This is complete BULLSHIT!!!!!/UPDATED! 12/31/06

I have had it.

I am up to HERE (picture me pointing my little magic wand at my skull) with the fighting going on between Avitable and Mr. Fabulous. I inadvertantly mentioned that Avitable was my new "blog crush" a few posts back. Well, Mr. Fab got completely huffy about it, as he tends to be a bit blustery and was insulted that I had dumped him for Avitable. Well, I had realized that Mr. Fab was shacking up with a certain Dutch Bitch and frankly, fuckers...I don't play second fiddle to ANYONE...even if she does wear patent leather thigh high boots.

Then, in the last post about my husband blowing me if I grew a penis (y'all can scroll down a post for that one. Don't be so friggin' lazy) the two of them started with their huge testosterone laden bullshit about who would blow me better, if I suddenly grew a penis. One said he would do it with a pearl necklace on. The other offered to do it while wearing a strap on. I won't tell you who said what. You can read THAT gossip in the comments.

But, I think I have narrowed it down to this. The best man for me is the one who is most secure in his manhood, so, should I ever DO grow a penis...I will know who is the best man for the (blow) job.

With that in mind, I have decided that Mr. Fab and Avitable should have a dance off for my transgender affections.

Here are the results.

Now, I ask you...who is the best man for the job?

Your input is appreciated...deeply. Pun intended.

MAKE IT FAIR EDIT: It seems that everyone is in love with Avi's outfit. Fab is at a disadvantage, not being in skin tight spandex. I agree. So, to make things fair, I have created another video in which Avitable is now the woman, and Fab is the cock packer. Show them both love based on their dance abilities, not the outfits...or whose schlong you can see better! This is a dance off, not America's Next Top Model! Do I LOOK like Tyra Banks to you????

My Bitches: Part Deux

Lawd, people! This is my FUTURE you are messing with here!

9AM HAVING WET DREAMS EDIT: I couldn't sleep last night. I tossed (salad), I turned (tricks) and paced...(um, I can't think of something funny for that one) over this dilemma. Mr. Fab is a happily married man. So is Avitable. Fab did betray me with Dutch Bitch, but that would be such a sexy sandwich, and I hear you can get away with that shit in Dutchyland. But Avitable, oh so caveman like Avitable. Undoubtably he grunts, slams his chest with his fist and comes into the boudoir on a swinging vine sans loincloth. And, he has never betrayed me, unlike some other bald whore I know.

Just when I think I have finally come to a decision, I awaken this morning, filled with joy over my newfound perspective...only to find this challenge on the table, from Mr. Fab to Avitable!

If you want a fair fight, a REAL test of our dancing abilities, I am issuing you a challenge. A CHALLENGE!

A REAL dance contest.

You and me baby. We each record a dancing video, upload it to YouTube, and let CP put them on her site so people can vote.

What do you say, my friend? Are you man enough to strap on your dancing shoes and show the world your love for CP through the art of the dance?

Holy Mother of Jumpin' Jesus on a Pogo Stick. WTF????

Has Venus collided with Mars? Are we in the age of Aquarius? What is this? Does Avitable dare to take Mr. Fab, blogwhore supreme, up on this challenge?

God, I hope so. I await his answer with baited breath (yes, I know it's "bated", but I just ate some whitefish this morning, so I am thinking "baited" is more apropos.) Y'all should know better than to fuck with my stunning verbosity.

So Avi? What do you say????

Egads. The mere thought of this hardens my not yet existant penis.

THE 2PM SO FULL OF MYSELF EDIT: Well, Avi has taken the challenge. I knew he would. He's cool like that. The rule is...no rules. Make your videos, Boys! I will pimp for both of you! I am wondering, should I post a pic and remind you both what you are fighting for? Or, perhaps I need to make my own video?

Dancin' With Myself

Quite frankly, I think both of me look hotter than both of them...but hey, that's just me. And be honest, does anyone else REALLY matter?


THE FOUR O'CLOCK FULL FRONTAL UPDATE: Please. Delve into the comments. Avitable and Fabulous just opted to have the videos done by Tuesday and that they will be published here. And...they both agreed on Full Frontal Nudity!

I feel a Bloggers Gone Wild in Florida road trip is gonna be on the horizon!

THE NEW YEARS EVE EVENT EDIT:If you have been reading the comments, and who hasn't at this point, you now know that there is a Dance Off taking place, LIVE from the homes of Mr. Fabulous, Blogwhore Extraordinaire versus the younger, yet equally verbose underdog,Avitable. This is like the Ivan Drago of the Blogworld going up against our scrappy little Rocky Balboa, People!
Or maybe, it's more like Old School Diva Divine against The Younger and Feistier Harvey Fierstein (as Edna Turnblad). These two will be pulling out all the stops and, dare I say out, all the cocks! *giggle giggle* That's right! Full Frontal Nudity is included! Dare I ask if either of these two diva's have the BALLS to take it there? Oh fans of the Feist Fluffy Dance Off, stay tuned! Tuesday, both videos will be broadcast here, LIVE! The Fight for the Rights of CP's penis is ON, Peeps! Make sure to show them BOTH your love, because this is going to get Hawt, hawt, HAWT!

And we have a delicious surprise for the wiener, oopsie, I mean...winner!

So, have a Faboo or Avitable New Year, Everyone! Sober up for Super Tuesday!

In the meantime, I leave you with this:



Toodles!

Midnight confessions with the hotband...(VERY X RATED/NSFW)

The hottie and I were up real late last night, banging each other into the MANY MANY walls of my new home. Yeah! Lots more walls=lots more bangin! Ahem...anyway, when we were done, the following conversation took place. I feel the need to share this with you because A) It's funny. B) It's humiliating C) It's embarassing and D) I am a total attention whore who loves self-depracating humor.

Certifiable Princess: "Babe," I ask, as I bask in the glow of the Hotbands good lovin'. "Can I ask you something?"

Hotband: "Anything, baby. What's up?" (He's basking too, mind you. He's not the only one that can throw down, a'aight?)

CP: "If I suddenly grew a penis tomorrow, would you still love me?"

HB: "Um, what do you mean by 'grew a penis'?"

"What do you mean, what do I mean? I mean...if suddenly my vagina became a penis? Would you ever blow me?"

"What the fuck kind of question is that?"

"The kind with a question mark on the end of it. Why can't you answer me? If you suddenly grew a vagina and lost your penis, I'd still go down on you!"

"Yeah, but you like women."

"Granted," I reply, "but I prefer my man to have a penis. Yet, I would still put on a strap on and do you, if you had a vagina."

"Who the hell said I'd WANT you to strap on and do me," he said, his voice quivering like I am remotely considering this.

"I'm not saying it's going down tonight, babe. I am just curious. Can we get back to the original question? If I had a penis, would you suck it?"

"Define suck."

"Alright, Bill Clinton," I say sarcastically, "would you place my dick in your mouth?"

"I guess so," he says, softly.

"And could I ejaculate," I ask gleefully.

"Um, I don't know how I feel about that," he says.

"What? WHY? I let YOU do it!"

"That's different."

"Why is that different? And how is that any different than when I have an orgasm while you are going down on me? It's still in your mouth!"

"Well, now wait a minute," he says, sitting upright to give me his full attention. "When you grew your penis, did you grow balls too?"

"Um, no. Just a penis."

"So then, you aren't ejaculating sperm then, correct?"

"Sure. No sperm. Just, whatever it is I crank out now."

"Well, then, yeah. I guess I'd let you do that."

"Gee thanks," I say snidely.

"What's wrong now?"

"Nothing. It's just that...I had to sell you on the idea of loving me even though I have a penis. I just think it's a little fucked up."

"Wait, who said anything about love? You said this was about me sucking your...Wait a second, WHY am I having this conversation with you?"

"I don't know. I was just curious. But I suppose I have my answer now," I say gruffly and turn over, tossing the blanket over me.

He is sitting up, staring at me, like a deer in the headlights.

"Are you serious with this shit," he asks me, incredulously.

"Yes, I am serious. I think it's really shallow of you to not want to suck my dick."

"Are you listening to yourself, CP?"

"Unlike you, yes, I am listening to myself and apparently, I am going to have to learn to fuck myself in case I ever lose my vagina and become a man."

"Whoa, if you become a man, that's a different situation all together."

"Why?"

"Because I married a woman."

"So?"

"So, if you become a man..."

"Are you saying that you wouldn't love me any more if I became a man?"

"Who the FUCK said that?"

"You did," I screech. "Just now."

"NO I DIDN'T," he yells back. "I only said that when I married a woman, I expect to have a woman, that's all."

"Well fine. I guess we should separate then."

"WHAAAAAAAAAT? WHY?"

"Because when we got married, I had longer hair and a thinner waist. Since I am no longer what I was when we got married then I think we need to divorce."

"You know what, CP? You are truly fucked in the head."

"But you love me."

"So?"

"So I think that proves you are just a tad more fucked up than I am."

"Touche," he mutters and turns over to go to sleep.

Minutes tick by. I am softly giggling to myself over this entire conversation and how he got so worked up by a completely hypothetical case. After about 20 minutes, I lean over and rest my head on his back.

"Babe," I whisper.

"Yeah?"

"You didn't say goodnight. Is it because I am no longer the man of your dreams?"

"No, it's because I am trying to justify wanting to suck your dick."

