An Oxymoron Is Not An Idiot With Zits

Rude Ass Mutha Fucka.

2008-05-01T12:07:00.005-04:00

I don't get it. I just don't. I know there are bitchy women in this world. Hell, I fess to being one of them. I have attitude to spare and, if I weren't taking a ton of medication to keep me "normal", I would find myself in jail over and over again. However, I want to know...what is it about women who work in Human Resources that makes them such...dare I say? Cunts. God, I hate that word, but there is no other word for this twat that I work with.

I missed my insurance filing date at my new job by five days. I wasn't aware that they had a 45 day maximum on getting your insurance filed. So, on day 50, I was feeling pretty good about the fact that I got my paperwork in at what I thought would be a 60 day turn around time. Most companies are 60-90 days before you are offered benefits. BEEEEEEP! All except this company. 45 days. Okay. I get that. I done fucked up. Sweet. Now I have no insurance from my company and have to wait until open enrollment. October. Sucks. I get that too. I'm not a stupid woman, it was my error. Got it.

However, I called Human Resources to find out if I could do anything about it to fix the situation. No call back. I call again. No call back. So, I pick my happy fat ass up, on my day off mind you, and went over to talk to her. And yes, bitches, I did punch in first. Fuck that. You make me come in to talk to you it's gonna be on YOUR dime, you fucking piece of garbage. I walk into her office and said, "I need to talk to you." She says, "what's your name?" I got out the "C" part but before I could add the "P" part, the red haired flaming goat ass walks right out of her office past me and says "there's nothing I can do."

Bitch left me standing in the middle of her office. Standing there. Like a fucking douchebag who she just stepped over. Like I am some sort of piece of trash not worthy of a discussion.

She walked down the hall, turned the corner and was gone. My jaw was on the fucking floor.

Oh no she did NOT just do THAT.

Bitch did. She turned her back on me and walked the fuck away.

Ain't no thing, I thought to myself. I will just walk in to my administrator and let her know how I was being treated by human resources. I bring my happy ass over to administration to talk with them...and guess who is already there? Yes. Robyn Floss...Dog shit pile extraordinaire. I normally don't reveal peoples names, but this bitch...OY did she get my panties in a fucking knot! So, if you can hunt her down in the city of New Port Richey, Florida...fax bomb the twat. Please. I'll make it worth your while.

In the interim, I spoke to the administrator about possibly changing my date of hire OR allowing me to put in my two weeks notice and then have them hire me back at a later date. The admin was VERY receptive to me. Now mind you. I am not being a little brat who wants her way or no way at all. I GET that it was my issue. But, to not even show an ounce of empathy or to at least hear me out? No. Not gonna happen. I explained to the administrator how I was treated by Robyn the cunt. She apologized to me and said that Robyn was a "difficult personality" but in her position, she has to be.

Difficult personality? That's it? No, baby dolls. "I" have a difficult personality. I have rage and anger issues. I am not a pleasant person to have to deal with, at least prior to being on my medications. Now, I am a total lovebug. Yes. Me. Lovely person. Indeed.

Okay, so the situation didn't get handled to my liking. Alrighty then. However, I have been mulling over calling the twat all day just to tell her the following:

While I understand that there was nothing you could do for me in this particular situation...WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU TO WALK RIGHT PAST ME LIKE I DON'T EVEN EXIST?????

Alright, so I wouldn't put it that way. Not necessarily. I want to make it very clear to her that I am not pleased with the way she spoke to me. My husband tells me just to blow it off. I can't. I am sitting here fuming over this. My blood is boiling and I am considering taking a few days off of my meds just so I can give her my real thoughts. That would be sweet. Would I be putting my job in jeopardy? I don't know. Actually, I think that this post convinced me that I am going to call her right now. Yep. Right this second.

Be back shortly.

10 minutes later;

"Robyn? This is CP calling. I just wanted to let you know that this afternoon, when I came to discuss my situation with you that I feel you were extremely rude to me. You walked out of the office and didn't bother to listen to anything I had to say. You never returned my two phone calls. I had questions. I needed some answers and you weren't willing to hear me out."

"Well, I feel that you shouldn't be badgering me over something that was not my fault."

"Absolutely. And I understand that. I was just looking for options and to find out when the next open enrollment was. You picked yourself up, walked out of the office and and said 'there's nothing I can do about it'. I feel that was extremely rude and I didn't deserve that kind of behavior."

"Well, I'm sorry you feel that way."

"Dont be sorry that I feel that way. That's not your burden. What you should feel sorry about is how incredibly rude you were to a co-worker. It was uncalled for and you might want to re-think how you handle things in the future."

*dead silence*

"Are we through," she asks.

"Yes. We are. I just wanted to get that off of my chest."

"Thank you very much."

"Goodbye," I said. "And I hope you have a better day."

I hung up.

Now, let me get this out of my system. Robyn Floss is a flaming red cooch that is loaded up with STD's and has a stank twat. She is scum of the earth and the lowest form of life. My dog's shit has more personality than she does. She is a cum bucket and a low life fucking bitch and I wish personal tragedy on the red haired slut. I hope that someone treats her as coldly and as rudely as I was treated. I hope someone reduces that cunt to tears and puts her in her place once and for all.

I just called the director of nursing and told her, in a voice mail, what had happened so that Robyn the cuntface couldn't say I said anything differently than what I have said. Okay. *whew* *deep breath*

I'm chilled out now.

MAN...do I feel so much fucking better right now! Now, I have no idea what the ramifications of this little conversation will be. Will I lose my job over it? I doubt it. But, if I do...it would be worth it to me to know I set the bitch straight.

Or, I could just be very passive/aggressive and key her new Escalade?

Whee! That sounds like fun!

What would you do???

The right to live...and die.

2008-04-23T17:38:00.003-04:00

Her name was Darla Cummings*. She was a 52 year old African American woman who was in our nursing facility. Darla had multiple sclerosis and slowly, her muscular function was shutting down. Year after year, Darla suffered from spasms that would eventually leave certain muscles in her body paralyzed. Recently, she had had a total knee replacement and was at our facility for therapy, to help her get back to walking on her own.

Darla was a private woman who was fiercely indepedent. She would refuse her pain medications, despite the agony she was in, because she wanted to be able to get through her ordeal without becoming reliant on the opiates we were feeding her. She knew she was going home soon. She worked diligently, every single day, to overcome the obstacles in front of her. She did her best.

She died last night.

"I think I am having a spasm," she said as she gasped her last breath. We immediately started CPR on her. One of us did chest compressions while the other attempted to breath life back into her lungs. I called the next of kin, her sister, to inform her that we were sending her sister out to the hospital.

"NO," she exclaimed. "Darla is a DNR!! (Do not resuscitate). It is her wish to die if that is what is to happen to her. Do NOT resuscitate my sister!"

"Ma'am," I said. "We can't do that. She has no paperwork in her chart stating that she is a DNR. Without that paperwork, state law says we have to continute life preserving measures. I'm sorry."

"You can't do this," she wailed. "Darla wants to die. She doesn't want to come back just to suffer a more horrible death. Her organs are shutting down. Please. You have to stop CPR, you just have to."

"Let me call her doctor," I said. "Maybe he has her DNR on file. Let me hurry and call him so we can stop CPR on her."

"Please do that," she said, her voice in a panic. "please call me right back."

"I will," I assured her and got on the phone with the doctor.

"I don't have a record of her having a DNR. You have to continue life saving measures. It's state law. You keep doing what you have to do to save her life."

The paramedics arrived. They took over life saving procedure. They thumped her chest, placed a rebreather mask on her mouth and squeezed air into her resistant lungs. I called the sister back.

"There's nothing we can do," I told her. She sobbed erratically and made one last plea.

"Please. Please just let her go. It was her wish to die if this happened to her. Please. Please just let her die in peace."

And I cried. "We can't, Jane*. We can't let her go without trying to resuscitate. I am so, so very sorry. Please, I have to get back into her room. I will let you know if they are having any success."

"Will you call me?"

"I will call you. I promise I will call you."

We hung up and I ran back down the hall to see if there was any progress being made. There wasn't. She was gone despite the best of everyones intentions. By law, we have to continue life saving measures until the patient arrives at the hospital. As the paramedics wheeled her out of the building, they continued chest compressions and breathing for her. It was no use. She was gone.

I called back the sister and explained to her that we were taking her Darla to a nearby hospital, but reassured her that so far, the life preserving measures were a failure. Darla was gone...but the doctor has to officially declare her dead. I can't do that. All I could do was tell her that so far, her sister remained lifeless.

Later on that night, Darla's sister, Jane, showed up at our facility to gather her sisters personal effects. She hugged each one of us and thanked us for doing what we could. She said she understood our predicament. She held my hand as she talked to me about her baby sister.

"She was a fashion designer, did you know that?"

