Happy Birthday to me! 41 on my 41st!

Last year, I posted a festive little post called 40 on my 40th It was just one fact a year, every year, about the Princess that I thought you should know about me.

Here is a reprint. Get a cup of coffee. This will take you awhile.

Yee haw.

40 years ago, this very day, CP arrived kicking and screaming into this world, via Esther's caesarian. Certainly you don't think that Esther allowed me to pass through her vagina now, do you? No. That would require breaking a sweat and surely, we have all come to know...

Esther don't sweat shit.

In 1966, the world was graced with my presence. The first doctor that laid eyes on me said I was so beautiful. I offered to sleep with him because he was jewish and a doctor. I figured this would please my mother and keep me comfortably in the retail heaven I would soon become accustomed to. He declined and told me to call him back when I turn 40. He's 80 now. God bless you, Dr. Edelstein, wherever you are. I have the Viagra. All I need is your phone number.

In 1967, I was being raised by a gorgeous black woman named Lily. Esther was suffering from post partum depression and hasn't touched me in a year. I think I had this in common with my biological father. Apparently, she hadn't touched him in a year either.

In 1968, I was still under Lily's care. Thank goodness. If not for her, I would have white woman rhythm. I'd be doing the Carlton dance at Bar Mitzvah's.

In 1969, the first known human afterbirth dripped down Esther's thigh. They named him Brad. He's my brother.

In 1970, at the commencement of the disco era, my father, the sperm donor, left my mother, brother and I. He took off to Germany with his secretary. Very cliche, I know. I am ashamed that something so textbook took place in my rockstar life.

In 1971, I met the girl of my dreams. Her name was "Abby" and she was the first love of my little life. I was older and wiser by three months. Abby would remain a lifelong friend. This may soon end if she continues to make fun of my hitting 40 a full three months before her.

In 1972, I started first grade. I was fat, had stringy hair and I ate my boogers. Since then, I have stopped eating boogers. They're high in carbs.

In 1973, I was seven years old. Esther smoked pot. I think it stunted my growth.

In 1974, somewhere in a little city called Haifa in the country of Israel, my future mother in law was squeezing out a little turd who shall be known, eventually, as "the hotband".

In 1975, we would play Charlie's Angels. I was always Kate Jackson's character. Abby got to be Jacklyn Smith. She's a cunt. Damn, cute little fucker. Why did I always have to be the smart one?

In 1976, I was 10. I had a birthday party at Burger King. Mia Fineman shit in her pants right after the cake. Total buzzkill.

In 1977, The Son of Sam made me have to stay inside the house a lot. This meant more time with Esther. Suffice it to say, I wasn't a fan.

In 1978, I got pubic hair and tits. I didn't like either of them very much.

In 1979, I got pubic hair and bigger tits. I realized why I should like them very much. Marlon Friedman made me aware of why I should like them very much.

In 1980, I went to sleepaway camp and gave my first real blow job to Monroe Makowsky. I don't know if I was any good at it. The poor little fucker came the second my lips got near him. I'd like to think of it as a compliment and a sign of things to come (pun intended).

In 1981, my mother married Harry, her boyfriend since 1977. This would prove to suck ass as now I had a father figure. I also moved to Long Island from NYC. This meant saying goodbye to Abby. We'd find each other again via Classmates.com in about 20 years or so.

In 1982, I started taking college classes. I was a total prodigy. Sophomore by day. College student by night. Perfecting my blowjob skills on coke bottles in my spare time.

In 1983, I officially graduated high school a year early. However, due to lack of ambition, I hung around for my senior year and to take half a credit of gym class. This would prove to be the last known time that CP would ever exercise.

In 1984, I graduated high school as Valedictorian. Okay, no I didn't. But, I am sure Esther tells people that anyway. You know, bragging rights for me giving her that huge C-section scar on her stomach.

In 1985, I would begin college full time, while working full time and partying full time. I'd write more, but frankly, most of 1985 and 86 were a blur. I just remember a whole lot of cocaine and men. Maybe they were snowmen. Who knows? It was the 80's.

In 1986, I got knocked up with my daughter. This would prove to save my life.

In 1987, Sammi was born, kicking and screaming into this world. Being a tougher (or dumber) woman than Esther, I pushed out 7 pounds of pure big head out of the ol' vajayjay. Without drugs. I hit on Dr. Edelstein again, for old times sake.

