First of all, let me start by saying HAPPY BIRTHDAY to my beautiful boy, Nicholas. He turns 12 years old today, my little Halloweenie. I have a post about him for tomorrow. Right now, I think I will post this little piece of delight from Esther.
A very close friend of the family recently lost her husband. It was an expected death after a long, drawn out illness. Deena is my mothers closest friend and has always had a great love for me and my children as well. She has been very good to us over the years. When word came about that her husband had passed, I immediately jumped online to send flowers. Deena and I share a mutual love for lillies, so I sent her a peace lily in a Lenox vase. It would be something she can keep long after the roses she received had wilted and withered away.
Enclosed was a card that read:
"There is nothing that can be said during this trying time. Words will never be enough to sustain us through our grief. I pray that you find strength from God to deliver you peace. May God's love find you and help you through this. I wish for Bill Godspeed to the Kingdom of Heaven
With undying love and sincere sympathy,
CP, Hotband, Nick and Samantha."
I am very mindful that Deena is not necessarily a religious woman but rather, a woman of faith. I share those beliefs with her. I strongly believe in the presence of God in my life, though being Jewish, we do not believe in Heaven. Still, in Deena's religion of catholicism, Heaven does exist.
Apparently, at some point, Esther saw this card from me and felt the need to immediately pick up the phone.
"Since when are you a Jesus freak?"
"Excuse me," I say. "What are you talking about? And, by the way...HELLO would be nice."
"Whatever, hello, okay? Now what is with all this God and Jesus and Lord Almighty that you ran on and on about in Deena's card?"
"Is that what this is about?"
"Yeeeeeeeeeeees, that is the reason I called. To find out when you got all Hare Krishna on us."
"Are you nuts?"
"Are you," she replies.
"First of all," I counter, "where in that card did I mention Jesus? I never said a word about Jesus Christ. And so what if I had? What's the big deal? He is a part of her religion. It is who she would turn to in a time of need. Why does that reflect on me?"
"And what is this Holy Kingdom stuff?"
"Mom, just because we don't believe in Heaven doesn't mean that I can't bring the notion of it up to someone who does."
"So you haven't converted or something?"
"Woman," I say, "are you insane? If I talk about the color green, does it mean I am a green person? What the hell are you saying?"
"I just thought you were shirking your duties as a Jewish woman."
"My duties as a Jewish woman? What might those be?"
"You know, Temple...rye bread and shopping."
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Pictures from the Party as Promised...
Wow. That was pure alliteration!
Anyway, Avitable put up a whole slew of pictures from the party that can be seen HERE.
The decorations were phenomenal as these pictures will show.
In the interim, here's a few pics from the party as well.
This is Miss Britt and Mr. Fab doing a rousing rendition of "Turn the Page" by Bob Seger. It wasn't awful! They did a good job!
This one is of me as the ghetto girl gold diggin' hood rat! Slammin! Clarence thought I looked more like Bette Midler than a ghetto girl, but whatever! Either way, it was a compliment!
This is what you walked up to when you first get to Avitable's house. The hazard lights were flashing, there were strobe lights, bloody body parts all over the car. I did a double take and jumped when I saw this! The whole place was roped off with crime scene tape! It was insane looking!
This is Avitable and Dave from Blogography! The rest of Avi's t-shirt said, if there is grass on the field, play ball! He is such a sicko! I don't know who Dave was, but he reminded me of the Wendy's character with the braids sticking up! He had a cute penguin though.
For more pics, head over to Avitable's website.
Anyway, Avitable put up a whole slew of pictures from the party that can be seen HERE.
The decorations were phenomenal as these pictures will show.
In the interim, here's a few pics from the party as well.
This is Miss Britt and Mr. Fab doing a rousing rendition of "Turn the Page" by Bob Seger. It wasn't awful! They did a good job!
This one is of me as the ghetto girl gold diggin' hood rat! Slammin! Clarence thought I looked more like Bette Midler than a ghetto girl, but whatever! Either way, it was a compliment!
This is what you walked up to when you first get to Avitable's house. The hazard lights were flashing, there were strobe lights, bloody body parts all over the car. I did a double take and jumped when I saw this! The whole place was roped off with crime scene tape! It was insane looking!
This is Avitable and Dave from Blogography! The rest of Avi's t-shirt said, if there is grass on the field, play ball! He is such a sicko! I don't know who Dave was, but he reminded me of the Wendy's character with the braids sticking up! He had a cute penguin though.
For more pics, head over to Avitable's website.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Purely Avitable.
Pay homage to the greatest party giver to ever live. Avitable is your new deity. Suck him with a fervor that you normally save for your blow pops, bitches. This man and his sexy side kick of a wife are livin la vida ZOMBIE!
This bitch was off da chain! (For you whiter, waspier types, that means, lovely party) I can't get into too much detail because I am detoxing from all the redbulls and vodkas my hotband plowed into me. I spent the whole night up vomiting...ugh, farklempt. Shouldn't happen to a dawg. I think one time I vomited so hard that I peed at the same time! It was so awkward to try to do a face to bowl/ass to bowl switch up, but your Princess came through, Babies, without too much damage to the floor, her pedicure or her self esteem.
I will toss out some of these tasty tidbits though...
Britt has tremendously large nipples that felt really good in my left eye. Truly. Yes, I was that close to the glory that is her bosom. Worship me.
My husband is presently Britt's hubby's Hebrew tutor. He has taught him to say "sit on me" in Hebrew. The line was completely lost on Britt who was more interested in hooking up with some belly dancer chick, or watching me twirl my 44F's around.
Yes. Debauchery...and I haven't even mentioned FAB yet.
Fab, ladies and gentlemen...can suck his own dick. True. I witnessed it. Several dozen times. The technique is a little lacking, but I think with some hard work on his part, he should develop quite well. I think this is why he spends so much time at home working on his blog. He is an artist in the making. A diamond in the rough...and he is living the dream, Dolls! Living the dream.
And lastly, because this bitch is SO worthy of a post of his very own...DIVA thy name is CLARENCE! This was one pink and sugary bitch with just the right amount of marshmallows! Much love to my fellow dancing queen.
That's all. I am far too hung over and without sleep in the past 24 hours to say much more than that. Wipe the drool from your mouths, Puppies. Mama will make sure to cum back with sum more delectable delights from the Avitable Halloween Screamfest.
Until then, lovers!
