I Like Bread Butts and I Cannot Lie...

Seriously. Bread butts are good. I make two sandwiches out of them. Only one butt per sandwich. But the butt has to be on top. Just the way it goes. And I can't eat a sandwich using both bread butts. Because too much of a good thing is Just. So. Wrong. At least in my world.

In other news, let's pretend I posted this yestereday. Because that was my intention. I was playing the "What was I doing a year ago, two years ago today?" and what I found got me thinking. It's like, I always, always wish, in all my years of writing diaries and blogs and such, that I could go back now and console or encourage my past selves when I reread what they've written.

my ghosts on a page. And they feel so real to me. So present. But they're not really. They're the past. Haunting me in the present. And by haunting, I don't mean they make me sad, exactly. I just wish that I could do something to ease their fears and sorrows. And I can't. Because there's no going back.

And no. In fact, I have not taken up smoking pot again. If I had, this entry would sound a little different:

Dude. I bet you guys can totally tell I'm stoned. You can, right? Oh my god. That guy walking his dog out there? I bet you he knows I'm holed up here at the computer all...stoned. EVERY-FUCKING-BODY KNOWS I'M STONED! OH MY GOD IS THAT THE COPS?!

Heh. Had to lay off the leafy greens for that very reason many moons ago.

I pass on grass, man. But don't worry. I'm not all anti-grass. I'd just pass it to you. To puff or pass. Are you smellin' what I'm not smoking?

In other, other news. Sometimes I like to announce in casual company that my baby hole itches. I like to watch and enjoy the uncomfortable squirming that ensues before I confess I had a c-section. An artificial baby hole, so to speak. One which is probably a little less embarrassing to admit is itching.

Happy Halloween to all and to all a good fright!

Turtle Power...

Remember this?

Phil sent me that costume back when I maybe only 50% believed I'd ever actually have a real live Turtle to put into it?

Well...





Hoot made that last one her desktop background and e-mailed me that it reminded her of the little girl on Monsters, Inc in her monster costume.



Anyway, thanks again Phil. And this got me thinking...I want to thank all of you. Again. I don't know if I'll ever stop. Thanking you, that is. It's just that, when I was stealing myself for the worst while pregnant, you all were out there KNOWING I was going to have a baby. And I can't tell you how much that meant to me. I couldn't bring myself to do it, but having you all out there knowing it for me was just, well, awesome.

And we're going to having one fucking awesometastic Halloween 'round here. The best ever, without question.

You So Wish...

I was your wingman. Admit it.

My coworker was wondering how he might improve his game with the ladies. I, being the fucking marketing genius I am, decided to help a brother out. Chicks dig business cards. And chicks dig Presidents. Well, at least some Presidents. If you ask this chick. This chick is a little discretionary in the Presidential love.

Ahem, anyway. I decided to make him some business cards. Because I'm nice like that. Check it out (identifying info changed to protect the innocent):


He's so gonna get some.

Reach Out and Touch My Hiney, Er, Or, Someone...And, Flashback, Turtles...

Whenever I get off the phone with Bro, Hoot, or My Belle, I say, "I love you." And they say, "I love you, too." Or maybe vice versa and they say it first. But, and here's what's interesting, at least if you're me, I only say it when I'm out here in Colorado. When I'm visiting Jersey, seeing them every day, I don't say it. And neither do they. Noteworthy as well, they've told me that sometimes when ending a conversation with each other, they'll say, "I love you." And there's a little hesitation. And they'll laugh and say, "So, have you been talking to Zube Girl?" I think it rocks that, one, we're in the habit of saying, "I love you," and two, they slip up and say it to each other though they see one another all the time, and laugh and blame it on me. What can I say, sometimes I like to feel important. Yup. You heard it here.

That might have been consequential. Or inconsequential. Or a little bit noteworthy. Or unremarkable. I don't know for sure. Anyway...

The other day I was talking to My Belle about babies and such, a topic we've covered quite exhaustively lately, both having recently been mothered.

This conversation, as some conversations with my sisters are wont to do, ended in tears. Not tears of sadness. Not really tears of happiness either. More like tears of goddamned love and appreciation like you've never seen. Or heard. Or felt careening down your cheeks all wet-like and filled with gratitude. They were some tears I tell ya.

We got to talking about January and how scary January, and pretty much all of the subsequent months, were for me. And for everyone, really. My Belle, pregnant as well, called me at the hospital, crying, and said, "It should be me, not you. You don't deserve this." I told her, "No, no, no! Don't say that! No one deserves this!" And no one does.

She also told me that she went to our Mommom's grave the next day. And begged her to take her baby, if one had to be taken. And to let mine be okay. I don't even know how to pack those words with the emotional punch they deserve. The selflessness of her graveside plea is astounding to me.

When the conversation ended, and the tears were nearly dry, she said, "But Mommom gave us both of them." And she sure as hell did.

The thing is, what I've been thinking about, is how in the hell did my siblings and I end up being like this? And by 'like this' I mean, we love each other. And keep in touch even though I live far away. I talk to my brother and his wife if not every day, every other. And maybe sometimes twice a day. We talk about our little girls and hockey and aren't people assholes, ourselves included? And I talk to Hoot just as often. And she is my absolute voice of reason. Fucking fair as hell Libran that she is. I call her when I want to know if I'm being a heel. Or if I'm right. I prefer to hear the latter, but she pulls no sisterly punches. Which, to be honest, is quite sisterly of her. If I'm being an ass, I at least want to know. I talk to My Belle every morning at 9:15AM her time, 7:15AM mine. We compare notes on how our respective babies slept and what milestones they've accomplished since the prior morning's phone call. And sometimes we cover topics that make us cry.

