Have you seen me lately?

Do you remember me? I scarcely do. I have been in a Percocet haze for the past week. CP blew out her knee. Yes indeedy. I have had a knee brace on for the past two weeks (it was on during the parade post too. You didn't seriously think I had tree trunks for legs now, did you? You did? Fuck you. That hurts.) Aaaaaanyway, it's gotten to the point where the pain is EXCRUTIATING. I mean, I am limping my way through life right now, in freakin' agony. I cannot do my patented "Diva Princess Walk" because I am doing more of this Quasi Modo Lean thing. So not hot. Very not sexy. Speaking of sexy, I hear that Mr. Faboo is up for the coveted "Sexy Male Blogger" award. That's spicy. I mean, when I think of Mr. Fab, the first thing that comes to mind is the urge to wash my floors. That's because he has that whole Mr. Clean thing going on. But then, shortly thereafter, I get the tinglies. You know, the kind that only a sexy, funny studmuffin like Mr. Fabulous can possibly provide. So, I would suggest voting for him. Go here. Now. Spread the love like gonorrhea in a whorehouse. It simply has to be done.

Now, speaking of having to be done...the Goddess of Love, Annie from "Smart At Love", sent me a link that made me feel several emotions. I felt shock. I felt appalled, but most of all, I felt the way you feel right before you have a severe bout of diarrhea. You know, you get all hot, flushed, the sweats, muscles start puckering up...and you tend to cringe, a lot. Now, I love Annie to death. Truly. And when she said to me that this post made her think of me...I wasn't sure if the lovefest between us should continue. But, then, she followed it up with an explanation:

"It's too off-topic for my blog, but it wouldn't be for yours."

Translation: My blog is pretty damn classy. We don't have these types of conversations over at my place. But here, where anything goes, I figured you could get downright piggish on the subject, without dragging me through the muck.

Ah, Annie. I tease only those I love. She's right. It IS very good fodder for my bloggie. So, let me begin with this:

When we have reached a point in society where Britney Spears is being revered as the new Virgin Mary in the argument for pro-life views, there is something REALLY REALLY wrong. Please tell me what the hell this is supposed to be?


Now, I have a few observations to make here. This "artist" did not sculpt Britney with her permission. He did it from a photo of her, and obviously not a photo of her birthing Sean Preston (aka: Cletus Jr.). Ms. Spears had a C-section. From what I understand, the crotch end of this statue bears the crowning glory of little Cletus shoving his way out into the world through the much desired Spears tunnel of love. Um, no. Second, does it look like Britney to you? I'm thinking Ashley Judd. Survey says...*TING* Yes. It does look more like Ashley Judd than Britney.

But, the main point of shoving this blatant horror before your eyes is to ask...how the hell do the Pro-Lifers see this as a monument to their cause? Yes, Ms. Brit did opt to have a baby over going on another world tour. But the fact of the matter is, her career was in a major decline. She was going nowhere fast. No one really remembers much about her except that schoolgirl outfit (which, incidentally, I have partaken in...with very unfortunate results). She had already done the 30 second marriage thing. That exhausted THAT publicity stunt. Then, she married a back up dancer. Oh my, so DONE already by J-Lo. Move on, please. What was left but to have a baby? So, in essence, she wasn't doing it because she is pro-life. She did it because she is pro-tabloid fodder! That is the ONLY justifiable reason for marrying Kevin (Cletus Sr.) Federline, right? Right? Oh Lord, please tell me that's the only reason. She couldn't have possibly fallen for that bucket of cow dung.

And already, people are up in arms over this statue. But, not for the obvious reasons. Rather, PETA is freaking the fuck out because The Britness is shown on a bear skin rug. Hello? We have a statue of Britney Spears, with her vagina splayed to the masses, a little persons head smashing through the hole, the asshole flared for all to see...and we are concerned about the depiction of the bear skin rug?

PETA does great work, but sometimes, they lose sight of the point.

The point is, Brit did not pose for this picture. Some asswipe with a little too much time on his hands opted to make her the poster child for Pro-Lifers. Even Brit has admitted to "not being thrilled" by the statue. Hello? THAT is the understatement of the year, kiddo. A zit before your wedding, not something to be thrilled about. Getting your period while in your favorite white capri pants? Another thing not to be thrilled about. Someone exploiting your vagina in bronze making you look more like you are about to take it doggy-style, sans lube, and portraying your son as the second coming of Christ? You know, that might put me in the "mildly pissed off" category.

I don't know about the rest of you, but I am going to douse my eyes with bleach and pray hard, good and hard, that no one ever sends me the remaining missing angle of that statue. Annie, you've been warned, sugar!

I shall retire back to my Percocet haze. Please send all get well cards through my agent. Maybe I will have my knee surgery (scheduled for April 13th) commissioned in bronze. Course, it will have to be in missionary position.

I can't see them making a statue of my knee surgery if I am on them, you know?

Alrighty then...

Now that THAT'S over with.

Whew. I don't know about y'all, but I could use a damn laugh.

Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

So, I went to the Chasco Fiesta this weekend. It's the welfare version of Gasparilla which in turn is the poor mans Mardi Gras.

Basically it's the celebration of some Indian dude boinking a Spanish chick while a priest looked on and gave direction.

"Yeah, a little more ass in that one, right, now...make love to the camera. Tonto, lift up Conchita's skirt. Nice. Nice. Now, Tonto, tickle her with your feathered headgear. Sweet. Conchita! What the hell are you doing? Say ten hail Mary's and pick that skirt back up. I need more ass in that one. I NEED MORE COWBELL."

Okay, so maybe that's not entirely accurate. I don't know.

Look it up.

Anyway, my office has a float in said parade. Now, I haven't been on a float since Homecoming circa 1984. Since then, my ass has grown to the size of a Macy's Day Parade balloon. Throw some strings on my extremities and throw me up in the air. Poof. You got yourself a Jewish Garfield floating down Fifth Avenue. Either that, or that blue chick in Willy Wonka. Either image will suffice.

We are all getting on this float, all the girls I work with, myself, our kids and all the "office husbands" *including the hotband*. We are decorating the entire float in beads. Now, I need to ask a question. I need an intelligent answer. I need someone with some insight here.

What the FUCK is it about beads that make people lose their ever loving minds, may I ask? We have people that drop down about 40 IQ points when they see a strand of plastic beads heading in their direction. Women are dropping their kids on the ground to be able to reach out and grab beads flying towards them. Men are diving over each other like a bunch of bitches in heat, trying to grab the brides bouquet. And the kids? They are the only rational ones, politely raising their hands.

We had the occasional 14 year old minx attempt to raise her shirt for some beads.

Um, no. When your entire body is the size of my nipple, you don't quite qualify for the "boobies for beads" trade off. Sorry. See you in 10 years on some Girls Gone Wild video. Hopefully, puberty will be kind to you by then. Next.

We are all throwing beads, sunscreen samples, moisturizers, pens *without removing any eyes, much to our credit* and whatever else we brought along with us. Needless to say, we all got a tad overzealous with the throwing. By the time we were halfway down the parade route...we had no more beads, no more samples. Nothing.

People do not take kindly to you passing them on your float and throwing nothing. They give you the finger. They yell out "YOU SUCK" as you pass by. You suffer terrible inferiority complex issues knowing that these filth mongers lining up for plastic beads now think less of you than the dirt on the bottom of their feet.

"What do we do," I ask the Office Manager.

"Start finding stuff to throw," she says.

And so, we start raiding everything we have on board. The snacks we brought on the float for the kids. The sodas and drink boxes we have. All our bottled water. The beads we have around our own necks. Whatever little samples of stuff we may have in our purses. These people were like savages, molesting our menial float, pillaging our poor rolling monstrosity of a float.

Finally, CP yells out..."The DONUTS! EVERYONE GRAB THE DONUTS!"

Twenty people on the float all turn toward me and stare.

"Well, y'all have a better idea? We are about to get ass-raped by these freebie zombies! If we don't start throwing something out, they are going to sink us like the damn Titanic!"

With that, CP grabs the multiple boxes of Dunkin' Donut Munchkins that we had brought onto the float for the kids. I'm hurling some chocolate glazed doody bomb lookin' donuts through the air. I am pitchin' me some powdered. I am sendin' some cinnamon soaring.

And ya know what? It's working.

These freakazoids are actually lining up at the guardrail to have this insane fat donut chick hurl munchkins into their mouths. Kids, grown-ups, even a few cops! They are all standing around like a bunch of baby birds, their mouths hanging open, just waiting for me to peg them in the face with a Munchkin! While I was doing that, we sent one of our little blonde cute nursies skippin' along the guardrail, handing out donuts. One nutjob actually begged for the donut right out of the hotbands mouth, for God's sake!

It was pure insanity. But, everyone was loving the munchkins. I mean, if you string a few of them together, I suppose they COULD be beads.

One woman...she jumped over her own kid to catch a jelly filled munchkin. She clasped her hands around it so hard, that the jelly blew right out of the ass end of the donut and spewed red goo all over this womans face. She actually cheered and raised her arms up in victory.

Yes. You win. You are officially the biggest loser at this parade. Congrats.

Anyhow, the fat chick saves the parade. And the prize? I get a huge ass hug from the hotband for saving him from having to see one more saggy breasted biker babe booby.

Oh, and we had these froot loops dressed up as *snorts* Pirates. I told this jackass that he doesn't hold a candle to our resident pirate, and my homeboy, Billy.

This wannabee in a do-rag told me that he would make me his wench. I told him I would lift up his skirt and make him my bitch. I think he believed that, because he scooted off toward the giggly blonde instead. Smart move, Pantywaist. You don't want a piece of me.

I'm a pretty sharp shooter with a Munchkin.

Getting throttled by a fat chick with a boxful of Munchkins will be a hard thing to explain to the boys back on the brig, don't ya think?

Epilogue: Beyond you.