This bitch was off da chain! (For you whiter, waspier types, that means, lovely party) I can't get into too much detail because I am detoxing from all the redbulls and vodkas my hotband plowed into me. I spent the whole night up vomiting...ugh, farklempt. Shouldn't happen to a dawg. I think one time I vomited so hard that I peed at the same time! It was so awkward to try to do a face to bowl/ass to bowl switch up, but your Princess came through, Babies, without too much damage to the floor, her pedicure or her self esteem.
I will toss out some of these tasty tidbits though...
Britt has tremendously large nipples that felt really good in my left eye. Truly. Yes, I was that close to the glory that is her bosom. Worship me.
My husband is presently Britt's hubby's Hebrew tutor. He has taught him to say "sit on me" in Hebrew. The line was completely lost on Britt who was more interested in hooking up with some belly dancer chick, or watching me twirl my 44F's around.
Yes. Debauchery...and I haven't even mentioned FAB yet.
Fab, ladies and gentlemen...can suck his own dick. True. I witnessed it. Several dozen times. The technique is a little lacking, but I think with some hard work on his part, he should develop quite well. I think this is why he spends so much time at home working on his blog. He is an artist in the making. A diamond in the rough...and he is living the dream, Dolls! Living the dream.
And lastly, because this bitch is SO worthy of a post of his very own...DIVA thy name is CLARENCE! This was one pink and sugary bitch with just the right amount of marshmallows! Much love to my fellow dancing queen.
That's all. I am far too hung over and without sleep in the past 24 hours to say much more than that. Wipe the drool from your mouths, Puppies. Mama will make sure to cum back with sum more delectable delights from the Avitable Halloween Screamfest.
Until then, lovers!
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Tonight's the night...
of Avitable's Halloween Bash. Mr. and Mrs. Fab will be in attendance as well. Miss Britt will be there too.
I expect to become imprisoned or impregnated by later this evening.
Hopefully, I will see you all on Monday.
If not, send bail or college fund money as needed.
Welcome to the GOOD LIFE!
Kanye West Lyrics
I expect to become imprisoned or impregnated by later this evening.
Hopefully, I will see you all on Monday.
If not, send bail or college fund money as needed.
Welcome to the GOOD LIFE!
Kanye West Lyrics
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Nicholas Birthday: Esther's Gift.
My sons birthday is on Halloween. Every year, October 31st, we trick or treat and then have birthday cake. Generally, the weekend just prior to the date of birth is when we have his birthday party. This year, however, will be devoted to the Avitable's Halloween Party. We took the child to Howl O Scream at Busch Gardens this past weekend instead. Basically, I moved my childs life to be at Avitable's party.
Yes, I am a sucky mother, thank you very much. I think Miss Britt will appreciate the gesture though. Priorities, you know.
Anyway, a card comes in the mail today, made out to Master Nicholas. He tears open the card, waiting to see the savory check that is enclosed from Gramma Esther. He gets to the card and sees this on the cover:
"A Gift for Your Future"
My son shakes the card, looking for the check from the Holy Esther. There is none. Instead, there is a piece of paper that reveals my mother started a 529 Vanguard College Fund for my son. Ah. A gift for his future.
"What does this mean," he asks me.
"It means that Gramma Esther decided to make a nice investment into your future for college."
"Oh," he says, thoughtfully and puts the piece of paper back in the card.
"What's the matter, Nick," I ask him, noticing that he was somewhat pouty.
"I get the Gift for my Future part, Mom. I was just wondering...how about a present for my present?"
Yes, I am a sucky mother, thank you very much. I think Miss Britt will appreciate the gesture though. Priorities, you know.
Anyway, a card comes in the mail today, made out to Master Nicholas. He tears open the card, waiting to see the savory check that is enclosed from Gramma Esther. He gets to the card and sees this on the cover:
"A Gift for Your Future"
My son shakes the card, looking for the check from the Holy Esther. There is none. Instead, there is a piece of paper that reveals my mother started a 529 Vanguard College Fund for my son. Ah. A gift for his future.
"What does this mean," he asks me.
"It means that Gramma Esther decided to make a nice investment into your future for college."
"Oh," he says, thoughtfully and puts the piece of paper back in the card.
"What's the matter, Nick," I ask him, noticing that he was somewhat pouty.
"I get the Gift for my Future part, Mom. I was just wondering...how about a present for my present?"
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Conversation with the Hotband #23094327
I was woken up by a phone call. It was a place I applied to for employment. I wasn't exactly on my game as I had just woken up. The woman asked me a bunch of questions, none of which I can recall. I just remember saying a lot of stupid things that made me sound so moronic that even I wanted to hang up on me. At one point, she asked me..."If your friends were to describe you in two words, what would those two words be?"
Without missing a beat, I said "fastidious and loquacious".
Then, I slapped myself in the forehead.
Why did I choose those two words? I don't know. I'm an idiot. I had just woken up! I wasn't mentally prepared! What the fuck? So, I end up telling this person that I am fastidious, having high and often capricious standards. It can also, in its most pretentious meaning, reflecting a meticulous, sensitive, or demanding attitude. Not exactly far from the truth, but not something you want to share with a future employer. As for loquacious, that just means you run your mouth too damn much. But I do! I'm a talker and that is how my friends would describe me. Why I felt the need to share that one as well, I am still pondering to this moment.
I tell the Hotband what I said.
"Fastidious and loquacious," I said, hanging my head in shame.
"Fastidious and WHAT," he replies.
"Loquacious."
"What the hell do those mean," he asks and I answer.
He starts to laugh.
"What's so funny about this," I query.
"Nothing really."
"Then why, pray tell, are you laughing at my misery?"
"I was just laughing at the words fastidious and loquacious. They don't sound like real words to me."
"Really," I ask, quite annoyed. "What do they sound like to you?"
"I dunno. Two chicks working the corner of Mill Basin in Brooklyn?" Then he busts out, in his best Ghetto Diva voice pretending to hold a phone up to his head he says 'Hey Fastidious, this is Loquacious. Whatchoo doin' today, grrrrrrrrrl'???"
I admit it. I peed.
Without missing a beat, I said "fastidious and loquacious".
Then, I slapped myself in the forehead.
