An Oxymoron Is Not An Idiot With Zits

2014: A Brand New Year.

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Tue, 07 Jan 2014 21:02:00 +0000

If you noticed, I did not blog throughout the entire year of 2013.

Mainly because, 2013 was a pretty horrible year for me personally, professionally and every other way, shape and form.

While there were some definite bright spots, like renewing my vows (twice!) in both Las Vegas and in Mexico,or spending my granddaughter's 5th birthday in Disney, there were far more dark patches; times that I really didn't think that I would make it through the remainder of the year without some serious professional intervention.

My personal health was poor throughout this year, and it made matters so much worse. Anything you go through in your life seems far more trying when your health is not where it should be. My stellar marriage was put through some incredibly trying times. Relationships with family members worsened and in some cases, deteriorated altogether. I feel like I spent most of 2013 in tears. In short, things were hard.

And on the precipice of this brand new year, they are still...well, hard.

My best course of therapy has always been to turn to my writing. It's saved me through some of the most torrid times of my life. Just to be able to achieve that sweet release of putting thoughts to "paper" has always managed to help me put things into perspective. But, this year, the strength to even turn to my blog did not come. A year long case of writers block caused by being in the throes of some of the deepest, darkest depression I have ever experienced.

People do not understand how seemingly happy people can be "depressed". If you sorted through my facebook photos from this past year, you would see dozens of "happy" photos of me, smiling brightly for the camera. But, what you do not see are the seconds before the photo and the hours afterward. Smiling on command is easy and that is what the camera captures. But if we had the ability to see what takes place the second before or the seconds after the photo is taken, you would see the smile fall away just as quickly as it appeared. Again, not saying there were not moments of genuine happiness, but in 2013, they were few and far between.

I think, if I were to be honest, I spent most of 2013 curled up in a fetal position in my bed. Too exhausted to face the day, too tired to cry. And when you are just too tired to even cry, that's when depression is at its worst. I find a good, hard cry to be cathartic. It cleanses the soul, erases some of the negativity by releasing the pain and makes room for new, perhaps better emotions to seep into the soul. But when you just cannot cry, when the pain of life is so overwhelming that you cannot even produce tears...when the thought of crying exhausts you, there is a problem. Usually a problem that is much bigger than you are.

In 2013, the problem was not only bigger than I was, it hovered over me like a large, black winged bird, casting a shadow upon me. I went many days without showering. I would stay in bed for days straight, scarcely exiting my room. I would stare into the television set, enthralled with nothing; just an empty vessel waiting to be filled with something, anything. I can't tell you much about what I did in 2013. I rely heavily on my Facebook timeline to remind me, but there's a problem with that. The problem being, I fooled myself with many statuses on there in order to fool the rest of the world. I couldn't have the world knowing how I was struggling with my depression. The world, my friends en masse, they expect me to be funny, charming, irreverent. Somehow, I managed to keep up that persona, or rather, facade, on my statuses. But with every "LMAO" I posted, I assure you, there was very little laughing being done, let alone laughter that would remove my ass from my body. I would type statuses, replies, comments with the same blank look on my face that I reserved for the television set. I would appear interested and engaged when in reality, I could not care less about most of what I was writing.

Trying to keep up appearances became exhausting, hurling me into a far darker place than I had previously been, until in mid August, just before my birthday, I melted down altogether. I wanted out. Out of my family, out of my friendships, out of my marriage, out of my house, out of my bed, out of my job, out of my life. Ideally, I just wanted to be left alone to rot. For anyone who has ever experienced depression, you know that loneliness is the devil at work.

But, this is not where I am heading in 2014. I am not over the depression. Not by a long shot. It's plagued me all my life and I doubt sincerely, that it will take leave any time soon. However, I am actively involved in making sure that I don't spend 2014 with the blankets pulled up over my head. I am in the process of healing the pain that encompasses me. I have rid myself of the toxic people in my life who won't allow me to breathe normally. For those I cannot rid myself of, I have opted to ration my time carefully, wholly in consideration of my mental health. You can have 15 minutes of me a week, nothing more. The pain I experience physically, I am finally putting myself under the knife to heal.

Basically, I am not giving away another year of my precious life to this monster that is seeking to consume me. I know it will be challenging, but it's important that I remember 2013 as the year that almost did me in. I am not a victim. I will never be a victim. I don't want pity, not even empathy. I just want another opportunity to ensure that I won't be a statistic. I don't want to fall prey to my long standing depression. I don't want to wallow in those deep waters any longer. I have plenty to be grateful for. I have healthy, happy, beautiful children and grandchildren. I have a husband who truly loves me and wants me to get better and is willing to support me on that journey. I have friends who are compassionate and caring. I have a talent that not only earns me a living, but heals me in the process.

There is so much for me to live for and in that instance, I am richer than most.

My excuses have worn thin. The time for denying my reality has come to a close. I am not going to be a living dead girl for another year. I have to be an active participant in making sure that I do not die. Not a physical death, but rather, an emotional one...which I find to be worse. A physical death. It's easy. Anyone can do that. Suicide is never an option. Not for me at least. It's too easy to make the choice to check out. As the great Annie Lennox once opined, "dying is easy, it's living that scares me to death". Living is harder, but the rewards of doing so are far greater. With every sunrise comes the ability to change the course of your life.

I am not saying that it will come easy, nor am I saying I will be successful at it. I am positive I will have days where pulling myself from my bed will be a hardship for me. I am sure that there are days I will fail miserably. But, I am also positive that, if I push myself, I will be able to rise to the challenge. Mistakes quickly become regrets, but I will not punish myself for those. I have been hard enough on myself...harder than any of you could ever be on me.

So, on this, the eve of my surgery, I am making myself the promise to try a little harder.

I give so much of myself to everyone in my life. Why am I so reticent to do for myself what I do for others? Am I undeserving? Am I not valuable enough? Not worthy? Of course not.

Here's my fresh new perspective on the matter:

Inside all of us, there is a child. We all have that inner child. It's the one who laughs at inappropriate times. The one who looks over at a set of swings while you are in high heels and an evening gown and decides that running over to the playground would be a blast. The child who starts a food fight in the middle of Denny's at one o'clock in the morning over pancakes. The same one who secretly watches old 80's cartoons on Saturday mornings, cross legged on the floor in pajamas. But, it's also the same one who cries when they are hurt. It's the same child who desperately needs a hug when they are inconsolable. It's that same child who begs for forgiveness when they have done wrong.

And I am the mother of this inner child. She is me. I am her. It is my duty, obligation, desire to take care of her as surely as I would take care of my own children. I would do anything for my children. I would die for them. I would give my last breath for them. So, why not that inner child? Why not give my last breath to fight for that little girl within me who is suffering and struggling? Why not nurture her and love her the way she deserves? Why would I leave her alone, abandoned, needing and desperately wanting?

She needs me as surely as I need her.

So, for 2014, I promise to be a better mother. Not only to my children I have given birth to, but to the little girl inside of me. It is my job to heal her and in turn, heal myself. I will hold her when she needs to be held. I will kiss her tears away when she cries. I will wake her with a gentle hug at the start of her day and lay her down, bundled in warmth and affection when it is time for sleep. I will rouse her from the nightmares that plague her and remind her, I am here. Shhhh...I am here. Nothing is going to happen to you, sweet girl...because I am here. I will give her daily affirmations of how beautiful she is, how smart she is. I will feed not just her belly, but her soul. I will set her free to play, but keep an ever watchful eye on her, keeping her safe from harm, from all the dangers lurking in this world. I will protect her from the bullies on the playground of life. I will not abandon her when she needs me most. I will be the mother to her that I never had in my own life.

She will be loved.

All I can ask is that she forgive me the first 40+ years that I did not realize I had left her alone.

She is me. I am her. And in this knowledge, I am comforted, for I know she is a forgiving soul and will allow me back into her life.

Only this time, I will do things the right way. And she will flourish. She will grow.

And someday, under my guidance and with my unrequited love, she will heal.

She deserves that. We both do.

The End of 2012...Thank God.

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Tue, 01 Jan 2013 01:13:00 +0000

This year has been a tough one. A really tough one.

I could sit here and rehash it all, but I am not going to. There's been a lot of loss this year, both in the physical and emotional sense. It's been a tough one, I'm not going to lie. It seems to happen every other year or so, which still makes me more fortunate than most, but definitely not as good as others.

But yes, this was a hard one. I could barely catch my breath from one tragedy before there was another. It just seemed to run, non stop, in waves. My stress and frustration levels were at all time highs for most of this year, especially the latter portion, from July forward til now.

Things aren't perfect. They never will be, nor do I expect them to be. I just want it to slow down some. Allow me to breathe a bit. Throw the curve balls a bit more slowly this year. Give me a chance to recover from one thing before you hit me with the next. I am only human and while my shoulders are broad and my back is strong, there is only so much pain one person can take at a time.

Yet, I always feel that the new year should not necessarily be a time to reflect back. I am a firm believe that old acquaintance SHOULD be forgotten and never brought to mind. It's the past. There's nothing you can do about it save to learn from it and move forward. I am not the same woman I was five years ago, five months ago or even five minutes ago. We are all works in progress, constantly evolving, growing and changing.

I was trying to think of what my key word for 2013 would be; the word that I would think to when trying to plan my life course for this year. Last year, it was "promise". I made some promises to myself and for the most part, I kept them. These are not the same as resolutions, which I feel are silly contracts we make with ourselves and usually, they are preordained to fail. My key word is just a reminder to hold certain things dear to me. The promise of happiness. The promise of extracting the negativity from my life path. The promise to remember that tomorrow is another day and all the disasters of one day don't necessarily carry over into the next.

This years word is "transform". There are a few things that I would like to transform about myself, but I would not be so bold as to make myself promises I don't intend to keep in the form of those horrible resolutions. The root word of resolution is resolve and let's face it, sometimes the resolve just isn't there. We are stronger some days than others. It is widely believed that if you make a resolution and then, fall prey to the opposite of whatever it is you resolved to do, you have failed.

I, for one, am not about to set myself up for failure.

So, transform for me, will be a slow process of change. Changing the things that I CAN change while knowing that certain things will always be out of my control. I can transform how I choose to react to things and not feel as though I have failed if my transformation does not immediately become a learned behavior. I am going to take it easier on myself this year. I am not going to cause myself hurt, pain or anxiety. I have had quite enough of those self destructive passages in previous years. I have extracted most of the people who cause my mind agony from my life. While a few still litter the wall of my Facebook page, they are not there in copious amounts any longer...and the "delete" button remains a close few inches away from my fingertips should I need it.

What I won't transform, however, are the things that others may perceive as my flaws. I will NOT transform my personality. I am brash, crude, sometimes obnoxious, definitely crass...but it walks hand in hand with something else that I am and that is well intentioned. I don't mean harm. And, when I cause it, I am also versed in the art of apology. I have discovered long ago that a weak person does not apologize. An even weaker person will not accept them. This is not to mean that if I accept your apology, that I still choose to associate with you or keep you in my life. I have only chosen to forgive your transgression. Be grateful.

In the days of old, most transgressions of others would have landed you with a five knuckled greeting to your jawbone. I have "evolved", which I believe was my word of 2008 or so. Maybe 2009.

In closing, new year, but not necessarily new me. Just some "transforming" to do. A little housecleaning in the spiritual sense. Some adjustments to make as I get closer and closer to the person that I want to be. Baby steps have gotten me through the first 46 years of my life, so I don't suppose I will be making any giant leaps any time soon. Change should come slowly...not like a huge 20 foot wave crashing in on you, but rather, a little trickling of water through the rocks and stones of a constantly running stream. It should come slowly, gently, softly. Resolutions, to me, are those 20 foot crashing waves. Some survive them. Some don't.

I'm not willing to find out the hard way.

Happy New Year to all of you. May lucky number 2013 bring you all the joy and peace that you could possibly handle...and then some.

And, in keeping with tradition of blog posts gone by, I leave you with this:

Tradition started the first year I blogged, December 2005. Why stop now?

Peace.

Getting through...

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Thu, 15 Nov 2012 23:51:00 +0000

My friend, Robin, pointed out that I wrote a comment on a blog post regarding the death of my friend, Derek.   The comment was "Why do people come into our lives if it is only their intention to leave?" She said that comment shredded her, as she often feels the same way. I tried to back my thoughts up to five years ago, in reflection of why I might have said that. It was a comment made in the midst of grief, but it is a question for the ages. Why do people come in, allow us to get attached to them and then, suddenly, they are erased from our lives? Death, estrangement or just a simple case of growing in different directions. People that you love just sometimes...go away.

I told her, people come into our lives to teach you lessons. Lessons that are either great or small. Everyone has an expiration date in the lives of others. Whether it is due to physical loss or emotional detachment, we all run our course. There are friends I needed long ago that I just don't need any longer. They were there for their reason at the time. To support me, to love me, to be by my side while I went through something or for me to be there for them. People I thought would be in my life forever suddenly vanished. But, when I look back on it...it was a moment in time that bonded us. Something we shared. Something that we related to and we needed each other to figure out the equation. Once the problem was solved...it was time to move on, for both of us...or just one of us.

But when one is not ready for that sudden absentia, it leaves pain in its wake.

And questions. Lots and lots of questions.

I am no stranger to loss. I have lost a great number of people in my life from death. I have lost a parent. I have lost a child. I have lost friends who I thought I could never survive without. I have lost pets who were like children to me and I grieved them more ferociously and vehemently than I have some actual human family members.

It's never an easy process.   Ever.

I have become nearly superstitious when it comes to death. I won't let any one leave my house without saying "I love you" before they go. We could be in the middle of a heated fight...and if they leave my home without a hug or a kind word, my stomach always knots up. I think, I am going to lose them now. Now that we parted harshly, those words will be the last words we ever speak to each other. I think this is because my last words to my friend Derek were "I'll see you tomorrow..." when he asked me to please come out and hang out with him, and then, tomorrow never came for him. Or, perhaps because the last words I ever said to my father were "I hate your fucking guts. I never want to speak to you again."

Guess what? I didn't ever get to speak to him again. He died a week later.

So, it has become a life mission of mine to make sure that I never part harshly with any one. I don't think my heart could take another memory of someone leaving this world with the last thing having been said between us being something cold or hateful. It's a huge burden to live with and a bigger one to die with. I find myself apologizing and justifying constantly to people who no longer walk this earth.

"You know I didn't mean that, right, Daddy?"

"I should have come out to see you, Derek. I should have found a baby sitter. Maybe you would still be here, if I had."

"I'm sorry I didn't kiss you goodbye, Snoop. I'm sorry I was too busy to kiss you goodbye."

I keep hoping for validation in a situation where I know I will never get any closure.

Of course my Dad knows I didn't mean that. I was a teenager. 19 years old. I was angry with him because I needed help with something and, in form with the lousy father he was, he didn't come through for me. I think now...who really owes whom the apology? Why aren't YOU sorry that you didn't do what I needed you to do for me? Why was I constantly put in the position of begging you to be my father? Why am I making myself feel perpetually guilty for saying such a terrible thing to you before you died. I didn't kill you. YOU killed you. YOU chose to get into a car, loaded up on drugs and alcohol, careening into an oncoming truck, potentially robbing the driver of that car of being a good dad to HIS four children. He was probably a great dad, just out for the day, driving to or from his job so he could get home to his wife and kids that he valued. YOU, Dad, were the bad guy in this scenario...so why am I feeling guilty?

Because words spoken cannot be unspoken. Simply put, you can't un-ring a bell.

