Are you an Ebay freak?

Check this video out.



Direct Link


"A PacMan lunchbox.
Some vintage tube socks.
Kleenex used by Dr. Dre,
I bought it on Ebay!"

So...I have this "friend"....

who is going away with her husband to Las Vegas for their wedding anniversary. Three days in Vegas, one day in Miami Beach and then a cruise to the Bahamas. Sounds perfect, right?

It is.

This "friend" was considering going out to one of the legal brothels in Las Vegas for some couples fun with one of the ladies to surprise her husband! Not that said husband would be allowed to touch said lady, but it would be awfully fun for him to watch and participate with the wife only, don't you think? This "friend" has had relationships with women in the past, so that isn't an issue. Husband says it doesn't make a difference to him either way...but it sounds like he kinda sorta wants to do this...ya know, for fun.

What the "friend" is worried about is this:

What if things go wrong? What if what is supposed to have boundaries all of a sudden, in the heat of the moment, becomes a free for all? What if wife gets heinously pissed off? What if husband decides he really doesn't respect wife for this? What happens for the rest of the vacation if the couple isn't really happy about how this went down? I mean, this is supposed to be for a wedding anniversary...and I don't find this to be romantic. I mean, my friend doesn't. It sounds spontaneous, fun and appealing, but not romantic. It is our...um, their five year wedding anniversary.

Question: If this was your "friend"...what would your advice be?

Esther and her XXX career...

Even Harold gets involved in this one.

Esther answering Avitable

I don't think I got his question exactly right...but I think it was close. This was as we were cooking Thanksgiving Dinner and she was in one of her snotty assed moods.

"White, Black, Chinese...I did them all."

I love that line.

Nothing like getting your mother to scream "DILDO" across a room during Thanksgiving.

I have that kind of magic in me.

Update...

Derek took another life with him when he decided to kill himself.

His mother killed herself the night before Thanksgiving.

She lost her only son. She lost her reason to live.

A Video Message from the Princess

Or click here

Remember, if you want to ask a question of Queen Esther, leave it here in the comments! Ask her anything. Ask her for some wisdom. Ask her about how excellent it was having me as her firstborn. Ask her if she still has pubic hair and if so, is it gray now? Ask her anything...and the more embarassing, the better. I will have this video compiled by Monday, so go for shock value, people!

Have an extraordinary turkey day...and for those of you in foreign countries, get your ass back to work. This day is not for you! Celebrate ME instead! It can be CP DAY in every other country! I think this is a great idea! Everyone go shoe shopping in celebration of ME!

A tiny taste...

of Esther to get you warmed up for the holiday interview:



or...Click here

I will be conducting an interview with Esther...it will be called "Ask the Queen" and will feature your questions. Ask her anything from her life or mine. Anything you want to know will be captured on a full length feature film to be posted after thanksgiving.

We took Esther to see a Smackdown/Raw/EWC wrestling match last night. She spent the entire night ogling the hot bodies and saying "Oh. My. GAWWWWWWWWWD. Those men are all in the underwear and sweaty and fighting!"

I dunno. Sounded pretty good to me. Anyway, don't forget to leave a question behind for Esther and I promise to include all of them in her interview!

The Queen is Arriving! The Queen is Arriving!

I'm such a wicked, wicked, wicked little Princess. Spank me. I had a novel idea strike me at 3am. I knew I had to share it with all of you at once. My mind, it churns out spew like buttah, Baby! But first, a little poetry to brighten your Monday morning.

M is for Monday, the first day of the week.
O is for oy vey, lest she hear us speak.
T is for together, which my family shall be.
H is for hysterical, and the laugh will be on me.
E is for Esther, who is arriving here today.
R is for rescue me, I will gladly pay.

Yes. Esther is arriving here at 6pm today. I have bought new furniture. I have bleached every corner of my home. I have scrubbed the carpets, washed the dogs, cleaned the garage and wore myself out for the visit from the Queen Esther. My poor manicure is shot to shit. My pedicure is trashed from all the bleach. I am one trifflin' ass tired looking hag right now. Love me. But, here's the good news, Peeps. I am so devoted to all of you that I will be doing a Video Blog with the Queen herself. Yes, you heard a bitch. The legend will come to life on YouTube as I document Thanksgiving with the Queen.

