An Oxymoron Is Not An Idiot With Zits

On Hiatus...

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Mon, 21 Jul 2008 22:37:00 +0000

Heading to New York in three weeks to spend some time with Esther. Until then, this board is going dark.

I will see you all in the fall.

Peace.

Mother Mary...

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Mon, 07 Jul 2008 17:16:00 +0000

I don't think I have ever written about my ex mother in law, Mary. She's not the brightest star in the sky, mind you. She is very Brooklyn old school Italian. Recently, my son expressed the desire to be Bar Mitzvah'd as I brought him up in the Jewish faith despite his father being a Roman Catholic.

She has the following conversation with my 12 year old son:

"You can't get bar mitvah'd," she says.

"Why not?"

"Because then...you won't be italian anymore"

I am now a statistic...

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Thu, 03 Jul 2008 14:15:00 +0000

I am one of the 14 million Americans who do not have health insurance. My husband applied for a private policy for him, my son and I. We were rejected, well actually, I was rejected due to my bipolar disorder. Now granted, my medications are very expensive. Two of them are generic. One of them is upwards of $200 for a one month supply. Another is about $300 per month. Yes, it is costly to maintain the brain of the Princess, no doubt.

However, it begs the question...why are people with mental illness discriminated against. My son has a heart issue. He got covered without a problem. My father has had multiple heart surgeries and Blue Cross Blue Shield covers him without incident. My mother is a hypochondriac who has everything under the sun, and they insured her.

Me? I am as healthy as a horse, except for my brain being a bit dysfuntional. Shit, my brother has a metal plate in his head...and he is covered! So, the healthcare issue of this country is a very important one for me.

I would like to call bullshit on this one. I am a productive member of society. I work. I go to school when I am able. I pull my weight. I am not a burden or drain on the economic welfare of this country. Someone suggested that I go on disability due to my bipolar disorder. Um, no. I am a little young to throw myself onto the disabled list. Besides, there is nothing I can't do. Except ride a bicycle...but I am working on that one as we speak. Surely someone with a bit of different wiring should be able to get medical insurance.

There are people who are diagnosed with depression who have no trouble getting medical insurance. Many of these people have tried to harm themselves physically. Some have even died...leaving their life insurance policies to pay out for funeral expenses or whatnot.

How can, in the most powerful and wealthy nation in the entire world, people still be without health insurance? I have bipolar disorder, not the plague for God's sake. It makes me wonder how someone, in this day and age cannot have medical insurance. I am watching Obama and McCain very closely right now...one of them has to have the right formula for this. Then again, who knows? There hasn't been a candidate for the job yet that could right this wrong. My hopes were deeply grounded in Hillary Clinton, but that point is moot. I still firmly believe it would take a woman to turn this country around. After all, we do everything under the sun for our families. Surely, if we looked at this country as one big family, something could get done to alleviate the pressure of not having health insurance.

So, me and my bipolar disorder will slink into a corner somewhere and hide, hoping that I never break a bone or have a heart attack.

Out of curiousity, how many of you have been in this situation?

Frankly, I think it blows cowdick...

Product Endorsement...

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Fri, 27 Jun 2008 19:19:00 +0000

I don't usually do product endorsements. Well, unless I was getting paid for them from places like "Pay Per Post", may they rest in peace. But this week at the beach, my husband and I discovered something that MUST be shared with all couples. I don't care if you are gay, straight or into horses...you must try this product.

I'm sure by now you have seen the commercials for KY Yours and Mine brand lubricant. Guy says one bottle does wonders for him. Chick says her bottle does amazing stuff to her. When they combine...you hear something combust, or some fat chick start singing opera. Generally, I don't give in to television ads. They are usually not the predictors of what I intend to purchase. However, the purple and blue bottles got to me and I simply had to know what was in these bad boys that would make sex so explosive.

Let. Me. Tell. You. Something.

This product must be purchased. The stuff in the blue bottle, for the men? It's hot. Literally hot. Gets hotter when you breathe on it. (Oh, sure. Like you don't know how I figured THAT one out.) Now true, it tastes sorta like cough syrup, but for the reaction it gave my hubby, it was worth it. He kinda felt like all the blood rushed to his dick and made it throbbier than usual. Yes, throbbier. I can say that. It's a CP-ism. Now the purple bottle stuff? The stuff for the woman? Wow. If you ever wondered what it would be like to play with yourself using ICY HOT or Ben Gay, then this is the stuff. It gets REAL frosty cold. I mean, icy! Hotband says it tastes like Spearmint, so that's a plus for the guys.

