Squished boobs and other fun things...

First order of business. Yes, Neo...I took the blue pill. I went for it for the second night in a row. Yes, I fell asleep again. I woke up at 9:30 pm, just in time to go for my mammogram.

Yes, a 10 pm mammogram.

Like most women, I prefer my tits squeezed at night. I'm not about the morning squishes.

Anyway, I go into this little room, with this little woman. She is very short and wide. She reminds me of an oompa loompa. I giggle at this thought. It relaxes me.

"Would you like a gown," she asks me.

"For what," I reply with a laugh.

"Some women are a bit modest."

I look at her quizically. In the next 30 seconds, you are about to fondle my breasts more than my own husband has in the past month. You will be squeezing, kneading, flattening, lifting, hoisting, molding, adjusting and slapping those bitches onto the ol' pancake griddle. Tell me where exactly does modesty enter into this? I shrug it off, rip off my shirt and bra. I am standing there naked from the waist up, completely comfortable in my own skin. I realize I am the rare fat chick who does. I actually like my bigger body. Love my curves. Really have a huge fascination with my oversized funbags. I am looking at them in the mirror while the tech is prepping the machine. Not bad, I muse. Sure, they've breastfed two (very friggin' hungry) children, but they still have some BOING to them.

"Are you pregnant at this time," the tech inquires.

"No."

"Are you on birth control or had a tubal?"

"Nope. Got my husband neutered earlier this year." I laugh. She doesn't.

"Alrighty then," she continues, "step closer to the machine."

"You're satisfied with my answer?"

"Excuse me?"

"My answer, about my husband having a vasectomy. That covers the 'are you pregnant' question for you?"

"Well, you said you weren't."

"And I'm not," I agree, "but, that doesn't mean I can't possibly be pregnant."

"You said your husband had a vasectomy."

"Who said I was faithful?"

Cue the really uncomfortable silence in the room. She is staring at me. I'm staring at her. Bear in mind, I'm topless. It's an awkward moment, probably more for her than for myself. I am absolutely used to putting people into uncomfortable situations intentionally. I don't do drugs. I rarely drink. My only real vice is my desire to make people squirm with my brutal honesty and overbearing personality.

"Um," she stutters, "Okay...well..."

"I was joking," I say to her, letting her off the meathook.

"Oh, Oh, okay," she stammers, forcing a laugh.

Now I am realizing that I made a huge mistake. I am about to hand over my award winning titties to this woman to compress in between two pieces of sheet metal and plastic. Once I am caught in this rat trap, I will be unable to get away. She could walk right out of the room, leaving me there, topless and bound to the machine. She can mosh my boobie so hard that the nipple could explode and slap my areola onto the opposite wall.

This is the person I decided to fuck with tonight?

"You're really nice," I tell her just before she slaps my sweater puppies onto this freezing cold slab of metal.

"Don't be nervous," she says, doing the two handed hoist on my left tit. "I don't hold grudges."

Yeah. Who is fucking with who now, sister?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I was having a great dream earlier.

I was super nurse. There was a terrible helicopter accident in NYC. I happened to be parked right alongside it. (No, this is NOT the part of the dream that I consider great). When the impact happened, I sprang into emergency nurse mode. Leaping from my vehicle, grabbing my first aid kit with me, I sprint to the scene of the accident. (Any of you who know me know I couldn't sprint anywhere, even if you set my fat ass on fire, but it's my dream, so shut up). I pull the two pilots out of the wreckage, single-handedly. I stabilize one and then, run to the other to perform CPR. As I lower my mouth down upon his bloodied face, I hear this blaring noise. It pierces my ear drums. It is like thunder. It is louder than the screams of the people who have bore witness to this tragic event.

"UGH! GOD IN HEAVEN! HOW THE HELL CAN YOU DO THAT, CP? THAT'S DISGUSTING!"

It was Esther. She was standing in the crowd, wearing one of her funky gold lame trimmed sweatsuits and her oversized glasses, shoving her way past everyone else, including police barriers, just to lecture me.

"At least wash his face off first. Oy vey. You wanna get that AIDS stuff? What's wrong with you? How do you know where his mouth has been?"

My father suddenly appears alongside her.

"You know," he says, "you really should listen to your mother. She knows best."

The man I am working on suddenly sits up.

"Jesus, Lady," he screeches. "I'm dying here! Can you let her work, please?"

"Fine," she snaps, "but if she has an asthma attack, you have no one to blame but yourself. Harold, find me a Snickers bar. I think I am having a hypoglycemia attack."

"Now look what you did," my father admonishes me. "You made your mother get the shakes!"

I wake up. My cellphone is beeping.

1 missed call: Mom Cell.

Can someone please tell me how she does this?

Nothing make sense at 2am.

The house is extraordinarily quiet right now. Moreso than usual.

My fingertips tapping the keyboard sounds more like an morse code distress signal than the delicate sounds of my creativity.

I am sitting with a monster in front of me.

It's name? Lamictal.

I have to admit. I'm scared to death.

I have never made my bipolar disorder a secret. On the other hand, I am not one of those people who brags about my mental issues. I really have a lot of disdain for people who think it's "cool" to be bipolar. I'm not one of them. And, if you were truly mentally ill? You wouldn't think it was such a cool thing either. It's not. There is nothing intriguing or special about it. To me, it's no different than having cancer or diabetes. It's a sickness, an illness and not something to glorify. When I see blog headers that start with "crazy musings of an insane girl" or the like, I tend to blow right past them.

No one. No one with bipolar disorder or any other mental disease would brag about it as though it were your only redeeming quality.

I have always thought of myself as a manic person, long before I understood what that even meant. Hyper personality. Way hyper. Sometimes, I can't slow my thoughts down long enough to form a coherent sentence. This is what started me off in my writing career. I could jot notes faster than I could say them. Then, when computers came along...oh the joy of being able to type almost as quickly than I think! I type 90 words per minute. I would say my thought process is at least three times that on any given day.

Then, the inevitable crash would come. You can't stay on hyperdrive like that all your life without the eventual collapse. I would sleep for days. I would cry non-stop. I would be so tired. So very tired, that I would just pray to die, not because I was unhappy, but just because being so tired hurt me so much. And my thoughts? They wouldn't come. It was like sitting in a deep, dark hole. It was always very lonely in that arena. Even when your family and friends were at arms length away, you would still be unequivocally, alone.

I've also never kept my epilepsy a dark secret, much to Esthers chagrin. She's old school, from back in the day where they stoned people for having seizures, convinced they were witches or embraced by some other form of black magic. I feel ignorance is cured by education, so I talk about my epilepsy almost to the point of nauseum. I make no secret that it came upon me from a bout of domestic violence, wherein my ex boyfriend, Tony, mistook my head for a baseball. The crack of the bat hitting a homerun against my temporal lobe damaged me for life. Physically.

Mentally, I was already damaged goods.

When you walk into your psychiatrists office and they start with, "CP, I think we may need to adjust your medicine", it's never a good thing. It means, we've failed. Everything you have tried to accomplish on the lower scale medications are not quite working as planned. The Depakote you have taken for nearly a decade has finally run its course. You start hearing the words Lithium and Haldol. Those are the "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" medications. Not interested, I told my physician. I would rather live my life as a manic depressed mess than to live it by merely existing. The life of a zombie is by no means attractive.

He suggests Lamictal. I have no familiarity with this drug. Despite being a nurse for nearly a decade, I have chosen to stay blissfully ignorant when it comes to bipolar disorder and the rapid cycling issues I have with it. Denial is always the best medicine. If I forget about it, it will go away. Eventually, everything goes away. Family, friends, co-workers, jobs and opportunities. However, you don't care. At least, not when you are manic. Fuck 'em all, you think to yourself. You don't give a rats ass. You are in self destruct mode and there is very little that will lure you out of it. Threats and ultimatums are useless. You simply don't care.

It's a Jekyll and Hyde existance and in the end, you become the monster you created.

This is a big part of the reason I fear a drug like Lamictal. I know it is going to cure me. Well, not cure, for there is no cure for BPD. But, it is going to manage my symptoms so well, that it will steal the crutch out from under me.

I won't be able to blame my disease for being out of control, wanton and reckless. I will have no one to blame, but myself. The thought of that horrifies me.

What, if after treatment, I realize that this is simply who I am? What if there was never a disease process at all? What if this is the person I was destined to become and the symptoms of what should be bipolar disorder is actually just...me?

For years, I took Prozac, Wellbutrin, Effexor, Lexapro, Paxil and various other mental health drugs to treat depression. I wasn't depressed. It was easier to face a word like depression rather than slap a label on myself like bipolar.

"It started with my head injury," I would tell my physicians.

No. It didn't. It was a part of me way before Tony came into my life.

I remember wanting to hurt myself and hurt others as a child. I thought every single one of my friends was prettier, smarter, funnier. My mother. She was stunning. She was in her 30's, a single mother and a knock out. Men would pay a ton of attention to her. I couldn't get a single boy to smile at me. I was fat, stringy hair, braces, zits and eventually, glasses. I had one close friend, the only one in the entire world who "got" me. She is still my best friend to this day and still, the only one who "gets" me. I remember acting out crazy fantasies. I recall injuring my parakeet so badly that it died. I remember spitting on my father in his sleep because I hated him so much. I dragged my one year old brother down to the incinerator room, when I was four years old, because I wanted him to get "thrown away". I left him there, alone. I went back into my bedroom, flipped on my little black and white television and watched Popeye while munching on a cream cheese and jelly sandwich. In the next room, I heard my mother losing her mind, unable to find my little brother.

