I ask you this...

is it possible, when considering an actor/actress "hot", that you can separate the person they are from the character they play?

Example. My children Drrrrrrrrraaaaagged me to see Pirates of the Caribbean tonight. It was a 2 hour snorefest for me, yet, something perked me up now and then. It was Johnny Depp. Now, mind you, I have NOTHING in the way of desire for Johnny Depp. He doesn't do it for me at all. Yet, whenever he plays Captain Jack Sparrow...I find myself drooling a bit. Same thing with Julian McMahon. Sexy as hell in Nip/Tuck as Christian Troy...and a little bit too wishy washy, mediocre in anything else I see him in. I love when he is the snarly, snobby snotbag! Sexy.

Another example?

Hugh Laurie. You know him from "House". Arrogant, pompous, obnoxious Dr. Gregory House. To me, he is the epitome of hot because he is all those things...on top of being WICKED smart. Yes, I know it is the character and I know it is all scripted but OY! He makes my tummy flip flop. Yet, catch him in Stuart Little sometime...and if I had a dick, it would go limp.

The same works for me with actresses. Michelle Pfeiffer in just about anything...eh. So so. Michelle Pfeiffer as Catwoman? Yes. I would so pet that pussy all night long. Halle Berry as Catwoman? Not so much. She doesn't hold a candle to the hotness of Michelle. And, I am not attracted to blondes...but she was so viper, vixen, sultry and sexy, it was a bit hard to ignore. Angelina Jolie? Two words for you. Tomb Raider. Rawr. Hawt. Angelina Jolie in The Bone Collector? Girl Interrupted? Not so much. And with her blonde dredlocks in Gone In Sixty Seconds? RAWR RAWR! And again, I don't like blondes (usually).

Brad Pitt? Doesn't wet the thong for me. I know women go nuts for him. I don't see it. But, Brad Pitt as Tyler Durden? OMG. I slide off the couch. Even Ed Norton in Fight Club! Mildly cute, but not my thing. Ed Norton in America History X? To diiiiiiiie for.

I have a whole list of these people! Ray Liotta? Craggy and so not sexy. Ray Liotta in Goodfellas? Lube worthy. Antonio Banderas in ANYTHING...not so hot. Antonio Banderas in Zorro? Ai, Muchacho! Come to mamasita! And for that matter, his leading lady, Catherine Zeta Jones? She is so...bleah. But in Zorro? Ai Caramba! So freakin' hawt!

Then of course, there are the people who are delicious no matter what. For me, the ultimate hotness that I would drop trou for is Salma Hayek. No one else. That woman is a Mercedes in a sea of Hondas, baby. Also in that category? Oded Fehr. Don't know who he is? Google him. He is a very sexy Israeli actor. You might know him as the fierce and beautiful Med-jai warrior in "The Mummy" or perhaps as Antoine in Deuce Bigalow. Me, him and Salma Hayak would be a glorious sandwich. Hell, I'd settle for sitting back and just watching THEM go at it.

Can you tell my husband is away? *sighs* It sucks being away from your man when you are SO in the mood. I ordered two vibrators in Ebay just to make me feel like I was getting something from someone somewhere.

Ahem. Okay, you possibly didn't need to know that. Back to my point...

Is it possible to be hot for a character when the real person doesn't do it for you one iota?

Oh, and Hotband honey? This is strictly rheutorical...you know, for the sake of sociological explanation and theory. I would never have this converesation if it weren't for the good of all mankind. Can we roleplay Fight Club one night? You can be Tyler Durden and I can be Marla. We can do that scene in the bedroom where Tyler and she...well...you know. *wink wink* The first rule of Fight club, baby. Shhhhhhhhhh.

Things I do when my husband is gone...

1) I sleep diagnolly across the bed. My head where HIS head normally is and my feet down by where my feet usually are.

2) I steal every single pillow and lump them all around and under me. Somehow, this gives me the feeling of being in bed with him. Don't suggest a body pillow. My husband isn't that firm...thankfully.

3) I eat too much cake. The only other thing in bed with me at night is a box of Entemann's...the hero of Jewish women everywhere.

4) I find Sex and the City on every local cable channel and watch them all.

