Category Archives: high school reunion

Defining the Girl…or Facing Facebook.

I was trying to define my blog to someone today. Tried to explain what it was about without saying something mundane like “Oh, it’s all about my ever so exciting life.” Truth of the matter is, my life is pretty exciting. Not in a “travel-all-over-the-world-make-love-to-diplomats-spend-too-much-cash” kind of way, but in a “hey, I accidentally shit myself while bending over to pick up a dust bunny” way. How fun is that?

The person I was talking to happily accepted that definition and then asked me another question that I truly could not answer.

“So, why don’t you put your blogposts up on Facebook? You’re friends must think you’re hilarious!”


Truth be known, my “friends” do think I am hilarious. I am one of those chicks that goes straight from the heart to the mouth without a pit-stop at the brain in between. I tend to say whatever I am feeling in my heart at any given moment before my frontal lobe has a chance to say, “Er, CP? That MAY not be appropriate right now.” No. More poor brain is usually the organ that has to do damage control after my heart causes my tongue to flap.

But, yes indeed. WHY don’t I post my blog links on Facebook? Fair enough question.

I think there are a few reasons. First and foremost is privacy. Not MY privacy, mind you, but rather, my husband and children’s privacy. In the five years I have been blogging, I have never mentioned my husbands name. That is not to say that some of you don’t know the mans name. Some of you have met him in “real time”. And, some of you have known me longer than I have known him, so naturally, you would know who he is. Then, there are the select few (read: 3) who read my blog who know me in real life on a day to day basis. Most of my blog readers don’t even know MY name. And, when I meet a blogger in real life, they tend to call me “CP” anyway, because that’s how you know me. But, for the hotband, I have to maintain a modicum of privacy. He has a pretty high profile job and there is a certain decorum that comes with his job.

And then, I look at HIS Facebook page, and he puts up all sorts of horny looking fruit, inappropriate Jesus pics and makes homosexual references with all MY guy friends. So, WHY the hell am I holding back on my blog?

Because…if he wants to put himself out there, that’s his prerogative. I am still going to respect the boundaries, even though he never put any up for me.

Then, there is another aspect I have considered. My Facebook friends vs. My Blogger Friends. Some of you overlap into both categories. I think there are 14 of you, actually, who are “friended” on Facebook but started off knowing me via this blog. My Blog Friends are a much cooler breed. We understand that we can cross certain lines with one another. We know that one year in blog time is the equivalent of 5 years real time. Therefore, I know many of you longer in that sense than I do the people I have been friends with for 20 years or more. And, while my friends of 30 years care about me very much, I don’t think they want to know that I was a domestic violence survivor. I don’t think they care that I survived cancer. I don’t know that they would give a shit one way or another that I struggle with bipolar disorder on a daily basis. And, I believe that most of them would be entirely too judgmental with regard to my drug addiction and subsequent recovery.

So, it begs the question…are these “friends” on Facebook ACTUALLY my friends?

I think in some ways, yes, we are. We have history. We have memories of our childhood and our youth. That’s something that we as adults tend to cling to. My husband, as close as we are, will never understand how I grew up. He doesn’t know what it was like to be a little kid living in NYC no more than I can ever know about his experiences growing up in Israel. It’s nice to have those people in your life that you can reminisce with. It’s fun. But, does it provide a longevity to the relationship? Not really. When I reconnected with some old junior high friends on Facebook, it was a blast. We couldn’t stop talking about growing up in Queens and what it meant to each of us. How it shaped us into the adults we are today. We talked, shared, laughed…and then, burnt it out. While we still engage in some witty banter here and there, do I think any of these people would drop whatever they were doing to be at my side if something traumatic happened in my life?

*sighs* No. No I don’t. Even the person I was closest to growing up has turned her back on me in some aspects. She hides my feed because I am (insert adjective for vulgar, crass, classless, rude, explicit, etc.). And I get it. She’s got her kids on her Facebook. Can’t have me talking about the new lube and vibrators I bought on my status and have it show up on her wall, right? I do get it. That’s also why my son is NOT my Facebook friend…nor are my nephews and nieces. As far as I am concerned, Facebook is NO place for children, period. But, to each their own. My daughter is on my Facebook…but she’s 22, married and knows that her mother is a tad fucked in the head. My son is only first learning that. Why rush it? He’ll get it soon enough.