"No," I replied. "She didn't talk much about her past. It's odd to have someone under your care for nearly two months and you don't really get to know them at all, you know?"

"She was also an interpreter for the deaf. She flew all over the country. She was an amazing woman."

"Yes. She was. She was fiercely independent I said with a gentle laugh. "She always insisted on doing everything for herself no matter how long it took. She wouldn't take her pain medication because she knew she was going home soon and didn't want to become reliant on the pills."

"Fierce," Jane whispered. "Fiercely independent. I like that. That is a good way to describe her. She was fierce."

She continued to hold my hand as we sat in silence. She didn't cry. It was more a relieved soft smile on her face.

"She was my baby sister. I never recalled a time where she wasn't in my life. She did so much with her life. So much more than I did. This disease. It never crushed her spirit. Never."

I became teary eyed and patted Jane's hand. "She said she wanted to go home. She's home now."

"Yes," Jane said softly. "She is home now. She is with God."

We sat quietly alongside one another, taking comfort in each other. I was still so in awe of what had happened. All because of a piece of paper, this woman could not have her final wish. It got me thinking about my own mortality and how I don't have a living will in place. My wishes are known to my husband, of course, but they aren't on paper. For all intents and purposes, my life will be left in the hands of those who are responsible for keeping me alive, even if I prefer to die in peace. As though reading my mind, Jane spoke quietly.

"It was my fault," she said. "I should have brought in her paperwork. I didn't think to do it. She was getting better, you know? CP, make sure you have your final wishes in order. This should never happen to anyone. I just assumed that people would understand she was a DNR if I told them so. I was her power of attorney. I didn't know..."

Her voice trailed off.

"Did you get to see her," I asked.

"Yes. At the hospital. She looked so peaceful. She almost had a slight smile on her lips. She is finally free of the disease and she can go back to being the free spirit she always was."

"Fierce," I said. "She will always be fierce."

Her sister hugged me and thanked me again for supporting her. She told me when Darla's memorial service would be held and asked if I would come. I told her I would be honored to be there. We hugged at the front door of the facility. Then she got in her car, a full box of her sisters personal things on the front seat and drove away.

And again, I cried.

52 years old. That's all I could think about. 52 years old with a crippling disease that would eventually shut down all her organs. I can't blame her for wanting to die. I think I would too. Peacefully, with my wishes being accounted for. Wishes that I do not have on paper, but will make it a point of doing so. I learned a valuable lesson in the wake of this tragedy. You can't take for granted that people will know your final wishes. They won't. You have to have them down on paper, filed with your doctor and make sure that if you are hospitalized for any reason, that they are aware of whether you want your life preserved should anything detrimental happen to you while in their care. This week, I will get my living will in order. I would suggest to all of you that you do the same. No one wants to think about their death. It's a morbid thought. But if you don't make preparations for your final wants, no one else will know them either.

Fierce. That is what I will always think of Miss Cummings. Fierce until the last breath she took. She knew what she wanted and she wanted to be with God. She did what she wanted, despite all of us doing what we could to save her life. I wish I had gotten to know her better. She was a strong, beautiful woman. She was fierce.

And I will never forget her or the lesson she left in her wake.

*names changed to protect identity.

How rumors get started...

2008-04-17T08:15:00.002-04:00

Myself and two co-workers were chatting in the late overnight hours two days ago. Nora, being a former veteranarian tech was talking to Melissa about a problem her Rotweiller was having. A few certified nursing assistants were mulling around the area, not giving much attention to what we were saying...so we thought.

"He keeps scratching his ass on the carpet," Melissa laments. "And this gross fluid comes out when he does it! It smells nasty!"

"Does he seem to be in any pain," Nora asks.

"Everytime my boyfriend or I try to pick Herman up, he cries. Something must be bothering him or hurting him. He keeps rubbing his ass on the carpet and whimpering."

"It sounds like it is his anal sac," says Nora. It's like an inverted hemmorrhoid for a dog."

"So, what do you do for that," I ask.

"Basically," Nora begins, "you have to reach inside the anus, pull the sac out and squeeze the fluids out of it."

I broke out into a fit of laughter. "Yeah, Melissa. Just stick your hand up his ass and squeeze. That should do the trick. Works for MY husband."

We all fall into a fit of laughter. Conversation over...so we thought.

Enter my friend Jaime. After being off for two days, she has the need to fill me in on all the local gossip going on in the nursing home.

"Did you hear what happened to Melissa? She's having some issues at home."

"Really," I ask, my ears perking up. "What's the problem?"

"Apparently, and I heard this from Patty...Melissa and her man are having trouble with stuff in the bedroom."

"What? What kind of stuff?"

"It seems that she wants to have anal sex, but everytime he gets hard, fluid comes out when it goes up and he cries."

*sigh*

"Jaime. Melissa has a dog, named Herman who is having trouble with his anal sac. It's leaking fluid and everytime they lift the dog up, he cries in pain."

*blank stare*

"Whatever," says Jaime. "I liked it my way better."

Because I love the drama...

2008-04-12T08:31:00.002-04:00

you KNOW I had to go back to that job. Babies, be serious. This is me we are talking about. The drama goddess. I thrive on this shit. How could I possibly NOT go back to that other job and see how it would all turn out.

Turns out that I was SO right about going back. It seems that the office/clinical manager, the RN I was telling you about, has a bit of "history" with the God Complex Doc! *wink wink* Oh, yes. History. That kind. So, when he yelled at her, she broke down crying like a woman...with "history". Seems she doesn't like being yelled at by her EX! YES! Is this not delicious? Of course, I had to snuggle up to this woman and get the juicy deeeeetails. This is how he "fired" her. Apparently, they do this quite often. They fight like Junior High School kiddies and break up to make up!

And I get to live in the thick of this! Sweet! Blog fodder galore!

Back to my other job, you know, the one where I really done fucked up? I confessed. Yes, I did. I told the clinical supervisor what I did, what I did to cover it up and how freaking sorry I was for the entire incident. It felt good to get that burden off of my already cumbersome chest. Now, check this out.

She knew.

Yep. She told me that she realized I hadn't documented the medicine in the chart. When she went to go take a look at the medication, seems that I never opened the correct bottle. It still had its original cap on...so I didn't cover myself as well as I thought I did. She said she gathered, from all my administration of juices and supplements, that I gave the wrong insulin. She told me that she didn't write me up for a medication error because I went about the right way of getting the patients blood sugar back to normal limits. She did say she was disappointed in me that I felt I couldn't be honest about the situation.

Nothing like someone telling you they are "disappointed" in you to REALLY make you feel like human festering garbage, ya know? Like I wasn't feeling bad enough. Feh.

So there you go, boys and girls. One for the books. Can't say I necessarily feel better, but I feel like I could look myself in the mirror again. Very hard for me not to...because y'all know how vain I am. To not be able to look at myself is like me not being allowed to shop. It simply cannot happen.

In the meantime, I had another nurse, a new nurse call me in this evening because she was having trouble getting urine out of a catheter. I stepped in to help...and realized that this sweet young nurse was catheterizing the woman's asshole instead of her urethra. Oy. There are so many holes down there, but I don't know how you can mistake the pee hole for the ass hole, ya know? So I got busy and did my very first female catheter! Yay! I've done men before...they are easy...only one hole and not alot of room to fuck up.

I just thought it was damn funny that she was trying to get pee out of the shithole.

I guess I don't suck as much as I thought I did.

In the interim, I suppose all of you should stay away from this assisted living facility in the future. These are the kinds of fucked up nurses who are out there...taking care of your grandparents. I got an idea for a book. It's called "What You Don't Know Can Kill Your Parents" and it will be a compilation of nursing errors and things that nurses do to take shortcuts that could be detrimental to the health and welfare of your loved ones in nursing homes.

'Course, I may have to wait to retire before writing this book...since one of my flubs will be featured.

I figure I can bang the book out when I turn 60 or so. Then again, I may end up in one of these homes myself...but at least I will know what to watch out for!

Not so hospitable hospital...

2008-04-06T07:51:00.003-04:00

I am at orientation for a new position at a local hospital. Not giving up the old job, mind you, just adding this one to my resume. A pool position, which means they call me in only when they are understaffed. Perfect fit for my graveyard shift at the other assisted living facility I work at.

The clinical manager is showing me around the workplace and how to do intake on new patients. The paperwork is clear enough and I dont feel the need for this to be a six hour review. However, I let the clinical manager, an RN, show me the proverbial ropes.

While I was there, one of the doctors made an abrupt and rude comment to the clinical manager. Doctors do this to their nurses all the time. You have to be pretty thick skinned to work for a doctor, especially in a hospital. His comment was along the lines of "If you can't get this work done, then find someone who can." I look at the clinical manager to see her expression.

She's crying.