Why did I choose those two words? I don't know. I'm an idiot. I had just woken up! I wasn't mentally prepared! What the fuck? So, I end up telling this person that I am fastidious, having high and often capricious standards. It can also, in its most pretentious meaning, reflecting a meticulous, sensitive, or demanding attitude. Not exactly far from the truth, but not something you want to share with a future employer. As for loquacious, that just means you run your mouth too damn much. But I do! I'm a talker and that is how my friends would describe me. Why I felt the need to share that one as well, I am still pondering to this moment.
I tell the Hotband what I said.
"Fastidious and loquacious," I said, hanging my head in shame.
"Fastidious and WHAT," he replies.
"Loquacious."
"What the hell do those mean," he asks and I answer.
He starts to laugh.
"What's so funny about this," I query.
"Nothing really."
"Then why, pray tell, are you laughing at my misery?"
"I was just laughing at the words fastidious and loquacious. They don't sound like real words to me."
"Really," I ask, quite annoyed. "What do they sound like to you?"
"I dunno. Two chicks working the corner of Mill Basin in Brooklyn?" Then he busts out, in his best Ghetto Diva voice pretending to hold a phone up to his head he says 'Hey Fastidious, this is Loquacious. Whatchoo doin' today, grrrrrrrrrl'???"
I admit it. I peed.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Okay...first of all?
FINALLY!!!
Took four freakin' days but I finally got some hotel sex. Geez. What's a bitch gotta do? It got interrupted by his job about six or seven times, which was okay because it only prolonged matters. By the eighth call, I hopped offa him and closed up shop. Done. I cannot perform like the sex goddess I am with him talking to men on the other line. In college, that would have gotten me off. I am over that phase of my life.
Moving right along...
Have you seen the movie "Across the Universe"? If you haven't, you must. Go now. Don't even finish reading this post until you have done so. Get your shit and go.
I'll wait.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> 2 hours later...
Wasn't it phenomenal? Did you not LOVE it? The only way you couldn't love this movie is if you have NO feelings whatsoever and are bone dry when it comes to human connection. For example, Avitable will hate this film. Unless he's a Beatles fan...that might save it for him. Plus, PLUS...Salma Hayek does a cameo as a "naughty singing nurse" during one scene. Nothing is hotter than Salma Hayek in a nurse's dress, cap and stripper heels, okay? Nothing. (Hm. Coincidence that I got laid after seeing that movie. Must. Ask. Hotband.)
Lastly, am I the only one who knows the etiquette for elevators? You let people off first, before you get on. It's very simple. Why. Why do people get onto elevators when they see you are trying to get off of one? How the fuck can I get out if you are taking your three hundred pound behemoth body onto the frickin frackin elevator, shoving my fat ass into a corner as I gasp for air trying to squeeze past you? This is not an olympic sport, people. This is on and off an elevator for fucks sake. Three times this weekend, I had to tell off various people from the greater Chicago area due to their unparalleled RUDENESS. Shit fuck. They say we New Yorkers are rude and over-bearing? No. No no no. You fuckers in Chicago corner the market on that. Trust a bitch.
I am back in Florida now, land of the giant cockeroach and the God forsaken lightning storm. I could never say I was happy to be here, but I am happy to be here. I have jet lag. I got my period. My nails need to be done. The humidity has attacked my hair and it looks like I was just in a wrestling match. Nappy and fro-like. Fine for some, not too hot on a fine haired, pin straight jew girl. I look like Elaine from Seinfeld and this is NOT a good look for me.
Anyway, if you can come up with some explanation for the elevator phenomenon, I would appreciate it. I think the world should know about the on/off rule...but what the fuck do I know.
Took four freakin' days but I finally got some hotel sex. Geez. What's a bitch gotta do? It got interrupted by his job about six or seven times, which was okay because it only prolonged matters. By the eighth call, I hopped offa him and closed up shop. Done. I cannot perform like the sex goddess I am with him talking to men on the other line. In college, that would have gotten me off. I am over that phase of my life.
Moving right along...
Have you seen the movie "Across the Universe"? If you haven't, you must. Go now. Don't even finish reading this post until you have done so. Get your shit and go.
I'll wait.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> 2 hours later...
Wasn't it phenomenal? Did you not LOVE it? The only way you couldn't love this movie is if you have NO feelings whatsoever and are bone dry when it comes to human connection. For example, Avitable will hate this film. Unless he's a Beatles fan...that might save it for him. Plus, PLUS...Salma Hayek does a cameo as a "naughty singing nurse" during one scene. Nothing is hotter than Salma Hayek in a nurse's dress, cap and stripper heels, okay? Nothing. (Hm. Coincidence that I got laid after seeing that movie. Must. Ask. Hotband.)
Lastly, am I the only one who knows the etiquette for elevators? You let people off first, before you get on. It's very simple. Why. Why do people get onto elevators when they see you are trying to get off of one? How the fuck can I get out if you are taking your three hundred pound behemoth body onto the frickin frackin elevator, shoving my fat ass into a corner as I gasp for air trying to squeeze past you? This is not an olympic sport, people. This is on and off an elevator for fucks sake. Three times this weekend, I had to tell off various people from the greater Chicago area due to their unparalleled RUDENESS. Shit fuck. They say we New Yorkers are rude and over-bearing? No. No no no. You fuckers in Chicago corner the market on that. Trust a bitch.
I am back in Florida now, land of the giant cockeroach and the God forsaken lightning storm. I could never say I was happy to be here, but I am happy to be here. I have jet lag. I got my period. My nails need to be done. The humidity has attacked my hair and it looks like I was just in a wrestling match. Nappy and fro-like. Fine for some, not too hot on a fine haired, pin straight jew girl. I look like Elaine from Seinfeld and this is NOT a good look for me.
Anyway, if you can come up with some explanation for the elevator phenomenon, I would appreciate it. I think the world should know about the on/off rule...but what the fuck do I know.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Chi-town
So, I mentioned that I would be going to Chicago to meet with my hubby for a full week of hotel sex.
I was wrong.
Not about going to Chicago. I'm here. The weather is amazing. My husband took me to Bob Chinn's Crab House. Two hundred dollar dinner. Yes. My hubby treats me like the Princess that we all know I am.
However, the closest I have come to having sex...is oral. With my toothbrush.
He works 16 hour days up here. Until 5pm in the office, then another 6 or 7 hours when he gets back to the room. The only time I have seen this man naked is when he is getting dressed or undressed to or from work.