"Awwwwwwwww, so you WOULD do it?"

"Yeah. Fine. I'll suck your dick," he mutters.

"You're so sweet, honey. I love you."

He sighs audibly. "I love you too, CP. I'm not sure why sometimes, but I do."

"Baby?"

"Yes, CP," he says, sounding a tad bit agitated.

"I am ready to demonstrate the term 'suck' for you now. "

"Now THAT'S my girl," he says, flinging back the blankets.

Yummy, yummy, yummy...

I got honey on my tummy. Heh. Makes me think of Pooh Bear and his little pots of "Hunny" all over the place. Anyway, I look at PayPerPost to find the next sponsored item to write about.

They have this stuff called "Tummy Honey" which supposedly helps to alleviate stretch marks during pregnancy.

DISCLAIMER:

This is NOT NOT NOT a PPP post. It was just something I came across while I was there. And it got me to thinking that a lot of people are going to receive a "less than educated" opinion about this particular product.

Please note. No links. I am not promoting this product through PayPerPost.

(Avitable should find this disclaimer quite pleasing. He's my blog crush, so I do what I can to keep him happy.)

Now, onto the heart of the matter. As a dermatology nurse, I felt I had enough expertise to write about this product. I want to make something crystal clear. I have NOT used Tummy Honey. I have my stretch marks from my babies firmly intact. Quite honestly, I like them. They are sweet and delicate little memories of the glorious time I was pregnant. They are little reminders of my pregnancy; a road map, if you will, of their lives that started in my own.



*blink*



Isn't that the biggest crock of crap you ever heard?

All of you who have already had children know just how full of shit I am right now.

Of course I hate the stretchmarks! No one likes them. No one thinks they are pretty, delicate, poetic or gentle reminders. They are hideous! They suck! They're ugly! Have you ever heard a guy say, "Wow, babe. Those stretch marks are givin' me a chubby! Let me run my tongue along those bad boys!" No. You haven't. And you never will either. And while I know mine aren't very bad compared to others, (cause lets face it, fat chicks can get a lot more stretch on their bellies than you skinny chicks) they still aren't the first thing I want to show off while having sex with the lights on, ya know?

However, having said that, I want to make it known that NOTHING prevents stretch marks. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. In other words, my sisters...don't believe the hype. In my 8 years of dermatology experience, there has never been a single product that any of my doctors would endorse. They don't prevent them. But (and it's a big BUTT) you can help decrease their severity with products like Tummy Honey and (ANY) other cocoa butter/shea butter based balms.

The best thing you can put on an ever expanding stomach (whether it be from pregnancy, or like mine...from a lot of junk food) is olive oil, believe it or not. Keeping the skin moist is the key to making your inevitable stretchmarks less unsightly (you know, the delicate white lines, as opposed to looking like 14 NASCAR roadsters peeled out on your lower abdomen).

With that said, the ingredients of Tummy Honey do contain olive oil...one of the only emollients on the market that I have seen that does contain it. That to me makes it a better product than most, but no better than some.

Since I am not working right now, I am certain I will be getting the dreaded ass-spread from spending so much time at the computer. I may order a bucket of Tummy Honey and see if it works on there as well.

Undoubtably, I'd have to rename it to something like "Ever Expanding Ass-Plaster", "Big Booty Fruity Balm" or something equally as pleasing, but you get the point.

For your Christmas Entertainment...

Nah. That's bullshit. It's strictly for MY entertainment. My best friend, Abby, sent a picture of herself morphing into an Elf about 10 minutes ago. Suddenly, I got the idea of a lifetime.

What better Christmas present could I give myself than to see my very own mother, Esther, dancing around like a Christmas elf and bitching me out? Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you...

ESTHER THE JEWISH ELF!

It's moments like this that I wish my mother read my blog.

Happy Holidays to all of you.

Mine suddenly got better.

LATE XMAS GIFT: I did a search on Linda Richman, the host of Saturday Night Live's Coffee Talk. She reminds me so much of Esther, it is hardly funny. As I am doing the research, I come across this skit. Slowly, the realization comes to me.

My mother is Linda Richmanon the left. I am Madonna in the Middle. My grandmother, Evelyn, is Roseanne Barr on the far right.

In short, I am doomed.

Talk amongst yourselves. I'm a bit verklempt.



And finally, for you men who are last minute shoppers, or those of you guys who were under a rock and forgot your wife/girlfriend for Christmas...I make the following suggestion for you. I know this is what the Hotband got me! It was exactly what I wanted!

You know all the best gifts come in the small boxes.

This post sponsored by...

the letter "E"...for Esther. Or, perhaps "P", for PayPerPost. In either instance, it is readily incorporated into recent events. Besides, I just lost my day job. Give a girl a break, alright?

I've had it. There will be no more visits to New York to see Esther. Actually, the hotband and I have already decided that next years anniversary will be in none other than Las Vegas. The truth of the matter is, we are thinking of buying a home there. Not a permanent home, but the Las Vegas real estate market is so good right now, we are thinking of keeping a vacation home there. We have a condo right now, in Miami Beach. However, we already live in Florida! What's the point of having a Miami condo? That was fine, when our original plans consisted of moving back to New York. Um, no. That won't be happening anytime soon, I assure y'all. Besides, we love Las Vegas. The last time we were there, we had the time of our lives. We always do. It's the closest you can get to living in New York City, without actually being in New York City. The nights that never end. The 24 hour shopping. A Versace store on every corner. The bright lights and crazy people! Skyscrapers everywhere! It's like home! The only thing that Vegas has that New York doesn't is legal prostitution. What more could two displaced New Yorkers possibly ask for? Ever since Giuliani cleaned up NYC back during his reign as Mayor of New York, it's never quite been the same. Plus, Las Vegas is sunshine and city with towering mountains in the background. It's the best of both worlds. With this in mind, we have opted to go house hunting the next time we trek out to Nevada. This also will give me an excuse to go FAR away every single Christmas/Channukah.

Anyone want a condo in Miami? Two bedrooms, huge living room, two full baths and an extraordinary view of South Beach along Collins Avenue? Hm. Maybe we'll just hold onto it a bit longer. Donald Trump seems to be buying up the whole strip. Maybe he'll make an offer and get me to Las Vegas in style. Don't look at me like that.

It could happen.

I leave New York in 6 hours. It truly can't happen soon enough. Esther and I had another "interaction" this morning. I call it that, because I simply cannot find the right word to define it.

"We are going to leave around 3pm for the airport to bring the bags for early check in," I say to my mother during breakfast.

"Your flight isn't until 8pm," she counters, chewing with her mouth open revealing a maw full of cream cheese, lox and masticated bagel. Ugh. "Why would you bring the bags so early?"

"The rental car has to be back between 3 and 4pm, so we are going to bring the bags with it, that way, you and dad only have to take the four of us to the airport later, without the bags. We wouldn't all fit."

"I have a Lexus, CP. Everything will fit."

"Okay, but we will still get charged another full day for the car rental," I counter.

"What could it possibly be? 60? 70 dollars at most?"

"I just lost my job, Mom. I can't just toss money into the wind for the sake of convenience."

"Did I SAY you should," she snaps.

"No. And I didn't SAY you SAID that. I was just letting you know WHY we weren't doing things that way."

"Your bags will probably get lost again," she says.

"They didn't get lost the first time. They just got left home. And if he loses my bag again," I said, referring to my husband, "he better be prepared to move out! I'll send his ass back to Israel."

Now, anyone who knows me knows I worship the ground the hotband walks on. There IS no greater husband or father on the planet. Also, anyone who knows me, knows I am completely sarcastic and say things just for the hell of shock value. This is why Esther completely misinterprets what I just said about the hotband. Bottomline? She doesn't know me at all.

"HA!" she laughs aloud. "You better NOT say things like that! He is the best thing that has ever happened to you. I wouldn't say things like that if I were you. Who else would put up with YOU?"

"Excuse me," I reply, "what is THAT supposed to mean?"

"Well, let's see," she says as she ticks things off with a finger count. "You don't cook. You don't clean. You barely take care of your kids. And now, of course, you don't WORK either...so exactly what is it that you do for him to make you think you are such a keeper?"

*thunk*

(Sound of jaw hitting the floor).

"Are you friggin' serious? First of all, I take EXCELLENT care of my children, especially since I had YOU for an example. And no, I don't cook and clean. You're right. I'm a bedroom sort of wife. I keep my husband happy THERE. YOU on the other hand, do not. Have you even SEEN your husband naked in the past 20 years? So why precisely does YOUR husband keep YOU around?"

"I LOVE my husband," she spits.

"And you are implying that I don't love mine?"

"All I am saying, CP, is that YOU cannot afford to lose yours at this stage in the game. You will never find another man like him. He's a saint."

"Um, no Mom. You know who's a saint? YOUR husband. MY father is a saint. 27 years of you screaming like an incessant lunatic at banshee proportions. It's a wonder the man can still hear! And, for your information, I work harder than YOU on any given day. Hell, even being unemployed, I STILL work harder than you do."

I shove past her. I feel the mania rising. I run up the stairs and jump right onto the computer. I blog, rapidly and put it in "draft" mode. After all, I don't work, so I need to preface this story with a PayPerPost statement. But I have ethics, people. I don't do any PPP that I couldn't actually incorporate into my real life.