*blink*

She goes into her office and I follow her. It's my job to shadow her. She puts her head down on the desk and starts to sob. "I'm only one person," she exclaims, looking in my direction. I shrug, not knowing what on earth I am supposed to say to this person that I have known for a hot 30 minutes. A receptionist walked into the RN's office and asked that I please excuse them so they may talk. I leave the office. I am standing outside the door, leaning against the wall, feeling a bit foolish. What the fuck am I supposed to do while she is in there sobbing and spilling her guts out to this receptionist?

"Are you new here," the doctor asks me gruffly.

"Um, yes. I am on orientation with Mary."

"Where is Mary?"

"She's in her office."

"And she just left you standing in the hallway doing nothing but taking up space?"

(Oh, do I want to let this douchebag have it with both barrels at this point)

"I am just waiting for her to finish up whatever it is she is doing and then get back to orientation."

"Well, you come with me. Have you ever done a surgery before?"

"Um, yeah, but..."

"No buts. You come assist me. I'll deal with her later."

Okay, so I follow the guy into the surgery room where they will be debriding a wound and prepping it for a skin graft. I have done these before, but never with this doctor. I don't know how he likes his set up and what role he prefers his nurses to play. Dude, I am on ORIENTATION and don't have a clue where anything is. He's asking me to pull out this material and that material. I am hunting in drawers and cabinets looking for whatever it is he is requiring. Naturally, I am not doing such a hot job because I don't know where a damn fucking thing is in this place.

"Forget it," he snaps at me. "I'll do it myself."

"Okay," I shrug and leave the room.

I walk back over to Mary's office in time to hear her say, "this new nurse is never going to stay here with the way he talks to us. That's why we never keep any nurses in this position." She's still crying. I am back to standing in the hallway feeling awkward. When she finally comes out of her office, wiping her eyes and her red nose, she apologizes to me.

"That's Dr. V. He's not a very nice person."

No shit. Really? I didn't gather that from our little get together 10 minutes ago. I told her what happened and she started to cry again. Hello? Am I in a psych ward or something? You are an RN and a clinical manager! Suck it up!

"I suppose you won't be back on Tuesday," she says.

"No, I'll be here," I said. "I just don't think I will react to this doctor in the same way you did. I'm not big on the whole crying thing. I think it empowers people too much."

"I won't blame you if you don't want to come back."

"Nah. I'll be here again on Tuesday. Eventually, I will straighten his ass out and let him know that he can't talk to people that way."

"Really??"

"yeah. And every time you drop a tear over him, he is only garnering more ammunition to use against you. You need to speak up to him and tell him you won't be talked down to in such a manner. If you don't respect yourself, he will never respect you."

"You're right," she said. "And I am going to tell him that right now."

"Um, he's in surgery right now."

"Good. I will have his undivided attention then."

She walks into the OR and starts clammoring about how she deserves more respect. In fact, she demands it or he can start working by himself. She is no longer going to take it and she demanded an apology.

Well, I will be damned if the fucker didn't pull off his gloves, right in the middle of surgery, drag her ass out of the door and read her the riot act...just before letting her go.

WTF?

"You," he says to me. "Get gloves on and scrub in."

I look to the RN and then back to the Doctor. I grab some sterile gloves and join in on the surgery. The RN is a sobbing mess by the front door of the OR. "Fine," she says. "Keep her. She doesnt even know what she is doing."

"Yes," he said. "But at least she can take a verbal beating."

Did you ever feel like evaporating into the floor where you were standing? How would you have handled this situation and more importantly, would you show up for this job again on Tuesday?

Okay. I'm back.

2008-04-03T19:40:00.002-04:00

My husband asked me not to blog about what happened. He is convinced that someone, somewhere may hold it against me. I agree with him to a certain extent. The watered down version is I gave a patient the wrong medication which caused them to go into a diabetic shock. She survived, but only because I did my best to cover it up. I should have gone to the doctor with my error, but I didn't. I was too busy covering my own ass.

There is more to the story, but I have to let that go.

I need to thank all of you who commented below. I needed to read every last one of those posts. Thank you all for being so gracious with your words. I need to especially thank one female blogger who reached out to me via email. Your kindness was not lost on me. Thank you for your understanding and forgiveness. You said all the things I needed to hear and I am grateful to have you as a friend.

You are all phenomenal people and I am thankful to have you all in my life.

I promise to go back to the princessy posts after this. I have learned a very hard lesson. I am forgiving myself and chalking it up as something that will only make me a better nurse and human being from this day forward.

Again, I thank all of you for being there. Truly. I love you all.

CP.

Dear Friends...

2008-03-29T07:35:00.002-04:00

I am in big trouble right now. Big trouble. I can't get into it right now and I hate being so vague. I want to pour my heart out to all of you in hopes of someone helping me to get it right, but I can't right now. I will. It will come out. It always does. I am ashamed of myself and despite that, I am not ready to be punished for my actions. No, I didn't kill anyone...but I might as well have. It is very hard to admit that you are disgusted with yourself. It's hard to look at my face in the mirror right now and find any semblance of a good person there. I know she exists...she just has bigger problems right now. I can't hurdle this one alone. I can't. I fucked up big time. (No, it has nothing to do with me and the hotband...my life is more perfect than it should be. I don't deserve it...or him.)

I have already reached out to God for some help or hope. I don't feel like He is giving it to me right now because I turned my back on Him as of late. I am struggling with something that is much bigger than I am...and if you have seen me, you know I am a damn big hunk of woman.

I am surviving by listening to Beatle's music. I am trying to let the words to certain songs, like "Let it Be" heal me. No one thus far is speaking words of wisdom to me. I am at war with myself right now.

I promise to open up about this problem before the end of the week. For right now, if you can find it within you to throw a prayer, some good vibes, some positive karma or whatever it is you do in my direction...I will be humbled and grateful.

I am completely lost right now. I am in need of saving...and fast.

Someone please say something. Anything. Please.

It's not always black and white.

2008-03-23T07:37:00.002-04:00

I am back at work. I have been at my new place for a month and so far, I am enjoying the view from here. I work overnights, 11 pm until 7 am in the morning. This works for me. I'm a night owl so I put my insomnia to good use. I am making excellent money and the third shift allows me to be home for my son during the day. I can't be more thankful if I tried. (Yes, I will even thank the crack whore who stole my purse. She motivated me to get my job, despite having no ID. No clue? See "Dear Crack Whore" post below).

Anyway, one of the perks of going back to work is blog fodder. I had a run in this evening that angered me to the point of blowing a gasket. Now mind you, I have never made a secret of the fact that I am a diagnosed bipolar with mild schizophrenia. I embrace my disability enough to medicate myself so that my rages are few and far between. It takes a lot to get me angry since going on medication. For me to be this pissed off means that someone took me from the safety of my medication and made me sub-human again. I don't like that feeling.

I was getting report from another nurse. She was telling me about the patients and what sort of issues she had with them this evening. She made a request of a CNA (Certfied Nursing Assistant) to please take a patient back down to his room so he can use his urinal.

"He ain't my patient," she replies.

"No, he isn't," she countered. "But he is a patient and I am asking you to bring him down to his room so he may use his urinal."

"I'll go find his aide."

"No, you won't. I am giving you a direct order to move this patient or I will write you up."

I am watching this interaction and keeping silent. The nurse was in the right. However, I stayed out of it. I didn't feel the aide needed to be reprimanded by two nurses. When the aide stomped away, she said "I am so sick of these white bitches ordering me around."

White bitches? Was she referring to my uniform or to my skin color.

"Adrienne," I called after her. "Come back here please."

She came back to the desk, all attitude, eyes rolling and sucking on her teeth.

"If you don't want to take orders, I might suggest that you either find another field or perhaps, go to nursing school so that you may eventually give the orders. I don't think race has anything to do with this."

"'Course you don't" she said. "You white. I'm black."

The other nurse chimed in "We're educated. You're not."

Oy.

Adrienne walked away, pushing the patient down the hall, grumbling the entire way. The first nurse turns to me and says, "You know, not to be racist...because I'm not, but I find the black aides to be the worst aides. They never want to do anything."

"Theresa, you are making this a race issue the same way Adrienne is. I have a lot of black aides on my shift that do an amazing job. I have some white girls who are mouthy and obnoxious. This isn't a race thing, it's an individual thing."

And it got me thinking. When someone has to justify something they say or do with the race card, it gets me in the position of feeling less respectful of that person. I don't like it. I don't like to be around it. I am not one of those people who will not speak up when racism becomes an issue. I want no part of it, but to stay silent only condones the other persons actions, so I don't.

Later on, as I was leaving, I caught Adrienne in the hallway.

"You really don't think of me as a bitch, do you?"

"No. That other nurse. She's a bitch."

"I agree. She is a bitch. She could have handled it differently. But I have to ask. Why is she a white bitch? Why was that comment made?"

"You don't understand, CP. You have all the advantages. You went to nursing school, you got a high paying job. Y'all don't have to do a third of the shit we aides have to do. I don't like getting bitched at."