In 1988, I was deluged with diapers. I remember very little from this year. Just a whole lot of shit coming out of my daughters ass. This would continue for the next 19 years, only the shit came out of her mouth.

In 1989, I married the first of what would be my three husbands. He was a very sweet alcoholic. A lovely drunk. I threw his ass out 6 months later. The ink on our divorce was dry before the pictures from the wedding even came back.

late 1989-1991 were the "Tony" years. I refuse to document this shit on my birthday. If you don't know, well, ya just don't read my blog enough.

In 1992, I find love once more with an old friend of mine. Hope and faith in the future is renewed. So is my drivers license and my library card. Big landmarks in my life.

In 1993, I married husband number 2.

In 1994, I actually recall being happy, much to Esthers dismay. I was married to goyum (a non-Jew for all you...er, non-Jews) and it was enough to drive her to drink. Of course, the drink of choice would be an Italian wine. No different than what I was sleeping with really...I just preferred my wine on tap.

In 1995, I was knocked up again with my boys. I was the size of a battle barge. If the titanic would have hit me instead of the iceburg, there would have been no survivors. I would lose one precious son while bringing my other one into the world. Vaginally. Again, no drugs. Only this time, I shit on the table while pushing. For a moment, I questioned whose child it was...then I realized it was shit. Just...the shit looked SO much like my ex husband, ya know?

In 1996, we were living in Florida. I remember a big hurricane. I think it was my mother in law. I had my 30th birthday and got a tattoo and a belly piercing to mark the occasion. I also pierced my labia but removed it because it kept getting infected everytime I peed on it.

In 1997, I met a guy online and had an affair. He slept in a coffin. I have to admit, I found it somewhat erotic.

In 1998, I was over it. And separated from my husband. Hooray.

In 1999, I met this cute Israeli guy up at my school. I thought he was manly, mysterious and complex. Turned out he was quiet, shy...and pretty simple in the brain. It would be another 3 years and marriage before I realized that simplicity was in the form of complexity. I graduate nursing school. Short of stretching my vagina over the heads of two children, this will prove to be my greatest accomplishment.

In 2000, the future hotband and I broke all sorts of sex records. Go look us up in Guiness.

In 2001, the future hotband got smart and proposed to me on a carriage ride through Central Park on a crisp night in March. The horse took a shit during it. He didn't get me a ring. Asshole. My divorce is finalized. Hooray. Failure number two fully documented for public record. Sweet. Abby tracks me down and we reconnect after 20 years. This will prove to be the best thing to ever happen to me with someone that I have a) not given birth to or b) did not give head to. If she asked me to, though...I would.

In 2002, the future hotband officially takes his place as the Hotband. We get married on a Tuesday in a courthouse. We are both in jeans and sweaters. We don't have a honeymoon. He hasn't told his family he eloped. Again...asshole.

In 2003, I start to like my new husband a bit more than I did in the past two years. We get along great, laugh a lot and share a lot of things in common. We also have similar goals, like multiple orgasms. It's a match made in porn heaven.

In 2004, we celebrate our two year wedding anniversary by going on a cruise. Hotband spends the first night vomiting. I get to stay up, alone, watching the season finale of The Apprentice. I missed shrimp cocktail night. Hotband still has not lived this down.

In 2005, Hotband loses his job and finds a new one making kick ass money in order to take care of me in the lifestyle to which I have become accustomed. Oh, and Esther turned 65. I know it will make her SHIT if she gets wind that I made this announcment public. Ha. Fucker.

Which brings us to today. 2006. My 40th birthday. It's had its share of joys and sorrows, but I have to admit, it's been a helluva ride y'all.

*****************END OLD POST*****************

Here is the new thing you need to know about me for my 41st year of life:

The 41st thing that happened to me? In 2007 I received my nursing license 10 years after graduating school. It's akin to having an orgasm one hour after your partner has left. It's satisfying, but it would have been better if it happened when it should have. My breasts grew another cup size. I am officially a 44F which sounds more like a cough syrup than a bra size. My husband and I renewed our vows in Las Vegas with a pastor in a drive through window. This is appropriate as that is how I prepare dinner every night.

Here's to 41 more years of non-stop drama in the life of a Jew Princess. Rock on, CP. 41 and still FABOO!!!

The great debate.

