the boy needs makeup to be scary, but somehow, sending him out into the cold cruel world of trick or treating without a costume can prove to be fatal in these parts. Old people slam the doors in the faces of children without costumes. They won't part with their linty old Dum Dum lollipops that have been in the bottom of their purses since 1967 if you aren't entertaining them with some sort of get up.

This picutre is my zombie, my father in law in the background and my nephew, Andrew. Andrew is dressed as a toilet bowl. I think this speaks hugely about the boys self-esteem. Hi. I will be dressing up for Halloween as something you can take a dump in. Don't I just ooze self confidence? I think, in some ways, you have to be pretty confident to wear that costume. It just screams "Please kick my ass. I so deserve it". And no, my nephew is not grabbing his crotch. My sister in law, in her infinite wisdom, decided to rig a supersoaker up to the water part of the toilet bowl. Therefore, when people look into it after lifting the lid, Andrew may proceed to "pee" in their face. Tremendously good fun! If the costume alone isn't enough to get your ass kicked, pissing in someones eye will surely get the job done.

Next stop on our tour, the witch, the zombie and the dead fred durst wannabee. I have no idea who the Hotband was supposed to be. All I know is that I was in overdrive with the makeup and wanted him to share the moment. I slapped Samantha's bucket hat on his head and whoosh, a dead post grunge era star was born.

After assraping the neighborhood for candy, multiple near misses getting hit by cars, two people almost kicking the crap out of my nephew for peeing in their faces and three hundred and forty nine screams of "NICHOLAS GET THE FRIG OFFA PEOPLES DAMN LAWNS", we finally headed back to my ex-in-laws house (yes, home of the Bad Daddy) for Nick's birthday cake. I was greeted by the monstrosity you see at the left. A Carvel Police Car. Nothing says, "future criminal" like getting your child a police car Carvel cake. Please note that the wheels are not even REAL Oreos. Not even those wannabee Oreos called Hydrox (which to me, always sounded more like a pain killer or pimple medicine than a cookie). They are like those dollar store, welfare cookies. Oy.

Eventually, Sam came home from a late night at work and joined us. By this time, Fred Dawn of the Dead Durst had washed off his makeup. However, his nose, being the large tree like protrusion it is, absorbed some of the white makeup. He looks like he has a bad case of vitiligo. Maybe a little Hydrox can cure it.

This ends our big Halloween adventure. Do I not look radiant? Positively glowing? That is because every single Halloween that passes means my son is further and further away from being that sickly baby who nearly died moments after his birth. That inner glow comes from 11 years of being able to love this child, to nurture him, to watch him grow from a weak and feeble little infant to the big strapping boy he is today. Every Halloween, there isn't enough makeup in the world to conceal my love for this child. He is strong, resilient and has an insatiable quest for knowledge. He is inquisitive. He is thoughtful. He has a very deep thought process and the old soul of a wise elder. When I look at him, I am reminded of all I have been blessed with in this world. My beautiful daughter. My exquisite husband. My career, my home and the ability to live comfortably. I'm even grateful for Esther and Harold, for if not for their existance, I would have far less blog fodder.

Halloween has always been my favorite holiday. Now more than ever, it continues to be so. Let me close this post with a little note to my son.

Dear Nicky,

Happy birthday to my sweet little Halloweenie. Just so you know, you will forever be indebted to me. Why, you ask? Your father wanted to name you Frankie, after Frankenstein. He also wanted to name your brother Drak. Now that you have that knowledge, please worship your mother as the Goddess of all Things Decent and Kind, Nick. I obviously won that battle and you shall not have to pay for it for the rest of your life with daily beatings outside the cafeteria at 3pm. Those shall soley be reserved for your cousin Andrew, the toilet bowl. PS: Never let the school bully convince you that a "swirly" is a type of ice cream. I assure you, there is no ice cream in the boys bathroom. Again, save that for your cousin.

Love eternally,
Your Mummy.

Daddy...or, who's your daddy?

That is the question.

I am so pissed right now, I would shoot metal spikes out of my ass if I could.

Last night, I take my baby boy to his first "Howl-O-Scream" event ever. Everyone was going to celebrate Nick's birthday. After all, this baby boy was born on Halloween. No greater honor was ever bestowed upon an infant, 'cept maybe for that baby Jesus guy who had a holiday named after his birth. Nick-oween? I like it. Let's go with that.

I am there. The hotband is there. My sister in law and my nephew are there. My father in law is there. My daughter is there. Even my sister in laws "flavor of the week" manages to be there on time, ready to rock and roll. We get a call from Nick's father, my ex-husband.

"We're just about in the park, we're turning into the lot now."

Great. You're already late, asshole. But fine, we'll wait.

Five minutes later, another phonecall.

Apparently, Daddy Dearest and his flavor of the past six months, let's call her...um...Crotchrot, were just in a car accident.

"An accident," I say to the hotband. "How? They were just coming into the park!"

"Rear-ended," Hotband whispers to me while nodding and talking to the ex-husband. "Can't come. Police on the way. Crotchrot going to hospital. He can't come."

"What the fuck," screeches the Certifiable One.

"Whuzza mattah, mommy?" The sound of Nick's voice snaps me back into mommy mode. I explain, gently and lovingly, what happened to his Dad.

"Your stupid ass father managed to get into a friggin' car accident while turning into the parking lot. Crotchrot (I used her real name, People. Don't call Child Protective Services on me!) has to go to the Emergency Room and your frickin' father is going with her."

"Excuse me," says Nick. "He is picking Crotchrot (real name used) over me?"

"No baby, it's just...well, she supposedly got hurt in the accident, so he is just gonna take her to the hospital and get her checked out."

"Right," he says. "Her over me. Again. I didn't even want her to come in the first place."

This only serves to fuel my fire. I start dialing my ex's cellphone. I step away from the child. I know this is going to get ugly.

"What," he answers.

"What? How about your son is sitting here, completely upset that you are going to the hospital with your ADULT girlfriend, while not bothering to show up to your sons 11th birthday party, that's WHAT!"

"Excuse me," he says, "but I was just in an accident."

"So? You're always in accidents! You are the worst fuckin' driver on the planet. You're the only person I know that could get their car totalled while it sits in the driveway!"

True story, by the way.

"You are such a bitch," he says.

"Say it again, slowly," I reply. "It's like foreplay, only it lasts longer than you usually do."

We're obviously in full on battle mode. It happens from time to time, especially when the children are concerned. Normally the ex husband and I get along perfectly like Bruce, Ashton and Demi. But, we are exes for a reason and that reason namely consisted of priorities. His versus mine.

"Look, my girlfriend is on her way to the hospital..."

"Why? What happened? She break one of her three inch ghetto nails?"

"I don't have to explain myself to you."

"No, you sure don't. But your son is crying, he doesn't even want to go into his own party now. Can't you just deposit her at the ER and come back here? Unless she's near death, I'm sure she'd understand that you need to be with your child on his BIRTHDAY!!!!"

"I'll get there when I can get there."

*click*

I am ready to tear of his head and shit down his throat.

"What did Daddy say, Mommy?"

"Listen baby," I begin, "Daddy has to take (real name) to the hospital. She got hurt in the accident. Dad would much rather be here with you, but he has to make sure that she is okay. So, Daddy said, go into the park, have fun...and he'll see you as soon as he can. Okay?"

Nick is giving me the devil eye, letting me know that no, it is very much NOT okay.

Two hours pass. No dad. Finally, he calls Hotbands phone.

"I'll get her settled in at the hospital and then, I'll try to make it over there."

We relay this to Nick.

Three more hours pass. Park is closing. Dad never even calls.

"Well," says my beautiful baby boy, "I guess dad made his choice."

"It wasn't his choice, Nick," I say quietly.

"Yes it was, Mom. He could have called me. He could have stayed in touch and unless she was bleeding to death, he should have been here with me."

I didn't answer him. To dispute that statement would have made me a hypocrite. I felt the same exact way. Instead, I just gave him a hug and a kiss on top of his mop of curly hair.

"Did you have a good time tonight?"

"Don't change the subject, Mom."

"I'm not changing it, baby. I'm making a point. Did you have a good time?"

"Yeah. It was awesome."