So, after all the poking, prodding, diddling and such and of course, after the taste test, we opted to see what these products would be like when combined. After all, this is what they are meant for...the big comb-O. I slathered his blue stuff on him and we doused me in my purple stuff and went for it.

Holy. Good. God.

It was like sitting on an ice cube in front of a fireplace. Things were getting hot that should never be hot and other stuff was getting cold without causing shrinkage and there was just temperature issues all over the place! It caused us to make all sorts of unnatural sounds and howl like wilderbeasts in heat.

The downside? The bottles are small, so they go pretty quick. Hotband and I used half a bottle each in one session (mind you, our "sessions" are rather long and extensive. I wouldn't recommend this stuff for newbies or quickies.) It has a sticker value of near twenty bucks, but it is soooooooooo worth it. Trust a bitch.

I imagine that the stuff would be good for self-indulgent moments as well...though my husband did mention that the cold stuff made him feel like his dick was frostbitten. Just threw some hot stuff on there and it neutralized him immediately. Just some hot stuff...and a little TLC courtesy of CP. *snicker*

So, if you are looking to shake up the party a little and have some good wholesome fun with lubricants, I would highly suggest KY Yours and Mine as a must have for the nightstand, next to the toys.

Rest In Fucking Peace, Dude.

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Mon, 23 Jun 2008 09:07:00 +0000

It's 5:07 am. I am having another raging bout of insomnia. No, not even great fucking would knock me out tonight. So I am watching MSNBC and they have the brajoles to tell me that comic legend George Carlin has died from heart failure. Fucker was 71 years old.

George Carlin, for those of you who are not used to a more profane princess, was a thinking man's comic. The old man had wisdom that was way ahead of his time and a performance prowess that will never be duplicated. His career spanned most of MY lifetime and the dude was just a hippie, man. Totally rad. I feel a major sense of loss because George Carlin was one of the first people I learned sarcasm from.

Like you fuckers believe I was actually born this way??? Oh no. Esther did not do ALL the damage. But, she did let me watch him when I was a kid, so she is a major contributor.

So, in homage to George, I leave you with 100 of his most inspiring quotes. Hope it puts a smile on your face. I am having a beer for him at sunrise...even if it makes me vomit. Here's some George for you to suck on:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Post update. Nah. fuck it. No matter how many quotes I put up here of his, y'all will never get the feel for this man unless you actually see him in action. So, drank my beer, vomited and then I ripped down the quotes. I am putting up one of his most offensive and envelope pushing routines for you to enjoy. Take ten minutes out of your life for a good laugh. And don't take him too seriously...he never took himself too seriously either.

And no bible thumping Jesus freaks coming to burn down my blog, please. If you can't find the humor, please leave my blog and never, ever, ever come back. No. Seriously. Don't.

I can't believe a year has gone by...

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Sat, 21 Jun 2008 09:35:00 +0000

Always in our thoughts, NYCWD. Always. Never forgotten.

I am about to find out...

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Tue, 17 Jun 2008 16:28:00 +0000

whether my grandbaby is a boy or a girl. I am waiting at home, quite impatiently, to hear the word from my daughter. Originally, I was going to go to her ultrasound with her, then I thought better of it. This should be a private moment for her and her husband, don't you think? Besides, I think I would piss myself laughing watching them stick a big dildo looking thing into her vagina and start probing around. You have to understand, my daughter is the BIGGEST prude on the planet. The mere fact that she is pregnant astounds me. This is the same girl that would not bring her own bras up to the register to pay for them because she was embarassed. So, she would have me bring her 34B bras up to the register. Yes, me and my 44F breasts take these bras up to the register and pay for them. No doubt the woman behind the register thinks I am buying nipple covers for myself. My bras look more like yamuchas with chin straps. You can literally cover your entire head with one of my bras.

Anyway, I digress.

So, I am about to find out whether I am buying pink shit or blue shit. I am very excited to know and the second I find out, you all will know too. Of course you have to be the first people I tell, because I am anti social and I do not like anyone else but you guys.

It is 12:32 pm EST and by now, she should be getting probed. As soon as she comes back, I will let you all in on the news.

Stay tuned.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
1:04 pm: IT'S A GIRL!!!!!!!!!!!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
4:10 pm: And the shopping has begun!!!

Surely you didn't think I could possibly wait, right?

My Monster In Law is in town...