Any requests? Esther reading poetry? Esther singing Christmas (goyum) carols? Esther eating a pastrami on rye? Now's your chance, Folks. I am going to try to get in as many requests as I can get her to do unknowingly! Get in your requests nice and early so that I can put the Queen in all sorts of precarious positions...

then, save your money up for my hospital bills, cause that bitch is gonna kick my fat ass up and down the peninsula when she finds herself on YouTube!

Thank you...

For everyone who reached out to me, via blog comments, email or telephone, I thank you deeply. Today was a hard day for me. I guess when someone kills themself, you first go through a shock phase. It doesn't quite sink in. Today the shock wore off and my husband and I spent most of the day crying and consoling one another. But, we also spent time thinking about Derek and the good times we had with him. He wasn't the same person in the end. The drugs destroyed him. I will have more about that on Monday. In the interim, I think this blog will stay untouched until Monday, when I can get my thoughts down properly. I tried hard to thank all of you individually in the comments, but failed miserably. I apologize for that.

I wrote a post earlier this week called Blog Buddies. All you people did was prove how dead on that post really was, no creepy pun intended. You all shared your time, love and thoughts with me and believe me when I tell you, it helped. I have read all 52 comments over and over again, taking comfort in them each and everytime. The wisdom of some of you never ceases to amaze me.

I guess what I am trying to say is I love you, guys. The ones I have known for two years or more, the ones who delurked just to say they were sorry and the ones I talk to on a daily basis. I treasure each and every one of you.

Please. Don't ever go away.

RIP Derek.

Derek died sometime around 7am this morning. I just found out from his mother. Apparently, I was the last person he spoke to before he died. Derek killed himself. Overdose of Percocet and Xanax. I won't do him the disservice of saying it was an accidental drug overdose. Derek wouldn't want it that way. Everything he did was calculated and planned.

I have known Derek for 10 years. He came up to me in a supermarket one day and said, "Hey, aren't you President of the Honor Society?" I said I was. He told me that he thought all those scholastic clubs were for people who needed the approval of others and weren't content with their own achievments. I asked him his name. "Derek Wallen," he replied in his monitone voice. "Well, Derek, it seems to me that you might begrudge those of us who do achieve and succeed and that is why you have such a doom and gloom outlook on scholastic clubs."

"No. That's not it. But I'd like to have coffee with you and discuss how wrong you actually are."

That's it. That was the beginning of our friendship. Derek was depressed, he was dark. He had demons that gnashed at his brain constantly.
Derek was an actor although everything about him was theatrical. His power of reasoning far evolved and his threshold for bullshit the same. He had no love for people, though it made him cry that people didn't love him. The man was born to die. He always told me, Cher, I will never make it to see 30 years old. I told him he was wrong and to stop being so melodramatic.

Derek did a year in prison recently. When he came out, he was a bigger mess than when he went in. He had already closed himself off to my husband and I. He was more like the punchline of a joke you have already heard. Never fails to make you laugh a little...and a little less each time thereafter. He got back in touch with me this past Monday after not seeing or hearing from him in at least 4 years.

"Cherbaby," he gets on the phone, his voice all grandiose and booming. "It's me! Derek Wollen. Your old friend."

And we talked on the phone for an hour and a half like no time had passed at all. I noticed he was slurring his words. I asked him if he was still taking drugs. He laughed at me. "Always the nurse and mother," he had said. I asked him what he was on. He told me Percocet and Xanax, along with a few other pills that I didn't recognize. He said it was his cocktail for living. I told him it sounded more like a smorgasboard for dying. He laughed at that. "Oh Cher. Cut it out."

His highschool reunion was coming up in the next week. He wanted me to go with him. I turned him down. The weekends are the only time I get to see my husband. He circumvented me and called my husband to ask for his permission to take me with him. We had a good laugh about that.

Last night, Derek called me. He was in rare form, calling his mother a cunt, a bitch and a whore. I told him "Derek, don't talk to your mother like that in front of me. You know I don't like it." He said, "well, fuck you to then, Cher." I told him to call me back when he was in the mindset to be a bit more appropriate with his friends. He called me back, a short time later and asked if he could see me. Could I get out of the house for even a half hour. Please. I told him I couldn't. I had my son with me. "Get a babysitter," he pleaded. "I don't have a babysitter, Derek. I can see you over the weekend when the husband is home. We can go have coffee and you can smoke until I vomit."

"Yeah. Okay. I'll call you tomorrow."

Tomorrow never came for him.

He's dead now. He won't ever call my house again.