I am spending my days locked in this hotel room. Room service and I have gotten to be close friends. The room is beautiful, don't get me wrong...but being caged up in it. Well, it feels like Paris Hilton's prison sentence. At least if I was getting laid at night, it would compensate for all the down time during the day.
But I'm not getting much of anything, except daytime television. Something has to give...and it better be my husband...soon!
My toothbrush is getting worn out.
I was wrong.
Not about going to Chicago. I'm here. The weather is amazing. My husband took me to Bob Chinn's Crab House. Two hundred dollar dinner. Yes. My hubby treats me like the Princess that we all know I am.
However, the closest I have come to having sex...is oral. With my toothbrush.
He works 16 hour days up here. Until 5pm in the office, then another 6 or 7 hours when he gets back to the room. The only time I have seen this man naked is when he is getting dressed or undressed to or from work.
I am spending my days locked in this hotel room. Room service and I have gotten to be close friends. The room is beautiful, don't get me wrong...but being caged up in it. Well, it feels like Paris Hilton's prison sentence. At least if I was getting laid at night, it would compensate for all the down time during the day.
But I'm not getting much of anything, except daytime television. Something has to give...and it better be my husband...soon!
My toothbrush is getting worn out.
Monday, October 15, 2007
The Joy of Unemployment...
Jobless means, never having to stay home. Hooray.
Because I have no where I need to be, I am spending the week in Chicago with the Hotband! Sure, I'll have nothing to do all day while he is working but sit in the Hilton and pamper myself with room service and the jacuzzi tub. But hey, the way I figure it, just to be there when he gets out of work is worth it to me.
Besides, everyone knows hotel sex rocks.
The good news for all you happy, shiny little people is that I will now have the chance to blog on a daily basis for the next week. Doesn't that just moisten the panties???
See you! I'm on a plane in less than 12 hours! Peace out!
Because I have no where I need to be, I am spending the week in Chicago with the Hotband! Sure, I'll have nothing to do all day while he is working but sit in the Hilton and pamper myself with room service and the jacuzzi tub. But hey, the way I figure it, just to be there when he gets out of work is worth it to me.
Besides, everyone knows hotel sex rocks.
The good news for all you happy, shiny little people is that I will now have the chance to blog on a daily basis for the next week. Doesn't that just moisten the panties???
See you! I'm on a plane in less than 12 hours! Peace out!
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Welcome home.
Last night, I picked up my daughter who was returning from a trip to England. As I sat at the gate, waiting for my cherub, I noticed a group of people all holding American flags and signs that said "Welcome Home" and "America Thanks You".
"Isn't that nice," I said to my son. "There are probably a bunch of soldiers coming home from war on this flight."
"That's cool," says the 11 year old.
As the plane let out, a dozen soldiers were met by their families and friends, each of them hugging, crying, laughing and you could tell they were so happy to be home. From what I could gather, these young men and women were on tour in Iraq for the past 2 years. They were done with their duties and would not have to return.
My son and I thanked a few of the soldiers for their gracious service to our armed forces and for protecting us over the past few years. You could see how emotional they all were as complete strangers continued to shake their hands and thank them for a job well done.
One couple in particular caught my eye, a young couple perhaps in their twenties were holding each other tightly as if they never wanted to let each other go. As my daughter was coming off the plane, her brother ran over to her to greet her. I was still within earshot of the young couple as they kissed and held one another close.
When they finally stopped kissing, I saw him reach over to move her hair back from her ear as though to whisper a sweet secret to her.
"I'm gonna fuck the living shit out of you when we get home," he whispered.
At least the young man still had his priorities straight.
"Isn't that nice," I said to my son. "There are probably a bunch of soldiers coming home from war on this flight."
"That's cool," says the 11 year old.
As the plane let out, a dozen soldiers were met by their families and friends, each of them hugging, crying, laughing and you could tell they were so happy to be home. From what I could gather, these young men and women were on tour in Iraq for the past 2 years. They were done with their duties and would not have to return.
My son and I thanked a few of the soldiers for their gracious service to our armed forces and for protecting us over the past few years. You could see how emotional they all were as complete strangers continued to shake their hands and thank them for a job well done.
One couple in particular caught my eye, a young couple perhaps in their twenties were holding each other tightly as if they never wanted to let each other go. As my daughter was coming off the plane, her brother ran over to her to greet her. I was still within earshot of the young couple as they kissed and held one another close.
When they finally stopped kissing, I saw him reach over to move her hair back from her ear as though to whisper a sweet secret to her.
"I'm gonna fuck the living shit out of you when we get home," he whispered.
At least the young man still had his priorities straight.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
This post is not quite what it should be.
Generally, I don't post here with regard to my mental illness. I save that for THIS BLOG. Something happened to me today that was a turning point for me. Sure, I could write it on the other blog, but this doesn't have so much to do with having (diagnosed) bipolar disorder as it does have to do with love.
Yes. Love.
I quit my job today. I did it. It didn't quit me. What is so remarkable about this is that normally, I get "let go" or fired for insubordination, absenteeism or overall general bitchiness. In this job, I was competant, capable and doing much more than what was asked of me in the beginning. I was incredibly bored and boredom, for a person with BPD is a dangerous thing. It throws us into bouts of either mania or depression. Both are equally as ominous though some would argue that the depression is worse than the mania. I beg to differ on that one, but that's another post for another day...and another blog.
I went out to my car and cried. A nice, deep long cry that came from the gut. My husband had just left to return to Chicago and I was feeling very alone with my decision to leave my job. The glorious thing about my love for my husband is that it stays with me, even in the midst of a painful experience. I called him.
"I want to walk away," I said, sobbing.
"You don't want to do that, baby," he replied, "You don't want to burn a bridge."
"I don't care about the damn bridge. I can't breathe here anymore. I can't sit there for another full day of emptiness. I can't do it."
"Don't go, baby. Not now. Not like this. Do it the right way."
"What don't you understand," I cried, "there is no bridge. I will never put this job on my resume anyway."
"You never know who you may run into in your industry, baby. Do it the right way. Walk away the right way, CP."
We exchanged "i love you's" and he went back to his job. I didn't go back to mine. Instead, I took an hour and a half long lunch, one that no one noticed because my job wasn't all that important to this company. I read a book. I ate some greasy fast food and just sat, dressed in my white starched blouse and pinstriped gray slacks. I was alone. I felt alone and I am certain that this look was not lost on anyone who glanced in my direction.
I cried again, this time, into my fries.