I just got off the phone with my former employers. They grilled me relentlessly as to why I think they should take me back. I was like, "Please, son! Take ME back? How about taking YOU back?"

I don't think they saw that coming.

They asked me if I would be interested in working weekend doubles. Sure. No problem, why not just give my entire family life away for that matter. I would love to never see my husband or children on the weekends ever again. That sounds GREAT! Where do I sign up???

Assholes.

Right now I am waiting for them to finish their "pow wow" and decide what would be best for them. I am still deciding what would be best for me. In actuality, I wouldn't be there for very long anyway. I intend to quit (with notice this time) come January when I go back to school. It's just a matter of needing insurance benefits between now and then. Yes, I can do the COBRA thing...but it would be nice to still get a salary as well.

They kept asking me, "what will you do differently this time around?" Hm. I dunno. Blow you once a week under the desk? Walk around with a nipple-less bra under my white scrubs? Pay YOU to have me work? What the fuck are y'all talking about? I wouldn't do a damn thing differently because I am a fucking great nurse.

Suck on that for awhile, bitches.

Anyway, I am waiting for the update. When it comes through, I will jump right on back here and bring it to you live and uncensored...sort of like my life.

Stay tuned.

3:45 Update: They haven't called me back yet. I don't know how to interpret this manuever. Are they trying to freak me out? Fuck with my brain a little? What precisely is going on here? Or, maybe they have reconsidered, which is fine and all...but wouldn't they have called me right away? They are probably measuring the pros and cons of my coming back. Pro? I'm a damn good nurse. Con? She may fly the coop again when things get stressful. Hm. If I was the boss, I would go with the con, to be perfectly honest. *glares at phone* RING, fucker, RING! Put me out of my misery! I hate surprises. Unless they are for my birthday, which is tomorrow, by the way. Wouldn't that just suck a rats ass if I had to go back to work starting tomorrow?? That would be poetic justice in this instance.

3:50 Update: Just got a call for a job interview for Friday. Paperwork nursing, quality control for union workers. Hm. No patients? Sounds appealing. Then again...

4:55 Update: This is no longer amusing. I am appalled by the lack of understanding as to who the fuck I am. Are they for real? It is almost 5pm! How the hell do you make a Princess wait, can I ask? I ran some errands, picked up the little Prince and went to the post office like good housewives do at least once a week, though I am not sure why. Why do housewives go to the post office? I have only been a housewife for about...*thinks* a week or so. I am not getting the hang of it. I cleaned the carpet though. Did some laundry. Went food shopping.

Dear God. What are they doing to me? What have I become????

7:30 Update: Okay. I guess I should just resign myself to the fact that they will not be calling this evening...unless the administrator wants to use me for phone sex. Nice heavy breathing...tell me baby, tell me how bad you want your old job back...oh yeah, say it slower...slower...now with feeling...yeah! YEAH!

11:51 Update: Still no call. I suppose I should call it a night. It is my birthday in 9 minutes and I would rather start it on a higher note...like rectal bleeding.

12:00 am Update: Happy Birthday, CP. Now go the hell to bed and allow the nightmare to end...or begin???

I called my former job...

I had to.

It was eating me up inside to leave the way I did. I am not usually so unprofessional so it hurt me to know that I left a bad taste in someones mouth. I am usually so good tasting...packed with vitamins and nutrients.

There was also a tinge of regret at having left, I have to admit. Besides the crappy administration, I felt a sense of obligation to the patients I cared for. Yes, even the anti-semetic rapper. She doesn't know what she is doing...though I imagine she was probably a real hit at parties back in the day. She reminds me of the rapping granny in the movie The Wedding Singer...or this talented old broad.

I liked it better when I was in my twenties or early thirties and didn't have a conscience. Now, being 40 (41 in one week! Gak!) I see things from a different perspective. It made me feel better to apologize to the Director of Nursing...and she said it meant a lot to her. I'm glad, because that is off my ever expanding chest now.

I have a distinct feeling, from the way the conversation went, that she is going to try to get me to come back. I wonder if my self esteem is low enough to actually go back there. This is such a bad time of year to look for jobs...with the holidays coming so quickly. I could easily go to another nursing home and relive the nightmare...but why not do so in a familiar setting? *sarcasm*

We'll see.

Take this job and SHOVE IT!!!

I quit!