"No one does. I don't. But I really take exception to you calling me a white bitch. I think you have a poor attitude sometimes. You have issues with authority. If I was a black nurse, you would have referred to me as just a plain old run of the mill bitch. No color involved."

"You don't get it," she tells me. "I work hard and I don't get no appreciation."

"I work hard too. I was a CNA at one time. I know it's a hard job. That's why I went back to school. I wanted to be able to do a job where I earned more money and more respect. I didn't like the way the nurses treated me."

"Yeah," she says, "Cause most of y'all are bitches."

She walks away.

I left the building feeling a hole in my heart. Two incidents of racism. One from a black aide and the other from a white nurse. I tried to rationalize with both of them and now I become the pariah for speaking up and out. I don't mind being called a bitch. To me, that's foreplay. It means I am a strong woman who keeps her ideals lofty and has a terrific sense of self. I also don't see color. Perhaps that is because I was raised by parents who are bigots. Again, they justify it with "I have lots of black friends, but..."

This does not bode well with me.

My ex husband is dating a girl who is black. She is a beautiful girl with a kind heart who makes him happy. Yet, my ex is always quick to point out that she is black. Well, duh. I see her. I can see her skin color. I feel more like he is trying to sell her to others, trying to justify his love for a woman of another race. It bothers me to know that in this day and age, we are still drawing pie charts of black versus white. Yes, Adrienne is a shitty aide. She's cantankerous, foul mouthed and impatient. None of those things are characteristics of being black. That is just someone who is not happy with their life.

Theresa, the other nurse, stated that she was going to write Adrienne up and would I back her up on the report. I opted to say no because I don't feel the need to perpetuate this black/white thing any further. When Adrienne does something to endanger one of my patients, I will be the first in line to make sure her ass is out the door. I would do the same with Theresa, if I felt she was jeopardizing patient care.

In the interim, I feel like my happy little bubble has been busted wide open and spewing racial slime all over me.

I'm an assertive white girl. If this qualifies me as a bitch, so be it. Adrienne is an opinionated black girl. If this makes her a bitch, just as well. I only wonder why we can't just call each other names without the color identity.

If a dog shits on your lawn, do you say "Hey! That white dog just shit on my lawn." No identification is necessary. A dog took a dump. That's all anyone needs to know. It needs to be put on a leash and reprimanded.

I imagine that is what is in store for Adrienne in the near future. Black or white, she's a bitch. So is Theresa. So am I.

We have to make room for all the color in the spectrum of the bitchy rainbow.

Houston, we ALMOST had a problem...

2008-03-20T09:11:00.002-04:00

Samantha calls my husband (I'm at work) very upset. She tells him that she went to the doctor again because she is bleeding. He tells me this (the next day, mind you, because men are a little stupid like that sometimes) and then explains to me that the doctor is going to do some bloodwork.

"What about a sonogram," I ask. "Did she mention a sonogram at all?"

"Yeah," he replies. "But they said they couldn't do it until next Tuesday."

"Excuse me?"

"Yeah, supposedly, the guy who does the ultrasounds only comes into her office on Tuesdays."

"So you are going to tell me that she has to wait until Tuesday to find out if anything is wrong with the baby? Oh, I don't fucking THINK so."

I get on the phone with the doctors office. Mind you, this is the same doctor who delivered my boys. I am not a big fan of hers. She is pretty ice cold when it comes to bedside manner and on top of that, she is the size of a gnome with a face to match. She reminds me of those little troll dolls from back in the seventies. I get on the phone with the receptionist.

"Hello, Dr. Ramappa's office."

"Hello. This is CP. I am Samantha Stevensons mother. I am calling because she was told by the doctor that she couldn't have a sonogram until Tuesday. She is bleeding. I want a prescription written for her to have one done, STAT, at another facility."

Silence.

"Well, the guy only comes in on Tuesdays and..."

"Sh. Sh. Sh. No and. No but. No however. Prescription. Now. Stat."

"Um, okay. Tell her to come in and pick one up."

"Thank you."

See obviously, this shit is not going to fly with the mother of all grandmothers. I am ferocious when it comes to my kids and I expect to be worse as a grandmother. I am not exactly known for my patience and I know this will not be lost on Dr. Ramappa when she realizes whose kid this is having a baby. I must have let this bitch have it over a dozen times while she was my OB/GYN because I just didn't appreciate the way she spoke to people, namely, me.

Incidentally, her name is Renuka Ramappa, which makes me sing "Hakuna Matata" everytime. Try it. It's funny. And it fits.

Anyway, the sonogram was done. The baby who is eight weeks and three days along is fine. Little fluttering heartbeat. Strong fetal heart tones. A new and improved due date which is now October 31 instead of November 3. That means this baby will be born on Halloween, same as my sons were. I don't know if this is a good thing or not. My daughter is concerned about having a stillborn pregnancy like I did with one of my twins. I understand her concerns and try to remind her that pregnancy issues are not genetic for the most part. Just cause momma had trouble doesn't mean that she will.

I think there are going to be a lot more of these nerve wracking moments coming up. This morning, my babygirl puked all over the place. She looked in the toilet at some green blobby looking stuff and, while red-faced and in tears said..."Mom, I didn't even eat anything that looks like that!" I had to laugh.

The joys of motherhood are only beginning.

It's settling in...

2008-03-16T07:31:00.003-04:00

I think the realization that I am going to be a grandmother is settling in with me. I noticed that I have been in no great rush to color my hair, because frankly, I should be going gray, shouldn't I? I can no longer think in terms of my child raising years to be over, because I am starting over again with a new life in my life. My daughter and her husband live with us. We have a large three bedroom house, but those bedrooms are already congested with the hotband and I, my son Nick and of course, Sammi and Trevor in the third bedroom. There is no room for baby, but I'll be damned if I don't find some. There never seems to be a "right" time for a child to come into a family. No one is ever ready for the challenges of a new baby, but I really feel I am going to rise to it. My daughter bought the baby a little yellow bathrobe today and I think it is what kicked my ass over into reality.

My baby is having a baby.

I remember being a 20 year old mother too. I was a single mom with no place to live. Esther had thrown me out of the house at 17 years old and I never looked back. Unlike Sammi, I was a bad kid. I was doing drugs of all sorts throughout high school and deeply into college. Still, I managed to work two jobs while I was pregnant, get myself a little studio apartment with just enough room for a pull out bed and a crib. Those were the lean years. I remember them fondly because I have only risen above them since then. I never told my mother that I was pregnant. I felt it was none of her business, since she made it a point of throwing me out of her home. It wasn't until I was seven months pregnant and barely starting to show that I confessed to my mother. She had already known. Apparently, she went to pick up her prescription at the same drug store I used. Since our last names were the same, they handed her my prenatal vitamins as well. Busted.

I remember being heavily addicted to cocaine in the months before finding out I was pregnant with Sam. It wasn't until my third month, when the doctor confirmed my pregnancy that I quit the shit cold turkey. I had been in rehab twice before, once for a week and the other time for a 28 day stint. Both had failed me, or rather, I failed me. When my pregnancy with Sam got confirmed, I stopped the shit immediately. I had no idea what my intention was for this baby. I even considered putting her up for adoption because I had no concept on who or what this thing was that was coming into my life.

When I felt her kick, I knew I was in trouble. I bonded and I never looked back.

Now that my daughter is 20 and having her own baby, I am grateful that she knows she has a roof over her head and her parents support. Things are going to be tight. Her husband still can't work because he isn't a citizen of this country just yet. She works her ass off, but that will only last for so long. I took a night job because I know the extra money is going to be needed for this baby. I feel moitivated and driven now, just as I did when I was in her shoes 21 years ago.

I am going to be a grandmother. I love saying it. I love feeling it. I couldn't be happier for my daughter for having done things the right way as opposed to the way I chose to do things. Regardless, I have never regretted my decision to have Samantha. She changed my life in so many wonderful and extraordinary ways. To raise her baby alongside her is not only an honor, it's a gift. An amazing gift.

I decided to be called "Grammy", like the award. It's a big aspiration to live up to. I might as well go full throttle and be the best I can be in this baby business.

One thing for sure. I am going to color my hair this weekend. No reason to look the part, right?

I just found out...

2008-03-05T18:47:00.002-05:00

I AM GOING TO BE A GRANDMOTHER!!!!!!!!!!!

Holla!!!!

Conversation with the Hotband #4358972

2008-02-26T09:49:00.002-05:00

I don't quite remember how we got on the subject. We managed to find our way to discussing what to do with our dogs once they die.

"Bury them in the backyard," my husband suggests.

"That's gross," I counter. "And what if we move? What then?"

"We'll dig the dogs up and take them with us."

"Excuse me?"

"Yeah. We can dig them up. I'll have them neatly in boxes and wrapped up so that we can take them out of the ground and move them to wherever we move!"