Before all the medication that these doctors put me on, I would have walked out of this job without a glance backward. I never would have cried. I would have probably even stole some post it notes for good measure on the way out the door. I had no feelings or too many feelings. It is the nature of my sickness and unfortunately, the cross my husband has to bear. I try to rationalize...he chooses to be here. He can leave. He knows where the door is, but he chooses to remain.
I can't disappoint this man.
I called him back, fingering the buttons on my pink RaZr phone slowly. A call I almost didn't want to make. He answered, his voice so sweet in my ear, like the harkening of an angel bringing me to the light. I say this with devout sincerity. He does more for me than all the prozac on the planet.
"Baby," I said tentatively.
"Yes, love?"
"I am going to write a resignation letter, okay?"
I pause to wait for his words. I need his affirmation like a little girl needs the approval of her daddy. I look to him for this. I look to him to tell me it is okay and that I am not still the bad person I was for three decades of my life. He speaks to me so soothingly.
"That's my girl. You're doing the right thing."
"I had time to think it over."
"You'll be happy you did the right thing, baby," he said with more confidence in my abilities than I will ever hope to have.
"I'm sorry," I said.
"For what?"
"For letting you down. Leaving another job. I can't do this, babe. I can't keep going like this. But I have to leave there. You understand that, don't you?"
I know I was begging for that affirmation again. He had to tell me it was going to be alright or it just wouldn't be alright at all. Since being diagnosed, I am more concious of the things I do and more reliant on my husband to help guide me. I use him like my seeing eye dog, showing me the way when I can no longer see it. He never fails me...never.
"I understand, baby. You can't stay in a place where you have nothing to do. I know how that gets to you."
And he gets it. He gets me. He is with me every step of the way, always. At my most horrific, he has never turned his back on me. He has never thrown his hands up in disgust or frustration and left me out there, alone. In some ways, he has saved my life. In others, he reminds me that I never had one before him. I had a cluster of experiences that amounted to a whole lot of nothing. He reminds me that everything I do is watched over, evaluated and reflects the woman I am. The girl I am. The child I am. I look to him with such adoration, like a child to her father. I look up to him when I hold his hand and thrill when he looks back down at me with a kind smile, soulful eyes and a certain peace that I cannot put into words. They elude me and nothing would be descriptive enough.
I went back to my office. I wrote a resignation letter that would shame any that came before it. I conveyed how much I enjoyed this job, however, it is simply not a good fit for my experience. I told them that this position would be better served by a part time employee. I said that I prefer to work autonomously, without having to constantly ask my supervisor what to do next. I can't sit idly by and make money without feeling that I have earned it.
In return, I received an "I'm sorry" from my supervisor and a hug goodbye with the promise of an exemplary reference from her, should I need it.
I drove home, but not before calling my husband and letting him know that I had left, done things the right way. He was proud of me. I know this. His voice had the inflection of someone who was pleased.
This day doesn't seem like much for some. For me, it was the beginning of a new chapter in my life. For the first time, ever, I did something the right way. I didn't hurt anyone. I didn't abandon anyone. I stayed professional on the outside despite the inside being in utter turmoil. For anyone with bipolar disorder, or for anyone that loves someone who is afflicted, they would understand what a monumental moment this was for me.
And when I came home, ready to throw a pity party for myself, my husband reminded me that doors close and doors open. This will be a new door to walk through. He told me to kick my feet up, relax tonight, light some candles, listen to some music and enjoy the night. Tomorrow is another day and it will bring brand new things to my doorstep. He is 1500 miles away, but his words, they radiate as though he was standing right before me. When I take my medicine, I remind myself that I am not just doing it for myself, but for him as well. It makes the bitter taste of the pill go down a little easier. I remember the hell I put this man through once upon a time with my hair trigger tantrums, my flights of fancy, my wrath and my spontaneous explosions. I remember what I put my children through and the times I made them cry because Mommy locked herself in the bedroom again. I keep those things at arms length, but right out in front of me nevertheless, to remind me of where I came from...and where I am now.
Not too many people can state that love has saved their lives. I can. My faith in love and life is restored and this is due to the love and patience of a man who volunteered to love, cherish and honor me...even when I am not easy to love, cherish and I am less than honorable.
Doors open. Doors close. Everything is a humble beginning or a bittersweet end. It is how you handle everything that comes between that defines us. In the definition of my life, my husband would be my greatest achievement, the one thing in life that I accomplished because I wanted to, not because I was obligated to. Life for me isn't easy. It isn't easy for many of us, but when you have someone beside you who is ready and willing to give themselves over to you, to help complete you...life is suddenly a lot easier and the love falls over you like a cool rain.
He is my rain. He is my summer storm in the quiet of night. He soothes me and allows me to breathe again. He reminds me that I am greater than the sum of my parts. He shows me that there is more to me than a diagnosis. He nurtures my creativity and my passion without crushing my spirit. He allows me to feel angry without disappointment. He loves me in spite of what I can be.
If I could no longer swallow my pills, the medications that allow me to live, I think I would be okay...because I have him. I won't stop taking my pills, because he deserves nothing less than the best of me. The medicines are my way of saying "i love you" because they help me to be a better mother and wife.
He is mine, to have and to hold...and I thank God for that privilege every single day of my bipolar life.
Yes. Love.
I quit my job today. I did it. It didn't quit me. What is so remarkable about this is that normally, I get "let go" or fired for insubordination, absenteeism or overall general bitchiness. In this job, I was competant, capable and doing much more than what was asked of me in the beginning. I was incredibly bored and boredom, for a person with BPD is a dangerous thing. It throws us into bouts of either mania or depression. Both are equally as ominous though some would argue that the depression is worse than the mania. I beg to differ on that one, but that's another post for another day...and another blog.
I went out to my car and cried. A nice, deep long cry that came from the gut. My husband had just left to return to Chicago and I was feeling very alone with my decision to leave my job. The glorious thing about my love for my husband is that it stays with me, even in the midst of a painful experience. I called him.
"I want to walk away," I said, sobbing.
"You don't want to do that, baby," he replied, "You don't want to burn a bridge."
"I don't care about the damn bridge. I can't breathe here anymore. I can't sit there for another full day of emptiness. I can't do it."
"Don't go, baby. Not now. Not like this. Do it the right way."
"What don't you understand," I cried, "there is no bridge. I will never put this job on my resume anyway."