I began writing this saga with the best of intentions. I did so with the hopes of healing myself of the wounds that never seem to heal. Yet, every word, every thought, every memory is like picking at a scab. Scratching at my own flesh, ripping the skin from my body, just to watch it bleed. Repeating this over and over and over, until I leave behind a permanent scar on my skin. Another blatant reminder that I repeatedly lost the battles. My vision in the mirror, a constant reminder that I won the war.

I am omitting so much detail that as I am writing this, I feel like I am letting myself down. I cannot talk about those final days, because frankly, there are no final days. Everyday is a struggle. Everyday means waking up to the possibility of encountering a hint of the cologne he wore, hearing a voice tinged with heavy New York accent that makes my hair stand on end. Everyday brings the possibility of having to say his name when I call a patient into a room. The potential that a hostile gesture from a man could reduce me to tears.

I am inundated with self-inflicted wound picking. Every day, a new scab to reopen.

And yet, I feel fortunate. I feel grateful, not only for surviving the situation, but for living through it. There is something about walking out on the other side that makes you feel almost goddess-like. It makes you feel untouchable. Invincible. You feel like you have cheated death, but you also forever feel like a pendulum is swinging mere inches above your head. At any second, the blade will fall, splitting you in two.

It means living two separate lives though you are one entity.

You may be alive, but you are never whole. Never complete. There is a constant nagging in the back of your mind.

What if he came back? What if he finds you? What if he appears at your door one day?

What if.

********************************

Well meaning people call me from time to time, with "Tony-sightings". They tell me where they saw him, who he was with, what he appeared to be doing. I feign lack of interest, but in truth, I want to know. If I could put a surveillance system on him to track his every move for the rest of one of our lives, I would.

Every day, I pray. I pray for one more day of freedom. Something ironic happens when you are released from the chains that bind you. You find yourself searching for the lock and key once more. You find yourself wanting to be found, just to end the eternal waiting game. You put yourself out there, so publicly naked, because you can no longer stand the wait. You tire so easily from living under the lens. No one is watching you, and then again, you feel all eyes are upon you. And you can't sleep peacefully. For years, you have trained yourself to sleep with one eye open.

I travel to New York quite frequently. It is everything I can do to not show up on his mothers doorstep and dare him over to me. I want it. I encourage it at this point, because I just want one of us to be gone. Preferably him.

Even now, as I lay in the safety and comfort of my new life, with my new husband who would never harm a hair on my head, I still sleep with one eye open. I wake constantly throughout the night. I look in closets; behind shower curtains and under beds before I feel settled in my own home.

There is no peace, there is no rest, for a living dead girl.

All I have is locked away in my damaged brain and every headache, every feverishly pulsing migraine is just Tony, banging away from the inside, dying to get out of the prison I have forged for him. He is trapped deep in the recesses of my mind, pounding the walls ferociously, repeatedly and without mercy. Though my outer body is healed, the inside of me is still a woman being battered on a daily basis. The scenario of that final day plays over and over in my mind.

Only this time, in my version of the story, the villain never forgot his wallet. My daughter and I were a million miles away before the sun ever set in the sky.

I get to choose the ending, in my version. And I chose the happily ever after.

********************

A well-meaning friend called me not too long ago to tell me that she heard he had died. Murdered.

While I always thought I would be thrilled out of my mind to hear that, I still cried. I cried from relief. I cried from anxiety. I cried for not being able to be the one who killed him. And, most of all, I cried, because I had failed him.

Flashback:

In 1991, after my recovery, he was brought up on charges of rape, assault and battery, attempted murder and kidnapping. He pled guilty to the lesser charges of assault and sexual battery. In exchange for this, he got time served for turning states evidence on Eric, who was wanted for drug sales and money laundering. Apparently, that rates higher in the State of New York than the near taking of a human life. He was to serve seven to ten years in Elmira Correctional Facility and Downstate Correctional Facility, both maximum-security prisons in Upstate, New York.

By his fourth year in prison, I received a very disturbing letter from a district attorney's office. Tony was up for parole early, due to good behavior and a conviction on Eric's drug trial. He was completely cooperative and they were rewarding him with, again, time served and concurrent sentences. I had remarried in 1993. I married a man who I was friends with since I was 19 years old. He was safe and I was in need of someone who would care for me. During our marriage, I suffered 5 miscarriages. I was desperate to have a baby. Part of me wanted to be able to prove that I could be a good mother and do the right thing by this child. Part of me just wanted to start over. I wanted my daughter to have a little brother or sister. I just wanted to feel human again, and nothing brings about feelings of immortality and longevity the way having a baby does. At the time the letter came, I was 3 months pregnant with my son. I was elated. The pregnancy was holding. I found out I was having twins. Twin boys. Boys I would raise as men. Boys who would treat their sister like the princess she is. Boys who would love and adore their mother, and pass that love for women onto their own girlfriends, wives and daughters some day.

Shortly after reading the letter, the cramps started. The pain was excruciating. I was losing my boys. I was sure of it. God was punishing me. I hated Him. I hated that He never let me live in peace and on that day, I severed my relationship with Him.

At five months pregnant, I got out of bed for the first time in two months. I went up to the parole hearing for Tony. I told them my story. I brought pictures. I brought testimony. I had Erica sign an affidavit attesting to everything she saw. I had my new husband with me. My parents were there. I had support.

And when I walked into the room for the parole hearing, I saw Tony again for the first time in four years.

I was alone in this room with Tony. Sure, there were two prison guards. There were five impeccably dressed people in suits and dresses. My attorney was to my left. But they weren't there. It was me and Tony, face to face. I could have chosen to not make eye contact, but I had to. I had to let him know, even if it were only through the most menial gesture, that I was beyond him. I had moved forward.

You didn't kill me, Tony. You didn't kill me.

I addressed the panel with the grace and diplomacy of a well-educated woman. I kept my hand on my ever-growing belly. I stroked my stomach, the safe womb where my boys slept peacefully. I wanted Tony to see me pregnant. I wanted him to see the wedding band on my left hand. I wanted to make sure nothing in this moment was lost on him. He would recognize that he did not break me. I didn't cry. I couldn't cry. I had nothing left in me. I told them about my new life, about the fact that my daughter and I were still in therapy. I told them that I still got night tremors and still rose before the sun came up, because I was still afraid of daylight. I told them how my daughter still has nightmares about the day Tony stole her from her classroom. He threw her into a fenced area where there was a junkyard being patrolled by attack dogs. They barked and snarled and growled at her as she curled into a fetal position and cried for her mother. Fortunately, the man who owned the junkyard was still on the premises when he heard the dogs going ballistic. He called them away from my daughter, saving her life. I had his name buried in the mounds of police paperwork I had accumulated over the years.

The parole board thanked me for coming. They told me they admired my strength and my courage. They told me that I should be very proud of myself. They promised me that I would never have to deal with anything like this from Tony (insert last name) for the rest of my life.

They lied.

In June of 1995, a mere 2 weeks after the hearing, it was deemed that Tony would be released after time served. They said the evidence was not enough to substantiate holding him for longer than that. He had managed to convince them that he "found God". I didn't doubt it. I had given up on God. No question in my mind that he would be the one to find Him...and it didn't surprise me that God chose him over me. My husband did his best to comfort me, but I was in hysterics. He would be released at the end of June.

We pulled up to our new residence in Florida on July 1st, 1995.

I did what I wanted to do so long ago. I ran. I took my babies, the one who was already here and those who had yet to be born and I ran. I cashed in every stock we had. I cashed in every savings bond. I begged for help financially from friends and family. I had to get out of the state of Florida.

"Why are you running? Do you really think he will come after you again? Don't you think he learned his lesson? Why would he go near you again? Don't you have a permanent restraining order against him?"

These are the questions I would constantly be asked. I would laugh maniacally at each and every one of them. I knew the answers.

The answers to all of those questions were in his eyes. I read all the answers during the parole hearing. His eyes said, "Give me one more day on the outside. One more day, and I will finish what I started. You put me here. You put me here. You put me here."

My life had moved forward while his stood still. And I know what it was like to feel the venom of being trapped. I wanted to kill him once upon a time. Now, the roles were reversed and I was taking no chances.

It was during this time that I received a phone call from Tony's sister, Carla. She wanted to meet me. She wanted to talk to me. I told her I couldn't do that. I wouldn't do that. She said that there was something that she thought I should know. I asked her to please tell me by phone. She did.

In 1988, Tony was arrested in the State of California for battering the ex girlfriend who murdered their son in that fateful car accident. I exhaled. She continued...
"Only, there was never a son, CP. Never."

"What? What the hell are you talking about?"

"The little boy that you saw a picture of? The son that died in the car accident? Adam?"

"Yeah."

"He's 13 years old now. He's perfectly fine. He lives in Albany, New York with his parents."

"But, Carla, there are pictures of him all over your house!"

"Yes, CP...because he is our NEPHEW. He's my cousin Denise's little boy."

"But, but Tony said never to mention him around your mother, because it makes her cry!"

"He told you never to mention him around my mother, because then my mother would have told you that Adam was Denise's son and that my brother was full of shit."

"How long have you known this," I said with a monotone voice.

"Since the day you told me that you went with Tony to go visit his grave. The grave that is on the other side of the cemetery from where my father is buried. You said you put flowers down on Dad's grave and then, you took a walk with Tony to where Adam was laid to rest. You said you did this with him almost every Sunday."

"There was a grave there, Carla. There is a marker."

"I know, CP. And the marker is there because Tony probably told you that he never had the money to buy a headstone for his son. Right?"

"Yeah."

"And you had to believe it, because my fathers grave doesn't have a stone either. We never put one up for him. My mother hated him. He used to beat our mother. So, any unmarked grave could become Adam's. Don't you think if that was his son, he would have buried him alongside my father?"