I digress.

Esther stomps around the kitchen, slamming cabinets, bitching to my father about what a "rude piece of shit" I am and how I am NEVER welcome in her home again.

Hotband comes upstairs to me.

"I knew how you meant that," he says.

"That goes without saying, I would hope."

"You would never leave me," he says softly, kissing the top of my head. "Who else could possibly love you if you did?"

We both laugh.

"I am proud of you though, babe," he says. "You walked away from her, instead of shedding blood. That shows promise."

"Didn't want to get arrested a mere six hours before leaving."

"Yeah," he nods, "besides, with you not working and all...we'd have no bail money." He laughs. He thinks he is hysterical. I think he's an idiot. But he's MY idiot.

"Shut up, N."

"I love you, CP."

"Love you too."


EXCELLENT 1AM EDIT: I am HOME. HOME HOME HOME HOME HOME. And Florida never looked so good. Merry Christmas to all of you who celebrate this fine holiday. And for those who don't, Happy Monday with the day off. Love!

Whoever said...

you can't go home again was probably related to my mother.

It's been a very trying and disappointing week. I think I have finally come to the conclusion that, no, my mother and I cannot be friends. We can't be mother and daughter. We aren't even very good at being civil.

I think it is time to say goodbye.

It's never easy to realize that you and your parent aren't cut from the same cloth. My mother and I are not only cut from the same cloth, but we can't even share the same cloth.

"You have to understand the way we were raised," she says to me during a conversation about why she is so selfish. "Your Uncle and I were both raised by people who believed the sun rose and set on their asses. That is why we are the way we are."

"Copout," says CP. "I was raised by someone who was that same way, and I don't believe the sun sets on my ass. I may think the sun SHOULD, but I know it doesn't."

"You know," she says with utter disdain, "you are definately your fathers daughter."

"Thank GOD," I snap back with equal bitterness. "He hated you. Now I know why."

And it's sad, so sad, that a mother and daughter, two women ages 65 and 40 respectively, cannot find some common ground to stand on together.

Earlier this morning, I was picking up my nephews. My mother was getting ready for her Friday beauty parlor appointment.

"I don't want ANY children in this house today while I am getting ready," she barks at me.

"Um, those children to which you refer. Those are your GRANDCHILDREN, correct?"

"Look sister," she says to me, like I am some stranger in the street who stole her parking spot, "if you don't like the rules, there's always a hotel."

"Wow, what a kind thing to say to someone who traveled TWELVE HUNDRED miles to be with you for the holidays."

"Hey," she said flippantly, "I didn't ask you to come."

You know what?

She didn't. She's right.

I was under the impression that my mother would welcome having her daughter, son in law, grandson, grandaughter and her new husband, all under one roof. I know I would relish that, if I were her. I love having my niece and nephews around me. The more children in my home, the better. It's what makes the house a home. A home is nothing more than a skeleton, a piece of framework, until the family living in it gives it the heartbeat.

I won't stop coming to New York. It's my homestate, but apparently, not my home.

Not anymore.

But, it is where my husband proposed to me. It is where both of my children were conceived. It is where I met my childhood best friend who is still my best friend to this day. It is where my precious niece and nephews are. It is where I grew up, got my first kiss, wrote my first poem, laughed my first laugh.

It is not, however, where I will shed my last tear.

More than likely, that honor will be given to Florida, my new home. Undoubtably, Esther will be the cause. Without uncertainty, I will allow her under my skin again in approximately four months from now, when the memory of this trip starts to fade. I will miss her. I will call her. I will reach out for a mother. She will let me into her fold long enough to hurt me once again.

"I'll NEVER go there again," I will scream at my husband. He, in turn, will nod his head.

"You don't have to, baby," he will say and in the back of his mind, know that he will be making travel arrangements soon enough. He won't make fun of my decision. Instead, he will feel sorry for me, for being caught in this web...in this vicious cycle.

I wish I had some humorous anecdote about Esther this trip. I don't. Her cruelty and abuse have risen to an all time high.

She walked in here earlier while I was on the computer and kissed my cheek.

"This has been such a wonderful visit," she gushed.

"Really?"

"Absolutely," she replied. "The best one yet."

She left the room.

Apparently, she measures the delight of our visits in my tears. I cried a lot this visit. She ruined a lot of days for me, including my anniversary by not even acknowledging it.

"YOU didn't remember MINE," she said. "And MINE was a 25th anniversary! Much more important than a FOURTH."

"I sent you flowers, threw you a party and flew the whole family in for it," I said quietly.

"YOU didn't do that," she countered. "Your UNCLE did that."

I looked at my husband, mouth agape, eyes bulging. I couldn't even speak.

"Um, no Esther," my husband said, "it was your DAUGHTER who set everything up. Your brother only took care of the New York details because she wasn't there to do it. She invited everyone. She set the whole thing up from Florida."

Esther shrugs.

"Well, I didn't know that," she said.

I sighed. I went up to my room. I cried.

This trip has been a disaster for me. Truth be known, I wish I could turn back time and be in Hawaii right now, like my husband originally wanted. Next year, I listen to him.

Alright. I probably won't. But please, next year at this time? Remind me of this vacation and refer me back to this post.

Consider it a large step in the preservation of my mental health.

CP in NYC

Well, today is the day. Hotband and I are officially married for a blissful 4 years. We are spending the day in NYC, seeing the Broadway show, Wicked. After that, we will be going to the New York Hilton and meeting up with a few Bloggers for some drinks and merriment. Anyone in the NYC area that wants to come, drop us a line! We will have our laptop with us (naturally).

Anyway, before the Hotband wakes up to read this, I want to post for him.

To my beautiful husband,

As I lay here next to you, watching you sleep, I can't help but rub my eyes. To me, having you laying beside me is a dream come true. You are a beautiful man, inside and out. The love and kindness you have shown to me and my children could never be measured in the written word. For a long time, I realize that we have only been existing as a family...and then, you came into our lives. You completed us. You made my children and I become whole and began the process of healing us. Now, we could never imagine life without you in it.

For a long time, baby, I wandered aimlessly from one life to another. I was always too busy living for others to realize that living for myself was a possibility...and the key to happiness. You have stood by me, even through the most difficult of times. You have forgiven me, loved me and reminded me that I am not a victim, but rather, a survivor.

I can't help loving you, baby, because it is the only thing I know I can do well.

You are the love of my life, my guardian, my best friend and my own private version of heaven here on earth. You are my superhero. You are my knight. You are everything to me and just when I think I can't love you more...I do.

Thank you for coming into our lives and making everything right.

I love you, my bitch. *wink*

Happy 4th wedding anniversary...and many, many more.

Pieces of Me: Going Home.

My story about Tony continues. To catch up, read the following...or not.

Part One.
Part Two.
Part 3.
Part 4.
Epilogue.


I have been to Long Island hundreds of times since Tony nearly killed me in the Winter of 1991. Often, I kept myself confined to my childhood home, where I felt safe. Tonight, in the midst of being treated for my bipolar disorder, I felt that I needed to close this chapter. I needed to confront it head on. I needed to be able to drive around in my hometown without feeling fear. And so, I took the keys to our rental car tonight. Alone. I left my daughter, son, husband, parents and son in law behind because I had to put the demons to bed.

"I need to take a drive," I told my husband.

He nodded sadly. He knew where I was headed. He didn't try to stop me.

I drove to Blue Point. I drove to where Tony beat me.

I drove to the place where I nearly died.

Pulling up in front of 20 Barteau Drive in Blue Point, Long Island was no easy feat. The roads had changed so much since I last drove them fifteen years ago. The houses had changed, new ones had been erected and old ones torn down. Yet, as I drove, my hands shaking, I was compelled to find it. I didn't remember the address, let alone the number of the house. My mind had chosen to pack that away in the Pandora's box I had just chosen to throw open. I recalled the general direction. The Blue Point Diner. The hotel where he and I used to set up clandestine meetings. I passed the gas station he robbed at gunpoint and the ice cream parlor we used to share vanilla shakes at.

I drove aimlessly up and down the roads, trying to find something in the residential area that would jar my memory. Something familiar. Anything.

Barteau.

The name instantly through me in to a fit of hysteria. I stopped, in the middle of Blue Point Avenue and cried. A horn blared at me.

"Get the fuck out of the road," the guy screamed.

Yes. Merry Christmas to you too.

I made the right. The house was unmistakable once I saw it again. A blue colonial, worn from years of neglect. The paint was peeling. The other houses on the block were embarassed by this one, this sore thumb, deep blue in a lineup of perfectly white vinyl sided homes. The shutters were tattered. The stairway up to the house, still jagged from missing pieces of concrete. I pulled into the driveway, unable to resist the lure of parking in the precise spot where I nearly died 15 years earlier.

I got out of my car. Up near the garage, written in the concrete was a perfect heart with an "A" and a "C", side by side. We had done that when he re-did the driveway back in 1989. Back when we were in love. Back before he first backhanded me. Back when the touches were filled with love as opposed to rage.

I traced my fingertip along it. And, I cried.

As if daring myself, I walked up the stairs. I stood on the front stoop of the house the way I had so many times in the nearly three years that Anthony and I were together. We kissed there. I bled there. We cried there. I nearly died there. I heard movement in the house. Someone was home.

I knocked on the door, softly.

No one answered.