His mother told me that he had been falling all over the house last night, couldn't hold his head up. She told me that his face flopped forward into some whipped cream on a pie he was eating. Her thoughts were scattered and made little sense. She kept telling me how he broke their window so he could get into the house and now there was glass everywhere. She said she should have called 911 instead of letting him go to bed...but that she had seen him like this so many times, that she thought he would just come out of it like he always did.

He didn't.

And the world is just that much emptier for it. Most people who met Derek thought he was strange and would keep away from him. Me? I was always intrigued by people who thought of themselves as geniuses without having ever been tested. He enjoyed his role of the black sheep and only let a select few in. My husband and I were two of the select few. We accepted him the way he was, despite all his theatrics and melodrama. People found him to be insufferable. It was only a small handful of people who found him intriguing.

His mother can't afford a funeral for him. She is cremating him as soon as he comes back from his autopsy. She said he doesn't deserve to be buried for doing this to her...and in a mothers grief and anguish, I can understand why she feels that way.

"He's never been the same since jail, Cher. They did such horrible things to him. He never recovered. Never. He was never the same son I gave them."

She touched his face before they closed the bodybag around it. She cried. And then, she demanded to know everything that was in his system. Demanded an autopsy to show that death was from an overdose. That his heart had just given out. That his mind had just simply sealed itself off.

He's gone. And I can't help but wonder if I could have had that one fucking cup of coffee with him last night, if this would have changed anything at all.

This will be my cross to bear. Always.

Derek Wallen
August 25, 1980 - November 15, 2007

The curtains close, the lights go out...and the crowd all goes home.

Your child...

is an idiot.

Oh, don't be all taken aback and act like you don't know what I am talking about. We all know it. Just come out and say it and it will liberate you. I'll admit it. My son is an imbecile. A first rate moron. Of course, I say this with love...and if anyone else says it, they shall face the wrath of the psycho mother which is me. But truly, if you take a good long look at your kids, you will see that they are idiots.

Most of the time, they say "I don't know". To me, if you don't know what is going on two thirds of the time, you qualify as an idiot. Case in point:

"Nick, where's your gym clothes?"

"I don't know."

"Well, where did you leave them?"

"I don't know."

"Are they in your locker?"

"I don't know."

"Well what the fuck do you know, you moronic little cretin???"

Okay, I didn't say that last part, but Lord help a bitch, I really wanted to. What happens between the ages of 5 and 19 that makes children so stupid, can I ask? You have such high hopes for them in Kindergarten. They make special little projects. They play fun games to the best of their little abilities. They try so hard at everything they do, with their little pink tongues hanging out of their mouths...showing effort and then WHAM.

They turn 5 and instantly become brain dead. And this affliction stays with them well into high school. Another case in point, dating back to my daughters second year in high school:

"Sammi, do you have homework today?"

"I think so."

"You think so?"

"I don't know."

"Why don't you know?"

"Cause I just don't know, I dunno."

"Well, do you recall your teachers mentioning any work that needs to be done after school, Samantha? Cause that would qualify as HOMEwork."

"I don't remember."

"How can you not remember??? You just came home 20 minutes ago?"

"I don't know."

Now mind you, this is the same girl that, when on the phone with her friends, can recall every single who is dating who, for how long and when and where every single movie is playing so they can all go out. I call this "selective retardation", where children now only remember the things that are important to them. I noticed this stopped with my daughter around the age of 20 and once she was married. Although, from time to time, I still get an "I don't know", especially when it comes to paying her car insurance.

"Sam, when will you have the money for your car insurance?"

"I don't know."

"When are you getting paid?"

"Friday."

"Okay, so you DO know when you will have the money for your car insurance."

"I guess so."

See? There is hope after the age of 19, you just have to cattle prod them into thinking a little bit deeper than the average thought. I think male children tend to hold onto this genetic defect a little longer than girls. My husband still has a bad case of the idiots at the grand old age of 33. It isn't a constant affliction the way it is with my son, but it is still present from time to time.

Don't get me wrong, there are genuine times when "I don't know" can come into play and have it make perfect sense. For example:

"CP, can I have a blow job?"

"I don't know."

See? This is perfectly acceptable.



UPDATE EDIT: Apparently I pissed someone off with this post enough to have gotten an email telling me what a horrible mother I am and that I should be "ashamed" of myself for calling my son an "imbecile". Quite frankly, I thought it was a bit more PC than "retard" which was what I was originally going to use. Anyway, if I am a horrible mother, so be it. I join the throngs of horrible mothers throughout the centuries. And don't let the fact escape that we were all idiots once upon a time...some of us have just prolonged it more than others. Some of them write emails to people who can give a rabbits thick dick less what they have to say.