I threw up. Right there, in the middle of my living room, I threw up. He got me again. He ended up battering me again, one more time, without even being in the room.

"How long was he in prison for?"

"Two years, in California for assaulting Elizabeth."

"I see."

"CP, are you alright?"

"Why wouldn't I be alright, Carla? I'm fine. You chose to share this with me now. Great. Thank you. I hope your conscience is clear and you sleep better tonight."

"CP, I didn't mean to..."

"Carla, it's over. It's completely over."

"No, CP, it isn't. It wasn't over for Elizabeth either...until he met you."

I slammed down the phone. I finished packing our boxes. I got into the moving van with my husband and daughter, my cat and my very pregnant belly and headed down south.

Fast forward to now, right now.

It is 2006. I am the mother of a 19-year-old daughter and a 10-year-old son. My other son died in utero, October of 1995. Just another victim of this life I led. Both of my boys were very sick with holes in their hearts and malformed lungs. Broken hearts. Both of them. I mourned one while celebrating the birth of the other. The stress of losing a child tore my marriage up. Well, that...and a million other things. For example, my needing freedom. I needed to get out of a relationship. I suddenly had this desperate need to be on my own. And so, when I found myself handing over my son for open heart surgery to a nurse I also found myself calling an old friend.

God. Are you still there? It's me, CP. Look, I know I gave up on you. But let's be fair here. You did your fair share of turning your back on me too. I'm ready now, God. I am ready to come back to you, if you will still have me. I will make you a promise, right now, God. Right here, in the chapel of this hospital. Let my son live. Let my son live to see daylight. Let him have his life and I will give mine to you completely. I will give up law school and monetary need. I will volunteer. I will be charitable. I will help when anyone needs it. God, I will do anything you want. Just tell me. Tell me what you want and I will do it, just please...don't let my son die. Please. Please just give me that much.

He did. And He took me back. He forgave me. I forgave Him.

Slowly, my life came back together. I decided to follow the call of being a nurse. I handed my baby boy over to an angel of mercy. She was beautiful. All I remember were her eyes. The rest of her was shrouded in a gown and mask. But her eyes...they spoke to me. I am here to fulfill the promise you are about to ask for. You are safe now. I went to nursing school in 1999 and graduated with top honors. I also met the man who was to become my future husband. His name (which I will not reveal) means "miracle" in Hebrew. I believe that to be so. He is my miracle. And now, I am able to count my blessings. Moreover, I am able to give to others in remembrance and in honor of those who saved me along the way.

Erica, who testified on my behalf. The man in the junkyard. Pat, my next door neighbor who called the police for me countless times and saved me. The endless array of nurses who showered me with tenderness and care in the various emergency rooms I sat in all night. My parents for taking my daughter at the drop of a hat and in turn, probably sparing her more damage. My ex-husband who was the first person to treat me humanely after Tony. He suffered more than anyone did, because I was damaged goods by the time he married me. He knew my distrust of men. He knew I was angry. He knew I had a hair trigger temper and he dealt with my countless seizures now that I was an epileptic. Anna Marie, whose twice weekly therapy sessions saved my little girl.

But then, there were also the people I didn't know. The people who read about me in the local papers and set up a college fund in my honor. The people who donated clothing and food to me while I was hidden away in a women's shelter. The women who encouraged me to be strong when all I wanted to do was slit my wrists and find some peace. The doctors who stitched my wounds for free.

And, to every person who ever listened to me. Whether it was 15 years ago, or right now, on this blog. To read your words of validation and encouragement gives me the strength to be able to write these words down. It is a catalyst to healing...to be able to read your life in black and white and realize, "Jesus, that was me. I lived through this. I did this. I survived."

I still can't bring myself to watch movies about domestic violence. To me, they all pale in the reality of what really goes on behind closed doors. They seem too contrived, too soap opera like and every woman has a happy ending. It's not that way. My ending will be happy...when I get to it someday.

For right now, I am still living it. It is still a part of who I am. Mother, wife, nurse...

survivor.

For those of you who are curious, Tony is still alive. He is living in Long Island, New York with another woman whose name I do not know. I do know that this woman has a small daughter. I think I already know what his pick-up line was.

I pray for them everynight. Every single night.

And still, I wake every dawn, before sunrise, trying desperately to conquer my fear and no longer be afraid of sunlight. I still have nightmares. I can still smell his breath. I can still hear his voice. I still breakdown into a puddle of nerves and tears when I smell his cologne. Every night, before I go to sleep, I lock my doors. I check the closets. I look behind the shower curtains. It's a ridiculous ritual I go through, but I try to forgive myself for the little quirks and idiosyncrasies that are now a part of my world.

It's a small price to pay for the return of my life.

I have found out how much I can take. There is nothing more sobering than knowing how much you can handle. They say that God never gives you more than you can handle. I am not certain I believe that. There is a difference between getting through something and just handling it. But, I am learning. I am teaching my son how to be a man. I am teaching my daughter how to make sure a man respects her and treats her how she should be treated.

I am also teaching myself that it is never too late to start over. In telling this story, I hope I am reminding someone, anyone, of the very same thing.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming...

Part 4: Girl, interrupted.

We did talk. We talked until dawn. He didn't hit me. He didn't hurt me. Instead, he let me cry. He laid me on his lap, stroked my hair and let me cry. He didn't say a word. My greatest enemy was, now, my dearest friend. He was all I had. The same one who caused the wounds spent delicate hours cleansing them. There was a Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde syndrome here, but I was too tired, too battered and too defeated to analyze it. The nights that he knew he went too far were the most beautiful of times. The worse he behaved towards me, the more loving he became when it was through. He had murdered my dog. He had threatened my life. He left me to bleed. But, he also left my child alone. He left me with my life. He didn't hurt my family. He didn't hurt my friends. The confusion of abuse that was with me during the day would disappear at times like this.

Splayed out on the bed next to him, he would carefully wash away the pain. He would bathe me. Kiss me. Caress me. Hold me. He would tell me how beautiful I was. How horrible of a human being he was. He would cry, beg me to forgive him. The very same hands that strangled me, punched me, backhanded me would be the same hands that would stroke my hair for hours. These hands would gently wipe the dried blood from my skin. These hands would hold me so close, cradling me until I slept. And when I slept, he would leave me alone. He would leave me in repose. Sometimes, I would pretend to still be sleeping long after I had woken up, just to keep the moment frozen. I never wanted to move. Movement would mean starting a new day, and I had grown afraid of sunlight. It was a never ending vicious cycle. I loved him and I hated him. He felt the same about me, I'm certain. Then again, maybe this was the way he loved. I don't know. I suppose I never will.

There is more. So much more. Just when I think I have recalled it all...my diary reminds me of what a short memory we have and just how deep we can suppress the very things that will hurt us to remember.

With every page that I turn in my diaries, I can recall every detail. I know what I was wearing. I know what he was wearing. I can smell his cologne from time to time, lingering in the pages of the books I held so dear to me for all these years. I have saved pictures. I kept pictures of him, of me, of us. I can't throw them away, because I fear in doing so, I am ready to forget. I don't think I can allow myself the luxury of forgetting, lest I ever become so jaded as to believe this man was never a part of my life. Never a part of who I am. Who I became. In some insane way, I will always have a connection to him that runs very deep. It is a bond that will always strangle me. In loving this person, I found other emotions that I never knew existed within me. Fear. Rage. Courage. Countless other emotions. Each one of them contained on the pages of a tear stained diary. Pages bent over, dog eared, from continuous reading. The need to go back through them now and again and remind me of what I have done...and what was done to me.

When I read these books now, I feel like I am reading about someone else. I don't recognize this woman. I don't know this girl who cowered in fear. I have no clue who this woman is. She doesn't look like me. In all of these pictures, I am bruised and defeated. I am wearing too much makeup, covering my war wounds. My smile is false and my eyes are hollow. She doesn't sound like me either. Her words sound contrived, like, whoever she was, was hoping to get "caught" writing in diaries. She wanted this monster, this animal who tortured her to read all her real thoughts. She hoped he would find a soul within himself, realize the error of his ways and repent for them.

Of course, that day would never come.

These books lived in the depths of my daughters' toy box for years. It is where I stashed a few extra dollars. This is where I stashed a second set of birth control pills when I found out he was dropping mine down the sink drain from time to time. This is where I kept "evidence", the copies of police and hospital reports, pictures of my bruises that I would take while facing a mirror and his countless letters of apology...one for each and every time he brutalized me. It was my safe spot. And in the end, it was all I had left.

The day I left him, for what would be the last time, I was prepared to die. If you can ever be "prepared to die", I was. It was a peaceful feeling, actually. It was like those people in Hospice care. They are in their beds, pumped full of morphine to take away the pain. They said their last goodbyes to everyone and made peace with themselves and God. That's how I felt. I was an earth dwelling angel just needing to go Home. I was ready to end my life in order to save my daughter from one more day of watching her mother be beaten, burned and bitten. I couldn't let her see this anymore and if it meant I would never see her grow up, I was ready for it. Bring it on.

It was a moment of clarity that raced through my body like an ounce of cocaine.

I was, at long last, ready to leave him.

I tried numerous times before, but never quite like this time. I tried, and my dog was murdered. I tried again, I was beaten relentlessly. I tried again, I was gang-raped by Tony, Eric and two other cohorts I still do not know to this very day. I tried again, my daughter was stolen from her kindergarten class. Every single time, it was the same.

"Do it again. Do it once more, and watch what happens, CP."

But now, I was already dead. What did I have to lose?

It was well thought out. A full year of compiling spare change it amounted to nearly seven hundred dollars. I had a duplicate car key made from the spare. I had no intention of taking a suitcase. All I needed to take was my child. Nothing more. At 2pm, Tony would leave for work. He was a dispatcher at a cab company. Eric and Erica had long since moved out of our lives. Erica was pregnant. Tony's baby? Eric's baby? Someone else's? Who knows. She aborted it and got out of the situation. Guess she wasn't so stupid after all. My house had already been foreclosed upon and Tony, S. and I were living in his mothers' basement. My daughter, now five, was home "sick".