I was unfazed.

In my early teens, the braces were removed, the fat was lost and became womanly curves and the hair was now permed and pretty. Men noticed me now. A lot. And I made sure that every single one of them would never forget me. I indulged in a lot of reckless behavior with sex and drugs that really should have taken my life. I was lucky. I know that. And I thank God for giving me the chance to redeem myself.

In my thirties, the pattern continued. I was financially indulgent and still promiscuous. I left two marriages because I could not remain faithful to anyone. The only constant in my life were my children...and on occasion, I even struggled to be a mother. I made a lot of mistakes. But, I learned from them...sometimes.

To read about bipolar disorder, you would realize that I am a classically textbook case. Boring. Nothing spectacular about it. Nothing different that will make a doctor take notice. Simply, classic textbook.

It is apparent to me now, as a forty year old woman, that I have probably been sick all of my life. So has my mother and my grandmother before her. Bipolar disorder has a very heavy genetic factor. The only difference is, I was able to admit there was something wrong with me. My mother wouldn't dare admit to such a thing about me, let alone herself. It would be stigmatizing. The neighbors might talk.

I suppose she ended up with the paranoia issues that I did not.

On the desk, right in front of me, is the Lamictal starter pack. I took my first pill tonight. I fell asleep for nearly three hours and woke confused and disoriented. I felt drunk, but not in a good way. And, for the first time in my life, I felt I should be mourning the personality disorder that has plagued me since I was too young to know what any of this meant. I am not entirely certain that I want it to go away. The depressed phases are when I do my best writing. The manic phases are when I am the most emjoyable to everyone else, but myself. I don't know if I even know who I am.

What if I take these pills and realize, I don't like me very much?

Am I taking the medication, or is it taking me?

Who is actually in control here?

I am contemplating putting them away. Not taking them. This would be a dreadful mistake on my part. As a nurse, I know this to be so. As a mother, I would never advise my own children to do what I am contemplating. But, as me, this individual that feels she has the ability to take care of herself, without help, I feel I can conquer this on my own. I know, in my heart, I cannot. I have tried, for many years and have failed.

This little pill keeps me awake right now. I read the package insert over and over and over so many times that it is practically committed to memory. I am talking myself into side effects. That little bump on my arm! Dear God! The start of an allergic skin rash! And, I have a headache. I think I feel nauseous. Maybe I shouldn't take this pill.

There. Justification. Rationalization. The permission to give up is granted.

It's hard to think at 3am, after blogging for nearly an hour. It's hard to read these words back and realize they are coming from my fingertips. My mind isn't thinking, my fingers are doing all the work. They know what I want to say is something that my eyes simply don't want to see. They are alive, my fingers, with a mind of their own.

Me? I am nothing more than the empty vessel that houses them sitting in the pale blue haze of the computer, hoping they will stop typing eventually.

Sleep is the farthest thing from their mind.

Saturday Night's Alright for Fighting...

and so is Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, etc.

For now, we will focus on the madness that was Saturday night dinner out with Esther. You knew it had to happen.

Friday went really well. We shopped. We bought a washer/dryer combo and Esther bought us our dining room set.

"It's your combine Channukah present," she says.

"Technically," I counter, "this is only a six piece set. You really owe us two more things for Channukah."

She scowled. I smiled.

"OOOOOHHHH," she says, "You're being funny. I got it."

This woman has no sense of humor.

We get to dinner last night. Esther and Harold arrive before us, by four minutes. They are already seated, already have their drinks and are already in pissy form.

"We ordered our drinks without you," she says.

"So I see," I reply and sit down without another word. I am not feeding the Esther through the bars of her cage.

Small talk was made by everyone. My daughter was in teenage angst mode. She was mumbling all her words. This frustrates the Esther who is partially deaf, mostly from listening to her own voice for the past 60 years.

"Whaaaa-aaaaaaat is she SAYING???"

"I don't know, Mom. Ask her, not me."

"Well, I can't hear you, Sam. Speak up."

"I'm right next to you, Grandma."

"You wouldn't know it, from the way you speak."

I roll my eyes and look the other way as if I hadn't heard the entire conversation.

We give our order to the victim, er, server and then...it happens. The kink in the chain. The monkey wrench in the machine. The fat man with forty pounds of cheap cologne who sits down directly behind me, but manages to waft over to Esther's nose.

"Oh. My. GAWD," screeches Esther. "He stinks!"

"He smells like Ajax and garbage," I offer in low, hushed tones.

"OY VEY, AM I GOING TO HAVE TO ENDURE THIS STINK ALL NIGHT," she bellows.

"Mother," I hiss, "You know, long after you leave, I still have to live here. Can you keep it down please?"

"I would keep it down, CP, but I am going to vomit if I have to endure this stink any longer!"

"Would you like to move, Mom?"

"Why should WE move? We were here first. Let HIM move!"

"Would you like me to tell the man, 'Excuse me Sir? You smell like utter shit. Would you mind moving as you are disturbing my mothers dining experience?'"

"That would be good," she retorts.

"I can't do that, Mom!"

"Fine, I'll just sit here and gag."

I look over at my father. His face is buried deeply in the menu. Smart man, ignoring all of this. Wish I had his ability to leave a situation without actually leaving the room. I look over at my husband. His Adult Attention Deficit Disorder is in full swing and he hasn't a clue what is going on. He's too busy looking at the sparkly beer bottles on the other tables. I elbow him.

"Huh," he says, completely oblivious to the fat man and the funk.

"Nothing," I say and sigh.

I look back over to Esther. She now has a cloth napkin tucked around both of her ears like the Mata Hari. She's breathing through it like Darth Vader. She looks utterly ridiculous. I attempt to ignore her.

"Grandma looks funny," Nick yells out. "She's covering her face from the fat smelly guy behind us."

"Thank you, Howard Cosell, for the play by play," I say.

"Who's Howard Cosell?"

"Be quiet, Nick."

My mother is now looking like a wide mouthed bass, gasping for air on dry land. Her gills are retracting and she is flopping about in her chair. The drama of it all makes me want to stand, applaud and throw roses in her direction. If she was an opera, she would be a tragedy. My children then decide to order peanuts to the table. Peanuts are the ONE thing in the world that have the ability to kill me. If someone even TOUCHES me after eating peanuts, I get welts on my skin and my throat closes.

"Are you two nuts," I ask. "Do not bring peanuts to this table!"

"Why," they both shriek, as if they had no clue about my peanut allergy. "We like peanuts!"

"My allergies, kids! Is it so important to have peanuts right now?"

I have done it. I left the door WIDE the hell open for Esther.

"OOOoooOOOOooooHHHhhh," she moos. "I see how it is. YOUR allergies matter. Mine don't. You would think, having the allergies that you do, that you would understand how I am suffering right now!"

"Okay, Mom? Not that I want to play Who's Ailment is Worse with you right now, but his cologne stink is not going to kill you. I can die from the peanuts."

"Be that as it may, you should still have more compassion."

"Hello???? Death versus discomfort? And we are comparing the two...why???"

"I am just saying that I would think someone in your position would be more compassionate towards my suffering."

"OH for Fucks Sake," I mutter. "Then MOVE YOUR SEAT!"

"Watch your tone with your mother," Harold interjects from the comfort of his little menu fort.

I sigh. I re-group.

"All I am saying, Dad, is that if she is suffering so badly, why wouldn't you just move your seat?"

"Why should she have to move," he counters.

"Because she is the one who is FREAKING the hell out over the cologne."

"You didn't move," he says.

"Excuse me?"

"When the peanuts came. You didn't move. You had them removed."

"So, what you are saying is you want me to have the smelly guy removed, is that it?"

"I'm just saying, CP. You took care of yourself. You should take care of your mother!"

"She's a big girl, Dad! What's with the martyr routine??"

"Forget it, Harold," Darth Vader says. "She doesn't care."

"How the hell did this become CP doesn't care???"

Blank faces greet me. Harold retracts back into his menu fort. Darth goes back to her overzealous breathing. I am dying to hear "CP, I AM NOT YOUR MOTHER". It never comes. But the fantasy pumps me up.

I leave the table, go to the manager. I explain to this child who can't be more than my daughters age, about the smelly fat man who is causing my mother severe emotional distress. The teen handles it with much grace, I have to admit. Nary a chuckle out of her. She gets us another table on the other side of the room. She has a bevvy of waitstaff swarm down on us and move our things to the other table.

"I can't believe we have to sit in front of the kitchen," Esther says, after removing her veil.

"They left the regular butter at the other table," my father utters with disgust.

"We can get more, Dad," I say.

"Not the point, CP," my mother counters.

I kind of liked it when she couldn't breathe. It stopped her from speaking.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We were to catch an 8:00 PM showing of "Casino Royale".

I ended up with explosive diarrhea and asked my husband to take me home first.

Never in my life I had been so grateful for a case of the shits.

I have concluded that my mother is the catalyst of my irritable bowel. I noticed that once she was removed from my presence, my stomach went back to normal. I went blissfully to sleep, leaving my husband with the kids and my parents.

Serves the fucker right. ADD, my ass. He just learned how to tune people out.

Oh, how I wish there was a class for this.

SWEET 3PM EDIT AND PROOF THAT THERE IS A GOD...AND I'M HIS FAVORITE GIRL:
Esther calls this morning. She's on the phone with the Hotband. She's very fucking loud, so I can still hear her, despite him being on the other side of the living room.