And of course, Derek has forgiven me a million times for not having a baby sitter to go out on other nights. So why is this one eating me up...getting the best of me? Because this particular night...he killed himself. How could I have possibly known that your request for my time was to be spent talking you out of ending your life? You were a drug addict. You put those drugs in your body. You chose to take more than your body could handle. You died.   I have to continue living knowing that if something would have changed that night, it could have altered the course of your life. You might still be here.

Then again, you might not. And, as I always said, you were dying since the day you were born.

Only this time, you took my heart with you.

Why am I angry with myself, when you chose to make me walk in the pain of losing you over what I will only ever believe could have been "fixed" had I just been there. Why shouldn't I be mad at you, Derek, for causing me this never ending grief and turmoil over those last moments?

Why? Because you're not here. I am. And you can't blame something that no longer exists.

So, how do you get through the guilt? You don't. No matter how many times people say, "don't blame yourself", it's hard not to. It's hard to gloss over the obvious...that the last things you said to these people are what you are going to have to live with. It's strange. Most of us don't even recall on a day to day basis what the last thing someone said to you was. But, let that person die...and suddenly, you have no recollection of anything else but that. I can scarcely remember any other words uttered between Derek and I, or my father and I, save for those last words.

Why do I only dwell on the fact that the day my precious dog, Snoop, passed away, I was too busy with work to give him a little pat on the head before he went to the kennel? We were leaving for vacation that afternoon...and I was so busy playing catch up, I just yelled out, "Bye Snoops!"   I never got up from my desk to give him a hug and a kiss.

And now, he's gone too.

I can flip the switch on this, you know. I can remember my best friend Norman dying. I held his hand. I kissed his lips, dry and cracked as they were, as he lay in a hospital bed while the leukemia ravaged his already small, frail body. He knew I loved him desperately and he said to me, "I'm not afraid, you know." I said, "I am." He said, "Don't be. It will be grand. Gay pride day in Heaven, can you imagine?" The vision he conjured in my mind of angels in rainbow wings and gold lame loin cloths made me laugh out loud. He laughed too, and that laughter is what I remember. That, and my husband leaning in to kiss him goodbye. I will always remember those moments when I think of Norman.

Then, there's my grandmother. I can remember stroking my grandmothers hair just a mere few months ago, her telling her that she loved me so much and patting my cheek. I knew at that moment, I would likely never see her again. She was so sick. The dementia and the Alzheimers were eating her mind and body away slowly.   But I was there. I held her. She knew she was loved...and she was able to let go. She usually asks me when I leave, "are you coming back soon?" to which I always reply, "Of course I am, silly. I love you!" But this time, she didn't ask me. She just smiled at me and went back to sleep. Maybe she knew she was leaving...maybe I did. I pulled a flower hair clip from my own hair, and put it in hers.

Maybe that was our goodbye. I don't know.

The mind chooses to remember what it chooses to remember. Sometimes it is terribly cruel. Other times, it is graciously merciful. It shames me to say, I barely remember my son, those last moments before I had to hand him away. I barely remember his face. I don't remember the smell of his hair or the feel of his fingers wrapped around mine. There was no time to remember. No time to ingrain that moment into my memory. And, ironically, I find that to be both cruel and merciful.

So, how do you get through the anniversaries of the deaths of those we love? How do we stop the self fulfilling prophecy of relegating yourself to a life of wallowing in guilt and anguish for the things we did or did not do while that person was still alive?

The truth is, we don't.

We make mountains out of molehills in our minds. And, on the opposite end of that, we make molehills out of mountains...just so we can cope. We have to force ourselves to cope in the best ways we know how. For some, it helps to allow yourself a day of grief. It almost feels contrived. I felt great yesterday. I will feel great again tomorrow. But, right now? Right now all I feel is pain, devastation, anxiety and the ever looming fear that I will add something else I said to that list of regretful final words.

It's truly a source of anxiety for me.

The other night, on Facebook, my son wrote a status:

"I don't think I can deal with this. Please tell me this isn't happening again."

I read it at 3 am and immediately, I flew into panic mode. To hear your teenager say, "I don't think I can deal with this..." conjures up every news article we have ever read as parents of teens taking their lives over things that would scarcely disrupt the life of an adult. I knew from that statement, something had happened between him and his girlfriend. Did she break up with him? Did she cheat on him? Hurt him in some way? Is he REALLY not able to deal with it? Am I going to go to bed tonight and wake up in the morning to a phone call that he was found hanging in his closet, a note to his girlfriend on his bed and his Facebook page open to a status that says, "goodbye"? Sleep was done for me at that point. It wasn't going to happen. I was FAR too afraid that if I go to bed, when I wake up in the morning, I will hear those words that no mother ever, ever, EVER wants to hear.

I've already heard them once before. I couldn't live through it a second time.

Admittedly, I panicked hard. I called his fathers house, where he was staying, at 3 am and crying into the phone, begged my ex husband to please, go check on him. Make sure he's asleep. Please watch him. Please keep an eye on him.

Because in my heart, the terror of "last words" looms large.

It is terrible to be a slave to what if's and what could be's. Yet, I still find myself scared to death of those last words before someone leaves the house, hangs up the phone or walks away from me. It is my own cross to bear, my own personal problem that I have made into a much bigger monster than it honestly is. But, when you are living a life that includes a lot of loss, you can't help but feel that way sometimes. Especially after a fight with someone.

So, ridiculous as it may be...I make sure that I tell everyone how much I love them. It's really something we should practice any way, the fine art of letting the people in your life know how much they mean to you. It should not take estrangement or death for those words to finally find their way to your mouth. It should not take fear. Instead, it should be part of living. Nothing is more important in this world than the love we take and the love we make. Nothing. Mistakes become regrets very quickly and while I know I can't walk around 24/7 telling everyone what they mean to me, I can make sure that the people who are in my life daily know how well loved they are...so that if their time should come, or mine...we all can remember that our last words were "I love you".

They say that there are some things that should just go to the grave with you.

"I love you" should always be one of those things.

song inspiration
"it's only love. it's only pain. it's only fear that runs through my veins...
it's all the things you can't explain, that make us human."

RIP Derek Wollen, the inspiration for this post...and the pain that accompanies it.
August 25, 1980 - November 15, 2007 i miss you so much. so, so much.

And to Debra Wollen, who left to find her son on November 24th, 2007.
A mothers love leads to a mothers death. i pray you both found each other...and peace.

Baby, it's cold outside...

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Sun, 11 Nov 2012 23:24:00 +0000

Baby, it's COLD outside. And what does that mean to me?

Usually nothing, as I live in Florida, a winter challenged state down south that doesn't realize that some of us totally live and die for boot season. It's everything! As a native New Yorker of 30 plus years, it is very hard for me to adapt to the fact that there is virtually, no winter in Florida. However, I don't let that stop me from being the perfect snow angel once the first cold snap hits. While I understand that some of you won't see 62 degrees as a cold snap, this is what I have to live with. But, you lucky snow bunnies! YOU do not! And here are the MUST have staples to make your closet a winter wonderland.

One of the most figure flattering pieces you can own is a structured blazer. For those of you old enough to remember the 80's, you will recall that the blazer was a staple. Why? Two words for you. Shoulder. Pads. Those wild winged shoulders made even the thickest waist look whittled down and oh so slim. While sadly, the shoulder pads have died with the career of most 80's bands, the structured look of a well fitted blazer has not. It is still the best article of clothing for layering, and carving a waistline into your figure. With skirts, jeans or even leggings, this is the number one piece that any frosty fashionista should have in her closet.

Another hot trend for winter? The perfect "bow blouse". Once upon a time it was a SERIOUS no no for a busty girl to wear a bow blouse. However, that "rule" has gone out the window along with no white after Labor Day. Bow blouses are the perfect statement piece for work or for play. They provide an extra touch of warmth by tying up near a normally exposed neckline. They can go from the boardroom to cocktails with a quick change of your shoes. From pencil skirts to pencil thin jeans, this style transitions easily, while making sure you look a perfect mix of modern and classic. Try one in a deep jewel tone like emerald green or sapphire blue to really put the pop in the winter blahs.

Finally, my favorite new trend for winter is so inappropriate here in Florida, yet I wear it with a look on my face that says, what? Have you never seen a wide brimmed, floppy suede hat in Fall before? Yes, wide brimmed hats are back in. While I have not seen them in at least 4 decades, I personally couldn't be more thrilled to see them back in style! Pay you no mind, my petite princesses, to those who say hats should not be worn by the under 5'5 sect! A wide brimmed hat puts focus back on the prettiest part of you: your exquisite face! It ensures that people look you in the high, streamlines your jawline (perfect for those of us who may have an extra chin...or two) and really makes your look stand out in a crowd. Make sure not to go "summertime straw hat" big for Winter as it will throw your look off balance. Pair it with a poncho or bat wing top, a long pendant necklace and a pair of flat suede boots for winter for that dreamy, easy 70's vibe.

If it isn't cold where you live, don't despair! It doesn't mean you can't wear your favorite winter trends. Just stay away from the over the top winter trends, like furry mittens or thick cashmere scarves. For those of you whose weather goes from 80 to 18 degrees in the course of a month, then you already know that layering is the key! Whatever the weather, you will be winter wonderful all season long. Remember, personal style is an individual as a snowflake. Each one is unique, so experiment with different looks and trends. Blend them until you find something that really gives you a signature look all your own.

What's your favorite tried and true trend for looking like the perfect snow queen all season long?

The Fashion Prediction Issue Circa Spring 2012

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Tue, 01 May 2012 03:43:00 +0000

Every once in awhile, I get a link in my email from Refinery29, an amazing fashion website. I tend to hang on to the link of what the "fashion predictions" are for the upcoming year to see if I was right about what I think about it or wrong. I took some notes back in January about each one of the pics in this slide show and boy oh boy, I am in the WRONG industry. I called this in the air.

These people should truly look to hire me because boy, did they get it wrong. Wrong. WRONG!

So, allow me, now that we are 4 months into the new fashion year, to go through these slideshows photos with you, step by step and give you my time proven wisdom before you end up walking out your door looking like a hot old mess. I can't have that. I have to be seen with you people. I refuse to be seen with you if you look like an extra in a Whitesnake video some 20 years after the fact, okay?

This is for your benefit. What can I say? I'm a giver. Let's begin.

http://www.refinery29.com/2012-fashion-trend-predictions/slideshow#slide-1

‎1) No. Just no.

2) These do not look good on large breasted or thicker girls. IF you are either of those, do not. If you feel you must though...do it with leggings only. Great look on girls with less shape, gives you some hips if you don't have any.

3) My best friend is going to laugh about this one. She'll know why. If you are going to pull of the Betty Page look, please, don't go the daisy duke, cover me in cherries and cutesy accessory overload. Betty Page did not do that. She did it with class. Look towards Dita Von Teese for the RIGHT way to do Rockabilly with style or you will look like a pornographic anime character.

4) These are fun and will have to hit up our resident glitter bomber, The Jewelry Whore, Herself, to order some in. These are great to trade with friends, very easy to make. I think we should all make shoe themed ones and secret squirrel them to each other in the mail! fun!

5) Thank goodness the days of "just got out of bed" head are over. I have always done "coiffed" whether it was trendy or not, because if you are going out, you should always look "done"...not like you were attacked by a pack of rabid dogs midway through getting ready.

6) OMG. No. Never. Please. Especially if you are over 30. The only time this look is acceptable is if you are at a baseball game and even then, it is still sort of "iffy". Please. Proceed with extreme caution.

7) I have to admit, if these come back into style, I will actually buy a pair...so long as they are glammed up. These were very popular in the 80's and I loved the added height. However, they must be loaded down with bling. Get yourself a glue gun and a clue.

8) IF you are going to do this look, please...do it with stilettos. If you look at the model, it looks like she has 20 feet of torso, and stumps for legs. This is a cute look if you pair it with one of your mans dress shirts, a skinny belt and a chic little fedora. Make it girly with some chandelier earrings or a long pearl necklace...but seriously. Stilettos. Flats will make you look like you have a penis. (refer to model...again).

9) I know we are getting mixed messages here. The shoe designers are screaming COLORS COLORS COLORS! POPS OF COLOR! at us. The runways are screaming NEUTRALS NEUTRALS NEUTRALS. We, however, being the savvy bitches we are, know we can color block our outfits and then, pair a nude shoe...OR, neutral outfits with a colorful shoe. IF you are going to do neutral on neutral...be careful with your whites. Ivory plus cream plus beige can potentially just make you look like you don't add bleach to your laundry and your whites are dingy. You will end up in Glamor magazine as a "don't". Trust me. Lastly, do NOT go all matchy matchy on me. Try to make it a cardinal rule NOT to match your handbag to your shoes unless your shoes or bag have multiple colors and you are matching a solid to the pattern. That's fine. Do not do solid and solid matching. Please. I admit, every once in awhile I take leave of my senses and I do this. I wholly expect the Fashion Police to jump out of the bushes like Ashton Kutcher and give me a Rodney King beat down when this happens. I would have earned it if that happens...and so will you.

10) Dear God. No. No.For the love of all things holy...Just No. Especially if you are under 5'5. Also, if you feel you must do this to yourself...if your self loathing runs that deep, please, be kind to yourself and pair with a sandal of the wedge variety. If I see any of you in these with Ugg boots, you will be de-friended immediately. That is all.

So there you go, Bitches. Fashion done right by the Goddess of Glam. No need to thank me. I am simply here for the benefit of the universe...to keep you fashionable, on trend and most of all? Keeping you from embarrassing yourself and me. Trust me. It's for your own good. I may be fat and forty (five) and all, but I know of what I speak.

Aaaand...you're welcome.

February Fantasies...

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Sat, 04 Feb 2012 11:20:00 +0000

So much has been going on since last year. So much, in fact, that I haven't had much time to write in my blog. And yet, here I am on a Friday night/Saturday morning, 5am in fact, writing with no real goal in mind.

I've been working a lot, doing what I love most in the world. Marketing. I have been parlaying my social online activities into a job and so far, it's been pretty successful. I have an expanding client list, which is always a good thing. Paychecks are nice. They allow me shoes. Lots of shoes. Not like I couldn't have lots of shoes before...but there is something liberating about not having to justify my shoe purchases to my husband. Mind you, he doesn't inquire. He frankly couldn't care less about my shopping habits. I just always feel the need to explain them away.

"Oh, these? Yeah, I got them on sale for $blah blah and then I had a Groupon which got me $blah blah off and then, there was an online code for free shipping so they finally came out to $blah blah."

He always says the same thing.

"Babe, you don't need to explain these things to me. If you like them, buy them."

*sighs* Never an argument. Sometimes, I wish he would pull a Ricky Ricardo on me.

"Ceeeeeeee Peeeeeeee!? 'Ave jew bin spending all our moneee again? Ees dat what jew are do-eeng? Jes?"

"Oh no, Hotband! I deedn't spend all jor moneeee again! I got a YOB!"

"A YOB? Where did jew get a Yob? Oh Ceee Peeee! Jew ara bad bad wife! Ay carramba!"

"Waaaaaaaaaaaah."

(Those of you under the age of 25 will not even remotely get the I Love Lucy references. Please exit to the left. I have no use for you whippersnappers.)

5 am is a bad time for me to be awake. There's lots of infomercials on at 5am. Lots. Generally there are two different categories of infomercials. Things relating to exercise...and everything else. Things relating to exercise are safe. NO danger of me ordering that P90X or the Insanity Workout in the middle of the night. (Although, I really want that T-shirt...but according to the commercial, you have to "earn" it. Screw that shit. I'll just buy one. My body will reveal the truth. I didn't earn anything but 5 pounds from the cheese danish I was eating while watching these morons lift chairs over their heads while grunting like wart hogs having coitus.) It's the "everything else" that scares my husband. Everything else includes: The Instyler. I really want that fucking thing. I want to make barrel curls, roll curls, mini flips or straight hair that is polished by the rolling/brushing action. And ooh...it comes with a second mini rotating Instyler for when I want a tighter curl! It just may be the most perfect styling tool ever invented! They said so, so it must be true!