"She's running a fever, Tony," I lied to him that morning. "I need to keep her home from school today."

"So?"

"So, I'm just telling you."

"Fine, whatever. Just make sure you don't pull any bullshit."

I knew what he meant by that remark.

My heart stopped in my chest. I tried to be careful not to swallow hard, but I did. I started to cough a bit, to cover up the hard swallow and the shocked expression that I felt was on my face.

"What do you mean, bullshit? What bullshit?"

"Don't use her being sick as an excuse not to clean up around here."

"No, babe. I won't do that. Promise."

"That's my good girl. Give Daddy a kiss."

And I kissed him, for what I prayed would be the last time ever.

Two o'clock couldn't come fast enough. I watched the clock. It was getting hard to convince S. to stay in her bed the whole day. She wasn't sick. She wanted to get up and play. She wanted to watch her Disney videos in the living room. I told her she couldn't and that it was very important that she stays in bed.

"Why, mama," she asked me. "Are you going to get hit again?"

The question was innocent enough. It hit me like a ton of bricks. My daughter, my precious angel has realized that beatings were a part of her mothers' life. It was as common and as ordinary as asking me for a drink of water. Are you going to get hit again. Again. Again. The sound of her little voice asking me that question, in a hushed whisper tone, will haunt me for the rest of my life. The guilt that accompanies it will never allow me to feel like I was a good mother to her. Even now, fifteen years later, I blame every error in judgment that she ever makes on the fact that she bore witness to me being beaten. Fortunately, there hasn't been many. Yet.

"No, babygirl. Mama's not getting hit again. No one is getting hit ever again."

"Promise, Mama?"

I nodded, unable to say the words "I promise". I knew I would be lying. I couldn't answer that for sure. I know it was what I was shooting for. I know that it was hopefully the end result of my carefully planned escape. But, there was always the possibility of failure. I feigned optimism for my daughter, because it was all I had left to give her. Hope. Hope was all there was right now. Hope, and a carefully executed plan.

After what seemed an eternity, 2 o'clock arrived. Tony kissed me goodbye on my cheek. I gave him a hug. A long hug. And, as I hugged him, I inhaled deeply. I suppose I was hoping to inhale some of his strength, some of his power. I never wanted to forget this moment. It would be mine to relish forever if all went right. It would be mine to regret forever if all went wrong.

"Ooh," he laughed, "is my girl horny or something? You wanna fuck around before I go?"

Damn.

"I want to, Tony, but if you are late, you're gonna get fired, right?"

"No I won't," he said, grabbing a handful of my right tit.

"MOMMMMMMY!!!"

Divine intervention. The interruption of a child. When we are finally free, S., I owe you the biggest banana split in the world for this. Thank you, God. Thank you.

"Coming honey," I yelled down the hall to my daughter. "Tony, can I get a rain check? Hm?"

"You got it, babe," he said, slapping my ass. "Tonight. No interruptions, alright? We'll take her to your mothers house."

"Yeah, no interruptions. Got it."

Another quick kiss and he was gone. Anyone observing this scenario would have never believed that I was a woman who had lived through nearly three years of torture at the hands of this man. No one would believe all the nights I was strangled within an inch of my life. No one would believe that this couple was anything but elated.

We were actors. We were onstage 24/7. And this, this was to be the final act. Show over. The curtain call. There would be no encore.

I waited for the 2:30 phone call, telling me that he got to work and I am not to answer the phone or the door for anyone.

"No phone calls, you got it?"

"Yes Tony. I've got it. No phone calls. I won't call anyone."

"Good. See ya later, babe."

I hung up the phone and ran to my daughters room. My heart was beating rapidly, wildly. I was scarcely able to catch my own breath. I dug through my daughters toy box. I grabbed the plastic garbage bag that contained my diaries, my pictures, my important papers and of course, the money I had squirreled away for so long. I fished around in the bag for the key to the car. The car was mine. It was in the driveway. I was Tony's personal chauffer, because his license was revoked. He got to work by cab, because the cab rides were free. After all, he was the dispatcher. But, he also had my only car key. At some point, a few months earlier, the opportunity to copy that key presented itself to me. I took it, took it as a sign as well. It's time for me to go. I found little signs of hope everywhere I chose to look. Yes, it was time and today was the day.

"Let's go, babygirl." I fumbled with her nightgown, putting her in some street clothes. My hands wouldn't stop shaking. This was it. This was going to be it. Do or die.

"Where are we goin', Mama?"

"You know, baby. I don't know. Hopefully on some wonderful adventure far away from here."

"Are we taking Daddy with us?"

Daddy. That would be the first thing to go once we were safely tucked away somewhere far from here. He forced her to call him "Daddy". I hated it. I cringed every time she said. it. It made me want to vomit. Just another reminder of how deeply I had failed this child in her five short years on this earth.

"No baby. We aren't taking Tony. It 's just going to be you and me. Doesn't that sound fun?"

"Yes Mama! It does!" Her beautiful brown eyes were alight. Yes, there it was. The hope I was seeking. The promise of a new day, a new life was right there, in my daughters eyes. "Can I take Bee with me, Mama?"

Bee was her stuffed toy that lit up in the dark. I had told her that when she was scared from all the yelling and screaming, just give Bee a hug, and he would light up and make her see that things weren't so scary. "Yes babygirl. Grab Bee. Let's go."

"Mama, do we need our clothes? What about my toothbrush?"

"Nope, we don't need anything, honey. Mama will buy you all new everything. We will go shopping together. Doesn't that sound fun! We'll eat ice cream all day long too. We'll eat it in bed! We will drop towels all over the house and not clean up our toys, whaddya think, kiddo?"

"I like it, Mama."

"Let's go."

And that was it. It was done, life in motion. The end of the vicious cycle. I put my daughter into her car seat in the backseat of the vehicle. I was buckling her in. She kissed my cheek. I kissed her round, pretty pink lips. I stood up and shut the door to the car.

Just in time to see the cab pull up.

Tony got out of the cab. He stared at me. I stared back at him. Really stared, defiantly for the first time. I got this far. I wasn't going to turn back now. No fucking way.

"I forgot my wallet," he said casually. "I called the house. You didn't answer. What are you doing?" He looked in the car window at S. buckled into her car seat.

"I said, what are you doing?"

"We're going away, Daddy," said S. from the backseat. "Only me, mommy and Bee though. Okay, Daddy? Just us."

"Oh," he said, with a chuckle. "Just you, Mommy and Bee, huh? No room for Daddy?"

"No Daddy. We're going shopping. And we are going to get messy and eat ice cream. I didn't even have to take my toothbrush." She giggled with delight, no realization that her words were as potent as a match striking wood. A fuse was lit. There would be no turning back now.

"Sounds like fun, honey. Yep. Sure does," he said to her, staring at me all the while. "So, where's your clothes."

"Didn't take any," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

"What? No clothes? You need clothes, babe. You have to take your things."

"No, really. Tony. It's not necessary. Really, we're good."

"You sure? C'mon, lemme get you a few things," he said. "You can't just leave with the clothes on your back, right?"

I eyed him suspiciously. His face seemed so open, so genuine, so much like the moment he led me up the stairs two and a half years earlier...and snapped my hand in half. I was too scared, too shaken to the core to notice the similarity.

"Sure, Tony, and hey, um...thanks."

"For what, kiddo? You're not happy here, right? I mean, obviously, you're not happy, no? So what, I'm gonna make you stay? You're miserable. Right? So, you gotta go. Lemme go get you some of your things. At least lemme get you and the kid a jacket, right?"

It was August. Warning, warning. Something is not right. Houston, we have a problem.

"Sure Tony."

"You'll wait then?"

"Yeah, Tony. I'll wait."

A smarter woman would have driven away.

I turn my back. I look into the backseat and see my daughters' bright and smiling face. She is the happiest I have seen her in years. She is squeezing Bee tightly to her chest and laughing sweetly. This is pure rapture. We are free. We are finally...

The sound of shattering glass and the screams of my daughter fill the quiet street. The back windshield of the car imploded, dumping shards of glass all over my little girl. She is screaming "My eyes, Mama, my eyes!"

I look up just in time to see the baseball bat in Tony's hands making contact with my skull. Everything goes black. Everything disappears. Everything gets quiet.

I am dead. I am positive I am dead. And, in the grave next to me, all my dreams.

****************************

I hear them whispering. The bells, buzzers and beeping is hurting my head. I can't see. I hear words now and then. "Tragic", "Hemorrhage", "Blind", "Coma".

Who the hell are they talking about? What in fuck is going on here?

"Wake up, Mommy."

I AM up, baby! Don't you hear me? I'm awake!

"Mommy," I hear her say again, softly. "Mama, wake up. Please wake up."

I feel her soft hair, silky skin and hot tears on my arm.

I can't baby. I want to wake up, but I can't. Where am I? Where are we? Is this heaven, S.? I can't see anything. I can't feel anything. S., help mommy. Tell them I can hear them. Help me, please, baby girl. I hear them. I hear you. Don't give up on me. Please.

"Mommy will wake up soon, S.," It was my mothers voice. "She's just very tired. But she'll wake up, soon honey."

What the hell kind of joke is this? Are you kidding? Mom! I'm right here! I hear you! I am talking to you! Don't you hear me? God, what the hell have you done to me now? WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU DONE TO ME NOW????

******************************

Fifteen years later, and I still suffer daily with the final gift Tony left with me with. I am an epileptic now, my brain damaged from the repeated blows I took to my head during his final rampage. Years of migraines, seizures, pain and post-traumatic stress disorder have plagued me.

And still, there is more. So much more. So many details that still float in my head, never quite making it to my fingertips. Still so much more to be said about those final weeks and somehow, I can't manage to get them out of me.