I knocked on the door again, this time, more forcefully.

No one answered.

Angry and filled with the need to put this ghost to sleep, I banged on the door with two fists, determined to have someone open the God damned door.

I heard footsteps coming down the stairs.

"Can I help you," the woman asked as she opened the door.

I studied the womans face. Could this be Anthony's wife? She looked so tired, so battered. Her hair was in a loose knot at the top of her head, little wisply ringlets falling around her face. She was wearing an apron. She was probably my age, but you had never seen two women look more different.

"Does the G***** family still live here?"

"No, honey. Sorry. They moved a long time ago."

"Oh," I said softly, looking down at the ground.

"You family of theirs?"

"No Ma'am," I said, feeling very small. "I was a friend of the family many years ago."

"They moved after one of the boys, well, he died."

"Yes, I read about that. Paulie. The older son. I was engaged to his Uncle, Anthony."

"You wanna come in," she asked me. "You look like you're freezing."

She opened to door wider. Six carpeted steps up to the living room. Check. Kitchen, in pale yellow straight ahead. Check. Fireplace to the right. Dining room just alongside that. The heavy wooden beams that decorated the ceiling. The ornate and grossly garish chandelier over the dining room table still remained. Check, check and check.

I was frozen in time.

"I went to school with Andrew," she said. "He was the oldest brother. You know, Paulie's father."

I nodded.

"Anthony," she continued, "he was a bad seed, that one."

Again, I nodded.

"Last I heard, he was in prison."

"Yes Ma'am. I think you might be right about that."

"Did you want to see something in particular in the house? Help you...close a few doors on the past?"

She obviously understood.

"May I see the downstairs bedroom?"

She led me down a flight of carpeted stairs. Six stairs down to the landing, another six stairs down to the lower level of the house.

"It's right there," she said. "Take your time. You want some coffee? You need to use the phone to call your family?"

"No, no thank you. My name is CP, by the way."

"Judy. Nice to meet you. I have to keep an eye on my cookies. Come up when you're ready."

She walked back up the stairs and left me, a complete stranger, alone in the downstairs of her home. The bedroom that once belonged to Anthony was now a storage space. There was still a hole in the wall, next to the closet, where Tony threw a punch at me, barely missing my head. And, although I know it was my imagination playing tricks on me, I could still smell the Polo cologne he used to wear. The rug was still the same. We had made love on that carpet so many times. I had shed blood on the carpet just as often. I left the room and walked over to the large glass doors on the opposite side of the basement. The tire swing that we put up for Paulie and his little brother, Philly, was still there. I used to push those babies for hours on those swings. They played with my daughter in that backyard. Sam and her "cousin" Elizabeth would play Barbies in the grass. The backyard was full of overgrown weeds and was as disheveled as the rest of the house.

I walked back upstairs.

"Judy, I am going to get going now. Thank you so much for letting me see the house again."

"You're welcome. Sure I can't get you some coffee? I can put it in a to go cup."

"No. No really. I appreciate what you have done. I won't bother you again."

"It was no bother. Nice to have company stop in."

She opened the door for me and said goodnight.

Back out in the cold night air, I walked across the street to the wooded area just opposite the house. I knelt down, touching the gravel, knowing that somewhere among these rocks, my blood was shed. I was beaten, nearly to death with a baseball bat at this exact spot while my daughter looked on in horror from the spot where the rental car now sat in the driveway.

I cried. I cried so hard I could scarcely catch my breath. Where the fuck was he? I was finally strong enough to confront him. I was ready to ask WHY! Why did you do that to me? Why did you hurt me like that when all I did was love you? And why, why do you still haunt me, more than fifteen years later?

I stuck a handful of the gravel into the pocket of my jeans.

I was taking myself home, all of me. Even the pieces I left behind.

Stepping into the car, I noticed Judy looking out the window at me. She raised her hand. I waved back to her. I wonder if she knew the atrocities that took place in her home. I think, to some extent, she was expecting me all along. I drove out of the development with far more ease and recollection than I drove in with. Suddenly, all the roads came flooding back to me. The places we went, the things we did, the walks we took and the talks we had. I laughed through my tears the entire way home.

When I pulled up in my parents driveway, my husband was standing on the stoop.

"You went there, didn't you."

I didn't answer him, I only sobbed, deeply and desperately like a little girl in his arms.

"You're safe now, baby," he said gently, "you're safe with me. No one is ever going to hurt you again. Ever."

He cradled me in his arms on the driveway of my parents house. The rest of the world just faded away. I didn't need closure in the form of Tony. What I needed was right here, in this big white colonial on the other side of town, far, far away from the life I made for myself. He didn't say another word. He wiped my eyes, brought me over to the dinner table where my parents, children and son in law were already dining on overdone chicken cutlets, mashed potatos from out of a box and some canned peas. They were all laughing, smiling and enjoying dinner. Even Esther looked beautiful to me just then.

I don't didn't receive the closure I was so desperately in need of, but I feel like a burden of fear was lifted from my shoulders. I no longer dread coming into New York because of the uncertainty.

And if the day should ever come where Tony and I come face to face with one another, I know I will live through it. I know my husband and my children will be by my side and he will never be able to infiltrate the barrier of love and protection I now have around me. I will sleep well, in my childhood home, knowing that the hatred in that house in Blue Point is now filled with love, a woman named Judy who bakes cookies, makes coffee and wears an apron.

He never deserved that home any more than I deserved the beatings he gave me within it.

I think I will finally be able to sleep tonight, next to my husband, in a well-protected fort, fit for a certifiable princess.

On the First Day of Channukah...

my true love gave to me:

Nothing.

Seems that my true love, the hotband, managed to bring everyones suitcase out to the car...and not mine. We boarded the plane. We got to Esther's. I went to get into my pajamas. No bag. I look through all the bags. None are mine. We check the claim check. Five bags checked. We had six.

My suitcase is sitting right next to the front door of my house.

I spent the whole first night here crying and calling the hotband all sorts of expletives that I will not divulge here. My shoes. My jewelry. My bags...oh my GAWD my beatiful Prada bag...home, in Florida. My Jimmy Choo boots bought especially for New York. In Florida. I am miserable. I am in the same bra, underwear and jeans I wore last night. I did, however, manage to finagle a shirt out of my daughter.

In other stories, I got stopped by security. Apparently, when we were moving, I tossed my vibrator into my overnight back to pack it and bring it to the new house. When I packed my toiletries for this trip, I neglected to remove it. When my bags went through security, my vibrator turned on and began to buzz. They swept my bag away to a private area to search it. They removed my vibrator, removed the battteries and then, put it back into my bag. The guy on the X=ray machine just sort of smirked at me.

Whatever. So far, my trip is sucking.

Happy Channukah.

Leaving for New York!

Okay, y'all.

I'm outta here.

In case I die in a fiery blaze due to my plane plummeting into the earth, I bequeth the following to my blog friends:

1) Laurie gets all my purses.
2) Pissy gets all my pink wardrobe.
3) Dutchy gets all my spiked high heels.
4) Mr. Fab gets all the toys in the top left nightstand in my room.
5) DD gets my entire music collection, including all the illegal downloads.
6) Brazen Billy gets all my naked pictures of my boobs to keep him in Free Booby Tuesday for a long time.
7) Avitable gets all the computers in my house so he can be an ubergeek.
8) CP gets my mother...to go attack HER mother.
9) Deb gets my medicine cabinet filled with antipsychotics...and whatever is in the nightstand on the RIGHT side of the bed. (Those are the girl toys!)
10) Belinda gets my entire Barbie collection to give to Bella. All 81 of them.
11) Maven gets all my toiletries. Plus the toilet. And my bulk sized bags of Charmin. And Nutella.
12) Elaine gets all things Madonna. You may have to fight DD for those, since they are bequethed in the music collection. You're a tough midget. You can take him.

Everyone else, please feel free to take whatever the hell you want out of my house. There really isn't that much in there just yet.

Oh, and I want my ashes spread over NYC. Whatever you can scrape up will be fine.

And, if I do happen to land in NY safely? None of you are getting shit.

Anyone who still wants to join us for the meetup in New York, give me a shoutout at my email. I will be checking it all week.

CP out.

What's Wrong With This Vagina?

Can y'all read my little captions? No? Click the link to make it bigger. I promise, the link doesn't go here.

I pull up to the OB/GYN all ready to spread my legs for someone who is really not deserving of the golden cooch that is my vagina. I get out of my car. I look at the car parked behind mine. It is a forensics van. A Pasco County Sheriff's forensic van.

Now, excuse me for being a bit on the cautious side, but I've seen an episode or two of CSI. There is a mattress store next door. The forensics van has a female sheriff rumaging around with gloves on. A few things may be happening here.

1) There was a murder in the mattress store and she is gathering evidence. Maybe a stray pube or two.

2) There was a murder in the gyno's office and bloody KY splatered everywhere, in which instance, I think I shall just skip the PAP smear for today, thank you very much.

3) Female sheriff is either mattress shopping, or having her annual...and she likes to bring her own gloves to the office.

I call the Gyno's office from in front of the building.

"Hello, Women's Center. May we help you?"

"Hi there. I'm a new patient (blatant lie) scheduled for this afternoon. Um, are you still open?"

"What's your name, Ma'am?"

"What does my name have to do with whether you are open or not?"