He sat there, beaming, as though this was the solution to world peace.

"We cannot dig up the dogs," I said. "What if it were 10 years from now? Would you still dig up the dogs?"

"Absolutely."

"Do you understand how gross that is? Why not just have them stuffed and sitting in our living room for the rest of our lives?"

I was being sarcastic.

"That's a GREAT idea," he yelped! "Then we can always have the dogs with us! I am going to look into that."

"No you are not," I said.

"Yes I am! And, I am also going to take a month off of work when Snoop dies. I won't be able to get over it."

"He's a dog, babe."

"Yes, I know that."

"So what happens when I die? Are you going to have me stuffed too?"

"I was going to have you cremated," he said. "And put you into a rhinestone covered pink urn."

He was so proud of his answer.

"So let me get this straight," I said. "You are going to dig up the dogs and take them with you anywhere you go. You may even stuff them so you can have them around. But me, you're going to stick in some jar somewhere in the house where I can get lost or misplaced?"

"No! Actually, I was going to take some of the ashes and have it made into a jewel so I can wear you all the time!"

"Oh, fabulous. And when you re-marry, you can give your new wife your ring with me encrusted in it!"

"Wow. That would save money! I should have thought of that."

So my question to all of you is this...what are your final plans for yourself? Buried or cremated? Do you want to be in your own backyard to be dug up 10 years from now? Would you rather be stuffed so you can spend your life in bed with your true love? And what about your pets? What would you do with them when they died?

Knowing my luck, I will end up in the litter box the day that the cats run out of litter.

Every once in awhile...

2008-02-21T17:36:00.002-05:00

I find a blogpost that meant a lot to me. So much so, that I yank it out of the archives and repost it. This particular one struck me as so funny...especially since I am spending a lot of time alone lately...*cough*.

Have a great weekend.

Masturbation...Jewish Princess style...
(February 27th, 2006)

so there I was, minding my own business.

No. Really. I was.

"Minding my own business" is probably a very polite way of saying "so I was in front of the computer, getting myself off, when all of a sudden..."

Oh yeah. Like you don't. Pffft. Whatever.

Let me take you back, back, back...way back, to a time before the hotband was in the picture. To a time when internet porn reigned supreme in CP's life, because frankly A) I was checking out women, not men, B) The ex was a little lacking in the "give it to me night and day, baby" department and finally C) I don't know. I was bored, it was there.

Again. Don't judge me. You know damn well you do it too. You just don't admit it on your blogs.

So there I am, in my computer chair. No kids at home. No (ex) husband was home at the time. It was just me, my computer and my portable little friend, Buzz Lightyear.

*blinks* Yeah. Like you don't have a name for your vibrators (and/or penises!).

Lawdy, so judgmental!

I am pullin' up some sweetass lesbo porn, a few threesomes, some gangbangs, couple of upskirts...you know, your average male porn, except it was being enjoyed by me...a female. Isn't that so erotic? *eye roll* (I can literally hear my hotband panting all the way from NYC) *snort* HONEY! You've heard this story already. Get over it.

Anyway, when I feel I am primed and supremely ready for the thrills to begin, CLICK! On goes Buzz Lightyear! Yes! TAKE ME THERE! To Infinity...and BEYOND! Mouse in the right hand, Buzz in my left (yes, I am ambidextrous. I am also sodium free and low in monotriglycerides) and going to funky town! Wee hoo! When all of a sudden...

*snap*

My nail breaks.

Now, most women would have ignored this completely and continued with their quest to find the honeypot, the top of the mountain, the promised land. Nope. Not CP. I cannot bear to look at the brunette babe, spread-eagle in front of me, a vision of celluloid perfection...WHILE I AM SPORTING A BROKEN NAIL! No. The Jewish princess in me takes over. This simply will not do. I mean, come on. How tacky is this? I won't even look at porn that has a poorly manicured or pedicured model. It's not that I am a porn snob, it's just that I am...well, okay, so I'm a porn snob. But if I expect the most from my porn, then dammit, I will be nothing less than perfect when I cum too!

I place Buzz down on my bare lap, pants down around my ankles and lean down to my purse to get out my nail glue.

SQUEEZE.

Nothing.

SQUEEZE.

Nothing.

*stab stab stab the top of the tube of glue with safety pin and SQQQQQQQUUUUUUUUUUEEEEEZE...*

SPLOOGE!

Crazy glue explodes everywhere. CP drops her fingernail. Bends over to pick up said fingernail, gluing her extremely large tits to the crazy glue that has pooled in her lap.

"SHIT!" exclaims CP.

"Bzzzzzzz," replies Buzz Lightyear with a muffled cry from below my mammaries.

"HA!" snorts extremely hot brunette spread eagle on my computer screen. If she could be laughing at me, she would be.

"What the fuck could be worse than this," thinks CP aloud, while trying to dislodge her vibrator from between her nipple and her labia.

*sound of garage door opening*

"HOLY FUCK," I shriek, and jump jump jump, bent over, ass out, tits glued to thighs, into my bathroom and turn on the shower.

"Honey," says the (ex) husband, "are you here?"

"I'm in the shower," I call back.

"But I'm here," says the hot brunette still dangling on the computer screen.

Fuck.

It was sort of hard explaining to my (ex) husband why there was a naked woman on my computer monitor.

"There was??? Really???" I feign complete ignorance. "Oh my gosh, someone must have sent me a virus."

*blink. blink*

After 8 years, I think the patch of skin on my upper thigh is finally the same color as the rest of my thigh. For a long time, I had a tell-tale dildo shaped white spot where my tan tore away in the shape of my vibrator.

I now refer to it as my "birthmark". It's this version of the story that allows me to keep my PTA membership intact.

So I got this meme...

2008-02-16T18:29:00.002-05:00

in my email box. I hate these things. When people "tag" me to do one, I tend to go into hiding and pretend I didn't see the tag. I won't do them. I never even did that "100 Things About Me" that is so popular on peoples blogs. Who the hell needs to know 100 things about me. Further, I talk about my yeast infections, UTI's, my sex life, my periods, my husbands dick, etc. Do I really need to get into 100 things you don't know about me? Isn't that the purpose of a blog...to find out things about a person you are interested in? If you go back to the beginning of my blog and read, you can see the rise and fall in reader interest. There are times I received 100 plus comments and now, I receive 15-25 on average. It's not that my life has gotten less interesting. I'm still the same ol' wacky Jew Princess who is always getting into all sorts of shit. The fact is, I don't blog as much anymore. It used to be a daily thing for me, like peeing. Only now, I don't pee as much. Rather, I haven't found the time to blog as much as I would like and when I do have the time, I find I have nothing to say. It's like window shopping when you are broke...but then, when you have money to spend, you never find anything you like.

Wow. That was a great metaphor. Yes, I know self-praise sucks but if I don't do it, who the hell will? I gotta watch my back lest I start to feel less important than I actually am.

Lately though, I have found out that a lot of people are delurking just to tell me they love the blog! I find this to be the wonderful thing about not having 70 commenters. I know that if I am the 43rd person to comment on a post, it is likely my post isn't going to get acknowledged anyway. But, when I comment on a new blog or one that is less frequented, I always get these sweet notes of gratitude and appreciation. And lets face it, folks. I am a total whore when it comes to compliments. I love the delurkers. I love my old faithfuls too. I just love knowing that every once in awhile, I make someone chuckle.

So anyway, I got this meme and I figured, since I have nothing to say today, that I would answer it...you know, so you know more about the Princess that you bow down and worship to on a daily basis. (I am so full of shit. I know this. But, it's my bubble so don't go bursting it, kay?) The meme is called "Four Things". Enjoy.

A) Four Places I go Over and Over: Lets see. I go to the movies over and over, except when some crack whore breaks into my shit and steals everything I own. I pick up my son from school over and over. I should make the little fucker walk home. It's only 3 blocks. I go to 7-11 every day to buy the same little shit a Slurpee. And, I go to bed...a lot. I'm good at it.

B) Four People who e-mail me: (regularly) I get emails from my husband every day when he is gone. I get pretty regular emails from my parents, although, they are all forwards that I never read anyway. I get emails from my credit card companies telling me I am free to charge more and how much they love me. I also get a lot of emails from people in the UK who need me to help them out with some Bosnian Lottery winnings.

C) Four of my favorite foods: I have a fetish for cold chinese food. I will take my dinner and stick it right in the fridge for it to get cold...then I eat it. I love steak...the bloodier the better. If it would still MOO I would be happy. I love pasta and can eat it all day long for weeks straight. Curly noodles are my favorite, but I dig those little shell shaped thingies too. Oh, and chocolate. It gives me orgasms. I like those a lot.

D) Four places I would rather be right now: Face to face with the Crack Whore who stole my shit. I would love that. Just a chance to beat the lungs out of her chest would please me like nothing else. I would rather be in New York...but not at my mothers. Stick me in the Hilton in Manhattan please. I would rather be in Las Vegas pretending to be rich while I spend my husbands hard earned money. I would rather be in my husbands pants. I think I shall do that after this post.