5) When I am not watching Sex and the City, I am overdosing on Court TV. I am a Forensic Files fetishist and I like how much it scares me when I am home alone. I could probably commit the perfect crime and get away with it thanks to all 200 episodes.

6) I fantasize about committing the perfect crime.

7) I stay in my pajamas all day, call in sick to work and mope a lot.

8) I forget to take my schizophrenia medications because my husband isn't around to remind me. Hopefully, one of the voices in my head will speak up and fill in for him.

9) I skip flushing the toilet after every pee. It's my contribution to the go green campaign. Actually, if you throw in some of that blue toilet stuff and then let the pee sit in it, it DOES go green...though, that blue stuff is bad for the environment, so don't use it. It was really just a thought I had. That's all.

10) I notice that full moons occur while my husband is gone which gives me that not so happy feeling.

11) I read too many blogs. I still don't comment much anymore. It takes away from the reading time.

12) I become less of a blogwhore when he is gone. I thought the opposite would happen, that I would write the great american blovel in his absence. However, I find life alone to be uninspired. I have nothing to say.

13) I don't do laundry. It makes me lonely.

14) I sleep with my cellphone so I can get to my husband or 911 with the press of a button...or three.

15) I lock the door to my bedroom. There are crazy people out there...most who think they can commit the perfect crime.

16) I stare at my toes a lot. No, I can't do it standing up. I have to lay on my back and stick my feet up in the air. I can't see past my tits, so every now and then I get reacquainted with my toes. My feet fucking rock. It was good to see them again.

17) I pet my pussy. Either one of them. Whichever one happens to get into bed with me...or both. Hell, I'm a free spirit. If there is a pussy around, I will pet it.

18) I throw my dogs out of the room. Ha. Suck it, dogs! Cats rule!

19) I contemplate waking my husband up for phone sex, but realize he will only snore and turn over like he does after home sex...and we'll get billed for roaming.

20) I just miss him. A lot.

It's a Family Affair.

It's 2am in the morning.

I woke up after a particularly excrutiating pain seared through my mouth. I've been grinding my teeth again...a habit that I have whenever my dreams don't go exactly as planned.

I was thinking about my father.

No, not Harold the costar of the Harold and Esther comedy hour. He's my stepfather and although I love him as if I was born from he and my mother, he still isnt the biological bastard that bore me. (alliteration: Breakfast of champions).

I was going through my mothers old wedding album, circa 1964 and realizing something.

One whole side of my family is dead.

Now, this is not to take away the grief, agony and suffering of those who no longer have either of their parents. I don't know what I would do without Esther in my life. Not only is she good blog fodder, but she reminds me of how well I am doing in life...despite all signs pointing to the fact that I really should be fucked up beyond all help.

My father, Stephen Samuel Roberts *names not changed because a) he wasn't innocent and b) he is very much dead. I don't think he will care much about my blog* was a big damn hippie. He partied too hard, slept with too many women, pretended to be a karate champion while getting high and listening to Deep Purple or Black Sabbath. I remember being forced to go to his house every weekend because my mother needed a break from raising her two children. Stephen was put in the compromising position of having to pretend to be a good dad whilst not putting his ability to snort coke and smoke weed to rest. He was also very into porn, much to the excitment of my then 9 year old brother...who is still a horndog to this day, a condition I believe that was brought on my early exposure to that stuff. He had a girlfriend, Yvonne, the cliche secretary that he ran off with. I hated her despite all her efforts to make me love her. She was 27 or so. Perfect B cup boobs. Not more than a size 5/6 and long red hair. She too used to walk around the house naked, like my father did. They had a pet rabbit named Bong. Bong used to shit his little rabbit pellets all over the house. I never knew where he got his name from although anytime I told my mother something about Bong, she would roll her eyes and say "nice name".

Stephen and Esther did not get along. Not even one iota. Everytime they did the drop and exchange of the children, it was a big to do. They always fought. I think deep inside, they still loved one another and both masturbated to the thought of fighting with the other. Esther was the only woman he knew that would fight with him, challenge him and berate his lifestyle. Stephen was the only man who didn't kiss my mothers ass. There was a real sickness there, somewhat undefinable. It was their version of love. That was never lost on me, even as a child.

