Heading to Miami Beach...

Hotband rented the Certifiable Princess a Mustang Convertible. Yee haw. We are leaving tomorrow afternoon for our condo down on North Miami Beach to spend the weekend in the sun, on the beach and of course, having sex in the ocean. Sweet. Don't have to worry about being on my knee in the water...because, my big ol' ass floats and my boobies are buoys by design.

Like I said. Sweet.

I will have plenty of pics from South Beach and boobies galore for all my male and lesbian readers. Check out the ass on THAT little slice of heaven over there. Got dumps like a truck, truck. Heh.
For my girls and my gay boys, I will have hot cuban lick-worthy men with oiled down bodies. A plethora of sex, sun and sand. Aye Caramba!

Thank the sweet Lawd for camera phones.

In the interim, here is your mission, should you choose to accept it. Mr. CP (aka the hotband) has expressed some interest in wanting to blog on my blog. He was a tad offended that I didn't ask him to guest blog for me while I was injured. He wanted a gift like the prezzies I bought for my guest bloggers. I gave him head instead. He's over it.

But, because I love the man so much, I think I will give him ample opportunity to have his way with my blog. So, if you can...please leave a question for him in the comment section. You can ask him anything you want. It can be something you wanted to know about me. It can be something about your malfunctioning computer. It can be about the meaning of life. I don't care what you ask him...just please. Ask him SOMETHING. ANYTHING. Anything, so he stops whining how I didn't let him guest blog for me.

Do your best to make the questions REALLY personal, rude and lewd. He's extremely shy and introverted. Nothing like his babe-alicious wifey. If you actually ask a question that flusters him to the point where he refuses to answer, you will win one of CP's crazy prizes that she so desperately loves to send to people. Face it, I am an attention whore who is not above spending money to buy peoples affections.

It's what got me to prom queen. I have no shame.

So please, ask away. Have fun with it...and the Hotband will answer all your questions when we return on Monday. We will be tanned, sexually spent and picking sand out of each others asses. Good times.

Y'all have a great weekend. Miss me. Or, even if you don't, lie to me.

I need that kind of validation.

Offense...or Defense?

I have been going to physical therapy for the past few days. It sucks. I am not a "girl of motion" to start with. (Translation: Lazy Fat Assed Bitch). I used to be, once upon a time. Then again, I used to be a lot of things I no longer am. Like thin.

Anyway, I am not digging physical therapy in the least. The therapists are a great bunch of girls. No problem with that. It's the ex-er-ci-sing part that yucks me out. I actually had to ride a recumbant bike for ten minutes. TEN MINUTES, Y'ALL!

Do you know how many Ring Dings, Ho-Ho's and Ding Dong's a fat chick can down in TEN minutes?

To me, this biking thing is just simply time not so well spent.

I was in a bad mood from it. But let me tell ya...nothing kicks your ass in gear to finish your PT exercises like the CHICK NEXT TO YOU FARTING WITH EVERY LEG LEFT SHE DOES.

Yeah.

We are both doing these leg lift thingies with these giant leash/rubberband type straps. Every lift, BRAAA-AAAAAAA-AAAAAAP.

The first time, I said nothing. I hoped it was merely the cushions squeaking. The second time, it infiltrated my nasal passages, invaded my personal space and I KNEW it was no longer the cushions.

BRRRRR-AAAAA-AAAAAAAPPP.

By the third time, I looked over at the woman next to me.

"Are you okay?" I asked her.

"Oh, fine. And you?"

Um, no. I am not trying to make small talk with your smelly ass. I am trying to find out what is it that is making your asshole erupt every time you lift your leg like a well pumping out water. Why? Is there a reason for this? Was it too much bean and cheese at lunch? What? Explain it to me. I am a reasonable woman. I am a nurse. I am willing to hear about your medical condition.

I'm just not willing to SMELL your medical condition.

"I'm fine," I mutter, and go back to doing my leg lifts. She continues to make small talk. I grunt a few answers back to her, try to act interested and in the interim, getting nauseous. See, here's the thing. As a surgical nurse, I know that I am going to encounter many unpleasant smells during my day. I usually wipe a layer of Vicks Vapo-Rub under my nostrils, so I am inhaling THAT, as opposed to the scent of burning flesh or ruptured feces-filled colon. Yeah. Tasty. I am prepared for this at work. Not so much so at the PT office.

I do the next best thing. I breathe through my mouth so as not to destroy my nose. However, when I do this, it makes me sick. Why? Because I am getting the sensation that I am now EATING this woman's farts, as opposed to just smelling them. I am inhaling her flatulence like a person getting second hand smoke in their lungs.

This is SO not cool with me.

Mercifully and forty-five farts later, we're at the checkout desk. She's done after I am. I just made my next appointment. I hear her making an appointment too. She makes hers at the same time I made mine.

"Oh! Now we can be leg lift partners again," she says to me while waving buh-byes.

"Great," I reply flatly.

So, here's my issue.

If I change my appointment, I ruin MY personal schedule for the day. If I don't change my appointment, I potentially destroy my sense of smell and the olfactory nerve that runs to my brain. I will never again smell the scent of my childrens freshly washed hair. I will never again smell the rich musk of my husbands cologne. To make matters worse...HOW will I ever be able to tell when I have that, um..."not so fresh" feeling going on??? Hmmmm???

Let's see.

Personal schedule interruption or...

Lifetime of smelly crotch without realization.

Inconvenience or...

Potential alienation of all who are close to me.

Yeah. I think the fart lady and I will get along just fine.

I'm bringing my jar of Vapo-Rub, just in case.

Putting the "Jew" in Judo.

First, I would like to thank everyone for all the good wishes/prayers/thoughts/whatever it is that you do that were sent to my hotband. I appreciate it as it cheered him up immensely by restoring his faith in mankind. Not everyone out there are beasts. See honey? It's just your family that suck, not everyone elses! *heh* Okay, I didn't say that. But I thought it. Loudly.

Moving along.

We went to Friday night services to say "kaddish" for his Grandmother. Kaddish it the Jewish prayer of mourning. I was feeling a bit uncomfortable and squirmy in my own skin. This was the first time we had to go through a death together as husband and wife. So, in the midst of the tension, I made a dumbass joke.

"Hey honey?"

"Yeah," he says.

"Can you be in mourning...at night?"



*crickets chirping*

Hotband didn't even crack a smile. Next?

I am known for saying the most inappropriate things at the most inappropriate times. Those who remember my the story of my fathers death will testify that I am really not very tactful and tend to use humor as a defense mechanism. It's a weakness to some people. Me? I see it as a strength. I would always rather be laughing than crying and I tend to want to remember people shrouded in laughter and good feelings, rather than all snively and whiney and crying. Lawd, I hope no one pulls that shit at MY funeral! I want wet T-shirt contests, naked donkey rides, body shots, lemurs everywhere and oh, I want Aerosmith to play at my funeral! If they're too old, or too dead, then get me Fiddy Cent or Eminem to do it hardcore! But, whatever y'all do, do NOT cry over me! No, remember my fat ass the way it WAS...happy, laughing and saying the most inappropriate things at the worst of times.

Back to my story -

So, we're at the Synagogue. My husband puts on his yamulka. All I am thinking is "ew, lice". You couldn't pay me enough to put on those used beanies. I know a lot of these old men. They're my patients. I also know a lot of them don't make hygiene their top priority. Again, ew. But, I don't say anything. We sit in the congregation room. We're singing and praying and standing and sitting and amen'ing like the good Jews we are.

After services, there are some snacks, drinks, coffee, etc. The old folk use Friday Night Services as their social hour of the week. They are all gussied up, each one of the old ladies with a rolled up piece of tissue paper tucked under their sleeve and a rubberband around their wrist. Will someone please tell me WHY old ladies do this? Is it from watching one too many McGyver episodes? I don't get it. Anyway, a little brouhaha breaks out at the far end of the dining hall. Apparently, Mrs. Goldstein took the last danish right out from Mr. Karp's hand. Well, Mrs. Karp was simply NOT going to have that, so she walks across the room and takes the danish off Mrs. Goldsteins plate. Mrs. Goldstein stands up and yells:

"Vat vit you, meshugana(crazy woman)? You gift me back my danish right now!"

"You STOLE it from my husband, alter cocker! You gift it back to heem, right now!"

"Vat give it back??? You took mein danish!"

"You grabbed it from heem!"

"No! I did no such ting! Your husband is a schlimiel! (loser) A real step and fetch! Is it my fault he is so slow? If he moved his tuchus (ass) he would git heemself a danish. But no. He is slow. So, no danish for heem. Bah."

"Oooooooooooooh!!! A messa mashee af deer(a horrible death to you), you FATTY!"

"I should give you such a zetz (punch) right in the punim (face)!" Mrs. Goldstein is now putting up her fat little dukes. "I should punch you!"

Oh, really???"

"Yah! Really!"

Then, little chubbette Mrs. Goldstein grabs the danish off the plate that Mrs. Karp has in her hand and throws it across the room.

"Der!" she exclaims, "Now no one is to dis danish! None for you! None for me! None for you nudnick (pest) of a husband. Bah!"

"Why you..."

And a brawl broke out. An all out brawl. Dentures, canes, walkers, support hose, hearing aids and bifocals, flying everywhere! The hotband, my daughter and I ran out the door, laughing our asses off. You could still hear the Rabbi yelling in the background...

"This is not nice! Not a nice ting on day Sabbath! Oy Gavalt! Shtop it! Shtop it right now!"

Just another Friday in the House of Danish Worship. I truly hope God had the night off.

Death in the family...

There will be no post this weekend. My husbands beloved grandmother passed away earlier this morning. We shall be leaving for Temple to mourn her at Sabbath services. Tomorrow night, we will begin the process of sitting shiva, a process that starts at the end of the Sabbath.

Please send your good wishes, love, prayers, thoughts to my husband during this painful time of loss.

I will see you all again on Monday.

Peace be with you all.

The above portrait is called "Jews Mourning in Synagogue", a 1906 oil painting done by Solomon Joseph Solomon.

Praise the hand that rocks the cradle.