"You never know who you may run into in your industry, baby. Do it the right way. Walk away the right way, CP."
We exchanged "i love you's" and he went back to his job. I didn't go back to mine. Instead, I took an hour and a half long lunch, one that no one noticed because my job wasn't all that important to this company. I read a book. I ate some greasy fast food and just sat, dressed in my white starched blouse and pinstriped gray slacks. I was alone. I felt alone and I am certain that this look was not lost on anyone who glanced in my direction.
I cried again, this time, into my fries.
Before all the medication that these doctors put me on, I would have walked out of this job without a glance backward. I never would have cried. I would have probably even stole some post it notes for good measure on the way out the door. I had no feelings or too many feelings. It is the nature of my sickness and unfortunately, the cross my husband has to bear. I try to rationalize...he chooses to be here. He can leave. He knows where the door is, but he chooses to remain.
I can't disappoint this man.
I called him back, fingering the buttons on my pink RaZr phone slowly. A call I almost didn't want to make. He answered, his voice so sweet in my ear, like the harkening of an angel bringing me to the light. I say this with devout sincerity. He does more for me than all the prozac on the planet.
"Baby," I said tentatively.
"Yes, love?"
"I am going to write a resignation letter, okay?"
I pause to wait for his words. I need his affirmation like a little girl needs the approval of her daddy. I look to him for this. I look to him to tell me it is okay and that I am not still the bad person I was for three decades of my life. He speaks to me so soothingly.
"That's my girl. You're doing the right thing."
"I had time to think it over."
"You'll be happy you did the right thing, baby," he said with more confidence in my abilities than I will ever hope to have.
"I'm sorry," I said.
"For what?"
"For letting you down. Leaving another job. I can't do this, babe. I can't keep going like this. But I have to leave there. You understand that, don't you?"
I know I was begging for that affirmation again. He had to tell me it was going to be alright or it just wouldn't be alright at all. Since being diagnosed, I am more concious of the things I do and more reliant on my husband to help guide me. I use him like my seeing eye dog, showing me the way when I can no longer see it. He never fails me...never.
"I understand, baby. You can't stay in a place where you have nothing to do. I know how that gets to you."
And he gets it. He gets me. He is with me every step of the way, always. At my most horrific, he has never turned his back on me. He has never thrown his hands up in disgust or frustration and left me out there, alone. In some ways, he has saved my life. In others, he reminds me that I never had one before him. I had a cluster of experiences that amounted to a whole lot of nothing. He reminds me that everything I do is watched over, evaluated and reflects the woman I am. The girl I am. The child I am. I look to him with such adoration, like a child to her father. I look up to him when I hold his hand and thrill when he looks back down at me with a kind smile, soulful eyes and a certain peace that I cannot put into words. They elude me and nothing would be descriptive enough.
I went back to my office. I wrote a resignation letter that would shame any that came before it. I conveyed how much I enjoyed this job, however, it is simply not a good fit for my experience. I told them that this position would be better served by a part time employee. I said that I prefer to work autonomously, without having to constantly ask my supervisor what to do next. I can't sit idly by and make money without feeling that I have earned it.
In return, I received an "I'm sorry" from my supervisor and a hug goodbye with the promise of an exemplary reference from her, should I need it.
I drove home, but not before calling my husband and letting him know that I had left, done things the right way. He was proud of me. I know this. His voice had the inflection of someone who was pleased.
This day doesn't seem like much for some. For me, it was the beginning of a new chapter in my life. For the first time, ever, I did something the right way. I didn't hurt anyone. I didn't abandon anyone. I stayed professional on the outside despite the inside being in utter turmoil. For anyone with bipolar disorder, or for anyone that loves someone who is afflicted, they would understand what a monumental moment this was for me.
And when I came home, ready to throw a pity party for myself, my husband reminded me that doors close and doors open. This will be a new door to walk through. He told me to kick my feet up, relax tonight, light some candles, listen to some music and enjoy the night. Tomorrow is another day and it will bring brand new things to my doorstep. He is 1500 miles away, but his words, they radiate as though he was standing right before me. When I take my medicine, I remind myself that I am not just doing it for myself, but for him as well. It makes the bitter taste of the pill go down a little easier. I remember the hell I put this man through once upon a time with my hair trigger tantrums, my flights of fancy, my wrath and my spontaneous explosions. I remember what I put my children through and the times I made them cry because Mommy locked herself in the bedroom again. I keep those things at arms length, but right out in front of me nevertheless, to remind me of where I came from...and where I am now.
Not too many people can state that love has saved their lives. I can. My faith in love and life is restored and this is due to the love and patience of a man who volunteered to love, cherish and honor me...even when I am not easy to love, cherish and I am less than honorable.
Doors open. Doors close. Everything is a humble beginning or a bittersweet end. It is how you handle everything that comes between that defines us. In the definition of my life, my husband would be my greatest achievement, the one thing in life that I accomplished because I wanted to, not because I was obligated to. Life for me isn't easy. It isn't easy for many of us, but when you have someone beside you who is ready and willing to give themselves over to you, to help complete you...life is suddenly a lot easier and the love falls over you like a cool rain.
He is my rain. He is my summer storm in the quiet of night. He soothes me and allows me to breathe again. He reminds me that I am greater than the sum of my parts. He shows me that there is more to me than a diagnosis. He nurtures my creativity and my passion without crushing my spirit. He allows me to feel angry without disappointment. He loves me in spite of what I can be.
If I could no longer swallow my pills, the medications that allow me to live, I think I would be okay...because I have him. I won't stop taking my pills, because he deserves nothing less than the best of me. The medicines are my way of saying "i love you" because they help me to be a better mother and wife.
He is mine, to have and to hold...and I thank God for that privilege every single day of my bipolar life.
Saturday, October 06, 2007
The smelly kid...
we all had one in our school. The smelly kid. The kid that smelled like he never saw soap or water. No one would hang around the smelly kid except that ONE geek kid.
My son is that one geek kid.
His best friend is the smelly kid.
We aren't just talking smell. We are talking reek. The child reeks of cat urine. He used to live across the street from us. They would feed all the stray cats in the neighborhood by leaving their garage door a crack open. The cats, every breed, color and size, would enter this house, eat the food, lay around in the litter box and leave at night. Sounds like the perfect life for a cat, does it not?