There will have to be a part five. There will have to be an epilogue after all.

I can't finish this now. I just can't.

To be continued, one last time. Forgive me.

Part 3: Queen of the Lies.

I became quite adept at fooling nurses. I appeared in emergency rooms in eleven different towns all over Long Island, New York. Tony was careful to keep a log on which hospital I went to during which shift. I made sure that I never registered under the same name at any two hospitals. I bounced between my maiden last name, my adoptive last name, my former married name and of course, Tony's last name. I made sure I was always a "self-pay" patient.

If nothing else, keeping a secret keeps you clever, inventive and always one step ahead of the people you are keeping the secret from.

And, when some overzealous nurse would get a little too close, when she would hint that she was aware of how I received my injuries...I would laugh at her. Are you joking, Miss? Do you realize I can have your job for that sort of slander? How dare you suggest that my husband would do such a thing to me!

I was the Queen of Indignant Lies. Long may she reign.

The abuse got increasingly worse over the next two years. He was cautious with his beatings, careful to make sure that my bruises were always in places that my clothes covered. His favorite place to batter me was my skull, because my long, thick dark hair would cover any lumps and bumps. He delighted in rendering my unconscious and took special care to tell me about the way he would abuse me in my coma like state. He would abuse me sexually when I was knocked out. He even went so far as to take rather explicit photographs of me in various stages of undress while I was unconscious. The one he particularly loved was a photo of my face, post masturbation session...the remnants of the successful endeavor spewed all over my face. He had a friend who worked at a Fotomat booth (for any of you old enough to remember those) and he would develop his pictures for him...free of charge. Tony would tell him to "make copies of your favorites". I would sit in the car, a bag of trash taking up space. My spirit, my soul and my body were all crushed. Any self-esteem that I had was gone. My sole purpose on this planet was whatever Tony told me it was.

In essence, I was a true living dead girl.

At the height of my humiliation is an experience so heinous, that it brings bile to my throat just to think about it. As I type this, I have a bowl next to me, should I suddenly have to throw up.

Enter Eric and Erica. Yes, those are their real names.

Eric was Tony's best friend, a pseudonym for "co-defendant". If there was trouble, you can be assured that Tony and Eric were in it, together. Eric began to date a girl named Erica, a young, fresh-faced blonde. I recall thinking that she was incredibly beautiful and incredibly stupid all at the same time. Yet, who was I to talk? Here I was, a mother, 26 years old, two college degrees, a homeowner...and being beaten on a weekly basis by an animal who was scarcely worth the shit on the bottom of my shoes. I had a brand new definition of stupid. It was me.

One night, Eric comes to Tony and tells him that he and Erica got kicked out of his parents house and can he please come and stay at HIS house. His house? Yes, I suppose it was now his house...as the mortgage was no longer being paid, he had stolen every dime I had and the house...my sweet castle of hope for me and my little princess...was now falling into default. Yes, it was no more my house than my life was my own. Everything was Tony's. Everything and everyone. "Sure you can stay here," he said. "We'd love to have you guys, right CP?"

Yeah. Sure. More people to cook for, clean for and be humiliated in front of.

Great.

Flashback: Several months earlier.

*******************************

Ever see the movie, "Sleeping with the Enemy" with Julia Roberts? I cannot tell you how accurately that movie depicted my life with Tony. I was a slave in my own home. The towels had to match and be lined up straight. The cans in the cabinet of vegetables were to be faced label out and in alphabetical order. I had to buy fresh flowers every other day. Dead flowers were unacceptable and must be removed from the bouquet at once, lest their disease destroy the other flowers. My daughter could not have her toys anywhere else but her own room. Anything of hers that was anywhere else in the house was to be put in the garbage. His clothing was to be put in the closet in color order. Blues with blues. Reds with reds. Blacks with blacks. Everything on hangers and yes, to sound like a complete cliché, no wire hangers...ever. I was so diligent in my duties that I never felt human. I had a schedule. I clung to that schedule like my life depended on it. I suppose it did. The rare times that S. *my daughter* would leave a stray Lego piece in the living room, I would stand on it, barefoot, just to cover it from his view until he passed. The piece would gouge my foot deeply, hurting my foot...but the wrath that would have been released on me over allowing the child to play in the living room was worth the pain I endured.

I recall one time so vividly. Tony had stepped on one of my daughters toys. It was a small Happy Meal toy from McDonalds. Apparently, it wounded his delicate foot. He was in a red terry cloth bathrobe I had bought him a year earlier. He came at her like a bull, charging in her direction. He, an enormous 250 pound red rock. She, all of 30 pounds at 4 years old. He looked at her so violently as he cursed his way across the room. It was the first time I felt alive again in nearly a year. I sprang up from the chair in the kitchen and got in front of him. And I pushed. I pushed with all the strength I had in me. I pushed with all the violence I had in my heart and my head, with all the contempt of a beaten woman. I pushed him with urgency, a mother protecting her baby.

He stumbled backward and fell upon the couch.

"Stay the fuck away from her, you pussy. You have to hit little girls too, you fucking animal?"

I grabbed a butterknife off the kitchen table. It was all I could see, it was all that was accessible, but it would suit my purpose for now. I was absolutely enraged, but my body was coursing with adrenaline and it was pumping through me, keeping me awake and alive. I felt my little girl clinging to my left leg and hiding behind me. No. I would absolutely NOT allow this. He will not ever touch my baby. I will die defending this little girl. She never asked for this and before he will touch one hair on her head, I would kill him.

He stood up. He was laughing. Hard. I wasn't. I wasn't smiling. I wasn't joking.

He started to walk towards us. His robe had fallen open revealing his bare stomach. He reached out toward me, shoving me. I fell over my daughter and onto the floor. I slid my little girl behind me and kept my body over hers. He lurched forward to startle me, to scare me. To dare me.

I stuck the blade of the butterknife into his stomach.

He backed away from me, touching his stomach. He was watching the blood ooze from the wound. His fingers toyed with the gash, swirling the blood over his belly. He put his hands out in front of him. They were covered in blood.

Dear sweet mother of God, what the fuck have I done? What the fuck have I done? I'm sorry, S. I failed you. He is going to kill me. I've failed you. I'm so sorry.

He raised his eyes to meet mine. We stared at each other for a long time, the knife glistening on the floor between us. Tony walked over to the kitchen sink. He picked up the spray nozzle and squirted it all over his stomach. The blood made patterns, red trails down his waist, down his legs. He patted the wound with a paper towel and stared down at it.

"Don't be scared, baby," he said to me, "It's just a fleshwound. I'll be fine. I love you, CP. I love when you get crazy, you know that? It's sexy."

He smiled at me. I remembered that smile. It was the same smile that he baited the hook with a year earlier. It was the smile that said "Be with me, I'll take care of you forever".

It was the smile that lied to me. And I couldn't help but to smile back at him and the irony of it all.

*******************************

So, when Eric and Erica moved in, I was grateful that at least, I would have an ally in Erica. I was hoping that I would suffer less at Tony's hands, now that there would be tangible witnesses to his abuse. The more the merrier. At least I might have a captive audience, in the case of my sudden disappearance or demise.


I was wrong. On all counts.

Erica turned out to be the silliest twit on the planet. She had taken to walking around my home topless, much to Tony and Eric's delight. And I eventually became a slave to three masters as opposed to just one. One evening I came home from work to find Tony and Eric having a threesome with Erica. No one jumped from the bed and attempted to cover the indiscretion. I was invisible. My heart sunk in my chest. No matter what, no matter how dire your circumstances are, there is something so degrading about seeing the man you are with in the company of another woman. Even if you hate that man, even if you wished him dead on a daily basis...to see him treating another woman with such tenderness and care while treating you with such disdain and ugliness hurts regardless.

Their threesomes became more and more frequent. Sometimes, I was called in at the tail end of their sessions to get them a towel to clean up with or a drink of water. I did so, gladly. When they would light up a joint and smoke it together, I was thrilled. I know they would get so stoned that they would all fall asleep together. This time was invaluable to me. On these nights, I would curl up with my daughter in her bed and read to her all night long. We would play shadow puppets together. We would giggle softly and play Barbie's, very quietly, not wanting to wake the beast.

Is it evil of me to secretly wish that Tony would have attempted *but not succeeded* to go after my child again? Not because I wanted him to harm her. Never that. Rather, I always believed in my heart that if he HAD attempted to go after her one more time, instead of me, it would give me the strength, the fuel I needed, to be able to kill him. I came so close once before. So close. If we had only had steak for dinner as opposed to bagels for breakfast, he was one piece of cutlery away from death that day. I could do it again. I would do that for my child. I didn't care enough about myself any longer to do that for myself.

The fantasies became positively orgasmic. Dreaming of killing him was my foreplay.

One night, during one of their sessions, I got the idea to leave. Not permanently, mind you, but just long enough to see my parents, perhaps have a meal and get some sleep in my old room at my folks house. I was desperate for sleep. I hadn't eaten in what seemed to be weeks. And so, I took my daughter and we walked along the highway for a few blocks before stopping at a payphone. I called a cab. I didn't dare start my own car that was sitting in the driveway. I was afraid of rousing any of them. I got to my parents house, put on my best "game face" and went in. The relief washed over me like a warm wave of ocean water enveloping me. My daughter was finally able to run, squeal, laugh and leave her toys everywhere. I ate...and ate...and ate some more. Then, I went into the living room and slept on the couch until the next morning. My parents put S. to bed in their room.

For twelve hours, all was right with my world. We were safe.

My parents drove us home the next day. They offered to keep S. at their house for the night. I knew there would be hell to pay for my little escapade so I took them up on their offer. My daughter was delighted to spend the night at her grandparents. For a brief second, I thought of killing myself. Just a fleeting moment. Long enough to know that if I was gone, my daughter would have a better life than what I am giving her. Long enough to realize that I was too much of a coward to take such a brave step. I kissed my baby goodbye, thanked my parents and went into my house. No one was home. I exhaled...and went up to my room to take a shower.