"I guess it doesn't. Yes, we're open."

I am still standing outside the building, watching the CSI lady pulling things from her van and loading them into a black bag. She keeps looking over at me pacing the parking lot with my cellphone in my hand. I notice she is in full sheriff garb, including huge ass belt around her waist and sporting a handgun. Mmmm. This is just getting more comfortable by the millisecond.

"Until what time," I ask, keeping my voice very hushed.

"Until 4:30," she replies, "do you need to change your appointment?"

"Is anything unusual going on there?"

"Unusual? No. Not really. The doctors are running a little late, but that's normal."

"Okay, thanks."

"But, wait, Ma'am. Are you..."

I've already hung up. I'm six minutes early for my appointment. I get into my car and snap this secret squirrel picture you are now privy to. I watch to see where Ms. Forensic Science goes. She is now loading said black bag back into the vehicle. She has removed her gloves. The woman slams the doors of the van shut and proceeds into the women's center.

Shit.

I walk in right behind her. She signs in. I sign in right underneath her. She smiles at me, takes a seat and opens a People magazine.

Apparently cops need their annual PAP too.



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It's the first night of Channukah.

Show your favorite Jew Girl some love.

I'll consider it my gift.

A Wedding and a Funeral...Almost.

Let me explain to you why men aren't particularly the brightest stars in the sky.

Not all men, mind you, just the ones with, well, testicles. There. That narrows it down, doesn't it?

I am at my best friend's birthday party last week. We're all sitting around the bar drinking when someone asks me, "So, CP, how long have you guys been married?"

"Four years this December," I announce with a glow...probably from the Schnapps I was drinking moreso than the look of love. "We're spending our anniversary in New York. We're going to see the show, Wicked and then, spend the night at the NYC Hilton."

"Wow, that's awesome," says inquiring person.

"Yeah," interjects my husband, "but it's not as good as what I originally had planned before she said she wanted to spend Christmas in NYC with her family."

I turn my head to look at my husband.

"What did you have planned originally, babe," I ask.

"Oh, um...nothing."

"No, you had something else planned. I remember asking you if it was anything we could change around. You said, no problem. So you did have something else planned. What was it?"

"It's not important," he replies.

"No, it isn't. But I still want to know."

"No you don't."

"Yes, babe. I do."

"You're gonna be really pissed," he says.

"No I won't," I say reassuringly. "It was my idea to go to NYC for Christmas, so why would I get mad about what the plans were."

"The plans were pretty big."

"Really? So, tell me what they were."

"Alright," he says with great hesitation. "I was going to take you to see U2...in Honolulu."

"'Scuse me?"

"U2? Honolulu? Hawaii?"

"Yes, babe. I know where Honolulu is. Why the hell didn't you tell me this sooner?"

"It was a surprise, honey!"

"Yes, but if I had known, I wouldn't have asked to have Christmas in New York!"

"But you seemed really excited to spend Christmas and our anniversary in the city."

"Well, I was...until I found out I could have been seeing U2 in Honolulu!"

"I told you I didn't want to tell you."

"Well, you shouldn't have. You should have never mentioned it."

"I didn't," he exclaimed! "I said I didn't want to tell you."

"That was only AFTER you said 'that's not as good as what I originally had planned'."

"I didn't say THAT," he retorts.

"Um, yeah, Dude. You did," replies guy at the table.

I now proceed to spend the rest of the night glaring at my husband. Hawaii. U2 in Hawaii. And I am spending Christmas in New York City...with Esther. Dear God.

"You know you are going to have to make this up to me big time next year, right?"

"I guess so," the hotband replies sheepishly.

"It's our five year anniversary. I really do think that I should get to have a Maui Wedding. You know, renew our vows in Hawaii. I want a beautiful Hawaiian wedding overlooking the ocean. I want palm trees and tropical breeze and I want to wear a white sarong and white bikini top. And, I want to be directly on the beach. Oh, and I want a big tropical flower bouquet and a white flower for my hair. And, we'll need a cake, too."

"Anything else," he sighs.

"Oh, yeah," I reply sarcastically, "Get Bono to sing at our wedding."

Funniest Xmas Shit Ever...3 Parts.

You NEED speakers on and this is definately NOT SAFE FOR WORK!

Part 1: In The Clauset

Part 2: Trapped In The Clauset

Part 3: The Finale

Oh yeah, and before you go...click the pic, please?

Come on. I made you laugh. The least you can do is peep a bitch.

Everybody Loves Frank.

Peter Boyle, well known as the Ray Barrone's father, Frank, on "Everybody Loves Raymond", died today at the age of 71.

So why is this on MY blog? Since when did I become the new Perez Hilton?

I haven't. I leave the snark to the reigning Queen himself.

However, I felt the need to mention it here for a reason.

A long, long time ago, in a land far away, CP lived in New York City. Okay, it wasn't that long ago. Long enough though. (When you live in Florida, everyday feels like forever). I was in a very cute little deli, tucked away near Zabar's on the upper west side of Manhattan. I saw Peter Boyle there, having lunch with another gentleman. I had already known who he was from his role in Taxi Driver and of course, Young Frankenstein. (If you haven't seen it, please do, or I will not be your friend any longer. Thx.)

Anyway, I asked him for his autograph, which I seldom ever do, because I am not into the whole hero worship of celebrities thing. They take a shit the same way we do, still put on their pants one leg at a time, right? Why fawn over someone who gets paid so much to carry on the way I do every single day? Back to the story. He was about to give me his autograph, when the man he was with shooed me away like I was some sort of peon who was pestering them. I recall Mr. Boyle looking at me with eyes that practically said, "I'm so sorry", but he didn't say anything.

I was so pissed. I was a teenager, not more than perhaps 15 years old. I was used to seeing celebrities on the streets of New York all the time. Sometimes I would point, gape and stare...maybe even gawk or drool depending on the person, but I never approached anyone for an autograph. To me, Mr. Boyle was a cult hero! I was only eight years old when Young Frankenstein came out, too young to be allowed to see it. By the time I was 12, I finally got to watch the movie and I knew every single line.

I balled up the napkin in my fist, threw it down on the ground and walked out like the very spoiled child/brat that I was. I was so mad. I can remember that feeling to this day.

I went next door to Zabar's. I was buying some peaches. (Loved me some NYC produce...tasted as filthy as the air we breathed). I was tapped on the shoulder. I turn around, and there stood Peter Boyle. He not only paid for my peaches (I gave him one too!) but he gave me the coolest thing ever. It was an autographed photo of himself.

"Where'd you get that from," I asked him.

"My agent, the nice guy you just met. He had one for the wall in the deli."

"Oh," I replied in typical loquacious teenage fashion. "It doesn't have my name on it. It says, 'To Sal'. My name is CP."

"Yeah, but you look like a Sal," he said with a laugh. "You know, like a Sally."

"No I don't," I said, giggling slightly.

"No. You sure don't. But, if you write down your address, I can send you a new one with your name on it."

"Really? Cool. What should I do with Sal's?"

"Ah, keep it. I don't really like the food there anyway."

I wrote down my address on a piece of paper and handed it to him.

"Thank you, Sir," I said. I admit, I was a little in awe.

"You're welcome...Sally."

He laughed, gave me a little hug and then, strolled down the street in the opposite direction I was going. He met up with the big, snarly man he was with. He looked back at me, gave me a little wave with the peach still in his hand and then, turned the corner.

I tucked the picture away with my junk when I got home.

A month later, I get a manila envelope. There is no return address. I tear into it. And there, before my eyes, was an autographed picture of Peter Boyle that said the following:

"To Sally. I mean, CP. You're a Peach. With Love, Peter Boyle."

It remains, to this day, neatly tucked away in a big box full of a teenage girls memorabilia and junk that resides in my parents basement. I think, when I arrive in New York this weekend, I will dig it out. I think it should be framed and sit proudly on my entertainment center, next to my television in the family room.

I owe the man who paid for my peaches and restored my faith in human kindness that much.

Shit and get off the pot.

I know.

The expression is, "Shit, or get off the pot".

I am changing it up today for the purpose of this post. Naturally, this is my world, so you either go along for the ride or you click that little "X" in the upper right hand corner of your computer. My world, my rules.

Now that that's been established, let me tell you why I had to change the expression.

Last night, my best childhood friend, Abby, and me were having a conversation about why mens (read:husbands) underwear always manage to have skidmarks in them. Yes, this is the thing that women talk about on Monday nights. Monday night is generally laundry night for a lot of women so it was only natural that the skidmark conversation would take place.

"I don't get it," she laments, "Every single pair of his underwear! Shit stains!"

"Oh. My. GAWD! My husband too," I reply with a deep sense of empathy. "Why IS that?"

"I don't know. And you know what doesn't make sense?"

"What," I reply, deeply intrigued by someone else pondering this very same question that has plagued me for years.

"We wear thongs! The thongs go up our asses. Do you have shit stains on yours, because I know I do not have shit stains on mine!"

"That is such a great point," I exclaim! "No! I so totally do NOT have any skids or shits on my thongs! Why IS that?"

"I know why it is," she says.

"Why?"

"Because we wipe better."

"I believe that to be true," I agree.

"Not only do we wipe better, but we don't sit on the toilet for hours and hours!"

"Absolutely! I shit. I wipe. I leave!"