Which brings me back to the original question. Why don’t I post my blogposts on Facebook? The answer is…I don’t quite know. I suppose there might be a small part of me that is going to wonder what people will think of me, which is ironic because I am definitely one of those people who generally don’t give a fuck what others think of me. But, these are childhood friends who have a certain vision of me, a particular memory that I don’t want to taint. Then again, I suppose true friends would love you regardless and understand that the person you were at 14 is not necessarily the person you are at 40.

Then, there is the BIG reason I don’t post my blog posts on Facebook. My brother. He’s a great guy. He totally knows how screwed up I am. He is equally as fucked in the brain. We were raised by the same woman…and THAT, Dear Friends, is the ULTIMATE reason. The one that trumps all. I simply CANNOT have Esther reading my blog. I love my mother but, if you are a long time reader or know her in real life, you know what an absolute LOONEY TUNE she is. If she ever caught wind of the things that I write about her…she’d kill me. Not figuratively. Literally. Like, I have given instructions to my husband to form my blog into a book posthumously if she ever kills me so everyone knows what an absolute banshee she is/was. Don’t get me wrong. There is a certain beauty to being raised by a psychopath. It allows me to be quirky, strange and crazy. When I tell people I am bipolar, they nod. Then, they meet my mom…and suddenly, they nod emphatically…and it all just comes together for them.

The crazy thing is, I have met such interesting and amazing people on Facebook. People that I do NOT know from my past or that I blog with or know in real life. Simply people who I have met in passing either playing a game or stumbling onto their page. Really great people. I would love to share my blog posts with them…but still, I feel some hesitation and restraint.

*raises brows*

Hesitation? Restraint? Foreign concepts to me that I am STILL getting used to.

So, for right now, I am simply using the website “Networked Blogs” on Facebook as my tiny baby step, my little foray into taking my blog out of hiding. (There’s a link to it on my sidebar. No, lower. Lower. Yeah. Right there. Click it if you’re on Facebook.) I think, in reality, my blog will exist long after my old friendships fall away. This is home for me. This is where I feel best and can relax and be myself.

And, if you can’t be yourself…why be at all?

Over the bullshit…

I have been writing on this blog for nearly five years already. In that time, I have made some amazing friends. Ah-Mahz-ing. I have been to fabulous parties, traveled all over the country to meet bloggie friends and spent hours on the phone with various bloggers. It’s been a blast. It really has. I will always cherish those memories.

It’s time, however, to clean house.

I have discovered that some of the people I thought I adored, well, I don’t. I realized that it was their online “persona” that swept me away. The person they represented themselves to be online was the person I went wild for. And, while most people in my blog life are exactly what they purport themselves to be, there are an elite few who I have discovered sort of look down on others.

Those are the people that I feel I need to break away from.

I am the Queen of doing dumb fucking things. Hell, dive into my archives. I have five years of fucking painfully stupid as evidence there. I am a bright girl who puts herself into stupid situations. But, I also realized that, at one point, I was starting to become one of those elitists. I started judging people on what their blog was about. If you were not as talented a writer as I, well then, why on earth should I bother to read you? Not the dialogue diva that I am? Feh. Be gone with you. I would only comment on blogs that were of the highest caliber of writing possible.

One day, I read a comment on someone elses blog that said “I don’t read people who have a ‘blogspot’ domain.” Mind you, this reader used to read my blog religiously. Well, darlin’? I have been on Blogger since the day they opened up their pathetic doors. While everyone else ran to WordPress and then eventually, to their own URL’s, I didn’t. I wanted to stay put. I didn’t want to move my blog or put up a “You can find me HERE now” post. No. I want everything right here, where it began. In 20 years from now, you will still know where to find CP, because as long as Blogger stays up and running, I’ll be sitting here with it. I have my own domain name. Have had it for years. Just never had the desire to use it. I think keeping my blogger address keeps me a little humble, actually.

But, I seriously digress.

Since 2010, I am realizing that the people I genuinely cared about, the people who I thought about when I was offline, the same people who I would have ran to in a heartbeat if they needed me…well, they simply don’t feel the same. And, honestly, it’s okay. The need to be with the popular kids is something that I dispensed with back in Junior High School. I never wanted to be popular. I just wanted to have fun. So, whether it was with the geeks, the jocks, the cheers, the stoners, the nerds, whoever…as long as a good time was to be had, that is where I wanted to be.

Somewhere along the way, I skewed my view. I was with the big, popular bloggers. The BIG ones. The ones that EVERYONE read. And, if I took the time away from my popularity to leave a comment on your sorry ass weak blog, then wow…consider yourself honored.

When did “I” turn into “THAT”?

