Don't Want to Break a Promise

I made to myself. I swore I would write an entry today. I figure, the thing about starting up a new habit is that it is a bit of a requisite to be all habity about it. And writing is a good habit. Lord knows I need some good habits to counteract the bad ones.

Though I am quite stumped as to what to write about. So I've decided to bitch. Why I thought this wouldn't be the right venue for bitchy variety writing, I havne't a clue. So here goes...

I am tired. Fucking tired. Dog tired. I feel like Tired smacked my ass and called me her bitch and has taken up residence in my brain. Spilling a few brain cells out of my ears to make room for her lava lamps and bean bag chairs.

Also? Totally Tired? While alliterative? Is SO NOT attractive. I seriously look like a fly. All eyes. At least that's how I FEEL. Maybe because my face is working so hard to keep them open, inside my head they feel fucking huge. And don't forget about the bags. Oh yes. Dudes, I have more baggage under my eye-holes that I have kicking around inside my ear-holes. And y'all know, that's a fucking lot.

So there. I wrote. And I was going to go to bed now but guess what? Bee? Is crying. Shit, I'm tired.

We Are Family...

When Bee was born, Z-Boy and Zee visted us at the hospital regularly. Prior to Bee's debut, I'd so worried about Zee's reaction to her new sibling. I mean, sure, we'd read books about having a new sibling and talked about the baby in Mommy's belly. Because I am a paranoid freak with the pregnancy gig, I'd purchased a doppler and listened to Bee's heartbeat once in a while for reassurance. Zee became accustomed to this ritual and would pull out the doppler and lube up my belly and encourage another listening session. Even given all that, I just wasn't sure if she GOT it. I mean, you just never know how reality will translate, no matter how you prepare.

It turned out my worry was for naught. She totally GOT it.

I wish we'd had the video camera out when Bee was being ushered off by a nurse to have some tests done before we could all go home and Zee absolutely lost her mind. "MY BAYBEEEEEEEEEE! MY BABY GO? MY BABY GO? MY BAYBEE, MOMMY!?" echoed through the halls of the maternity wing as Z-Boy and I tried to stifle both our laughter and our tears. She cried until he was returned twenty minutes later. And so did I. Hormones. What can I say?

Almost eight months in, I still have to drag Bee past his room when dropping them off at daycare to Zee's room, drop her off, and then make the trek back to Bee's room near the entry to deliver his smiley ass to his caregivers. To do otherwise would mean a meltdown of epic proportions. Believe me, I've tried. Leaving her baby behind, unless he is under Mommy's watchful eye, is not allowed on Zee's watch.

And can I tell you? It's goddamned adorable. Beautiful, even. You know, I'm no runner-up for the Mother of the Year. Hell, I wouldn't even be found on the awards dinner guest list. But I definitely hope that, despite my proclivity for returning binkies after pulling off an animail hair, I am fostering a good relationship between my kids. Zee certainly had her insecure and non-spectacular moments after being siblinged, but I was always on the receiving end of her ire. Never her byudder. And as much as it might hurt sometimes? Well, tough titties for me.

I just hope that my kids will have a relationship like those I have with my siblings. I think we're getting there.

She's BAAAAAAACK!

Do you see her? My friend? Silhouette girl up there? I've missed her so. And somehow, some way, Amy managed to swipe her from an old account on Photobucket I'd totally forgotten I even had. Because Amy? Not only has a broom and a cape and a tiara. She has a wand, too. And a wizard hat, I'm pretty sure. The wizard hat is just my unconfirmed suspicion. She hasn't fessed up to owning one yet. Probably a good thing because I'd steal that shit. Sure, sure, I profess to be such a great person and all. But we're talking about A WIZARD HAT, people! And besides, if I were always a great person, well, that would be a HUGE waste of all of my ninja skillz. Right?

I'm hoping that by shaking things up around here and starting ENTIRELY from scratch with all of my links and gadgets and whozits and whatsits, yet tying in my enduring friend from back in the day when I, like, really blogged and had a jacked up uterus, maybe things will get moving in my head. Well, not that that has been the issue. Things move in my head ALWAYS. It's like a fucking national chain moving company up there. (A bad one, though. They break a lot of stuff. And get lost on a regular basis...) But perhaps things will flow more freely to my fingertips instead of constantly breaking down en route. Or stopping at the titty bar for a coupla beers. Damn slow movers. Ahem.