I am laying on the couch, watching Judge Mathis do his thang. He is delivering real justice and tough love. At least, that is what his commercial intro says he is doing. I believe a brother. I've always been impressed by Judge Mathis. He was a street kid and gang member who got a second chance at life. Turned his shit around and made good, you know? Did his jail time and made the best of a bad situation. Much props to the Judge. He is impressive, articulate and well, the man is FOINE! (That's "fine" for those of you who don't do my ghettospeak). So, when I am home, yeah...I watch the man.

Today there was a particularly poignant case. Single mother of three, suing ex-husband for half the medical bills for her sons braces. Father abandoned not only mother, but the kids too, for years. Father's defense? "I didn't think my son needed braces. The dentist said they are cosmetic."

Two things I find faulty here and my friend the Judge agreed.

1) Are you a dentist? Aren't ALL braces cosmetic, technically? If your shit is all crooked and snaggletoothed...no, they ain't broke, but yeah...they need braces. This kids mouth was all jacked up. Which brings me to point number 2.

2) If you haven't seen your kid in YEARS, how the hell are YOU going to possibly assess what the boy needs or does not need? You haven't seen the kids mouth since he cut his first molars, but now you are suddenly an expert on his orthodontia needs?

Well, long story short, Judge Mathis agreed with CP, because, quite frankly...I'm a smart bitch. He fines in favor of the mom. The kids teeth were paid for. All is right in their world. However, before closing the case officially, Judge Mathis did something interesting. He started blurting out the statistics of a teenage girls and boys who grow up without fathers and the impact it has on their lives. I found some of his statistic interesting, so I did a little research on my own:

---> 63% of youth suicides are from fatherless homes.

---> 90% of all homeless and runaway children are from fatherless homes.

---> 85% of all children who show behavior disorders come from fatherless homes.

---> 80% of rapists with anger problems come from fatherless homes.

---> 71% of all high school dropouts come from fatherless homes.

---> 85% of all youths in prison come from fatherless homes.

And, as if that is not enough, do you realize that girls are ONE HUNDRED AND ELEVEN TIMES MORE LIKELY to have a child out of wedlock during their teens if they grow up in a fatherless home? Disposable Dad Syndrome is running rampant in this country. But, this post is not about male bashing. Oh no no. There are a lot of dead beat moms out there too. I know this. There is a good deal of "Malcontent Mom" syndrome as well. You know the type of woman I speak of. The one who gets an inch, wants a yard. The kind that got her child support, but then, doesn't want to give her ex visitation because it wasn't convenient for her. Or, the really malicious malcontent mother who accuses dad of all sort of child abuse or sexual abuse, just so she never has to deal with him again.

Who is paying for all the Discontent and Malcontent?

Our children.

Our children are suffering. Don't believe me? Watch a "Baby Daddy" episode of Maury Povich on any given day. Women who are being tested six, seven, EIGHT times in order to find who her baby's daddy is. Men who are denying the children they conceived because "that kid is too light to be mine" or "Man, that ho slept with all my boys! That kid could be anyones!"

Sadly, he's probably right.

So, what to do about it. Well, we have options. As parents, divorced, separated or parentally bonded via a union at a drug infested Korn concert one night stand - it doesn't matter how you got there - we have an obligation to these babies that we are bringing into the world to be the best possible parents we can be. No one says you have to stay with the cheating bastard. No one says you have to marry the dumb ho. But, you two consciously (or semi consciously, depending on the drink/drug quotient) laid down together. You chose to have unprotected sex. You chose to HAVE this child, whether the decision was his, hers or divine intervention from the Lawd Almighty Hisself! Don't care how it got there, people. Point is, it's there. And if you opted to have it, in 9 months time, it will be needing a mother and a father. Both.

I've never understood parenting in absentia. Isn't this an oxymoron? How can you be a parent, but never be around? My father left me (ooh. Freudian slip there!) I mean, my mother, when I was six years old. My brother was three. My mother did a kick ass job of raising us the best she could, but there was no father figure there. None. And out of the statistics above, I can tell you that I was a party to at least, well all of them, except for suicide (obviously, though the attempt WAS made when I was 13) and high school drop out. I loved school. It was my happy place. My brother, same thing. No suicide, but he did drop out of high school and he did have a baby very young with his girlfriend (who, incidentally is now his wife, so I guess that didn't turn out too badly). BUT, he is NOT a great rolemodel for his kids. He cheats on his wife. He is verbally abusive to her. No, he doesn't hit her...but not for lack of want, I assure you.

Anyway, I digress.

I had my daughter when I was the ripe old age of nineteen years old. She was a joint effort between my ex-boyfriend and myself, along with some failed contraception. (Yeah, don't think I haven't wanted to kick the ass of the doctor who put me on antibiotics for a respiratory infection without telling me it would interfere with the PILL!) So, what started as an "accident" is a now a wonderful, beautiful, competent, smart, self-esteem filled 19 year old woman. The same age I was, when I brought her into the world. Her father has NEVER been around. Ever. He calls now and then, out of the blue, with some lame ass excuse of why he hasn't spoke to her in about three years. The excuses ranged anywhere from "I was depressed because my mother died" to "I wasn't the same after September 11th".

Right. Who the fuck was, asshole?

Whatever. My daughter is very fortunate though. She has two stepfathers. One is my ex-husband who has raised her since she was four years old. She calls him "Dad". Always has. Probably always will. He is also the biological father of my son. Then, the kids have my husband...who is a stepdad supreme. I'm talkin' extra sour cream, beef and tomatoes kind of supreme. He is, by far, a better father than my childrens real fathers...combined. Not to say that ex-husband isn't a good father. He is. He just isn't quite the same breed as my hotband is.

I believe, wholeheartedly, that the fact that my daughter has very strong male presence in her life (my stepfather, who raised me, my ex-husband and my present husband) has made an enormous difference in some of the life choices she has made for herself. She isn't searching for unconditional love by having a baby the way I was. She isn't in need of a father figure to take care of her, the way I was. I made some really bad choices in my uncontrollable need to have a man in my life. I was looking for one who was stronger than me, more determined than me...but most of all, one who would take care and nurture me.

I think, deep down inside, that is what every girl needs. Even the grown up ones.

So, I want this post to be twofold. I want to praise the mothers who are making it on their own. The ones who are there for the 3am diaper changes, the "mom, I had too much to drink" phonecalls in the middle of the night, the "I wet the bed again, Mommy" cries. Mothers that get those dreaded phonecalls from the hospital that their kid has been in an accident. They run out the door in whatever they are wearing, just to be at their child's bedside. Mothers are the glue that holds this world together. I believe that. But, that said, I would be remiss if I didn't thank the fathers. No, not you absent assholes who don't know when your kid was born, what medicines they are allergic to or can't manage to send out a birthday card once a year. Writing your name on a birth certificate because you left some sperm behind to grow don't make you no daddy. Same way droppin' seeds into soil don't make you no farmer, ya hear? No. I am talking about the stand up men. The ones who, despite having to leave his wife/girlfriend/one night stand behind, still manages to take an active interest in the life of their child. The father that doesn't only contribute monetarily, but knows that the value of time far outweighs the value of cash in a childs life. I want to thank the father who puts up listening to his ex's bullshit for 20 minutes just so he can talk to his kid on the phone. I am talking about the dad that DOES show up for visitations and the father that never allows his children to forget that he is a constant presence in their lives, even if not in their homes.

To the parents who are doing the right thing by their children, props to you all. You are doing one helluva job and you are going to reap the rewards in the form of a happy, stable and content adult child. An adult child who will look back on you fondly one day, while watching Judge Mathis and say, "Hey. You know what? I had it pretty damn good after all."

Now, all of you. IF (and only if) they did a good job with you? Get offline and go call your mothers and fathers. Now. Do it. Don't wait.


Why you still here?


Did you not understand my directions?


Lawd, give a Princess a break here, huh? Lemme bust out what I know works...


"Oy. You don't call. You don't write. Always email email email. Too busy for your poor mutha. What? I just gave you life, that's all. Fine. Think of me when I'm dead. Then, maybe you'll have a minute to talk to me then. You eat my heart out like a vulture. Now, come eat. I made you a nice pot roast."

There ya go. Nice dose of Jewish mother guilt to motivate you all.

(This post is dedicated to my husband, NT for fulfilling the dreams of my children and I. This post is also dedicated to my stepfather, HL, who stepped in and fixed my life before I wrecked it forever. This post also goes out to a specific blogger, who will remain nameless, but I want this person to know that "what WAS" doesn't matter. It's "What IS" that counts. You're a great parent. That's all that matters.)

Sensitive has just left the building.

Today I went for my post op check up on my knee. The word "YES" is STILL emblazoned on my right thigh. Apparently, surgical marker is forever. Anyway, I see the Physicians Assistant. I tell him I am still having pain and the sensation of my knee "slipping out" from under me. His reply?

"That's just in your head."

"Um, no Sir, it's in my KNEE."

"Right, I know what you mean, what I am saying is..."

"I know what you are saying, Sir," I reply, cutting him off. "However, you are implying that I am imagining my discomfort. I am a nurse. I don't imagine pain and I certainly do not imagine my knee feeling like it is giving out."

(Hotband is in the chair next to me, slowly fading into the wall, surely wishing a big hole would open up and swallow him. He knows...when the wife starts to get indignant, no good can possibly come of it.)

After a battle of semantics, back and forth, between what he DID say to me versus how he MEANT what he said...I encouraged him to let me take the rest of the week off so that my knee and I could "bond". I mean, after all, according to Mister I Couldn't Get my PhD, so I Opted for this Nice Physician Assistant Job Instead, this was all in my head. So, if it is in my head...then I need to reacquaint my right knee with my left frontal lobe and rebuild the shattered trust. Screw the torn cartilage, right? It's all in my head. *huff* Maybe I should rip your dick off and stick it in your skull. Then when you tell your wife you can't have sex with her, and she says why...you can tell her because it's all in YOUR head. *ting*

I have the doctors office fax a note to my job stating that I will be out the remainder of this week. The following week, I may return, but only on light duty. (No surgery. Not too good to work surgery when you can't stand for very long.) No sooner does the last eeeeeep bweeeeep brrrrrrrrrrp blaaaaart wheeeeeee of the fax machine finish than my office manager is on my cellphone.