In the privacy of my shower, with the silly turtle shower curtain, I cried. I cried so hard that I choked. I cried until I broke blood vessels in my eyes. I cried so hard that through my tears, I could see the turtles crying with me. The little droplets of water that fell on the shower curtain looking like teardrops rolling down the cheeks of turtles in various stages of dance. "Run," they said to me through their tears, "run and never look back."

I jumped out of the shower. I threw on some clothes. I packed one suitcase with some clothes for my daughter and I. Run. I was going to listen to the turtles. I was going to run. I was going to run fast and far and never look back.

I grabbed my suitcase, grabbed my spare car keys and lugged my suitcase out to the garage where my car was parked.

And then, I covered my mouth and screamed. I screamed over and over again.

From the window of my garage, I could see him. I was met with the sight of my dog, Shadow, hanging from a tree limb. His tongue lolled out of the side of his mouth. His eyes were wide open, huge and the blood vessels in his eyes were broken as well. He was hanging from a sheet that I recognized to be one of my own. He swung in the winter wind, his nose decorated with tiny icicles. His body was stiff. His mouth was pulled back in a grimace. He almost looked like he was laughing. Or screaming. I walked over to him. I stroked his fur.

"I'm so sorry, Shadie-boy," I said out loud. "I'm so sorry."

Defeated, I walked back into my house, leaving my suitcase on the ground, next to where my beloved German Shepherd swung from a tree limb. I walked directly to the answering machine, its flashing light beckoning me to press play, press play, press play.

Message: "Hey babe, it's me. I was wondering where you were this morning. You weren't here when I got up. We missed you this morning. By the way, I haven't been able to find Shadow. I called him a few times, but he never came. You haven't seen him have you, babe? Anyway, I'll be home tonight. Page me if you need anything. Love you, Gorgeous. Make something amazing for dinner, alright?"

I never heard the messages that followed. I threw the answering machine across the room. I picked it up over and over again, smashing it into the wall. I beat on the smaller pieces with my fists until my hands bled. Out of frustration, out of anguish, out of desperation and out of hope, I mercifully fainted on the kitchen floor and didn't wake up again until the steel toe of Tony's construction boot tapped me in the jaw lightly.

"Hey. HEY. CP. Get up, babe. We need to talk."

To be continued....

Part 2: Keep your eyes on the road.

It would be five months before Tony would strike me again.

Five dreamy, fun-filled months. I was at the point in my relationship with Tony where I truly believed that wedding incident was a one time thing. It happened. Okay. Water under the proverbial bridge. He was hurting. He lashed out at the person closest to him. I was on the brink of forgetting. Forgiveness was already granted the same night.

The next five months were candy coated rainbows. You know the deal. The "honeymooon phase" was back in full swing. Psychological warfare was being waged and the enemy was setting up camp in my bedroom. Hindsight being what it is, I should have seen it coming. I didn't.

I took my eyes off the road.

We were driving down a main road in Long Island. We had a particularly great morning. I had skipped out of work, which I found myself doing quite a bit at Tony's request. It was so hard to deny him anything. He would roll over in the morning, snuggle me and rub his nose between my breasts like an affectionate puppy. "Call in sick today, baby," he would say. "I can't, hon. I'll get fired," I would reply with a giggle, knowing that this banter was merely protocol. I had no intention of going to work. My boyfriend, this dreamy little slice of heaven, wanted me at home, with him. Irresponsible? Without a doubt, but I wasn't interested in responsibility so much as I was interested in fulfilling this mans every dream. This mindset would eventually be my downfall, my demise. The honeymoon phase was in full effect and nothing was going to rouse me from it. Nothing, until this November afternoon.

As we are driving along, Tony casually says, "Will you look at that dick? He's all over the road." Natural response for a human being would be to look over at what he was talking about. And being human, I did. I looked over at the person he was talking about. I looked over long enough to ascertain that it was a middle aged male driving a red car. Nothing more. I couldn't see anything, so I craned my neck forward in my seat, and looked out the window again.

"Are you going to stare at him all day," Tony said.

"No. I just couldn't see who you were talking about," I answered.

"Oh."

We pull up to the Casa de Las Princesses, now complete with a King, and go inside to enjoy another carefree romp in the hay before my daughter came home from pre-school. My beautiful King took my hand and started to lead me up the stairs. With each step, his smile broadened. My pulse quickened. He took my breath away. Literally. We reached the top of the landing.

"Sweetheart," he said, my hand still lovingly entwined in his.

"Yeah, baby?"

All of a sudden, a jolt of pain, like rampant electricity, hot and searing, ran up the length of my arm. I was falling. Falling and screaming. It all happened so quickly that it felt nearly surreal, as though I was watching it on a really bad Oxygen channel movie. In one swift move, he had bent my fingers all the way back, so far back that four out of my five fingers had broken in half, breaking the skin. I dropped to my knees in pain when he raised his leg and kicked me off the top landing of the staircase. My hand was in such excruciating pain that the fall was a welcome distraction. I smacked my head into the oven that was at the base of the staircase, just inside the doorway of our kitchen. He stood at the top of the stairs, hands on his hips. I looked up at him, my eyes blurry from tears and the agony of my hand marring my vision.

"That," he said with a casual lilt to his voice, "will teach you not to stare at other guys when you are with me. You are completely disrespectful, you know that, honey? Do I deserve that kind of treatment from you? Do I look at other women when we are out together?"

I didn't answer him.

"Well? DO I???"

"No. You don't."

"Then why the hell do you think it is okay to do it to me," he roared. "Maybe now, you'll think twice about it. Fucking whore."

He disappeared off the top landing. I heard the water in the bathroom turn on. He was running a bath. I sat at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the stove, not moving. I was barely breathing, too afraid to make any noise that will attract attention back towards me. I sat there. It seemed like hours, but it was mere minutes. I heard him in the bath, humming to himself.

Fucking whore. He called me a fucking whore. He set me up. He set me up to be a fucking whore. He wanted me to look. He wanted a reason. He needed a reason...

The sound of his voice lulled me out of my reverie.

"CP?"

I didn't answer.

"CP, where are you, babe?"

Again, I didn't answer. I assumed that any answer would be the wrong answer. I didn't want to say the wrong thing. I didn't want to be punished again. **punished? is this fear? is this what fear feels like?**I hear the bathwater sloshing about and Tony grumbling under his breath. He appeared at the top landing, naked and wet.

"Didn't you hear me?

"Yes, I did."

"And you didn't bother to answer me?

"I'm sorry." **why are you saying you're sorry? why are you saying you're sorry? why? because you're scared right now, that's why.**

"Get up here, babe. Come talk to me while I'm in the bath."

"My hand hurts, Tony. I think it's broken."

"'Course it's broken, jerkoff. I broke it. Come up here and talk to me while I'm in the bath. Come on. Come wash your face, babe. You look terrible."

And mindlessly, with the blank affect of a Stepford wife, I slowly raised my body from the floor and walked up the stairs. He had already settled back into the bath by the time I got there.

"Do you understand what happened," he queried.

"Yes. You broke my hand," I said, the mildest amount of venom tainting my reply.

"No baby. YOU broke your hand. You slipped and fell while you were bringing the laundry downstairs to the washing machine. Your hand hit the corner of the stove and broke it on impact, okay?"

"What? What are you saying?"

"Do you want to go to the hospital?"

"Yes."

"How much?"

"Very much," I whimpered, trying to hold back the steaming heated tears in my eyes.

"Then if you want to go to the hospital, this is your story. If you tell them how it really happened, I will go to jail. Do you want that?"

Hmmm. Do I want that? Let's see...I'll take Masters of the Obvious for $500, Alex. Yes, I did want that. More than anything. That's what my head wanted. That's what my heart wanted. My mouth, however, opted for the road less traveled...the road of self-preservation.

"No."

"Good. Then as soon as I get done in here, we'll go to the hospital. Alright? Wash your face and wipe the blood off your forehead. How the hell did you get blood on your forehead anyway?"

"I hit the corner of the oven."

"Hm. That sucks. You're gonna have a scar I bet."

Oh yes, Tony. I'll have a scar alright. The first of dozens more that will follow in its path shortly thereafter. The first four broken bones of the thirty-three in total that will be broken over the next two years. Oh yes, Tony. I will have scars. Some of them you won't ever see. Some of them will appear fifteen years after I got away from you. They will appear in the form of a "blog", where I can bleed in peace, without you wallowing in your caveman pride. Many scars, Tony.

Each one of them, a little deeper than the last.

To be continued...

The saga begins: A Four Part Story.

In 1991, I found myself without a home.

You would say to yourself, how? How can this be that in these United States, a 25 year old woman, with two college degrees, could find herself without a place to live?

I wondered that myself.

In 1989, I married a man who was very loving and sweet. He was also an alcoholic and I quickly ascertained how I had very little tolerance for a man whose addiction served him better than I did. We divorced 3 months later. It was a move for the better. I bought a home, something I couldn't do with his monstrosity of a credit report. My daughter, who was three years old at the time lived well in this home. It was small, but it was only she and I. We loved our little "castle". Casa de la princesses, I used to call it.

I met the man who was soon to destroy my life shortly thereafter. His name, at least in this essay, will be Tony. He was everything I could have ever dreamed of. He was strong, large build and fiercely protective of me. He was smart and funny, but most of all, more than anything, he needed me. There was no alcohol to drive Tony to distraction. I was his drug. He appeared to not be able to live without me. This was my dream. A man who couldn't live without me.

Little did I realize it would be for all the wrong reasons.

Tony needed my support, my love and affection because he was suffering through a personal tragedy. His son was killed in a car accident. Shortly thereafter, his father died of a heart attack, unable to contain his grief from losing his grandson.