"Okay, then...if anything, you should feel bad for your dad. He totally missed this awesome time because he had to sit in a hospital with (Crotchrot) instead of being here with you."

"No he didn't, Mom. He could have chosen to be here. He didn't."

"I'm sure he would have been here if he could have been."

"Whatever."

"Nick, he is stuck in an emergency room instead of being here, having a blast with the rest of us. If anything, feel bad for him...not be mad at him!"

"Again, Mom. Whatever."

Yes, Nick. Inwardly, I agree with you. Whatever. Short of hemorrhaging out of my ass and eyes, nothing would have stopped me from being with my son on his birthday. Nothing. But, A. and I are not the same kind of people. If we were of similar thought process, perhaps we would still be married.

Thank GOD we were that different.

Nevertheless, this got me thinking. Six months into my relationship with the Hotband, would I have blown off my kids birthday party because he was in the hospital? For me, the answer is a resounding NO. Even if I had wanted to sit at his side in an emergency room, the Hotband would have said No, go be with your kid. I'll be fine. I mean, unless he was in critical condition, I would still feel obligated to be with my son. A. and Crotchrot were in a fender bender for Gawds sake! How hurt could she possibly be?

And then, I remember why my ex-husband is my ex-husband.

He was never reliable. Always put other things before me and the kids. Never had his priorities straight. Was always more about the pussy than the parenting. Self involved, self-indulgent and self-righteous. That's who he was. Why would I expect that to change now?

Because having children changed me. I simply assumed it would work that way for everyone.

I find out that Crotchrot's injuries consist of some back pain and some neck pain. Wow. There's a reason to have your boyfriend babysit your ugly ass all night instead of encouraging him to go be with his son. Mm. Sarcasm for breakfast. My all time favorite.

So? Seriously, y'all. Am I being selfish? Is he? Is Nick?

A. never called us back to update the situation. Never even called his son. It's now 9:30 in the morning, and we still have yet to hear from him.

Good Lawd. Maybe Crotchrot broke TWO of her three inch ghetto nails. Now THAT would constitute an emergency room trip.

Okay. I'm being catty. But I'm pissed off for my little boy.

With this in mind, I pose to you, Dear Reader. In the same situation, what would you do? Would you leave your girlfriend of six months at the hospital to catch up with your son for his birthday? Would you, as the girlfriend, encourage your boyfriend to go be with his kid? Would you feel an obligation to stay with this girl in the Emergency Room or would your obligation to your son be far greater?

4 pm UPDATE: Turns out that Crotchrot "fractured her cheekbone" which means that A) She wasn't wearing her seatbelt or B) She had her head buried in his lap when the accident happened and her face hit the steering wheel. Regardless, she did have an injury, however unsubstantial I may feel it is. I am trying to be fair here. But, I also feel I have to add this. In 2003, my husband almost died. He broke his femur, threw a bloodclot up into his lung and was in ICU for two weeks. In that time, I DID go home. I had to. I had children to take care of. I readied them for school, took care of their homework obligations, picked my little one up from school, etc. Then, I would run back to the hospital to sit with my critically ill HUSBAND (not girlfriend of six months!). I suppose this is why I find it so difficult to swallow. Crotchrot has family here in Florida. They could have come and sit with her in the emergency room, no? Or, am I being completely petty...and more interested in Nick's welfare than in someone else's. Don't get me wrong, just because I call her Crotchrot, doesn't mean I don't like her. I do actually like the girl. I just don't like her enough to destroy eight years worth of divorced parenting tradition.

Happy Halloween

For as long as I can remember, Halloween has always been my favorite holiday. I got so much more into the gore and guts of Halloween than I did the lights and delights of Christmas, that my mother nearly checked me into therapy over it. At fourteen years old, while everyone was in the Christmas/Channukah spirit, I wanted to watch movies like "Psycho" and "Dawn of the Dead" or, my particular favorite holiday movie, Faces of Death. I was all about Halloween.

Until 1995.

On Halloween of 1995, my son was born. This marked the beginning of the end of Happy Halloweens for me. My nights spent wandering haunted houses and going to midnight madness movies were over. Halloween would now entail little boy birthday parties. Bowling parties, in costume. Roller skating parties, in costume. Pizza parties, in costume.

And every year that would go by, no more going to Halloween Horror Nights, or Scary Fantasy Festivals, or Haunted Hayrides. No. I would be inundated with something far more scary than ghouls and goblins.

Little children on buttercream highs. Argh. The sheer horror of it all.

This year, that finally changes.

My son, who is turning 11 on Halloween, has opted to spend his Halloween at a theme park where they are featuring a horror night! Howl-O-Scream at Busch Gardens! Finally! My thoughts may return to vampires, werewolves and mummies instead of fruitpunch, pin the tail on the donkey and mommies. Yeeeee haw!

Turns out my little werewolf loves a good scare as much as his momma does.

He loves movies like Friday the 13th, and the Halloween series as well as anything that has to do with Freddy Krueger. Thank goodness. My daughter, who at 20 years old, is still a Disney Queen and has visions of sugarplums dancing in her head. She lives for Christmastime, especially when we spend Christmas in New York. I thought there was no hope for a child who will share my love for the gore and macabre of Halloween.

If I were in New York for Halloween, however, I know exactly where I would be!

On October 31st, FrightWorld The Movie World Premiere will be held at Frightworld Haunted Amusement. For those of you who are real horror movie buffs, you will already know all about Frightworld and Red Scream Films. They shot the film Prison of the Psychotic Damned in the world famous New York Buffalo Central Terminal, an old railroad station that was closed to the public back in 1979. The place is absolutely eerie, despite it now being the host of various events. It is still an abandoned railway station...and you never quite lose the feeling of the willies once you walk in there! The building was reopened to the public back in 2003 for tours and events like the filming and premieres of the Red Scream Films.


If you are a fan of hardcore horror, the music that accompanies it and the B-movie scream queens, you NEED to be at this event. I know I have a ton of New Yorkers who read...Deb? LisaB? Annie? Last Girl? NYC Watchdog? Any of you ever been out to the Buffalo Terminal? Any of you planning to go out to this event? It is going to include live music from:

Marazene
Any Question
Obomatic
Punch Drunk
Imbued Vagary
Machine Gun Symphony/Charlie Drown
Synthetic Dream Foundation
Darker Days Tomorrow
Apikorism
Sick Machine
Abandcalledpain
Tearwave
and, my favorite of the bunch, Sanity. (AWESOME band! Click the site! Listen to the song "Close My Eyes" and "Stay Away".)


Think about it. Horror movie. Old abandoned train station. Movie was filmed IN the train station...and now, you are sitting in that same setting, watching the premiere of the movie and all the live bands playing there. Meet and greet with the stars of the horror film. Hello? Halloween heaven for a freak ass bitch like myself.

I told the hotband about it. His eyes lit up and he said (and I quote) "fucking cool!". He loves this kind of shit too.

Yes, my love. Fucking cool, indeed.

I am hoping, for my sons 18th birthday, they will be running a similar event so I can have a real mother/son bonding moment with my Nick. Anyway, if any of you can make it there, take lots of pics so I can live vicariously through you! Yet another reason why moving from New York City to Florida sucks like Dracula on a bender.

For anyone who is interested, Frightworld, the Dark Amusement, is located at 8075 Sheridan Drive, Williamsville, NY.

Interested in a sneak peek preview of Frightworld? Click here. If you love movies like Saw, Hostel and Texas Chainsaw Massacre, you will love the movies of Red Scream.

Don't blame me if you can't sleep tonight.


Booooooooooo.

Psychiatrist visit #4.

Me: I have to say, I am kind of happy that you didn't yawn today.

Him: Really? Why is that?

Me: Why is that? Um, because it was a little rude and insulting when you yawned while I was talking the first time I saw you.

Him: Hm. Did you ever consider that perhaps you were boring?

Me: *stunned silence*

Him: I'm only kidding.

Me: I hate you.

Lions and Tigers and Sharks...Oh My!

Hotband and I are in the midst of buying a home.

I have to admit, I am more fortunate than most. Before my life as a nurse came to pass, I was a mortgage broker and loan processor. Esther is a multi-million dollar real estate agent. Harold is a mortgage banker. My grandfather was one of the first major real estate salesmen in New York City and dined with the likes of Fred Trump (Donald's Dad). Real estate is in my blood...and despite the fact that it kept my family and I well-fed for a long time, I have no love for it any longer.