E) Four movies I would watch over and over: Any porn with Ron Jeremy. That is classic 70's porn and should be revered. I love the movie Goodfella's because I wish I was all caught up in that gangster shit. I would love to be Karen in that movie. A real mob whore. I love it. I can watch Ferris Bueller's Day Off to the point of ad nauseum. I don't know why I like that movie so much. I identify with the older sister who is hating on Ferris. I also like a movie my husband and I made together. It has a very happy ending.

There you go. Four things. Interesting, no? I don't think so, but you might. Anyway, if you are a lurker, come out and say hi! I love that! If you are a long time reader, than you probably expect all this stuff out of me anyway. If you are a new reader, please do not be shocked or appalled by the things I say. I am an attention whore and will say and do anything to be in the limelight even if only for a moment. I believe that is why my tits are so big. So everyone can see me enter a room before I even get IN the room.

What does that have to do with anything? Nothing really. I just like my tits.

VD...just another excuse

2008-02-14T15:16:00.002-05:00

to send a bullshit Hallmark card.

I am not big on Valentine's Day, except of course, if my husband were to forget about it. I dont care for all the hearts and flowers. I like the chocolates though, as most fat assed princesses do. You can give me all the chocolate you like. Hell, I don't care if it isn't in a heart shaped box. Throw me a Hershey bar and I will jump up in the air to retrieve it like a dog. Spare me the Hershey Kisses though. Unwrapping those little fuckers one at a time takes away from the chocolatey experience. I don't like stuffed animals. To me, they are clutter that will just gather dust over time. You wanna thrill me for Valentines Day? Gimme some lingerie. I love me some lingerie. Even the word is sexy...LAWN-jer-ray. Pardon moi! Voulez Voucous Chez Avec Moi? I don't even know what that means but the song Lady Marmalade always plays in my head when I talk lingerie. I like stuff with a lot of straps and hooks and ties and ribbons. You feel like you need to be unwrapped to get to the goodies. I like that.

Mostly, I dislike Valentines Day cards. Fuck you if you think that sending me a VD card is the way to show me you care. You should be sending me cards every single day of your life in worship of me. Not just on one particular day of the year when Hallmark says it is okay to tell someone that you love them today. Why? Shouldn't that be a daily thing? What happened to cards for no reason, Hm?

Of course, as I am typing this, I receive a huge bouquet of flowers from my husband who is out of town. This is acceptable to me because he is not around to swaddle me in some lingerie. Flowers will have to do. He wrote me something very heartfelt and sincere. The only reason I am not vomiting about it is because he generally writes heartfelt and sincere cards for no reason...or at least verbalizes these sentiments to me on a daily basis.

I remember our first Valentines Day together. He took me to a five star restaurant, you know, complete with violinists and white glove service? Me? I'm a McDonalds kind of girl. I thought the veal was soup and so I ate it with a spoon. There were three stems of asparagus shaped like roses. Yum. Then for dessert comes a chocolate tower. Truly. It was this big cylander shaped thingie that shot straight out from the plate. I had no idea how to eat it. I tapped on the hard shell outside and it wouldn't break. I tried to spoon out the innards but they wouldn't come out. Finally, in frustration, I leaned over the chocolate tower and put my mouth around it like I was sucking a large chocolate dick.

My husband and I were never apart from then on. He knew I was the girl for him.

Dear Crack Whore Part 2...

2008-02-12T17:56:00.000-05:00

You already know my opinion about what you have done. For you, it was a quick thrill and a chance to rob someone who is actually a contributing member of society. Fuck you, Crack Whore. For that and so much more.

As you know from the contents of my purse, I have been interviewing for jobs. Today, Crack Whore, I was offered three different positions. The bitch of it all, Crack Whore? I can't accept any of the three. You know why? Because you, you twittering twat also stole my nursing license. I have to wait 3 weeks to get a new one from Tallahasssee. I have to be re-fingerprinted and new photos taken. It seems to me that you should be the one who has to be fingerprinted and your mug shot taken, fuckface.

Since you need your nursing license to start working in a hospital, I am shit out of luck until the new license comes via mail. I am praying for you, Crack Whore. I am praying that someone finds your lifeless body laying in a field somewhere. Okay, no I am not. I don't think that way about any human being...but I do hope you end up in jail or with a hot curling iron up your unlubbed ass.

Fuck you very much,

Pissed Off Princess

Dear Crack Whore...

2008-02-11T03:24:00.000-05:00

I am writing to thank you for being the low life piece of scum that you are. Not only did you feel it was okay to smash my passenger window of my car and steal my purse, but you also were inclined to use my credit card. Sadly for you, Crack Whore, you weren't able to use my card. It is maxxed out. I also appreciate you using, rather, attempting to use my card at a 24 hour gas station that is all lit up and has cameras everywhere. We have your transaction on receipt and your ugly fucked up mutilated looking mug on video. Do you not realize that a crack whore such as yourself would be noticed immediately? You are wearing Good Will clothing while carrying my $400 Chanel bag. Your face is pock-marked and your hair is stringy and greasy. I almost wish that my cards were available to you so you can clean your shit up a bit. You need a bath, Crack Whore. Incidentally, we got the license plate number of the motorcycle you were on with your Douchebag boyfriend. He must have been the piece of shit who broke into my car in the first place. That's okay. By the end of this week, we will have you on breaking and entering, fraud, forgery and petty theft charges. I do hope that my cards being maxxed out wasn't too much of an inconvenience for you, you slimy slut. What kind of person breaks into a car to steal a purse that was, thankfully, empty...save for my license and credit cards? I would call you a dripping, stank wet cunt, but frankly, that is too good for the likes of you. I can get my window fixed. No problem. I'm well insured. My credit cards? All new ones will come by mail soon enough. No issue. You got all of my makeup. Sadly for you, I am a natural beauty which means you didn't get more than a lipstick and my mascara. Use it, Crack Whore. You need it. My drivers license? I can get a new one. My nursing license? No issue really. I can get another one sent to me. What really bothers me, you inconsiderate slimy whore, was that you interrupted my last night with my husband. He leaves for Ohio tomorrow and you caused him so much stress that I couldn't get laid tonight. Not for lack of want, but for the simple fact that you gave him such a bad headache that he vomited and went to sleep. That is what is pissing me off, Crack Whore. The fact that I couldn't get some hot throbbing dick because of you being a cunt. Ironic, isn't it?

Anyway, Crack Whore, in the big picture, you got away with nothing. You charged exactly $8.36 on my charge card before they shut you down. You bought two packs of cigarettes and two lighters. Are you fucking insane? Do you not know what it is to WORK for you money, you crab infested fucker? No matter though, Crack Whore. My husband makes ten times that just for sitting in his chair in the morning. I hope my things help you to get through another day, Crack Whore. Just long enough for me to watch you go to jail. And I will be pressing charges, street slime. Bet your ass on that.

In the interim, might I suggest you go fuck yourself and crawl under a rock to die? I think I would be willing to drop the charges if you would do that.

Sincerely,

Pissed Off Princess.

PS: I want you to know that if you ATTEMPT to break into my home after breaking into my car, that I will not hesitate to put a knife into your left eyeball and watch it come out of your right ear. True that.

Hello. I am here to apply for the job.

2008-02-06T14:00:00.002-05:00

Job interviews.

How much do they suck?

I have gone on two this week. I am not particularly interested in either position but sadly, I feel the need to go back to work. My husbands salary takes ample care of our home. More than ample care. Enough so that I can lay on my loady ass and do nothing if I want to. Yay! However, I don't think it is fair that he carries the entire burden of handling the finances. I've actually enjoyed this luxury since September. My son was going back to school and I, of course, being the domestic goddess that I am, thought it was necessary to be around to pick up and drop off my son from school. This allowed me to watch Maury, Montel, Tyra and the People's Court before having to pick up the child. In honesty, I have been pretty useless. I don't do anything but laundry. I like laundry. It's easy and there is a sense of immediate gratification. I like to fold. It's therapeutic. The part I hate? Putting the stuff away. So, it ends up on the floor, where I get to re-wash it all and the cycle starts all over again!

I am a dream wife, aren't I?

But I digress. Back to job interviews. There is a part of them that I do not understand. Two parts actually. I need to know why...WHY do they make you fill out applications when they have your resume right in front of their faces? My resume includes all my previous jobs and education right on it. So, why waste my valuable time by having me fill out an application as well? Is it to get an idea if I can read and write? Is it to corroborate the information I have on my resume with what I wrote down? Is it to see my handwriting skills? What is the purpose of this?