And here I was, this woman, this woman with a child who was the same age as his dearly departed son. Tony wanted a family. I wanted a father figure for my child. We were the perfect fit. We clicked in every single capacity. Our bedroom antics are the stories that legends are made of. He and I quickly became entangled in one anothers lives. Absorbed, almost to the point of obsession.

It was 3 months later that Tony first beat me.

You all know me well enough to know by now, I am a woman of opinion. I don't close my mouth, I don't fear authority and I certainly don't put my feelings on the backburner to satiate anyone else. I was one of those girls who watched Ricki Lake and screamed at the women on television: "How can you let him do that to you? Are you crazy? I'd knock him on his damn ass if he ever did those things to me!"

Let me tell you. Until you walk a mile in those shoes, don't judge. Life changes on a dime...just like shoes.

The first beating should have been the red flag. For most women, it would have been. I had a wedding to go to, well before I met Tony. Obviously, he was not invited, because at the time, I didn't know him. I hadn't RSVP'd that I would be bringing a guest, so I did not invite him. Plus, I was a bridesmaid at this wedding. We all know that the bridesmaids have more fun than the brides, right? I wanted this wedding to be a long overdue "girls night out". So, there I was in my emerald green tulle and taffeta, hair out to the walls a la the 1980's Long Island hair, ready to party my ass off. I told Tony to feel free to use my home like his home. My daughter was safely tucked away at her grandparents house. Life was sweet. I was going to have a ball at this party and then, come home to my lover...where my world shall be rocked. Sweet.

When I returned at 2am from the wedding, I found Tony asleep on the couch. He looked so peaceful and sweet. I woke him with a kiss. His long eyelashes fluttered open, revealing the softest brown eyes I had ever seen. He looked at me a long time, and in retrospect, I think he was more assessing me than truly looking at me. He stood up, his massive 6 foot frame hulking over my petite stature. I smiled broadly at him, with "the look". He didn't smile back. I stretched up to kiss his cheek. He didn't budge. He stood in the middle of my living room, like a stone.

'What's the matter, babe," I asked.

His answer was a swift reply with the back of his left hand, instantly knocking me to the ground. On the floor, I slid away from him, holding my cheek in complete shock and awe of what he had just done. He threw himself on top of me and attempted, viciously, to make love to me. I was stunned. I wrestled myself out from under him and, still holding my cheek, asked him what the HELL he had just done.

He wept.

This man of steel, this man of stone...he broke down like a child. He curled himself into a fetal position and cried. I stood alongside him for a moment, to angry to nurture his needs. And then, I caved. I knelt beside him and found myself rubbing his back, soothing him. I knew he was in pain, pain more severe than the welt on my cheek was. He turned toward me, hugging me around my waist and continued to cry only interrupting the steady sobs with gasps of "I'm so sorry, baby".

Who was I not to believe that he wasn't?

Eventually, when he calmed down, he said that when his ex-girlfriend "murdered his son" in a car accident, that she too had been on her way home from a friends wedding. He said that he had been crying most of the night while I was away. The memories, he said, got overwhelming and he rose from his sleep believing that he was reliving the moment. I couldn't fathom that not being true. The grief that I was witnessing, surely that didn't come from nowhere. And now, a heartfelt apology with a rational and plausible explanation. Then, there were those eyes. Those soft, gentle brown eyes, filled with tears, with remorse and with love.

"I need you to forgive me, CP. Please. God, please forgive me."
And I did. And I would...many, many more times over the course of the next three years.

To be continued...

I've Been Bitch-smacked!

Not once.

Not twice.

But FOUR times! Holy crap, Marie! FOUR FREAKIN'TIMES...and that's WITH a sucky template and girly dumb stuff in my sidebar!

See? Content DOES matter. This for all the naysayers who say that smacks from it2m is all about the techno-geekiness of a blog template. It ain't. But dang, I feel so good right now, I can run a marathon.

Well, if I weren't so fat, if I had better knees and if I were so inclined to run a marathon. I would. Really. Isn't it the thought that counts?

In light of love that Bitch, Esq. showed me, I am taking a tiny tidbit of her advice for now, and keeping this post shorter than most of my other longwinded diatribes. No, really...I am. I'm done. Seriously.








Okay, this is much harder than it looks. I have a lot to say about the weekend. But I won't. Nope. Not me. I have restraint. I can control myself.





Really.

Insensitive...party of one?

Life with my mother is never dull. Ever.

I am in NYC right now, visiting the hotband and my parents. Hotband goes into kitchen to go play with our son, leaving Esther and Harry in the den with me. We are watching TV. On television, a very anal retentive woman is cleaning every single corner and crevice of her home.

"Oh my gawd," says CP, "I could never be that fanatical."

"Oy. I could. I am! I can't stand a messy house," states Esther.

"I don't think I'm messy, mom. Just a little domestically challenged."

"You get that from your fathers side."

"Oh."

Now mind you, when she says "your fathers side", she is not referring to Harry, who is my stepdad. For all intents and purpose, he is my father. My dad. My daddy. He raised me when the sperm donor Samuel (see the coke vs. pepsi story) left for his 28 year old secretary. But, when Esther says "your FATHERS side", she means the biological sperm donor. I tend to shut up when she says that, because I know it's not a compliment.

"You and I just do things differently," mom says, trying to smooth my furrowed brow.

"Yeah, I guess I just like a lot of chaos in my life."

"Speaking of chaos," she says.

"Shut up, Esther," the normally reclusive and quiet Harry says.

"What? What did I do?"

"Nothing," he replies, "just be quiet."

"What's going on," I ask.

"NOTHING," they both say in unison.

"Okay, I'm not stupid. Something is going on. Can I ask?"

"NO," they shoot back at me.

"Mom, I know something is going on. "What do you mean, speaking of chaos..."

"He's dead."

"I know that, mom."

---->Authors Note: Chaos is the name of my brothers recently deceased pit bull/boxer mix. A beloved family member for 14 years. Resume story---->

"So, I said, speaking of Chaos, he's dead."

"Right mom, I got that. But that's not what you were going to say."

"Yes it was!"

"No," I say to her, noticing that she is attempting to stiffle some laughter and also noticing that my fathers eyes are rolling and he is raising the volume on the television set to tune us both out. "there is something else."

"Okay. I didn't want to tell you this."

*insert heavy sigh from my father, who again, raises the volume*

"Your father said it would ruin your weekend if I did, so I promised him I wouldn't tell you. But I have to tell you."

"You don't have to tell her, Esther," says dad. "She would have never known."

"KNOWN WHAT????" I am starting to get angry.

"Okay," my mother says, sounding defeated. "Neil's dead."

"Who?"


"Neil. Neil A. Who you used to work with."

"WHAT!?"

"Dropped dead of a heart attack. 37 years old. Just 'BLOOP'. Keeled right over."

"Mom," I say quietly, "how exactly did you manage to hold out on telling me this for the full two hours I have been here."

*insert audible sigh from dad...again*

"What! You brought it up."

"I brought it up? How the hell did I bring it up????"

"You said you liked Chaos, then I said, Chaos is dead...and that was a natural opening for me to tell you that your friend was dead."

*blank stare*

"Mom, you are comparing my friend dying to a dog?"

"Noooooo...I just thought, since you like chaos in your life, and then you started discussing death that this would be the perfect time to tell you about Neil."

"Oh."

Of course by now, the reality sets in that my good friend of ten years had "blooped", as my mother so eloquently put it. I start to cry. Then, I start to cry a little harder.

"Oh, honey. I didn't mean to make you cry."

"Mom, when did Neil die?"

"Hm, I don't know...a few..."

"days ago?"

"Months ago."

"WHAT??? Mom!!! Why didn't you tell me!"

"I didn't want to upset you."

"So I'm less upset now???"

"Well, no, but you DID bring up the conversation, so I thought it was a good time to tell you."

By now I am laughing and crying simultaneously.

"Mother, the next time someone dies, do you think you could tell me in a more timely fashion so I might offer the family condolences and prepare myself a bit better?"

"I don't see why, CP. You said you liked chaos. I thought this would be just enough chaos for you for this trip."

"Thanks for the consideration, Mom."

"Oh," she says, quite cheerfully, "You're welcome! See Harry? She's not upset. She's THANKING me for being considerate."

"She's being sarcastic, Esther." Opts to find another television in the house where the program is actually less dramatic than what is going on in his own living room.

So there you have it. The sensitive, soft, sweet side of Esther. Isn't she a love? Don't you just want to invite her over for coffee sometime? Good thing someone much closer to me didn't die. She'd probably wait six months to tell me and then, only do it when she had a well thought out seguay.

I can hear it now:

"Oh, Mom! Next week is Fathers Day. I have to get Dad a card."

"Oh no, sweetie. It's fine. Dad went 'bloop' about seven months ago, so you just put that wallet away and save your money."

Never a dull moment with Esther around. Never.

Just a song before I go...

I am getting on a plane in about 45 minutes, off to NYC to visit the Hotband. But, before I leave, I would like to get your opinion on something.

The article about the website in question.


The actual website.

I want to know what you think about a woman posting "How To Perform A Self-Induced Abortion" online. I will tell you in advance, I am pro-choice. However, I will also tell you in advance that an "Abortion For Dummies" post seems like it will cause more harm than good. As a woman, I feel Molly's heart is in the right place. As a medical professional, I am scared to death of the ramifications of what a post like this will lead to.

Women and men alike, this affects all of us. Even if you aren't a woman, you surely have a mother, a sister, a daughter, a wife or a girlfriend that this could potentially effect. Please feel free to blog on my blog and comment as much as you see fit. Debate. Discuss.

Will this article, made public on Blogger, cause more harm than good?

Okay, people...work with me, people.

Drama is over. I have emerged unscathed from the recent episode of drama. Now I know how celebraties feel when the paparazzi jumps out of the bushes at them. All those flashbulbs! My eyes! My eyes!