Stephen had a brother Robert. Yes, Robert Roberts. We called him Scott, his middle name. Scott was the only person I found mildly relatable to in my family. He was an artist and an amateur writer. He had ideas, goals and dreams...but always fell short by staying firmly in the shadow of my father. My father was the first born of Arthur and Frances Roberts and he could do no wrong. Artie was a golfer. That's all I knew of him. I don't recall much about him. He wasn't exactly a loving man...but he was of Scottish descent and probably the person responsible for my red hair. I don't know that for sure. He was bald. Frances on the other hand was a flamboyant piece of work with piercing green eyes and an enormous rack. I got mine from her as well. Strange how people you barely know comprise so much of who you are. She always spoke too loud, said inappropriate things at inappropriate times and was a complete and utter snob. I had a lot in common with this woman, though I wouldn't realize that for many years after her death. Stephen was her entire world. Though between the two sons, Scott had the more promising future and was definately the better looking of the two Roberts boys, Stephen was always her favorite. It wasn't veiled. She worshipped Stephen and his literary prowess, his perfect anunciation of words and the ability to charm the pants off of anybody, literally and figuratively. She would introduce him as "My son, the famous stockbroker". He was a stockbroker in a company in NYC, but famous? Hardly. He barely ever showed up to work, bounced from job to job and eventually, became nothing more than a high functioning pot head.

I remember, in 1973, going up to Stephen's office in the World Trade Center, 17th floor and painting his office with him. It is one of the few, rare memories I have of him...and one that caused my heart to break deeply in the wake of 9/11. My wall was gone. I had signed my name into that wall then, painted over it. That was gone, along with my father who was killed in 1986. Stephen was killed by his own stupidity, something I knew would happen all along. In September of 1986, Stephen Samuel Roberts opted to make a life altering decision. He had done several lines of cocaine and then, got into his red BMW. He was cruising along I-75 in Hollywood, Florida where he now lived with the animal who became my stepmonster. The cocaine surged through his lanky body and caused a major heart attack. The coroner says he was dead before the accident happened. I like to think so. His BMW jumped the median and went head on into a Pepsi tractor trailer travelling in the opposite direction. The car was sheared in half and Stephen literally lost his head. Decapitated. I still can picture his head rolling down the highway and him saying something like...man, what a trip this is! He was always so laid back that I think he would have treated death as an awesome ride. The man in the Pepsi tractor trailer was fine, despite his truck flipping over.

In true CP style, I recall making a joke.

This time, Pepsi beat Coke.

Inappropriate things at inappropriate times...just like Frances.

Frances heard the news about her beloved baby boy and died instantly. Massive heart attack. Gone. The ultimate act of a mothers devotion. She was buried in a grave right alongside him.

Several years later, Scott contracted liver cancer and was dead within 5 months of it attacking his pancreas. Arthur outlived them all, until he died of a heart attack while golfing in Florida. Struck down at the 18th hole. Probably the way an avid golfer would dream of going, if they could.

By 1989, one entire side of my family was wiped out. There were no cousins or half siblings who remained to carry on that part of the family. Scott never married and Stephen was always careful not to be sloppy with his sperm. If Frances and Artie had any remaining family, they never bothered to reach out to us.

I suppose, with this being Memorial Day, I am recalling the people in my life who died. My father avoided the draft to Vietnam by being the sole provider of our little family back in 1968. Yet, he always wore this army jacket that he had his last name stenciled on in black. It earned him respect when others were around.

"Dude, you did time in 'Nam?" they would ask him.

He would just stick his hand out and shake the hand of whoever asked him. It was a gesture of affirmation without making him physically lie to the person who was talking to him. There was a silent "brotherhood" nod and then, the conversation would shift to something else as if to say "I did my time, but I am so fucked up over it that I can't discuss it."

Along with a dozen other things, I think that is what I disrespected the most about him. His friends, colleagues and acquaintances were going off to war. Stephen went to Woodstock with his wife, his three year old daughter and their new baby son. He participated in mud caked orgies while my mother sat in her tent, stoned as well, not really paying much mind to what he was doing. Their three year old daughter played in the mud just outside the tent. I didn't care much for what was going on. I didn't know that I had just been in the presence of greatness, hearing Jimi Hendrix play live. I just know that it was a hot day in August and the cool mud felt really, really good. I can recall that sensation even now.