"You know, I think your father and I are going to head over to the East Coast to see Evilyn (my grandmonster) a day earlier. Do you kids mind?"

CP is doing the happy dance. We are talkin' cabbage patchin', the Carlton Dance and the Snoopy Yippee Skippee thing. I am bouncing in ways that I haven't been able to do in years. I am dry-humping my husbands leg, swinging a pretend lassoo over my head and doing everything I can from screaming "PRAISE fucking Gawd!"

My Hotband, ever the diplomat says, "Wow, Esther. CP is going to be so disappointed. Let me see how she takes it, then, I'll call you back."

He hangs up. I am still one step away from euphoria.

"Call her back, Call her back right now and tell her I said BUH BYE," I scream at the Hotband, so close to ecstacy I nearly came.

"How about we wait a minute, Babe," he says, "You know, to make it look like you give a shit?"

I count off 60 seconds in my head.

"Call her back! Tell her BUH BYE! Tell her I-75 South is callin' her name, Baby!"

He calls her back.

"Yeah, no...you're right, Esther. No reason you shouldn't get a jump on that part of the trip. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Oh, okay. That sounds great! Sure. See you in a half hour."

I stop writhing on the floor and sit up.

"'Scuse me?"

"We're going to have breakfast with them," Hotband says, "and then, they'll go."

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO," I cry.

"Honey, one more meal and then she goes away, okay love," he asks gently.

I am wiping the tears and sniffling. "Okay," I mutter. "But I don't see why I have to share a last meal with her."

"Just keep your mouth full, and everything will be fine," he says reassuringly.

"I hate you," I say to him.

"Not as much as you hate your mother though," he counters.

"Good point."

If you need further proof that God loves me best, I have nothing else to offer you. Esther leaving a day early, even the meager 17 hours earlier...is like a gift from God Himself. I feel like I have my life back. I can breathe again. I can light my scented candles without Weezy flippin' me shit over the smell. I can resume ponytailing my hair without the commentary "You're not 17 anymore, CP; What kind of a look is that for a 40 year old woman?" I can eat at McDonalds again. I can pee with the door open. Life is so full of joy right now, I can hardly contain myself.

And then, just when I think God loves me more than Jesus, I am reminded that on December 16th, I am leaving to spend two weeks at her home in New York.

God doesn't love me.

He's just a tease.

Black Friday...or, what color are your onions?

Bleak Friday?

Same thing.

Sure, it's been days since I have posted. Notice it correlates with Esther flying in on her broom? She has a very modern, upscale model that even Harry Potter would be jealous of. She didn't opt for the vibrating stick up the ass seat, which is a shame. There would be less tension, if she had.

We're out at Perkin's the other night. Esther is famished and wants to eat ASAP. Poor waiter, Steve, doesn't know what he is in for. Everywhere we go, Esther acts like she is at a five star restaurant in New York.

"Okay. Tell me how your patty melts are."

"Um," says Steve, "they're good, I guess. I don't really eat meat."

This makes Esther roll her eyes. Steve is obviously flaming gay and I am praying she doesn't decide to go all Michael Richards/Mel Gibson with the obvious joke that would follow the no meat comment.

Mercifully, she doesn't. She is far too hungry to play Who's That Bigot this evening.

"What color are your onions?"

"Excuse me?"

"What color are YOUR ONIONS? Are they RED onions? WHITE onions?"

"Oh," says Steve, realizing that Esther was not trying to take stock of what was in his pants, but rather, what was in the kitchen. "They're red onions."

"Ugh. Red onions." She sighs and does the dismissive hand thingie. She is done with this peon. Be gone, pissant! The gesture says it all.

Insert LONNNNNNNNNNG uncomfortable silence here.

Finally, my father speaks.

"Okay, well, I'll have the..."

"Let me ask you something," Esther interjects. "Can you make the onions so black that I don't see a speck of red anywhere on them?"

We all cower in fear, none so much as Steve...who is looking to me for an answer.

I nod my head, wide-eyed, urging him to comply.

"Y-yes," he mutters.

"Yes WHAT," screeches the Queen Mother.

"Yes, Ma'am?"

This elicits major laughter from Esther. Gotta admit, it was kind of funny.

"No," she says, "I mean, yes, you can make the onions black?"

Steve is slowly regaining his confidence. His onions are no longer shrinking and doing the slow crawl up into his intestines. He found his footing with the Queen.

"Girrrrrrrl," he cackles, "I will make your onions so black, Wesley Snipes will look pale in comparison!"

Everyone cracks up.

Everyone...but Esther.

"And the bun. I want it toasted."

"Yes, Ma'am," says Steve. I can see his onions start their ascent back into stomach once again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Thanksgiving was pretty uneventful. I have to admit, I am shocked. Either Esther is slowing down in her old age, or I was waaaaaaaay too drunk on cheap wine to have noticed. Mother and I sat on my couches and chatted while our respective husbands slaved away in the kitchen. Suddenly I realized something...

Am I turning into Esther? Am I sitting here, completely unappreciative of my wonderful husband who is working so hard on Thanksgiving to make this glorious meal for the family? Am I cross-legged, on the couch, glass of wine in hand, throwing out orders to my husband? Am I becoming a dictator? A wife who does nothing more than merely supervise her husband?

I jumped up, ran into the kitchen and pounced on my husband.

"I love you," I said, throwing my arms around his neck. "Need help?"

"No, you aren't becoming your mother," he replies. "Go sit down and relax."

How does he DO that????
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Wednesday we had an office meeting.

What we generally do at my office is exchange secret santa notes. You write down three things you would like for Christmas. You drop it into a box. You draw someones name. You spend no more than twenty bucks on their three wishes.

Before I handed mine in, the girl next to me spies what I wrote down.

"That's so stupid," she says, rolling her eyes.

"Why is it stupid, CK?"

(I call this person CK, short for Cryptkeeper, because that is what she looks like to me. If you tossed red hair on the Cryptkeeper and some implants? You'd have her.)

"Because, you aren't even asking for anything for yourself. That's what secret santa is for. You ask for things for yourself."

"I don't need more body lotion, socks or Walmart gift cards, CK. Why don't you just mind your own list, alright? Don't worry about mine."

"Well, I hope I don't get your list," she hisses. "I will just buy you want I want to get for you if I do."

"If you pull my list, CK, feel free to buy me a muzzle so I can wrap it around your snout."

The meeting starts, silencing any further banter.

Was my list really stupid? Maybe I am being a bit over the top, trying to put my values on other people. Perhaps I should ask for some Bath and Bodyworks lotions. I can always use a nice gift card to Books A Million, I suppose. I certainly don't need another candle, but, it would make someones life easier if that is all they had to buy for me. Maybe I am being a bit too virtuous, trying to make a frivilous gesture into something holy and divine.

I unfold my list and look at it.

1) $5.00 money order made out to the Pediatric AIDS Foundation.
2) Canned goods for me to bring to the Ronald McDonald House.
3) A small toy for Toys for Tots.

Then, beneath that...

"I have been very blessed this year. I don't need anything for myself. If you can do even one of the three things above, I would be happy. All I want from you, Secret Santa, is a card and a hug."

I fold my list back up. I throw it into the box.

I want to believe, with all my heart, that my list will wind up in the hands of someone who will appreciate what I wrote. Someone who will recognize that the list is what I feel Christmas is really about. I hope whoever gets it won't feel put out, or put upon. I am not trying to inflict my morals upon anyone. I am annoyed with myself for feeling badly about my list. Why the hell would I allow some piece of crap woman to make me feel ashamed or embarassed by a gesture that came from my heart? I second guessed myself and I don't like the feeling at all.

Maybe I should have asked for a gift card to PetSmart.

That muzzle is sounding like a hell of an idea right about now.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Black Friday.

This means, the Certifiable One will be out shopping. All day. All night.

Washer and dryer from Best Buy.
New dining room set from Badcock Furniture.

These are the times I appreciate Esther being in town. If anyone can assrape a salesman and make him cower until he forfeits the sales tax, it's her. When the Queen Mother and the Princess are in shop mode, the husbands stay in the car. They drive getaway. They are in charge of making sure there is enough bail money for when the Queen Mother loses her mind on an unwitting consumer and the Certifiable One (the muscles of the organization) ends up biting them on their shinbone to get them to drop whatever it is the Queen Mother wants to buy.

It's art. Truly art.

If you ever get a chance to witness Esther and I shop...please, do so.

Bring Kleenex.

It's an emotional ride.

Esther and I...via phone.

Hyperexcited to FINALLY begin my life as an RN, I call my mother to tell her the news.

"So," I begin, "I have some news to tell you."

"You don't have to tell me. N. (the hotband) told me everything! I'm so happy for you! You have been waiting for this for so long!"

Wow. This is my mother? Esther is happy for me? Whoa.

I almost had to pull the car over.

"Mom, you have no idea how much this means to me. I mean, to finally have what I worked so hard for all these years. I never thought I was going to ever accomplish this."

"Why wouldn't you, honey? You've worked so hard! You had to overcome a lot of obstacles to get to this point!"

"I know, Ma, but it just seemed so far away. And you know, with the new house and all, I have so much on my plate."

"Yes, but this will only make things in the new house better, for all of you!"

"Yeah. Yeah it will. I guess you're right."

She sighs audibly.

"I remember when your father and I bought our first REAL bedroom set. We never thought we would ever be able to afford the payments. It was the cherry mahoghany, remember? With those beautiful dovetail drawers. And that gorgeous armoir. You did get an armoir with that set, right?"