The Instyler: Part hair brush, part masturbation tool. The possibilities are endless.

Next on my infomercial list? Wen Hair Care. Yes, I love Alyssa Milano. She's named after my favorite cookie. (Mmmmm...Milano's. Double chocolate please.) But the Wen Hair Care System says that I don't have to wash AND condition my hair any more because the non-lathering magic unicorn jizz in the bottle will magically make my hair stunning and glorious just like Alyssa's. When I pump a dime size blob in my hand and comb it through, little fairies will dance around my skull, infusing my head with nourishing fairy dust and encasing each strand in their special fairy saliva. It will be magical! And all the worlds problems will cease to exist because MY hair will shimmer, shine and bounce. Presidents and Kings will bow to my whim because my hair is ethereal!


Chaz Dean: Creator of Wen. Advocate of the Instyler for off label purposes.

Next on my wish list? Set It...and Forget it! Not only is the product awesome, but the name is genius! As a matter of fact, I want this to be my motto in life! Everything should be that gimmicky. Work: Do It...nah, Screw It! Marriage: Wed Him...then Bed Him! Having Kids: Have Them...then spend the next 18 years of your fucking life biting your nails down to the nub worrying about the dumb little shits turning your hair prematurely gray and gaining 30 pounds in the process. Hm, okay. Not everything can be that catchy. But seriously, how awesome is the concept of slapping some food in an oven and then, leaving it? You know, while you go out to dinner, because you totally set it...and then, forgot it. I can see this thing playing a real important role in my life. "Yeah, babe. I did make dinner. But I forgot it. Go look in the amazing peek a boo window! It's in there! Now, where shall I put these leftovers?" Everything in life should be so easy.


These chickens are 5 days old! I totes forgot about them!

This next one just makes my heart go all aflutter. It's the Slap Chop. Waaaaaay before the Shake Weight commercials were around to bring joy to your soul as you diddle your skittle or choke your chicken (you know you do), there was Vince slapping his way into your life. Vince would slap chop any thing you put in front of him. Tomatoes? He'd chop them. Hard boiled eggs? He's gonna slap 'em for ya. Baby fingers? Yep, them too. No more need to put your children in time out. Just put their little chubby hands on the counter and slap, slap, SLAP your way into obedience! Vince had no shame. Not even a few domestic violence charges, drug arrests and prostitutes would stand in the way of Vince slapping his way into your dreams. I have to be honest...when my grandson was born, I had a fantasy that consisted of Vince in Mohel gear bursting into the labor and delivery room, scooping up Liam and just slap slap slapping his brand new little penis into circumcision submission. Sadly, my daughter wouldn't allow me to make this happen. Something about wanting him to stay out of therapy and actually be able to use his penis some day. Pfffft. Wuss.


Hava Tequila. It vill dull zee pain! I vill slap slap slappa da penis!

As Vince says, "I can't do this all night". The fantasies are simply endless. I love me some infomercials. I probably could go on and on all night...but alas, I have a feeling that this last one just might make Saturday night grandkid sleepover night come to an abrupt halt. Besides, I have a Pampered Chef chopper. It doesn't have the same ring to it. "Let me Pamper Your Penis". Hm. Maybe I'm wrong about that. Of course, my all time favorite infomercial is for the Shake Weight. The male or the female version...which really only boils down to whether you get a pink Shake Weight or a gray Shake Weight. But I love watching the burly guys on the men's commercial do the jerk off motion with a straight face. You know that commercial was made to be soft porn for the gay community. No straight woman finds that remotely attractive. Same with the women's commercial. You know that straight men who can no longer see their porn channels through the squiggly lines jerk off to the women's Shake Weight commercials. Sure, there is the obvious "hot chick holds on to pink phallic thing and jerks it up and down" thing. But, if you look PAST that to the woman's chest...you will see tons of jiggling boobage. That's where the action is, Kats and Kittens. They found the jiggliest boobies they could find on 90% perfectly toned women. I think they probably crop in the jiggle bubbies off of fat chicks and insert them into the videos. Regardless, I don't care how it happens, just that it happens. Plus, infomercials, unlike regular commercials, are 30 joyful minutes long. Plenty of time for info induced orgasm to take place.

Now, it's 6 am. I totally ruined my alone time with my infomercials. I think I shall turn in and have sweet dreams of violating Vince with my Instyler, lubing it thoroughly with some Wen and then, listening to Ron Popeil saying "Shove It...You Will Love It" as I burrow it into one of Vince's orifices.

A girl can dream, can't she?

We're talkin' panties. No boys allowed...

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 08:18:00 +0000

unless you are a cross dresser, transvestite or drag queen. Although, I would imagine the latter two would already know these tricks. For some reason, drag queens know more about undergarments than the average biological woman does.

In that case, this article is for you, Frump a Dump. We're talking bras and panties here. Sit back, take notes and then, go evaluate your lingerie drawer. There will be a quiz at the end of this lecture, Bitches...so absorb!

Those of you who read regularly or know me "in real life" know I am a pretty fashionable chick. I love fashion. I live for fashion. I eat, breathe and sleep fashion. The only thing I don't do is fuck fashion. I save that kind of love for the Hotband exclusively. Though, I do make sure to be fashionable WHILE fucking, if that accounts for any thing. Bra and panties must not necessarily match...but they must be attractive. Alluring. Eye candy.

I am a big advocate that sexy starts from the inside out and that goes for clothes too. If you start with a base of sexy lingerie, your "feel good" will shine through. It's always a sexy start to a great outfit. When you throw on your basic frump a dump white sports bra and a pair of your big ol' granny panties, you are starting with a canvas that just screams "I am going to feel shitty for the rest of the day." If you start with a sweet lacy bra and a cute tanga panty or a flirty pair of boy short panties, you are going to have a sexy secret with you all day long. Plus, you never know when your partner is going to grab hold of you for a "nooner" or a "quickie".

Do you really wanna be caught out there in a pair of your oldest "Hanes Her Way", with the tiny hole that lets two or three pubes escape? The ones with the saggy, worn out elastic around the crotch? Or, worse still...the ones that you wear during "that time of the month" that have the dark, shadowy remnants of all the times your pad didn't do its job appropriately?

Don't look at me like that. You know what I am talking about. We all have a pair of those.

You should be ashamed of yourself. Truly.

Once I had my hysterectomy, I threw out every single pair of underwear that qualified as "dust rags". Dumped them all. Any thing that I purchased that came in a five pack? Gone. I figured, I am never going to destroy another pair of underwear ever again, ergo, I am going to invest in some of the prettiest panties I have ever owned. I have tangas, boy shorts, T backs, bikini's, high waist, french cut...some lacy, some in cotton, some patterned, some solid...but the one thing they all have in common?

They are all sexy. All of them. There will never be a time that I will be caught with my "pants down" (pun blatantly obvious) in the underwear department. Same thing with the bras. Girls, dump the bras that have twisted wires, an underwire poking through, the one that you pinned together because it's your favorite. Get rid of them. All you need are two basic white bras, four basic nude bras and about four basic black bras. Those are your staples. After that, the rest of your bras should look like a circus threw up in your lingerie drawer. Colors! Lots and lots of colors! Sure, with sheer blouses, these don't work...but how often do you wear sheer blouses? That's where your basic colors come in.

And while we are on the subject of basics...here's a tip for you, Sugar Tits. White bras should only be worn under white blouses. That's it. End of story. Any other sheer blouses you own should have a NUDE bra underneath it. You can even do a nude bra under a white blouse. Same thing goes for your panties, doll faces. Do not wear white panties under white pants. It shows right through and draws a whole lot of attention to spots you don't want attention drawn to. Keep it nude. Nude bras work under everything. Don't try to match your bras to your blouses. For example...if you are wearing a sheer yellow blouse, don't think you should wear a yellow bra beneath it. It looks "udderly" ridiculous. NUDE bras, girls. Also, please...be mindful of your nipples. If you have prominent nipples, do not wear a see through bra under your sheer blouses. In the dim lighting of your bedroom as you dress in the morning, you won't necessarily be seeing what all your co-workers will be seeing under the fluorescent lighting of your office.

The nude rule under sheer does not apply to black sheer blouses. One would think this is common sense, but alas, it is not. Black sheer needs a black bra. Let me explain why. We are living in a digital age, girls. People are snapping photos all the time. There is a horrible phenomenon called "headlights" and it is no longer the catchphrase for a pair of hardened nipples. When a camera flash flashes...suddenly, whatever you are wearing beneath the sheer is going to become blatantly apparent. Worse than your titties showing through your blouse is your bra being too light for the blouse you are wearing. It makes these two "round disks" of light where your breasts should be. This will end up on your friends and co-workers Facebook pages with all sorts of ridicule ranging from "nice high beams" to "look into the liiiiiight, Carolann...walk into the light!"

It is important to pay attention to your skin tone when dressing. And while I am not normally one to endorse products I have not personally used, THIS website, called "My Skins", offers you the opportunity to either download (not recommended) their color chart or order one by snail mail. The reason I don't suggest downloading the skin color chart is because if your computer does not have the right ink or the correct color settings, you are going to get skewed colors. This chart will help you find the right color undergarment that best matches your skin tone. If you choose to buy from this site, I will say, they ARE reasonably priced undergarments. Their panties run to about a 44 inch hip (the XL is too small for me, but might fit some of you chicks with less endowed asses than mine). Their bras run to a 38D...again, too small for me, but perfect for all of you who can shop Victoria's Secret. (You know what her secret is? She has nothing in my size, that's her secret. Bitch.) But, even if you don't shop there...you can still use the color chart (free) to be able to match it to undergarments where you do shop. I personally wear "Cappucino"...which is perfect for my olive skin tone. Your skin color may vary.

However, I have truly digressed.

The staples are the staples. Every girl should have a base undergarment wardrobe that consists of neutrals that always work under the spring and summer lighter colors. Where the colors come in are under things like tank tops, summer dresses with spaghetti or narrow straps or loose, flowing tunic tops. There is nothing tackier than your bra straps hanging out from under any of the aforementioned things. However, the way to go from tasteless to tactful is by using color. If you are wearing a tank top with narrow straps and you are not a member of the itty bitty titty committee and can't get away with a tiny bra, no bra or a strapless bra...you want to put on a bra with color in it! Fun colors! Wearing an orange tank? Throw on a yellow bra so that if the shoulder slides away, you are looking at a pretty pop of color, not a dingy white bra strap. If you make it look like you MEANT to make that sexy little fashion faux pas, it will be interpreted that way.

And, as everyone knows, perception IS reality.

PS: The "pop of color" undergarment rule applies to casual wear. If you are wearing a chic little black dress or a formal white dress, keep your black undergarments with the LBD and a nude/white undergarment with the white dressy wear. Do I need to explain this? From the looks of what I see out there in the world, apparently, I do.

Wearing a black tank top? Sure, you can grab your basic black bra. But, if it slides to one side, everyone now sees that your tank doesn't fit and you are not fooling any one with the black bra on. Instead, have a hot pink bra on! Pop of color! Fun! Flirty! A hint of color is sexy. Trying to conceal a tank that is too big on you or doesn't fit you correctly with a bra of the same color looks exactly that way. If you have a tank that isn't fitting you correctly, the correct remedy is...BUY THE RIGHT SIZE, Dumbass. But, if you insist on wearing an ill fitting ANY thing...let me let you in on a little secret.

Camisoles. And no, we ain't talkin' about your granmama's camisole. Not some lacy, slinky thing from the 40's. We're talking a basic, cotton, thin strapped camisole. Yes, it means layering your bra, your cami and then your tank...but at least you look appropriately dressed and not like you are trying to fit into something that you bought when you were 20 pounds lighter. Use them. Have them in every color of the rainbow. They cost barely more than $10 at Old Navy in all size from size 0 all the way up to a size 28. No excuses, girls. Get them. Use them. Please.

The point is, if you start with a sexy base, you will feel good in what you wear all day long. There is a lot of truth to the adage that beauty comes from the inside. That applies to your clothing as well. If you have a sweet little secret under your clothes, you will have a sly smile on your face all day long. You will have this gorgeous air of confidence and radiance that will make you look tremendously better the whole day through. When you feel better about what you are wearing, you will walk with an air of confidence that is immediately apparent to others.

You'll know you're doing it right if men ask you for your phone number and bitches talk about you behind your back. And for those of you who are already happily paired off...if your significant other decides to treat you to a little "afternoon delight", you will already have the right gear for hittin' the rear, ya know what I'm sayin'? Hm?

Remember, the right 'tude will put you in the right mood.

And, remember what you're mama always told you...you want to have on clean underwear if you are ever in an accident...or want to snag yourself a hot paramedic. Either one works for me.

Stay sexy, bitches.

CP.

The Final Post of 2011: And so it ends...

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 05:00:00 +0000

I think we can all collectively agree on one thing.

2011 was a clusterfuck of suck.

Don't get me wrong. There were wonderful moments.

In January, I had a fantastic New Year's Day with the Hotband and my kids and of course, my grandson turned 2 in January and that's always fun. In February, we had a very lovely Valentine's Day, or as the Hotband and I call it, "excuse to buy each other cards" day. February also reared it's ugly head in the form of one of my closest friends losing her daughter in a car accident. She and her son were both in coma, her daughter, in a morgue. It was one of the most horrific moments of my life, getting that email from my "Northern Bestie", Jan of Two Scoopz, telling me that Destiny was gone and my dear friend Melia's son, Riley was barely clinging to life himself. It was a time of close friendship as Melia's "angels" reached out to her, rallied around her and fund raised a large sum of money to help her to ease the burden of burying her baby girl. Six dear friends and Melia. Since then, those friendships have broken down. Familiarity breeding contempt and what not. And it's a damn shame. But, for six months, we stayed the course, protected her ferociously, guarded her with our lives, staved off the press, people who were trying to benefit from a horrible situation, crazy ex boyfriends, etc...and made sure that our sweet Melia stayed untouched and able to grieve in peace. The pain all of us felt as mothers was indescribable...and we all hugged our babies just a bit tighter during those harrowing months. Riley made an amazing and near full recovery. And while Melia and I no longer speak, I do ask about her and Riley all the time.

There are moments in life that bond people together for eternity. It doesn't matter if we no longer speak due to a falling out (that I know she had no part of). What does matter is that when she looks back and reflects on that time, she can do so knowing that she had people who loved her surrounding her with love and light.

In March, and the same week as Destiny's funeral, the Hotband and I set sail with my parents for a great cruise to the Bahamas to celebrate my father's 70th birthday and my parents 30th wedding anniversary. While the cruise with my husband part was phenomenal, my mother was being...well, my mother, and made it a pretty unpleasant experience. In April, I went to Washington DC with my home girl, Bran Muffin, for some cultural doings and met up with my home boy, Gary R. who I have known since kindergarten. They drove all the way down from Virginia to come see me and I was thrilled to see them. We dined at a great restaurant, saw some pretty cool historical stuff and it was great. However, the week ended with me falling out of his truck, sustaining a pretty bad back injury (I fractured one of my vertebrae) and that was sort of the beginning of what was to become a radically shittier year.