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Tue, 10 Jun 2008 12:38:00 +0000

God help me. I love the hotband. Y'all know how much I do. But his mother? Oy. I don't get the woman at all. Everytime she comes into town from Israel she makes some sort of catty remark about my weight. She's very subtle, making sure that her son either doesn't hear her...or blames her lack of ability to speak English well.

The woman is from BOSTON, people.

Granted, she has lived in Israel most of her life, but she speaks perfect English. She refuses to speak English when I am around, speaking only to her son in Hebrew. My husbands father speaks VERY broken English but always manages to include me in the conversations as best as he can.

Let me give you an example. Three years ago, my husband was telling his mother that I used to be a professional dancer. The wench turns around and says "don't most dancers have thin bodies?"

Hello??? Was I born this fat? I wasn't always a size 16 ya know.

Yesterday I was eating a salad and she says "good for you for finally watching your weight".

*frown*

Now mind you...I haven't seen the woman in three years. I suppose I should be thankful that she lives in Israel and I only have to deal with her once every few years when she comes in for one of her visits. Some people have to deal with their mother in laws on a daily basis. The only thing is...my parents don't treat my husband that way. They treat him like a son...better than a son actually. They think he is God's gift on earth for putting up with me for as long as he has.

Anyway, she has my husband completely deluded telling him that she wants to get "closer" to me. Please. We have absolutely nothing in common but my husband. That's it. So unless she wants to talk about him all day, I really have nothing to say to her. She is going to be here for FIVE fucking weeks. Five weeks. Do you understand that is like 20 years? I feel like i am being punished for something I did in a past life.

Did you ever meet someone who just makes your skin crawl and makes you feel like a stranger in your own home? That is my mother in law. I am eating xanax like Pez right now. I am trying so hard to stay calm, for my husbands sake. It's not getting any easier.

Any advice for dealing with the monster in law while she is here?

PS: honey? if you read this? please remember that this is my place to VENT...and dont get mad at me. better i say it here than to her face, right??? *cheese smile*

Did you ever...

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Mon, 09 Jun 2008 14:09:00 +0000

catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and be like..."hey, nice!"

Just happened to me this morning. I was getting ready to go to the doctor and as I walked past the mirror, I saw a reflection that I found to be quite pleasing.

I just lost 24 pounds.

It feels really good. Now, I ain't no size 8 just quite yet, nor am I intending to be...just wanted to get under the 200 mark. I weighed my breasts. They account for 14 pounds of my weight. I imagine my ass is worth twice that. I am good with that extra weight...cause it's in good spots. So I am now 198 pounds of damn fine.

I caught my reflection in the mirror today and I was like "whoa!" The difference is amazing.

When I met my husband, I was 185 pounds. I put on about 40 pounds of what I refer to as happily married fat. It feels sorta sexy to know that my curves are appreciated by my husband no matter what I weigh, but it's nicer to be able to slide on my jeans without doing the jump up and down lay down on the bed pull the zipper up with a hanger dance.

Don't y'all act like you don't know what I am talking about. Every girl does the dance now and then.

When your friend has a broken heart...

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Fri, 06 Jun 2008 11:48:00 +0000

My girlfriend recently had her heart broken by someone she thought was potentially "the one". She's a strong, beautiful woman and I don't think she realizes it. In hindsight, she sees all the little signs and symptoms of this relationship coming to a hideous end. She chose to block those out of her view and be with this person, taking him as he was with all his flaws. She went out on a limb, tried to meet someone who she wouldn't normally date. She took a chance. The betrayal that he offered to her runs deep. She's angry, but too stoic to cry on the shoulders of her friends. She talks to me like she isn't in pain, but I know she is hurting so badly. It was a huge loss in her life. She is too much a lady to bother getting angry with him and tell him off. She simply allowed her heart to be broken over a lunch date and was content to walk away, no questions asked. But now, she has answers to all the little innuendo she never quite understood. She wonders if there will ever be anyone out there for her. She calls herself a "stepping stone", the woman who trains a man how he should be toward other women. These men go on to meet the women of their dreams and treat them well because she showed them how a woman wants to be treated. She has impacted the lives of so many men and the women that they love...but this leaves her cold. She's alone while everyone else revels in what they have. What she deserves. I try to convince her that they are all not bad. There are men out there that are desperately searching for her who are in pain as well. Men who don't want drama queens. Men who don't want unfaithful women. Men who enjoy the company of a well read and well spoken woman.