"Hello?"

"Hi, CP. So, what's this note I just got from your doctor?"

Now, to me, the note is pretty self-explanatory, but apparently, "return to work on Monday" requires some extra reading between the lines. Me, being the lovedoll that I am, happily comply and begin my explanation.

"That's a note that states I shouldn't return to work just yet."

"Right. I got that, CP."

"Theeeeeeeeen, maybe I'm not understanding. What's your question?"

"My question," she begins, "is...what is this all about?"

*blink*

"It's about me coming back to work. On Monday. Of next week."

"Well, why?"

"Why?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Because the doctor doesn't feel I am ready to be fully weight bearing just yet."

"Why is that?"

"Why is that," I repeated.

"Yes, why is that?"

"Um, because my knee is still swollen? It's not fully stable yet? I still need a cane to walk with? The excision is still draining? I'm still having pain?"

Please notice that I was answering questiosn with questions, as if I were testing the waters, seeing which one of these answers she would find to be the most appeasing. This is a predominantly Jewish trait, usually reserved for women who want to clarify that they think you are an idiot without actually calling you one. This technique is also used by most men who are caught in lies. Warning. Usually, if you repeat the question and answer the question with a question, you might as well confess your lie. It is a telltale sign for a woman to know you have just been busted. Just sayin'.

"Well, this isn't acceptable."

"It isn't?"

"No. It isn't."

"Why's that?"

"Because when you told me you were going for this surgery, you told me that the doctor told you that you should be back to work by Monday. You said, 'surgery Thursday, out Friday, heal over the weekend, should be back on Monday'"

"Right. That is precisely what I said."

"So?"

"So?"

"So why won't you be back to work this week?"

"Laura, everyone heals differently. I didn't make this decision. My doctor did. I can't really tell you why my knee is being so disagreeable. It's having trust issues."

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing."

"So, when will you be back to work?"

"Um, Monday."

"Monday. Of next week?"

"Well, yes, considering Monday of this week has already passed."

"So, Monday then."

"Yes, Monday."

"Monday of next week, right?"

"Right-o. Monday of next week."

"Alright then. Because, you did tell Karen that you were going to try to come back to work today, after your doctors appointment. And you didn't."

*heavy sigh* Thank you, Captain Obvious.

"And that was fully my intention. I am even in scrubs right now. I went to my appointment in scrubs so I could go straight to work from here. However, the doctor doesn't feel that my knee is ready for full weight bearing. Didn't we just have this discussion?"

"What? Your cellphone cut out."

"Nothing. I said, yeah, you're right. But the doctor said no. Nothing I can do about that."

"When can we expect you back?"

"Monday, Laura. You can expect me back on MONDAY OF NEXT WEEK."

"Right. That's what your note says. Monday of next week."

"Well, you know? If that's what my note says, then it must be so."

"Alrighty then! Well, okay Sweetie. Get some rest and get better!"

"Yep. Workin' on it as we speak, Bosslady."

I close my phone. I stare at it for a few moments. I am wondering if all the pain medicine has finally transported me to an alternate universe where everyone is exceedingly dumb. I wonder if I am their leader. I wonder if my knee and head will ever just agree to disagree and find happiness once more. I wonder if I should by my office manager a "Hooked on Phonics: Office Edition". Apparently, her english is a little weak. Maybe I am wondering why this person is actually managing a medical office when she can't grasp the concept of "SHIT HAPPENS". Or, maybe it IS me. Maybe it IS all in my head.

It's times like this I wish I weren't fat. I think if I could just get my head to bend toward my knee, or my knee to raise up to my head a bit...perhaps I could reconcile these two. I think they just need to get closer.

This might be a job for the hotband. If I can swing my legs over his shoulders and then have him push my legs up near my head...well, I really believe I can find a resolution between my right knee and my mind!

Worst comes to worst...my G-spot might get a say in all of this too!

I think it's a win/win situation for all body parts involved.

Pajama Party!!! Wanna Come???

I am still in somewhat of a drug induced haze. My right thigh is KILLING me. I suspect they had my leg strapped down for the surgery and someone got a wee bit too sadistic with the restraints. I still have a great big "YES" on my right leg too. My husband says it's appropriate, since I never say "no" anyway. Asshole. Heh.

So, I thought about how GREAT it would be if all of you came over my house right now! I could really use the company. My husband isn't home right now and I am stuck here with Judge Millian (People's Court) and while she is a fiery hot latina, she ain't no Pissy, you know what I mean?

Anyway, dive down into the comments. Let me know what PJ's you are wearing, what movie you are bringing over, what snack you have in your backpack and anything else you wanna tell me! I want naked pillow fights! I want wet lemur contests. I want to see leg shaving and toe polishing going on...and that's just the guys! I want to play pin the tail on the lesbian. I want DNA flying all over my living room, dammit!



Hey, I think I am going to have a PJ contest too! Post a pic of yourself in your cutest PJ's and I will mail you a prize! Of course, it may just be the ace bandage from my surgery, or perhaps it will be Buzz Lightyears older brother "Woody". Who knows? Oh, and by the way, cutest PJ's is NOT a license to start pulling Half Naked Tuesday Porn Pics on my Blog. The first person to put Mr. Fab, Billy or Mike in footy pajamas automatically gets a prize too.

So, my comment box is now my living room! Feel free to blog on my blog! Mi casa es su casa. Just make sure that you are not in the witness protection program if you are trying to win one of my certifiably wonderful prizes! I have a propensity for disclosing top secret information during orgasms.

Who's bringing the chips? Who's bringing the dip? Who's bringing the narcotics? Who's bringing the liquor? Oh, and most importantly, who's bringing the duct tape?

Aaaaaaaaand...she's BACK!

TAAAAAAA DAAAAAAAAAA!!!

I would like to thank Mr. Fabulous, Laurie and Jerry for stepping in for me over the course of the weekend. It was terrific to have guest bloggers doing the work for you! (Well, except for Jerry, who gave me more edits to do than anything else, but hey, at least I didn't have to get creative!) Oh! Did I mention I spoke to Laurie WHILE she was in a WalMart? Can I tell you how hot it is to talk to smokin' hot white trash while in her element! I almost jizzed on my husbands computer chair. She is a freakin' funny bitch. Mr. Fab was the shiznit for doing it first. It was a last minute invite and he handled it like a champ. I'd expect nothing less from the Sexiest Male Blogger.

Anyway, all three guest bloggers are getting prezzies from me in the mail. Don't worry, nothing blows up...well, except the doll I am sending Jerry.

I have absolutely NO fun and interesting stories to tell you with regard to my knee surgery. Actually, it went perfectly. I was hoping for some blog fodder, but, to be honest, I am glad there was none. See, good reading would mean something went wrong. Terribly wrong. The worst thing that happened to me, in no particular order was:

A) Period during surgery. Nothing says "I love my doctor" more than flowing all over the table in gratitude. Yes, dear. Here we go, I'm turning my water into wine. How shall I love thee, let me count the ways. I suppose my "ripcord" was sticking out as well.

B) I broke a nail. It's the look of redneck skanks far and wide, the ones that have their nails done to a "T", but then...have ONE broken off nail. The one nail that lets everyone know the other 9 are fake.

C) No sex since Thursday. To say I am cranky is an understatement. I have a live, pulsing penis in the same house as me, finally...and I cannot go near it. I am certain I felt it tapping on my leg last night, reminding me of its existence. I had to ignore it. It was painful, but it had to be done.

Anyway, it is 2am and I am taking another day off of work today. In the interim, I thought I would post a really funny picture of me, my fat ass and my wounded knee that hotband took of me shortly after the surgery. Try not to masturbate to it. It would be blasphemous. It IS Easter weekend, after all and also, I am a wounded soul. You must treat me with respect.

Pretty tight skin for a fat chick, no? Yeah yeah. I got it going on. Even with my ace bandage garter belt thigh highs, I am REAL hard to say no to. You gotta feel for the hotband, having to lay next to all this voluptuity and zaftiginess and not be able to touch it. The bitch is the Jonx. Y'all need to recognize.

Hope you all had a Hoppy Easter. I look forward to eating more Percocet/Endocet/Vicodin ES and returning to entertain you in the future. In the meantime, say 22 Hail Mary's and get your asses to bed. You have no business being up here on the day that Jesus is supposed to be getting home. Why aren't you fixing up a guest room for him? How about some nice cake? Do you gentiles do cake when the Messiah comes? I don't even know. I am a blissfully ignorant Jew.

And I've missed you all...so muchly.

What's better than a Basket full of Eggs?

How about a Bowl Full of Jerrys? In the ongoing saga of "Where Is CP, REALLY?" I bring you Jerry. Jerry is here against his will. I grossly belittled him, chastised his manhood and contested his ability to sustain a hard-on until he reluctantly agreed to guest post for me today. Quite frankly, I regret asking him. His post was more work to set up than my own would have been to write. *snort* But, in true Jerry fashion, he will scare and horrify you as he has done for me over the past four months. He's a scary man. Even the Easter Bunny skipped his house in fear of becoming Hasenfeffer. So, enjoy Jerry. Most do. Some don't. Those who don't aren't around to speak of it any longer. Hopefully, I will see you back on Monday, if the little Vicodin men don't come and take me away to HappyHell first.
Peace out, bitches.
CP.

me: "Hello everyone, my name is Jerry and I'm a non-believer!"

believers: "Burn in hell for all eternity Jerry!"

me: "Well, I've been kindly guilted into being a guest blogger for our good friend CP. If anyone reading this blog right now has ever read mine then you to would be shaking your head wondering what in world was CP thinking. I suppose it was fairly safe having me sit in on Sunday since no one hardly ever reads blogs on the weekend. There's even the possibility she is counting on less people reading her blog today because it's Easter Sunday. Most of her readers are most likely to be in church and later at family gatherings, getting their pictures taken in their best Easter clothes. Then a nice fun-filled Easter Egg hunt for the kids....while the adults stand around in suits and Spring dresses making small talk about their lives.

A nice serene scene indeed......

uh...what do you say we get this show on the road ?

Right!