One whole side of my family, gone. No one to share the stories with. Esther doesn't want to hear them and has forgotten enough about them to be able to relay them with any consistancy or fabrication. I don't know anyones name on that side of the family, beyond Frances and Artie. I know there are more...my mothers wedding album reveals the entire Roberts clan. My mother won't or can't answer me as to who they are. "I don't remember," she would claim and then, move onto other things like how great her legs were back in the day.

It's obvious that any talk of Stephen and his family still hurts her, so I try to keep my mouth shut on the subject when I can.

I don't remember much about my biological father aside from his striking green eyes and his oversized nose, which is now sitting smack in the middle of my face. I have so many unanswered questions that I will never receive answers to. Sometimes, I find myself talking to him. I always preface it by saying "You know, you sucked as a father when you were alive. Perhaps you can help me now."

I feel like it gives us both a new opportunity to have a relationship, no matter how contrived I make it.

Judge and Jury.

So, I tell on Fuckface. Nyah nyah.

I go to the director of nursing and tell her the whole conversation. She seems to look like "what's the matter with that?". I want to punch her in the face. Get in line, sister...there's gonna be a lot of face punching going on around here. When I let her know that such an accusation could compromise my license...it was like a lightbulb went off in her tiny skull.

"Ohhhh-hhhh," she says, "no wonder you are so upset."

Um...duh?

So she calls in the administrator. They are ooohing and aaahhhing about my plight. They are wincing. They are squirming. They are commiserating. I start to feel a little better. They really get it! Wow! They are behind me on this one! This is fantastic! They tell me that they feel the situation should be confronted immediately! This is phenomenal!

"Let's get her in here and straighten this out right now!" they say.

Yee haw, I am thinking! This is a major victory for nurses everywhere! A supervisor steps out of bounds, uses too much of her authority and now, it is being addressed! Hooray for me! I feel like Norma Rae in the sweatshop. I feel like Halle Berry winning the Oscar. I feel like Martin Luther King giving the "I have a dream" speech.

Then, it plummeted. Whoosh. Straight down.

Fuckface comes into the room, sees me sitting there and immediately she knows what's going on.

"We would like to address the conversation that you had with CP this past Saturday," they say.

"I'm sorry," says Fuckface. "What conversation would that be?"

Cavalier. She is acting totally non-chalant. Damn.

"You stated that you thought CP was on some sort of mind altering substance."

"Yes, I did," she says.

"Why was that?"

"She was being very quiet that day. Moving rather slowly. Her eyes looked glassy."

"WHAAAAA-AAAT," I screech. "Are you out of your mind?"

"Nooooo," she replies with a calculated smirk, sort of like being in the room with Charles Manson. "I am just relaying what I observed. As a supervisor, it is my job to report my observations."

Hoo boy.

"Was there any other reason you thought she was on drugs," they ask. "Was she slurring her words at all?"

"Oh no, she definately wasn't."

"So she was just slow and quiet."

"And glassy eyed," she replies.

"Fuckface," I counter. "If I was all those things, then why did you allow me to stay on the floor and pass medications? I mean, if it was your assessment that I was on drugs, why didn't you pull me off the floor and drug test me?"

Yay! Perry Mason moment! Score one for the Princess!

The admin and the DON looked at her for an answer...they waited, patiently.

"Well, CP," she began, "it's a judgment call. And, I didn't want to see you get in trouble over this. You are a great nurse. You do a good job...and I didn't want one transgression to harm your career."

Sigh.

"I would prefer that the next time you think you have come to a conclusion about my mental status that you drug test me so I can prove myself."

"Well, hopefully," she says with the calculated pause of a serial killer psychopath, "there won't BE a next time." She shoots a knowing look at me...as if to say, don't do it again and there won't be a problem. The look is not lost on the administrative staff.

Fuck.

"You know, CP," the administrator begins. "It is hard to argue with Fuckface. That IS her job...to observe occurances and make judgment calls as to what happens here."