God, she is so beautiful. If you saw her, you would be in awe of her beauty. She's one of those girls that lights up a room because she doesn't look like anyone else at all. She is beautiful in mind body and spirit. It pains me to see her spirit crushed by someone who was never worthy of her to start with. I want to hug her and let her cry, but she's not that type of person. She suffers alone, confused thoughts muddling her mind. And a small part of her blames herself for not wanting to see the signs that were right in front of her. I don't want her to blame herself for the despicable actions of others. He was never good enough for her. I suspect she doesn't realize how wonderful she is.

She thinks that she will never get married, never know the happiness that I know. I pray for her to have that kind of love in her life. She's a good, kind girl. She needs love. She needs attention, the right kind of attention. She should be showered in sunshine and roses, light falling on her face every day. Her hands should be held as if they were priceless jewels and her heart polished every single day...never to be tarnished again.

I want to pull all the pain out of her, throw it in a bottle and toss it out into the ocean. I want her to be able to breathe knowing someone loves her and cherishes her with every beat of her heart. She deserves that.

And it breaks my heart that she doesn't have that.

My husband tells me to tell her that not all men are rotten to the core the way her ex was. There are some still out there that would love to worship the words that fall from her lips. That would trace the shadows of her face with his fingertips and memorize every line, every freckle.

Her smile is contagious. Her laughter is sheer melody.

My friend is crushed. She is hurting. And I can't do a damn thing about it.

Reason Number 3540375438753

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Sat, 31 May 2008 11:30:00 +0000

why my husband is the greatest man on earth.

Mothers day was a few weeks ago. My darling daughter and son in law bought me some clothes which was nice. My son got me an XM radio for my car. Very cool. My husband didn't buy me anything. He did something better. He got a contract with his job that will keep him home and working remotely for THREE MONTHS! He wrote that in my card and NOTHING anyone could have bought me would be better than that. Nothing. Y'all who know me know that my husband works out of town most of the year...so to have him home for three months is completely the best gift evah!!!

Until last week.

He got a job offer to work a second contract in Mexico of all places. Oy. So, now he goes from having three months home to having one month home. Sucks. The princess is no longer happy. Morose, if anything. So we are out on the back porch when he breaks this news to me.

"Well, had I known that," I said, "I would have asked for a Tiffany necklace instead."

I was trying to make light of how miserable his news made me.

He gets up, walks into the living room and comes back out with this beautiful little turquoise colored bag that right away the princess recognizes is from Tiffany's. I open the bag and there is that some color little box. I open the box and there is the same colored little suede pouch. I open that and see this:

Only mine has a heart shaped tag instead of this oval one. Yes. Fucker knew that I would be disappointed about him having to leave and went out and bought me a Tiffany necklace. Now, mind you, I am still upset...but a Tiffany necklace around the neck of Le Princess does a lot to ease the pain, ya know what I'm sayin'?

The brajoles on some people...

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Tue, 20 May 2008 16:38:00 +0000

I think my blog is getting a little too public. It is very easy to Google my name and find my blog. People at work are starting to find it and that bothers me a bit. I want to write about stuff that happens at my job and now, I feel stiffled because I don't know who is going to be reading my shit.

Like I fucking care. *snort*

The way I figure it, if you fire me over something that I blog...who the fuck wants to work for you anyway, ya know? I know Miss Dooce made blog history by getting fired when she opted to blog about her employment and it was discovered. Okay, boo fucking hoo. That was a very sad story and made a lot of us decide to be a bit more careful about what we say on our blogs. My point however, our blog are our online journals. They are not carefully written but rather ranting and raving in the privacy of our own little blog world. Lately, people at my job have been exchanging MySpace information. I don't really understand the concept of that. You work together. You see each other all day long. Why do you need to communicate through a blog page? I don't get it. Nor do I give out my information. There are very few "real life" friends that know this blog exists. Why? I don't trust people very easily and know that anything I say has the potential of winding up back in my own face.

To be honest, I prefer my online friends. We talk. We laugh. We spend quality time. We share emotions and secrets and there is no pressure to keep them entertained 24/7. No awkward pauses. I don't think there is a single one of my online friends that I wouldn't give my left tit for. Truly.

Anyway, so I get home from work yesterday. I work overnights so by the time I get my ass out of my job at 7:30am and get my son to school at 8am, I am back home by 8:30 am. I may have a bowl of cereal. Unwind a little. You know, chill out, like most people do after coming off an 8 hour shift. What I don't do is go directly to bed...I'm still wired from my night of work so I make myself go to bed by 10am. This is a good time for me because it allows me to get a decent 5 hours of hard sleep before I have to pick up my son from school at 3pm. Then, usually I will take another nap around 7pm or so to get me ready for my 10 pm shift. Decent routine, right? Yes, until some fuck at my job decides to call me at 11 am, wake me up out of a dead sleep to inform me that I was missing some labs at my job from the night before. Now, I know this broad has to realize that I just got off of work no more than 3 hours ago. Yet, she calls and thinks I am going to have coherent answers for her. She also wants to know when I can come in to discuss this issue.