"Mom. I was talking about my nursing license."

"What about it?"

*sighs*

"Nothing. So yeah, I got the armoir too."

"Oy, thank God you did. You will never regret that decision! I am so excited for you! Dad and I are both very excited! So, what were you saying about a license?"

"Did I mention that the set also came with free delivery?"

"Oh. My. GAWD! CP!!!! That's PHENOMENAL! You got them to deliver for free? You are definately MY daughter for sure!"

Yeah.

For sure.

Sunday Morning Freebie!

I'm not much of a coupon clipper, so whatever deals I find, I find online...and print, rather than cut, my coupons.

Since the Lady Samantha of USA decided to marry Lord Trevor of the UK, she has lost her health insurance that the Princess Mother (myself) has been providing for her. Jerk. Anyway, I have been online shopping for health benefits, however minimal, to cover her if she should get sick or injured. This, however, makes me unhappy, because my online time is getting fewer and far between. I have my parents coming for Thanksgiving. I am moving out of my house and into our new home. I have to study for that nursing board. In a word?

Overwhelmed.

But, I did run across something fun in my travels. The site is Vimo and if you have to be forced to shop for health insurance rates, at least you get something out of the deal. They have an area where you can "rate your doctors". Hm. A nurse. Rating her doctors. This sounds like wicked fun to me! So, I rated the two doctors I work for. Easy enough. I rated my sons pediatrician, awesome guy. I rated the surgeon who did my husbands femur repair. Jackass supreme, but a brilliant surgeon. Then, I rated my former OB/GYN who deserves to be plowed up his ass with his own oversized, freezing cold speculums.

This part of the Vimo experience was a lot of fun. I got to say things to my doctors that I wouldn't DARE say to them in person! Moo-ha ha!

And for my time, I received five FREE music downloads from emusic.com! Legal MP3 downloads and no credit cards required. (I tried it first before offering it up to you guys. Oh, the things I do for my audience. The sacrifices I make. Oy. If you haven't already erected your shrine, I expect it to be completed this weekend.)

The reviews take a hot 5 seconds each. Very easy stuff.

Now that I am happily well-vented about my OB/GYN and a few other docs, I am off to collect my free music code! Whee. This is the kind of stuff that makes Sunday morning worth waking up for!

Not that I am not going back to sleep. I am. It's 6am. Why I'm even up right now is a mystery to me.

Oh, yes. Now I know. So I can deliver my wonderful finding to all of you. To make your days brighter, cheerier and full of song. Yes, these are the things that the Certifiable One wishes to bring to the masses. The gift of music on a cold winter morning. And, if I could, I would bring each of you a cup of warm tea and a croissant in bed too. But alas, so many of you...only one of me.

Why don't you all serve ME breakfast in bed this morning?

It's the least you all can do for the service and love I provide.

I am over the mooooooooooon!!!

Y'all recall when CP went to the slammer, dontcha? Yeah, that's right. I did time in the big house. Don't screw with me, yo. I am hardcore. I was out in GP. That's general population for you biatch do-gooders who ain't never been in the joint.

If you don't know...here are the links to the three part drama---

Part One: Guess where I was?
Part Two: Jewgirl in Bondage.
Part Three: Sprung!

Yeah. Read it. Make sure you urinate first, lest you do so in your chair. Face it. Even in times of strife and adversity, I remain...a funny bitch.

Anyway, I also had some issues back in New York back in the early 90's with Tony that led me into jail too. Yeah, I told you. Hardcore, bitches. I don't play. I been in the joint five times in total. (Okay, three were expunged because I was a youth offender, but still!) For years, I couldn't take my nursing boards to move on in my career because my um...past followed me. I had a charge for felonious assault (stabbing Tony), one for Grand Larceny (due to Tony stealing my "welfare" checks while I was a single mom and cashing them LONG after I was no longer entitled to the benefits. Don't judge a bitch. The man was bashing my skull in on a nightly basis) and of course, this latest stint for a clerical error no thanks to Florida State.

Out of these three felonious counts, I will happily admit to stabbing Tony.

I will also admit to knowing that he was cashing my state checks to buy himself crack. I liked when he did crack. He was too stoned to beat my ass up. I encourage a crack habit for all violent men. Truly. I would fund the fucking thing myself. In the interim, I still had a child to support and a roof to keep over my head, so I got a job in a law firm and lived on that. I knew what Tony was doing was illegal. I was too scared of him to care. I'll deal with it when I have to, I told myself. And I did, several years later in the form of a warrant for my arrest.

It wasn't very hard to show the prosecutors that I was a battered woman who was being cohersed into this sort of behavior. They were cool with me.

"Just sign this judgment for $10,000 and we will let you go with only probation."

"Sweet," I replied and signed the judgment.

Sadly, I was unaware that signing the judgment means you have just CONFESSED to committing the crime, regardless of circumstance (hey, I was a kid, alright! Stop judging me, fuckers!) and off to jail I went, until I was arraigned in front of the judge who agreed to the terms of the judgment.

Shit.

The Florida fiasco was a mess. Truly a mess that I never should have been a part of. Everything in Florida is so asshat backwards and this friggin' clowns that run this state are more interested in their own pockets than the freedom of their constituents.

Well, the day finally arrived that my attorney CLEARED my good name. And now, I just received word from the Board of Nursing that I may continue on with my journey forward into nursing and take my Boards. Finally. Seven long years of waiting and I can finally retrieve my license. All dispositions are finalized. Everyone has been paid off. I served my time (all three days of it) in New York and did my three years probation (which I had to have switched to Florida). I am fucking GOLDEN now. Gold, baby. Untouchable. Unscathed by the pariah that was my past.

I am FREE! FREE from the chains that bound me to my mundane existance.

In other words, look out bitches...'cause I'm goin' to med school.

Yeah. You heard it here first. You just been scooped.

I decided, along with the hotband, that we are in the financial position for me to stop working if I need to and send my ass to school to be a Physician's Assistant, Nurse Practitioner or Nurse Anesthetist.

I mean, face it. I am far too smart to be popping zits for the rest of my life. Far too cute to be kept in an operating room all day. Much too fabulous to not be deliciously infamous for finding the cure for at least 16 different diseases. I think I shall appear as a guest on a few CSI: Vegas episodes too. Watch for me. I will not only be a doctor, but I will play one on TV as well. I will get an Emmy. And then, I will sing...and win a grammy. I will appear on Broadway for my Tony. I will receive the Nobel Peace Prize for both literature and medicine by writing the first fictional medical journal.

There will be no stopping me now. Whee ha!

So, before I become madass famous and fall out of touch with the little people who were there for my meager beginnings, I figured I would give you a taste of what I have in store for me. Feel free to erect MySpace sites and shrines in my honor. I couldn't blame you. Truly.

Seriously, show a overly eager, extremely confident and deliriously happy blogger some love. This was a LONG time coming and I am so thrilled, so relieved to have this part of my life behind me.

I have paid the debts of checks someone else wrote on my account, both literally and metaphorically. I've lived through a lot of pain and desperation to get to this point. I never thought I would see the other side. I have been underneath a veil of Tony for so many years, that I still cough and choke at the thought of all he has robbed me of.

Not this. Not this time.

It feels so amazing to breathe again...after waiting to exhale.

Going with your gut.

You know what gut feelings are like.

You get that wrenching feeling in your stomach.

You want to say "yes", but something in the pit of your stomach warns you against it. You want to go out with him/her, but there is this nagging sensation that washes over you to say "no". You are about to write that huge check that will change your life, but then, suddenly...you retract the pen and walk away.

It was your big moment! You had thought about it for weeks! You considered it! You educated yourself. You took the time to learn about what it was that you wanted and hell, you were going to go for it, no matter what!

Yet, you instinctively turned away. No real or legitimate reason why.

It was just...your gut telling you to.

Which begs the question:

When trying to make a decision that could change your entire life, how much credibility should you give to a "gut feeling"? Which one of your instincts, your intellectual knowledge or your gut, would you go with when weighing out an enormous decision? In a moment of crisis, are you more likely to act...or react?

When that little voice inside of you says, "don't do it", do you tend to listen to it or blow it off...chalking it up to fear or anxiety?

Like, right now?

Are you going to answer me...or, is that little voice inside of you saying "Don't do it! She's a longwinded bitch who will now show up at YOUR blog and make you talk to her!"

Can you ever be wrong if you go with your gut instinct?

Aiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeee!

Why.

Why do people feel the incessant need to make me rip the hair out of my skull? Why? Why do people have to torture me and make me lose all sensibility? Why do I feel the need to bend over backwards for people, so far, that I can stick my head up my own ass...yet, cannot expect that from others in return?

Why.

The old adage "no good deed goes unpunished" is the truest cliche I have ever heard.

What's my ish tonight?

Hairy.
Melon.


AGAIN!

Okay, I know she got her ass beat. I got it. I empathized, sympathized, exorcised, hypothesized, super-sized, etc. I was THERE FOR HER! Despite the stunt she pulled on me the week prior, I was there for her in her time of need! TIME OF NEED, PEOPLE! Does time of need not count for anything anymore?

Let's make a list of what a fuckwad CP is...ready?

