From Solid to Liquid...In .2 Miles Flat

I was driving home from the post office the other day. The trip was enjoyable, if only for a moment, given the lack of gapers driving five miles an hour with the ever recognizable 'I Don't Know Where the Hell Skier Parking Is So I'll Just Give the Crazy Lady with the Flailing Arms Behind Me Fair Warning That I May Turn Sometime in the Next Five Miles' blinker on. Anyway, this lack of gapers was quite conducive to some Behind-the-Wheel Introspection. I started to think about this miscarriage thing. It's changed me somehow. I don't really know in what way, but I know that I'm different. I was trying to pinpoint just WHAT differentiates pre-miscarriage Zube Girl from post-miscarriage Zube Girl.

I said out loud, "I think it's hardened me," while making a pissy, speedy right turn onto Wellington to take the back way home, because whenever gapers have gone back home, CONSTRUCTION is EVERY-DAMN-WHERE. Fucking construction.

Then I started to cry. And I mean BAWL.

Yeah. So much for that hardening theory.

Peeing...It's Not Just For Boys to Put Out Campfires Anymore!

I found this little packet in with one of my ovulation predictor tests...


It sucks that you can't eat the little pop-rock thingies inside the packet. For a minute there I thought, "What a GREAT fucking idea! Not ONLY will I be able to pee on a stick and find out if I'm ovulating, but I'll be able to enjoy pop-rocks all the while. It's genius, no? Anyway, it would be kind of cool if they inserted a can of soda and some edible pop-rocks into the ovulation predictor test packaging. 'Cause then I could, like, find out if I'm ovulating AND disprove an urban legend. All at once. Just like that. Talk about multi-tasking.

Wanna see what Zube Boy does? Okay...





Do you SEE that mud?!?! Really, I should have taken a picture of Zube Boy, but sometimes husbands are kind of like pets with the being photogenic thing when there is no camera anywhere to be found. Suffice it to say that he entered the house (I recognized the eyes) through the laundry room and wasn't allowed to take a step further until he stripped down to his boxers and undershirt. Heh. COVERED IN MUD, I say.

We had an awesome Memorial Day weekend. Check out our campsite:



Here we are sittin' by the fire...(there were no grandmas to be found...not my grandma and not your grandma...in case you were wondering):


That homemade wine was fucking DELICIOUS! Wow.

Word to the wise: Remember to fill your tank before driving your pop-up camper pulling jeep up steep four wheel drive trails, because driving down that shit in neutral with your gas gauge reading '0 MILES TO EMPTY' is SCARY AS HELL at best. But, um, I made it. Thankfully.

Oh yeah, I took a picture of my ass to give to Rocky Jay because it would seem he's running low on ass shots. And since I'm such a great fucking sport, and I think there is an underrepresentation of girls with regular old asses in the world, here 'tis:



The End. Hee.

Working (It)

We've got a crew of folks working at the lodge. They're rebuilding decks on the townhomes. It's kind of nice, actually. I mean, sure it's noisy and all, but it has its perks.

My coworker, whom I'll refer to as G-Unit for the sake of protecting the innocent, is my officemate. He's a dry humor kind of guy, and I love me some dry humor, particularly while working. Today we were tap-tap-tapping away at our computers to the tune of saws and hammers. Suddenly, he spun his chair around and peered out the window at the deck builders.

G-Unit: Zube, so, should I open up the window and yell all serious-like, "YO! Could you keep it down with the saw and hammers out there? We're trying to get some work done!"

Z-Girl: Dude, go for it. While you're at it, could you tell them they need to take their shirts off and bend over more?

Hee hee. Anyway. It's typically pretty boring to stare out my window at work, but not these days:

Things That Are Shapely...Like How Some Things Are IN Shape and Some Things Are OUT of Shape...