I stumbled upon this video on a message board I frequent. Aside from the first bit, where I don't THINK, but I really hope she isn't singling out abortion as something women regret, the rest has reduced me to tears. Every. Time. I. Watched. It. Which, I won't even tell you how many that is.

The part of the video that especially gets me is toward the end where a smiling, giggling even, woman is holding up a sign that says, "Surrogate for my sister." And my sisters offered that after all of the miscarriages. Both of them. Wow. When I said, "That's too much to ask," they said, "We want this for you as much as you do. Would you do it for us?" In a fucking heartbeat I would. In a fucking heartbeat. But to think that someone would sacrifice for me like that? Astounding.

I just don't get how this happened. Why do I love my brother and sisters so much? Enough to talk to them every day or so. I wonder, did my Mom and Dad have something to do with it? Cultivating this sibling love? If so, how? I wish I knew the recipe for No, Really, I Genuinely Like My Brother and Sisters. I want to duplicate it.

Maybe we're just four people who were born to like each other. A lot. Maybe it was a crapshoot. And we ended up lucky. If that's the case, I hope it happens like that for my kids.

If I'm so lucky to have another one. Or two.

Speaking of my kids, have I mentioned that we're going to start trying again in February? The soonest my doctor will approve after me having a c-section? We might be jumping back on this horse soonly. Or soonish. Or really fucking soon. I'm sure you've all immediately deduced that we're anticipating problems. And while, at 32, I'm not necessarily getting old in the childbearing realm, it took us two years to get from 'trying' to 'having a baby' this time. And I'd love to have three. And two years (at least) times three is six. Last I checked. And 32 plus, at least, four, is 36. Math sucks. Because it's so unbending and, well, mathish. But, I also think that once diapers are OVER, I might not want to acquaint myself with them again. So bring 'em on. All at once. Before I realize how nice it is when they're over.

So, now that this post has come full circle, or full squiggly line more or less, I have a question for you. How do you feel about your siblings? Do you have advice? Do you hate them? Adore them? Think they're cool? Think they don't suck? Think they do? Any input as to how any one of those scenarios, or others, might be brought about? Are they too much older? Too close? Just close enough? Or, or, or? It's something I've been wondering about recently. And I'd love to hear others' thoughts on it. Because it's honestly a fascinating subject.

And just because I haven't posted a pic of Zee in a while, I'd like to add one of my favorites to date here...


By the way, we are at an Irish pub in Denver. Yes. We're those people in the bar. With a baby. With three older local gentlemen who TOTALLY admired Zee and her perfect Irish name. And I don't think I look particularly fabulous. But I love the photo for some reason. We visited the pub after our perfectly respectable family date to the aquarium...


Where The Turtle met some turtles. Among other aquarium residing residents.

All part of our big Denver getaway. Which fucking rocked socks. And really hit home for me, after our few months of 'Ships Passing in the Night' familyness, that we are, in fact, a family. I might've shed a tear or two during the weekend upon realizing that. Whew. I was pretty sure, but now I know. And I think I'm too far out from breastfeeding to blame the emotional outburst on hormones. I hope.

I Remember When...

A long night of rocking had more to do with mood altering substances than it did a baby and a chair.

A croc was something I professed to be full of shit, not, in fact, full of my feet. And yes. I wear crocs. Daily. It's a little sad. But they're so DAMN COMFY!

I anticipated Daylight Savings for the extra hour at the bar. Moreso than the extra hour of sleep.

To go out before 10PM was unthinkable. Now, to go out past 10PM means Zee can't sleep so we're taking her for a drive. Admittedly, that hasn't happened in a couple of months. Thank goddess.

Being in debt meant I owed my friend $20 bucks. For maybe a green leafy substance she gave me in good faith. Or a few beers he bought me. Now being in debt means doctor bills out the wazoo and $800,000 in mortgages.

I used to be a decent, if not at least timely, blogger.

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

In other news, I'm a little bit of a liar. I've always proclaimed my life to be an open book. Well, it's not really. Not all of it. I think you guys know that, deep down. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm still in search of my Queen of Oversharing tiara. I think I admit to things other people maybe, probably don't even admit to themselves. But there are some things, many things, that I don't share. Personal shit. And I'm going through some right now. And it's consuming my mind. I'm worrying. A lot. And it's proving very unproductive on the writing front. Because I'm not inclined to share it.

I mean, I still adore little Zee, and Z-Boy and I still make fun of each other at every turn, and things are mostly okay.

I'm just, well, I was reticent to have one rental home. And now we have two...

And work is kind of kicking my ass...

And lack of sleep is wearing me thin...

And, and, and...

Speaking of thin, I weigh 135. I haven't weighed 135 since I got married. Three and a half years ago. When I got pregnant with Zee, I weighed 153. Now, that might sound a little like bragging. But it's really not. It's more a testament to the fact that I am stressed. And tired. And maybe not eating the best. To be eighteen pounds lighter than my pre-pregnancy weight already seems a little excessive. Not that I'm complaining. Or, maybe I am.

Well, lather, rinse, repeat.

How many times do ya'll think I can post the same thing only using different words?

I can't tell you how many times I've considered coming here and posting "The End." And then some, because you all deserve better than for me to just leave you hanging like that. It's like, I want to keep this door open, but I feel kind of like an asshole leaving it open and completely fucking ignoring it.

I just don't know what the next step is.

Erm. Why don't we end on a happier note, shall we?

I remember when...

My favorite joke was...

Why did the monkey fall out of the tree?

Because it was dead.

Now, my favorite joke is...

What has nine arms and sucks?

Def Lepard.

Badum-bum.