1) I babysat the bitches dog. He ate my house. Whatever he didn't eat, he utilized as his own personal toilet bowl.
2) I drew up legal papers for her when she couldn't afford an attorney helping her to get a YEARS worth of child support back.
3) When her kids were assaulted, I was there for her, giving her numbers to support centers and places where she could get them some help.
4) When she twitched out and spazzed to the floor, having a mother fucking STROKE, I was there for her. I was the ONLY pint sized twat to take the bitch to the hospital, stay with her all day/night and then, drive that good for nothing, piece of shit douchebucket of a boyfriend of hers to see her. Why? 'Cause the fucking Goomba has a DUI and can't drive.
5) I have covered for her every single time she had to leave the office because the kids were sick, her stomach hurt, her nail broke, etc.
6) I have taken the "on call phone" for her a gazillion times because she lives so far away from the office, and I live closeby.

And, would you like to know the thanks CP gets?

A nice firm hard DICK up the ass, sans lube. Now, if this was coming from my husband I could say, "Darling? Can you please stop, get the Astroglide and then proceed?" I also know that if I was getting ass-raped by my husband, I would get taken out to dinner at some point. A nice rare filet mignon in exchange for allowing him to venture up the poop shoot is a nice trade off, no?

Anyway, I was a decent enough human being with a conscience. When I found out that she was physically harmed by her boyfriend, I retracted my kitty claws, and the nasty statements I made about her. I wrote a meaningful letter, asking for forgiveness. Let me give this relationship as friends a second chance, I said to myself. She's going through a rough time, CP. Forgiveness. Find it in your heart to put aside the shitty thing she did to you by nearly getting you fired...and focus on the fact that she is a woman in dire need of a friend.

You know what I discovered?

CP IS THE BIGGEST IMBECILE ON THE PLANET.

This is the angel/devil on my shoulder dilemma once again. The angel usually wins. This time, I think I shall have the devil shove that pitchfork straight up the angels ass, sans lube, again!

No sooner does this bitch come back to work, then she is already setting me up again for another fall! She is making notes of everything I did "wrong" while she was gone. For example, I overbooked some surgeries. Well, excuse the hell out of me. I was ONE NURSE ON THE FLOOR while you were gone, you nazi bitch!

*ahem* No offense meant to Hitler.

I walk into the back office to find her blathering to the OM about all the things that were not "protocol" that took place in her absence. Had you cracked an egg on my skull, you could have made scrambled eggs on my scalp. Better yet...eggs...BENEDICT (like some other infamous traitor!) When the OM questioned me about these "certain things", I told her, quite simply, that I had to do whatever was priority first and foremost. Things like scheduling were secondary to me. The patients who were in the building and on the phone are what I will focus on. Fortunately, L-Rex was not in one of her hiss and piss moods, so she didn't give me too much hell.

But tell me...please, what happened to plain, old common decency? What happened to being able to recognize when someone is being a friend to you, going above and beyond? And, why...why do I have this need to be the defender of the universe and the protector of all mankind?

If I was to make an analogy out of all of this, I remind myself of the superhero who has put their nemesis in harms way. Seconds away from death and then, WHOOSH, you swoop down and save them, only to find out they will still try to kill you anyway.

Does Superman have this kind of shit to deal with back at the Justice League?

"I don't feel very well today, CP," she says to me.

"Sit down then," I reply without looking at her.

"I was just wondering if you can cover for me because..."

"I'm really busy right now, Mare. I have a few surgeries to get to."

"Well, maybe I should just...*insert heavy, audible sigh here* go home then."

"Do what you gotta do, girl," I retort.

The rest of the day, I watched her walk around with her head down, looking pale, dizzy and completely off kilter. Yet, I couldn't bring myself to muster the empathy that I found within me last week. I think she milked the last drop of it right out of this cow. I have nothing left.

And, I don't like the way it feels. This isn't me.

In light of my recent 'breakdown', I feel that I have to protect me a bit more than I have been doing. Her situation, and the similarity it drew to mine with Tony, has been gnawing at my gut for nearly a week already. She probably never gave it a thought, but lord knows, I have yet to stop thinking about it...or her. I know she is still living with him. That's her decision. I will never judge her for that, think less of her for it. I couldn't possibly condemn anyone for that choice knowing I did the same thing for nearly three years. But, I feel like she has stripped me, ripped me off blind, of some of the humanity I have always held onto when it comes to domestic violence and the women who suffer at the hands of the men they love. I feel like she has drained all the compassion from me.

I am in self-preservation mode.

It pains me gravely to see her walking around so morose. My other co-workers call me a moron.

"You are such an asshole," one of them said, lovingly. "Stop giving a shit about her. She doesn't give a flying fuck about you!"

This co-worker is absolutely correct...and yet, I feel myself always looking at Mare through the corner of my eye, making sure she isn't about to faint or be sick. I try to convince myself it is the nurse in me. It isn't. It's the woman who has been there, done that and knows what it is like to walk around stigmatized and brutalized by the man she loved. I know what those pulled muscles, sore bruises and throbbing head all feel like.

None of them hurt as much as the bruised ego or broken spirit.

I didn't say goodbye to her when I left today, something I have done every day for nearly two years. I didn't care enough to. I am thoroughly disgusted that someone has succeeded in ruining a part of my personality that I really thought the world of.

"It's not ruined," says the hotband, "it was just time to shut it off to this one person."

There's a lot of sense in that statement, I suppose.

Still, it doesn't quite help me to understand why a person you can care so much about would turn on a dime to ruin you. The only thing that makes sense is that her life is so out of control at home that she needs to be the boss at work. She needs to smack down the successes of others in order to boost up her own self-esteem.

Or, I am completely misdirected...and she is simply, a twat.

Of course, that was my initial assessment, but I prefer to give the benefit of the doubt.

Certifiable Movie Whore.

I love the movies.

Not just "movies", but the entire theater experience. It has been something that thoroughly pumps my nads, if I had any, since I was a little girl. Love the movies. Love the anticipation of waiting for the movie to come out. Adore the smell of popcorn. Completely intoxicated by the previews. If I am late for a movie and miss the previews, I am a bucket of piss and vinegar for the rest of the show.

Sometimes, those previews are better than the movie you are coming to see.

Since the first time I walked into the Midway Movie Theater on Queens Boulevard in 1970, I have been a movie addict. I have planned cutting school, work and emotional ties around movie schedules. It would not satiate me to wait for these grandiose displays to come out on DVD. I need the entire movie experience, gum on the seats, noisy patrons and all. Crappy movie? I care not. For nearly two hours, I was absorbed into a world of theatrical wonder.

If the movie was THAT bad, at least the boyfriend of the week would have gotten a handjob out of the deal. Y'all do know the pecker through the popcorn trick, right?

Okay, maybe not. Don't judge a bitch.

However, even the shittiest of movies are never a disappointment to me. There is nary a chance in hell that you could ever say to me, "CP, you HAVE to see this movie," and me reply, "Wow! I haven't seen that yet!"

It won't happen, Kids.

The day "The Departed" opened, I was there for the fourth showing of the day, and that was only because some bitch ass rule of commerce says that I have to go to work first, before I can go to the movies. Fuckers. Someone needs to rewrite that crap, ASAP. So it is written, so it shall be done. (Heh. Quoting the Ten Commandments in ones' blog has this really empowering feel to it. Try it some time!)

All of this love for the cinematic scintillation mixed with the need to see a movie before any other person on the planet does leads me to one really intense problem.

His name...is Borat.

If you have been living down a mineshaft for the past several weeks, please click the link first before continuing this read. It won't make a helluva lot of sense if you have no clue about the Borat character.

From the IMDb website:

Kazakhstani TV talking head Borat (Cohen) is dispatched to the United States to report on the greatest country in the world. With a documentary crew in tow, Borat becomes more interested in locating and marrying Pamela Anderson.

Sounds amusing, no?

I have been a long time fan of Sacha Baron Cohen, the creator of memorable characters like Borat, Ali G and of course, my personal favorite, Bruno, the gay Austrian journalist. I love Sacha's sense of humor and you have to be a really tolerant person, especially if you are a Jew, to be able to laugh at his work as Borat. However, I know that Baron-Cohen is a Jew as well and we are prone to self-depracating humor. He just does it in another character who is, for all intent and purpose, a non-Jew, or...goyum, as Esther would say.

However, this time, I feel my principles and morals as a human being (yes, bitches, I have them!) are being compromised a bit.

I couldn't see Borat the week it opened for preview. I was dealing with health issues with my son, my root canal and various other things at the time. A huge bummer for me, because I love this comedian, love the character and was chomping at the bit to see this movie. I am finally in the position to have a free Sunday to go see it...and I can't bring myself to do it.

Apparently, my beloved Borat, rather Sacha Baron Cohen, has ALLEDGEDLY tricked a town full of people into appearing in his movie for his own personal gain. The village he chose to make the movie in is called "Glod", which translates loosely to "Mud". Now granted, the self-esteem of a little country called Mud is probably pretty low to start with. Yet, it seems a bit...well, cruel and inhumane to utilize the villagers of this town as the background joke. Apparently, in early scenes of the movie where Borat is showing where he "grew up", we are inundated with the suggestion that this country is full of nothing but incestuous thieves who make their livings by pillaging and prostitution. Baron-Cohen lead his crew into Glod under the guise of doing a documentary to show the hardships of their village. Each of the people were paid a meager sum of money, considering that the movie has already grossed 27 million dollars during its first weekend of release only.

Arguably, no one forced these people in front of the cameras. No one held a gun to their heads and said "do this movie". They did it of their own volition, however false the pretenses might have been.

But, as a lover of people and a person who hates to see the underpriviledged exploited for any reason, I feel torn with regard to this movie. I would have expected more sensitivity from a Jewish film producer. Then again, I realize that this movie is no Schindler's List. It is not a documentary, but rather, a MOCKumentary and therefore should be seen that way. Cohen makes it known, quite explicitly, that this movie is a work of fiction and that it in no way represents the country of Glod.