Nothing about the mortgage industry is cut and dry. Nothing. The hardest thing you will ever do is buy your first home. Back in the day, and way before Al Gore invented the internet, we didn't have a vast plethora of information out there to safeguard potential buyers/borrowers. You relied on your broker and hoped they weren't ripping you off blind with fancy words for money like "points", "percentages" and "the back end".

90% of the time, you were had.

There are websites now to guide you through the process, such as PersonalHomeLoanMortgages.com which assist borrowers to understand the mortgage process. More importantly, the site offers tips on how to spot and avoid mortgage fraud and data abuse. What does the Princess mean by data abuse?

Do you know that every single time you apply with various mortgage companies, your information can be SOLD to advertising corporations? Yes. Even if you don't go with that particular lender, they still have your information on file and POOF, all of a sudden you have tons of fliers, mails, emails and phone calls for things you never signed up for. Oh yes, my friends. You are being sold out like vulcan ears at a Star Trek convention.

Nothing pisses me off more than unsolicited spam, except maybe pouring a bowl of cereal and discovering we're out of milk.

Anyway, before you go out there and start sailing through unchartered waters, get online and do your homework, People. Places like the one I mentioned have forums where you can talk with others and helpful industry content so you can learn the lingo. Surely you want to know as much as the person on the other side of the desk, no?

Hotband and I are very lucky. Being Esther and Harold's daughter, and the prodigy of my pedigree bloodline, I have access to Real Estate Attorneys by the score, right in my own family. Not everyone is as fortunate. Believe me when I tell ya, the real estate/mortgaging industry is a shark tank. So, if you ever see a shark in a bright yellow jacket with a basket of bagels and a schmear, it's probably my mother. You can further recognize her by the little suckerfish with the briefcase attached to her dorsal fin. That would be my father, the mortgage banker.

Be smarter. Do your homework. And never, ever let them see you sweat.

They can smell money and fear in a real estate deal like chum in the water.

Ways to be a Better Patient Part 23483c:

Please.

Do not come to my office without an appointment. Unless you are shooting fire out of your rectum, there is not a chance in hell I am going to allow you to be seen before the 800 people I already have out in the waiting room. Please do not tell me you are a "personal friend" of the Doctor. You aren't. You are his patient. He has over three thousand brand new "personal friends" to see this year alone. I understand you have been coming to him since your first pubic hair sprouted and now you are in diapers and dentures. However, this does not make you more special than the other patients who have been waiting weeks to get in. Also, please do not tell me "it's an emergency" when it isn't. An emergency may consist of the following:

1) Blood. Not a little shmear on the bandage. I am talking copious amounts of fluid. Not a few trickles. Not a dot or two. We are talking period flow kind of blood. Less than that, slap a bandaid on it and we'll see you tomorrow.

2) Pain. Pain is a surefire way to get into the docs office. But, when you get there, don't start pointing out your ingrown toenail, your hairy mole or a fat zit on your ass. If you are in pain, then let's focus on your pain. If you are using it as an excuse to get into the office, I promise, myself and the other nurses will make your experience miserable. Trust a bitch.

3) Breathing, or rather, lack of it. This is an emergency, although I have to be honest. If you are calling your dermatologist because you can't breathe...you should also make a quick stop at K-Mart for a blue light special of common sense. Go to the emergency room. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200...but please expect to pay your co-pay.

Another way to be a better patient? Please do not get offended when I ask you if you smoke. It is obvious to me that you stink like a tobacco plant and that if you were wearing red and white, I would mistake you for a pack of walking Marlboro's. If the stink of your clothing doesn't give it away, your spotty fingertips, your yellow teeth and of course, your voice that sounds like you ate concrete for lunch will surely give you away. I am not asking if you smoke because I am judging you. I am asking because our doctors require us to ask. Certain procedures don't go well with smokers. More than likely, assume a bitch already KNOWS you smoke...and just answer the damn question, a'aight?

Want more, bitches? Paper gowns? Yeah. Throw them away at the end of your visit. I am not your maid. It is paper. I am not going to send it out to be laundered, Rocket Scientist. We don't recycle paper gowns. I don't think any doctors office does. There is a garbage can strategically placed in the middle of the room where you can see it. Try throwing the gown out when you leave.

Sure. There's more, but I don't want to overwhelm you. I will happily provide you with tips to be a better patient at least once a month.

And remember, if you screw up?

Dunkin' Donuts for the nurse will rectify all your medical etiquette faux pas.

Deep thoughts of a Jewish Princess...

I was reading FARK the other day, as I always do. Someone posed a rather interesting question. If you could go back in time and tell your 12 year old self ONE thing and one thing only, what would that one thing be?

The difficulty of the assignment?

You cannot give that 12 year old you stock tips, lottery numbers, hints to purchase anything like Yahoo or Google etc. Nothing that will make them infinately rich. Rather, the advice would be something for them either to avoid, or to go for, to change or remove from their life so there would be no regrets.

So, with that in mind...what would the adult YOU tell the 12 year old YOU right now to make their life fuller, happier and better?

My answer is in the comments, exactly the way I posted it to Fark.com.

I'm curious to hear yours.

The fashionista returns...

all the clothes from the last bipolar episode.

Oh well.

Anyway, I did keep the 7 For All Mankind jeans and this ultra suede sweater jacket. Look, if I am going to be plagued with a disorder, I might as well be fashionably gorgeous while suffering, no? Don't hate.

I have plagued you with my passion for purses. Stymied your minds with my insatiable love for shoes and now, I reveal to you my newest love interest, B.Dina jewelry.

While I completely admit to being trendy to point of nauseum, I also like things that no one else has. (The Hotband for example, being one of those favorite things). I get sent ads now and then to "check this out", so, I check. Curiousity not only kills the cat, but it depletes its bank account as well. Like a good fashionista, I go check out B.Dina jewelry.

And it was there that I fell in love with this amber and silver necklace.


Do you LOVE it? It is going to be so hot with my new Darby Scott handbag with the rock straps that y'all said you hated so much.

Besides, the jewelry from this site is all fashioned by new Northwestern artists. That means that they aren't crazy overexposed just yet and I will have this really cool bling well before it falls into the hands of Lindsay Lohan or Paris Hilton.

Feh.

Once they have it, I no longer want it.

I think that's how Paris Hilton picks her boyfriends too.

i dun screwed up, big time...

First of all, let me clear up a few things, alright?

1) We did give our PA the card with the money in it to donate to his charity. We all punched out, walked over to the next building, so we were off company property, called him over to us...and gave it to him. He was completely overwhelmed, flattered and thankful. He deserved that. What did L-Rex do for him? Hm, well, let's see. First she (actually, one of her "lounge lizards") bought some crap ass 99 cent card for him, had everyone sign it...and then, they lost the card. Yeah. Lost it. These are the people that L-Rex puts in charge when she is out. People who can't manage a card signing. I feel safe, don't you? Then, they come up with the rocket scientist idea to order an assload of pizza for the man for his "celebration lunch". Okay, first off? The celebration is a week late. Nothing says, "I forgot" like just ordering some Papa Johns for 20 people at 11:30, to be delivered at 12:30. Second? The man doesn't even EAT PIZZA!!!! He is on a very strict diet due to health precautions. Hm. Maybe for my birthday they will buy me some peanut butter coconut cake...seeing as I am deathly allergic to both. I feel really good about the fact that we did this for the PA, despite what came from L-Rex command center. I will always feel good about it...even as I am applying for unemployment.

2) No, I didn't get fired. Yet.