Cervix holes? They are pissy little fuckers. Or at least mine is. Like when a catheter with a deflated balloon at the end of it is insterted up there? Well, honestly, I don't know what it's like to have something insTerted, but to have it INSERTED? Sucks a little. My cervix hole no likey that so much. I mean, the procedure wasn't TREMENDOUSLY painful. Just toe-curling, fist-clenching, gasping and then holding your breath, kind of painful. Tolerable. And then? When they inject fluid into the catheter to expand the little balloon up in there and send a sonogram wand up alongside it so they can see my uterus and what its shape and its lining look like? And to make sure there aren’t, like, cobwebs and spiders and matchbox cars up in there? Oh, for the love of GOD, PLEASE, unless you see a little welcome sign with a fire at the hearth and a rocking chair on the porch, because that's the kind of shit that needs to be seen in REAL TIME, just take a damn picture with the sonogram already and show me my insides LATER when all the junk you've got UP there is OUT, because my uterus? Is TOTALLY spasming and REALLY BAD CRAMPS X 10 makes it difficult to care about the appearance of my picture perfect girly bits!

And, also? If any of you gals ever consider having a little rendezvous with a balloonified catheter and a sonogram wand? You should bring a girlfriend like Becki because then you can talk about making swan hats and gowns out of the napkin skirts and finger puppets with the little sonogram wand condoms and finger painting on the walls with iodine and it will be FUNNY! To be fair, Zube Boy is pretty damn funny too with the turning on of the little gyn lamp and shining it on the magazine he's reading and his declarations of, "Well, honey, I'm not a doctor but I'll have a look." But sonogram wand condom finger puppets? Hee. Which reminds me...what the FUCK is up with having to wait a damn half hour ALWAYS and FOREVER in the doctor's office? I'd rather be in the waiting room, ya know? Actually, I take that back. Because the three ladies with their big huge baby-filled bellies commiserating about their pregnancies? Kind of made me sad. Iodine fingerpainting is the way to go.

Anyway, my uterus is in great shape. I mean, it IS a great shape. The way it's supposed to be. Like, it's not a star or a hexagon or anything. And the lining looks fine. Another clean bill of health for me. Which is cool because as much as I'd like to find a REASON for all these miscarriages, a badly shaped uterus might not be rectifiable. And I'd rather have a rectifiable problem. Or no problem at all. Just really bad fucking luck. Three times in a row.

Speaking of shapes, while my innards are all adorable and just what the doctor wanted to see, my outtards are, um, maybe not. At least that's what I think it means when your Spanish-speaking coworker, Pedro, returns from Mexico after a year and starts working with you again and says, "Zube, mas gordita, eh?" Which means, in a nutshell, hey girl, you're more chubby. Or it could mean a little more fat, but I'm partial to chubby for some reason. When he said it, I laughed, because he wasn't being malicious about it, and it's DAMN TRUE! He was just making an observation. A very true one. Why get mad? But when I reiterated the tale to my male co-workers, they were MORTIFIED. But, I'm kind of wondering if it's a cultural thing? Like, is it okay in Mexico to point out that someone has gained a little weight? Is it not as taboo to mention as it is here in our weight obsessed culture? I don't know. I thought it was interesting, though.

Well, it's time to get my great-shaped uterus having, mas gordita ass the hell off the computer. Peace out.

Who's a Redneck?

Before:


After:


After After:


I didn't have time to take a GREAT picture, but, wait...Actually, I don't think I have the TALENT to take a GREAT picture, but I digress. Just know that my neck? It is red. So red that I've been fighting the urge to shoot squirrels...

PS- I pulled that first photo from this post. And yes. We have some SERIOUS wet-nose action going on in this house and if I don't wash the glass every damn day, that's what my door looks like.

Pop Quiz

But don't worry. It's multiple choice.

You’re sitting at your desk and the boss’s eight-year-old kiddo gallops up carrying a Styrofoam ball. A painted ball with a ring around it. She excitedly holds it up and says, “Hey, Zube Girl, LOOK! It’s Uranus!” Do you:

a) Spit Gatorade all over your computer monitor.

b) Catch your breath and say, “Oh, honey, Uranus is very cute!”

c) Run into your boss’s office cackling wildly about how her daughter just made your morning.

d) All of the above.

Who Nose Why These Things Happen...