The other thing? Why. Why is there a need to take me on a tour of the building if you haven't hired me yet. Shouldn't the tour of the place come after I am hired? Do you think that these high heels I am wearing say "HEY! Let's go on a tour of the building and see if we can stay upright!". No. My heels are on because I have to make a nice first impression. It is not to take a hike around the building and meet people who I potentially will never see again. No, I am not interested in meeting the other nurses and putting on my best prom queen smile at everyone. Why? Are you going to hire me or is this just foreplay? My thong is riding up my ass. The hallway is slippery. I just filled out a three page application and I am really over it by now. Why is it necessary for you to show me the facility if you have more interviews scheduled for the week? Do you think I care? Would you like me to show you a car that I tell you you cannot buy? If you were in the market for a house, would you want to be taken to the ones that may or may not already be sold?

It is an extraordinary waste of my royal and precious princess time. Maybe I am not seeing the big picture here. I don't know.

I do know that I stole a pen from one of the facilities. I remember my daughter telling me that she wouldn't hire anyone who came in to apply at her store who didn't have their own pen. It means you aren't prepared. It sounded pretty logical to me, so I heisted a pen from one facility to apply at another one. Pretty shady, I know. I am experiencing pen guilt. If I get hired at this place, I will make sure to return the pen. If not, then I will consider it my consolation prize.

That's what you get for making me fill out a 3 page application. Nyah.

Do you conduct job interviews? Can you answer my questions? Have you been on job interviews that have been absolute disasters? Any bad experiences? I can tell you that I had one that was quite embarassing and I left before I got to interview.

Never go for an interview with a full bladder...and that's all I have to say about that.

Today is Game Day!

2008-02-03T14:49:00.000-05:00

I am an anomaly.

I am the girly girl who lives, breathes, eats and sleeps football. Love it. Now don't get all freaked out that the Princess likes it rough. *ahem* You couldn't catch me playing the game, ever. I will not break a nail or mess up my hair. I will scream very loud, hoot and holler over the game.

This year, the Giants are in the Superbowl. They are my team. I am not a half assed football fan who jumps on the bandwagon for whatever team makes it to the Bowl. The Giants have been my team since I was old enough to know what a touchdown was. I have been with these boys through thick and thin. No matter how their season went, I was always there, cheering them on.

Today I am having a Superbowl party. We have chips, beer a plenty, queso dip, large hero sandwiches, tons of soda, onion dip, veggie dip and, did I mention beer? I also have football decorated cupcakes lest there be something sweeter than the game itself. I have never hosted a party in my own home. I am very good at being a guest. I can drink other peoples liquor and eat their food. I am not good, however, at putting all these things out, making it all look fancy and put together. Frankly, I suck at it. Fortunately, I have a mini Martha Stewart in my daughter. She knows how to pull all this stuff together and make it work. Me? I am a first rate loser when it comes to entertaining. I am all like...

"Here's the food, here's a plate, knock yourself out."

As a Jewish woman, I simply don't have the hostess gene. Now, I can hire people to handle this shit for me. I can speed dial like no one's business. It's what Jewish women do. We order stuff. We supervise and tell people what to do. It's what I am good at, my strong suit, if you will. To leave me to my own devices is to ensure that disaster will ensue. I an useless in the kitchen. I am definately a 'bedroom' kind of girl with an occasional dalliance in the living room. Sex I can do. Hosting? Not a clue.

I could never throw a bash like Avitable did for Halloween because I am just not that type of person. He obviously planned for weeks, maybe months about what he was going to do for his party. Me? I just bought some plastic bowls this morning and feel an overwhelming sense of accomplishment.

So, are you watching the game today? Are you having people over? Are you a hostess with the mostest? Can someone give me a clue?

6:46 UPDATE: 3-0 GIANTS. Fuck yeah!!!

7:01 UPDATE: Fucking Patriots. Dicks. 7-3.

7:41 UPDATE: I have no game update. I just want to say that I am on my third beer, switching over to a glass of wine, to be followed by a strawberry daquiri. Unlike my Giants, I am feeling no pain. My sandwiches were well received I have not run out of chips or beer. Frankly, I don't give a fuck about my guests. They know where the kitchen is.

8:08 UPDATE: Half time show. Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. Feh. Not feelin' it, y'all. It's so 1980's meets Top Gun and Tom Cruise. Do all these kids even know who Tom Petty is? More likely they know Richard Petty. TP is not a good looking man. I am hoping for no wardrobe malfunctions this year.

9:11 UPDATE: FUCK YEAH!!! GIANTS 10-7!!!!

9:39 UPDATE: *sighs* 14-10 New England. 2 minutes and 42 seconds left in the final quarter...not good.

NINE FIFTY-SEVEN UPDATE: 17-14 GIANTS WITH 35 SECONDS LEFT!!!! I think i AM about to shsit myhself!!!! I am so fucvcking happy!!!!!!!!!!

THE GIANTS WON THE SUPERBOWL!!! THE GIANTS HAVE JUST WON THE SUPERBOWL!! FREE BLOWJOBS FOR EVERYONE!!! GET IN LINE, BABIES!!! MAMA'S READY FOR A JIZZFEST!!!

FUCK YEAH!!!!!!!!!!!

10:56 UPDATE: Okay. I have to take back the blow jobs. The Hotband was not amused that I was giving away my golden mouth to the masses. So, instead...make it hand jobs. I use Purell so I am sanitized for your protection. However, the Hotband did mention that if I wanted to sex up the female bloggers, he is a big supporter of that.

Why Hilary is so damn cool...

2008-02-01T15:30:00.000-05:00

"It took a Clinton to clean after the first Bush and I think it might take another one to clean up after the second Bush."

- Hillary Clinton at the Democratic presidential debate in Los Angeles on Thursday.

Last night...

2008-01-31T13:07:00.000-05:00

I was with my husband at a restaurant when I found myself needing to go to the bathroom. I excuse myself and go find the restroom. While I am in the stall doing my business, I hear another woman come into the bathroom and take the stall next to mine. As I am enjoying a nice long pee...I hear:

"This is strange music to be playing in a country themed restaurant, isn't it?"

Now, I don't answer the woman because I assume she is talking to someone else who might have come into the bathroom with her. I finish my pee, zip up and proceed to hit the sink for some handwashing. The woman comes out of her stall and says:

"Don't you think this is strange music?"

Not that it matters, but the music was Sheryl Crow of whom I am a big fan. But I digress. What disturbs me is that this woman asked me a question while I was in the adjoining stall. She presumed that I knew she was talking to me. By the sink, I simply smiled in acknowledgment of her question and got out of there ASAP.

It got me thinking...why do women feel the need to strike up conversation in the bathroom with other women? I have been asked about my shoes, where I got my purse, what sort of makeup I have on, who cut my hair, etc. It's like there is this secret society among women who pee. There is a union, a bond while we use the ladies room.

I go back to my table and ask the hotband about male bathroom etiquette.

"Do you guys chat with one another while you are in the bathroom," I ask.

"There is an unwritten rule," he replies, "aside from a polite nod of acknowledgment, you don't talk to anyone while they are peeing. Definately not while they are in the stall."

"So no one ever asks you about your hair or your outfit?"

"Absolutely not. You don't even glance over at the other person. There is no communication...except maybe at the sink, you might make a passing comment about the weather or something, but nothing personal."

I relay my story to him and tell him that this is not the first time that I have been engaged in conversation in the bathroom. I admit, somewhat sheepishly, that I am guilty of this as well...but always at the sink and never while in the stall.

"Except for Mr. Fab," my husband says, "I cannot think of anyone who chats at the urinal. I can see Fab saying 'Whoa mama! God was generous to you, huh?' because he is like that. Most men though...we don't talk in the bathroom. It's just an unspoken rule. Take a poll on your blog. You'll see. Men don't chat in the bathroom and women do. It's just the way it is."

So I ask you, ladies and gents. Who of you have engaged in unsolicited bathroom conversation? Do women have an unspoken bond in the bathroom where no question is too personal? Do men all understand the no talking rule in the mens room? What crosses the line? Is tampon talk acceptable in the ladies room while sports talk is benched in the boys room?

Today on Dr. Phil...

2008-01-28T20:06:00.000-05:00

I watched a show about "baggy jeans" and the boys who wear them slouched down below their asses. Apparently, someone is trying to create a law to make boys pull up their sagging pants. They are writing songs about it. One gentleman went on to say that the art of "saggin" started in prison. He was also quick to point out that "saggin" spelled backwards, is "niggas". He wanted to show that the root of this issue was buried deep in the african american culture and not in a positive way. As always, Al Sharpton chimed in, making it a race issue rather than what it really is. It's a fashion statement, no different than when I wore forty foot shoulder pads on my neon jackets back in the 80's. Another pastor thinks that there should be laws to eradicate the wearing of "saggin" pants. I think that is a bit extreme for while I don't want to see someones crusted underwear ass, I also don't feel the government has a right to come into my home and dictate to me what my child can wear.