Yep. Quit. Gone. Done.

Not quite sure how I feel about it just yet. I think it is too soon for me to feel like I made a bad move or too soon to feel that special elation you get when you know you did the right thing for yourself.

Last night was the straw that broke my humps, my lovely lady lumps.

My normal routine became a psych ward. Every patient was ringing their call bells. They were all screaming. Over and over. The rapper, the woman who rhymes everything she said was in rare form...

"Fuck you, fucking jew
What do I do?
Fucking jew.
Who are you?
Fucking jew.
Fuck your mother
Fuck your father.
Fuck your brother.
Fuck the gardener."

Yes. This is one of my residents. Normally, she doesn't bother me because she doesn't know what the hell she is doing. However throw in the woman who is a retired RN and trying to tell me how to do my job. Toss that with a dollop of the patient who told me that my time was near and that I was going to die. Add a side of "take my pants off because the house is on fire," from another resident. Then, for dessert, rummage through a patients closet because she is convinced that her daughter, Connie, was locked in there. She wouldn't stop screaming. Endless screaming. Who are you, fucking jew. Get my pants off. You're gonna die soon. The house is on fire. Get away from me. Don't you know what you are doing? Don't you know what you are doing? Don't you know what you are doing??? Get Connie out! Get her out of there! Get her out of there right now. Fucking jew, go fuck you.

And I was done.

I went out into the courtyard. I screamed. I screamed so loud that the other nurses heard me and ran outside to see where I was and what I was doing.

It shouldn't have gotten to me, but it did. Honestly? I can't work at a long term care facility any longer. I can't. I feel like a monkey, pushing a cart, sticking pills in the mouths of hungry babies. All day long, applesauce and pills. The administration is god awful. There is no morale at this place. Just a bunch of dead faces doing their dead end work with people who are dying. No one cares. No one is out to make a difference.

"Pick up in room 7."

This is what it sounds like when we call the funeral home. Pick up in room 7. No different than taking out chinese food. "I'd like a price check please on the old woman in bed 7A who just dropped dead? Do you have a coupon with that? Would you like paper or plastic?"

I can't live like that. And, I know now...I can't die like that.

This is what becomes of the elderly in America. We aren't like other cultures. We don't take care of the same people who took care of us when we were babies. We can't fathom changing the diapers of our own parents. We stick them in a home and pay the occasional visit so we can feel like responsible daughters and sons. Hey mom, how's the food here? Oh, it can't be that bad. How do you like it here? Oh, it can't be that bad. How are they treating you here. Oh, it can't be that bad.

Stupid daughter.
Get me water.
Wheres my son.
This is not fun.
~The elderly rapper...if she were to say what was really on her mind.

And please, don't give me the happy horseshit...but CP, if you would have stayed there, you could have made a difference.

No. Not possible with an administration that won't stand behind their nurses. The nurses have no morale. No incentive. Just dead eyes, as dead as the people they care for. I went into this job a happy little puppy, so eager to learn and be taught. I ended up slinking out of there with my tail between my legs.

I miss having a job with one on one patient care. I miss being able to take care of a patient rather than just sliding some pills down their throat and making sure the CNA's are putting cream on their wrinkly asses. I can't establish relationships with these people because most of them don't even know their own names.

Terrible, huh?

That's not what bothers me so much as the neglect that I see going on. People wallowing in their own feces. People who are forced to wear diapers at night because no one wants to be bothered changing their beds in the middle of the night. Every time I walked into this building, the smell of urine assaulted me. The moans, the cries, the forlorn faces. It broke my heart to see. I can't change it because there are too many people who want things to stay the same. The administration doesn't care, so long as they are getting paid.

And I got more and more depressed.

This morning, I called my job and said goodbye. I was done. I have never done anything like that before but I had to. It was a matter of mental health in this instance. I have never made any secret of my illness. I had to save myself because I really feel like I was going under. I stopped writing here in my blog and only wrote in the other blog of all the pain and frustration I was going through.

It was too hard to "bring the funny" when I was so depressed by my surroundings. I have seen so many changes in me since starting this job and I am not too happy with any of them. I lost my sense of humor (except when talking about Esther, because some things just write themselves.)

I know I have lost so many of my regular readers. That is the price I have to pay for engaging myself in a job that feels like a bottomless pit. Even now, I don't have the ability to make this post mildly amusing because there is nothing funny about the situation...