Yet, in some pungent, foul smelling way, I can't help being reminded of the poor young, starry-eyed girl who shows up in Hollywood with dreams of being an actress, only to land on some fat schmuck's casting couch. The false pretense reigns true. Fuck me, baby, and I'll make you a star. Now, no one asked this young babe to bump uglies with this nasty dreg of a human. Her drive for fame and fortune lead her down this road.

So, can't the same argument be made for Baron-Cohen? He didn't force these people to perform. He promised them a sum of money. They took it. And, in the end, they were made fun of and cast aside. However, they did receive what was promised to them. They took it with great happiness. Now that they have discovered the true intent of the movie and the enormous gross it has taken in, the villagers of Glod are interested in suing Mr. Cohen for "tricking" them into participating in this satirical film.

This leaves me with a dilemma.

To see, or not to see. That, is the question.

Would I be perpetuating the same crime; using the citizens of Glod for my own amusement and pleasure if I were to see this film? Would my $14.00 (matinee price, of course) be betraying a town full of people who scarcely make that sum of money a month, let alone utilizing it to see a movie with? Would I be compromising my principles by allowing myself to laugh at other peoples misery?

Bet your ass I would be.

That won't stop me from seeing the film, though. I feel that I shall wait...wait until someone uploads it illegally. I will then download it illegally and see it that way. (Um, do you think the FBI or FCC read my blog?) That way, I am seeing the movie without putting money towards the cause.

Okay, so I won't do that. That would make me a hypocrite and besides, I feel that illegal downloading and peer to peer sharing of files is wrong, wrong, WRONG!

*looks left. looks right.*

Yeah, anyway.

With all of this in mind, and please, I ask you to read the article in today's Daily Mail, what would you do?

Would you go to see this movie, taking it in stride that the movie is a work of fiction and a comedy, never meant to imply that the people of Glod were any of the things he portrays them to be? Or, would you take a stand, keep your money firmly in your pocket and instead, go to see a different movie?

Y'all better answer me pretty damn fast, cause there is a 5:20 showing at the Regal Hollywood 18 and I have to know if I should go or not.

Maybe I can just go, under the premise of research for this article?

I mean, a good journalist is always well informed of both sides of an issue, no?

Okay, I know. I'm a nurse, not a journalist. Relax.

Katie Couric is in no danger of losing her job to me.

MONDAY MORNING EDIT: Nope, didn't go see it. You will be happy to know it had nothing to do with my morals and more to do with menstrual cramps. Have faith, Dear Readers. There is still the strong possibility of corrupting me and destroying what little value system I have left. I know y'all live for that shit.

Farking Florida...

I was at Fark.com getting my daily news on, because, hell...if you have to read depressing shit, you might as well laugh at it. Anyway, they wanted to know what makes Florida suck so bad. As a resident here for 11 years now, I feel qualified to answer that question. Feel free to jump into the comments if you have anything to add. Feel free to fuck off if you don't agree with me.

Sweet.

After 11 years in Florida, just north of hell, I can share with you the following as to why Florida sucks:

1) Palmetto bugs. Fancy-assed word for surfboard sized roaches. They fly. There is no excuse for that. New york City roaches do not fly. They have attitude, sure, but it doesn't take 14 people to step on ONE of them.

2) Snowbirds on Mondays-Fridays...as they drive along our highways and main roads looking for tourist traps while the rest of us schmucks are trying to get to work.

3) Elderly drivers who make left turns from the right side lane because they spotted an all you can eat Bingo Buffet.

4) People who should never wear bikinis wearing bikinis...to the mall, to the movies, etc.

5) Flip flops in December. Why? Moreover? The people that lay on sweaters and coats in December and pair those with their flip flops. Again, why?

6) Shirtless, fat redneck men, sweating while mowing their lawns...everywhere you look.

7) Farking flamingos.

8) More sexual predators and pedophiles per capita than any other state in the union. If you ever want to play a good drinking game, take a shot for every child who is raped or killed per day in Florida. You'll be trashed by the time The Late Show comes on.

9) Welfare mothers. Children with dirty feet in every store. Mothers who drop their kids bottles on the floors, wipe it on their bikini tops (see above) and then stick it back in their kids mouths. I have never witnessed as many dirty children roaming the streets in the middle of the night as I have in Florida. Mind you, I grew up in Manhattan.

10) Indescribable heat and humidity. Makes you feel like your breathing mud.

11) Trailer parks. Everywhere. In a place known for succumbing to hurricanes every 3 weeks, why are these even allowed to exist?

12) Jeb Bush. Thank God that one is being replaced.


But, there are good things too!

1) The planets stupidest criminals all reside here. We get the best Darwinians from every state moving here. Hence, we always have interesting news fodder.

2) Debra LaFave.

3) The ability to go run and play in the ocean while the rest of the world is Christmas shopping. Nothing like watching Santa pull his eight tiny dolphin past the decorated palm trees.

4) The Original Hooters girls.

5) Cheap cruises to the Bahamas! $300 all inclusive for 5 days, 4 nights and all you can eat. No airfare required!

6) Really poorly educated children, so you always seem smarter than everyone who you go to college with.

7) FantasyFest down in The Keys. If you don't know what it is, look it up!

8) Hoardes of red ants all over the place make it impossible for kids to walk on your lawns.

9) Strip clubs and tattoo parlors on every street corner.

10) Huge industry for those in the medical profession. Huge turnover in the geriatric population keeps job security at an all time high.

I could probably go on and on. However, I have a doctors appointment and need to leave an hour early. The early bird specials at Shoney's Buffet starts at 2pm, and I don't want to get caught in the Senior Citizen parade.

Dear God. Forgive me.

You know, in my heart, something told me to wait before posting my "gossip" from this post. Good call on my part. This is what happens when you only hear half a story.

My original "gossip" had to do with the Mare getting the crap beat out of her. And while I was correct on that account, the perpetrator was all wrong. We (I) originally thought that it was a female nemesis that she has who kicked her ass.

This morning, she came into work. Of course, I am chomping at the bit to find out the real deal. I know her well enough to know that she will want to talk about it to someone. I am usually the only one she trusts enough to talk to, but, in light of our recent falling out, I didn't think she would confide in me. As we were setting up for surgery, we had a conversation.

"Hey, look. I don't want to pry, I just want to know if you are okay now. L-Rex said you got a head injury over the weekend."

"Yeah," she said, without looking at me.

"Yeah, you got an injury or yeah you're okay?"

"Both."

"One more question, then I'll drop it, okay?"

"Sure," she said.

"Are the kids okay?"

Her dark brown eyes just lit up. It was like something within her said 'Wow, CP still cares about me enough to ask about my kids'.

"Oh, absolutely, no...the kids are great."

"Alright," I replied. "No more questions then. I was just worried about you guys."

We worked alongside one another, readying a surgery for a few quiet moments.

"I don't feel so good, CP."

"What's the matter?"

She closed the door. She broke down into deep heaving sobs. I can't stand anyone in pain, even if that person did utilize me as a human speed bump nearly a week earlier.

"Mare, baby, talk to me. What's wrong?"

I pulled her close to me. Natural instinct. I tend to mother all my girlfriends. When she got to the point where I could wrap my arms around her, she flinched, as though I had hurt her, despite the fact I was barely touching her. She just cried and cried. I let her cry. I stroked her hair for a moment.

And I knew. I didn't have to say another word. Neither did she.

"He didn't mean to do it, CP," she said between heaving sobs.

Jesus. Not this.

"Mare," I released her just enough to be able to look at her. "Was it Gino?"

"He was so mad, CP."

"Dear God, girl. What the hell did he do to you?"

I started to cry.

She parted her hair on the right side of her head. Ten staples, embedded into her scalp, closing what had to have been a large gaping wound. I gasped and felt the trembling of my own hands. I was acutely aware of my own seething anger. Been there, done that, have the brain damage and the T-shirt. Her reality was too close to my own and everything else between us melted away. No more animosity, just two women sharing the most horrifying of secrets.

She backed away from me, barely able to catch her breath from crying so hard. She lifted her scrub top. The bruises were violent shades of crimson, violet and deep blues and greens. I covered my mouth with my hand. She lifted her pant leg. The bruise ran from her right hip to her knee.

"Oh my God, Mare. What the HELL has he done to you?"

Long story extremely short and a lot of details deleted, he had thrown a table, lamp and other various household items at her during their "romantic" getaway to the Keys. She had been planning this weekend rendezvous for weeks. They needed to "decompress", she had said a few weeks back, before she and I had our now infamous confrontation. A recovering alcoholic, Gino fell off the wagon. Hard. In his disgust for himself, he battered her. She spent all of Saturday night and Sunday morning in the emergency room down in the Keys. Apparently, she got angry that he went on a bender down at the bar while she was showering for their night out. Admittedly, she told me, she punched him in the arm out of frustration. This is no excuse for hitting a woman so brutally of course, but already, she was trying to justify...make sense of it all. I didn't steal that from her by lecturing her. She knew it was wrong. Why point out the obvious during this moment. Best to let her speak.

Gino, incidentally, is about 6'2 and weighs about 240 or so. Mare, on the other hand, is a very slight girl. My height, 5'2 and tiny. She can't weigh more than 100 pounds soaking wet. Literally, soaking wet. He had done this to her directly out of her shower...leaving her naked and bleeding on the floor of their hotel room.