I faded out of the blogworld for awhile. It was a good move on my part. It did something for my humility and brought me back down to earth a little bit. Now, my blog is quiet. Peaceful. I think I prefer this. Now, how to extend it into my real life? It’s time to let a few people go. It’s time to remove my blogroll and some of the people on it. It’s time to remove a few people from Facebook too.

Somehow, the “Friends” button doesn’t apply to them any longer.

The older I am getting, the more I am discovering that everything I need is right under my roof. (Or under a roof in a nearby town). My husband. My son. My daughter and son in law. My grandchildren. One particular girlfriend of mine who always manages to make me laugh. And um, that’s pretty much where it ends.

So, with that in mind, housecleaning will be taking effect later this week.

I just moved into a new house in real life. In celebration of that, I think I will clean up this part of my life as well.

It’s 2010. Time to live a more productive, less toxic existence.

Nick…in love.

My son has just recently fell in love.

The whole concept of it…I can’t wrap my head around it. He’s a sweet and sensitive boy. Very caring despite his somewhat aggressive demeanor. In other words, he is very much his mothers son. He is pretty hardcore, tough…but underneath it all, he has a very nurturing nature. He doesn’t like people to hurt others and he sure as hell doesn’t like it when people hurt him.

He’s known this girl for a very long time. They were very close friends. Recently, on a school trip, he decided to ask her out. Now, five days later, they are hugging up on each other, texting until all hours of the night and…much to my dismay, telling each other that they love each other. It’s not that I doubt his feelings. I just don’t know that he knows exactly what love is.

I sure as hell didn’t at 13 years old…but I had an idea.

I fell in love with a guy from my neighborhood when I was about that age. He was older, lanky and outright funny. He made me laugh all the time with his carefree ways and his “I don’t give a shit” attitude. I followed him around like a puppy dog. To me, he was the epitome of what a first boyfriend should be. Not that he was ever my boyfriend…it was more a “hooking up” thing, as the kids nowadays call it. (How old did that make ME sound?) I remember when he first kissed me. I felt all this crazy shit I never felt before. I doodled his name all over the walls of my room, notebooks, napkins…whatever I could take a pen to, it had his name on it.

And, of course, I remember the first time I slept with him. He seemed so self-assured, like he knew what he was doing. I was completely lost, but I let him guide me through it. We stayed really good friends after that, but it was never the same for me. I never had the love that went along with a “first time”. I knew he cared about me and thought I was a great “kid”. Still, my heart ached for so much more that I never received from him.

God, I can even remember what song was playing. “Mind Games”, by John Lennon.

I think of him whenever I hear that song. Sometimes, I play it on purpose, just to reconnect with the memory.

I believe a part of me is always going to love him, even now, 30 years later.

Recently having reconnected with this person on Facebook and at my Junior High reunion has reminded me how special a moment it was. This kid, this man…he made something awkward and strange into a memory that has lasted me for a lifetime. He’s still a very special guy. Very special to me. We have a connection that has sort of transcended time. And while we joke and kid around like we did in the old days, I know he still has a soft spot for me in his heart as well.

It’s the coolest thing I have ever experienced.

I was at a party the other night and got into a conversation with a VERY drunk 15 year old kid. He was going on and on about all the “bitches” that he fucked. And while it was morbidly amusing to hear a 15 year olds take on fucking bitches, there was a part of me that was extremely sad. This kid doesn’t get it. He doesn’t realize that there is so much more behind making love to someone. Then again, maybe he is doing it right…staying detached and uninvolved. Who knows.

He told me, in his drunken state, that if my son was even kind of good looking (which he ABSOLUTELY is) that he is probably “fucking bitches”. I told this kid that my son was not “fucking bitches” at all. As a matter of fact, he hasn’t even had his first kiss yet. I know he is eagerly waiting for it…but it just hasn’t happened for him.

But, I hope when it does, it is something that he will look back on fondly and with great affection. I hope it is an amazing experience for him. I hope that when he is my age, he will be able to play a love song that will transport him back to a time when he was innocent and untouched by the world. Unscathed and not jaded. I hope it’s with a person that he will always think back on and nod his head, smiling.

I had that. I pray he will have it someday too.

Is that too much for a mother to ask for?

81 days sober…and a now, a new challenge!

I am listing the things that I need to stop doing now that I am sober. Let me go have a cigarette first, and then, I shall explain. Please hold for a moment.

(Insert cheesy muzak here)

Okay. Back. Now, here’s the thing…

I need to stop:
Biting my nails.
Eating like a pig.
Keeping vampire hours.