3) I had a slip up. For those of you who know me for a long time, you know I have bipolar disorder. Not the "cool" kind, where like...crazy is the new black. Everyone wants to have some sort of disorder to sound mysterious or intriguing. I have genuine, diagnosed, on medication, going to therapy bipolar disorder. Whenever I hear/see people saying "OMG, I am like...TTTTTOTALLY nuts, like, so manic, like...so bipolar and schizophrenic", I want to vomit. Why. Why would anyone WANT to have a depressive disorder? Is it chic? Shall I start making purses with a "BPD" logo on it? Maybe my Cymbalta will show up on the cover of Vogue...the big fashion issue. Anyway, back to me. (Narcissism, an indication of BPD). When I fall off the wagon, it doesn't mean I have stopped taking my meds. It means that I have engaged in some high risk behaviors that are really stupid, completely irresponsible and in some instances, overwhelmigly dangerous. I go through bouts of superiority complex. Not a huge deal, until you start getting up into the faces of authority figures. For example, the whole thing with the PA and the card? I had to do it. It was defiant and I was told not to. I should have recognized the symptoms, they were brewing. Last night? I did something that I will not discuss on my blog. No, I didn't cheat on my husband. I was WITH my husband when I did it...but it was stupid. Very stupid. And irresponsible. This morning, I sat out in my car, waiting for it to turn 7:30 am. I am supposed to be in the building at 7:30 am, already clocked in and ready to work. I am on probation right now for my excessive absences and lateness (also a product of my BPD. I can't get out of bed some mornings so I make up fake reasons to stay home or be late). Yet, despite probation, I literally got to my parking lot at 7:14 and watched the clock turn to 7:30. Then, I bolted from my car, raced in to the office, punched in at 7:31 and hence, I was late.

I did it on purpose.

My husband left for Georgia tonight. Road trip. He has to take a class. Okay. No sweat. It's only one night. We've been separated before...no big deal, right?

Wrong.

I drove past my house on the way home. I wanted to stop and give blood. I had a very desperate urge to have my blood drawn. My husband was on the phone with me and asked me to please wait until he is in town so he can go with me. Okay, so I do. Now, I am sitting in my car, driving around town with this insane "urge". I can't define it. I cannot begin to describe it. Think of the worst craving you have ever had for anything in your life...be it sex, chocolate, food, drink, whatever...and then, lift that to a much higher plane of existence.

I was consumed.

One of the many many recognizable symptoms of bipolar disorder is the inability to control ones self. I do that...by shopping. I turned my car into Ross' parking lot. I was literally in the store for no more than 15 minutes. In those fifteen minutes, I bought seven sweaters (um, I live in Florida. Today was 92 degrees), one bathing suit (do you see the contradiction? It's not even my size.), seven more shirts...all identical style but in different colors and a pair of pajama pants that I felt compelled to own, even though I have more pajama pants than most Victoria's Secret stores.

By the time I left, I had spent nearly $500.00.

I just put aside the bags, the receipts and the clothes, except for a few of the tops and two sweaters for my daughter (who is going to New York in December. See how I can rationalize a purchase?) Tomorrow, I will take it all back. Or not. I go to my therapist tomorrow. But, since the asshole yawns during my sessions, I doubt I will respect him enough to listen to what he has to say. My husband will be back tomorrow night. He will help me return the clothes on Saturday, I'm sure.

I should have seen it coming.

I bought $72 worth of shoes online the other night. Snow boots.

Remember, I live in Florida.

I am thinking of just going to drink a bottle of wine, sitting in the middle of my living room and just vegging out until tomorrow morning. I feel better during the daylight hours. At night, I am on edge. I feel strangely vampiric. I want to go out, race my car along backroads with the lights out and put myself in a great deal of danger. I love the rush.

What I don't love is my inability to control my own emotions.

I think if I read one more blog where a person says, "hee hee hee, I'm crazy!" I am going to lose my ever-loving fucking mind.

In other news, one of our patients just told me she runs a brothel down in St. Petersburg, Florida. She makes $70 per each girls customer a day. Let's do whoremath, shall we?

10 sluts x 10 horny men = 100 fucks.

100 fucks x 70 bucks a fuck = $7000.00 a DAY...to do nothing but rent out hotel rooms to whores and their johns.

So tell me.

Why exactly did I go to college?

Jurassic Park: The Home Version.

I love my job.

I love my job.

I love my job.

If I repeat it enough times, perhaps I can brainwash myself into believing it. There is a substantial difference between loving ones work, and loving ones job. I love being a nurse. To me, there is nothing more gratifying in the world. However, my job? That's a tough one. I know there is bullshit in every office. There is gossiping, backstabbing, criticizing and rumors anywhere you have 3 or more women working in close proximity to one another. "Sisterhood" is crap. It doesn't exist among women who work together. Every woman at your job that smiles at you is doing so only because she is picturing you dressed as a speedbump. That way, when she plows the bus over you, she'll feel better about herself. Catty, catty meow meow bitches.

I speak from experience. I have a bit of "meow" in me, too.

The Queen Bee ruler of all things Backstabbing is my office manager, L-Rex. I call her that because she reminds us of a crazy assed dinosaur, a T-Rex specifically, appearing stealthy, fangs bared and ready to rip the head off of her prey at the drop of dime. When she shows up at work, the air gets thick, full of electricity. Creatures stop moving. No one breathes. We wait, patiently, full of fear, to see what type of mood the L-Rex is in today. If she smiles when she walks in, we all breathe a collective sigh of relief. If she proceeds directly to her office without greeting anyone...look the hell out. My office slowly becomes Jurassic Park, with the squawk of pteradactyls hovering like vultures, waiting to devour the carcass of anyone the L-Rex eats alive.

The L-Rex is a commonbreed. You might recognize it also by its latin origin, "officio managerio". They are usually female, in their 50's, with talons and fangs. They are loud. Very loud. Eardrum rupture loud. They have a chronic need to be the center of attention. More experienced carnivores will want to be the center of the universe. They have terrible sense of style, generally wearing pantyhose with open toed shoes. (If you are guilty of that, let me be the first to tell you...people are talking about you. Big fashion faux pas. Please stop. Stop now.) They commonly wear crosses and little angel pins on their lapels to give the illusion that they are "goodus peopleus".

They are not. That is the officio managerio in its chameleon clothing.

Just below the surface lies the blood sucking carnivore that watches your timecard, traces your phonecalls, gets so deep into your business that you would swear they were your own mother and tells you what to do with your life both on and off the clock.

The Officio Managerio, or in my case, L-Rex, is scary.

This past week was Bosses' Day. The office staff made lunch for the doctors. We all cooked (except for me, I had the hotband make his world famous Fruit Salad). The docs were well fed and happy. While doing surgery with our Physicians Assistant, he "mentioned" that L-Rex had forgotten all about Physician Assistant Day. He knows this is because she does not like him. Why WOULD she like him? He's intelligent, shrewd, very popular and the doctors, nurses and entire staff completely respect him.

All, but L-Rex.

Anyway, I feel horrible that we all let Bosses Day overshadow the wonderful work that our PA does for us. I get in touch with my girl, D., who I work with. She's a goddess with scrapbooking and card making. She sets to work on a gorgeous handmade wonder for our beloved P.A. Then, she comes up with the brilliant idea to collect money on behalf of the staff for a donation to a charity that our PA works with. It is something he is very passionate about, supplying children from his homeland of the Phillipines with books, school supplies and other needs. We figure, if each of us just give five bucks each, we would have $100 to give him. What a nice gesture that would be. Yes, everyone all agrees...and I set about collecting the money from everyone.

The next morning, I am advised by one of L-Rex's lounge lizards that L-Rex does not like the idea of us doing this. (You can recognize the species of lounge lizard, also known as "sucko uppios", by their distinctively brown noses.)

"It's giving him a gift," she says. "We didn't give the doctors any gifts."

"It's not giving him a gift," I counter. "We are donating the money to the charity he works for. That's not a gift. That's a donation."

"Bottomline, I don't want it happening. If it was Christmas, that would be different."

"I'm a Jew. We donate to charity all the time, without it being Christmas. Ask Jesus. He's a Jew. He'll tell you."

She smiles that snarly, snorty smile; the one that says, Look bitch, my patience is running very thin. I am about to tear your fat Jew ass to shreds with my terribly pedicured toe talons. Don't fuck with me.

"Well then," I say recognizing the look and knowing it is time to beat a hasty retreat out of the L-Rex's lair, "forget it."

"Okay, CP. Buh bye, now!"

I leave the room, collapsing into the wall, hoping to blend in. If I stay really still, maybe she will lose my scent. Maybe I should toss a dead kitten in there for her to gnaw on and forget about me. Mercifully, the phone rings in her lair. She is screaming in banchee at her delinquent adult son. Sweet.