In May, I had a problem with one of my professors accusing me of plagiarizing a paper I wrote. I might have blogged about it. Who knows. Who remembers. Apparently, since I was on pain medication from my back injury, I ended up submitting a paper to him that was my draft which included direct quotes from sources. I didn't send him the actual paper I had written. In the confusion, he attempted to take me up on charges with the school. Fortunately, I have a very strong connection with my college as a perpetual student there and enough of my teachers were able to vouch for me...that I am not the sort of student who plagiarizes nor needs to. I had a perfect GPA. Why would I need to plagiarize a 3 page paper, for God's sake? So, he gave me a "make up" exam, to prove that I actually DID know my stuff. Hello? It's Humanities. The Arts. You only have to know me for 10 minutes to know that I know my shit where that stuff is concerned. I got an A on the exam. He tried to give me a B for the year. I fought him and won. May was also the month that my relationship with Melia started to take a radical turn and when others via jealousy, slowly started making their attempt to oust me from her life. I did, however, get to go to San Francisco with my husband and see my best guy friend, Jester and his partner, Mikey. Hotband and I got our beautiful Star of David tattoos that we were dying for Mikey do put on us for nearly a year. It was a wonderful time. Saw my buddy, Jerry, as well...and made some new friends during Jerry's birthday party, which also marked for us the passing of the "Rapture". We all survived. The tragic part was ending that visit with a terrible tornado that ripped through Jester's hometown of Joplin, Missouri...killing hundreds of people and leaving very little of his hometown left to salvage. I was grateful to have been there to supply him with hugs, handholds and kisses as one by one, the texts came rolling into his phone about another person he knew being injured or killed. Another friend who lost their home. The text about his old school being ripped from its foundation and no longer existing. It was tragic and heartbreaking. I didn't want to leave him. Ever. I will never forget the look on his face when he got word...not ever.

June came, and with that, the end of "Team Melia" as a trip to Arizona was thwarted by a manipulating piece of garbage. The beginning of the end. But, June brought other things...things that were far more important. June handed me a big pile of dog shit in the form of my sweet Jan being diagnosed with cancer. I can never remember, since my own personal bout with the Big C, crying so much, so hard, for so long as I did when she told me this. I felt like my world was ending...because Jan has been my rock for so damn long. She is beyond a sister. She is part of my life in so many ways. For two people who have never been in the same room together, you couldn't find two people closer than she and I. And now, here I was...1600 miles away from her while she was going through what was going to be the most challenging time of her life. While I offered to come and be with her, she refused me...the eternal optimist, comforting ME and telling me that everything is going to be just fine and if she REALLY needs me there, she promises to call. That woman is still fighting the fight valiantly, with a strength and a conviction that very few are capable of, let alone privy to. And I am so grateful to have a ringside seat in her life. I am grateful that she turns to me when she is feeling sad. I am happy that she still has the ability to say, "OMG...shut the hell up, CP. You're DEPRESSING me and I am the one who has the cancer, for fucks sake!" She is also my "Hyster Sister" as we both had our hysterectomies this year barely two months apart from each other. She was absolutely key in helping me make my decision to have it done. And I think in some ways, her being able to focus on me and my recovery helped to keep her strong. She was able to give the the ol' "Pffft, been there, done that. Suck it up, gorgeous. You'll be fine again in six weeks."

She's a no holds barred, no bullshit kinda girl...and I love her for that. More than words can say.

July was a trip to New York and as usual, save for one AWESOME damn party for my friend Suzee's birthday, it was business as usual for mom and I. The saving grace? My son came along for the trip and somehow, he manages to keep it all in perspective for me with a simple, "Damn. I'm glad she's only my grandmother. She totally sucks as a mom, Dude." Heh. I love my son. Well, loved him right up to the point where my brother convinced him to cut his shoulder length hair and I realized the reason he was keeping it so long. Yeah. Double pierced his ears. Awesome. After that trip, I came home to a barrage of surgeries to figure out what was going on with my female parts. I thought I was having pain due to my back injury I sustained in Washington. I was having trouble walking. My body, especially my lower abdomen, felt "heavy". My periods were starting to look like gangland mob shootings and I was constantly drained. Tests showed me to be heavily anemic. Further tests showed a "tumor of some sort" on my right ovary. No. There is no way that Jan and I both have ovarian cancer at the same time? I mean, I heard of being close...but really? Do we need to go this far?

Well, the big C avoided me this time...but what I did find out was that I had Stage 4 endometriosis that was slowly wrapping itself around my bladder, abdominal wall, colon and the edge of my spine. Two surgeries later, and the doctors were still unable to chisel their way through to removing that ovary that now had a tumor on it the size of a golf ball. The only option? A full radical hysterectomy with bladder shaving, colon shaving and perhaps, some snipping around the spine where the endo had decided to cling to it. To say I was scared shitless is an understatement. But, with Jan's help...knowing that she had just gone through it and was now into the chemotherapy stage of her recovery, I said, fuck it. I can do this. And there were hard times in that. While the Hotband and I always pretty much knew we were never going to have any kids...I still had a choice. His vasectomy could always be reversed and in the back of my mind, I knew this. But a hysterectomy? That's some final shit right there. Can't make no babies if the baby making machine is removed from the building. The thought of this fucked with me emotionally and for the first time in my 8 year marriage, in 12 years together, I felt a distinct separation from my husband. Emotionally. He just didn't understand WHY I would be so upset about this.

"We always said we were not going to have kids, Babe. I have YOUR two kids. They are OUR kids. I don't need any thing more than that. I am already a dad. I don't need to have my last name 'carried on'. I raised our kids with you. That's always been enough for me. I don't understand why this is upsetting you so much."

And it was apparent that he really didn't "get it"...which only served to make me more angry. My best friend, Gin, wrapped it up for me quite nicely. "He's a MAN, CP. Neanderthals. They just don't get it." And she was right. She rallied around me, as did my daughter, in a way that made me feel complete. Even though I felt that everything that defined me as a female was being stripped away from me, they managed to make me feel loved, protected and safe. I am not defined by having a uterus. I am defined by being the woman I am...a loving mom, a phenomenal wife and grandmother, a fiercely protective and loyal friend and a person with the ability to make people laugh, even in their darkest hours. Hubby and I went away for a much needed vacation with old friends to Jamaica and for that week, I was allowed to forget that, come September, a new chapter of my life was about to begin. A new adventure. A life without pain. We had so much fun that week with Joey (an ex boyfriend from 30 years ago) and his wife, Marcia, who is an amazing lady...that it should have been crime to have that much fun in one lifetime.

September arrived and with it, my surgery. The rest of September and October were a blur for me. I remember a lot of pain, a lot of pain medicine and a lot of sleeping. But, the end of October and my granddaughter's third birthday allowed me to do the "unveiling" of this new woman. I put on my brand new Michael Kors suede wedge boots (my hysterectomy gift to myself), with a fantastic amount of gorgeous jewelry and proceeded to be the best new "me" I could allow myself to be. I felt like I was back again. Not perfect, certainly, but back in my life again after six weeks of pain and struggle.

It was like coming home.

November brought the clusterfuck of a bad visit with my parents. A falling out with my brother. A multitude of chaos in my personal life but, it also brought me back together with my husband. After feeling emotionally detached from him and physically detached from him (no sex? SIX weeks? Are you kidding me?), we were back on track again and it felt so good. There was some personal pain from other things...but nothing I felt I couldn't handle.

December and the holidays. Normally, I am a bah humbug kind of person...but this year, I felt like celebrating life. My life. My friend Jan's life...the fact that she was getting stronger and getting through her chemo with a brave face and a positive attitude. The lives of my children and grandchildren. My best friend, Gin, evolving as a wife and mom, really bringing her A game and showing me that a "stay at home mom" is something that means you have value and worth as a female and your not "just a mom." Hubs and I went on our yearly vacation to St. Maarten, St. Thomas and the Bahamas and recharged our batteries. We reconnected on a level I have not felt between he and I since my surgery and life was suddenly, really good again. Really good.

So now, here we are. On the precipice of a new year. Once more, Hotband and I will be spending it at our hideaway on Treasure Island, having a beautiful dinner gulfside and then, likely standing on the beach, holding hands for a long stroll right before the ball drops. Likely, we will be making wonderful love during that year change as we have always done. (He likes to be able to say he fucked me for a year straight. Corn ball. LOL) Yes, from 11:59 pm until 12:01 am. He's quite the stud. Heh.

While I am excited to see what this new year is going to hold for us, I have to admit...2011 is a year that I don't want to revisit ever again. Like I said, there were some amazing time in there, but it was like a beautifully wrapped present, shiny paper, big elaborate bow...and then, opening the box to reveal pound of shit inside. I am praying that this year brings all my friends health, prosperity and the best of everything life has to offer. This is the year that I am opting to take on some challenges, both scholastically and with my own personal health. I want to be stronger in the upcoming year. I want to be able to run around a bit more with my grandchildren without getting winded. More than any thing...I just want peace. No drama for this Mama. I just want to have my family and my friends be happy. I am not sure what the definition of happiness is for each individual in my life...but whatever their definition is, I want them to own it in 2012.

The way I see it, Folks...any day on this side of the grass is a good day and I want to keep that perspective. I want to leave the petty stuff behind and focus on the things that really matter. The people that count. I want to make sure that I take care of myself so that I am capable of caring for those that I love and who love me for a good long time to come. And even if the world ends in 2012 per the Mayans prediction, I want this to be the best last year on earth ever.

So, in closing...have a blessed New Year. I have some ideas and changes for this blog coming up...and I hope that my writing will reflect that. I want to swing back to 2006, when it was all about the laughs and a certain amount of introspection. I want to repair burned bridges and make things whole again. I want to learn the value of "I'm sorry" and I want to make sure that people know they are loved.

Tomorrow is promised to no one. So, for today, I want to make it the best day, every day, until the day they lower me into the ground.

Happy New Year to all my faithful friends and followers. And to those, not so faithful, let it be said that I can forgive who you are, what you have done and be at peace with myself for it. I hope the same for every one of you...even those who have hurt me immensely over this past year.

And to those who I love, and you know who you are, let me tell you that you are a part of my life for keeps. You will always be valued, respected and treated with dignity and love. All I want from you is the same in return. A friend of mine (named "Angel", ironically enough) just said to me on Facebook, "I only have one (resolution): to live purposefully." I could not sum it up better than that. A life with purpose. That is all I want...

A Certifiable Princess could ask for nothing more.

See you in 2012. xoxo

Brotherly love.

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Wed, 26 Oct 2011 23:57:00 +0000

My brother and I were never particularly close.

Close in age, certainly. We are less than three years apart. In the photo above, that is me on the left. My brother is the chubby baby in the Giants onesie on the right. We are two years and nine months apart, yet you can never imagine two people so different.

My brother and I were brought up in a very abusive household. Our parents, well-meaning as they might have been, were a non stop source of stress and strife in our little lives. They fought constantly, every single waking moment of the day and night. She was a shrew, my mother. Nagged to the point where you could no longer stand the sound of her voice. (It still makes me cower a bit when she raises her voice.) My father, the man I have come to call "the sperm donor", was a self-absorbed, egotistical hippie type who never quite grew up enough to understand that you no longer get to be a "free spirit" once you make the commitment to having a wife and children. Sure, you can be an individual, but you do not get to live your life as one. There are three other people in the picture. Three other people who matter, who count on you and who you need to give thought to before doing the selfish things that stop you from being a part of that family unit.

My father, in something so cliche it embarrasses me to mention, left my mother for his secretary (cringe) back in 1973 when I was merely 7 years old. Not that this was his first affair, mind you. This was merely the one that "stuck" and the one that finally took this man out of his home and into hers. There was a part of me that was so grateful when he left. For years, I had endured listening to their fights that would end up with punches thrown, furniture being flipped over, disgusting and vulgar things said right over my head and the endless tears that my mother would cry each and every time he walked out that door and away from "this bullshit". I came to feel that I was a part of the "bullshit" he needed to walk away from and, as every child does, began to blame myself for my father leaving. This was further confirmed when my mother, in moments of distress and uncertainty of her future would say thing like, "he never wanted any kids to begin with."

Great. Like I ASKED to be born into this?

For years, I resented my father. Years. Hated him with a fervor and a passion that no little girl should ever have to know. When I got stuck having to go to his house on the weekends, I was moody, irritable, out of sorts, angry. I felt deep venom for my mother for leaving me with this man who obviously did not want my brother and I there and truly made us, or at least me, feel like we were cramping his bachelor lifestyle. He had a girlfriend (the secretary) named Yvonne. She was a red head. Tall. Thin. Gorgeous. And their lifestyle consisted of walking around nude all the time. It's just what they did. And while that's fine monday through friday, it is probably something that should have been curtailed when your 9 year old daughter and your 6 year old son would come to visit. They smoked weed. A LOT of weed. We were never really "watched" or cared for. It would make me feel so uncomfortable being in that environment. I don't think it effected my brother the same way it did me. He sort of found it all funny...that he got to see "boobies" at Dad's house. But for me, a young girl on the precipice of my pre-teen years, it made me feel out of sorts. I used to sit in the loft of his apartment and just get lost in books. Reading for hours on end til my mother and whatever random flavor of the week she was dating at that time would come and pick us up from his place on the west side of Manhattan.

As I got older, savvier, I learned how to take the train back from Riverside Drive in Manhattan up to Queens Boulevard in Queens. I would run away from his apartment, letting myself into my mothers apartment with my key. (Those of you who were "latchkey" kids would understand why a 10 year old would have her own key to the apartment.) Most of the time, my mother would not be there. She'd be out, somewhere, with whomever she was dating. Sometimes, she would be there with her boyfriend and I would get stuck back on a train, heading back towards Manhattan after listening to my mother screech at my father at the top of her lungs about how the HELL he could not even notice his daughter had disappeared.

Simple. He was too stoned most of the time to even notice whether I was alive or not.

"I thought she was upstairs, reading," he would stammer, trying to stifle his laughter.

"You're an asshole, piece of shit," she would continue. Blah blah blah.

This was my world. The world of the broken home. The world of having two sets parents who were so self-absorbed and involved in their own worlds that they never really saw the magnitude of what they were doing to their children.

Truth be told, I think the divorce took a much deeper toll on me than it did on my brother. My brother stayed in touch with "bio dad" long after I made the decision at 11 years old to never see him again. I hated him, all he stood for and his selfish ways. The last time I saw my father as a child, it was at my 11th grade graduation. He showed up, after the ceremony of course, with some flowers. I took a single photo with him and that is the only memory that I have of him that stands out in my head. I saw him again, when I turned 19, in a chance meeting at a Florida mall while I was on Spring Break with some girlfriends. We talked. Ironed out a few things. Said some things that needed to be said, but by this time, he was older...the age I am now, actually, and it seemed like life had beaten him up so badly, I couldn't muster up all the venom and rage that 9 year old me wanted to throw upon him.

A mere 6 months after that chance meeting, my father was dead. Killed by a heart attack caused by cocaine usage. He was driving on the I-4 interstate when the heart attack occurred. He jumped the median and slammed into a Pepsi tractor trailer going in the opposite direction.

In my utter distress, in my lack of being able to wrap my head around this...I made a joke out of it. A morbid joke. Something to the extent of "this time, Pepsi actually beat out Coke." No one appreciated the joke. I was called "insensitive", but I had experienced such a disconnect between me and this man that all I could rely upon was a macabre sense of humor to get me through.

Fast forward to now. Right now.

My brother is having an affair. He told me about it. He didn't need to. I knew it was going on. I could tell. All the tell tale signs were there. "My wife doesn't understand me," he would say. He sought my advice and was appalled when I told him to go the hell home and work things out with your wife. He thought I would have taken his side, told him to go...be happy! Do your thing! Live your life! But as I looked at him, all I could see was my father. He looks so much like him. He sounds so much like him. And in that, he represented everything I ever hated about my own selfish father.

Recently, his wife found out about his affair. She called me, crying, asking if he could come down here to stay with me for a few days. He wanted to "clear his head" before making a decision about whether he would be staying with her or leaving her and her three beautiful children for this girl who "understands him". Of course, I told her. Let him come down here. Let him be with me and my family. Let him see what a loving family unit is supposed to look like. Let me talk sense into him.