Yet, it was a nightmare for me. My son became the best friend of the smelly kid. This child comes over my house, and I gag. I feel bad for gagging but there is little else I can do. My son, because he is so wonderful, sees or rather, smells beyond the smelly kid. My son has found redeeming qualities about this child.
To me? He is a hazzard to society. He smells so bad.
So many times, this child has come to my home and I have ripped the clothes right off of him, gave him some of Nick's hand me down's to put on while I washed his clothes. I used to make up excuses for doing this, like I'm allergic to the cat hair on his clothes. Duh. I own two cats. This really isn't a plausible explanation but I am not going to tell the child he smells like cat ass. I would, however, tell the parents...if they spoke an ounce of English. They don't. They are from the Czech Republic and I am not going to learn "your boy smells like cat piss" in that language just to make a point. I don't think this child even realizes how bad he smells. His entire house smells exactly the same way. Actually, if you stand on the curb outside his house and you are downwind? You will be annhilated by the odor of cat piss wafting through the air.
A long time ago, when they lived across the street, I stuck an anonymous letter into their mailbox. Yes, I know that was very passive aggressive of me, but it had to be done. I wrote that the cats, in their abundance, was a hazzard to the neighborhood and unfair to the kittens they continue to bear. There were cats everywhere on their house. On the roof, the windowsills, the cars, the front porch and all over the lawn. The letter also told them that their children smelled from cat urine and that they should do something about that. (This kid has two older sisters, 16 and 14 who smell equally as bad).
The problem arises when my son tells me he wants this friend to play over the house. I won't let Nick play there. I told him it is because of his asthma and the amount of cat hair in that house. He bought that one. The real reason?? I don't want my son to come home with the stench of cat spritz all over him. It's a foul, bitter smell that makes your eyes water. When the kid comes over, I do whatever I can to make me avoid smelling him. I light scented candles, I put down carpet freshener and DONT vaccum it up, I turn the air conditioning on full blast. Anything not to smell this boy. And when he perspires? LORD have fucking mercy on this bitch's soul...the kid is rancid. He smells like garbage that a cat has pissed on. I told my son to gently tell his friend how much he smells.
"A good friend would not do that, Mom," he said.
"A good friend WOULD do that, Nick!"
"He won't like me anymore if I tell him he smells."
"YOU have to worry about HIM not liking YOU??? He should be grateful that you allow yourself to breathe the same air he does."
"You know Mom," he says, "this is why people don't like you. You're very mean."
"I am not mean."
"Yes you are. And, be that as it may (yes, he actually said that), you don't tell people that you care about things that would upset them. That's rude."
"No, it's rude not to say something and allow them to keep stinking."
"As true as that may be, you don't hurt your friends."
He turned his back on me, grabbed his Wrestlemania action figures and left the room.
I just got told by my 11 year old.
Okay, so maybe I am not that gracious. Maybe I could curb my need to have my air breathable when this child is around. I don't really blame him. It's not his fault. These are the living conditions that he has. If anyone is to blame, it is his parents for not maintaining a hygenic household. It is while I am thinking these things over that my son comes back into the room.
"You really need to get your priorities straight, Mom."
*raised brow*
"Really, son. And why would you say that?"
"Because you care about people with your HEART...not with your nose."
*crickets*
Excuse me. I think I will go hang myself now.
My son is that one geek kid.
His best friend is the smelly kid.
We aren't just talking smell. We are talking reek. The child reeks of cat urine. He used to live across the street from us. They would feed all the stray cats in the neighborhood by leaving their garage door a crack open. The cats, every breed, color and size, would enter this house, eat the food, lay around in the litter box and leave at night. Sounds like the perfect life for a cat, does it not?
Yet, it was a nightmare for me. My son became the best friend of the smelly kid. This child comes over my house, and I gag. I feel bad for gagging but there is little else I can do. My son, because he is so wonderful, sees or rather, smells beyond the smelly kid. My son has found redeeming qualities about this child.
To me? He is a hazzard to society. He smells so bad.
So many times, this child has come to my home and I have ripped the clothes right off of him, gave him some of Nick's hand me down's to put on while I washed his clothes. I used to make up excuses for doing this, like I'm allergic to the cat hair on his clothes. Duh. I own two cats. This really isn't a plausible explanation but I am not going to tell the child he smells like cat ass. I would, however, tell the parents...if they spoke an ounce of English. They don't. They are from the Czech Republic and I am not going to learn "your boy smells like cat piss" in that language just to make a point. I don't think this child even realizes how bad he smells. His entire house smells exactly the same way. Actually, if you stand on the curb outside his house and you are downwind? You will be annhilated by the odor of cat piss wafting through the air.
A long time ago, when they lived across the street, I stuck an anonymous letter into their mailbox. Yes, I know that was very passive aggressive of me, but it had to be done. I wrote that the cats, in their abundance, was a hazzard to the neighborhood and unfair to the kittens they continue to bear. There were cats everywhere on their house. On the roof, the windowsills, the cars, the front porch and all over the lawn. The letter also told them that their children smelled from cat urine and that they should do something about that. (This kid has two older sisters, 16 and 14 who smell equally as bad).
The problem arises when my son tells me he wants this friend to play over the house. I won't let Nick play there. I told him it is because of his asthma and the amount of cat hair in that house. He bought that one. The real reason?? I don't want my son to come home with the stench of cat spritz all over him. It's a foul, bitter smell that makes your eyes water. When the kid comes over, I do whatever I can to make me avoid smelling him. I light scented candles, I put down carpet freshener and DONT vaccum it up, I turn the air conditioning on full blast. Anything not to smell this boy. And when he perspires? LORD have fucking mercy on this bitch's soul...the kid is rancid. He smells like garbage that a cat has pissed on. I told my son to gently tell his friend how much he smells.
"A good friend would not do that, Mom," he said.
"A good friend WOULD do that, Nick!"
"He won't like me anymore if I tell him he smells."
"YOU have to worry about HIM not liking YOU??? He should be grateful that you allow yourself to breathe the same air he does."
"You know Mom," he says, "this is why people don't like you. You're very mean."
"I am not mean."
"Yes you are. And, be that as it may (yes, he actually said that), you don't tell people that you care about things that would upset them. That's rude."
"No, it's rude not to say something and allow them to keep stinking."
"As true as that may be, you don't hurt your friends."
He turned his back on me, grabbed his Wrestlemania action figures and left the room.
I just got told by my 11 year old.
