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