He came...and it was the worst three days of my life in a very long time.

I have never seen such selfish, self absorbed behavior since my fathers existence on this planet. He spent the entire weekend texting this girlfriend of his. He ignored me when I tried to talk to him. He ignored my kids, my grandkids who he has scarcely seen since they have been born. All he wanted to do was go out and party. "What is there to do in this town," he carried on. "What's good? Where are the clubs at? Who's coming out partying with me tonight?"

And all I saw was my father...and the rage slowly boiled in my blood.

"I thought we were going to have some family time," I said.

"Yeah. Yeah, of course. We'll have family time. But it's the weekend. So, let's get this party going! Where's the Hard Rock? Let's go gambling! I got a grand burning a hole in my pocket. Let's do this."

Not the faintest hint of moral dilemma in his eyes. No thought to his grieving wife back at home. No thought to his three children, ages 9 through 13, who are suffering right now, listening to mommy cry at night as they go to bed. The three of them acutely aware of what their father did...but having to suffer the consequence of his insanely selfish actions. There was a lot of arguing between my brother and I. I would try to talk to him, try to get his face out of his phone and off the texting that was going on between him and this random girl (who, incidentally, DOES know my sister in law and apparently, does not care about sleeping with her husband). I tried to keep my brother focused.

"Go to the mall with your nephew," I told him. "He's missed you. Go spend time with him."

My son reported back to me that Uncle spent his entire time at the mall walking alongside him with his face buried in the phone. We went out for dinner. Same thing. Out for breakfast with family. Same thing. Went to go visit my husbands family. Same thing. Face buried in that phone...no consideration to any one else.

And I finally exploded.

My brother declared he had to "get the fuck outta here". Apparently, the whore that he had taken up with was giving him ultimatums about coming home. He was pacing the floors, gotta go gotta go gotta go gotta go. Change my ticket change my ticket change my ticket now now now now now now. It was around then that I released the wrath of 9 year old me all over him. Everything that 9 year old me ever wanted to say to that stupid, selfish, piece of shit father of mine came flying out of my mouth. Only now, it was 45 year old me, screaming it at my baby brother...who looks like the man, acts like the man. We fought ferociously to the point where he was punching the dashboard of my car, jumping out of it in the middle of the highway and me, considering throwing my truck in reverse to run him over and leave him to join the same fate as his father...dying under the wheels of a truck. All of a sudden, that wild rush came through me...and the fury was too huge to fight. I couldn't contain it any longer and in that instant, I wanted him to die...and I wanted ME to the be the one who put him in that box. I wanted him to suffer for the things he did to me, but it wasn't him. It was my father. I wanted him to suffer for the things I knew he was about to put my beautiful niece through. She is now the same 9 year old little desperate girl that I was at the time, and I knew what lay before her. I walked this road before...and I felt so justified in just removing my brother from this world to spare her all the pain. Let her father die while she still loves him and still wants him in her life. Let him just die that way...before she grows up hating him, blaming him for every failed relationship in her life. Never trusting men ever again because she couldn't trust the one who gave her life. I just wanted to hear his body under the tires of my truck as I rolled over him again and again and again.

Fast forward once more.

I am at home. He is gone, back on an airplane New York bound, on the way to ruin the innocent lives of my precious niece and my two nephews. On the way home to destroy whatever little is left of my sister in laws self esteem. He is going home to break everyone's hearts. My parents. Her parents. All the children involved. And the last thing he said to me..."This isn't about YOU, this is about ME! It's always been about ME!"

Yes. Yes, "Dad". It was always about you. And because it was always about you...hearts died in the process.

I turned on the song "Helpless" by Neil Young. It is off the album "Everyone Knows This is Nowhere" and was one of my fathers favorite songs. I put my head down and I cried. I cried long and hard from a place so deep within me that I knew I was no longer an adult woman, but that little girl whose father destroyed her self esteem, her sense of security, her trust and faith and most of all, destroyed her life. I wept so hard for this broken doll inside of me. The pain was palpable. I could feel her within me, so angry for never getting a chance to tell the real man who ruined my life what I really thought of him. Angry, that now my relationship with my brother, my one link to that time in my life is now irretrievably broken. I cried for loss. I cried from abandonment. I cried for the realization that I was left to my own devices by my daddy when I was only 9 years old, the same age my niece is right now. And wept harder still...because I know now, as a 45 year old woman, that I can never, ever get those moments back, nor can I save my niece from becoming a 45 year old woman who is going to inevitably look back with the same pain, grief and anger.

It's been two days since my brother left town.

He sent me a text message. "Left my sneakers there. Can you ship them to me?"

No apology. No "I'm sorry" for hurting you. No sense of responsibility for the devastation he left in his wake. No regret. Just concern for his sneakers.

He is, after all, his father's son.

And I sit here, my heart still torn wide open, trying to wrestle with the fact that I have all these open wounds that I thought were long gone, but realize now they were just scabbed up, waiting to be torn wide open to bleed, to fester, to become infected. It is a painful realization to find out that what you thought you were so far past in your life, you never really resolved after all. You just buried it deep down, burned it in a box and scattered the ashes somewhere.

Eventually, the winds of time blow them back at you. You suffocate in their thickness as they choke you and blind you. You shake your head to clear your thoughts, to gain some sense of vision and clarity. Then suddenly, you realize. The game remains the same...only the players have changed.

And like a lost little child on a subway heading to Queens at 2am...you brave it alone.

Home is only a few more stops away.

Focus 52: Shadows

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Tue, 11 Oct 2011 03:44:00 +0000

I love make up.

I am a girly girl who lives and dies for the sparkle, the shimmer, the gloss, the gleam, the bling, the shiny and all things that are wonderfully and magically feminine.

Lately, I haven't been feeling so girly.

Since my hysterectomy, it has been hard for me to jump back on the "Sparkle Wagon" as I call it and make myself fabulous. It's been a real struggle. A chore for me. Even showering is a process. Bending over to shave my legs is a true production as I can feel the incisions in my abdomen tugging hard to the point where they feel like they are going to snap. Showering usually exhausts me to the point where I don't feel like going out any longer.

The other day, in the mail, one of my dear friends, a fellow blogger who shares my love of all things make up, sent me a pallet of eye shadows, cheek tints and a nude lip gloss. Just something to brighten my day and make me feel "gorg" (as she put it) after all the shit I have been through as of late. Well, I played with those eye shadows in a gazillion different color combinations on my arm til it looked like one big long bruise.

You know, when a bruise is healing? All those crazy colors; purples, yellows, greens, blues, blacks.

And when I realized that, I scrubbed my arm clean. It brought me back to a time in my life where I had to rely on cover up, thick, copious amounts of cover up, to cover up bruises that were given to me by someone who claimed they loved me. As I was washing off my arm, still staring at these glorious eye shadows, I wondered why...why would I be thinking about something so terrible out of nowhere when just five minutes earlier, I was in girly girl heaven?

Then, I realized. 20 years. This November will be 20 years since someone tried to end my existence on this planet. 20 years since someone beat me into a coma with a baseball bat in front of my 4 year old daughter. 20 years since doctors told my parents that I may not come back from this and if I do, I will probably have severe brain damage for the rest of my life. The "anniversary", if you will, of one of the worst moments of my entire life. I suppose it had been brewing just under the surface in me for awhile. The night before receiving this wonderful present from my friend, I had had a very restless sleep. At one point, my husband had to wake me, because not only had my sleep been fitful, but apparently at one point, I ended up flailing about, punching him violently and screaming for whomever I was dreaming about to "leave me alone, leave me alone...stop!" My husband shook me awake. "It's me, baby...it's me," he said as he slowly brought me out of my tortured slumber and back into reality. I stared at him for a minute, still confused and somewhat dazed.

"It's me," he said again, softly.

"Okay," I nodded, understanding that he was reassuring me that I was safe. "Okay."

I curled back up on his chest and went back to sleep.

It's peculiar to me that even 20 years later, the silliest of things can trigger me. A certain scent. The sound of a man's voice when it is particularly gruff and laden heavily with a thick, italian accent. There are specific sounds that make me jittery, like the sounds of footsteps on a wooden floor, especially if that wood floor creaks. There are certain actors I can't watch on TV or in the movies who remind me of my abuser and even if the movie is supposedly "sooooooooooo good," I will still avoid it like the plague.

The day after I got my friends gift, I went back into my bathroom, and played in front of my mirror again, combining golds with peacock blues and and lush, rich purple shadows. And it became fun again. The joy was restored because those other shadows, the kind that hover over you and wake you from restful slumber...the kind that haunt your thoughts and dreams, the kinds that are long, tall and ominous? They eventually go away. And they are replaced by 16 pots of beautiful eye shadows sent with love from a gret friend. A silly soap opera palette called "The Balm and the Beautiful"...with names like "The Other Woman", "The Drama Queen" and my personal favorite, "The Perfect Man."

However, I think I will steer clear of the one called "The Coma Patient" for a little while.

Hits a little too close to home. ;)

Focus 52: Writer's choice - The Men In My Life

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Tue, 11 Oct 2011 03:06:00 +0000

They say a girl is forever looking for the love her father.

They say a girls first true love is her father.

And, they say, when a girl finally marries the love of her life, that man will be the image of her father.

I've had a lot of men in my life.

Boyfriends who have come and gone. My mothers boyfriends, who also came and went. My biological father, who I wanted love from, but never received it. And because of the damage he did to me, I searched for a long time, cliche as it may be, looking for that love in all the wrong places. I got into relationships that were destructive. I was the victim, no, survivor, of a relationship where I was beaten almost daily, into submission. A relationship that broke me, literally and emotionally. Broken bones. Broken heart. I wanted so badly to be loved unconditionally by a man, any man, be it the one who brought me into this world, or some divine replacement for him. I wanted to marry a man who would take care of me. Not the woman I am, but the little girl who never received the love she needed. I wanted both of these men, the father and the husband, to cherish me. To fulfill me. To complete me. There was this giant hole in my heart, in my soul...in my little girl world, that desperately needed to heal. It bled, continuously.

After my biological father left my mother, when I was a mere 7 years old, she dated often. It was within her right to do so. She was single, dealing with her own pain, needing to be loved and valued as well. My biological father was a horrible man. He was cruel, selfish, self centered. He hurt my mother in so many ways, they are far too numerous to mention. The men she brought home, they were never right for her. They were distractions, temporary band aids on bullet wounds. Something to dull the ache of being rejected by the man who was her high school sweetheart. The man who promised he would love her forever.

He lied. Oh, how he lied.

By the time my mother brought home the man who is now my stepfather, I was an angry 11 year old. I didn't want any more of these men around her, around us...this tiny unit of a family who only consisted of my mother, my brother and myself. I was over her repeated heartbreak. I was over meeting every random fool who promised her the moon and instead, gave her faded stars. When my stepfather came into the picture, I remember thinking, "Great. Another one." He will stay for a little while. Pretend to care about my brother and I long enough to be able to sleep with her. Then, like the rest, he will be gone. I put up a wall that would rival The Great Wall, never letting any of them in. Never letting them close enough to me to hurt me. And, I also grew a deep resentment for my mother, for continuing to bring these people into our lives, allowing my brother and I to feel this false sense of security, only to be let down again.

But this man, the man you see on the right in this photo...he was, well, different. He didn't overcompensate with gifts and toys for my brother and I. All he wanted to do was love my mother and in time, perhaps love us as well. If we would let him. He saw us not as a burden, but part of the package my mother came with. He included us on his dates with her. Picnics, movies, weekend trips to Lake George. He just wanted to be with my mother and he knew that in doing so, he would have to learn to want to be with two very broken little children as well.

As years went by, this man earned my trust. He didn't play games with my mothers heart, nor with mine. He was truthful, forthright and upstanding. He knew that we were all, collectively, damaged works of art and he took his time restoring the three of us. Skillfully, he dabbled with the colors on the pallet to recolor our world. Slowly, the picture came to life once more and now, we were a family. This man made me understand what it was like to have a fathers love once more. Eventually, I discovered that he too, was in pain, suffering his own loss. He had a daughter who rejected him. Her mother had poisoned her against him during a very ugly divorce of his own. So, while I was desperately seeking a fathers love, he was desperately seeking the love of a daughter. He filled my fatherless void. I fulfilled the role of his estranged daughter. It took time, it took energy and it took work, but eventually...I gave him the greatest gift that any stepchild can offer their new parent. I started calling him, "Dad". Tentatively at first, but then, it became natural, rolling off my tongue as freely as any little girl would call the first man in her life "Daddy".

This man put braces on my crooked teeth. He put my first prom gown on my back. He was there to hold me the first time I got stood up on a date. "His loss," he said. And I cried, allowing him to cradle me in his arms, perhaps feeling for the first time that I was not rejected but it was, in fact, this boys loss. He taught me to drive a car. Was there for my dance recitals, piano recitals, talent shows. He bought me roses and would proudly boast, "that's my daughter." He made me feel special, loved and when the wounds would surface from my biological fathers rejection of me, the same words, "his loss", would always be the words that would bring me the most comfort...especially once he started adding "his loss is my gain" to the phrase.

When my biological father was killed in a car accident in 1986, it was my stepfather who came to my job, took my hands in his and broke the news to me. I fainted. I fainted into the arms of the man who rescued me, while grieving the death of a man whose DNA was in my body, but I felt no connection to other than the obligatory connection of knowing that this is the person responsible for giving me life.

But, in some other way, I felt free. I felt free to fully love my stepfather now. There was no more guilt attached to my calling him "Dad" now. I always felt it was wrong in some way to call my stepfather "Daddy" when I had a father. Yet, the relationship that I had with my stepfather made me realize that any man can become a father. It is a man who is worthy who gets to be called "Daddy".

My stepfather. My father. He is beyond worthy...and I love him beyond all reason.

I made a lot of mistakes as I grew older. Now, I was not searching for the love of a father any longer, but rather, searching for a man like my father to take on the role of my husband, my life partner. And, I did a lot of settling during that time, because there was no man who could possibly measure up to the greatness of my father. Certainly I came close a few times, but there was always something missing. Something lacking. I wanted a man like my father. My father would bring my mother flowers for no reason. He would greet her with big, warm hugs at the door when he came home. He would refer to her as "his princess" and even in her fifties, she would still smile this shy, adoring smile and a slight blush would color her cheeks. I wanted that. I ached for that. Two marriages and several broken engagements later...I still never found it.

Enter the man on the left in that photograph.

My life was in a shambles. I was in the middle of a very messy separation with husband number two. My daughter was 12 years old and my son, just barely 4 years of age. I had met my now husband at school. He was a quiet man, reserved, didn't talk much but when he did, it was always something either poignant, clever or sweet. I noticed he held open doors for women, let someone with an armful of groceries go before him online if he only had an item or two. He was complimentary of people. A gracious man who everyone seemed to really like. One evening, at a school function, my daughter met this man. I often brought her up to my college functions with me to show her how fun college can be. I wanted her to get a taste of the college experience so she would be more determined to go. After she met him, she sidled up to me and said, "Mom, you should marry him. He's really cool. I like him." I remember laughing out loud. "Sam, I barely know him. We are just friends." She cocked her head to the side, raised a brow at me and said, "I like him. He's not like the other jerks you date."