I make my getaway.

So far, we have collected $60, being very cautious not to include the brown-nosed sucko uppios in our plan. Hotband and I are going to chip in the final $40 to make up for the deficit. It's truly a shame that we had to leave certain people out of this very decent gesture because they are too afraid of L-Rex and the reprocussions of going against her word.

The way I see it, it's my money. She can't tell me how I can spend it. She can't tell me who I can give my money to. And, once I am punched out, it is no longer her shot to call. So, while I am well aware that this gesture can get me fired, at this point, it is a matter of principle. The L-Rex has a very distinct trait as well.

It is a complete control freak. It will not allow lesser species to do anything without it first being okay'd by her or without it being her idea. This was not her idea, nor did she agree to it. But, she did say, "what a nice idea it was though, bless your hearts."

L-Rex's say "bless your heart" when they want to soften the blow of saying no. Perhaps she thinks it makes her sound like less of a monster when she concludes with that fake "bless your little heart". Others may fall for that shit.

Certifiable Princesses do not. We are a much more shrewd breed.

Tomorrow, at the end of the work day, we, the few, the proud...the dinosaur hunters, will gather together in the tribal parking lot. We will present out P.A. with our humble gesture of gratitude. We understand that there may be brown nosed sucko uppio's in the vicinity, waiting to communicate with the L-Rex through a series of high pitched squeals and low gutteral growls. The L-Rex sees all (mainly because of the surveillance cameras she has all over the place) and we are ready to stand together and face her in the throes of combat.

While we gentle herbivores realize that we are no match for the carnivorous L-Rex, we are willing to break through the fence of Jurassic Park.

There will be carnage.

There will be bloodshed.

Lives will be lost. Probably jobs too.

Hopefully, we can all come back to our humble positions as lowly sloths on the food chain, just as soon as the L-Rex becomes extinct.

I suspect hell will freeze over long before the ice age commeth.

Nick Update...finally.

I tried so hard to keep up with all of your comments.

I failed. I suck. I know.

But, hello? 158 of them? I'm only human! A divine species of princess human, but, human nevertheless. Recognize.

Nick is doing substantially better. His fever has been down for more than 24 hours now. He received his final two shots of Rocephin into his legs. Wow. They were painful. Made big knots in his legs that were fire engine red. Hot. Swollen. He sucked it up and dealt with it. I was so proud of him. They are discussing IV antibiotic treatments for what may possibly be endocarditis, all from a stinkin' dog bite. But, since the Rocephin seems to be keeping the fever at bay and the headache has subsided, that may wait. They put him on 1700 milligrams of Augmentin a day for the next 10 days to see if that will assist the Rocephin in jump starting his immune system once more. He's resting at home (with his daddy tonight so mommy can get some well needed sleep).

He will be seeing his cardiologist on Monday for an EKG, another sonogram and a new set of chest x-rays. But, I have been wearing my stethoscope around my neck like a noose, listening for murmurs or gallops in his chest every 20 minutes or so. There haven't been any. No crackles. No rales. No telltale signs of excess fluid continuing to gather. He's not listless any longer. No more complaints of blinding headaches. He is even getting his appetite back.

You know what this means, right?

It is officially time for Mom to have her nervous breakdown. Things are well enough, safe enough, for me to jump into the bathtub, make the music a little too loud, the water a little too hot and cry for an hour and a half straight.

It's called the "let down" reflex. You just have to let it go, so you can continue pressing onward and upward.

In the meantime, I thought I would share this with you.

Nicholas has read every single comment on this blog with regard to his illness. Every single one. He was amazed to know that people from all over the country, all over the world, knew how sick he was. He was thrilled to find out where people were from. He even visited a few people's pages to just see their blogs.

"Mommy," he said, "these people don't even know me."

"No baby," I said, "they don't. But they know your mommy, so it's like they know you too. I write about you all the time. Plus, there are lots of mommies and daddies that read my blog. They all have kids who get sick, so they all know how worried mommy was about you."

"We should send them thank you notes," he said.

"That's over a hundred thank you's, Nick. You gonna write them?"

He looked at me blankly.

"Um, no. That's usually a mothers job, don't you think?"

"You know what else is a mothers job?"

"What?"

"Slappin' her kid upside the head for being fresh."

"You do that job pretty well."

"Yep. You got your old mom pretty well-trained."

"So, should I write a thank you letter here so everyone can see it instead of writing 100 of them all at once?"

"I think that's a wonderful idea, baby."

"Okay, I'll do it. Right after dinner."

Dinner comes. Dinner goes.

"So, Nick. You ready to post on the blog now?"

"Yeah, you know. I've reconsidered."

"Really? Why is that?"

"I thought about it. And, I really shouldn't be writing it."

"How come?"

"You told me I am not allowed to talk to strangers. I don't know any of those people. So, like I said earlier. It's your job now."

"Feeling better, eh Nick?"

"Yep."

So, on behalf of my obnoxious son and myself, thank you, one and all for the support you have given my (undeserving little shit of a) child. Bless each and every one of you. And at some point or another, the thank you's will present themselves in the form of an individual blog visit.

A deep, deep thank you to Mr. Fab for rallying the troops. If I was only allowed to have one blog friend on the planet for the rest of my life, it would be you, Big Guy. You were my first...you will always be my #1. And to everyone who posted on their own blogs about Nicholas, I am grateful.

Well, I hear the bath calling my name.

Back to our regularly scheduled programming tomorrow.

CP out.

10/15/2006 12:13 PM Certifiable Edit: Since so many have inquired, a little information on the dog. No, I have no intention of having the dog put down. I love animals. Dearly. The dog made a mistake. The wound wasn't the type of wound that showed he tried to attack my son. More than likely, my son was probably messing with the poor doggie (a Rottie named "Butch") and it was just saying, "leave me the hell alone you little Jackass" in the only way a dog knows how. This dog is big enough to have had my son for a snack, so if he wanted to hurt him, he could have. Had he attacked/mauled my son, then yes, I would have pushed the issue. But hell, you have all heard my exchanges with Nick in the past. There are times I feel like biting him too! Hard. Unfortunately, the dog picked a kid with cardiac issues to take a lunge at. Not the dogs fault. If anyone else had received the same injury, it would be nothing more than a band-aid and neosporin incident. I did, however, have to convince the dogs owners that I was not going to sue them for medical expenses or have their dog put down. Imagine that. ME...having to convince THEM that their dog was safe. You think they would have come over of their own volition to show me some papers that the dog was immunized, etc. No. They stayed in hiding, refused my phone calls and eventually, I had to send the Hotband over there, with his automatic weapons and semi-psycho baldheaded Israeli scary man look to straighten the fuckers out. The dog was vaccinated. That's all I wanted to know. If anything, the dog probably needs additional shots for biting my son, that vile little shit of a child. I love my son. I love my son more than my entire purse collection. And shoes. Maybe even my jewelry too. But let's face it. The childs a bad ass. He has three sixes embedded on his scalp somewhere under that Napolean Dynamite versus Cosmo Kramer hairdo of his. I am actually surprised he didn't bite the dog back. So, yes animal fans and PETA fanatics, the dog lives on. No need to lynch the Certifiable Princess just yet.

Here we go again...

I had a completely different post to make today. Really. Ask my friend, D., at my job. She'll tell you. I had the funniest damn post ever written in the history of this blog.

However, I have to interrupt funny to bring back drama, catastrophe and distress.

If I was Justin Timberlake, I would only have to bring sexy back. Wish I was him.

Anyway, don't mean to sound cavalier, but my world has been officially rocked. I am not meaning to make jokes, but when I am really nervous, I tend to laugh and make inappropriate comments. I am giggling. And, I am talking about bringing sexy back. Very inappropriate for what I am about to share with you.

This post is about my baby boy, Nicholas. See the little freaky two year old in this picture? Yes, that is my baby boy. He was just out of the hospital, recovering from open heart surgery. He was feisty, tough and a mean little sucker. He's no different now, just older.