Do you gals ever have one of those days when after you’re all done getting ready for work or play you give yourself the final once over in the mirror and you’re like, “Dude! I am SO TOTALLY CUTE!” It happened to me today. I got my eyebrows waxed on Saturday which, is it just me or does that completely change the way your face looks sometimes? For the better. Anyway, I also got this new green eyeshadow which brings out the green flecks in my ocular organs and I actually FIT into my favorite pair of jeans again. They were getting a little, er, snug. I blamed it on the dryer. For a few weeks anyway. But that’s not the point. The point is, I felt awesome this morning. Like, really, really hot. But, it didn’t last long.

I sauntered into the office to find five of my coworkers having an impromptu AM meeting. About nothing at all, really. Which, to be honest, are any meetings ever about anything? None that I’ve known.

Z-Girl: Mornin' all!

Rick (Coworker): Yo. *flicks his nose*

Z-Girl: What?

Rick: Dude. You got a boog.

Z-Girl: Oh shit. *flicks the offending boog away* Good lookin’ out, man.

Rick: No prob.

Z-Girl: It’s nice to know you've got my back.

Rick: I’m good like that.

Z-Girl: And my nose.

Rick: Heh.

Needless to say, my pompous ass was properly deflated.

The Lion, The Bitch, and The Husband...With a Little Political Satire Thrown in for Good Measure...

The Scene:

I'm making coffee. Decaf, in case you're wondering. And you know what? If ever a child happens to spring forth from these uncooperative loins of mine? I'm going to torture the EVERLIVING HELL out of it with the naked baby pictures ON THE GODDAMN MANTEL for, not only potential suitors to view, but EVERY-FUCKING-ONE-WHO-ENTERS-OUR-HOUSE, because, did I mention? DECAF!!! The sacrifices I'm making for this damn kid that I'm not even PREGNANT with yet? And I don't even KNOW if I'll ever get to HAVE it? It's nonsense, I tell ya.

Anywho, whilst I'm brewing the decaf, The Husband is sitting at the computer. It's a typical morning in the Zube household. Until. The squawking begins. And the squawking seems to be coming from the general direction of, who else? Zube Boy...

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

Z-Boy: What the fuck? WHAT THE FUCK?!?! You have GOT to be kidding me. Jesus Christ, honey. This is ridiculous.

*Zube Boy gets all newscaster-y*

Z-Boy: MOUNTAIN LION THAT KILLED PET WILL BE REHABILITATED

How in the HELL do you REHABILITATE A FUCKING MOUNTAIN LION?!

*Then he gets this 'Sensitive Guy' soothing voice and starts imitating the process of rehabilitating a mountain lion*

Z-Boy: You know, Mr. Mountain Lion, that was a very bad thing you did, eating that family's cat. You shouldn't do stuff like that.

My God. That's such bullshit. Honey? HONEY!?

*I'm too preoccupied with the snorting of decaf *cough* the shit I try to fool my brain into thinking it enjoys at the ungodly hour of 6AM *cough* out of my noise to respond*

Z-Boy: You know what, honey? I bet one of YOUR Democrat friends is behind this! WAAAAAAAAAAH! Don't KIIIIIIIIILLLLLLLL it! It didn't MEAN to eat the kitty! REHABILITATE IT! YES!

Fucking Democrats.

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

I later realized, after getting to work and grabbing the local paper, that he was reading this article.

Oh, and snorting coffee out of your nose? Decaf, or regular, I would imagine? Don't try it at home. Or at the office. Or in the car. ESPECIALLY when it's freshly brewed (READ: HOT AS HELL). I'm just sayin'.

Fucking Twat...And Our House. Er Rather, HouseS...

So, for about three weeks now I've been anxiously anticipating (READ: worrying endlessly) about a doctor's appointment. It involves catheters and dye and an ultrasound and MY FUCKING CERVIX and a warning from the doctor to take some ibuprofen a few hours before because the procedure can be, ahem, uncomfortable. Which, whatever. I begged a vicoden from a friend of mine who figured he could spare one and still get a painless evening's embibing at the New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival.

The appointment is today. At 2:00PM. Only, I won't FUCKING BE THERE because for the first time in two months, my body has decided to function NORMALLY and Aunt Flo paid me a visit. Last night. Because my luck? It is of an UNUSUAL nature.