And all of a sudden, it dawned on me. She was seeing me the way I saw my mother when I was 11 years old. While I was far more careful than my mother was not to bring around my boyfriends near my children, there was one man in particular that I was dating that my daughter really, really did not like. She actually hated him enough to forewarn me that if I intended on marrying him, she would move away from me. I have to admit, that made a huge impact on me. At another school function, my soon to be ex husband was in attendance with my children. I was the President of the Honor Society at school and we were inducting the newest members, of which this man my daughter was so fond of was to be inducted as well. As each person was handed their certificate, one by one, I gave each new inductee a warm hug and welcomed them into the group. When this man came up for his certificate, I remember feeling such a nervousness come over me. I didn't want any one to notice or realize that I was attracted to him on some level. So, instead of that warm embrace, I merely gave him a handshake. That gesture was as transparent as glass to my soon to be ex husband who said, "that kid whose hand you just shook? Yeah. He's going to be your next husband." I remember laughing nervously. "Whaaaaat? What kind of crazy thing is that to say?"

We were married two years later.

In this man, I found my father. After 12 years together, he escorts me to the car, linking my arm onto his so that I don't fall. He opens the car door for me. He says, "Careful, honey," every time I get into the car just before closing the door just to make sure he doesn't shut the door on me or that my dress does not get caught outside the door. He walks around to the other side of the car when we reach our destination and escorts me out. If he knows he has to park far from our venue, he will always drop me off first and then, proceed to park the car. He brings me home flowers for no reason whatsoever. If he knows he is going to be gone all day, he will go out and buy me breakfast and leave it in the microwave for me to warm up when I finally wake up. He kisses me every time he leaves the room, whether it is to go to the bathroom or to walk down the hall to his office when he is working at home. He calls me his princess, his queen, his baby girl and a million other names of adoration and affection. And when I look at him looking at me, I see my father staring at my mother. I see the insurmountable love in his eyes. I see him smile at me sometimes, not being able to help himself...because he is just that much in love. He calls me his best friend, the same way my father says to me, "your mother is my best friend in the whole world. Without her, life just doesn't work."

Those two men in that photo. They are the loves of my life. The men in my life. They both filled a desperate void in my world. I love both of them so much that I can cry just thinking about it. They both saved me, in different ways, from the feelings of rejection that my biological father left behind when he left us. These two men, so much alike. Quiet. They are listeners. They don't have much to say, but when they do, it is meaningful. It is from the heart. It isn't frivolous or just talk to hear themselves talk. They are both creatures of habit who work hard for the women they love. And like my father, my husband embraced my two children, not out of obligation, but out of love. When my children talk about him, they refer to him as their dad, despite their father being in their life. My son refers to him as "my steppy", his affectionate name for his step dad and my daughter as a pet name for him that warms my heart every time I hear her say it or see it written in a card. My son calls my husband his best friend and to me, that is the most joyous thing in the world. My daughters children, our grandchildren, race up to him with arms wide open screaming "Gampa Gampa Gampa" and will just tug at his legs til he picks them up, tosses them in the air and gives them great big hugs and kisses that make them burst out into hysterical giggling fits. And my daughter, she loves with and adores him as she has from the moment she was a little girl telling me, "you should marry him, Mom."

She was right. And I am glad I listened.

My husband. My father. They both love me so much. I am very blessed for having them. They both claim they are very blessed to have me. To know that someone thinks that much of you that they consider you a blessing in their lives? No other feeling compares.

I know sometimes my father wonders where his biological daughter is, how she is doing, what is going on her world. He has reached out to her countless times and every time, she rejects him.

I take his hand. I smile at him. I kiss his cheek and say to him, "her loss is my gain."

I know some day that I am going to lose my dad. It's inevitable. Time slowly steals our parents from us. But, I also know that whenever I look into my husbands eyes, I will see the kindness, the love, the adoration and the mutual respect I always see in my dads eyes when he looks at me. I feel sometimes that perhaps my husband was this special gift given to me in the world so that I will never have to know the pain of being without my father ever again.

These are the men in my life.

If fate is on your side, sometimes you are blessed enough to get one or the other.

I am fortunate enough to have both.

I am a lucky girl, indeed.

About Last Night...

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Wed, 21 Sep 2011 21:34:00 +0000

He whispered to me, "it's going to be alright. Trust me?"

It was a question, certainly, but one that didn't require an answer. He knows I trust him. He has known that since the day I first laid eyes on him. I gave him my heart, my soul and my children. You can't not trust someone when you give them the gift of your children. The children you didn't have together, but have raised together. And now, now that I look down at the scars across my tummy, the three horrible scars that say, "you will never, ever have a child with this man. Ever..." I feel weak as a woman. I feel as though I have lost my empowerment, the ability to give life. The choice to do so, should I have ever chosen that route again.

Certainly we knew with my husband vasectomy in 2004 that the decision not to have any more children was the right one for us at the time. And yet, there was this knowledge, somewhere in the back of my brain that knew that vasectomies are reversible. Someday, I could fill this belly with the seed of the man I am in love with and make a beautiful little human being out it, because I was a woman and as a woman, I am the cradle of life.

These scars across my abdomen. These three, jagged scars. They tell me, "never more."

I put my hand in his. I trust him. He turned the water to the shower on. He stepped in, checking the temperature, making sure that everything was in place. This was my first shower post surgery and the moment I had been dreading the most. The sight of myself naked after the violation of my smooth, soft skin. Worse still, the moment HE saw me naked again with the addition of these three scars on my body. I was on the verge of tears. I knew it wouldn't take much to make me cry. One word spoken out of context. One "Oh, it doesn't look so bad, baby." One furrow of his brow and I would be reduced to a sobbing mess because somewhere on that operating table, along with my uterus, my cervix, my tubes and my ovaries, the doctor took away something else. He took away a good portion of my self esteem. The very thing that made me feel womanly which, ironically enough, was the bane of my existence, was now gone. No more periods was suddenly replaced by...oh my God. No more periods. I am this empty vessel now. This useless, empty vessel capable of nothing but the ability to accessorize well...and even that felt like a challenge as of late.

He stuck his hand through the shower curtain and extended it in my direction. I couldn't bring myself to drop the towel in front of him though I had been naked before him millions of times. Sensing this, he stepped back into the shower, leaving his hand extended for me to hold on to as I stepped in to join him.

"I only want to be in here with you so you don't fall," he said. "I'm just worried you're going to fall."

And those words, which should have filled my heart and said "look how he loves you", somehow translated into "I don't want to be in here with you. I am not attracted to you any longer. However, since you are my wife, I am obligated to make sure you don't hurt yourself."

I dove into the shower quickly, turning my scarred body toward the onslaught of water. He can't see my scars now and more importantly, he can't see me crying.

"You like a lot of lather in your hair, right baby?"

I nodded. He washed my hair, careful to make sure every strand was perfectly lathered. He massaged my scalp. I felt his body pressed against mine and noted, as any woman feeling particularly vulnerable would, that he was not "excited". Normally, the sight of my wet, curvy ass would drive him into a frenzy, but...nothing. He rinsed my hair and then, poured a ridiculous amount of conditioner onto my head, making sure all my hair was coated, root to tip.

"We'll leave that in while I wash you, okay?"

Wash me? He is going to wash me. He is going to take inventory of what is still there. What has been removed, what has been replaced. He is going to see me "unlandscaped", legs with four day old just out of the hospital stubble with underarms to match and those scars. Those god forsaken scars, still fresh and oozing all sorts of goo and grossness. He loaded the loofah up with some Dove body wash and washed my back in smooth, soft circles. He washed my hips, my ass, the length of my legs down to the tips of my toes. And then, he turned me to face him. My arms were wrapped around my breasts as though I were covering them, making myself invisible, like a little kid does when they cover their eyes. "I can't see you, so you must not be able to see me," was the thought process. My head was down, the water tasted like coconut conditioner as it rolled across my swollen lips. He lifted my chin.

"Let me see those beautiful brown eyes."

I looked at him with a careful vulnerability that said, "this is your moment, my husband. please. please. please. don't mess it up with words. just get me through this. please. please. please don't make me hurt more than i already am hurting. my femininity can't take another hit. please. please. stay silent."

He washed my shoulders, loving, soft concentric circles. He moved my arms away from my breasts, one at a time, so that the other arm could remain there, hugging my body, saving it from the hollow feeling of uselessness. He washed my breasts one at a time, giving me a delicate kiss on the cheek each time. I glanced down. His body gave him away once more. This was not sexual for him. He was not aroused by this. Normally, we are clawing at each other like two animals by this far into the shower and I am bent over, hugging the towel bar for dear life as he pounds against me in his neanderthal "Me Man. Me Must Make Beastly Love to Woman" stance.

This...was not that. It was the complete antithesis to that. And I felt my heart deflate. He no longer finds me sexy. He doesn't think I am hot any more. Then, just when I think I couldn't be in any more emotional pain, my husband of nearly 10 years drops to his knees in front of me. The water is running off the curve of my breasts and sliding onto his cheeks. I am looking down at him, crying. He is looking up at me with those warm, gentle brown eyes that swore to me so many years ago that he would never be responsible for a day of pain in my life. Every promise he every made me were swirling in the mist and haze of his eyes.

"I'm going to wash those scars now, baby. I promise you. I'll be careful."

He put the loofah down. "I'm not going to use this. I'm going to use my bare hands." The thought terrified me. He was about to be face to face with them and then, on top of that, touching them? This was emotional pain overload and I truly thought I was going to pass out. But he didn't take his eyes away from mine. He was waiting for me to be ready. We stared at each other. He put the body wash into his hands but he never lost eye contact with me.

"Are you ready?"

I bit my bottom lip, already swollen and sore from where they roughly forced a tube down my throat before surgery and nodded slowly. His eyes moved from mine to my lower abdomen. He stared at the holes in my stomach. The left one. The right one. The large one where my once perfect "innie" belly button was. He gently touched them. My stomach quivered under his touch. His naked fingertips slowly washed away the dried blood, the coagulated ooze, the surgical glue. He looked back up at me and smiled. Not a big, beaming smile, but a smile that said, "this is okay. i'm not freaked out. you shouldn't be either."

And I exhaled for the first time in what seemed to be months.

His fingertips went from the scars on my abdomen, to the "Y" between my legs, touching me lightly. And when I looked down at him again, kneeling before me in the shower...I noted "signs of life" between his wet, taut thighs as well. I closed my eyes, and smiled. He stood up, rinsed me off and kissed me lightly.

"Want to take this to our bed," he whispered.

And yes, yes I did.

I know there are going to be challenges along the way. I know we cannot have sex (the Bill Clinton definition thereof) for another five weeks. I know that my hysterectomy will sometimes inhibit my ability to have an orgasm. I know that it means lube will become a necessity, not a playful thing to add in now and then. And I know that it is going to mean having to adjust my way of thinking about what it means to be a woman, to be a sexual creature.

But I also know that I was blessed with a life partner who is willing to embrace me no matter who I am. More important than being desired is the fact that I am loved. And he spent all the gentle, wonderful time in the world last night proving to me that while yes, things will be different, the love that I have come to know will always be the same. It will be patient, it will be kind and it will be reminding me that no matter what, it will heal me of whatever ails me.

And life, my life? It just got a little bit more fabulous.

My husband once told me a long time ago, that the stretch marks on my lower belly didn't bother him. They were reminders of how that belly of mine once cradled our children, nurtured them, gave them life. Now, the scars on my belly...they are a reminder that while that era of my life is over, a new one has begun. A new, pain free existence where I can learn to enjoy my body once more, not dread the last two weeks of every month. Where I don't have to worry about wrecking the "good sheets" or not buying the "pretty panties". A sexually liberating time in my life that means that my husband and I have to rediscover the new and different ways of gratifying each other.

If last night was any indication of what is to "come"...bring it on. We're ready. We are SO ready.

Off Focus: The Hysterectomy Saga

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Wed, 14 Sep 2011 18:00:00 +0000

aka: When Uteruses Attack.

Okay, as you can see, I took the entire month of August off. In all my time blogging, I have never lost a complete month. There's been a lot going on in my life, most of it good, some of it bad, some of it not worth mentioning. In that time, I took a fabulous trip to Jamaica with a couple of my best friends, I turned 45 (first year of no birthday post!) and I became an aunt again to a beautiful set of twins, Torin and Talia.

I have also found out that my endometriosis has come back with a blazing vengeance.

So, tomorrow, Dear Reader, I go under the knife. 10 am. We are not just going after the remaining portion of my uterus, but we are grabbing out the following:

2 useless ovaries, one complete with 6mm cyst.
2 fallopian tubes.
1 slightly damaged cervix.
1 portion of the colon.
1 section of the bladder.
1/4 of the lining of the abdominal wall.

Stents shall be put into place to assure that my ureters do not collapse. I am dosing heavily today on antibiotics (Flagyl and Amoxil) and in only a mere hour from now, shall start what is lovingly called a "colon cleanse" to make sure I am no longer full of shit, lest the doctor get spewed with fecal matter when he goes to scrape the endometriosis from my colon. Yes, a full bottle of magnesium citrate awaits me. I have a choice, Cherry or Lime. I am thinking of doing a half and half mixture over crushed ice for the Sonic "Cherry Limeade" effect.

Of course, tonight would be the night we decide to have a Happy Hysterectomy party with all my family and friends coming to visit. Likely, I will spend three quarters of this visit in the toilet with my ass going like a running faucet on full blast while my husband lovingly slips a piece of my vagina cake under the door.

Yes, we are having vagina cake. Red velvet...to celebrate the end of my periods.

Tampon shaped candles. Sanitary napkins to decorate the house. I think I will add glitter to them.

So, that's where I'm at, Ladies and Gentlemen.

I don't know when the next time is that I will be on my blog. I have no clue. But for now, I just wanted to put this out there, garner as much sympathy as I possibly could and perhaps lay a little Jewish guilt on you people who haven't visited me in some time. Sure, we probably passed one another on Facebook, but really, is that the same thing? No. No it isn't. "Today, CP is having a hysterectomy" and you hitting the "like" button is the equivalent of you shitting your pants and me pointing and saying "tee hee".

When I return, I will be substantially lighter (do you know all these organs have a total weight of at least 14 pounds?) and pain free, which is probably the most important thing in my life at this moment.

So, take care. Good wishes to one and all. I don't know or care if you're the praying type...but toss me out a good vibe or two. And no, Ladies, my shoe collection is already designated to go to charity should something happen to me. My purses go to my best friend, Gin. My jewelry all goes to my daughter. My money to my son.

Don't even dare think of trying to grab the Hotband. He will be mine for all eternity. Sorry, girls.

Peace.

Focus 52: "Glass"

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Tue, 26 Jul 2011 05:08:00 +0000

This photograph was taken, a complete fluke considering I did not realize what the prompt was for this week, at the Salvador Dali Museum this past week. This is the spiral staircase that takes you between the three floors of the museum. It gradually narrows, slowly winding to an end, just under the glass dome. It made me think "Stairway to Heaven". It made me think about the way things have been going in my life lately. Things have been looking up and then, leading nowhere real fast. It's been a very confusing time in my life. I have been in and out of the hospital three times in the past three weeks. Little pieces of me being removed each time. Doctors saying one thing, doing another, forcing me to lose control over the one thing that we should all take for granted: the ability to have control of our own bodies. I feel like I am on an upward climb...but repeatedly hitting this glass ceiling that allows me to LOOK towards the future, but not allowing me to get there. It's frustrating, to say the least. I want to be somewhere that I can't get to. I am trying to remember that there are people out there that have it a lot worse than I do. A LOT worse. I don't have a fatal disease...something which was a possibility several weeks ago. What I do have is a disease that is slowly overtaking my reproductive organs, literally encompassing them into this big, woven web of scar tissue, forming a barrier around what does need to be removed. It is like having to drill through 20 feet worth of solid rock to get a poisonous snake out of your garden. It should not take so much work to rid yourself of evil, the evil here being one of my ovaries that encompassed in a man-eating tumor. This cystic tumor is three times the size of my poor, overworked ovary, causing me incredible pain. Yet, the pain that I have to endure in order to remove, well, the pain...it's almost ironic.