He spiked a sudden fever at school yesterday. By the time I got back home after his father had picked him up, the kid was at 103.4 and was vomiting everywhere. He was complaining of a severe migraine. I gave him Tylenol, put cool clothes under his arms, behind his neck and across his head to bring down the fever and soothe the migraine. What is particularly baffling about this sudden fever is that Nick was already on Augmentin 500mg. twice a day for a dogbite he received on October 3rd. With all that antibiotic in his system already, and one more dose still to go, it made no sense to me that he is running this sort of fever. The fever went down to about 100.3 and then, spiked again to 104.4. Now I am freaking. I get him into the pediatrician this morning, first thing (but not without a lot of drama from my Office Manager, which was supposed to be the original content of this post. I'll address that next week.) They send him to the hospital immediately for stat blood work up and stat sinus/brain xray and scan. They do a blood culture and urine culture. My poor child is being poked and prodded all over the damn place. But like I said, he's kickass. He handled it like a trooper.

Until the Rocephin injections. For any of you who have ever had Rocephin injected, you know it is some painful shit. It makes your arms go numb. It makes your muscles ache and swell. He had to get, not one, but TWO of them. One in each arm. Simultaneously. In the morning, he has to return to the pediatrician for two more Rocephin injections, this time, in both his legs. The doctor has diagnosed him with pericardial effusion, fluid around the heart. That is what is giving him the symptoms of the high fever and migraine. His white blood cell count is at 22,000. Normal is 10,000. High indication of an infection going on and supports the doctors diagnosis.

Tomorrow, after the double injections into the legs, we are taking him down to St. Petersburg to All Children's Hospital to see his cardiologist who, more than likely, will admit my son. I am freaking the fuck out. No. Seriously. I am. Going through this is like reliving 1997 all over again. The heart surgery. The drama of it all. The nauseating waiting games. Staying at the Ronald McDonald House for weeks that turn into months. Hateful, hateful shit that would freak any mother out. Only, the last time I went through this with my son, I wasn't a nurse. I didn't have a clue about what bad shape he was in. I put my full faith in God and the doctors.

Now, being a seasoned nurse, I am reticent to put that much faith in anyone else but God. And, admittedly, even that makes me sweat. Although, God spelled backwards is Dog, and this started from a dog bite...so I am hoping the irony is enough to make God chuckle and say, "Oh, alright...you got me! I'll fix him."

I lost my sons twin brother back in 1995 due to congenital heart and lung defects. The same thing that nearly stole Nicholas from me. The thought of losing my son now, all these years later, is maddening. And while I may be waxing the dramatic right now...the distinct possibility is always there, just below the surface. He's not in a life threatening situation right now, hence the reason I am even online blogging about this. I needed some therapy in the form of my blog.

So, once again, I am asking you all to put your voodoo, your prayers, your hope, your faith, your well wishes, your holy water, your sacred cows, your love of Madonna, your worship of Coors Light, ghetto booties or all things Pink into motion. Please. Send it all to Florida, and more specifically, to my Nicholas.

And, if you have any mojo left over? Some strength for mom too, while your at it.

I thoroughly believe in strength in numbers.

Tell your friends, your friends friends and your friends, friends, friends to think of Nick and ask God, Goddess, The King, Christ, Allah, Brahman, Buddha, Yahweh, Krishna, The Great Spirit, Waheguru, Julian McMahon, Elvis, Ross Perot, turds, Mr. Fabulous or anyone/thing else you worship/admire/consult with to help Nick. That's all.

It's simple. It's quicker than most mens hang time and easier to do than uploading your pictures to Blogger.

And further? My little Prince would appreciate it. So would his mama, his stepdaddy, his father and his big sis, Sam, the newlywed.



I will probably be gone for the rest of the weekend. Please hold us in your thoughts. Thanks, lovers. *smooches/hugs* for all.

Act your age, not your shoe size.

You've seen them.

I know you have. Women that sort of forget that they are much older than they dress? Now, I don't mean "trendy" women. I am trendy. I am 40, look 30, feel 20...but I dress somewhere between Jessica Simpson and Jennifer Lopez. Cute, but with an air of sophistication. Dress code between ages 24 and 34. Appropriate for me. I can get away with trendy. I have big tits.

That, my friends, is the key to getting away with everything.

There is a woman in my office that, Lord help me, I have TRIED to like. Really I have. I have even tried to find moderately endearing qualities about her.

There are none.

The woman is 50, looks 60 and dresses 17. That is, if you were 17 back in 1976. She's sportin' the Farrah Fawcett winged do that went out of style about 20 minutes after it came out. Hell, even Farrah wouldn't do her hair like that anymore! She wears low cut tank tops into the office, with a nurses jacket over it. However, she leaves the jacket open, so all you can see are these dried up, sun damaged, Shar-pei looking titty tops. They are SO not attractive. This woman has so many freckles from sun damage all over her skin, that it looks like someone threw a jar of brown ink on her. Big, ugly splotches, everywhere. And the face! Oy.

Y'all know what a "butterface" is? No?

Let me edumacate you.

A butterface is a woman who looks good, well, everything...but her face. But her face. Buther face. Butterface.

Got it? Learn it. It's very urban chic lingo. Click the link. Get schooled.

Anyway, she flirts with every single man that walks through the door. And she gets pretty good response too. Please, however, bear in mind that most of my patients are just a hair younger than the cryptkeeper. Most of them lost their sight around the same time they lost their ability to maintain bladder control. This woman goes on dates with our patients. Taaaaaaacky...not to mention blatantly unprofessional.

This afternoon, she pulls me aside.

"CP," she begins, "why do you hate me?"

"Scuse me?"

"Why do you hate me?"

"Hate is such a strong word," I said, "it implies emotion. I wouldn't say I hate you. I would say I am indifferent to your existence."

"Wow," she says, "that's worse than hate!"

"Hm, yeah. I guess it is, only minus the energy that it takes to hate someone."

By the end of the day, I had every nurse run up to me in shock, awe and disbelief. The following, however, is the epitome of these conversations.

"You told her you hated her?"

"No. I told her I was indifferent to her existance. That's different."

"Whoa, CP. You're mean."

"How is that mean?"

"It's mean that you said that to her! I mean, I don't like her either, but I wouldn't tell her that!"

"Even if she asked you," I queried. "You wouldn't be honest?"

"I wouldn't tell her I hated her."

"I did NOT tell her I hated her, for the love of God. I said that I was indifferent towards her. I don't care about her one way or the other. If she was hit by a car tomorrow, I'd be like 'wow, that sucks', but then, I'd be over it."

"Man," said the astonished nurse, Marie, "What must you think of me then?"

"What does what I think of HER have to do with what I think of you?"

"Well, because you act like you like her, but you don't! So, you seem to like me too...but you probably don't."

"I do NOT act like I like her. I am a professional. I treat my co-workers with respect. That doesn't mean that I like her and it isn't an act. Frankly, she makes me want to vomit and so long as I don't see her endangering my patients, I don't really care about who she is or what she does."

"Wow," says other nurse. "So, do you like me?"

"Yes, Marie," I sigh, "I like you very much."

"And if I died, would you cry?"

"I promise you, I will. Feel better now?"

"Yeah, sorta," she said and then left to go eat lunch.

I stood there, sort of bewildered by this exchange. Since when did I become the Queen Almighty of All Things Likable? Does it really matter to other people THAT much what I think of them? Do I have this air about me that screams "If you don't have my approval, you don't deserve to live". I mean, seriously. In the big scheme of your life, does MY feeling about you effect your life to the point where you become an emotional cripple?

Cool. I so obviously rock.

But anyway, enough about me. Let's talk about you.

What do YOU think of me?

*snorts*

Trendy Lil' Jewish Princess.

Y'all know me.

I am a Designer Handbag fanatic. You have seen me dedicate full blogposts, with pictures, to the purses that I own. If it is new, hot and trendy, I own it 17 weeks before anyone else all of Tampa Bay has even heard of it. I have named my three Louis Vuitton Speedy bags. The white one is "Jessica" as in Simpson. The beige standard logo? Rachel, as in "Friends". And finally, the black multicolored logo Speedy? J-Lo. No explanation required. Surely you all remember my trek to the Ellenton Outlets where I brought home this little gem and welcomed it into my closet.

While cruising along the internet looking for the next purchase that HAS to be made because, Lord only knows, I NEED another purse...I stumbled across these bags:



I am now residing in a puddle of my own drool.