I've rescheduled for Thursday. Great. Another four days of anticipating. Or rather, worrying.

Oh yeah. We're buying ANOTHER house. Well, maybe. If my piss poor credit doesn't fuck it all up. We'll see. We've put in an offer. They've come back with a counter-offer. Contracts are being drawn up. I'm freaking out. Because the prospect of paying not ONE, but TWO mortgages is a little daunting. But we've already had numerous offers from potential renters, so I that's helping assuage my neurotic mind.

I'll keep you up to date. On the status of my uterus AND our potential purchase.

Husbands. And the Coworkers of Husbands. And When the Twine Do Think They Are Funny...

Ring-Ring!

Z-Boy: He-yello?

Z-Girl: What are you doing?

Z-Boy: Working.

*A gazillion dudes laughing in the background*

Z-Girl: Whatever. So, honey, my car is making a noise.

Z-Boy: What kind of noise?

Z-Girl: It's, like, squeaking.

Z-Boy: What kind of squeaking?

Z-Girl: I don't know. Like, squeak, squeak, squeak, squeaking.

Z-Boy: Huh. Does it go like EEEEK-EEEEEK-EEEEEK?

*A gazillion dudes laughing in the background*

Z-Girl: OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD!!! THAT'S EXACTLY IT, HONEY!

Z-Boy: What does it do when you hit the brakes?

Z-Girl: It stops.

Z-Boy: Well duh.

Z-Girl: No, no, no. I mean the squeaking stops.

Z-Boy: Hmmm. What does it do when you honk your horn?

Z-Girl: *silence*

Z-Boy: What does it do when you honk your horn and flash your lights?

Z-Girl: *silence*

Z-Boy: How about when you turn on the windshield wipers?

Z-Girl: *silence*

*A gazillion dudes laughing AND chattering in the background*

Z-Boy: The Englishman wants to know what does it do when you flash your tits?

Z-Girl: *silence*

Z-Boy: Honey?

Z-Girl: Are you done?

Z-Boy: Okay.

Z-Girl: So, all I want to know, because I'm leaving work right now, is do I have to bring my car up to your work shop or can I go home?

Z-Boy: You can go home. It's probably just got dirt in the brakes from when I changed your caliper.

Z-Girl: Thank you.

I'm Wearing Underwear That Is a Little Too Big...Or, okay, Maybe a Lot...

Which might explain why I donated money to Republicans today.

Wait...That was a low blow. I didn't mean it all mean-like and stuff. In all honesty, I think my money will go further with these folks than it would in the Democratic Party...

Log Cabin Republicans

Republicans for Choice

And so there it went...Besides, Zube Boy is a Republican in line with these two organizations, so I think it's only fair to attribute some of our donations their way.

Also, if you were ever curious about math and clothes shopping and the intersection of the two, well, it might behoove you to keep in mind that if you are a woman who wears 9/10 jeans, you are NOT a woman who wears 9/10 underwear. 9/10 DOES NOT = 9/10...Mmmmkay? Please take this as a warning: Never EVER EVER EVER buy underwear that is all rolled up neatly in a little package that you ASSUME is your size because I think the underwear people TOTALLY forgot to communicate to the jeans people that 9/10? Is more like a 13/14. Which is cool by me because my ass is feeling particularly tiny today. So tiny and lithe that it's going for a swim...in it's digs...

Licking Wounds and Humping Legs

I've decided that if I can't be anything but melodramatic, I'm going to do it in the privacy of my own brain.

But, to give you a clue, here are two phrases that are burrowing themselves into my skull as of late:

Mother's Day
Due Date

That's right, folks. The due date of my first miscarriage is coming up. Four days before Mother's Day. And I remember so clearly my Mom squeeing that I'd be a mother just days before Mother's Day. But, that was back when I so STUPIDLY and BLINDLY assumed that positive pregnancy test = baby. Anyway, I'm licking my wounds a little bit.

I do kind of want to hump Stephen Colbert's leg. And the legs of my Jersey Devils. Life's not all bad.