He was arrested. She spent the night in the ER, alone.

The memories of what happened to me, 15 years ago and coincidentally enough, this very same week in November, was enough to make me ache.

"Please, don't say anything," she cried.

"I won't," I said. "But Mare, you can't let him back in the house. We have to take pictures of these bruises and document your injuries and..."

"I love him, CP."

"I know you do, Sweetness. But it doesn't justify this."

We both cried some more. A release of the toxicity between us.

We heard the doctors in the hall. They were wondering what was going on in the surgery room. We both pulled ourselves together ridiculously quick and jumped into nurse mode. Mid-way through our first surgery, she looked at me. Her face was completely pale.

"I think I'm going to faint," she whispered.

"Let's go," I said to her, practically dragging her out of the surgery room.

I got her some apple juice to raise her sugar level. I put cool cloths on her neck and then, called the PA into the room. He didn't know what had happened to her. Without explaining the details of the "accident" to him, I simply gave him her vitals and stats so we could stabilize her long enough to get her to a hospital. She told him that she had two severe concussions and showed him the staples on her head. He shook his head, slowly and looked at me. The understanding that passed between us was unmistakable. You don't work in primary care for 25+ years, in the military as he has, without being able to spot a domestic violence incident from a mile away.

I arranged a ride for her while he examined her. Although I don't have the authority to do so, I told the doctors that I was sending her home. End of story. No further discussion. I called the office manager, apprised her of the situation. I took the verbal abuse of my other co-workers throughout the day.

"What happened to her?"
"Tell us. We know she told you!"
"Why aren't you telling us what's wrong with her?"
"Did Gino beat her up?"
"Did she get drunk and fall or something?"

And this is when and where I experienced my first breakdown from post traumatic stress in a very long time. The questions. The queries. The speculations, implications and accusations. They swarmed in my head, buzzing like frenzied flies on a rotting corpse. I went into the bathroom and broke down. Sobbed uncontrollably to the point where I felt like I was choking on my own tears. Drowning. The walls felt like they were falling in around me. The ceiling felt like it was sliding down the walls, coming closer and closer to the top of my head. I was dizzy. I was nauseated.

I made my excuses, crying hysterically through each word and left the building.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
One person and one person only from my job reads my blog. One. At least, only one that I know of. Someone who I willingly turned this part of my life over to because I love her and I trust her. I felt a deep kinship with this girl from the time we met. Sadly, this means that "D." now knows that the excuse I made for leaving today was not true. I had to lie to everyone else in order to get the hell out of the building. Unfortunately, that means that she got swept up in the lie as well. I didn't elaborate on the story with her, or anyone for that matter. And when she came over and hugged me before I left, oh God, how I wanted to tell her "forgive me, it's not what it appears to be." I know she is well aware of my history. She would have understood. I could have been honest with her, but I didn't have the presence of mind to give the entire office one story...and then, pull her over to the side to tell her not to listen to me. So, if anyone else at this point DOES read my blog from the office, then, you know the dirty little secret. I drove straight from my job, and to my psychologists office...banging on his door, begging for his help. I called my husband and told him to meet me there. I was in crisis. I drove to my psychologists without any recollection of driving there. I left with my husband in his car, so physically and mentally drained that it was impossible for me to drive my automobile back home. As I write this, it is still sitting in a parking lot, somewhere. The doctor considered checking me into the hospital. Then, opted not to because of my concerns that I would surely lose my job over this. I promised him I was not suicidal. That was good enough for him. I told him I couldn't possibly tell my bosses what was going on with me. They are great men, but for some reason, I am convinced that they would see fit to let me go. The stigma that is attached to mental illness of any sort is so detrimental...especially in my profession.

Ironic, don't you think?

D. sent me a text message, asking me if I was okay. I called her back at work, told her that the family situation was 'stable' for the time being and that I had cried myself into a severe migraine. This was the truth. She told me she loved me and if I needed her, to call her. The ears are everywhere at my job. We have all come to believe that our calls are monitored, as is our computer activity. To tell her the truth while she was at work would have put her in the same precarious situation that I was now in with Mare. Knowing the 'truth' would have made her prey to the vipers who love to pummel the gossip out of you. I resigned myself to the fact that I had to be dishonest with her, if only for a few hours. I'm so sorry for that. I didn't mean to drag her into the nonsense or play with her emotions. She is a wonderful friend to me as I hope I have been to her.

I can only hope that she still loves me, and forgives my indiscretion upon reading my blog tonight.

I opted to post this publically to her, as opposed to merely emailing her, because in my mind, I am trying to prove the commitment I have to our friendship. In my mind, by publically outing this lie...knowing that any co-worker of mine could stumble upon it, she will understand that I would rather reap the reprocussions of my actions than to be dishonest with a person I cherish. While I am certain that my rationale is ridiculous, for me, for now, it works.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I have been in bed since leaving my psychologists office. He told me to forgive myself. He wasn't condoning my lie, but he does understand how fragile I am when it comes to domestic violence issues. He understood that in my desire not to betray Mare, I wandered down the wrong path. It happens and I am going to opt to forgive myself, at least, for now. Welcome to the humble hell of bipolar disorder. A conundrum of mixed emotions and the eternal battle between good and evil, a devil and angel always residing on either shoulder. The desperate need to live normally, forever conflicting with a mind that wants do what it wants, when it wants...regardless of consequence.

There's no reigning it in sometimes. It's like watching your life unfolding in front of you, without the ability to press pause, rewind and go to an alternate ending.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I talked on the phone to Mare tonight. She asked me to please, not let L-Rex know that I know what happened to her. I told her I would never tell her that I knew. And, I won't. But, on the other hand, I have this substantial inability not to keep my mouth shut when it comes to violence against women. I want to jump up and down, scream and yell at all the women at my job today to shut the hell up. Stop pressing me for details. Stop gossiping about what happened to her. I want to tell the all the real story and say, 'See? This can happen to ANY of us, at any time'.

I will keep my thoughts confined to this forum. If it is stumbled upon by a co-worker, so be it. I am well aware of the ramifications. I am willing to own up to my mistakes, my responsibilities, or...in this instance, lack thereof.

In essence, I am having a depressive episode that has shoved me violently into a state of "so the hell what".
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am completely humbled by what happened to Mare this weekend. When I go back and read my post about carnivorous women, I realize I am only a reflection of my own writing. I was literally frothing eagerly to find out what happened to the bitch that threw me under the bus. "Good for her," I said to my husband while speculating that she might have been involved in a girl on girl confrontation. "I hope someone did kick her ass! She deserves it!"

I regret ever having said that. No one deserves it. Ever.

Especially at the hands of someone you love. The hands that you have come to love and trust are suddenly the ones that are breaking your bones and shedding your blood.

What animal, in their right mind, could possibly wish that on anyone?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I will go into work tomorrow and do so to the best of my ability. Strange, working for medical doctors. They simply don't understand mental illness. My disease is a cancer. It eats at me slowly from the inside out. I never know what is going to trigger a manic episode any more than a depressive one.

"CP," Mare said last week during our 'discussion', "when you are on your game, you are the best at what you do. But, there are some weeks, some days, where it seems like you are just not here."

Reflecting upon those words now, perhaps there is some truth to them. The problem with having BPD is the inability to comprehend that there is anything wrong with you, except when you are in the throes of a depressive state. By the time that comes, you really could care less about your life, let alone your job. Then, when the mania kicks back in, you work so hard, so ferociously...that you cannot even FATHOM someone accusing you of not actively working.

Hindsight being what it is, perhaps there is something to her statement after all.

I don't even know how to end this post. I have nothing creative within me right now. No witty anecdote. No provocative metaphor or something that would even require deep thought. If left to my own devices, I would probably sit here and type until dawn. I am spent, emotionally and physically right now.

However, I couldn't rest well until I:

1) Shared the "gossip" which turned out to be much worse than what I thought I was going to reveal to you all originally.

2) Apologized to D. and to everyone else, for being the viper that I swore I would never be again.

3) Came up with some snazzy ending for this post.

Oh well.

Two out of three ain't bad.

Cletus Defeatus.

The latin term for "Buh-bye, Federline!"

Popozao. How ya like me now!?

Brit-Brit babes has finally wised up and put the trash on the curb. Even CNN made it headline news! Now, this shit is not nearly as good as the gossip that "I" still have...AND, I have a terrific story to share with y'all from today. Sadly, if CNN says Brit dumping K-Fed is more important than our election day coverage, I am going to have to ride the popularity train.

In the interim, please enjoy the video below. This is my personal tribute to Kevin Federline. It sums him up perfectly.

Cletus Defeatus. How fucking funny am I???

Oooh...chi'drens. Come gatha roun' mama!

I got some hot ass gossip for y'all.

Serious.

Remember yesterdays "post" about Hairy Melon? Remember I told y'all she got a karmic whoopin' in the form of a head injury?

Ooh, chile. I found out what happened. Lawd have mercy, a bitch is chompin' at the bit and frothin' at the mouth to tell y'all.


Unfortunately, I can't. Not yet. But ooooooooooooh. When I do??? You'll be like all "DANG, CP! That's some fucked up shit, girl!" And I'll be all like "I KNOOOOWWWW!" Then we can squeal like a pack of gay men at a La Cage review. Mm. Mm. MMMMM. Just wait til I release this one to you little wolverines. You'll be all over this like white on rice, bitches.