In the interim, what do you think of my decision? I would really love to know, even if you think what I did was weak and stupid. I've been called worse. Give it to me full force, people. I'm asking for it. I can hear what my patient, the elderly rapper would say to summarize the entire situation.

Fucking nurse.
You have a curse.
You make things worse.
But you have a nice purse.

Yes, Sir! That's mah baby!

My daughter, a devoted friend, was planning to take a drive to West Palm Beach on the opposite coast to dogsit for a friend. Apparently, this friend used to live nearby and Sam used to dogsit for her all the time. The friend moved across Florida, but still only trusts her dogs to my daughter. Doggie kennels are out of the question. This girl has even flown my daughter round trip to West Palm and back again, just for the sake of watching her "babies".

This time, my daughter opted to drive.

"N.," she says to my husband. "Can you print me out the directions on how to go there?"

"Sure, Sam."

He diligently maps out his daughters trek from our town to her friend in West Palm.

"Okay," she says, after it printed out. "Now can you print me one to get back?"

"Just read the map backwards," the hotband replies.

Sammi stares at the page, concentrating hard. She looks puzzled and flips the paper over.

"N., there is nothing on the other side," she said. "How do I read it backwards?"


*blink*

"Samantha, read the map from the end to the beginning. The other way around. From finish to start instead of start to finish."

"Oooohh-ooohhhhh-oh," she says, "now I get it."

And to think, someone, somewhere said this child was ready to drive a vehicle.

God help us all.

Drunk Esther...the lobby edition.

"Hellooooooooooooooooooo, you two beee uuuu teeee full people!"

From across the lobby, I hear the bellow of my mother. She's got a scotch on the rocks in one hand and what should be a megaphone in the other. Unfortunately, she doesn't need one.

"Wanna drink?"

"Um, no thanks mom. You had enough for both of us."

"Yer damn fucking right I did. And I will have more and then I will have sex with your father!"

*blink*

"Did I need to know that," I ask.

"You think just because I am sixty something, I don't fuck anymore? Is that what you think?"

"I think that I never think about you fucking, period."

"Well you should," she slurs, "I could make your father hot back in the day."

"And you can make your daughter sick right now."

"WHAAAAAAAT??"

"Nothing, Mom."

"You know, if I was twenty years younger, "she says, looking at my husband like a mountain lion ready to pounce on its prey. My husband, he stands completely still...as if a movement will make her spring on him. "I would be all over him."

"If you were twenty years younger, you would still be old enough to be his grandmother."

"OH hush up, CP! Learn to have a little fun in your life!"

"Visuals of you trying to sleep with my husband is not my idea of fun."

"Why not," she says, cracking up, spilling her drink. "You can have mine!"

"Your husband is my father," I say, completely disgusted.

"What's wrong with me," my father interrupts! "I happen to be a great looking man!"

"And that is true," I say, "however, be that as it may...I will have to learn to resist you and my husband and I will never know the true meaning of life...as we choose to only sleep with each other!"

"Orgy in our room," screams my mothers best friend, Candy.

My husband is looking at me with an expression that says, please babe, make it go away.

"Tell you what," I begin, "how about you and my parents and Brian (Candy's husband) all have another drink, talk about the logisitics of swapping and let us know how it all turns out in the morning. We're going to bed."

My husband looks upon me as a goddess granting him a death row pardon.

"Young fucks," my mother snarls while laughing hysterically and spilling her drink on the front of her shirt. Brian reaches over and wipes my mothers left breast while the four of them crack up.

"Yep, young fucks...and that's our plan. Two young people...fucking, without the help of our elderly parents and their geriatric entourage."

"Okay, but someday you will look back on this day and wish you had a few more drinks with us," Esther says.

"Yeah, okay. Someday. Goodnight now!"

Hotband and I walk away, shaking our heads...both of us deathly silent. Maybe if we don't say anything and go straight to bed, we can chalk this up to a really bad nightmare.

"You know," my husband says, "if I was twenty years older..."

I slap him. Hard.

"Fucking EWWWW, babe!"

"Just sayin'."

Esther at the Improv...