"Yes, I realize that."

"So, in fairness, she did trust the fact that you only had a headache, as you stated to her."

"It was still an accusation that could have harmed my career."

"Well, yes," he says, "but she chose not to pursue this. Matter of fact, no one would have ever known until you brought this up."

I sat there quietly. I nodded my head. I was dumbfounded. For the first time in my life...I had nothing to say.

"Now," says Fuckface, "if all this is done, I have to get back to my patients."

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd...one final blow to my case. SLAM!

"You may be excused, Fuckface," says the Director of Nursing.

"You know," the admin says to me after Fuckface left the room, "she could have handled this a whole lot better, with a bit more compassion."

"I wish you had said that while she was in the room," I grumble.

"Well, hopefully, this is all resolved and we can all get back to doing what we do so well."

Yeah. Rah fucking Rah.

I get up to leave.

"CP," the DON says, "we really value your work here!"

"Thanks," I mutter as I leave the room.

Fuckface is on the floor. She doesn't look at me. I don't look at her. We work in silence all night. A nice, uncomfortable, make you squirm kind of silence. She is like a stone, like ice...not giving an inch. Me? I am watching everything I do like a hawk. Sweating profusely.

The assistant director of nursing comes to the desk. "Here are those drug tests," she says, thinking I am out of earshot. "so, if you have any problems on the weekend again, you can test without waiting."

Great.

The end of the shift comes. I am still working diligently on my charts. Fuckface is saying goodnight to everyone because she is through for the night.

"Oh, and goodnight CP," she exclaims cheerfully...staring at me like an owl about to pounce on a mouse.

"Goodnight, Fuckface," I say...as my voice cracks like a pre-pubescent teenage boy.

My co-workers now refer to me as "stoner", thinking they are funny.

Tee fucking hee, people.

Moral of the Story? Nurses eat their young.

I hope I tasted good.

The Accused.

Last week, I was accused of taking drugs on the job. No, not stealing kind of taking...but rather, using drugs while at work.

Let the Princess give you a little inside information...kay?

I wasn't.

Matter of fact, I had a raging ass headache on that particular day, PLUS...my husband had just left for Georgia for a week and I was feeling a little sad. The weekend supervisor, let's call her Fuckface, pulled me to the side.

"You're not acting like yourself," she says to me, "what's wrong?"

I know this woman well enough to know she was not asking me out of grave concern for my welfare and benefit. She is one of those sneaky ass people who try to get people to divulge information under the guise of friendship. No thank you, Fuckface. I am too smart for this.

"Nothing," I reply quietly, "I just have a headache today, that's all."

"Really," she counters, "because if I didn't know better, I would think you were on some mind altering substance."

*blink*

WTF?

"Why would you say that?"

"Because you aren't acting like yourself today. You're being very quiet."

"And that means I am using drugs on the job? I just have a headache, that's all!"

"Well, what do you normally take for your headaches," she asks. More mock concern.

"I take whatever works at the time," I reply with an attitude. "And right now, I am taking nothing more than Tylenol."

"I still think something else is going on."

"Be that as it may, it isn't. Now, is this what you wanted to talk to me about?"

"Yes. That's it."

"Fine, then I guess we are done then."

Now, I have been considering going to the Director of Nursing about this conversation. I have always been very honest about my consumption of any substance at work. Remember the failed drug test? Yep. I told them that I had taken Vicodin a few days earlier for a headache and even went so far as to bring in the prescription bottle. They hired me anyway. I also take Ativan on a daily basis. I make no secret of the fact that I am dealing with bipolar disorder. It's a part of me, but not what I am. The one day I did come into work on Vicodin was after a root canal and I told my boss immediately that I didn't feel comfortable doing my med pass because I was on a mind altering drug. They had me do paperwork and then, sent me home early.

Honest. Always. I have nothing to hide.

An accusation like this one can ruin a nurses career. Even though I dont think the weekend supervisor went further than speaking to only me about this, I feel that something should be said to HER supervisor. I cannot fathom anyone making an accusation like that due to an off day. I was feeling sad. I did have a headache. I had taken Tylenol Extra Strength and of course, all my other medications for my bipolar disorder, none of which interfere with my job. Rather, they give me the ability to work to my maximum capability.