"Exactly," she says. "They sit there for so long, the shit dries and ferments in their assholes."

"Hence the shitstains," I reply thoughtfully.

"Hence the shitstains," she concurs. "And I even leave wet wipes in the bathroom for him. Do you think he would use them? No. Of course not."

"To do so would be depriving you of your skidmarks. I don't think he could possibly remove that pleasure from your life."

"So true," she says.

This conversation gets me to notice my husbands bathroom habits a bit more. He takes his laptop in with him to crap...because he works remotely from home. He can't miss a call.

"Surely they understand the need to take a shit," I ask him.

"Um, yeah, but I am not going to just sit there and stare at the walls. I might as well work. Kill two birds with one stone," he offers.

"But, that's not really the point, babe. If you just do your business and get the hell out, you wouldn't have to linger with your laptop in there...and miss any calls."

"What?"

"I mean, I go in. I shit. I wipe. I flush. I wash my hands. I leave. I can return to the couch before the end of the commercials. You miss a full half hour of your life everytime you walk into the bathroom."

"No I don't. I have my laptop with me."

"And this you regard as living? Shitting with your laptop?"

"If that's what it takes, so be it."

He's such a moron sometimes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Five minutes ago, he left to go to the bathroom. Since I was feeling a bit "burdened" myself, I went to the bathroom at the exact same time he did, sans laptop. Not only was I out before him, but I am just about winding this post up and he still has not shown up.

Hold on. Let me get a status report.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Okay, apparently, he hasn't drowned, hasn't been jerking off to porn or died of a massive cerebral hemorrhage whilst relieving his bowels. That's encouraging. He is just plain old...working. I wonder if his employers would look upon that as favorable. There really are two ways of looking at it. Either:

1) You are paying my husband to take a shit or...

2) You are impressed with his devotion and dilligence because he has not logged off to um...log off.

If you want to put this in perspective, he is home working, making an assload of cheese while I am sitting alongside him, applying for my unemployment.

I'm fired. He's working.

There might be a method to his madness after all.

The Insane World of Medical Insurance.

I have always had the luxury of never having to bother with finding my own medical insurance. It always came along with the job I had. My husband, being an independant contractor, has benefits offered to him with whatever company he is working with at the moment, but it is never long term enough to commit to. We always just went with whatever my job had. Now, with losing my job, we have had to ride the wave of finding independant family coverage.

I am about to rip my eyes out of their sockets and shit down my own skull.

Do these insurance companies do this on purpose? Do they provide you with the most frustrating questions they can possibly ask you just so you say 'oh, fuck it' and shut down your browser? These bitches don't know me. I am a very determined little wench and I am stubborn as all hell. Oh, I will walk through the barbed wire of your questionaires, Fuckers. I don't scare easily. Bring it on.

I manuevered like a champ through it, once.

By the third quote, I was ready to hurl my monitor through the wall and murder three out of the four members of my family just to cut down on the application process. Never so much have I wanted to jab myself in the eye repeatedly with a number 2 pencil. Let me give you just a smidge of the stupidity that is Blue Cross/Blue Shield, United Healthcare and Humana.

Let's start with Blue Cross/Blue Shield who boast the slogan: "What Can Blue Do For You?"

You know what you can do for me, Fuckers? You can reduce your application process from 700 questions to maybe 100. You want to pay for my inevitable carpal tunnel syndrome? If I wasn't sick before this application, I sure as fuck am now. Oh, and I love this question:

"Do you anticipate seeing a doctor in the next 10 years and if so, for what reason?"

Nope. Absolutely not. I don't ever anticipate being sick again. I don't think I will ever need to. Come to think of it, why am I even applying for your insurance? But, if I do ever get sick again, I think it will be with Malaysian Infiltrating Bird Sinusitis Erectus. No, that disease doesn't exist, but since you are asking me to predetermine what I may have in 10 years from now, this is just as good of a disease as any, don't you think? Did I mention I am a psychic? Does that get me a discounted rate?

Let's move onto United Healthcare who assure me that they are committed to my needs. Um, if you are so committed to my needs, why are you asking things that are making my brain bleed? Do you want the first thing you pay for to be my hemorrhaging aneurysm? Since you caused it, I think it should be a freebie.

Why in Gawd's good name would you be asking me what date I became an American citizen? How does AT BIRTH sound to you? You asked me, in the question just prior to that one, if I have EVER been out of the country. I said, NO, NEVER. In the next breath, you ask me when I became an American citizen. Do you not see how illogical this is? How about, if you answered NO to question 15, please skip question 16. That would be such a kind and loving gesture.

But, let's move on to Humana, shall we? Humana, who states they offer "Guidance, right when you need it". Really, ass-eaters? Then why is it that NONE OF YOU ANSWER A DAMN PHONE? I have questions! I have concerns! I have foam in the corners of my mouth! If the lack of customer service is any indication of how things are going to be once I am accepted, then count me out. Further, how the holy hell can you ask me to make my first premium payment for something you haven't even approved me for yet? Hi, pay us today and we'll determine whether we want to insure you or not. Sure, we know you just lost your job, but hell, we don't give a rats ass. Just send us your money and we will hold it during the seven week determination process, collect interest on it, while you stand online at the welfare office, waiting for a check and some medicaid. Sound good?

NO, Fuckers. It sounds FAR from good. I hung up on your outsourcing asses after pressing "1" for a representative about 14,000 times. You will not be receiving my business and fuck you very much for the "guidance" when I needed it.

Shit eaters.

These insurance companies know exactly what they are doing. I think I figured it out. What they do is cause you to have carpal tunnel, stress induced anxiety, strokes, heart failure, seizures and finally, a full fledged mental breakdown.

Then, they get to tell you that they will be happy to cover you, however, they will not cover all the aforementioned ailments, because they are now pre-existing conditions.

I obviously entered the wrong line of work.


ATTENTION WHORE EDIT: Okay, two things. Number one, I am now in first place at 25Peeps.com. This cracks my ass up. Do we really need a fat girl wearing black underwear in a leg cast with a cane and a dachshund to say, "Hey! We are tired of the standard fetish porn. Give us something new and refreshing!" So, while I was a reluctant victim in the beginning, I am now totally psyched to trounce some sub-par ass! Everytime you click me, an angel has an orgasm. Remember that. Now, second thing, speaking of whoring out...I implore of all of you to click on HDW at Green Apple Martini to give her love for the 2006 Weblog Award for Best Diarist. I have three reasons for this. First and foremost, she's a great read and a friend. That should be enough to send you mad dashing over there to give her a few clicks. But, if you are a hard sell, let me appeal to your morals and values. She is running against Dooce, who as we all know has been there/done that and frankly, her story about being fired for blogging was so 2005 already. We all know that Mr. Fab is the new Dooce. His story is far better anyway. She is also running against a diarist named Ravmi. Now, the only reason that Ravmi is getting any play whatsoever is because she included the letters NSFW in her title. Unlike me, she has reduced herself to the occasional shot of her very acorn looking nipples. She doesn't have the skills it takes to rock the leg cast vote, obviously. But, right away, people see NSFW and say, Wow! She's the best writer EVER! No. She isn't. As a matter of fact, I have seen post lobotomy patients write more coherently than this chick. Which is why you should go vote for HDW at Green Apple Martini. I am the Certifiable Princess...and I have approved this message. What I have NOT approved, however, is the disgusting FILTH that Mr. Fab put on my voice recording machine (see sidebar on the right). He has propositioned my hotband and seduced him with the promise of licking mayonaise off his hard man body. Please press the play button to get in on the hot man love. I'm gonna rock the good lovin' from the hotband later, while he screams out Fab's name. It's all good. Any love is good love.

Why are you still here. Go vote here and here! Now! Shoo! Go.

Sheesh. The shit I have to do to pimp a bitch.

My Obituary.

'What will your obituary say?' at QuizGalaxy.com

I knew that bitch needed me in her life. Ever since I died, there has been no one to give her underwear tips. Paris Hilton, remember. Nothing says I love you like a good Brazilian wax. Let Britney know, K? Thx. Bye.

Was this the lewd behavior I was awaiting trial for? Hmmmm.

Would someone like to tell me...

why I am still here?

And Now, A Word From Our Sponsor...

You know me. Always looking to help my fellow bloggers out.

I get asked via email or comments quite often to tell folks how to get started in a career in nursing. As most of you know, I didn't start down this path. I began on my journey to become a lawyer straight out of high school. That was really all I (read: Esther) ever wanted (me) to be. While I know I have the mouth, tenacity and the brajoles to be an excellent attorney, it was truly never where my heart was.

I was asked to review a site called Nursing Degree Guide and to be perfectly honest, I am impressed with it. There is a lot of information there on how to start out with your career as a nurse, something I would have appreciated stumbling across 10 years ago. However, Al Gore had not yet invented the internet, so that was out of the question.

The Nursing Degree Guide gives you every detail imaginable, from the different types of nurses, online course guides, the various degrees you can get in nursing and, my personal favorite...preparation for the NCLEX exams. Y'all know I am in the midst of that drama right and about to take my NCLEX now so I am liking that area big time.

While I am always open, available and willing to answer questions for you all, the guide is a really good place to begin your journey. If you are interested at all in a career in nursing and have any specific questions, hit me up via email or post a comment/question.

On a scale of 1-10, this particular site is definately an 11.