So, after interrupting a One Thousand Dollar minimum poker game to ask the dealer directions (see post below) we finally make our way to the theater. (TheAter, if you are Esther). There are six of us; the hotband and I, my parents and their friends of 30 years, Candy and Brian. We're gambling, eating and drinking voraciously...like it will be the last time we ever do any of this. We get seated. I take the two seats in front of my mother and father. Candy and Brian are to the right of my mother, with Candy sitting next to my mother.

Lights dim. Show starts.

The emcee had said about six words when suddenly....

"BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Oh My GAAAAWD! He's a PISSA!"

Oh. My. God. It was my mother.

The emcee says, "well, someone here is having a great time!"

"Yep," Esther replies. "We're here to par-TAY! WHOOOO!"

My asshole puckered as I slid down into my seat, completely humiliated.

The emcee finished without event and my mother was relatively silent during the first comedian. Mainly, he wasn't very funny. My mother did a lot of snorting and saying things like "he really sucks!" But, my mother doesn't understand that the fine art of whispering involves people not hearing what you are saying about them. The comic makes a blowjob gesture in my mothers direction. Having never given one before, my mother says, "what was that about? does that mean something?"

Hotband and I peed a little.

Next comedian comes on. I dont particularly care for this one either. He reminds me of an ex boyfriend of mine and I immediately shut down. Not mom. Mom is in the aisle, rolling back and forth in her chair letting out these big WHOOPS and HA HA HA's that you generally hear in laugh tracks during sitcoms.

"YER A FUCKIN' PISSA! BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA. CP, CP...isn't he a fuckin' PISSA???? BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA."

She's laying all over Candy, drooling out of one side of her mouth because she is laughing so hard...and loud. Her face is red and all crunched up with a big bulging vein in the middle of her forehead. She's clutching her chest, rocking back and forth and yelling, "I'm GONNA PEE!!! I'm GONNA PEE!"

"Ladies room is thataway," says the comic to my mother.

"OH. MY. GAWD! He's talking to me," she exclaims. I notice that my father is slouched real low in his chair. I would imagine his dick has now shrunk to tortoise in shell proportions. The woman is really fucking embarassing and worse when she is drunk. "I sell real estate," she yells out. "Do you need a house?"

"No. But I'm a comic. Need a laugh?"

"BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA...you are hysTERical. HysTERical. CP, isn't he hysTERical? Oy vey...do I need a laugh. How funny was that! He was talking to me the whole time. Isn't that..."

"Hysterical," the rest of us reply.

"BWAYHAHAHAHAHA...you all said that together! How fucking funny!"

"Can I get back to work now," queries the comic.

"Oh sure. Sure," says my mother. "I'll be quiet."

The joke is on the comic...because the next words out of her mouth were...

"BWAHAHAHAHAHA Oh My God. Oh My God. I can't breathe. I can't breathe. I have to pee. I have to pee."

She farts. Dear God, she farted.

Hotband and I start moving away, slowwwwwwwwly so as not to rouse the beast. Candy is cackling like a jackal. "You farted," she screamed at my mother. "Oh my GAWD, I am so embarassed," she replies. "Shut the fuck up, Candy," she adds. "You don't have to point it out!"

"Everyone heard it, Mom," I say...stiffling a laugh. "Who didn't hear it?"

"I heard it," said the comic. "And I'm feeling a little traumatized."

"BWAHAHHAHAHAHA...He heard me," she exclaims. "BWAHAHHAHAHAHHA"

The waitress comes by our table. "Can I get you all anything to drink?"

The audience screams "NO!"

Now the comic is laughing..."Bwahahhahaha, you guys are pissers."

Hotband and I sneak out of the theater before the audience realizes we are part of the group that they want to lynch after the show. We still hear the sounds of Esther's cackling mating call ringing in our ears. We decide to head up to our jacuzzi. An hour later, the inhouse phone rings. We don't answer it. Stupid move, because now the beast comes to our door...banging..."CP!!! CP!!! HOTBAND???"

We stay silent, like hunted prey, in the jacuzzi.

"Can't believe those little fuckers left us," I hear Esther say through the door. "And we were having such a great time, too!"

Hotband slaps a wet, soapy hand over my mouth. He knows I am about to start laughing hysterically.

We hear them moving down the hall, their voices getting fainter as they approach the elevator. We slip under the bubbles...hoping this would be the last time we are humiliated by the Beast for the remainder of our Las Vegas vacation.

It wasn't.

Next installment? Esther drunk in the lobby.