To get rid of pain, you must endure worse pain? Somehow, it just seems medieval.

This past Thursday, I had a laparoscopic surgery to drain and/or cut the cyst off my ovary. Upon entry, the doctor discovers that I have webbing, scar tissue, called "endometriosis" covering my entire abdominal cavity. It is everywhere. It is "stage 4", which is apparently the worst you can have. One of the last things I remember the doctor saying to me before the surgery is..."You know, you should have told us you were having pain before the FIRST surgery. We could have taken care of it then."

I had no words. None.

This is the equivalent of an "I told you so" from a doctor. And I would be lying if I said it didn't hurt.

I had told him, for weeks, about the pain I had been enduring. My husband and I had just called the doctor two days earlier to tell him that I was in the emergency room with excruciating pain just the day before. He cut away a portion of my uterus, a bunch of fibroids and polyps. He did a D & C to check for cancer (none) and then, abladed my uterus so that I could no longer bleed to death nearly every month. With every passing period, my red blood cell level kept decreasing. I am severely anemic. However, the pain. The pain from that ovary that they never removed remained and I felt this was all for naught. That caused an extreme amount of mental duress for me. This past week, I came back into the doctors office again, the pain absolutely maddening and the depression, deepening.

Doctor makes that remark from earlier and then, gives me 3 hours to let me know that A) your ovary has just blown up, B) you're going under the knife again for emergency surgery and C) this time...This Glorious, Wonderful Time...we will be removing that ovary. The bane of my existence. And life shall be good again.

Of course, this is when I find out about my endometriosis. The moat of impossibility that is encompassing the remainder of my battered uterus, one innocent ovary who is likely wondering "what the hell did 'I' do to deserve this?", and of course, the culprit, the right ovary who...had she not spoken up in the form of extreme pain, would have never alerted me to the presence of the EndoMonster, eating my insides.

So into surgery I go, tube into the belly. Soreness extraordinaire when I arise the next day. Complications. Stress with my already stressed out husband and an argument that never should have taken place due to a misunderstanding. But it's okay. Because now, I have been made to understand that despite the doctor's best Black and Decker power tools, the wall of the EndoMonster could not be penetrated and the force within, the control center of pain, that God forsake ovary...still remains. He could not get through the enormous amount of scar tissue surrounding it.

Square one.

There are questions that need to be answers, research that needs to be done, phone calls to be made. But, in the midst of all this, there was a birthday to celebrate. Two days after that emergency surgery, I had pre-planned an amazing weekend with my husband to celebrate his 37th year on this planet, 12 of those in my life. Thusly, we went to the Dali Museum where, to bring this full circle, I took the picture that captured what I am feeling. The feeling of moving up and yet, going nowhere. We took a helicopter ride over the beaches in Clearwater. It was scary, exhilarating and amazing. We did a lot of laughing, a welcome distraction from all the tears as of late. Then, we went to an out of the way Indian restaurant to burn our mouths on the finest curry based delicacies they had to offer. We stayed i a hotel, also a welcome reprieve from all the time we have been spending at home, only to wake up to a brand new horror the next day.

My belly, never flat...but never sticking out further than my size F breasts, was completely engorged, swollen and bloated. It was painful. Extremely painful. Tender and hot to the touch. By later that morning, I could no longer fit into my pants. It was then I found out that during the laparoscopic surgery, a woman is pumped full of carbon dioxide to both shrink and dry out the organs in the abdominal cavity and to expand the area in which the doctor has to work. It is quite common, apparently, for the sudden expansion to occur a few days after surgery as my husband and I read horror story after horror story from dozens of beleaguered women who have gone through this process. It is also, from what I understood (and concur with) extremely painful. By late Sunday night, my belly was swollen to the point of looking equally as pregnant as my sister in law who is presently 9 months pregnant with twins. I was scarcely able to breathe as I was babysitting my grandchildren for the night. I could not lift them and eventually, I could not lift myself without assistance.

We called the doctor this morning who wanted to see me "right away" as "that kind of pain and swelling is not normal". Not normal? We read literally hundreds of stories that said quite the opposite. This pain and swelling IS rather normal for this surgery and for some women, the swelling and pain can take weeks to go away. Once again, I am questioning my doctor...and questioning myself. I am normally a fabulous advocate for those who cannot speak for themselves in times of health crisis. Yet, I had scarcely enough time to be able to read and understand what is happening to me. My husband, God bless him, is doing what he can to give himself an education on the topic...baptism by fire, if you will, but he can only do so much.

I see my doctor again tomorrow morning and I think, at this visit, I will be releasing him as my gynecologist in lieu of someone who cares enough to be able to give me rational explanations for what is going on with me. I want to know why this disease was not discovered years early by the barrage of tests I have taken for other gynecological ailments I have suffered through, such as interstitial cystitis and cervical cancer. I want to know why three gynecologists, two urologists and one family doctor never thought to look for something as common as endometriosis knowing my history of painful periods accompanied by excessive bleeding.

I want answers. I deserve answers...but my surgeries are coming faster than the questions are forming in my head.

So, when I looked at the spiral staircase, leading upward toward the glass ceiling, allowing in the sunshine and the promise of something brighter, but never quite allowing you to touch it, I thought...there it is. My life, in a photo. This is where I am right now. Looking skyward, with no discernible means of getting there...

just a long climb spiraling rapidly to no where at all.

Because she needs to know...

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Mon, 27 Jun 2011 00:47:00 +0000

Because she has rescued my weakened psyche more times than I can count.
Because she has reached out to me when everyone else has turned their backs.
Because she knows my heart better from 2500 miles away than some people who are right next to me.
Because she understands me, even when I don't.
Because she makes me throw my head back and laugh.
Because she keeps secrets.
Because she is painfully and brutally honest with me, even when I beg for a lie.
Because she protects me.
Because she gives me advice, unsolicited or not, and I can take it...or not. And it doesn't matter.
Because I can give her advice, unsolicited or not, and she can take it...or not. And it doesn't matter.
Because she is one of the handful of people I can rely on.
Because she doesn't let me fall off the deep end without standing close by with a life preserver.
Because I can talk to her any time of day or night and know that I am a welcomed presence.
Because, despite having green eyes, she never looks at me with jealousy.
Because she knows the difference between jealousy and envy...and lets me be envious of her thin bod.
Because she is the only blond I simply cannot make fun of.
Because I like her 95% of the time and the other 5% I forgive her.
Because she likes me 5% of the time and the other 95% she is laughing at me.
Because she knows that orange pants automatically make you a loser.
Because she needs to know that she gets thought of at least once a day by me.
Because I think she is a level of controlled awesome and Canadian coolness that I could never achieve.
Because she needs to know I admire her and always have.
Because she needs to know that the sun has shone a bit warmer since her presence in my life.
Because she needs to know that she's one of my favorite people in the world.
Because she needs to know...that she is a friend in every sense of the word.
Because she needs to know that I'm not ready to let her go any where.
Because we have a date in 2016.
Because she needs to know...she is loved.

And she always will be.

I love you, J. Holding your hand across the miles. Right there with you. Never letting go.

Ever.

In Memory of the Puppy Monster.

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Tue, 21 Jun 2011 08:10:00 +0000

Has it really been four years since I wrote this post?

If I was to recall the list of tragic events that have occurred in all my time as a blogger, this would be at the head of the list, because it was the first of many blogger tragedies that would follow in the subsequent years. It was the first blow that our large group of bloggers had ever really taken collectively. Since then, husband have passed away. Bloggers have passed away. More children of Bloggers have passed away. More than I care to remember. The most recent, this past February.

I can clearly remember the day that I received the call from Avitable. Dave's son had passed away in a tragic pool accident. Can we rally the troops? Can we do something, any thing, to ease Dave's pain?

And we had nothing. All we had was our love, our support and our broken hearts.

But what we also had between the two of us, was a very large blog following, and a call to arms was made by Avitable. He spearheaded a campaign to gather an outpouring of support from all over the web. We sent out emails to everyone we knew. People donated time, creating photos, creating t-shirts, making donation sites, soliciting funds to help pay for any expenses Dave may incur trying to lay his beautiful son to rest. Whatever. It didn't matter. We just needed to do something, any thing, to try and stop his pain.

A band aid on a bullet wound. That's all it was.

Now, four years later, nothing has changed...and yet, everything has changed. But the memories of that day in June will never leave me. The way everyone rallied together, came together to lift our friend from the depths of despair. We all mourned in our own way. Some people chose to blog about personal losses. Some, like myself, chose to keep their blog silent for a week in tribute to DJ. But, the same group who was there four years ago are still there now. And we still rally around every year to remember DJ and remind Dave that he is loved.

Life takes us in a million different directions. We have priorities that pull us away from our friends daily lives. We have Facebook now, where we can make a quick appearance, "like" a status and feel that replaces actual interaction. Blogging is a lost art. Facebook has stolen so much of the intimacy and warmth from our relationships. But, oddly enough, this same group still refers to themselves as "Bloggers" and when we say that, the list of usual suspects come to mind. We were all there for Dawg then. We are still here now. The heartbreak of DJ leaving this world has never left many of us.

Tonight, I am thinking of DJ, of Dawg...and the outpouring of love and support that carried all of us through a tragic time. We may not all be close any longer. Some have left for greener pastures. Others have just left altogether...but the memories that bound us back then still bind us now. I am grateful for having known DJ, if only through his fathers eyes. His posts about his beautiful little boy used to make me laugh. The videos of DJ eating out of a bowl of cereal bigger than his head, eating from a spoon twice the size of his little mouth always made me chuckle out loud.

And in those videos, every once in awhile, he would glance sideways, up at his Dad...the Big Dawg, as if to ask, "Am I doing good, Daddy?" And the Dawg would look down upon him with a smile that said, "You're doing great, Puppy Monster."

Now it is DJ who is smiling down. And I bet he thinks Daddy is doing just great. Still.

RIP Puppy Monster. Sleep well, Little Angel.

Focus 52: "Mornings"

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Tue, 21 Jun 2011 06:03:00 +0000

I hate mornings.

I detest mornings. I am an insomniac, so I am all too familiar with the concept of being up at a sunrise. Every morning, the sun rises, reminding me that for yet another night...I have not slept. It is torture to me. I am not the type of person who welcomes the sun with a cup of coffee and a positive attitude. The sunrise says to me, "you are already several hours behind the pack, girlfriend." It says to me that it is now time for me to go to sleep, finally, and waste a good portion of the day. By the time I wake up again, it will be about 3pm. Too late to do any thing productive. Generally, I fall asleep around noon, wake up late afternoon and by then, life has pretty much passed me by. I resent the morning a great deal. It bothers me. And, no sooner did I see the sunrise, then I am waking up with a sunset looming only a mere three hours away.

I loathe mornings.

However, the only time I make peace with the morning light is when I am at the beach. When I am on the beach, I don't feel so much animosity towards the sunrise. I appreciate it then...because the water is glimmering. There are people on the shore, starting their day and admiring the sunshine. Generally, these people have had a good nights sleep and are happy to see the sunshine...and I look at their faces with great appreciation for what they are feeling. I know at that point...I can lay a blanket out on the sand, fall asleep under the sun, wake up in the late afternoon as I usually do and feel like I spent the day at the beach doing what everyone else is doing. Lazing about just soaking in the sun. It's okay then, to greet the morning. It doesn't mock me so much when I am on the beach. I don't feel bad about having an insane sleep schedule. I don't hate the fact that I woke up so late in the day, because when you are on the beach...sleeping until the late afternoon is not only acceptable, it's welcomed.

But, in my daily world...I hate mornings. They remind me of just how much of my life I am wasting fighting with my body's internal clock. And it's a waste of time. A complete and utter waste of time. It makes me feel bad about myself. I hate feeling that way. My sleep pattern has been erratic since I am a little girl. Sometimes, I don't sleep for two or three days and when I finally do, it is because the sun has risen and said to me...don't you think it's time to go to bed?

And I always agree...and go to bed.

I feel comfortable at night. There is something about being awake all night long when most of the world is asleep that brings me comfort. I can be alone in the silence and it is alright. I don't have to talk to any one. I don't have to answer to any one. I don't have to get dressed. I don't have to wash my face, brush my teeth and go out and run pretend errands that do not exist. I can just sit quietly in the soft glow of my computer and do my thing. Read. Study. Write letters. Watch mindless television programs. My DVR is filled with television programs that air during the daylight hours that I can watch at night. Sometimes, I do. Sometimes, I don't. But at night, everything is my prerogative.

Besides, everyone knows calories consumed after sunset don't stay on the body.

I hate mornings. I hate everything about them.

And just when I decide to break up with them for good, my husband takes me to the beach and reminds me why it is okay to fall in love all over again.

It's okay to cheat on a sunset, now and then.

Focus 52: "Down Low"

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Tue, 14 Jun 2011 05:57:00 +0000

(Blog post to follow)

On second thought...

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Sat, 11 Jun 2011 22:22:00 +0000

You don't deserve that much of my bandwidth.

I've given enough of my time and energy to you. It's all been positive and good and loving.

I'm not going to ruin my track record now because of your shitty life.

You made your bed. You lie in it.

Stay jealous of me, though. It might inspire you to reach higher.

Peace.

Focus 52: "Line It Up"

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Tue, 31 May 2011 06:36:00 +0000

The prompt for this week was "line it up" and this being Memorial Day, I thought what better than to show a bunch of soldiers lined up, doing what they do best...protecting our freedom. I knew that I wanted to find a touching photo online, perhaps a somber looking sunset with a flag at half mast while the silhouette's of soldiers lined the bottom of the photo. But, as I was perusing Google Images for ideas, I saw this photo. I tried to find out who the original photographer was, but to no avail. This, for me, was a beautiful way to endorse the prompt, salute Memorial Day and remind everyone that at the very basest level of any soldier is their heart. Their ferocious, lion strong heart. They are brave, true enough, but they are also tender, putting their job above their personal needs, the needs of their family and friends and above all, their own lives.

In my life, I personally have not been effected by the loss of a soldiers life, but a friend of mine lost her beloved husband last year, a mere two weeks after turning 30 years old. He was a baby. A child himself, practically, with four little ones of his own. Beautiful little ones, the oldest who may some day have faint, distant memories of his daddy...and the youngest, barely old enough to ever remember what her father looked like.

This is Sgt. Keith Adam Coe. He was the beloved husband of my friend Trina, a girl I have known since she was barely out of high school herself. I had not heard from Trina in years, though my best friend was still in touch with her here and there over the years. Last year, my bestie told me that Trina lost her husband, Keith in Iraq. He was killed in action. I tracked Trina down on Facebook. We talked. We shared photos of Keith and her children and, we cried. Keith was killed by a roadside explosion in Northern Iraq on April 27th, 2010. He was a dedicated and loving husband and father by all accounts. My heart broke having to hear my friend of over a decade relay the pain and anxiety she was now feeling with this loss. Scarcely thirty years old herself, she now finds herself widowed...the ultimate sacrifice of war.

I think about Keith and his friends, the fact that Keith did indeed die a hero while rescuing a friend. It makes me both mournful and prideful. He died doing what he loved and a job he was proud of. He gave his all to protect his country, our liberties and our freedoms. I find myself realizing, as I get older, that Memorial Day is more than beers and backyard barbecues. It is about the men and women of the military giving the ultimate all to provide for their families and protect this country. No matter what your politics are, no matter what side of the war fence you sit on, it is so important that you support these men and women who are merely doing their job. You may not like the fact that we are at war. I sure as hell don't, but I am not naive enough to believe that every soldier fighting in that war believes that they should be there fighting it either. However, they have a job to do, no different than any of us. They do their job even if they don't necessarily agree with the politics behind it. They do what needs to be done, sometimes at the expense of their own personal values. There is honor in that.

