What's on My Mind...

Dear Mom,

Yeah, yeah. You need a vacation and all. I know. But really? Couldn't you go somewhere where the cell phone reception doesn't suck all hell? Because as much as I feign annoyance when YOU worry because you haven't talked to me in a day, it's, well, the feeling is mutual. My 7am Colorado time, 9am Jersey time phone call to you is sorely missed. How the hell am I supposed to know if my vocal chords work first thing in the morning if I don't have you to call and confirm?

Anyway, hurry back.

Love,
Zube Girl

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Dear Vermont,

Um, I think some more cell phone towers are in order. Just sayin'.

Regards,
Zube Girl

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Dear Carpet Salesperson Lady,

Firstly, fuck you.

Secondly, Farrah Fawcett wants her hair-do back.

Thirdly, I don't know what possessed you to lock us into an order without a call of warning that the carpet we picked was SPECIAL ORDER and would sit and wait in cue until enough people had ordered it to warrant the factory pulling the shit of the shelves for a cutting. I was no great shakes as a door salesperson, or maybe I was, but if a customer wanted a door, and I discovered upon ordering it that it would take weeks longer than they anticipated to arrive, I would have called them and asked them if they preferred another door or wanted to wait a while for the particular door they picked. We didn't have our heart set on that carpet. It was something to cover the fucking floor with. And, when I ordered it, you even commented that it would be here WELL before any baby arrived. Yet, somehow, that may not happen. I hate you. But I won't tell you that until the carpet gets in and I HOUND your fucking ass to get your installers over here posthaste. After the carpet is installed, I will bitch you out. And badmouth you around town. That's how advertising works. Both good and bad.

Fourthly, I am totally onto you. Coke-head. I know your little secret, Ms. Sniffles.

Sincerely,
Zube Girl

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Dear Rings,

I will see you in a few months. The "Let's See If I Can Still Take Them Off" game was getting a bit too sketch for my taste.

Love,
Zube Girl

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Dear Birthing Class Lady,

Overall, considering that Zube Boy and I had no interest in attending birthing classes due to the fact that women have been doing this shit for thousands of years without education on the matter, spending our Saturday with you wasn't so bad. We got to meet that really neat couple who is due a week before us and ALSO doesn't know what they are having, so it was kind of worth it.

Anyway, we really could have done without the closing Relaxation Exercise. Talk about the 10 most UNrelaxing minutes of my life.

See, first of all, the relaxation tape with the lady with the most NON-soothing voice I've ever heard? Skipped. Totally NOT relaxing. Though, her heart was in it. She deserves some sort of mention for all of her eager encouragement to relax every part of our body from our toes to our head.

But, the thing is, when I'm in a pitch dark room, with four other couples, seated and reclined between the legs of my mate, and someone, on tape, or in person I would imagine, instructs me to focus on my buttocks and release the tension there-in, well, said someone has managed to transform me from a relaxed blob into a snorting, convulsing, trying not to laugh, mess. And, when my husband? Has to tell ME to settle down in hushed tones? And other people start giggling? And so I start giggling HARDER? It makes the whole relaxation trip from the buttocks up to the top of the head utterly pointless. Because I'm so not there.

Ditch the tape. Other than that, I kind of appreciated the lifesize illustrations of just how squished up my innards are by the Turtle. I think it helped the mister to be a little more understanding of my heartburn, nausea, starving but can't eat a full meal whining, seeing as how my stomach is flat as as a pancake up under my also very flattened diaphram. And that is much appreciated.

Yours Truly,
Zube Girl

Who's Your Daddy?

Z-Boy: You're getting really excited. I can tell.

Z-Girl: Well, yeah. Aren't you?

Z-Boy: What's so exciting?*

Z-Girl: I don't know. Aren't you looking forward to someone calling you Daddy?

Z-Boy: Heh.

Z-Girl: I mean, someone who isn't a prostitute.

Z-Boy: Or your Mom?

Z-Girl: Ew. That wasn't even funny.

*Just so you know, of course Zube Boy is excited. But any excitement he feels does not hinder his inherent need to fuck with me.

PS- Because some of you are too kind for words, and have asked about our registry for the Turtle, I've posted a link over yonder under the 'First and Foremost' heading. Please know I'm NOT fishing for gifts. We have hand-me-downs coming out of our collective arses, so we really aren't in need of much. But since some have inquired, there it is.

Your Ninth Life Is Up, My Feline Friend...

When your Mom tells you it's time to update your blog, it's, uh, really time to update your blog.

Do you ever feel like, sometimes everyone is in The Know? And you are out of The Know? It's a rather awkward feeling, especially when you're me. And you like to pretend you freakin' LIVE in The Know. I'm, like, the Mayor and shit.

Anyway, the other day I was totally NOT in The Know.

The Scene: I'm driving to the bank. Whee!

Z-Girl: Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god! I LOVE this song!

Z-Girl: *turns up the radio loud enough so that everyone within 20 feet of my car and The Turtle can hear it* In the aaaaaaaaaaaarms of an angel...far away from here...

Z-Girl: Dude, why are people looking at me? I'm not singing that loud...

Z-Girl: Hmm, now they're pointing...

Z-Girl: ...in this cold dark hotel room...

Z-Girl: What in the fuck is that guy's problem??? Flashing his lights! Is he trying to tell me something?

Right about now, my lifetime membership to the Genius Club should have been revoked. Immediately. And perhaps the Mental and Visual Acuity Guild should reconsider my application.

Z-Girl: Okay, now he's waving his arms, trying to get my attention. Something is up...

Z-Girl: *Turns down the music and pokes her head, annoyedly, I might add, out the window* WHAT?!?!

Dude in the Car Behind Me: Blah, blah, blah, BLAH!

Z-Girl: What? I can't hear you!

DITCBM: THERE'S A CAT ON YOUR CAR ROOF!

Z-Girl: *silence*

As I'm driving down Main Street in the middle of March, in a ski town, SPRING BREAK 2008, RAAAAAAAAH!, people, hordes and crowds of the fuckers, begin to gather around me.

Z-Girl: *smacks forehead*

Z-Girl: *Turns, slowly, onto a side road*

The crowd of people follow.

Z-Girl: You have got to be fucking kidding me. *steps out of the car* Indeed, no one is fucking kidding me.

There sat, or rather, should I say, splayed out as flat as she could be, was Zoey. I'm sure the folks gathered 'round me enjoyed the show. A pregnant lady, trying to fish a cat off her car roof without smooshing her unborn. I finally got my hands on her and tossed her into the car, while everyone cheered.

It was embarassing. And also? A little freaky. I had driven two miles. Going a maximum speed of about 40. Ish. Maybe 45. Because the speed limit is 40 and I abide strongly by the '5 miles an hour over' rule.

Anyway, we're all safe and sound now. Though, hopefully, next time Zoey will know to jump the hell off the car when it starts. I don't know how I missed her when I left. All I can think is that she was laying down, baking gloriously in the sun, like a cat on a hot car roof, and I drive a jeep and happen to not be all that tall, and missed her.

Anywho...

Things on the Turtle front are still hunky dory. Here's a gratuitous photo for your viewing pleasure. Have you ever heard of orbs in photographs? Some think they are spirits of the deceased. Check out the orb floating right by my belly. I like to think it's a dead relative keeping an eye on things in there...