Something tells me to speak with my DON before she does. It's been nagging at me for the entire weekend.

The day after this incident, I came in on Mothers Day to work.

"Are you feeling better," she asked me.

"Yes, I am. Thank you." That was all I said.

"What did you take for your headache to make it finally go away," she asked.

I walked past her, like I didn't even hear her. I was furious, fuming, pissed off beyond all level of reason. I knew if I was made to answer her, it would be filled with vulgarities and expletives. I worked very hard to get myself to the point where I am controlled. I was not going to let this bitch set me back.

Today is the day. I either say something today...or I don't at all.

My heart tells me to speak up. My head tells me I am going to put myself into a whole ton of messy shit if I do. I have to work with this woman 4 days out of every month...and she will make those days hell for me. I know it. But, if I don't say something, she gets away with this and could possibly tell the DON that she suspected me of being on drugs at work.

Either way it goes, it ain't gonna be pretty.

Nurse humor.

Nurse 1: I tried to get him to come around, but he was lethargic. His blood pressure was very low and I couldn't arouse him.

Me: Did you try nibbling on his ear? I found that always works for me.

Ah, the joys of Spring.

Tis Spring, y'all.

The birdies are chirping their sweet songs, the flowers are blossoming and this is the time when romantic ideas start to fill the heads of men and women everywhere. Soon enough, it will be time for beach bodies and sweaty hunks of men lining the shores everywhere. Thongs will be the primary gear of bathing beauties. Everyone will be dripping wet and wiping their brow. Body odor will be at an all time high. But for now, let us focus on the romance of the Spring season.

Everyone has a different idea of what romantic is. For some, it is a fragrant bouquet of flowers delivered to your beau's door. For others, it is a stroll along a moonlit beach. Then, for others, it's a hot romp with the hotband in the backseat of a car. At least, that's MY take on romance.

I recall the first date I had with the hotband, eight long years ago.

I had just graduated nursing school that same night. All my friends were gathered there to join me in drinks and merry making. My drunken friend, Celia, was grilling me about my want for a graduation gift.

"Soooooooo," she slurs, "Whatcha wannnn for grat-chee-a-shun?"

"Hmmm," I say, giggling from the 80 something appletini's I drank. "I think I want HIM for graduation." I point at the soon to be future hotband. Celia gets all excited!

"Oh oh oh, okaaaaaaays. I kin gets him for yooooooooooooooooooo," she replies, her breath reeking from the chocolate-tini's she was drinking. She ties her napkin into a bow. "Yooooo hooooooooo...(Insert Hotband's real name here) HOTBAAAAAND! Come ofer heeeeyah. Come ofa here."

He stumbles over, drunk on his Jack and Coke.

"Whasssssssup, Celia?"

"CP said she wannnns yoooooo for her grat chee ash shun prezzzzzzent. So here, wear this bow and you are her gif now!"

I felt all slooshy and gooshy inside. He was soooooo freakin' hot and soooooo damn cute and extra especially smart and verrrrrry sexaaaay! (Hey, I was drunk. Everything to me had too many O's and R's and A's in it!)

I challenged his manhood. Celia dared him to "fluff" me up. He was like...WHAT? Celia said, fluff her boobs up! Now mind you, I am in my nursing dress, all in white and I think I was looking pretty damn fantasy fulfilling! Anyway, Hotband looks at me as if to say...should I? I give him my most daring smile and said, yeah...fluff me!

Course, I never DREAMED he would do it!

He scooped up my boobs and gave them a quick motion upward, like he was fluffing a pillow!

Celia and I fell over hysterical laughing our asses off. Hotband then proceeded to the men's room, gloating (he tells me years later) over the fact that he achieved this major goal.

After we sobered up, he drove me home.

We've been together ever since.

Now tell me...isn't THAT romantic?

This sucks and blows...

the hotband has finished his contract with a very large computer firm that allowed him to stay home with me all the time. This is good, because I need adult supervision.

Now, he is going to be traveling again. This is not good, because I need adult supervision.

He is leaving for Georgia tonight and that, my friends, both sucks and blows.