Oh, and um...on a less serious note? Nurses are the leading "male fantasy" occupation, just above librarians and school teachers. How's that for career motivation? Of course, the guide doesn't mention this naturally so consider that a little side piece of information from your friendly neighborhood naughty nurse, CP.

Un-Friendly Fire: The Saga Continues.

You were waiting for part deux of "De-Termination", the firing of the most wonderful nurse alive by the biggest donkey dong on the planet. The story shall continue after these messages:

First, let me whore myself out by telling to to click to keep my fat, lame duck ass on 25peeps.com. Someone thought it would be amusing to put my broke ass knee picture up there. So, I am doing a service to phat assed women everywhere by keeping it up despite all the cooch and cleavage I am competing against. Consider it a blow to supermodels everywhere. I'm actually having fun with it being there. You should too. Because. I said so. Don't contradict. I'm the Princess. Now go. You'll recognize my picture. I'm the only one there with her leg in a cast. I could mention that I am in my underwear too, but hell, ALL of the girls on that page are in their underwear. It is the cast and the cane that truly set me apart. Recognize.

Okay, got your coffee? Booze? Chips? Back to the story.

If you didn't read the first part, you are gonna be soooooooo lost. Go to "De-Termination" and catch the hell up.

I am in my car, heading down to our main office after the conversation with Ed. I am pretty well certain what I am being called in for. In my deluded, narcissistic mind, there is a nagging voice saying "No, CP! You are being called in to get the Most Amazing Nurse on the Planet Award!" Isn't my conceit positively adorable? Logicall me knows better and tells conceited me to put a sock in it. I dial up my friend and co-worker Candace.

"I'm getting fired," I said to her matter of factly.

"What? When?"

"Um, here? Now?" I can't help laughing. The situation is so ridiculous.

"Laura was really pissed that you left two hours early yesterday."

"Yes, so I heard," I say sarcastically. "Screw her already. Stinkin' power trippin' bitch. I am so over it already."

"You know the real reason why she is letting you go, right?"

"Because I haven't fed her the good hay lately?"

"No," she continues, without paying attention to my humor, "it's because she is a control freak and she knows she can't control you."

"Kinda figured that."

"Call me the SECOND you get out of her office."

"You got it."

We hang up. I swing into the parking lot, taking note of whose cars are in the lot. Hm. Full house. Everyone but the doctors. Go figure. I walk in. The usual entourage is all standing around, some of the nurses, a few of the receptionists, people in the billing office and then, Ed. He comes from down the hall and is looking right at me. He looks sad. Probably sadder than I have ever seen him.

"Should I bother punching in," I say with a laugh.

He takes my hand and leads me down the hallway.

"CP," he begins.

"Don't," I reply. "Let me hear it all at once."

I see my friend Jeanette as I am going down the hall like Dead Man Walking. I give her a hug. She has no idea why. I'm pretty certain I won't be seeing her again. I latch on to my BFF at work, Cheryl. I mess with her hair like I do every single day.

"Laura is pissed at you," she said, followed by, "wait, what are you doing in this office today?"

"Getting fired," I reply and continue down the hall.

"What!!!! Wait!!!!"

I don't turn around. I don't want to talk to her about it right now. I am in a state of absolute rage and I am ready to give it to Laura both barrels. I don't want anyone taking away my stamina right now.

We get into Laura's office. I call this room "The Stable". Sometimes I call it "The Lions Den". Right now, I am thinking "Bottomless Pit of Hell" would be best.

The door closes behind me. I take a seat. Ed sits at Laura's desk. Laura takes a seat at another chair across the room. This makes me laugh inwardly. From the positioning, I can tell that Laura has arranged us so that if I make a sudden lunge for her jugular, there would be a desk and a rather strapping Phillipino man between the two of us. Heh.

Ed begins talking. All I can hear is that teacher from Charlie Brown going "wow wow, wow wow wow. Wow wow? Wow wow wow wow wow." My ears are burning hot, a trait my son and I share when we are pissed. Thank goodness for my long hair. Then Laura starts speaking and I manage to focus. I try to picture Mr. Ed (not the PA, but rather, the horse) speaking to me and I am now able to concentrate.

"What makes you think you could ask Margaret for time off, CP?"

"It was two hours, Laura. You are making it sound like I took a week off."

"Answer the question, CP."

"Are we in a courtroom? I already went over this with everyone. She is the second administrator when you are not around. I asked her for two hours. She said it was fine. If it WASN'T fine, Laura, then she shouldn't have said it was fine on your behalf."

"Why didn't you ask Ed for the time off then? You are the one who campaigned to get Ed to be the nursing SUPERVISOR, remember?"

"And YOU were the one that shot that idea right down because you are too much of a control freak to recognize a good idea. You said Ed was our nursing ADVISOR for medical issues and that everyone should come to you for ADMINISTRATIVE issues. My leaving was not a medical issue. We were done with patients, Laura. The doctors were gone for the day. I wanted to leave two hours early to help my husband with the moving. That, to me, is administrative."

"Be that as it may, you still never called me."

"I told Margaret to have you CALL ME if there was an issue with my leaving and that if I didn't hear from you, then I assume everything was fine."

"Well, that was YOUR mistake then, wasn't it," she said maliciously.

"Guess so," I countered, flippantly.

"Margaret said that that conversation never happened."

"Then Margaret," I began, "is a fucking liar. Tell her to bring in that bible of hers and make her swear on it."

She calls Margaret into the room.

Laura reiterates the conversation we just had to Margaret. Margaret looks at me with her wide eyes and nappy hair. I can see she is utterly terrified of Laura and is going to do whatever it takes to make sure her job is safe. Poor fucker. Must suck to be you. Why is it that I am about to be fired, but I am feeling bad for everyone else.

"You said you were going to call Laura," she stammers.

"That's not true, Margaret. You know that isn't true."

"You said that you were going to call her and ask her."

"No, I didn't. I asked YOU if it would be okay. You said it would be fine. You also said that Laura would be back in an hour and that you would let her know. You also said that you would tell her what I said, which was, if there was any issue, you should have her call my cell."

"I didn't say that, CP."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Margaret."

I blew it off at this point. Why argue? The die was already cast, the decision was already made WELL in advance of my getting into work this morning. Why bother?

"Well," Ed said, "Due to a lack of following protocol, it was decided that we have to let you go."

I started to laugh.

"Really," I said with feigned surprise. "I'm shocked."

I winked at Ed, with a sincere smile. I wanted to let him know that I still had my sense of humor and that I wasn't mad at him. I know he was put up to this. I understood that.

He looked down. I felt bad for him, worse for him than I did for myself at that moment. I was about to be free of all of this political bullshit and pettiness. He was going to have to compromise his morals and values for the sake of a six figure paycheck. I don't blame him. He has a family to support just as I do. He hands me a piece of paper from across the table.

"Here is the reason you are being let go."

I glance at it briefly. It says, inability to follow protocol. I don't look at it further. Nearly two years at this place and never have I been accused of anything of the sort. Ever. Actually, quite the opposite was always true. I am a stickler for protocol, when it comes to nursing. I was always pointing out to Laura when she was doing something that wasn't quite right with the nurses. She has no medical background at all.

A delve into my archives will reveal how many mistakes she has made when it comes to handling patients and the way the nurses should respond. A quick for instance? Telling me the defibrilator needs to be checked once a month. Um, no sister. A defib machine needs to be checked DAILY to make sure the batteries are working. If I checked it three weeks ago and someone has a heart attack today, the fact that the batteries were working three weeks ago isn't really gone help this guy today, if those same batteries are now dead. Fucking Duh. Do you NOT watch ER?

Next, she hands Ed an envelope to give me. He leans over the desk to give it to me. I open it. It contains the check that I wrote out for the fundraiser we did for the doctors. The same fundraiser that was going towards caring for those homeless families I mentioned a few weeks back.

My check said "VOID" right across it.

"Don't you DARE insult me like that," I said, raising my voice for the first time. "you know DAMN well that my heart is charitable. I gave money for those kids and my money is STAYING with those kids. I am writing a new check and you ARE going to take it and use it for those kids."

Now, I was infuriated. How dare they add insult to injury.

They hand me another envelope.

"What is this already," I say, "Deal or No Deal?"

I'm obviously getting annoyed.

"It's the cash you laid out for the November office birthdays," Ed says.

"Great. Thanks."

I turn to Laura, she isn't even looking in my direction.

"How can you do something like this, right before Christmas," I ask. "Don't you have a soul?"

"You brought this upon yourself, CP. Do you think this was easy for me? Do you think I am enjoying this?"

"Honestly? Yes, I do. That's exactly what I think. I have worked my ASS off around this place for nearly two years."

"I don't see the need for vulgarities, CP," she says, trying to be aloof and proper with her ridiculously put on southern drawl.

"ASS is not a vulgarity, Laura. What's vulgar is wearing open toed shoes with pantihose. Now THAT'S vulgar. But, if it makes you feel better, I will say BUTT. I worked my BUTT off around here for 2 years. There, is that better?"

"If you would have asked me..."

"That's horseshit, Laura. Ooops, I mean, horsepoop. You were looking for a reason to let me go. You always hated the fact that I was more competant than you were. That all the girls responded to and respected me more than they did you. You gave everyone else in this office time off to move. Everyone! Cheryl, Theresa, Dawn, Michelle...everyone. They all got time off."