But? The really important thing? SHE IS BAAACK! I'm hoping to come back with her. And lastly, Amy rules! Just sayin'.

This and That

- Beer and a brand spankin' new phone are the perfect recipe. For a long bath. Just ask Z-Boy.

- Today marks the passing of the last large group that will trample through my hotel this ski season. Which means that I am now officially allowing myself a bit of Short Timer's. April 27th can't come soon enough...

- I am ASHAMED of the degree to which I have had my head in the sand with political and newsy stuff these days. So much has been going on and I have a lot of catching up to do.

- Knowing that I'll be hitting myself in the ass with my office door soon has given me a newfound freedom. I've said some pretty brazen things. And spoken up for myself. And apparently? People respect that shit. Too bad I waited until now to start.

- I wrote a rather snarky work e-mail that referenced interpretive dancing to "Wind Beneath My Wings." I don't know how in the hell I managed that, it just sorta happened. It also just sorta happened that while the person I sent it to could have gotten pissed, she didn't. I secretly wonder if she couldn't help but smile at that particular sentence and perhaps it softened the blow. I'll never know.

- In my attempt to begin writing again, I've decided to loosen up on myself a bit. Gotta get things flowing again somehow. This and That helped back in the day so I'm revisiting the idea.

The Pressure Is On...

Self-inflicted, of course. I have started post after post after post today, only to click 'save now' in the hopes that something better, something more profound will come along. The truth is, nothing more profound is going to come along. Nothing I'm willing to publish, anyway. And those half-finished, ah, who am I kidding, one sentence posts will surely languish forever in my Blogger archives. The truth is, there are many, MANY profound things going on. But none of them are ready for you all (the three or four of you, I imagine) to consume.

I'd once bragged that my life was like a petri dish, ready for the unforgiving lens of a microscope. The truth is, that was a lie. And not even a truthy one. Just an outright lie. Don't get me wrong, my life is OBVIOUSLY a bit of a petri dish. I've overshared beyond reason. Many of those who've read Old School Zube know more about me than my therapist. Which is saying...a lot. But apparently the petri dish analogy only applies to 'Shit That I'm Okay with You Knowing About.' Censorship reigns 'round these parts. And that has fed the Monstrous Writer's Block I've been harboring here under my computer desk for the past three years.

I don't even know how to finish this post. And I don't really have time to ponder it much. Nearly three-year-olds and Sharpies do not a A Heavenly Match make so I've got to haul ass out to the kitchen in the hopes that blueberries and cottage cheese will sufficiently distract. Just know that if I don't keep this writing up? I'm only going to get more and more lost. And I've been lost. Not looking to go there again. Purposelessly anyway. Intentionally lost is cool. Fun even. Lost because I'm refusing to ask for directions? Even from me? Not so much.

Flaming Ass

I’ve recently had a fire lit under mine ass. Not a real fire. A proverbial fire. Proverbial fires are always preferable to real fires when we’re talking about my ass. I should know, having experienced both. It harkens back to an unfortunate incident in college. Not exactly a unique way to start a story, eh? Anywho, a floor-mate thought it would be amusing to flash a lighter right under my rear while I bent over to pick something up. He had no way of knowing that the lint on my fuzzy, flannel (might I add, notorious for all of their wear) Party Animal pajama pants would burst into a flaming trail from my coccyx to my ankles. Unaware that my bottom half was suddenly engulfed in flame and quite shocked that instantly three guys descended upon me to smack my flaming ass I unwittingly fought on the side of the fire and attempted to fend them off. That was a disconcerting experience. To say the least. Fortunately the fire was extinguished fairly quickly and I regained my composure within moments. And never again was there an occasion where I received a spanking from three of my male peers. Don’t believe the rumors…

Ahem, got a little sidetracked. Onto this proverbial fire. I’ve been inspired to write again. I bet you don’t believe me. I hardly do either. Time will tell.