As I eluded to in my opening I'm a NON-Believer. I guess you could call me an atheist if you wanted to....I like to refer to myself as an 'Happy Agnostic' meaning never being exposed to any sort of religious teachings while growing up I've been left alone to believe or not to believe."

believers: "Believe or not to believe in what? Pagan Devil."

me: Well, I suppose mostly I don't believe in organized religions and the way they are run in this country and around the world. I don't see why people are made to feel guilty about things in their lives....about doing things in their lives and even going so far as to think about certain doing things and never even do those things and still you are punished by the Church. How many Hail Mary's does it cost you for accidentally seeing up and old woman's dress at a bus stop? (or is that just punishment enough?)

believers: "So Satanic Son of all Dark and Evil Things you think you know more than all the history and Religious Scholars, Preachers, Rabbis, Ministers, Priests, Pastors and TV Evangelists like Pat Robertson and Paul and Jan Crouch of the Trinity Broadcasting Network?"

me: No, I don't claim to know more, if fact I claim to know less and in doing so feel pretty good about things in general. Sure I don't like the way things happen here on this planet. Far to much death and destruction and yet in anytime in the history of man there has been this kind of turmoil. So wtf....don't ask me for the answers.

believers: "Screw him he's got nothin', what do you say we meet at Denny's? We can all argue about bible passages over a Grand Slam Combo."

me: (smile)

Now for the Comedy portion of today's Post. (I warned you CP)

Since today is Easter and one of the things associated with Easter besides White Sales is Jesus. Now Jesus is very important to many people and so making fun of Jesus wouldn't be a nice or easy thing to do....but.....



Like the legendary Tina Turner used to say..."You see we never ever do nothing Nice and easy, We always do it nice and rough" So let's get this party started.




There is so much we don't know about human history and how we all came to live on this rock hurtling through space. One thing I'm sure of, Jesus loved Dinosaurs. Who doesn't?



I don't care what anyone says this painting will always be the way I see Jesus, a lovely Hippie.



One of the complaints I've always had is how certain religious sects Hi-Jack Jesus and somehow make him theirs exclusively: like the "Born-Agains" and the Republicans.



Don't get me started on the Merchandising of Jesus!!! I could have just had a post about that. Here is a nice concept. You can fill your house with the fragrance of "His Essence"!! Do you have a clue what people smelled like back then...before Irish Spring Soap?



I'm not going to say there hasn't been some creativity put into some very practical Jesus themed ideas...like this Jesus LazyBoy prototype model.



Well you can imagine that over the course of this pagans life I've been accused of worshipping false idols like this one.



Rumors within my circle of friends and acquaintences even have me bowing to the Gods of...dare I say it... TECHNOLOGY!!!!!



All in all folks I'd like to say can't we all just get along? I mean please, we are all in this together and it's no secret that more lives have be lost in the name of religion than anything else.



Jesus was most likely a fairly cool dude to hang with...most of the time. C'mon let Jesus buy the next round...we'll have a round of waters please. OK Jeezy, do your stuff...how about a Merlot this time?

NO! NOT ZIMA AGAIN...Jesus.



As for me I will be spending my Easter with the Easter Bunny. She's told me that she hid her eggs and I have to find them...mmmmmm.



and so I might be wrong and I might get a First Class Ticket to Hell but I know that I'll be in good company there. Jeez, just to see those TV Preachers burn in hell is worth the admission.

Happy Easter!

When A Beauty Gives a Princess a Beer...

This is what happens. Laurie from Beauty and the Beer will be taking over today as hostess for the Certifiable Princess. She shanked me and highjacked my password. Now the Bitch owns me. She has me locked in her white trash trailer. Please don't come looking for me. She gives a fat girl some good treats. I'm good. I'm recuperating. She lets me pet her ass when I behave. I'll be back on Monday. Look for me in one of your backyards. I'll be next to the Easter Bunny droppings. So, without further ado, here is the Secret Squirrel Bitch, Laurie. Please don't be afraid to come back here after she's done. She's a freak. It's why I think of her when I am alone with Buzz Lightyear. Forgive me. I know not what I have done.
Much love, CP.

The Truth about that CP blog lady

Psssst! Hey....you.....YES YOU!!!! CP Groupie....come here! Closer.....HURRY the FUCK up! I don't have all damn day! My name is Laurie and I'm the white trash bitch that writes Beauty and the Beer. Maybe you've heard of me? No? Damn. Well, of course you haven't....you guys flock HERE. Ever think about clicking on a damn link in the sidebar? I'm down at the BOTTOM, where white trash SHOULD be, so after you finish licking CP's boots and leaving your 848398483798473 comments, maybe you can give me a try. I never get comments. Something about being WAY too confrontational and scary or some shit. Anyway...you are not going to believe this shit in a MILLION years but I have the inside scoop on this whole "knee surgery" bullshit she's been trying to sell us. That's right. She's LYING, people!!!!!!!! Gather 'round, bitches and open your ears. Here's the tale:

I had my doubts. I truly did. I found inconsistencies in her posts! For example, Hotband is finally coming home FOR GOOD and all of a SUDDEN, her knee gives out. Mmm hmmmm. "I can't blog!!! Oh Lord, THE PAIN!!! Children, clean the HOUSE! I'm laid up!!! Bring me a Sprite!!!! Pick up the dog shit! Wash your hands before you eat your Subway!" I called BULLSHIT, people!!!!! Since I am trying my hand at being a private detective I decided to hop a damn plane because, HEY, her town is LOVELY this time of year.

I get to the hospital and by sheer coincidence (or maybe the fact that I already know where she lived and followed her here because I love her THAT way and she won't mind if I park outside her house and ogle her sweet Jewish ass because I'm a FAN! A FAN, I TELL YA!!!!!!) I pulled in right behind her. First of all, she's not limping, AT ALL. She IS hanging onto Hotband like a homeless man on a shopping cart and I was kinda grossed out because, I mean, WHO wants to see that kind of PDA, people??? Not me. But I push forward, determined to prove she is pulling the DAMN wool over ALL of our eyes!!!!

I hid behind a potted plant in the entryway while she "checked in",*wink wink*, my secret squirrel training in FULL effect, ya'll. I had worn my everyday scrubs, thinking that would help me blend into the whole hospital atmosphere. I did put a "Dr. Miller" name tag on, seeing that if a white trash ho in Wal-Mart can pull off the whole "I'm an RN SLASH MA" then I most CERTAINLY can pull off the whole DOCTOR act! Fear set in as I thought I saw Shawty Tic Tac but it turns out it was just a potted plant in a large floral vase. *WHEW* Now THAT was close. She could've foiled my whole plan!

Sorry. Tangent. Carry on.

CP is "admitted" (*yawn*) and they walk (Hotband walks...CP is practically on this man like a backpack I mean GOD I know it's been awhile since you've had your MAN home but shit woman, show some couth! Just sayin'.) through some double doors marked "Outpatient Surgery". Clever one, that CP. But I'm on her like salt on a peanut, people!!!! I see the doors are closing and I take off in a sprint and I do my best impression of Indiana Jones and slide (yeah, like 'slide' as in home base) through at just the right moment losing my nametag in the process! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! I reach my hand back through the small opening and snatched it back...almost losing a finger or two. Well, I'll be a son of a bitch....I chipped my French and that bitch is GONNA pay for a fill-in! I wasn't due for another week.

I jumped up and hid in a janitor closet, sucking on my chipped nail, while CP laughed and joked with the staff! Damn her!!!!! What?!? What is she handing out to everyone?!? It....looks like.....a....business card??? What the....? Fuck this. I grabbed a mop and a bucket and I cautiously stepped out into the open, keeping my head down, like all the good secret squirrels of days past, and I fake mopped. This shit blows, I thought, yet I carried on, for the good of the people! I got closer.....clooooooooooser.....I was just a few feet away, mopping like a motherfucker when I heard this:

CP - "OH MY GOD you HAVE to vote for me! I am SO much funnier than that skank over at Beauty and the Beer! Here....it's my card with my blog addy on it!! Check it."

Nurse #1 - "OHMYGOD I totally will check it out! I've read Beauty and the Beer and that girl....she's got issues. And what's with all this 'shanking' and cussing? She's no CP, that's for sure!"

Bitch is getting shanked next week. Check THAT, hooker.

So anyway, CP is hugging her "fans" and Hotband is just....well, lookin' hot when I decided to confront her about this whole BAD KNEE bullshit. I threw that damn mop down, tripped over the bucket (whoputthatthere??) and I would have fallen slap on my fine ass had it not been for the fucking WALL (whoputthatthere?)! FUCK IT ALL TO HELL! I tried to compose myself but it was kind of HARD to do with blood shooting out of my nose so I ducked into some room, head down, chipped nail throbbing. This shit REALLY blows, I thought. I grabbed a surgical mask and put it on, to try and stop the blood, when I heard this:

"Doctor? Where in the hell have you been?"

I looked up and I was in OR 1. Oh shit. I turned around and saw CP, head thrown back, laughing and hanging onto Hotband like he's the last tampon at a NOW rally (I mean SHIT, lady! He's YOURS! We GET it!) walking into the employee LOUNGE?? WTF?

"Hello? You need to scrub in.....we need you!"

Fuck.

So, there I was, in the OR, operating and shit. I mean, it was HARD, ya'll. First of all, I got confused when they said "brain surgery" and they were all yelling at me, something about, "That's his PENIS you are slicing open!!!" or some shit but since I was in charge, I quickly put the stink eye on the whole entire operating room staff and they shut the fuck up. I mean REALLY...they pulled ME in here! I know where the damn BRAIN is! JONX! By the way, scalpels are FUN! I put a couple in my pocket for later! What about the poor sap I operated on, you ask? Well, the guy isn't any smarter after the surgery but his dick can do multiplication now. Serious. He's an accountant over in Hoboken.