It's humor, People. Evolve a little...unless you are between 5 and 19.

Then you have an excuse.

Conversation with Esther #3405730497

"Hey Mom."

"Who's this?"

"Do you get a lot of female callers who say 'Hey Mom'?"

"Noooo-oooo, it's just...you never call me anymore, so I don't recognize your voice."

"Even if you didn't recognize my voice, I said 'Hey Mom'. Now, barring that my brother has not had a sex change, wouldn't that mean it was me?"

"You know, you're very sarcastic for someone who doesn't call her mother."

"I'm calling now."

"Now. Now you call. During my favorite show. You always do that! What do you do, hold the TV guide in your hand while you call me? You know I watch Kane every Tuesday night at this time. You KNOW that."

"How would I know that. I never call."

"More sarcasm during my favorite show."

"You know, for someone who says I never call, you sure aren't letting me say much."

"Well fine, now you ruined it for me and your poor father. What do you want?"

"I was calling to say hi."

"Hi? You don't call me for two weeks and then you call during my favorite show to say hi?"

"Um, yeah."

"You're very insensitive."

"So I gathered."

"Well, now that you ruined my show, you might as well talk to me now, before I don't get another phone call for two weeks and you call again during my show."

"Let me say hi to dad."

"Oh no. You are going to talk to ME now. Now that you ruined my program, you shouldn't spoil it for your father too!"

"I'm an inconsiderate child, aren't I?"

"You're very sarcastic, CP. This is what your father and I don't like about you."

*sighs* "How about I call you back another time?"

"Why? Talk to me! You never call me anymore!"

Rolaids?

The hotband and I are enjoying a slow, lovely lovemaking session. It's perfect, as always. He then decides to throw momma a treat for being such a good girl and waiting in his hotel room all day for him. Yay. Hotband travels "south of the border" while I kick back and wait for...yeah. That.

I am on my back, writhing around, truly relishing this moment. I am getting closer...closer. Here it is, baby, the money shot when all of a sudden:

"I HAVE TO THROW UP!"

"What? Wait, why?"

Naked hotband jumps up and runs across the room. He is gagging. He is ripping apart his laptop bag, searching for something.

"What the fuck are you DOING," I ask incredulously.

"Buuuuuurrrrr-pppp"

"What is WRONG with you."

"Heartburn," he chokes. "I almost vomited."

"You almost vomited while going down on me?"

"Yeah, but it had nothing to do with you."

"Really, honey? Considering I am the last thing you ate..."

He pops another Rolaids into his mouth and chews on it, his eyes rolling backward in his skull like he just had a self induced orgasm.

"Mmmph," he snorts, "Okay. I'm better now. Let's go back to doing what we were doing."

"Um, I don't THINK so."

"Why not?"

"Because no girl ever wants to hear her husband saying he almost vomited while between her legs. It's really not good for the ego, ya know?"

"Babe, it had nothing to do with you. It was the heartburn."

I was thinking of sending this into Rolaids to be used as a commercial for their product. Rolaids...the acid goes down...so you can too!

Somehow, I dont think I'd get a corporate sponsor.

Blog Buddies...

I have been thinking about my online relationships. I suppose that we all do from time to time. I am wondering why I prefer my online friendships to "real life" friendships. And I think I've gotten it figured out.

Online friendships are safer. They don't require as much effort as "real time" relationships. They are always a keystroke away. But most of all, I think that online friends are more accepting of your flaws.

I've been online since 1995 when I was pregnant with my boys. I was bedridden and I was bored. My husband (now ex) bought me a computer and I was immediately hooked. I went into a place called "The Chathouse" and started chatting with people. Eventually, those people became more than just handles in a chat room. They became friends. I learned about their families, their personal lives and things that you wouldn't normally reveal about yourself to the people in your "real time". Eventually, after I had my son, I started to meet these people. I met a woman from North Carolina who I was very close with online. I met a guy from California. I met a man who was in the army in Jacksonville, North Carolina. I had a girlfriend in Seattle who came to stay with me for a week. She and I road tripped up to Georgia to meet another friend. There was no awkwardness between these people and myself because we had already been chatting online for years. I knew their intimate secrets just as they knew mine.

Eventually, my marriage started to unravel because I was spending more time with my online friends than I was with my husband. I met a man from Connecticut, fell for him head over heels and had an affair. It's not something I am particularly proud of, but I felt this man really knew me, understood me and wanted nothing from me but to spend time with me...online or offline.