Come in? Discuss? Yeah. Tell you what. How about I call YOU at 3am while YOU are sleeping before YOU have to be at work at 7am and we can discuss it then, hm? Sound good?

I mean, have you ever heard such inconsiderate bullshit in all your life?

So, I get off the phone with the broad. It is now 11:30 am. She woke me up. My body now treats that hour of sleep that I just had as a nap. I have a very bad issue with insomnia to start with. I can't take sleeping pills now because I already took some to go to bed this morning. It is now 3pm in the afternoon. Still can't sleep...and I have a migraine now. 5pm. Still wide awake because this craphead threw a monkey wrench into my sleep pattern. By 6pm a frustrated me calls into work and calls off for the night. Yes. I took the night off. I was NOT going to go into work on ONE HOUR of sleep and try to take care of patients for the next eight hours. It is stupid and dangerous for someone to expect that of someone else.

In the interim, I still haven't gone in to "discuss" the labs that I missed because...well, why the hell should I? If it is so damn important that we need to discuss this issue then be at my job at 11pm when I get there...or make sure to come in at the crack of dawn when I am leaving. Why do I have to disrupt MY day after working a whole night to come "discuss" anything.

I am my own best saboteur. I probably will end up getting fired for this little foray into the world of CP knows best. I wish I could say I give a shit. I don't. I love my job, a lot. But, not more than I love my sleep or my time with my family. You just don't go interferring in those things. The phone call from her certainly could have waited until late afternoon. She could have called me at 2pm or 3pm or 4pm or 5 pm and all would be happy and lovely with the world. But no. You must opt to call me at 10:30 or 11 am and disrupt the only sleep I get all damn fucking day. Why? Can a bitch ask?

And if you know I skipped the labs, what precisely does it accomplish by calling me up to "discuss" it. Just fill it the fuck out, do it...and talk to me about the fact that I missed it another time! What the hell does it matter? Do you know how many mistakes I fix for other people and don't call them to TELL them I fixed their errors. I don't even mention them most of the time unless it is critical. What's the point?

See, this is why I like online people better. They are so much more lay back and cool. I can't deal with all this type A crazy shit anymore. To me, it was completely inconsiderate and downright RUDE to call me at that hour to discuss anything. I don't care if the fucking building was on fire. I don't care if you were calling to tell me I got an enormous raise. All those things can wait til a person gets a decent nights (or days) sleep.

Bitches piss me right the hell off. And, if someone from work reads this...then good. I hope you recognize yourself in this post and know that you are a rude human being who needs a good assfucking to get the stick out from between your legs.

Ah. That felt better. I think I shall go back to bed now.

You learn how tough you are...

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Sat, 17 May 2008 12:28:00 +0000

when you have an 82 year old man punch you in the throat at three am. You learn how patient you are when you have a patient yelling "Nancy" down the hall at you...and your name ain't Nancy. You realize you have grown as a person when you can just stop saying hello and goodbye to people who really don't give a rats ass about you. Why ask "how are you" when you are not remotely interested in the answer? Love that. When people say how are you as they walk past you.

Bitch please. Stop that catwalk right there and you come talk to my ass, ya hear? Don't be asking me how I am and then walk past me. I have answers. You asked and now...you shall know.

Why do people do that?

Anyway, I Have been a bad blogger as of late. No recent updates. No reading other blogs. No commenting on other blogs. I have been blog neglectful...except my bipolar blog which needs constant updating depending on what personality I am experiencing that day.

I have this question to pose to all of you though. Seriously think about this. When someone is just joking around saying "Ha! That chick is crazy! She's seriously bipolar or schizophrenic or something..." do you think it would be alright if I knocked them the fuck out? I mean, I have those things. They are a constant struggle for me. Everyday I eat a box of medications for BPD and for schizophrenia. I take Prozac. The highest amount. 80 mgs. I take Lamictal. Again, highest amount, 400mgs. I take Geodon for my schizophrenia. 60 mgs. All this does not include the xanax, restoril, ativan and valium that I take to keep my not so well controlled mania under control.