Now, to think I can stop all of these, while maintaining my sobriety, is just sheer madness. I can’t do it all. So, I decided to analyze each of these and see which one I can possibly do right now.

SMOKING: I started to smoke February of last year. It happened when some cunt broke into my car, stole my Chanel bag and all my credit cards along with it. Sadly for said cunt, my cards were maxxed out, so all she was able to buy was a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Asshole. The police found my bag in a swamp behind a movie theater. It was not salvagable, so I had to trash a $500 bag. This did not please the princess at all. Anyway, for some reason, I felt the need to smoke a cigarette. First One Ever in 41 years of my life. I’ve been saying I will stop for the past year. My son doesn’t know I smoke because I go through great lengths to make sure not to do it around him. I go into my bathroom, topless, so my shirt doesn’t smell like smoke. I dangle out the window practically. Then, I spray my hair with hairspray, brush my teeth, douse myself in perfume (cheap stuff, I don’t use my good stuff for this) and then, put my shirt back on. Ridiculous. I don’t even enjoy smoking. I just need something to do with my hands…and there are only so many handjobs my hotband can endure before he feels like his dick is going to fall off. So, quitting smoking is definately something I want to do.

BITING MY NAILS: I have been a nail biter since birth. I started getting acrylics done when I was 15 years old and have been addicted to getting them done ever since. This means that my nailbeds are positively destroyed (but damn, do my hands look gorgeous with a new set of frenches on them). So, I stopped getting the acrylics done a couple of months ago (thank you, drug addicted CP for not wanting to get out of bed to have them done), but I went right back to biting them again. So, I have resorted to using press on nails. That way, the drilling of the acrylics don’t destroy my fingernails…and I can’t get to them to bite them. It’s not the ideal way to stop biting…but, it is working for now. The problem is they look so…*ugh* fake. But, it’s better than my ragged cuticles that I tear up and leave all bloody and nasty.

EATING LIKE A PIG: This is a side effect of getting sober. I have an appetite again. And man, am I making up for lost time! I don’t eat to satiate hunger. It’s more to keep my hands busy (see “smoking”/”handjobs”). Now, I have the opposite problem of most women. Most women, even the thinnest women, think they look fat. Me? I know I’m fat…and I’ve always embraced that. And, I am also one of those women who, no matter how fat she gets, still manages to think she is the hottest girl in the room. I have body dysmorphic disorder…but in the OPPOSITE of what it should be. I’m a fat girl who thinks she’s thin. *LOL* The problem is, I am so damn pretty that I feel it makes up for the excess 20 pounds (okay, 30). Here’s a recent pic of me at my high school reunion:

That’s me in the white floral dress (Yves Saint Laurent never looked better, I might add) See the girl in the black dress in front of me? Yeah. Size 2. Fuck her. *LOL* The girl next to me? The red head? Yeah. Size 12. Fuck her too. Me? A divine size somewhere between a 16 and an 18 depending on whether I am wearing the good stuff or a cheap knockoff. *gasp…yes, the princess does do knockoffs now and then. sh. our secret.) That’s the issue. I really don’t feel like I look bad. If I looked like shit, I might be more apt to lose some weight. *shrugs* This one might be a challenge. (See the hotband behind me? How cute is he??? And, in this pic is the guy I lost my virginity to back in junior high…but I’ll never tell which one…mwahahahaha).

Here’s another pic of me…just because I am that cute that I should be shared. I am on the right of Abby, my kindergarten best friend (middle) and another friend of 28 years (like you can’t tell which one is me, right?):

Yeah. Weight loss is probably not on the table for me right now.

KEEPING VAMPIRE HOURS: For those of you that have known me since I started this blog in…Jesus, has it been four years already? Anyway, since the beginning…I keep the most unholy of hours. Right now, it is 5:30 am. I am blogging, playing Vampire Wars on Facebook, chatting with a friend, listening to music, smoking a cigarette, eating some cantaloupe and basically just doing my thing while the rest of the house is sound asleep. I do this for days straight, sometimes up to 4 days without sleep and then WHAM…crash. I sleep for about 6 hours and then I’m ready to do it all over again. Don’t suggest sleeping pills because 1) They go against my sobriety issues and 2) They don’t work on me anyway. I have tried to fuck my husband until I died of exhaustion. Sadly, he gets exhausted WAAAAAAAY before I do…and having sex with him is like eating a bag of Lays…can’t eat just one. So, while he is “recovering”, I am just winding up for round FIVE. Sex is too much of an adrenaline rush for me to knock me out. I read…but I don’t get bored. I can finish a full novel in one night. I try to watch old movies that I have seen a gazillion times thinking it will bore me, but I end up seeing things that I never noticed before and it makes it interesting for me all over again. For example, did you know that there is a Starbucks Coffee Cup in EVERY scene in Fight Club? Yep. Go watch it. (It’s truly the best movie ever made, so watch it anyway). I have been suffering (read:living) with insomnia since I am a little kid. My mom used to put me to bed at midnight, when the Tonight Show was on. She’d fall asleep…and I’d crawl out of bed and sit on her floor and watch it til they did the National Anthem at 4am. (Yes, they used to do that…WAY back in the days before internet and cable). So, these are the hours I am accustomed to keeping.