And, while we are on the subject, why aren't we making the same moves to outlaw these chicks who let their thongs stick out of the back of their pants? THAT is disgusting and to me, smacks of low class. But, if we start delegating dress codes nationwide, that would probably disallow my love for low cut blouses. I love to show the tits off. They are huge and fun and in surprisingly good shape for a forty year old woman who breastfed two children.

The point is, how far into our bedrooms are we going to allow the government to go? How deep into our lives. I would smack the crap out of my son if I caught him sagging his jeans and exposing his boxers. To me, it is disrespectful not to mention extremely tacky. I say the same for girls who expose their panties and bras through their clothing. Undoubtably, there are some people who find my low cut blouses to be obnoxious and a bit overbearing. I get that. While I respect a persons right to be disgusted by a certain fashion statement, I feel that turning something like this into law wastes taxpayers time and money. Do we not have better things to pursue?

What's your opinion on "saggin"? Does it sicken you or do you think it is just a fad that everyone will come to regret later in life...like the mullet?

As I Get Older...

2008-01-23T17:30:00.000-05:00

I realize that I am seeing many people die. I am not talking about the Frank Sinatra's and the actors/actresses that make it well into their 80's. I suppose I am feeling a little affected by the sudden death of Heath Ledger. The man was 28 years old and had the world by the balls. It reeks heavily of the similar demise of Anna Nicole Smith and moreso of my own personal tragedy of losing my friend Derek in November. Drugs. It's always drugs.

I have my own little special cocktails that I enjoy. As a manic depressive, I have access to pain killers, anti psychotics, sleeping pills, anti anxiety drugs and the like. There are times I choose to mix and match til I find something suitable for making a person feel high for awhile. I am always careful with my mixing and matching and know where my limits are. And, then again, what exactly makes me think I am so invincible that I couldn't possibly fall prey to my own addiction. Yes, it is an addiction. I have access to weed, but I was never really big on the smoking of it. I know where I can get cocaine from, but I had a severe problem with that back in the 80's and I am not willing to bring that monster back out of the closet, even if the high is the greatest I have ever known. I've dropped acid. It's overrated.

And so, I stick to my pharmaceuticals. A nice mixture of Percocet with a Vodka and lemonade is enough to get mama going through the night. I don't do it nightly because Lord knows, the more you do, the higher your tolernace becomes. Before you know it, it takes twice as many pills to do less of the job. I have very few vices, but this is absolutely one of them. I would imagine that if your life included celebrity status, you can get the best of everything anytime you want and delivered anywhere you'd like. There's always a doctor willing to write a prescription if you seek them out...or put them on your payroll.

Then, someone dies. Someone like Derek who was only 28 years old. Someone like Heath Ledger who was only 28 years old. Both of them were actors...Heath being professional and Derek who died trying to make it to the big time. Both of them died from an overdose of drugs...mixed and matched until it became a lethal concoction. I think of myself at times like this and realize how stupid, teetering on the precipice of insane my addiction can be. And, no mistaking, it is an addiction. I panic when I see my bottles getting low. I think of the next time I can get to my psychiatrist for more pick me ups...or rather, put me downs. Before my mania was controlled, I had insane and intense sexual urges that ruled my life. I gambled with my life like a poor schmuck at a black jack table playing with his last five bucks. It changed my life, ruined me as a human being, caused two of my marriages to suffer. You don't want to know how many other marriages suffered because of me as well. I just didn't give a shit. I don't care if he is your husband, I am going to have him and ruin his life...and yours in the process. Me? I'll be great. I'll be on my merry way in the morning, ready to stalk new prey.

The drugs have made that go away. Not a moment too soon. It's my skeleton in the graveyard of bones buried deep in my closet.

It never ceases to amaze me that the very things that can destroy a life can also save a life and vice versa. So, when I see people die from this sort of cross controlled substance abuse, I cringe a little. It could be me someday. I can get a little too risky with my body and my poor little brain will just shut down. Perhaps my heart will give out. Maybe, like Derek and Heath and Anna Nicole, I will just peacefully fall asleep and never wake up. People will grieve. Others will shake their head and sigh...another life wasted, very much the same way I did when I heard that Heath Ledger died.

Looking at someone else's mortality tends to make us look a little closer at our own. I think for tonight, I will put away the bottle and skip the drink. I will take my medications as prescribed and remember that someone somewhere will suffer indefinately at the thought of losing me, let alone the actual event. I think I will honor the lives of those who died by making sure it's not me.

It's a very sobering concept for a drug addict to wrap their head around without the assistance of the little white pills that allow us to sleep a little longer than we probably should.

What's so bad about waking up anyway?

I have a confession...

2008-01-21T21:10:00.000-05:00

I am in love with professional wrestling.

It started innocently enough. My 12 year old was caught up with it. He has posters and action figures. I got to know the names of the wrestlers and eventually, what group they are with. Now, I am addicted.

Yes, I know wrestling is all fake and gimmicky, still, I can't help but watch it. I have favorite wrestlers and I know their signature moves. It's embarassing that a well educated woman like myself actually is in love with this nonsense, yet here I am on a Monday night watching RAW. Tomorrow I will be watching ECW. Friday night, it will be Smackdown. Thursday it will be TNA Impact.

There is nothing complicated about wrestling. It's very easy on the eyes, not just because it is filled with hunky men in their underwear, but because it is mindless entertainment. There is nothing to think about. It's also a good opportunity to bond with my son.

However, tonight, my son is at his fathers house so I really have no excuse to be watching this right now. I rationalize it by saying, well, now I will have something to discuss with my son tomorrow. Lie. I truly enjoy watching it. I am trying but failing to keep this from my husband. He has begun calling me a redneck. (Of course, he just went to a monster truck show in the mud and thinks that THAT is a cool sport.)

Regardless of how fake it is, I still think these men are amazing atheletes. They still get hit and hurt even if it is a bit contrived. I appreciate their acting ability too. It's better than a lot of reality television.

Two months ago, I went with my son to a live match. I have been hooked ever since. The stadium is so loud. The pyrotechnics are amazing. The sweating, heaving bodies of these men are just...oh my. Hell, I even love watching the "divas" in their pillow fight matches.

It's a humiliating admission, but one I felt the need to get off my chest. I hope you all don't think less of me now.

I think it would be nice if you shared something embarrasing about yourselves now...why should you have the goods on me? Come on. Make it juicy.

Kill Me Now.

2008-01-15T23:36:00.000-05:00

Tell me. I need to know. What the hell happens to children when you tell them to go to bed? Suddenly they become thirst driven, shit machines that need to get a glass of water, go to the bathroom and tell you all about their fucking day even though they have been home for seven God damn hours already. I am ready to bang my head against the wall for the sheer joy of it. I don't understand it. Nicholas is 12. I love the kid. Truly I do. But, when it comes to bedtime...

(Oh lookee! There's my son again, standing at the doorway wanting to talk to me!)

See? I would love to have finished my sentence, but my son decides that 11:42 pm is the right time to talk to mommy about why kids pick on other kids.

Shall I wax the poetic to my son as I blog? Shall we get into this huge discussion now even though I have told him to go to bed since 10:30 tonight? Should I really indulge him and start to chat? I think not. GO TO BED, FUCKER.

Of course, I don't say that, but I think it really, really loud inside of myself.

This is why married couples don't fuck. Really. It's not for lack of want or lack of love. It is for lack of privacy between the hours of 6pm and 12am. I don't care what time you put your kid to bed. Invariably they end up asking for water, to pee, another kiss goodnight (which isnt bad, but when it becomes an excuse...it is highly annoying) or various other things. When the hell is a married couple supposed to fuck? How?

I would inquire further but the following is taking place now that it is 11:50pm.

"Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy." (This is being repeated over and over from the other side of the house. Mommy is trying to blog. Child is not allowing her to complete a thought.)

"WHAT???"

"Thank you!!!"

"FOR WHAT??"

"My new toy!!!"

*sighs*

"You're welcome, baby. Goodnight."

"Oh, and Mommy?"

*SIGHS* "Yes Nick?"

"Thank you for being such a good mommy."

"Thank you Nick. I love you."

"I love you too, Mommy. Oh, and Mommy??"

"Yessssssss Niiiiiiiiicck???"

"Can I get some more water, please?"

See? The little sucker got me again. He knows I was pissed off at his repeated attempts to stay up and then, got me with the good boy routine. He is diabolical. The child is a master of manipulation. Now I feel like shit. This is probably the feel he was going for without realizing it. Hm. How can I stay up, have a conversation with my mother...and make her feel REALLY bad for yelling at me to go to bed. Hm. I know! Let me thank her for the gift she bought me five hours ago! Let me tell her what a great and wonderful Mom she is! Then, when she finally feels like dogshit, hit her up for a glass of water! Yes!!! What a great idea! Hm. Let's implement it now and see how the old hag reacts!

I don't stand a chance.