That relationship eventually came to a screeching halt and I met the Hotband around this time. There was that awkwardness that comes with first meeting someone and dating them. There was a lot of small talk to fill in the pregnant pauses during our dates. I yearned for the closeness I had with my online friends. There was none. At least, not right away.

Online, we reveal ourselves fully. It is safe. There is a monitor between you and that person. I feel no one judges you online. You can wear whatever you want and your friends online won't care. They only care about you. Over the years, I have stayed friends with the people I met over 10 years ago. We write to one another frequently. We stay in touch with one another. The relationships are so free and non-demanding. They don't require as much maintenance as offline relationships do.

I have a friend of 35 years. We are close, but not as close as I would like due to time restraints and "real life" taking over. We don't talk as often as I would like. No ones fault really, life just gets in the way. With my online friends, there always seems to be time to nurture the relationship. I feel closer to some of my online friends than I do the people that I meet throughout my "real life". Even when I meet these online friends (such as Deb, Avitable, Mr. Fab, Miss Britt, etc.) it is as if we have been good friends for years and years. We get to know one another so intimately and freely allow these people into our world. We know about each others families and friends. We know about financial issues and emotional issues. We bond with one another so strongly and ferverantly that you can scarcely believe you have only known this person for a year or so.

I love my online friends. I love them because they are completely accepting of who I am, warts and all. They are always just a keystroke away and always seem to make time for each other. And while there are people in the world who don't "get it", I know the relationships I have online are healthy and realistic. They are true and run much deeper than my offline relationships. I don't know if that is considered unhealthy, but I consider my online friends to be some of the most valuable, considerate and kind people that I know. We tend to rally around one another in very passionate ways. I feel I can discuss things with my online circle that I cannot discuss with my "real time" friends. I feel less pressure and less need to put on an air with my online friends.

My mother doesn't get it.

"Why do you talk to these people online? How do you know who they are? They could be serial killers and rapists."

That may be so...but how is it any different than meeting someone in a bar, at the laundromat, at school or any other place? She doesn't buy into that theory.

"There are all sorts of freaks and weirdos online!"

How do I tell her that I am one of them?

"Why don't you make some REAL friends?"

I try to explain to her that these are real friendships. These relationships stand the test of time and are sometimes more healthy than the friendships we have in our everyday lives. There is nothing to hide from your online friends. They are less judgmental and more willing to listen and accept you regardless of your flaws.

I could never give up my online friends. They mean the world to me. Everytime someone leaves a comment about anything I write, I feel it is their way of reaching out to me. I enjoy reading about everyones daily lives and would be saddened if I could no longer do so. I am fortunate in my relationship with my present husband. He really gets it. He didn't in the beginning, but he gets it now. My blogging friends are priceless treasures and I couldn't ask for more.

I guess what I am trying to get at is I love each and every one of you for being exactly who you are. I treasure the moments we spend online chatting, exchanging emails or leaving comments for one another. I think about you guys often and I am always excited to rush home and share a funny story or something that happened during the course of my day. I love your feedback and that you share your lives with me as well. I feel fortunate to have you all in my life.

I am a very lucky girl, indeed.

The Top 5 Reasons...

not to have sex with your sweater on:

5) The itch. No one wants to feel the itchy sweater on your skin during sex. It makes you very uncomfortable when you are trying to be in the moment.

4) You can't tell where the sweater stops and the pubic hair begins.

3) It's like fucking in a sauna.

2) Chaffed nipples.

1) Electric shocks from static. Nuff said.

I gots me a pick me up truck!

The hotband has exceeded all other gifts by getting me a truck. Now, what would a Princess want with a truck? It's simple really. This makes me one of the bigger things on the road, ergo, I can continue my reign as Princess from a more intimidating vehicle.That, and I needed a new car. Bonus? It has a moon roof so I can dangle my french manicure outside and let it air dry, lest it get any of those tiny little bubbles in the polish. Gads, there is no greater tragedy, I assure you.

I have to admit, driving a truck makes me feel a lot taller and stronger than I actually am. I come off like quite the aggressive chick, but in truth, I am a weenie who is all talk. I think if someone ever went to hit me, I would wet myself. Sure, I was a tough teenager (Esther used to call me "Tough Tony from the Docks" I have no idea what that means) and I used to get into fights all the time. As I have gotten older, I realize that my manicure means a lot more to me and to chip my polish on someones tooth is not high on my list of priorities.