Ok....after my case, I made my way out into the hall and I saw CP with Hotband. I quickly fell in step behind them, and let me tell ya'll.....she's fuckin' sexy as all get out! I am NOT kidding. Hotband is "aw-ite" but DAMN, CP's got it going ON! I noticed she had something in her hand but I needed to get closer to see it! Well, that was where I ran into a food cart (whoputthatthere??) and a fucking dinner roll made contact with my left eye! For the love of all that is HOLY, can I get a fucking BREAK HERE!!!!??? CP and Hotband turned around and they would have spotted me had I not ducked into an elevator at the last minute! I am so fucking clever! People...I am for hire as a private detective. Not tootin' my own horn or anything but she hadn't spotted me yet and I was THIS close to busting her ass! Or busting mine....whichever. Boo Yah!!!!!

As the doors were closing, I peeked out and saw them getting on the other elevator. Ha ha!!!! Surgery my ASS, bitch! Just what was she up to????

It was at this point that I notice my fellow elevator riders. One man looked like the toothy freak in Poltergeist and he was standing over a gurney. A zipped up gurney. I watch CSI. I know these things. I am not stupid. Hell, I just performed brain surgery on a penis, I KNOW this is a dead person.

Scary Man - "You the new doc?"

So, there I was, performing an autopsy and shit. This wasn't pretty either. First off, I didn't know that you were supposed to make a Y incision and Scary Man yelled at me because I had made an R incision. I knew it was some letter and FUCK YOU SCARY MAN, I was CLOSE!!!! Then he yelled at me again because I tried to steal the man's liver because DAMN it looked pretty and SHIT, he didn't need it anymore and...well...you know...I drink beer.

I happened to glance over, all the while holding a human HEART, and through this big ol' window, I spy CP, putting toe tags on dead people. What the....???? Well, Scary Man yelled at me A-FUCKING-GAIN because in my FURY, I threw the heart at the fucking window and I guess you aren't supposed to do that....something about protocol or whatever. Fuck protocol. I'm out.

I stormed out of the autopsy room, into the hallway and heard the tail end of CP's and some CRYING RELATIVE'S conversation! CP said something to the effect of how sorry she was for their loss but they could find words of comfort on her blog and she handed them a toe tag! I was so utterly confused, as I'm sure ya'll are, at this point.

Me - "I caught you!!!!!!!!!!!!!! What the FUCK are you doing in the MORGUE??? I thought you were supposed to be having knee surgery! I KNEW you were lying!!!"

I grabbed a toe tag out of her hand. You guessed it. Her blog address. AGAIN. She was pimping to the dead, people. It's sad. I know. Just take a deep breath. It'll be ok. There's always MY blog...with LIVE people.

Anyway, CP said,

"I...er...uh....my knee surgery is tomorrow. Yeah...it's TOMORROW, BITCH!"

Me - "Bitch! Don't call me a BITCH! Are you blog pimping??? In the MORGUE???"

This is when she jumped me. With her perfectly NORMAL knee. Well, it WAS perfectly normal until I did a flying scissor kick (my signature move, ya'll) and took her down!! I won't go into great detail but I will say after the scissor kick thingy she pretty much beat my ass! Now I have a chipped nail, bloody swollen nose, black eye AND I'm walking with a serious limp. Oh....and she hurt my ear.

There ya go, people! I told you she wasn't having knee surgery. And she wouldn't have, had it not been for me and my ninja skills. I told her to never call me a bitch. (That's what they call a 'warning', people. Recognize.)

Get better soon, CP. I need you up and working...you know...my fill-in and all. Don't make my FACE beat the SHIT outta your fists AGAIN!!!!! JONX to the MAXIMUM, INFINITY POWER!!!!

Much Love.

A Certifiably Fabulous Princess Guest Post.

Prologue: Due to a bum knee, CP will be unable to host her blog post today. Therefore, in an effort further promote his title as "Sexiest Male Blogger" and continue his quest as web whore, today's blogpost will star the one, the only Mr. Fabulous. What you read here is true. The names have been changed to protect the lemurs. Some of what you read is also false. Some if it was written mid-masturbation session. Some of it was smeared with cream cheese, so be careful. Often, what you are reading is purely fabrication, hallucination or high in sperm content. Those who are reading without protection are advised to put a condom on at once. If you spit as oppose to swallowing, this post may not be for you. And now, without further ado, I bring you the verbal diarrhea of Mr. Fabulous.


Greetings and salutations!
Mr. Fabulous here, sitting in for our beloved Certifiable Princess. She can’t come to the computer right now because, well, she is no longer with us.

Certifiable Princess is no more. She is gone. She will be missed.

What? Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean she was dead. My bad. Someone get the smelling salts…

You see, the whole knee surgery thing was a cover story. CP’s knees were fine. We kept the real story under wraps until we knew everything was going to turn out alright. Want to know the big secret? The real reason she is in the hospital?

It’s a man, baby!

That’s right. CP has undergone a sex change operation (sorry Deb). We have been scrimping and saving for a long time to get to the point where we would have enough money to pull the trigger on the procedure. And speaking of triggers, you ought to see hers umm…I mean his. It’s a thing of beauty! In fact, it’s bigger than mine, although that’s not really saying much. I’m Irish, you see. We’re not really known for that. The only really large organ we have is our livers.

But back to CP. Oh, by the way, he will still answer to CP, but instead of Certifiable Princess, it will stand for Chip Parker. We figured that was a nice All-American name for a guy, and this way all the monogrammed towels and dildos won’t have to be put up for sale at a flea market.

Although we could have used the extra money. This sex change shit is expensive!

You may be asking yourself why CP would do this. The truth of the matter is that we are very much in love. But I have a fragile ego, and let’s face it; CP is not exactly a virgin. I felt that there was a chance that my performance might suffer by comparison. And that would not be good for my Narcissistic Personality Disorder. I don’t think I could handle the blow (you know what I mean).

But if she were a man, I would be her first. And she would be my first. And it would be beautiful.

I was more than willing to become a woman instead, but she’s been with women, so again, I would run the risk of paling in comparison to past lovers.

But this way it’s all new territory for both of us. We are embarking on a new and wonderful journey together.

And you would be surprised how little convincing it took. She agreed to it almost right away.

You see, CP is a very sexual being. And the truth of the matter is, well…despite the façade she has constructed for the outside world, the Hotband has not been giving her what she needs.

The sad truth of the matter is that he has become hopelessly addicted to porn. And not just any porn. Porn from Eastern Europe. Have you ever seen Eastern European porn? Yes KB, I know YOU have.

It’s mostly support hose-wearing elderly women with beards having sex with feral dogs. That’s a fact. You can look it up. The poor bastard locks himself in the bathroom for days at a time, pleasuring himself nonstop, rubbing borscht all over himself and jacking off to pictures of some Bulgarian woman’s hairy ass getting licked by a pack of scavenging pooches.

It ain’t pretty.

Now, it pains me a bit to disclose this next part to you. Once CP realized her marriage was a farce, it was not me she turned to first.

She turned to Billy. And I guess I can’t begrudge her that. A big, handsome, swashbuckling pirate. Who wouldn’t want him? Heck, I’m half in love with him myself!

But…it was doomed to fail. I hope I’m not telling any tales out of school here. When CP and Billy first got together in his captain’s quarters on his ship, and she reached down between his legs, she was amazed how hard he was. She thought she was in heaven. Until she got his pants off.

He was hard all right. Remember the story of Peter Pan? More specifically, the character of Captain Hook?

Well, Billy had both his hands. But he DID have a hook. Um…yep.

He had lost his manhood following a wild night of debauchery with three ring tailed lemurs. After the lovin’ he pretty much passed out on his bunk. The lemurs were hungry, but not having opposable thumbs, they couldn’t open the cupboards in the galley to get at Billy’s stash of pop tarts and sunflower seeds.

So instead they snacked on his…soft parts.

I understand it was delicious. But the end result was that he now has a hook for a dingus.

And so for a short while, CP was back to square one.

But now, I am happy to report that the operation was a complete success. Chip will be in the hospital for a few more days for a touch up here and there, and upon release we will begin our beautiful life together.

As for our respective spouses, Mrs Fab took the news rather hard, but she is a trooper, and she’ll bounce back. We still can’t reach the Hotband. He’s been in bathroom for the last three days and he must not be able to hear us over the Yugoslavian marching tunes he’s blaring at full volume on the boom box he took in there with him.

As soon as our respective divorces are final, we will be joined in civil union. You are all invited, of course. We are registered at both Sam’s and Costco, because that’s where you can get the REALLY big jars of K-Y jelly.



Please wish us well on what we have come to call our "Journey of Love and Sodomy".


Conclusion: CP is alive and well, living her new life as Chip Parker. Mr. Fabulous is brushing up on his Divine impersonation to amuse Chip with. As CP will be unable to write her blog for the next few days, due to covering Mr. Fab with Boy Butter and snacking on him, if you would like to volunteer to be the next guest blogger, please drop CP, *ahem* Chip Parker a line at certifiableprincessATyahooDOTcom. Also, if anyone sees the Hotband, when he finally lets go of his penis, could you let him know I am okay? He might be worried when he sees nothing in the fridge but boy butter and borscht. Thanks.

Well, Tomorrow's the Big Day!

Letter to my Right Knee.

Oh, right knee. You have served me so well over the past 39 years. You were there for me when I took my first tumble off my Big Wheel. Yes, I was a fat child who should not have been on a Big Wheel in the first place, but you didn't care, Right Knee. All you knew was that I was having fun, until Mitchell Hellman tripped up my ride with a big branch and I fell. Oh the scrape was horrible, do you remember, Right Knee? But you were brave, through the neosporin, the sting of the Bactine and Esther dumping half a bottle of rubbing alcohol on you. Me? I was not so brave. I screamed. I cried. I might have even shit my pants. But not you, Right Knee, you were strong.

Then remember? That summer in sleepaway camp, Right Knee? We were jumping on the trampoline, just you...me...and Left Knee. Oh, the fun we had! Jump. Jump. Jump. It was before I developed breasts that would knock my eyes out, Right Knee. Before my ass was TOO big to get onto a trampoline, let alone jump on it. Then, remember seeing HIM? That boy? Scott Raifer was his name. He was blonde. Blue eyed. He picked his nose. But oh, how we adored him from afar, didn't we, Right Knee? So much so, that his mere presence distracted Left Knee and we took a spill right off the trampoline. We landed on Skull, remember? Skull wasn't very happy with us, Right Knee. Skull needed stitches. And, Right Middle Finger was pissed off as well. She got caught in the trampoline springs. But, you, Right Knee? You were the one who lifted me up. You were the only strength I had, Right Knee! You helped me to rise, just in time to see my entire camp group of kids pointing and laughing at the "big girl who fell offa da trampoleeeeeeeen!!!" But we didn't care, did we, Right Knee? Yes, Pride was wounded as well. Ego was a tad fucked up too. But we made the long walk to the infirmary. Just you, me and Left Knee.