These designer handbags, by Darby Scott, have been seen in EVERY magazine and catalogue that has anything to do with high end fashion. Hello? We are talking Bergdoff Goodman, Neiman Marcus, Town and Country as well as Harper's Bazaar.

But the kicker for me?

Celebrity sightings. And you know who owns this bag?

Ma-freakin'-donna. 'Nuff said. Good enough for the Queen? Good enough for the Certifiable Princess.

In upcoming weeks, you will see an entire blogpost dedicated to my Darby Scott bag. Christmas is coming. So is Channukah and my wedding anniversary. If the Hotband expects any more Princess love, the Hotband will be buying me my bag.

Incidentally, my 10 year old son, a fashion diva in his own right and potentially the sixth member on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, HATES the bags.

"They have ROCKS for straps, Mom."

"Yes, I'm aware."

"So how can that possibly feel good?"

"It's not how you feel, my son. It's how you look."

He rolled his sweet baby brown eyes at me. "Can't look real good if your in pain," he mutters and goes back to playing with his Hot Wheels.

He simply has no clue.

Beauty is pain, Son. Beauty is pain.

About Linda...

We make online friends all the time. We chat with them daily, we talk them through trials and tribulations. We are there for their triumphs as well. To us, these online friends are surreal. They are invincible. We think of them as "always being there" no matter what real life throws at us.

And then, one of them dies...and your image of their immortality shifts.

"Kehau" (real name, Linda) was a friend I met at another friends site a long time ago. She was from Hawaii and it fit her free spirited nature like a glove. She was a happy woman, with never a cross word to say to anyone. She was as gentle as the most delicate flower, always careful not to attract the sting of the circling bees. She was embraced, dearly, by her online friends. She wasn't a well woman and the rest of us "bees" were fiercely protective of her.

A few days ago, I received a letter that she finally succumbed to her illness.

I am sorry to report that "our sweet Linda" has gone on to be with our Lord. Linda passed away about 9:30 PM on Tuesday. In thinking back about her, I'm remembering how she was always asking how everyone else was doing. She was just as concerned for others as she was for herself.

Truer words were never spoken.

Linda had wounds that wouldn't heal. Ulcerations in her legs and in her feet that would open her up to infection and other vile bacterias. I remember sending her tons and tons of bandages, gauze, antibiotic ointments, wraps and even asking my own primary care doctor once for a prescription for Keflex to send to her. He told me he couldn't write one for her, which of course, I understood. I told him I had a terrible ear infection. He smiled at me, and wrote me the script. It was in the mail to her the next day. I had the coverage. I had the funds to pay for the co-pay. I am fortunate that way. Linda was not as fortunate. She had no medical insurance. None.

I was chatting with another friend of mine online recently. My friend, B., told me that she personally holds the healthcare system responsible for Linda's death. She was a casualty of the system and I have to admit, I agree.

There is no reason that Linda should have died. None. I have had patients in situations similar to Linda's who were older, more frail but had better medical coverage. They lived to see another day. Linda did not.

That bothers me more than words can ever say.

I went searching in my email box to find letters we exchanged. They made me cry. She was more concerned about what I would pay for shipping her medical supplies than she was about her own needs. That's the kind of woman she was.

The healthcare system let her down. I am a nurse. Being part of this healthcare system, I can't help but think that there was more I could have done. The rational part of me knows, no, there was nothing else I could have done. The part of me that hurts from losing a friend is irrational and beating on my psyche as I type this.

She lived in paradise. Hawaii. One of the most beautiful places on earth. She was loved by her friends. She had hope and grace. She had faith in a world where there is very little reason to have any. And moreover? She trusted the healthcare system to lead her back to health. Her faith never faltered, never wilted, even under the most dire of circumstances.

Her poor little body could no longer fight the infections that plagued her.



Mahalo, Linda. See you when I arrive in Paradise. Save me a seat in the sand.

Know what's better...

than the sound of your children laughing???








nothing.

UK in the USA...

So, as y'all know, my daughter married herself a Brit this past Sunday. Initially, the plan was all about him coming HERE to live. Now, the little woman has thought about the fact that she may want to go live and work in the UK! Gnarly. It would mean I will be spending all my vacations in England, instead of my beloved New York City or the Bahamas.

I am scanning websites with regards to cost of living, jobs, relocation, etc., in the UK. Wow. The United States is definately the land of opportunity in comparison! Everything cost so much over in England! I found a few websites that discuss working in the UK and so far, I have to admit, I'm impressed! There is a whole area on writing a "CV", which I am assuming is the Brit word for resume. (Yes, Curriculum Vitae. Fancy schmancy word for resume'. Do the Brit's not like French words? What's the deal with that. They don't have French Fries either. They are "chips", right? Oy. I need to lie down. I have a headache. Too much UK stuff in my head. I am starting to dream in Monty Python dialect.)

There's a lot of information on travel, getting a bank account, culture and the cost of living. My daughter, being so high maintainence, will not like the prices of shoes and purses there. I didn't know the US dollar was worth so much over there! But, it appears that their teachers are more valued over there than they are over here. They seem to make more money than teachers do here, but the cost of living in England is substantially more than here in Florida.

Do they have Walmarts in England?

So, what is the ultimate English experience as far as work goes? I know I have some friends from across the pond that read this blog. Don't lie. I see the sitemeter. Come out, come out wherever you are!

Any help on this topic would be the dogs bullocks. Or, as my son in law would say...the mutts nuts.

Oy. He's lucky he's cute and sounds like John Lennon.

Just another day around the way...

Okay, WAY too many comments for me to address one by one. So, allow me to be an asshole and sidestep my blogger duties by saying THANK YOU ALL for the uplifting comments with regard to Sam's marriage. It's day 4 and so far, he hasn't proven to be a serial killer. Then again, he's still in England. Maybe he's Jack the Ripper for all I know. That's fine, so long as my child doesn't get ripped by him. I will have to open him from sternum to scrotum and gut him like a fish.

Don't forget. I've been incarcerated. I'm no joke, Dogs.

Anyway, enough about Sam. She's been hogging my blogspace long enough. I want to talk about my favorite subject.

Me. Heh.

I am SO over it with work. I am ready to file a lawsuit. I am ready to call Mel Gibson and tell him he has competition. My office manager is actually "furious" with me for leaving early on Yom Kippur. Now, mind you, this is the HIGHEST holy day of the Jewish year. It's like, the goyum equivalent of like Ash Wednesday or Easter or whatever you non-Jews consider big time. I didn't ask her for the day off, despite my religious tradition mandating that we do not work, we do not handle money, we do not drive and we do not drink or eat. No showering. No brushing of your teeth. Nothing that is considered a luxury. Now, I don't know how those Israelites handled shit back in the day, but to me? Teeth brushing is not a luxury, it's mandatory. But, I guess my ancestors think differently. My husband, being the good Israeli Jew he is, he maintains the tradition. No computers. No television. No driving. No eating. No drinking. This also means he didn't brush his teeth nor did he shower. Frankly, I was glad to go to work. Who wants to be caged up with a smelly husband? And, of course, sex is considered a "luxury", so that wasn't going to happen either. With all that understood, what would be the reason to stay home except for honoring tradition.

But, I didn't stay home. The week before, my office manager, who I know will call "Mel" from this point on, told me I could not take any more time off for the rest of the year. This puts me into a bit of a quandry now for the religious holiday. I opt out of the argument, take the high road, suck it up and go to work. When patients were done for the day, I approached my nursing advisor and asked him if I may leave to go to Temple. He said, fine, there were no more patients and there were still 3 other nurses on.

"Go forth and pray, my dear," he said.

So, I went forth. I stayed with my husband while he finished the hardest part of his fasting, the last few hours.

Next day, I walk into work and the office gossip (who I love to death) comes running up to me and says,

"Oh shit girl! You are in SO much trouble! The OM is pissed you left early."

"What the fuck ever," I respond blandly.

"She might fire you," my friend says.

"Religious persecution," I utter, completely disinterested. "Matter of fact, I DARE her to fire me. DARE. Double DOG DARE, actually."

"You don't care?"