"That was their vacation time."

"That's crap, Laura. I know for a fact that some people did not utilize their vacation time. Don't even give me that."

"Be that as it may..."

"No, no 'be that as it may'. The point is, you have different rules for different people. I didn't ask for a week or a few days. I needed TWO HOURS for a furniture delivery. Two fucking hours."

"CP..."

"No, don't CP me. If you had a clue what was going on under your own roof, you would know you have a thief in the building. You would know that you have someone who is making deadly patient mistakes in the building. You would know that other people punch in and then sit around all morning long not working. You would know that there are people utilizing overtime who are milking the clock. I would be the last of your friggin' concerns if you knew any of that."

"This isn't easy for me," she continues.

"Sell it elsewhere, sister. I'm not buying. All I know is that you already have your karma coming to you. And when you are sick and all alone...you will remember this moment and my name. I hope you all have a lovely holiday. I mean that sincerely."

"I need the keys and your nametag," she said.

"I lost my nametag about seven months ago. The keys are out in my car."

"I'll go with her," said Ed.

We walked out to my car in silence. I gave him the keys to both offices.

"I'm sorry, CP. I didn't want this for you."

"It's not your fault, Ed. She was gunning for me for months. If anything, I handed her a reason on a silver platter. Not a very good reason, mind you...but enough for her to make a mountain out of a molehill."

"I will give you a reference any time you want. I'm always here for you. We still gonna have dinner in New York when you come in?"

"Wouldn't miss it, Friend," I said to him.

He gave me a warm hug. I know this was harder for him than it was for me.

I drove home without the radio. I opened the windows of my car on both sides and pulled the ponytail holder from my hair. I shook my hair out and let the wind whip my hair around. I stuck my arm out the window and let my hand twirl around in the wind as I drove. I felt lighter. I felt like an enormous burdern was lifted from my back.

Yes, I lost my health insurance. Yes, I lost my thousand dollar Christmas bonus. Yes, I lost my bi-weekly paycheck.

What I gained was my freedom. What I gained was the ability to say...it is time for me to move on. It is time for me to work without eggshells under my feet and the feeling of consummate dread every single morning. It is time to breathe and to be a nurse again. To go back to the basics and remember why I became a nurse in the first place. I cried for five minutes, more from relief than anything else. Suddenly it started to rain, the first rain Florida has seen in weeks. The windows of my car were down. I let the raindrops soak me as I drove.

And, I couldn't help laughing all the way home.

Okay, Fuckers...

I was just going to continue the story about the taint-lickin' wildebeest, L-Rex, and the disgusting display of extradition from my employment that she perpetrated upon me. *whew, lots of SAT words in that sentence* Then, I get this stupid assed email on Yahoo that says:

"Congrats! You're on 25Peeps.com!"

So, now, your punk asses will have to wait yet another day for me to finish the story about the firing. See? That's what you get for soliciting my hotness to others.

Now, I know what 25 Peeps is. It's this retarded ass website that attention whores (like Mr. Fab) tend to show up on to get more traffic. Okay, he used his sexy ass bald head on there. Most of the whorebags on 25Peeps.com are showing either loads of labia, cavalcades of cleavage or appealing to the freak flag fliers, something in the form of a foot fetish.

You know what picture of ME someone puts up there????

THIS ONE!!!!



Which begs the question...WHY?

I mean, is there a hot demand for orthopedic fetish right now that I don't know about? Dude, whoever you are...I just had KNEE surgery in that picture. My cane is right next to me. My leg is wrapped all the way up to my thigh? Is this like, some sort of ace bandage thigh high fantasy of yours? Of all the smokin' hot pictures of me that are out there (and face it, there are a lot) Why would you (whoever YOU may be) choose that one for 25Peeps.com?

Okay, so now the fun starts. I guess, since it is already there, that we should indulge the freak who put it there by clicking on it multiple times. The more you click, the longer it stays there. Frankly, I think I am making a statement for hot, fat, post surgical forty year old women who have dachshunds. I am the new hotness. Britney Spears labia has NOTHING on my convalescing crotch. Let's show up all those playas and attention whores and let them know that we middle aged women aren't going to indulge in their fantasies involving nubile, lithe twenty somethings any longer!

I have a real feeling I know who put me on 25Peeps.com...and I think I am going to kill him.

I am the new poster child for the hotness! Word.

And a bitch EVEN has her toes done, despite just being operated on. Recognize.







ATTENTION READERS IN THE NYC/NJ/SURROUNDING AREAS: The Hotband and I will be in town on December 20th for a one night only engagment. We are looking to hook up (no, not like that, perverts) with other Bloggers for a night of drinks and laughter! Anyone interested, please email me at certifiableprincessATyahooDOTcom so that I may send you an invite and give you the details. If you have blogger friends that I don't know who live in the area, please bring them along! Open house party at a sweetass yet to be determined pub. Keep the night free and start your bail fund now!

De-Termination.

or, why that mule on two legs, L-Rex, fired my fine ass right after these messages.

Are you Christmas shopping yet? Doing it online? Trying to find that perfect gift? I'm not. But, you might be. With that in mind, consider this as yet another CP public service announcement. I found a cute website for Holiday Gift Ideas that I thought I would share with you. You know, because I am good like that. I am a gift basket freak. They have tons of holiday gift baskets. CP likes the bon bon tin, so feel free to hook a princess up. Or, the Dom Perignon gift would do as nicely. Just sayin'.

Alright, back to the story:

It's last Thursday. Our last patient has come and gone. The girls at the front desk, the other two nurses (one being Hairy Melon) and I are all standing around with our proverbial thumbs up our asses. (Can't wait to be googled on THAT description!) There is NOTHING to do. I filed. I charted. I made surgical calls. I made sure I finished everything I could possibly think of. The doctor left for the day. It was two o' clock. My hotband was moving our entire house of furniture by himself that day. We also had a furniture delivery coming at the new house. Obviously, as fine of a man he is, he simply cannot be in two places at the same time.

"Do you ladies mind if I leave a little early today," I ask. "I have a furniture delivery coming."

"Nope," they chimed in unison. "Everything is done. No problem."

Sweet. I call my office manager, Laura (who I will now mention by name because, well, frankly, I don't give a sweet ass suck any longer), who is once again, out of the office. What the hell else is new? I call her cellphone. Straight to voicemail. I don't leave message. I call the ugly bible thumping rag who is usually second in command for administrative nonsense when Laura isn't around. Her name is Margaret. Her hair looks like it has been in an oven for the past 40 years. Yes, I'm hating. So the hell what?

(I gotta admit, it feels REALLY good releasing some names! *L*)

I ask her if it is alright if I leave a couple of hours early to get a furniture delivery at my house. She says, "it's FINE". Are you hearing me, People? Two words. ITS/FINE. Doesn't get much clearer than that, right? I say to her, cool, and if Laura is pissed about it, just tell her to call my cell and I will come right back to the office. Margaret the bible thumping wanna be faux Christian says, okay.

Two hours pass. I hear nothing more on the subject. I think, no issue. This is cool.

I get a call from D. tellin' me that the twat that is L-Rex was snarling down the halls, blowing smoke from her gills and flapping her mule gums in the wind. Hee HAW...HEE HAW...whinney whinney whinney. Translates to:

"Where is CP! Why did she leave early? Who said she could?!?!?"

I imagine that the roar of the wild scared Margaret so badly that she shoved her bible up her own ass out of fear. I can picture Laura, lifting up her hooves, braying like a donkey while all the other cockroaches scatter under their desks. Chicken shit bitches. God forbid one of them say, HEY. CP only needed an hour or two off. No big deal. Calm down. Here, have some hay. Or a carrot.

No. No one did. Bobble headed bitches.

I ponder whether I should call Laura at this point and explain myself. I think, what is there to possibly explain that can't wait until morning?

Be warned. When a braying donkey stops braying and silence abounds, the donkey is about to morph into Cheetah, Queen of the Jungle and pounce your ass like a lame elephant caught in the watering hole, alright? Silence is deadly. Still, I opt not to call her. I can't be bothered. It was TWO freaking hours, for God's sake.

The next morning, my phone rings. It's our Physician's Assistant, Ed. He tells me to come down to the main office instead of the satellite office. I sigh.

"What's this about, Ed," I ask him.

"We need to talk," he says quietly. This man loves me, so I know this was a difficult moment for him.

"She's firing me, isn't she." It was more a statement than a question.

"I can't answer that right now, CP," he replies.

"Be there in a minute," I say before hanging up the phone.

I grab my purse, I kiss my husband goodbye and tell him I will be back shortly.

"What do you mean," he says.

"I'm getting fired," I reply.

"Why?"

"I guess I'll let you know when I get back."

Next installment - The Confrontation: When Mules Attack.






*surely you didn't think this could be told in one post now, did you?*


ATTENTION READERS IN THE NYC/NJ/SURROUNDING AREAS: The Hotband and I will be in town on December 20th for a one night only engagment. We are looking to hook up (no, not like that, perverts) with other Bloggers for a night of drinks and laughter! Anyone interested, please email me at certifiableprincessATyahooDOTcom so that I may send you an invite and give you the details. If you have blogger friends that I don't know who live in the area, please bring them along! Open house party at a sweetass yet to be determined pub. Keep the night free and start your bail fund now!