Then, there was that first blow job. Oh, Right Knee. I was so proud of you for tolerating the carpet burn the way you did. Such a trooper.

But enough about that, Right Knee. I just wanted to say, thank you. Thank you for putting up with the weight of the world, me, for all these years. You have been loyal, faithful and despite being a bit on the knobby side? I'd never dream of replacing you. Tomorrow is your big day, Right Knee. The weeks of agony and torture will finally be over. Left Knee will no longer be the favored knee. You will reclaim your rightful throne as my favorite knee.

I am so sorry that I hurt you, Right Knee. I know you were squatting down on the ground, taking so much pressure on! You are wonderful for handling that. But, I suppose it all got to be too much. You did the best you could, before finally giving out. No one else was there for you, Right Knee. Not even Left Knee. I know the popping, cracking and creaking the past 3 weeks has been keeping you awake at night. I haven't slept either. I feel your pain.

No. Truly. I do.

Anyway, Right Knee, I just wanted to wish you luck tomorrow. And, if you are good, really good tomorrow, I promise. I will have you moving, running, walking and participating in doggy-style in no time at all. I'm here for you, Right Knee. Be strong. Be brave.

I'll see you after surgery.

Love 'til a knee replacement does us part,

CP.

The name is C. C-P.

Hotband is driving me to work this morning.

As usual, I am craning my neck around, looking at the back of cars.

"You just love looking at bumper stickers, don't you, Babe," he says.

"I just feel like you learn a lot about people by the bumper stickers on their cars. For example, this truck in front of us. I can tell they are a football fan, by the Bucs mudflaps. They obviously have a teenager because they have that bumpersticker that says 'Hire a Teenager While They Still Know Everything". I would be inclined to say that their teenager plays sports, because of the #73 with a high school logo on their back windshield. And see? They have a 'Rams' high school insignia too, which tells me that their teenager more than likely plays football for the Ridgewood Rams."

"And we need to know this, why exactly?"

"Well, for identification purposes."

"Um, why would you need to identify them?"

"Let's say that this person suddenly smashed into a person as they were crossing the street. All of a sudden, WHOOOOOOOOOSH...they take off! The person is left in the road, dying, bleeding to death! I would have to get out and help them! I have no knowledge of cars at all, but I would be able to tell police that it is a brown and grey Dodge truck. An old one. And I could tell them that the people have a teenage kid. And I can tell them that they probably are Buc fans! And, I could also tell the police that they have a teenage son, #73, on the Ridgewood Rams football team! With all that information, they'd be able to pick up the driver of the truck in no time and the case would be solved!"

I am absolutely beaming, having a very well thought out answer that I believed to be extremely impressive. My husband appeared to be amazed as well. He was completely silent, obviously in awe of his brilliant and observant wife. It as a few moments before he actually spoke again. I waited with bated breath for him to praise me for my astute observations.

"Babe?"

"Yeah, honey?"

"I think you've been watching too much CSI lately."

Never answer the phone on a Sunday.

*Ring*

"Hello?"

"CP!!!! (screaming) It's ME!!! YOUR MOTHER!!!"

*Moving phone back four inches from my ear* "Hey mom, what's up?"

"Oh CP. All I know is that you or your brothuh, one of you two bettah take care of me in my old age. That's all I know. One of you bettah!"

"Mom, where's Dad?"

"Oy. Please. He's on the couch! Where else would he be? You think he would be out doing something? No. He's doing nothing. You cannot let me be alone after your father, oy, God Forbid, drops dead."

"What the hell brought this on? Mom, why would dad drop dead? He's just watching TV, right?"

"Yeah."

"Is it porn?"

"Oh. OH GAWWWWWWWD! CP, see?? Now, why do you always have to make everything all about sex? Everything with you is sex. Sex Sex Sex."

"I just thought, if Dad was watching porn, that might be a reason for him to drop dead while watching television, that's all."

"See? This is why your brother is my favorite. When is your knee surgery?"

"Um, Thursday. My brother is your favorite? When did he get this honor bestowed upon him?"

"Don't worry, CP. Very simple operation."

"I'm a nurse, ma."

"Yeah, I know you know everything already. Sue me. What the hell do I know? I'm just your mother. I just gave you life."

"And now you are seeing fit to take it away from me?"

"Whaaaaaaaaaat? What did you say?"

"Nothing, Ma."

"So look, I was thinking. You know the piano, and my two big recliners and the dining room set you like?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm gonna ship them down to you, CP."

"Um, mom? I don't have room for them."

"Sure you do! Keep them all in your garage until you move into a bigger house!"

"So, basically, you want me to be a storage facility for you."

"Not for ME, darling! For YOU! You should have nice things. Don't you want nice things?"

"I have nice things, Ma."

"No. You THINK you have nice things. But do you have things like I have things to give you?"

"Mom?"

"Yeah?"

"Brad's your favorite right? You just said that. Why don't you send him all this stuff. That way, when Dad drops dead and you go live with him, you'll already have all your nice things in his house already, waiting for you."

"YOU SEE, CP???? THIS IS WHY I DON'T LIKE TO CALL YOU!!!"

"I don't blame you, Mom. I'm a terrible daughter."

"Yes, yes you are."

"You shouldn't have to talk to me. You should not have to deal with my attitude or my negative behavior."

"No, No I shouldn't. You're right."

"Then I better let you go."

"Yes, you should!!!"

*click*

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Three minutes later:

*RING*

"Hello?"

"CP, this is your father."

"Hey Dad."

"Listen, I am just calling to thank you."

"For what?"

"Well, before Mother called you, she was screaming at me about getting off the couch and coming with her to Nordstrom to shop for slipcovers. Now, she's too busy screaming about what an inconsiderate, selfish little shit you are. Now she's not in the mood to go. So, she went to go take a bath instead. I just wanted to say thanks. There's a few good shows on today."

"Anytime, Dad. Anytime. Enjoy your shows."

"Oh, CP?"

"Yeah Dad?"

"You're MY favorite."

"Thanks Daddy."

*click*

MY HUBBY IS COMING HOME!!!

My husband is, right now, on Song flight 1990 from JFK to Tampa International. I am tracking the flight, watching every single move it makes. For those of you who haven't been into my archives at all, my husband has been taking contracts out of town for work, until he could secure a full time position with a MAJOR computer corporation. He has been in Wisconsin, Chicago, New Jersey and as of late, NYC for the past seven months. It has been absolutely taxing on both of us for different reasons. For him? The lonely feeling of being away from your family and sleeping in hotel rooms, eating alone, falling asleep with no one beside you to kiss you goodnight. For me? Having to do everything around the house, handle the kids on my own, missing him terribly and like him, falling asleep alone every night without his kisses. It sucked. Big time.

But today was his last day at the New York City contract. His excellent work ethic and commitment to his job landed him not only the full time position that he wanted, but it is a remote position, which means...HUSBAND WILL BE HOME FOR THE NEXT 365 DAYS and working out of OUR LIVING ROOM!

Tonight is the beginning of a homecoming long in the making. Sure, we saw each other every single weekend. Either I went to NYC or wherever he was working, or he flew down here for the weekend to be with me and the kids. But, it just isn't the same.

His plane will be landing in ONE hour and I admit, I am like an eager little girl waiting for Christmas morning (Bad Jew. Should have said Channukah. Forgive me, Esther.) I have prettied up the house (despite my throbbing knee), got myself all showered and done up (you know, all made up for the "natural look") and even made sure that his side of the bed is clear, open and ready for him to come back to.

No, this isn't my usual fare. I don't normally write something that is "unfunny" or non-political. But, this is my HUSBAND, People! The Hotband! The one who saved me from myself. If it wasn't for this man, I probably would have given up any dream of a relatively normal life. I was so plagued by my past, the things that had happened to me, that I never thought I would allow myself to feel the pure honesty of a committed relationship ever again. Since meeting and marrying him, I have changed so much. I have grown in ways that I never dreamed I would (aside from horizontally!) I have learned the art of saying "I'm sorry". I have learned that admitting you are wrong doesn't mean you are weak. He has taught me that kindness to strangers goes a LONG, LONG way. He reminds me on a daily basis that I was not a victim of domestic violence, but rather, a survivor of domestic violence. He is the one that taught me there was a difference between laughing with and laughing at. He also reminded me that the ability to laugh at yourself is the greatest gift of all.

In short, this man has gifted me with more happiness and more beauty than any one woman could ever possibly deserve. He literally saved my life in one hundred different ways. While I have never needed a man to define me, I have always wanted one who was willing to be my equal, my partner in every single way. I watch him with my children and fall in love with him over and over again. He reminds my daughter to carry herself with self-respect. He cares for her and loves her better than her own father ever could. He is a constant provider of support for her. My son? They are best friends. My son refers to my husband as his "bonus dad". They play together like children. Yet, my husband grows up when it is time to be the adult. He respects my son and my son respects him. Most of all, he is teaching my son the fine points of being a real man in every aspect. He teaches him to have respect for women. He has taught him that women are the greatest blessing that God has ever put upon this earth and that they should be treated as such.

My husband is coming home tonight. Like a missing puzzle piece, the final link in making the picture complete, he is in the sky right now. My angel. Flying through the sky to be here, with me, in our heaven known as our home. Forgive me if I go on and on. Forgive me my inability to make light of this situation. My time with this man is the most precious possesion ever bestowed upon me. Seven months of separation, tears and pure frustration has now brought my husband home to me, to my children and life will resume once more. No more holding pattern. No more waiting and wondering. No more closing my eyes to the sound of his voice on my cellphone, and wishing he were beside me. No more emptiness.