"Not that I don't care, but I am not going to deal with her control freak bullshit any more. I came into work. I didn't pull the religion card, despite the fact that the Constitution allows me freedom from religious persecution. Does she realize that by the time the Declaration of Independence was written, Jewish settlers had already established synagogues in New York? We were the original people. The chosen ones. Jesus was a fucking Jew for God's sake. It's the First Ammendment, dammit!"

"Okay, I don't even know what you mean now," she said.

"What I am saying is that the first ammendment secures my ability to worship as I see fit, without religious persecution. Without prohibiting my right to free exercise of such!"

"In english now, for those of us who barely finished high school?"

"It means she cannot attack me for wanting to PRAY on my religious holiday!"

"That's like taking Christ out of Christmas," my friend exclaims.

"Not really, but okay. Sort of."

"So what are you going to do?"

"Nothing," I say.

"You're not going to say anything?"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"Because there IS nothing for me to say. She worked for attorneys. She's learned in the ways of the law. If she tosses me shit for my wanting to leave an hour early on the most religious day of my Jewish year, then I will go to the press. I will go to the Board of Nursing. I will go to the Jewish Advocacy groups, to the Civil Liberties Union, to...to...to..."

"You're scaring me, CP."

"Why?"

"That vein in your forehead is bulging."

The next day, I waited, in vain, for the OM (Mel Gibson's bitch) to say something to me. I had all my citations. I had my quotes. I had my names, my precedences and my legalese all ready to go. I was completely well-prepared. Bring it on, you anti-semetic bitch! Bring it! I'm ready to go.

I see her coming down the hallway. Yes. This is my moment. Here it is.

She is striding toward me, claws and fangs bared, the heat of anger radiating down the hall. Her eyes are narrowed. Her brow, furrowed and drenched with sweat. I watch her ball up her gnarly little fists, puff out her chest as she draws a deep breath. The theme from The Good, The Bad and The Ugly starts to play as tumbleweeds roll past our feet. My finger is on the trigger, itching to fire.

I am ready. I am ready. I am...

"Morning, CP."

"Morning, L."





I am an idiot.

Wedding Pictures...Ta da!

This is our little bride and the source of my gray hair, Samantha. See how happy she is? Yeah. It comes at the expense of her mothers sanity. The bride wore black, as you can see. Should I take this as a sign? No. I wore black to my wedding with the hotband too. The bouquet was done by mother dearest (me) in shades of shocking Barbie pink, her favorite. She hated that I got her a bouquet. Too frou frou for my little boy/girl. Oh well. Suck it up, wench. Make your mother happy, dammit. This next picture is of Sam and her new husband "Steven". He's cute in a Lance Bass/N'Sync/boy band sort of way, dontcha think? He also looks much younger than his *cough/choke* 31 years of age. Click the link to make Steven grow up. Wheeeee. It's magic! This next picture is of Marge. Marge is the notary public who married my daughter and Steven. As you can see, Marge busted out with her best housecoat for the occasion. Please note the attractive spot bandaid on the side of Marge's nose. Yes. This was a real crowd pleaser. Apparently Marge nicked herself while shaving. Marge claims she has done hundreds of weddings since 1965. She might have even done my parents wedding. Who knows. What I like about Marge is that turkey gobbler thing hanging from her neck. Really made it feel like Fall, with Thanksgiving just around the corner. Mmmmmmm. Sweet potato pie. Can't you smell it? Probably not. The scent of mothballs coming from Marge's house was a bit too pungent to smell anything else. The next picture is of the lovebirds. Ah young love. Well, at least my daughters half. Isn't it romantic? Remember when you were that young and dumb? And, check out the makeshift alter that Marge fabricated herself! We are talkin' Michael's Crafts here! None of this bullshit Walmart chintz for my babygirl! We're talking the finest crepe paper that a senior citizen discount can buy. You may kiss the bride. Don't know if you can notice it here, but my dumbass of a daughter put his ring on his right hand instead of his left hand. He made some sort of joke about things being on a different side in England. Tee Hee. Made my daughter laugh. Made me slap my forehead. So, after they kiss, I shout out "L'chaim" which means, "to life" in Hebrew. Marge turns to me and says, "you're Jewish?" I say, why yes, I am! She gets all excited, her pacemaker kicks into overdrive and she goes running into the house. "Stay right there," she exclaims. Um, we're in the middle of my daughter getting married here. Where do you think I am going! Marge comes running out with a stack full of calendars and starts handing them out to everyone. "Here," she says, "I've got all these Jewish calendars for next year and I didn't know anyone Jewish to give them to! Here! Take! Mazel!" She hands out Hebrew calendars to my Atheist son in law, my Italian ex husband, my Roman Catholic former mother in law, my baptist friend, my daughters gay ex boyfriend and his partner and Sam's orthodox greek friend, Melissa. "There! Lots of nachas (good luck) for everyone this year," exclaims Marge. Steven was quite thrilled with this gesture. "Great," I mutter. "Free calendar with every wedding."

Here's the official family portrait. I can call it an official redneck wedding, seeing as my former mother in law has no teeth. Sweet. From the left we have the hotband, his sister, moi, Steven, Sam, my ex husband, his mother and my son. I think my ex-husband may be standing on a milk crate. You'll notice that my former mother in law has Sam's flowers. I had to wrestle her to the death to get them back. She's a rat-packer. Loves to save things. She probably has the first diaper her son, my ex husband, aka The Baby Jesus, ever created for her. I wouldn't doubt it. The ring photo. As you can see, they got it together enough to move the ring onto his correct finger. Please note my daughters impeccably manicured nails. Yes. This she gets directly from her mother. If her nails were not done, the wedding would have been called off, I assure you. No teeth, fine. Visible tattoos? Perhaps. Undone manicure? Oh, I don't THINK so. He has nice hands, don't you think? Clean fingernails. One of the signs of a potential serial killer.The wedding cake. If you click the cake, you will find out that "Steven" is not really Steven after all. But shhhhh. Don't tell anyone I told you. This is a Publix bakery special, best we could do on 48 hours notice. The cake was really nice. Tasted good too. But the bride and groom thingie? Yeah, heavy cheese factor. It was my husbands idea. Oy. Getting more redneck by the second. All I have to tell you is that those (plastic) champagne flutes contain Keystone Beer and I will officially be livin' like a hick. Happily, I can report that the flutes contain Korbel Champagne. Yes, I am aware it is $7.99 a bottle, but it was Sunday, dammit. Walmart doesn't have a whole shitload of champagne choices. You can thank my husband for the stylish decor as well. Ah, the happy couple. Note that my son-in-law could barely contain his relief at changing into a T-shirt the second he entered my home. Note also the purple bag of Iams dogfood to the left of my daughter. A professional photographer would have moved the bag. However, I figure, this is truly trailer trash nuptials. Why move the bag? I think it enhances the flavor of the scenery, adds to the ambiance if you will. The best part of this picture is that smile on my daughters face. I have to admit, I couldn't help smiling everytime I looked at her. She was beaming. Radiant, even. I don't recall ever being that happy...well, not without getting laid at least. This is Johnny, my son in laws best friend and the oldest brother of my daughters best friend. Was that convoluted enough for you? If you search hard within that statement, you can probably find some incest, but don't quote me. Johnny was giving a toast to the new couple when suddenly, he began dancing to this song called "(You Make Me Wanna) Walk Like A Camel". For a minute, I was getting flashbacks from my cocaine days. He started singing it. I hoped this does not mean that this song would now be my daughters official wedding song. Then again, it could be a tribute to her stepfather. He's an Israeli and they have camels in the Middle East. Perhaps it was some veiled ode. Here's my babygirl cutting her wedding cake with her Brit boy. What strikes me with this picture is his protective hand over her stomach. Now, mind you, my daughter is built like me. She's a thick chick. But, there is something about that hand gesture that screams the old song "Havin' Mah Baby". No, she doesn't look pregnant, and I have been dumpster diving in the bathroom garbage cans to make sure that she isn't. I found wrappers of the feminine variety...so I think we're good for now. Yes, I understand that makes me sound very Esther-esque and psychotic, but hell, I can't take another surprise, alright, so cut a bitch some damn slack. Their first dance was to Lionel Richie's song, "Truly". This was not planned. It is what happened to be