On this day, for this F52 project prompt of "Line It Up", I choose to line up a group of soldiers in the shape of a heart and hope that Keith Adam Coe knows how much he was loved and is missed by his family every single day. I truly hope to never have to hear that any of my friends have lost their spouse to this war ever again. It hurts me, unbearably to the core, to know that Trina's little ones will be growing up without their father. But, if I know Trina as I do, she will make sure that their daddy is incorporated into their lives. She will do fun things with them to honor him. She will keep photos available to her babies and, as they get older, she will share the more intimate details about their father with them. And, they will grow up to admire their father for his ultimate sacrifice, for his giving, loving heart and for being so very brave.

God bless you and rest you well, Keith Adam Coe. And to all the spouses, significant others and children of the men and women who serve so diligently...God bless all of you as well. May your loved ones stay safe always. May they always be protected, loved and most of all, supported by their fellow Americans.

Happy Memorial Day to all who have served. And please, if you come across a soldier in your travels today, offer him a handshake and a thank you for a job well done. It is the very least we can do for those who make incredible sacrifices so that we may enjoy our freedom.

Focus 52: "Writers Choice"

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Tue, 24 May 2011 06:08:00 +0000

Focus 52: "Feminine"

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Tue, 17 May 2011 00:59:00 +0000

Bottom row, second from the right...your Princess, age 12.

From the time I was a little girl, I always embraced being female. I loved everything about being a girl. I loved dresses, playing with my hair, decorating my room in various shades of pinks and purples. I devoured perfume and make up...any of the hand me downs that my mother would be getting rid of in favor of newer items. I would hoard it, keep it all in a big, pink plastic box with the "Barbie" logo emblazoned on it.

I was not one of those girls who tried to be "boyish" so the boys would like me. My nails were always polished. I always had pretty shoes on, in lieu of sneakers. My hair was always "done". And, for my efforts, I was made fun of, taunted and harassed by some of the boys on my block. They called me "dumb girl".

Two things I knew for sure. I knew I was a girl in every sense of the word. Second, I didn't fall remotely into the realm of "dumb."

Apparently, my father was a John Travolta/Chuck Norris hybrid.

On graduation day from sixth grade, 1978, I opted to wear a full length white lace gown. I was in awe of the blue and pink satin ribbons running around the garment tiers. I loved the gauzy material. I loved the way it hung off the shoulder, like a grown up woman's dress! It looked like the "disco" dresses I saw the ladies on the Saturday Night Fever commercial wearing. I wanted to look like that. I wanted something grown up, classy and above all, trendy. When my mother took me shopping for this dress at Lord and Taylor in the city, I was simply beside myself. I knew I had found my home. This beautiful, amazing arena they called a "mall" was an amazing play on all my senses. I could smell new leather. There were dresses trimmed with sparkle, glitter, rhinestones that shone in my eyes. Fur coats, for as far as the eye could see, beckoning me to come closer and stroke them. I remember putting the sleeve of a satin jacket up to my cheek and caressing my face against it. Fashion, my mother told me. This is all called "fashion"...and I was enthralled.


The 80's requisite glamor shot: Eat your heart out, Joan Collins.

Along came the 1980's and with that, my love and passion for all things girly evolved. The hair was big. The jewelry was ornate bordering on ostentatious. Deep rich jewel tones, bright neons, mini skirts and huge hair. I had it all. I devoured Glamor, Vogue and Vanity Fair as if they were religion, my bibles. The heels were sky high stiletto's with ankle socks and opaque stockings. I rocked them all. Animal prints were every where making the malls of Long Island look more like a hunting ground for wild game. My love for all things girly thrived in this era. I had a killer body and wasn't afraid to show it off in hip hugging outfits. I was easily distracted by all the shiny things Macy's, Bloomingdale's and Sach's had to offer. Even though I was a lover of punk rock and everything rock and roll, my style stayed firmly feminine. I never traveled with less than six tubes of lipstick and gloss in my Louis Vuitton purses. I indulged in the latest trends, sometimes spending the entirety of my pay checks on whatever Vogue said I was supposed to be sporting. Despite being a Jewish woman, and much to my mother's dismay, I draped myself in crucifixes because Madonna said so. So it was written, so shall it be done. It was also during this era that I discovered that being feminine didn't just embody fashion, but ones own personality. I took my cues from the likes of Joan Collins, Deborah Harry and Madonna. Strong, opinionated women who made being a bitch look like an art. Sexy, determined and daring...this would now be the framework for which I would base my own sense of style. I started reading about art, poetry, literature, music...because for me, being feminine not only meant slipping on a skirt and stiletto's, but being incredibly well-read, well spoken and above all, a take no prisoners persona. This was also the era of the "Supermodel" and I immediately embraced Janice Dickinson as my style icon. She was brash, bawdy and always impeccable...and therefore, so was I.

Separated at birth?

The 1990's walked in and with it came the downfall of the glamor goddess and in with the grunge era. It was a hard adjustment for me. I was rarely seen out of a skirt or power suit and now, the pages of my bible were suggesting that I put on...JEANS? And not just any jeans...but...*cringes* acid washed jeans? Colored denim?? It went against all my fashion sensibilities. Women were wearing...flannel shirts? Plaid? SNEAKERS? Doc Martens? Someone even went so far as to bring back spandex pants in capri cuts? And Dear God, I hold wholly responsible for this disaster, the cast of 90210, who made "rompers" stylish. Rompers are nothing more than onesies for big people. Can we please let this trend die in peace? Ponchos. Uggs. Cut off jean shorts. The "California" look. Well, fuck that, said this diehard New York glamor goddess. I was not going to give in on this one. I was NOT straightening my hair. In desperation, I turned to Peggy Bundy who maintained her high hair and leopard prints from the 80's (though, she did totally sell out on the spandex capri's). I kept my flaming red locks with the bangs, bouffed up high and proud. I was not selling out to the likes of Nirvana, Pearl Jam and Soundgarden. (Though, admittedly, in a dark room...alone...I would listen to the music). Sure, I made concessions. The chunky shoes. They weren't too terrible. The harem pants (aka MC Hammer Pants), well, they had their place in the clubs and with a cute sparkly halter top and heels, they didn't look too awful. Same with stirrup pants. Paired with a long blouse and a thick belt and some high heels, not too horrible. And while part of who I was as a woman meant sometimes braving the trends that didn't necessarily please me...I stuck up a long, well manicured middle finger to overalls. Even if I was a farm girl somewhere on the amber waves of grain filled plains of Kansas, you could NOT stick me into a pair of overalls. Basically, the 90's were a fashionista's nightmare and one I would like to forget.

He said the sun was in his eyes, but I suspect the lack of smile was more "what the hell did I just do?"

Ah. The entrance of the 2000's. The new millennium and of course, the beginning of new trends. One of the best trends to appear was the low rider jean look. Yes, because this lovely trend was the beginning of new lingo like "whale tails" and "tramp stamps". For those not in the know, a "whale tail" was the v-shaped piece of material that you would see sticking out of a girls ass from the thong she was wearing while paired with low-rider jeans. And, just when you think it can't get any less classy, enter the "tramp stamp", the need for every twenty something (who are now thirty somethings and undoubtedly full of regret) to get a tattoo just over the crack of her ass. Most men referred to it as "the target". I'll let you people figure out that one. Some things are just self-explanatory. I finally allowed my hair to drop down a few notches and wore it long, freer and above all...flatter. The flat iron became both my best friend and nemesis. My huge can of Aqua-Net now gathered dust in the back of my bathroom cabinet. What the 2000's did bring back was the wonderful dark wash flare jeans of the 70's and the biker chic look. The jeans had a taste of the 70's as well, with their leather tie ups replacing zippers. The bottoms were not neatly hemmed, but rather, fringed...also reminiscent of 70's fashion. Lacy, gauzy blouses, much like the ones I adored and coveted as a 12 year old were now back in style. Black boots with jeans, pointed toe...either full calf or ankle came into style and I adored the look. Above is a photo of my wedding day. I chose "biker chic" meets "scared to death husband" for my look. The make up was lighter, more natural. A basic "sun-kissed look" that we had not seen since the 70's. No more glitterati. No more huge, chunky jewelry. Bohemian chic was back and I for one, was thrilled to see its resurgence. Once again, my faith restored in fashion humanity, I re-subscribed to Vanity Fair and Glamor (though, secretly, I never gave up on Vogue. They swore the 80's would come back and while I still wait in breathless anticipation, I trust in them.) This was also the beginning of my not cutting my hair for the next 10 years. Trims, sure, but no hair cuts. I would not subject myself to the chunky layers, the bobs, the streaks, the highlights. Besides, there was one trend that I had been sporting for years. It was the one a chunky little guidette made popular on "Jersey Shore."


Long Island girls did the "pouf" long before Snooki got her first tan.

(Please note the Louis Vuitton overnight bag on the bed of the tacky little hotel we were in. You can take the girl out of the classy, but you can't take the classy out of the girl). Which now brings us to today. Today, where I am still a slave to all things girly. I still adore pink. I love purple. I love glitter and unicorns and Barbie dolls and playing dress up. Only now, I wear what I like. I wear what looks good on me. If it happens to be trendy, great. If not, that's okay too. I have a shoe collection that rivals most department stores and, if I hang onto everything long enough, always see a second coming of whatever shoe is now "in". I dress to make ME happy and not according to the guidelines of a magazine. (Okay, again...MAYBE Vogue has a little influence, but come on now. I'm a girl, for God's sake.) I buy what I like which, according to my husband, appears to be just about everything judging from our bank statement. But, what I can say is that although I am now a 44 year old grandmother of two, I won't go out like that. I will not get the pre-requisite 50 year old woman hairdo. I will NOT wear polyester. I will never buy a matching necklace and earring set. I will never give in to the lure of open toed shoes with pantyhose. (WHY, Ladies...WHY???) Most of all, I will live and die in my high heels. Blister me. Cripple me. Give me arthritis. I care not. But what I did do...just two weeks ago, was to cut my trademark long locks. Six inches. Gone.


Funky, fresh and fun. I am totally diggin' the look.

So what was the point of this little jaunt through fashion history? None, really. I always find it interesting to see how a woman's look evolves through the years. Like, Madonna...then and now. She's grown up. So have I. But, what remains the same is that strong sense of femininity. Feminine doesn't necessarily mean girly. It doesn't mean you have to play "damsel in distress" to your "superior" male counterparts. No, feminine is simply the act of embracing the fact that you are a girl. A lovely, beautiful, interesting creature that eludes men's perceptions, confounds them and makes them desire you all the more. It is a mystery. It is being strong in body and mind, while having a certain grace at the same time. It is the ability to rule the world with the gentle touch of a hand. It is knowing that tears don't mean you're weak. It is the aura that allows you to cry at a dog food commercial and then, go outside and build your children a tree house. It is the very embodiment of being, divinely female. An exceptional woman. A slave to your emotions and then, a master of your domain. While some women see being "feminine" as a weakness, I see it as a strength. Men have always had their abilities. The feminine mystique is ours. It is a trait as unique and elusive as the women who represent it.

Coco Chanel, one of my style icons, once said "A girl should be two things: classy and fabulous."

I think she'd be pretty impressed with the woman I have become.

Focus 52: "May Flowers"

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Tue, 10 May 2011 06:20:00 +0000

No. Really. No "May Flowers."

Did you all truly think I was kidding last week?

Here's your "May Flower." Deal with it.

I am too delirious right now to comprise a post. Do you want suckage...or would you rather have me back, fully rested and raring to go?

Yes, that's what I thought. So um, in the meantime...hope all you Momsicles out there had a Happy Mother's Day. I personally got $100 in DSW gift certificates which is the retail equivalent of 5 orgasms. So, happy shoe shopping for me. Got PJ's. Got jewelry. Got candles. Got flowers. (yes, I could have taken a photo of those for "May Flowers" and been perfectly safe in doing so. So what? I just thought of that just now...and NOW, I am pressed for time. Fuck it.) Got Glee CD's and DVD's. Got gift certificates for Ross. Got a big damn fat assed cake.

Most of all, I got laid. Awesomely, supremely laid. The Hotband busted out some moves, circa us...1999. Threw down the PIPE, dudes. Rocked it out. Word! And that is what got me into this whole "Mother's Day" mess in the first place...so I suppose there is some poetic justice in that.

Just would have been nice to have had some new shoes up on his shoulders.

Ah well, that's what next weekend is for.

Overall, a nice weekend that included my baby boy, my big girl, my son in law, and my grandbabies. Truthfully, what more could a girl want?

Well, shoes...but again, that's what next weekend is for. Oh, and another Israeli missile lodged in my bunker of love. And THAT, is what right now is for...which is why you got this lame ass post.

I do have priorities you know.

Peace, Bitches. xoxo

Focus 52: "April Showers"

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Tue, 03 May 2011 06:26:00 +0000

Do you have any idea what I went through to get this photograph for you?

I braved "bee hell" to get this picture. I am NO photographer by any means. Not by a long shot. But I was trying to get something that included my two favorite colors, and unfortunately, my two favorite colors were smack in the middle of Bumble Bee Haven (aka: The Reason CP Does Not Go Outside). I am deathly allergic to bees. I'm not talking about a little swelling, a little itching, a little "ouch." I am talking "rush this fat chick the emergency room STAT" kind of allergic. My throat swells. I get hives down my throat. My breathing and my heart rate slows and then, into anaphylactic shock I go.

The last time I was stung by a bee, I had to have a trach tube inserted into my throat. I was about 7 years old, scarcely remember the incident, but have the tiniest little scar at the base of my neck where a paramedic or doctor sliced open my throat and inserted a tube that saved my life by allowing me to breathe. Mind you, this is not the rantings of the drama queen you have come to know and love. This is some true, die hard shit, People.

So, while Anderson Cooper is braving the desert sands of Afghanistan or climbing through the rubble of Haiti to save some random parrot from harm, I am braving the deep tundra of bee hell to appease the owner/operator of the Focus 52 Project to get you the deep, dark lowdown of the flower situation in the month of April here in Central Florida.

I truly deserve a medal for this endeavor, but will accept your love, appreciation and gratitude in lieu of same.

I also accept Paypal.

Is She Out Of Her Mind Edit: So, I get my flower picture because naturally, April Showers...bring May Flowers, right? Obvious choice for a photo, no? I go over to TwoScoopz just to find out that the next Focus 52 project is...yes, you guessed it. May Flowers. Well, I'll tell you what. Kiss my May Flower ass, Sister. I am not venturing into the gaping, bee infested maw of gardening HELL to get another flower picture for you. You'll have to settle for THIS May Flower:

There you go. My work here is done.

Focus 52: Easter

noreply@blogger.com (CP) — Tue, 26 Apr 2011 05:05:00 +0000

Due to circumstances beyond my control, Easter has been canceled this year.

I don't "do" Easter. I don't know anything about Easter. I know that it is some crazy ass holiday that for some reason involved Jesus and chocolate eggs and rabbits and zombies. I'm a Jew. I don't know from these things. But, what I do know is that my husband and I made up a really cool "Last Supper" menu for if we DID celebrate Easter.

We would have:
Eggs Benedictine with Heavenly Hash Browns for Breakfast.

Christ Kabobs with Resurrection Beans for lunch.

Holy Mackeral in a communion wine sauce for dinner. Keep the Holy Water coming.

And, for dessert, some angel food cake, with Jesus pieces. Or, a Sinful Apple and Eve Pie.

It's a meal worth coming back for...even if it is 2500 years later.