My best friend, my partner in crime, my lover and my rock are on a plane right now, coming home. Home. He is finally coming home. And, for the first time in months, I am genuinely content. I am relieved. I am relaxed. I am over the moon.



Hotband, I love you with everything that I am. Each beat of my heart strengthens my love for you. Every thought of you is palpable, I can still feel you everywhere around me, even in your absence. I cannot wait to wake up Monday morning and know you will not be boarding a plane. I cannot wait to come home Monday evening and see you are already here. I can't wait to see the look on our little boys face when you walk through that door this time, knowing there is no reason to leave again. I cannot wait until I see you embrace your daughter. I can't wait for her to ask you for money. *wink* Life has been on hold for the past 7 months, but I feel like someone just hit the "play" button again.

I love you, N. I love you more than you will ever comprehend. Welcome home, Darling. Welcome back home, again.

Forever and ever and then some.

CP.

Sometimes, blog fodder just presents itself...

in the form of your children.

I am the mother of two children, two dogs, two cats and of course, one hotband. I have been stuck in this house for the past three days since making my injured knee go from bad to worse. Hence, I have been under the mercy of my 19 year old daughter, S., to handle my errands.

Let me tell you about having your teenage daughter be your only link to the real world.

It sucks.

Let me present to you...last night.

I am on the couch, leg up, resting the ol' knee, when teenage daughter enters on hyperdrive from work.

"Hey mommy! How ya feelin'???"

(I don't do perky very well. I do it even less well when I am in pain.)

"I'm fine, baby girl. What are you doing tonight."

"Staying home with YOU, Mommy!"

(I can tell she's 'in a mood'. She gets these moments where she gets the uncontrollable need to annoy the fuck out of me. She usually does this until I hand her some cash and tell her to go out with her friends. As I have been stuck in the house for the past three days, there IS no cash to donate to the peace and quiet cause, so I have to just suck it up.)

"No boyfriend tonight?"

"Nope! Just me and my mommy salami!"

(Oy. She's REALLY sucking on my last nerve right now.)

"I'm hungry," she says. "Are you?"

Hm. Let's see. Am I hungry. I have been stuck in the same position for three days with no ability to get to the refrigerator. I have only been able to eat when my little boy, age 10, would take mercy on me and create something for me. As he was with his father last night, I was in a predicament. So yeah. I imagine I am probably hungry for something other than water and painkillers.

"Yeah, I guess I am. What do you want?"

"Mmmmmmmmm. I dunno. Lemme think."

Let me think goes on for about another half an hour as she runs down the list of every fast food facility she can possibly think of. Then, one by one, rips each one of them apart. I am considering throwing my Endocet on some white bread and ketchup at this point. A little crunchy, sure, but at least the pain would stop.

"How about Subway, mommy?"

"Sounds great."

I point her in the direction of my credit card. She remarkably doesn't have to see me doing this. She already has her arm, elbow deep, into my Louis Vuitton, digging for my wallet.

"Help yourself," I reply, sarcastically.

With my credit card firmly in hand (a sight that absolutely terrifies me) she comes up to me with her big moon face and says, "sooooooooooooooo, whatcha want, Mommy Salami?"

"Meatball on white. No cheese. Not toasted."

"'Kaaaaaaaaay! Byeeeeeeeeeeee!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Enter daughter 20 minutes later. I had dozed off. The sound of her cellphone playing some Bon Jovi (bon jovi???) woke me up.

"HEY MOMMY SALAMI! You up?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Great, here's your food! Oh oh oh...and guess what? You got EXTRA cheese!!"

"'Scuse me?"

"Well, I didn't want cheese on my tuna, but the lady had already taken it out so I told her to just put it on yours! What a good daughter I am, huh???"

"S.?"

"yeah?"

"Didn't I tell you no cheese?"

"Oooooooooooooooh Myyyyyyyyyyyyyy Gaaaaaawwwwwwdddddd! You DID! Oh no. Oh, my poor mommy! Well, I'll tell you what. Take the cheese off your meatballs and I'll eat it. But look! I didn't toast it! I remembered that!!!"

She's absolutely beaming that she remembered this. So, I set about the task of scraping the melted cheese off the meatballs. Did you ever try to scrape melted cheese off a hot meatballs? I have third degree burns on my fingertips. The Endocet sandwich is starting to sound a LOT better.

In the midst of this chaos, my dog, Suzu, decides to walk right into my line of vision and take a CRAP right on my rug. No formality. No "excuse me please while I lift my white furry tail up and take a dump in front of you". Just walks right in front of the television and shits. My daughter and I look at one another. She starts to laugh and then, returns to her sandwich.

"Um, S.?"

"mmmph?" *chew chew chew*

"May I ask how you are eating with a huge wad of shit right in your line of vision?"

"Oh, I'll clean it up, when I'm done eating."

"HOW may I ask, CAN you continue eating, with a huge pile of steaming dogshit right in front of your face?"

"Mooooooooooom," she whines, "I don't want to pick it up now. I'm eating!"

My meatball sub has become far less appealing.

"S., I gotta go clean this. I can't sit here with a huge wad of dogshit in front of my face and eat. I don't know how you can. I can't."

"Fine, fine fine...I'll get it."

She puts down her sandwich and sets out upon this huge elaborate task of picking up the dog shit. She gets a plastic grocery bag, with half a roll of paper towels wound around her hand.

"Sure you have enough paper towels, S.?"

"Yep."

In one swoop, she grabs up the stinking heap and drops the whole wadded up mess into the grocery bag. She walks it outside and drops it on my stoop, closes the door and leaves it there.

"Um, S.? You are just going to leave that there? Can't you walk it to the garbage cans?"

"Later," she says. Hm. Notice the disappearance of the "Mommy Salami" bullshit? That is because I am actually making her DO something. Growl.

She walks back over to the couch and picks up her sandwich. I GASP sharply and loudly!

"You are NOT going to touch your food! You didn't wash your hands!!!!"

"Whuh? Whaddya mean? I had my hand wrapped up in towelpaper!!!"

"AND," I screech. "WHAT THE HELL DOES THAT MEAN!! You just picked up dogshit with your hands, and now, you are going to eat your sandwich???"

"What difference does it make?"

"What do you MEAN what DIFFERENCE does it make? It makes a LOT of difference, S.! You just had your hand on DOGSHIT. I don't care how many layers of paper are between you and IT. You just touched DOG SHIT!"

"Lighten up, Mom," she says, as she reaches over and grabs the wad of cheese I had just attempted to scrape off my meatball sub from off my plate.

I sit there, staring at this child, completely aghast. She doesn't notice. She's too busy watching "Degrassi" and munching on the final pieces of her tuna sub. She finishes the sandwich and then, jumps up. I hear the water going in the sink. I peer around the corner. She's washing her hands.

"Why are you bothering to wash your hands NOW," I say.

"Because they stink like TUNA! Duh!"

"So let me get this straight, S. Dogshit, okay. Tuna, not so much?"

"You are so annoying, Mom. Aren't you going to eat?"

"Uh, you know? I think I will just wrap it up and eat it tomorrow. It's kind of late now and I'm tired."

"Want me to put it in the fridge for you?"

"Yeah. Sure. Do that."

***Mental note to self: When hotband gets home tonight, remind him NOT to eat the meatball sub in the fridge.

Who RAISED this child, may I ask????

Beware of the Blogthief! Beware!

I was having a conversation, via email, with Mr. Fabulous. Seems that his address book was highjacked by some Bingo Playin' Whorebags who try to get you to sign up to play with him. First of all, does Mr. Fab strike you as the Bingo type? Nay. He does not. Naked Twister, perhaps. Bingo? Big fat negative. So, if you get an email from him asking you to "play bingo", just delete it. If you get one asking you to play "strip poker", yeah. That just might be him. You have to be careful, people! Watch where you are putting your email address! It's like leaving your tits swinging in the wind for public fondling! (Or balls, whatever you got dangling, it's all good).

I mentioned, on his blog, how I was similarly violated this past week, but not via email. No. There is a pig on the planet who actually TOOK one of my posts, changed her name from CP to (get this) GT (duh!) and the protagonist of my story from Tony to Vinny. Vinny, Tony. They all drip olive oil, right? Badabing. Any italian name will do, eh blogthief whore? Guess so. For my regular readers, you know that this person stole a post that was very painful for me to write. If she had stolen the post about my nearly being arrested at JFK airport, fine! I can live with that. Hell, even the post about the waitress with the dirty toe picking habit who was about to serve me some dinner, Great! Have at it! All I ask is for a little note of "Hey, This Post Was Written By Certifiable Princess" at the bottom. Put it in a font size of "one" if you want people to overlook it and think that YOU wrote it. Swell.

But, to steal the most painful moment of a persons life and embrace it as your own?

I felt like I got plowed by a strap on, up my ass, sans lube. I literally started to shake. I nearly cried. Why that post of all posts?

Why? CAUSE IT WAS A FUCKING EXCELLENT POST, THAT'S WHY!!!

So, on that level, I can't really blame the blogthief whore for stealing it. The interesting thing was that I wasn't alerted of the theft. Rather, I was doing some research on victims/survivors of domestic violence a couple of days ago and stumbled onto this blog. I started to read. I'm thinking...wow, this girl is great. Whoa. This girl has a lot to say! Holy shit! That happened to me too! MOtHEr FuCKEr it IS ME!!! To add insult to injury, were the commenters. People telling her how bad they felt for her. Bad? That wasn't a post to elicit sympathy. Anyone who knows me, knows that. That is what makes it more hard to fathom...the fact that this sort of violence took place in MY life. This girls blog was nothing but a pity party from start to finish. My writing looked so out of context, so out of focus there. Kind of like Ron Jeremy standing in a room full of eunuchs.

Sidenote: Did you know Ron Jeremy was actually able to roll himself into a ball and suck his own dick, ergo dubbing him with the nickname of "Hedgehog"? Did you know his penis was 9.75 inches long? Did you know we were born in the same town in Queens, New York? Did you know he is Jewish pornstar? Aren't you glad I told you this? I am nothing, if not informative.

Anyway, back to the blogthief whorebag. I left a comment on her page after I saw someone else write this one:

"I don't believe you. I believe this happened to someone. Just not you. You never written anything this good before."