Okay, so maybe I am not that gracious. Maybe I could curb my need to have my air breathable when this child is around. I don't really blame him. It's not his fault. These are the living conditions that he has. If anyone is to blame, it is his parents for not maintaining a hygenic household. It is while I am thinking these things over that my son comes back into the room.
"You really need to get your priorities straight, Mom."
*raised brow*
"Really, son. And why would you say that?"
"Because you care about people with your HEART...not with your nose."
*crickets*
Excuse me. I think I will go hang myself now.
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Perfectly peeved Princess...
I realized that it is hell to live with me.
I was in my office today, which incidentally has become incredibly more interesting since I offered to do someone ELSE'S work, when I suddenly noticed that I was sitting next to a throat clearer.
You know who they are...*AHEM* *ACK ACK AHEM*
I guess I am so bored at this job that I actually started to notice the little things in the place that bug me. However, I have so little tolerance for the throat clearer.
SUCK a FUCKING LOZENGE!!!
I almost hurled one over the top of our ajoined cubicles. All day long...GAK GAK GAK GAK GAK. It was making me so insane that I took lunch an hour early because I had to get away from my desk. If you don't know who your local throat clearer is, be very wary, cause it might be YOU driving the person next to you insane.
And, while we're at it...what the hell is with educated 50 something year old women saying "Youse Guys" when referring to the women in the office. Here, let me give you another example:
"I will write out an email to the guyz'ez downstairs and see what we can do."
Guy-zez? You guy-zez? Those guy'zez books. These guy-zez copies.
Guy-zez?
Did someone switch around the rules of contractions on me? Are we supposed to say Guy-zez instead of "that belongs to those guys"? Is this what I have to look forward to? This is a well educated woman with a Bachelor's degree in Nursing for Gawd's sake!
And since I am feeling particularly peevish...lets add the following:
Do not say "conversate". That is reserved for rappers and imbeciles only. You can have a conversation. You can converse with someone. You can never conversate, okay? This one drives me fucking insane and makes me want to bleed rectally.
Nail tappers? Cut the shit right now before I come over there with the jaws of life and snap your fake ass acrylics right offa your hands. We all know they are some Lee Press On shit so no need to be calling attention to those bad boys, aiiiight??
Do not spell "appology" with two "P's" unless you are prepared to apologize to me for doing so.
How basic is the "I before E except after C" rule, may I ask? Is this not second grade shit? Don't write to me and tell me you "reCIEved" my fax when you actually received it, okay? I am not normally a grammar nazi. I understand that people make typos when they rush. But is it too much to ask to make an effort, People. When I see you doing the same thing over and over again, that tells me you aren't exactly making typing mistakes. It tells me that Mrs. Lipschitz, your elementary school teacher, made a mistake when she gave you an "A".
Dumbass Mrs. Lipschitz. I blame her. I refuse to believe that people are so resistant to the I before E rule. I refuse! I protest! I spit in the face of those who deny me my right to defend the guilty.
*ahem* Yes, I cleared my throat. Don't go there.
And lastly, flip flops. They have a time. They have a place. The time is during the summer and the place is the beach. I will grant some leniency for states like mine that are hot for nine months out of every year. But when, when precisely did it become okay to wear flip flops with a skirt...TO WORK????? And the slap slap slap slap sound they make (hence: flip flop) as you walk down the hallway makes me want to bitchslap you upside your fake nailed, throat clearing ass.
There. I feel better now.
What about you GUY-ZEZ??? Got any pet peeves to present to the perfectly pissed off Princess?
I was in my office today, which incidentally has become incredibly more interesting since I offered to do someone ELSE'S work, when I suddenly noticed that I was sitting next to a throat clearer.
You know who they are...*AHEM* *ACK ACK AHEM*
I guess I am so bored at this job that I actually started to notice the little things in the place that bug me. However, I have so little tolerance for the throat clearer.
SUCK a FUCKING LOZENGE!!!
I almost hurled one over the top of our ajoined cubicles. All day long...GAK GAK GAK GAK GAK. It was making me so insane that I took lunch an hour early because I had to get away from my desk. If you don't know who your local throat clearer is, be very wary, cause it might be YOU driving the person next to you insane.
And, while we're at it...what the hell is with educated 50 something year old women saying "Youse Guys" when referring to the women in the office. Here, let me give you another example:
"I will write out an email to the guyz'ez downstairs and see what we can do."
Guy-zez? You guy-zez? Those guy'zez books. These guy-zez copies.
Guy-zez?
Did someone switch around the rules of contractions on me? Are we supposed to say Guy-zez instead of "that belongs to those guys"? Is this what I have to look forward to? This is a well educated woman with a Bachelor's degree in Nursing for Gawd's sake!
And since I am feeling particularly peevish...lets add the following:
Do not say "conversate". That is reserved for rappers and imbeciles only. You can have a conversation. You can converse with someone. You can never conversate, okay? This one drives me fucking insane and makes me want to bleed rectally.
Nail tappers? Cut the shit right now before I come over there with the jaws of life and snap your fake ass acrylics right offa your hands. We all know they are some Lee Press On shit so no need to be calling attention to those bad boys, aiiiight??
Do not spell "appology" with two "P's" unless you are prepared to apologize to me for doing so.
How basic is the "I before E except after C" rule, may I ask? Is this not second grade shit? Don't write to me and tell me you "reCIEved" my fax when you actually received it, okay? I am not normally a grammar nazi. I understand that people make typos when they rush. But is it too much to ask to make an effort, People. When I see you doing the same thing over and over again, that tells me you aren't exactly making typing mistakes. It tells me that Mrs. Lipschitz, your elementary school teacher, made a mistake when she gave you an "A".
Dumbass Mrs. Lipschitz. I blame her. I refuse to believe that people are so resistant to the I before E rule. I refuse! I protest! I spit in the face of those who deny me my right to defend the guilty.
*ahem* Yes, I cleared my throat. Don't go there.
And lastly, flip flops. They have a time. They have a place. The time is during the summer and the place is the beach. I will grant some leniency for states like mine that are hot for nine months out of every year. But when, when precisely did it become okay to wear flip flops with a skirt...TO WORK????? And the slap slap slap slap sound they make (hence: flip flop) as you walk down the hallway makes me want to bitchslap you upside your fake nailed, throat clearing ass.
There. I feel better now.
What about you GUY-ZEZ??? Got any pet peeves to present to the perfectly pissed off Princess?
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