Driving this vehicle also makes me feel like I am a part of mainstream society. All the mothers at my sons school have SUV's or big ass Escalades. I would show up to pick up my son in my old beat up Ford Contour, waiting for the day I could actually show up in a vehicle that my son wouldn't cringe from. My sons private school is $10,000 a year. He goes to school with Doctors and Lawyers kids, so it is a little hard to keep up with the Jones'. I feel completely ready to join the PTA right now. However, I wouldn't blend. I don't feel the need to be compulsively chatting about what little Joey did in school today. I can't see me droning on for hours about what my husband does for a living. I could never spend every waking moment in the gym, obsessing over what I need to do to keep my husband interested in me. I certainly couldn't talk without the word "fuck" flying out of my maw every 20 seconds. Right there, I would be ostracized, cast out...and told to take my Dunkin' Donuts with me.

I like being the unconventional, fat assed mother who hasn't a clue what her husband does for a living. I just know he gets a nice check that keeps me in my prime mani/pedi condition. Beyond that, I could give a fuck less.

In some ways, this truck sort of reflects me. Big, overbearing, aggressive and ready to run someone over if necessary. I can have a tailgate party now, if I was ever into that sort of stuff. I guess it is stupid to feel like you are a reflection of what you drive. But, out of morbid curiousity, what do you drive...and what does it make you feel like? Are you happy in your car/truck or do you want to leave it burning on a dark road somewhere? Does it make you feel better about who you are? Worse? Do you still get laid in your backseat? Does the emergency brake get in the way of a stellar blow job?

That has nothing to do with anything, quite frankly. I just wanted to know.

Conversation with Esther #5268098

"So what are you doing today," I ask her.

"Nothing really," she replies, "getting ready to go to Vegas."

"Again?"

"Yeah, your father and I want to go back before he has his hip surgery and I get my knees done."

"Going to do some gambling?"

"What else do you go to Vegas for?"

"The strip clubs," I say, giggling.

"What strip clubs, your father wouldn't know what the hell to do in a strip club. What the hell would I do in a strip club."

"Get a lap dance!"

"For who, your father? His hips don't even work."

"Then you get one, so he can watch."

"Are you sick? What's wrong with you? Who does things like that?"

"I did...I got a lap dance while the Hotband watched."

"What was he watching?"

"Me, getting a dance from a naked girl," I laughed. "We loved it!"

"What are you, some kind of bicoastal now?"

I have failed as a mother.

I thought I was doing a good job. I really did. I made sure my children had the best of everything. I nurtured them at my ample bazongas and even smiled as one child practically gnawed off my right nipple. You treasure moments like that. And, as I raise my 20 year old daughter and my now 12 year old son, I found something out about them that no mother should ever have to learn. I am ready to burst into tears over finding this out and I feel that I am inconsolable at this point. Mothers, you will cringe. Fathers, your balls will shrivel. Even if you don't have children, you will feel my pain.

*sighs*

My children wipe from back to front.

Now, I know. It's horrendous. I am ashamed. I feel like less of a mother for them not understanding that you have to wipe from front to back. I don't know how we got on the conversation, but I will have nightmares about this for years to come. I tried to explain to the girl child that you are loading your urethra up with the bacteria from the vag-gi-gi. And what if some shit were dragged into the mix? What then? She laughed at me and shook her head, accusing me of wanting to know too much. Then, I explained to the boy child that while this practice is not necessarily bad now, one day it will lead to shit sticking to his balls. Hair is not an issue right now, but eventually it will be. My children mocked me and taunted me with their tales of poor wipage.

I have failed. I tried to do right by them, and I have failed.

Please, I beg of you, rally together and explain to my children that the ass and/or vagina must be wiped a certain way, lest they fall into eternal disrepair! I don't know how I am going to tell my therapist. I may just have to take additional medications now. I have failed. Motherhood as I know it is over. Why?

Because this means that Esther did a better job than I did.

I am a girl who knows how to wipe. I was once proud of that, but now, I feel as though I should wipe incorrectly so that I may suffer the same way my children do. I feel that I should be whipped and hung out publically in the town square while proper wipers stone my weary body. I am no longer worthy of being called "mother". I have told them to call me "CP" now, because of my transgressions. I don't know that I will ever recover. The shame is relentless. How does one ever repent? They should burn me in effigy.

The jewish mother guilt is killing me. Oy.