After that, she was met with a slew of "u r full of shit" and "u r a liar" kind of comments. I thought it was a good time to post my blog address, to show everyone that they were right on target with their comments (however lacking they were grammatically) and that I had written this post a mere TWO WEEKS earlier! Then, I suggested that everyone hit the "FLAG THIS BLOG" button on the top of her browser. I even wrote the little whorebag an email which bounced right back, adding to my frustrations. I wrote the people at "Blogger" and they said they would address my concern. Um, yeah. Thanks.

A few days later, BlogThief Whorebag was gone from the face of the Blogger universe.

What lesson have I learned from this experience? None. I am going to continue dishing up my life the way I always have. Face it. I am an interesting person. I get into a lot of trouble all the time. It FINDS me. I swear! But, it makes me realize how vulnerable all our words really are when we post them on our blogs. Someone a million miles away may be pretending to be you, or you...or even YOU.

Just be ready to deal with it when it happens. Be calm. Be rational. Be cool. And, if all else fails, track the fucker down and rip her lung out through her asshole. If Ron Jeremy can suck his own wang, surely you can do a little rearranging on someone elses organs, right?

Just sayin'.

Walmart: Everyone has a story...

and now, here's mine.

So, I was in line at Walmart, minding my own business. Okay, no I wasn't. I'm a Jewish woman. I don't physically know how to mind my own business. Quite honestly, I am completely out of my element when I am minding my own business. I am much better at minding other peoples. But, for shits and giggles, let's pretend that I was minding my own business.

Now, naturally, the first question that my regular readers will have is "CP, you hate Walmart. You hate Walmart with a passion. You said you would rather light your nipples on fire than shop at Walmart! What were you doing there?"

This is, of course, a wonderful and insightful question. One that I will answer, once I get the kerosene off my nipples and cover them in aloe. Basically, I had no choice. Macy's does not sell kitty litter after midnight. If they did, I would have been shopping there. However, the only place on the planet that I know of where kitty litter can be purchased at 12:07 am on a Tuesday night, is alas, Walmart.

So, off I went. Dreading. Nauseated at the vile blue building that stood before me like a mecca for bargain basement human scum to gather at, in search of the perfect Futon. Mind you, this is not the situation during the DAY at Walmart. But at night, the freakiest people opt to buy flip flops and fungal creams at Walmart.

Anyway, I am on the line. There is an affable cashier named Lynn manning the register. In front of me on said line, a heifer. This has nothing to do with weight or girth. This is simply what I call dirty looking women. Heifers. Some qualify as sows. This particular species was all heifer. Heifer is trying to buy a pack of cigarettes. Um, hello? Do you not have a trailer located next to a Quik-E-Mart somewhere? Is there not another place you can do your one stop shopping? Whatever. My kitty litter is getting heavy and Heifer is having a hard time deciding what she would like to smoke that evening. If she doesn't hurry, she will be smoking my bag of kitty litter, because I am ready to light it on fire and shove it down her throat.

Heifer finally opts for the generic version of Newports. Shocker. This is when affable cashier, Lynn says:

"May I see your ID, please?"

A fine question. It is nice to see someone enforcing the laws of 21 and over to purchase cigarettes. Personally, if I smoked, I would be flattered to have Lynn ask me for my ID. Hell, I'd be flattered if anyone asked for my ID. Since Heifer looked like she was at least 30 with 300,000 miles on her, I assumed she would be as flattered as I would be.

Wrong-o.

Apparently, Heifer travels light. She doesn't bring anything more than what she needs to bring for her nightly excursion to Walmart. Apparently, shoes don't qualify as a necessity either. Ugh.

"I don't have my ID with me," she says.

"Did you drive here?" asks Lynn.

"'Course I DROVE here. How the hell do you think I got here?"

*On your broom, I muttered under my breath.*

"Well," says Lynn, still with a radiant smile on her 19 year old face, "if you drove here, you should have your license with you. You can get into trouble for driving without your license."

"Did I ASK you to be my lawyer," screeches Heifer! "Just give me my damn cigarettes."

"I'm sorry, Ma'am. I can't do that."

"Why the fuck not?"

And this, ladies and gents, is where CP loses control of her tongue once more.

"I think," I began, "that she made that clear. You cannot buy cigarettes without ID. Seems pretty cut and dry to me, Miss."

"Who the fuck are you," she brays, sounding like a donkey in heat. In my peripheral vision, I can see Lynn release a sigh of relief that someone, anyone, is helping her battle the beast.

"Who the fuck am I? No one really, except the next person on line and I am kind of tired of waiting on your ass. Soooooo, if you would be kind enough to run home, get your license or get your cigarettes somewhere else, I sure would appreciate it!"

"Yeah, well...fuck you, Cunt."

Oh no.

Oh no she di'in't.

She did NOT just hurl the "C" word at me. I don't know about the rest of you, but the "C" word sends me into FLAMES. It's just an ugly word. It's like "pus". If someone called me "pus", I would be equally as disgusted. But the "C" word has all sorts of other negative connotations for women. So, to be called a "C", by a woman? Oh no no no. WE ain't havin' none o' that.

However, there is a set of impressionable young eyes watching me. Lynn. Can't be a day older than my daughter. I feel a strong sense of responsibility to show Lynn how to conduct yourself when facing a Heifer with a hard on. I take a deep breath and compose myself. This is where the other side of CP takes over. She is rational. She is cool. She is calm. She uses her intellect to take over instead of brown baggin' the bitch in the parking lot. Breathe, stupid, breathe. Okay. I'm good. Let's get on this Heifer ass. Let's DO this.

"Ma'am," I say to the Heifer, in low, dulcet tones, so not to further awaken the beast, "may I ask what you do for a living?"

"Excuse me," replies the Heifer.

"I said, may I ask what you do for a living?"

"I'm a NURSE," says the Heifer.

Oh, this is gonna be good. So good. Mm. Mm. Mm.

"Really, what kind of nurse are you?" I reply, acting truly interested.

"I'm a medical assistant."

"Ohhhhhhhhh, okay," I say, nodding my head, "of course, that doesn't mean you are a NURSE. 'I' am a nurse, honey. A nurse is a licensed medical professional. But, be that as it may, you are still in the medical field, so you do some nursing care, correct?"

"Yeah, so," says Heifer.

"Well, as a quasi-professional, would you ever allow a doctor to perform surgery on a minor if the parent is not with the child."

"NO, that would be pretty fuckin' stupid," Heifer bellows.

"Absolutely correct! Then please understand that this woman is only doing HER job. She is not allowed to sell cigarettes to anyone who cannot produce ID, just as you would not allow a child to be operated on under your care, without a parent available. She could lose her job, just as you would lose yours."

I am now met with...

"Mind your business, Bitch."

*blink*

*blink again*

*BLINK*

"Oh, no. No no no no. You did not just call me a bitch. See, that would be rude, and uncalled for, and as a quasi professional, you would know that we do not treat the general public in that fashion, as it could only lead to violence and someone getting hurt..."

(Or brown-bagged in the parking lot)

Heifer gets quiet. She looks at me with a certain stink eye. You know, the kind where a person squints, their eyebrow twitches and you swear that any second, they are gonna go postal on your ass?

We stare each other down. Hard. Beauty and the Beast. If you have to ask who is who, clearly you are not paying attention to my story.

Now, Heifer turns away from me, (woo hoo! i win!) and goes back to harassing the cashier. I've had just about enough...so I step around the fucking froot loop and put my cat litter on the counter. Cashier follows my lead and proceeds to ignore Heifer as well, and rings up my purchase.

"You redneck bitch," Heifer calls me.

Is she joking? I have HANDBAGS that are more expensive than the car she probably drives.

"Redneck bitch? MY," I respond, "that IS disrespectful...and racist as well! I could have your nursing license for that. Oh...wait. You're not a nurse. I forgot. You do realize though, as your superior in obviously (look her up and down) every way, I can motion to the Board of Nursing to have your certification revoked. You ARE certified, aren't you?"

Cashier is now laughing. CP is now laughing. Heifer is SO not laughing.

"Fuck you, bitch! Fuck you, rag! Fuck you, cunt!"

*shudders* Oh, again with the "C" word. Breathe, CP. Breathe.

"Oooohie," says CP, "you should be a dental hygienist with that mouth. You could use a good cleaning."

Now she stomps out of Wal-Mart, screaming the whole freaking way. I'm laughing, cashier is laughing. Young guy saunters up next to me, obviously stoned, but completely non-menacing.

"Dude," he says (despite my obviously NOT being a dude) "that was the best shit ever! You rock!"

"UM, okay, thanks!"

"Carolyn's a fuckin' bitch, man. You told her!" He proceeds to giggle uncontrolably, his posse in tow. They are all giggling the stoner giggle as well.

"You know her????"

"Dude," in that Fast Times At Ridgemont High/Jeff Spicoli sort of way, "that's my fucking GIRLFRIEND. She's a dick, dude."

Okay. I am now in the throes of hysteria. He just dogged his own girlfriend. Where the hell is my digital camera. WHY do I not have a mini-camcorder at this moment? Where is the crew from Punk'd? This HAS to be a stunt. HAS TO BE!

To add insult to injury, as I am leaving with my kitty litter...I run into the Heifer in front of Walmart. Heifer is stomping and snorting and pacing outside of Wal-mart. (Bet she wishes she had a cigarette. Heh.) "Honey, is your name Carolyn?" She looks at me, absolutely appalled. Says nothing.

"Cause if it IS," I said, "your boyfriend just told me what a bitch you are, and how happy he was I put you in your place. Just thought you might wanna know that...have a great night!"

And, as I drove off...I heard the sweet sounds of Carolyn (aka Heifer) shrieking her fool head off at her boyfriend. He, however, was laughing his ass off, as was his posse of stoners, and waving goodbye to me.

I may not be all that. Hell, I may not even be some of that. But, I am a Walmart Super Hero, stopping the spread of the epidemic imbecile virus. I will fight the good fight until Walmarts are rid of Beasts and Heifers who swarm and prey in the midnight hour. Watch for me! I'll be coming soon, to a Walmart near you.

You'll recognize me immediately. I'll be the only one with shoes on.