Anyway, Skankmonster? Have your people call my people. We'll do lunch. Hopefully somewhere with sharp forks. In the interim, I have a blog to write. Be gone, pissant. Be gone! *snort*


*exhales* Okay. I am ready for my closeup, Mr. DeMille.

I have a guilty pleasure. Are you ready?

I am a 40 year old MTV watcher. Not just MTV...but all the inane, insipid reality shows that accompany it nowadays. I am addicted to Laguna Beach, The Real World, The Shop, My Super Sweet Sixteen and of course, Real World vs. Road Rules: The Gauntlet. Not only do I watch them, but I watch them over and over and over again until the episodes are memorized! I get so involved with these characters. Not to the point where I am online stalking them or *cough* unearthing secrets about them, but I just want to know all about them! It's not that they are interesting in the least. Most of them have the intellect of telephone poles. The girls are so excessively whiney and the guys, ugh, I can't think of a single one that I would dare to date (if I weren't their mothers age and I weren't married). Yet, something compels me to watch these shows over and over, like my life depends on it. I feel bad about it. I know I have more productive things to be doing. Hell, scrubbing my toilet would be more of an achievment. I am not compulsive about my guilty pleasure. I don't plan my life around it. I know some people who live their life by Desperate Housewives or American Idol. Everyone must be in the living room and seated by the time the opening credits roll. Shut the ringer off the phone. Baby needs a diaper change? Baby can wait for the commercial. Dogs have to pee? Let 'em go on the floor. I'll clean it up when it's over.

No. I am not that compulsive.

But, I am fanatical enough to sit in front of the television on Sundays for a full day of "The Real World" marathon. From sun up to sun down, nothing but whiney 20 somethings pissing and moaning about how tragic their lives are. Hello? You are on MTV! You CHOSE this! You bitch about how you have no money, but then, you manage to be out drinking every single night?

I am certain some of my fixation has to do with jealousy. Yep, that green eyed monster that makes a 40 year old woman think she can get away with dressing like Beyonce. Hello? You aren't fooling anyone and you stopped being bootylicious 15 years ago. Please stop. I love a big confident woman...but if your back looks like it has breasts from all the lumps in your shirt, perhaps you want to rethink the outfit, eh? I'm a fat chick. I know it is cool for me to wear certain things, but not other things and definately nothing that the girls on The Real World are wearing.

So what's the attraction? Youth, man. Youth. I feel like if I sit in front of that television long enough, I will suck in the fumes of youth. I will be hip with urban culture and couture. No, I can't wear it, but hell if I can't talk about who is big right now and who is just SO yesterday. This is what keeps me "the cool mom" by the high standards of my 18 year old daughters friends.

"Your mom is like, SO COOL! She totally knows that Louis Vuitton Speedy bags are completely out. Balanciega is so in right now. And check it! Your mom doesn't wear 'mom jeans' like MY mom does. She is wearing Seven Jeans! Holy crap, S. You are so lucky to have her for a mom!"

Mwahahaha. My evil plan is in motion. With my daughters friends perpetually telling her how cool I am, I can have bouts of uncool that I am completely forgiven for. Well, at least by my daughters friends. By my daughter? Not so much.

"S., Oh. My. GAWD. Don't be mad that your mom won't let us fly to Mexico for a month for Spring Break! She is soooooooooooo cool! At least YOUR mom lets you choose your own curfew! My mother would NEVER do that!"

*insert obligatory/mandatory teenage eyeroll here*

Now that I have written all of this out, I feel that my guilty pleasure is a parenting tool. Yeah. That's it. I am trying to stay on the cutting edge of what my children are doing, watching and listening to. I will, from this day forth, consider my MTV addiction nothing more than parental research, a foray into the psyche of the adolescent mind. I think it is the least I can do to keep that all important line of communication open between the generations and bridge the gap that exists between parent and child.

I am getting offline now. It's 3:30 and Total Request Live (TRL) is starting.

A mothers work is never done. And, I want my MTV.

Okay, I wasn't going to do this...

but my hand has been forced.

Someone is about to "out" me. Yep. You heard. I am about to be outted against my will. Some clever little rascal figured out who I was. I might as well just out myself before they do it in some completely insensitive way.

*heavy sigh* Ready?

Here you go.



Oh. My. Gaaaaaaaaaawd.

Yes, Mr. Sheffield. You got it. I'm Fran. You can call me Nanny.

*ahem* No.

Seriously, several posts back I mentioned that I was a published author. Since then, a few people have asked to see my writing. I generally don't like the lines to cross between CP the humorous, fun-loving girly girl and...well, the dark CP. She's scary. I keep her locked away and only take her out around Halloween when she is socially acceptable or at IRS tax audits. Occasionally, I let her go to the DMV for me too. She's in her element there.

Anyway, because it is a small blog world, after all, someone recognized my writing when I emailed them the link to my dark underworld. That, coupled with my pictures on here a few months back was a big AHA moment for the wench. Unfortunately for me, I didn't recognize HER before I sent her my writing. She's not a friend. Hell, let's be honest. I don't remotely like the biatch. But hey, it ain't easy for a pimp, ya know? All these dirty little ho's hangin' onto mah pimp cup, tryin' to get a sip of me. I don't think so, skank on a stick. So, before she does this whole long radical blog post that she unearthed my dirty little secret...I am going to drag it out of the closet for you. I am going to lay it out here, bleeding and oh so grotesque.

My writing falls under the heading of violent, sexual and macabre. If you are not a fan of any of those things, it is suggested that you do not bother to check it out. I don't want to ruin the cute little pixie ideal you have of the CP you have come to know.

Okay, so now I have outed myself. It's kind of liberating in a way. In another way, it sort of blows major asschunks as well.

Oh well, we'll always have Paris. Bonjour, mon amis!

Here's the link. Don't say you haven't been warned.

Out of Morbid Curiosity...

If you knew that someone was listening in on your phonecalls, snooping through your computer and going through your mail, would you be angry?

If you knew that your next door neighbor was about to sell their home to a convicted murderer or some other type of felon, would you be pleased about that?

If someone told you a rumor that caused you to get into a heated fist fight with another person, only to find out that the rumor wasn't true in the first place, would you be upset with the person who told you?

Lastly, if you were about to lose your home, your worldly possessions and possibly your life, and someone knew this and didn't tell you...would you be devastated by that person choosing to remain silent?

When you put it on the simplest terms available, it sounds like this person is a pretty horrible human being. But, when we mention that it was George W. Bush who did all of the above, suddenly, you are non-patriotic. You do not support your country. You are a left winged demon spewing hate against our President.

I am very much involved in politics. I don't just "talk the talk". I walk the walk as well. While I paint a portrait of myself as a liberal Democrat, I do have some very Republican values as well. However, one thing I cannot fathom is the continued rally of support for a man who is basically a terrorist hiding behind our American flag. Think about it.

In the past few years, there are issues coming dangerously close to teetering on the edge of our constitutional rights as Americans. Women are being told what they can and cannot do with their bodies. Certainly, always newsworthy, but never on the precipice of being overturned. People are being told who they can and cannot marry and what defines a marriage. Well, darlin's...if the pursuit of MY happiness came in the form of a female, who is GWB to tell me no?

These arguments have raged on for years.

But now, we are getting down to brass tacks. Selling our most valuable ports to other countries? Lying about knowledge that Katrina would devastate our Gulf Coast? Listening in on our conversations via wiretaps? And, the closest thing to a Weapon of Mass Destruction that I have seen is George W. Bush.

This is no longer a partisan issue, Folks. This is no longer Democrats versus Republicans. I, for one, could give a rats ass less about the party lines. It's about recognizing incompetence when you see it. It is about realizing, "Okay, maybe I made a mistake...but I can fix it." That is what American democracy is all about, the ability to realize that this is simply not working out and we, as Americans, have the ability to retract our error in judgment.

On a personal level, all I see around me are people who are suffering since the Bush Administration has come into office. I see people losing their homes. I work with elderly folks who are making the decision nightly as to whether they should purchase their medications or eat dinner. I am watching young families struggle with no health insurance. Costs are rising everywhere you look and our debt just continues to grow and grow and grow. In the interim, we are pouring billions of dollars into rebuilding Iraq, as American children go to bed hungry and homeless every single night.

To me, it is mindboggling how our President can put his own interests in money and oil before the safety and welfare of these United States.

Now, I don't want anyone sitting here throwing commie flags over my head. I love my country. I fully support the troops over in Iraq. The bitch of it is, these kids are just doing their job. Sometimes, my bosses have me do things that I don't quite agree with, but hey, they sign my paycheck and I have to do what I am told. Nor am I a Michael Moore supporter and banding with the Hollywood pack. I think that actors need to stick to acting and leave the tough stuff to Congress. But, it almost seems that Congress is sticking their heads in the proverbial sand. They aren't listening to the American people. They are so far out of touch with what the reality of the situation is and very few people in the House and Senate are willing to stand up and say, "Hey, something is really wrong here." It's all about self-preservation. I understand that completely. You work hard to get where you are. You don't want to throw it away because someone else isn't holding their own.

But, therein lies the problem. Owning your mistakes. Taking hold of your responsibilities, not as a member of Congress...but rather, as an American.

I suppose it comes down to this:

I have a very hard time understanding why Clinton was nearly impeached for getting his dick sucked, when George W. Bush has been fucking EVERY AMERICAN in the ass and getting away with it on a daily basis. I need to understand why impeachment of a President is taken as a personal affront to the party said President is affiliated with. If that is the case, who is watching out for the good of the American people as opposed to their own interests?

If someone can explain it to me, please do.

Meantime, I am going to go outback and hose down my soapbox. Apparently, I have been standing on it a little too long. Looks a little murky from this angle.



Oxymoron of the day: boneless ribs.