I suffer with this shit every single day of my life and I am so fed up of hearing people throw around the word "bipolar" just to describe the antics of someone who might be a little loopy upstairs.

I am a proud card carrying member of crazy bitch anonymous. I worked hard for that notoreity. Not everyone gets diagnosed as bipolar with schizophrenia! Hell...I have two reputable doctors backing me up on this. Since when did it become chic to have a mental disorder? I think that is everyones lameass excuse for when things go wrong in their life. Right away they have a doctor throw them on a drug..."Here, suck on this and make the loop de loop go bye byes."

No.

I earned mine through years of torturing myself and others. You cannot wear this badge of honor of mine. There is a difference between being crazy and being psychologically fucked. I lay it on the line about my bipolar issues. Fuck. You think any less of me for them...fuck you. I will take a hacksaw to your left jugular. I don't care. I have an alibi. I'm schizophrenic. I can pretty much do whatever I want and just point to my medical file for back up. That's why it's so great to be diagnosed.

This post was heading somewhere...but I have forgotten where. Oh yeah. Blogging. So um, I'm gonna work on that and get a little better at updating. Working night shift is fucking up my entire world. But ahhhhhhhhh...to work at the hours where there are no administrative cunts running up and down your ass is soooooo worth it.

It's 8am. I just got home from work because the inconsiderate twat before me came in late. Not nice. I told her so. I think she got offended...

LOOK!!! Here's a picture of me not giving a flying fuck! Hooooooray!

Oh, btw...Sammi had a sonogram. Congratulate me. I'm having a blob. The stupid tech couldn't tell the sex of the baby. Fucking tard. I hope I am a better grandmother than I am a blogger. I used to be really good at this and now I find myself so burnt out. I mean, what can I tell all of you that I haven't spewed all over these pages in the past three years. Y'all know EVERYTHING about me.

This must mean my life is getting disinteresting. I will have to fix that.

Maybe I just need to use one of my other personalitities to blog from now on.

Rude Ass Mutha Fucka.

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Thu, 01 May 2008 16:07:00 +0000

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

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

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

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

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

Oh no she did NOT just do THAT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Be back shortly.

10 minutes later;

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

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

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

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

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

*dead silence*

"Are we through," she asks.

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

"Thank you very much."

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

I hung up.

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

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

I'm chilled out now.

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

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

Whee! That sounds like fun!

What would you do???

The right to live...and die.

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Wed, 23 Apr 2008 21:38:00 +0000

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

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

She died last night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Will you call me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her voice trailed off.

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

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

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

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

And again, I cried.

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

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

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

*names changed to protect identity.

How rumors get started...

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Thu, 17 Apr 2008 12:15:00 +0000

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What? What kind of stuff?"

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

*sigh*

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

*blank stare*

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

Because I love the drama...

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Sat, 12 Apr 2008 12:31:00 +0000

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

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

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

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

She knew.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not so hospitable hospital...

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Sun, 06 Apr 2008 11:51:00 +0000

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

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

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

She's crying.

*blink*

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

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

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

"Where is Mary?"

"She's in her office."

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

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

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

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

"Um, yeah, but..."

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

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

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

"Okay," I shrug and leave the room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Really??"

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

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

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

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

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

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

WTF?

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

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

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

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

Okay. I'm back.

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Thu, 03 Apr 2008 23:40:00 +0000

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

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

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

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

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

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

CP.

Dear Friends...

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Sat, 29 Mar 2008 11:35:00 +0000

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

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

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

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

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

Someone please say something. Anything. Please.

It's not always black and white.

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Sun, 23 Mar 2008 11:37:00 +0000

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

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

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

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

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

"I'll go find his aide."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She walks away.

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

This does not bode well with me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Houston, we ALMOST had a problem...

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Thu, 20 Mar 2008 13:11:00 +0000

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

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

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

"Excuse me?"

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

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

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

"Hello, Dr. Ramappa's office."

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

Silence.

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

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

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

"Thank you."

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

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

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

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

The joys of motherhood are only beginning.

It's settling in...

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Sun, 16 Mar 2008 11:31:00 +0000

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

My baby is having a baby.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I just found out...

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Wed, 05 Mar 2008 23:47:00 +0000

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

Holla!!!!

Conversation with the Hotband #4358972

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Tue, 26 Feb 2008 14:49:00 +0000

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

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

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

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

"Excuse me?"

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

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

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

"Absolutely."

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

I was being sarcastic.

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

"No you are not," I said.

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

"He's a dog, babe."

"Yes, I know that."

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

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

He was so proud of his answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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