Now, out of all of these vices…the one I think I am having the easiest time with is the nail biting. However, that is also the one I am least concerned about. No pay off with that one. I know me…and I will eventually cave and get them done professionally again. Eating like a pig? Maybe…MAYBE I can tone it down. I have a $3,000 treadmill on my back porch. It’s the place I hang my throw rugs over when I wash them. A very expensive clothesline. Smoking? Yeah, I think I can see giving that one up…but the after dinner/after sex cigs are going to be really rough. And the vampire hours? That’s 42 years of undoing. I don’t know about that one.

So, I have 81 days under my belt of sobriety. Yay for me and all that shit…but, should I really pick another vice to start separating from right now?

Tell you what. Let me go do my nails, smoke a cigarette, eat a doughnut…and I’ll get back to you tomorrow at 5am with my decision.

This past weekend…

was my High School reunion. Well, not really high school. Actually, it was my Junior High School reunion. I used to live in Queens, New York. I grew up there. The place is in my blood and part of everything I am. I had all my “firsts” in Queens. One summer, I went to sleepaway camp, like I always did, with all my friends from Queens. It was, as usual, a blast. Great summer, moreso because I got to be a junior counselor that year.

On the last day of camp, I hugged all my friends goodbye and told them I would see them at school in a couple of weeks. My parents always took us on some stupid vacation at the end of camp. I was all prepped for it. So, with my brother and I packed up in the car…we began on our journey to wherever it was we were going. I saw us pass the exit for Queens as we were driving along the Long Island Expressway.

“Where are we going,” I asked.

“You’ll see,” Esther chirped.

We drove on for what felt like HOURS. We finally pulled up in front of this enormous brown house. Tons of trees and foliage.

I hated it immediately.

“Welcome home,” my mother said.


“What do you mean ‘welcome home’, I asked. “This isn’t HOME!” Now, I’m panicking.

“We just bought this house,” my stepfather said. “isn’t it great?”

Great? I don’t think so.

I ran away from home THAT weekend, right back into Queens, sobbing into the arms of my friends. I stayed at several different houses throughout the week of any friend who would have me. I missed the first week of school in Long Island. I didn’t care. There was no way I was going back there. No. Freaking. Way.

Well, with police intervention, I was returned to my parents house. I started school in Long Island, but never fit in there. Sure, I made a couple of friends, but my heart was always deeply embedded in Queens. I went back there every weekend that I could. I had friends from Queens come out to this mansion I was living in. They started calling me a “richie”, which was someone who had money. We didn’t have money…but the house I lived in sure as hell looked like we did.

Eventually, those ties tapered off…

Years later, my kindergarten friend, Abby, tracked me down on We picked up right where we had left off some 20 years earlier. Then, along came Facebook, getting me deeper in contact with all my friends from Queens. We have been laughing and talking online for months. All of this leading up to my reunion this past weekend.

I haven’t seen these people in 28 years…since I was torn away from them, kicking and screaming all the while.

It was bizarre to see most of them. Everyone aged, sure. The men got bald, the women got chunky and had lines on their beautiful faces…but for the most part, no personalities had changed. We meshed right back into our old fun and games like no time passed at all. The reunion was a blast. So much laughing, talking and drinking going on (not me though…I stayed sober). We had an “after party” at a local restaurant that we stayed at until 5am.

Now that it’s over, I wish it never ended. I got back on a plane to Florida in tears, the same way I left them 28 years ago. I hope I don’t have to wait another 28 years before I see these people again. It would break my heart. These are my true friends. I couldn’t believe the fond memories they had of me during certain times of their lives. It was great to reminisce about the old days. All we did was laugh and laugh to the point where we couldn’t breathe any longer.

It was simply and without question, the most amazing time of my life.