Any hoo ha, my daughter drops yet another bomb on me. Of course, you all recall that the little darling went ahead and married herself John Lennon's twin back in October. Charming. Now, she decides to tell me that she no longer wants to be a teacher. Grand. That's fine. I am completely all about finding what you love and doing it. If your heart isn't in it, you shouldn't be doing it. You are shortchanging yourself and the children you are teaching if you do. Her hearts not in it.

Know where her heart is?

"Oh mah God. Mom. I totally know what I want to do with my life."

"Really? And you are choosing to share it with me this time?"

"Oh God Mom," insert teenage eyeroll here, "Are you still going on about me marrying Trevor? God. Get OVER that, that was so last month."

"Yes, Sam. Literally. So, tell mommy. What is this epiphany you've had?"

"An epi-what?"

*sighs*

"What do you want to do with your life."

"Okay, I totally discussed it with Trevor and like, you know the way I am always doing really creative things with my artwork?"

"Yes," I nod. Art work? What fucking artwork? The last thing I ever saw her make was a macaroni valentine for me in the 3rd grade!

"Okay, well, check it. I am going to be..."

"Maybe you shouldn't tell mommy right now."

"No! No! It's great! You'll totally love it! And it won't cost you any more tuition money!!!"

"Sammi, I don't MIND paying your college tuition. That shouldn't have anything to do with your decision."

"It doesn't, MOTHERRRRRRRRRRRRR. Can I finish now?"

"Floor's yours, babygirl."

"I am going to be a Nail Technician!" *insert squealy girly noise here. "Isn't that the most incredible thing????"

"A nail tech..."

"Uh huh! And guess what, Mommy! That means, all your nails are free from now on!"

"Sweet," I mutter.

"Then I am going to finish my AA degree in Liberal Arts and open my own salon. Trevor is going to manage it! Oh, and how do you like the names Tyler and Samara?"

"Wait, what?"

"Tyler and Samara. Do you like them?"

"For a nail salon," I ask, completely confused.

"No, silly. For our kids."

"'Scuse me?"

"Well, not now, but they are part of our five year plan."

"Five year plan?"

"OH yeah. WE totally have one."

"Great," I say, trying to be enthused.

"Well, anyway, I was kinda wondering something..."

"Oh, here we go," I say.

"No no no. It's not bad! Really!"

"What?"

"Well, you know how you are really good with words. You are like a great writer and stuff. You like, always say the perfect thing all the time! You are so gifted like that."

"You want me to tell your grandmother, don't you?"

"Was kinda hopin' you would, Mom."

"Sure. Why not. I didn't kill her the last time I told her you were getting married, and she didn't die when I told her you were going to community college. This one will shut her down for SURE, Sam."

"You're so silly, Mommy."

"So they say."

"Okay, great. Well, love you! Kay? Thanks Mom! See you later!"

"Whoa. Wait a sec. Where are you going?"

"To school!"

"To school?"

"Yes. I have class on Monday nights. You know that!"

"Yes, but you're going to be a nail tech now? What happened to your five year plan?"

"Oh that? No, that doesn't start until January."

"I see."

"And I MAY just hang out for one more semester after this one."

"So, then, perhaps we don't have to kill Esther just yet? Can it wait until after Christmas? That way, you are still doing what she wants and I won't have to fight with her and give her the whole speech about being supportive of your child no matter what they decide in life?"

"Oh. My. God. Mom. You totally rock. That is like, the best idea ever."

"Yeah. Well, college does that to a person."

"MOTHERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR..."

"Kidding, Sam."

"Love you, Mommy!"

"Love you too, babygirl."

Women are Carnivores. (Longwinded, wine or coffee required)

Let's get real.

Put away the "girl power" bullshit for a second. Stop singing "kumbaya" while battling for better birth control. Forget the almighty sisterhood. It doesn't exist. The Golden Girls were a lie. The Brady sisters all plotted to steal Mr. Brady away from their own mother. Alice was even in on it. Whore.

Want to know why a woman will never be President?

Because she has female friends who rally for her to her face while slowly slipping their mother of pearl letter openers between the shoulder blades of said friend. This is done while whispering behind your back to your colleagues, creating falsehoods about your work ethic and simultaneously trying to mentally masturbate your boyfriend or husband.

Most women of the predatory variety are pondscum.

I used to be that type of woman. I used to be just insecure enough about myself that it was easier to defame all my female friends for the sole purpose of making myself look better. As I got older, I came to the realization that...hell, I AM better. Why toss them under the Greyhound for their inability to be me? Instead, let me teach them, guide them, inspire them to be better women. Teach them generosity, kindness and compassion. Cultivate their inner goddess.

And, if at that point, they still don't quite get how amazing you are? Then and only then, do you sleep with their boyfriend.

Luckily for me, I surrounded myself with fairly intelligent women, so I didn't have to pull the ultimate stunt...often.

Eventually, I outgrew the need for that sort of attention as well and grew into the woman I knew I could become. I can now say that I am giving, loving, charitable and cautious with the hearts of my sisters. It took one of them to damage me before I understood the damage I was inflicting upon others. I suffered. I writhed. And then, I stood up, went shoe shopping...and fixed myself.

I work in an enviroment with seventeen women. Seventeen very different women. We have delicate and sweet women. We have soft spoken, childlike women. We have angry and spiteful women. We have strong, giving women. We have the women who you scarcely know exist unless you walk into the bathroom right after they have had grilled cheese for lunch. Hello? A little OUST before vacating, alright?

And then, we have the vipers.

I am proud to exclude myself from the pitiful committee of vipers. These are the women who act like they are your best friend to your face, while slowly, methodically, planning your demise. Generally, vipers are fairly stupid. You know who they are immediately, because they never have a kind word to say about anyone. They forever talk behind other peoples backs. Ergo, you surely must know that the second you leave the room, the viper is spewing her venom into some unsuspecting ear. Never one of the male variety, mind you, because unless you are a gay man, mens minds do not process female gossip. They don't get it. They don't understand why it is a necessary evil. However, don't be fooled by the gay man either. He is usually the Queen Viper. Your token office lesbian, however, is more like your straight man. No interest in gossip. Don't even go there.

They don't even shoe shop where straight girls do. They don't get it.

So what, precisely, has CP in such an uproar on this gorgeous Sunday afternoon?

Three words for you:

Edit.
Name.
Deleted. 11/8/06.

Now, generally, I don't post the names of people I work with. They are entitled to their privacy. Plus, no quicker way to get Dooced (which I will now call "Fabbed" from now on) than to mention real names of co-workers on your blog. In this case, however, I resort to the age old adage that has prompted the conviction of writers worldwide to stand up and be heard, no matter what the price:

I don't give a fuck.

You may remember Hairy Melon Slinger from a few months back. I watched her oversized behemoth of a dog, Outlaw, for the weekend. You remember, the dog that took horse sized shits all over my carpet, ate my window blinds and scratched the crap out of my husbands car? If not, go read about Cujo over here, with some pictorial goodness involved. Now, not only did this bitch offer to clean my carpet (didn't do it), fix my blinds (didn't do it) and take us out to dinner to say "thank you" for the favor (didn't do it)...but she also had the brajoles to ask me to watch the dog again, just recently. Of course, I turned her down with the honest excuse that we are in the midst of moving to our new home. Far too busy, I told her. And I don't want your dogs mudpuddle sized shit all over my new berber carpeting.

Okay, that part I kept to myself. Remember, I am a RETIRED viper.

She is not pleased with my decision. Why? Because it will now cost her an arm and a literal leg to put this dog up for boarding while she goes away for the weekend. Too bad, so sad. Perhaps if you had offered up a little Stanely Steemer lovin' for the Certifiable Princess, then perhaps we could have talked. But, you chose never to mention it again. Ergo, bite me, bitch. You and your little dog too.

True vipers never forget when they have been wronged.

Weeks go by. I get a message from L-Rex, the office manager, that I am wanted in our main office. "What for," I inquire, "I am really busy up here right now." "Nevermind," she says, "just get down here. We're having a meeting."

So I get into my car and start heading down to the other office. While driving along, tapping my nails and singing along to "Sexyback", I say...Hm. Let me call Hairy Melon. She will know what this meeting is about. Out comes my cellular and I am blowin' hers up. Word.

"Mare," I say.

"Yeah," she replies.

"What's this meeting that we're having about?"

"Um, er, erm, um, it's ah, um, er, about things."

CP smirks. "Riii-iiii-iiiight. See you there."

Click.

As a former viper, I know when someone is about to drive the proverbial bus right over you. Obviously, if it was about anything with regard to us, unified as nurses versus them, management, Mare would have revealed that immediately. You know, just to get me nice and riled up on my way into the other office. The "hemming and hawwing" however is what is known in the viper world as a "tell". It means, basically, that your "friend" has spent the last few hours smearing your name all over the walls of your managers office. This is not a meeting, so much as it is a confrontation...and you, my friend, are the star of the show.

I take it in stride. I have been at the receiving end of MANY an amateur vipers venom. Bring it on, baby. Mama's more than ready. Even a retired President could run a country...and a retired viper is no exception. I can still bust out with tricks that would dazzle Criss Angel and make David Blaine wet himself, alright?

In other words, I am the fucking Houdini of the viper world. Recgonize.

I walk into the office. Everyone is staring at me.

"DEAD MAN WALKING," I scream out. Their nervous laughter gives me a jolt of adrenaline. I feel like Mallory Knox from Natural Born Killers. My eyes are all filled with static electricity and I am so ready to bust a cap in someones ass. The mystery of the unknown only pumps