I am mad, sad, depressed, angry and several stages of denial have come to plague me. I am not pleased at all...and this, of course, is when the world starts to go awry. Locusts will come, the seas will turn to blood and I will happily give away my firstborn (okay, no I wouldn't. she's married anyway, so technically, I already did that.)

The good news?

Since I am going to be so miserably lonely...I can update my blog now! Whee!

But, not right now, because the hotband is still home and I intend to cling to him like a siamese twin until he is on that plane.

AAAAAAAAnd...she's back.

Whew. So much to say.

First of all, thank you for worrying over me. That was nice. No. Really. It was. I could use a good thump in the morale right about now.

My time on the other coast was well spent. I ate a lot of Pastrami like a good Jew girl should. I spent a night with some drag queens at Madame's. If ever in Miami, you must go. Ask to see Genesis. She was so damn hot, I almost left the hubby for her/him/whatever. I bought some beautiful handbags (Coach) and spent a lovely two days at the pool.

You know what I got for that?

Raging mother fucking yeast infection from hell, that's what.

When your mama tells you don't sit around the pool in a wet swimsuit, I must advise all of you to LISTEN. It's the one time I should have listened to Esther.

This ain't no ordinary infection, y'all. This is the Yeast Beast. The infection from hell. Three doses of Diflucan and Monistat later...my vagina is officially laughing at me.

Moo ha ha...this is for all the years you abused me, it says. Next time, treat a bitch with some respect. R E S P E C T. I am at the point where the itch is the least of the worries. It seems that the inflamation has caused my lips to swell to the point that I can no longer find what used to be my clitoris. I think they fused together actually. I couldn't pry my shit open with a crowbar right now.

"Here," my doc says, "insert this cream twice a day and you should get better."

Sure. This is after he says "WHOA!" when I spread my legs. "I've never seen this before," he says. I look at the nurse. She's wincing. She's cringing. If I had a penis, it would have retracted. However, if I had a penis, this wouldn't be happening to me. "Could be a lot of things going on here," he says. Really? No shit, Doc. It looks like a giant advertisment for a Rolling Stones concert...ya think something is wrong here?

Okay, so I am in the stirrups, getting awfully self concious. I am squirming, in fact. It takes a lot to embarass me (hence, this post) but for some reason, I felt myself turning crimson.

"Can you spread your legs a little more," the doc asks.

"Not really," I say tentatively, "it sort of hurts."

Sort of hurts. Like...an elephant is sort of big, ya know?

"Well, I need to get a culture of this," he says...sort of the same way like you would say "Holy shit! I need a picture of this" if you saw some freak of nature on the street. Like a two headed fish juggling matzoh balls outside of a pizzaria. (note the fish and cheese reference?) He stabs me with his culture stick (sounds erotic, no?) and then...he feels the need to show me what he just smeared on his slide. Let me paint a picture for you...

Hopefully, none of you were in the middle of your breakfast or some shit. Yeah. This is what I am dealing with. Let me tell you how close my hotband and I are. I can't find my fucking hole. It is under a pile of inflamed skin...a big heaping mound of raw flesh. I hand him the applicator for the cream. He goes in, like a spelunker looking for buried treasure. All he needed was the hard hat with the light on top.

"I can't find it, Babe," he says, sounding completely panicked! Of course he's panicky! This is HIS infected abyss! Where will he possibly stick his penis now? You know that's all he is thinking about. Selfish bitch.

"What the hell do you mean you can't find it? It's there! It didn't go away...did it?"

Now, admittedly, I am a little nervous? Did my vag decide to slam shut after all the years of perpetual banging on it? My husband is breaking out into a sweat. I am staring down at him from between my spread legs, terrified.

"Find it, Hotband," I shriek!

"I'm TRYING, BABE!!!"

Eventually, he finds his way through the rotting flesh, past the cottage cheesy goodness and slips the applicator in. He releases his goo. This is all vaguely familiar to me...despite the fact I haven't been able to have sex for two weeks because of this pussy drama.

This is what I brought home from Miami. My souvenier to all of you who so patiently awaited my return.

Aren't you glad you missed me?

Feel free to vomit in the comments.