I Need You...

...to do something for me, if you're so inclined. Mozy on over to IndieInk when you get a free minute. Why? Well, primarily because it's fucking awesome and has introduced me to lots o' great writers I'd have otherwise never stumbled upon. Less importantly, because I will be the featured writer tomorrow morning. Did you like that? How humble I came across? I'm humble above all else (the most humble person you've ever met, in fact).

Ahem. Tomorrow, this post will be featured, and I wanted to forewarn you so you had some time to peruse the awesomeness that is IndieInk before it made its debut.

And honestly? Not mocking humility. You all know I eat humble-pie here regularly. A little while after I'd been notified my submission would be published, I felt undeserving. Not good enough. There is some seriously amazing shit over there. I regretted even having submitted a piece at all for a hot minute. Or a cold many minutes.

And while I was in the throes of this chilly slice of time, the episode on Sesame Street the kids were watching featured this...



Don't worry that it's not good enough for anyone else to hear...Just sing.

Well, I did. And if no one's eyes bleed as a result, I'm good with that.

And Seriously...



IndieInk is the shizzle. In my humble opinion.

Who's Your Mommy?

I thought I'd share a few of my parenting philosophies here. Not that you, my readers, give a shit what they are, but I thought it would be cathartic for me to say them 'out loud' given some of the dirty looks I get in public. You're simply the unwitting victim of my posturing. Sorry.

My Dearest Childrens,

Lest you get confused about what I expect of you, or think I'm an unreasonable asshole, I wanted to lay out for you what having me as a Mom entails. In fairness, the rules may change. I swear, I knew how to be the world's most AMAZING mother, until I had kids. Then everything I KNEW that I knew flew out the window with all of my free time and lazy afternoons. I reserve the right to reassess when you are no longer one and three and I'm once again reminded that I don't know how the hell to raise kids who are three and five. Because, life lesson, circumstances will prove time and again that you don't, in fact, know anything everything. This is ultimately a good thing, but frustrating when you try to fight it. Ahem...carrying on...

-If the situation merits? I will put you in time out. Anytime. Anywhere. No idle threats here. The grocery store? Check. The airport? Check. Wendy's? Check. You might make noise which might make others uncomfortable, and my neck might turn red from other people's glares, which might make me uncomfortable, but when your future sprawls out before my mind's eye and I envision you not being a complete asshole in it, some of your actions call for immediate consequences. Uncomfortableness notwithstanding. I'm not sorry about delivering these consequences. Embarrassed, maybe, but not sorry. I'd be sorrier about unleashing an asshole out unto the world. There are enough of those.

-I will not yell at you for jumping on the bed. Our mattress is shitty anyway and I remember just how tickled I was when I stole a few jumps on my Mom and Dad's bed when I was your age. I see no point in making rules just for the sake of enforcing them. But please don't fall. And, because I'm the furthest person ever from perfect, I will roll my eyes when I warn you that bodily harm might result from your bed-jumping forays. It's okay though. Because you are my kids and so you will roll your eyes and say, "OOOOOOOOOOOOOKAY MOMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!" and resume jumping. This is all laid out in some Parent-Child Rule Book I don't have the time or the inclination to locate. I have laundry to do. But, believe me. Because I said so.

-Same with blowing bubbles in your milk. Only not in public. Beds are few and far between in public but milk and straws are plenty. When other people are around? Blowing bubbles in your milk is rude. At home? Have at it. Just pass the salt and put your plates away when I ask.

-Growing up, my own Mom and Dad never EVER compared us siblings or wished out loud that one was like the other or vice versa. I am wholly convinced this is why we grew out of our childhood spats to absolutely adore one another, for who we are. I recall Hoot coming home from school one day in tears because a teacher who'd had both Bro and I said, "Ah, you're a Zube. Let's hope you're like your sister and NOT your brother." Said teacher was rumored to have slept with the entire basketball team in the locker room and I knew it was likely untrue but I spread that rumor with the ferocity of a sister whose beloved brother had been thrown under the bus before the impressionable eyes of his even younger sister. Is this a character flaw of mine? Maybe. But defending my family is a character flaw I fiercely embrace. I hope you will, too. Besides, it's not like the teacher got fired. Though she was shitty and probably deserved it.

That was a very long, unabridged way of saying, I will never compare you two. You are your own people. You are different. Not at all the same. Do not compete. I will not tolerate it nor encourage it. Even now, at your tender ages, I see the vast difference in your personalities, and I love each one of you for how simply YOU you are. You'd do best to love each other for the same reason. And if you do as you grow older? I will know that while I might not be Mother of Any Year Ever by any stretch, I'll settle for raising Siblings of a Lifetime. After all, I feel it is my job to set you off properly into the world, and being set off with a friend for life is about the most optimistic scenario in my eyes.

I am willing to sacrifice being 'cool' if only to see one of you approach and console the other after a particularly harrowing time-out. My insecurities about being a mother are far less important than knowing, long after I'm gone, you'll have someone who will look you in the eyes, pat you on the back, and say, "It's okay," even after you've just gotten in trouble.

Sincerely,
Mommy (who tries like mad, but is only human after all...which you won't get until you're way older. Like, her age.)

Isn't It Sad? Why Yes! It Is! How Goes It Pal?

I hate not being happy. I try to hide my not happy like I try to hide a Mt. Everest size zit with an abundance of cover-up. I'll laugh as I tell you I'm in an awful mood and had a really shitty morning. It is an attempt to fake it 'til I make it. Which means, I smile most when I'm really not happy. Damn. Just blew my cover.

I typically react to the hint of sadness by turning around and attempting to scrape and claw my way back up the incline I'd only begun to descend. Which is sorta stupid. Why go backwards? Why? Well, because it is safer to stand there at the mouth of the abyss, looking out over the unknown tree strewn valley than to actually make my way into it. Admittedly, though, it doesn't really get me anywhere.

I'll lie to myself and say I'm preparing. If preparing meant procrastinating, I wouldn't be lying.

Eventually, Sad morphs into a buddy and steps up and says, "Dude, stop laughing at me. Seriously. It was endearing for a while, but now, well, really. We've gotta go."

And the smartest thing to do at this moment is to clutch Sad's arm tightly, and start walking. Descending.

Because what goes down must come up, right?

I keep reminding myself that if it weren't for my past rendezvous with my old friend, Sad, I wouldn't be the person I am today. Scars from the bramble and all.

And so...Maybe I'm getting to the part where Procrastination meets Prepared. I foreshadowed that a bit back there and didn't even realize it...

Anyway, it's time.

It's Getting Hot in Here...What with the Abundance of Hot Air Escaping My Pie-Hole

If there is one lesson in life I am destined to learn again and again and again. And again. It is this: I don't know shit.

I feel compelled to share that with you. I don't know everything. I barely know anything. Whew. Now I can cross something off of my List of Things to Do Today:

Penance

Still on the List of Things to Do Today:

Shower
Polish my tiara
Shovel snow off the deck
Scare myself
Make dinner

Big day at Casa de Zube.

I've been perusing blogs recently, looking for a few good reads, and I have to tell you, I'm a little relieved that I'm not a BIG TIME BLOGGER. Honestly, it seems a lot of the BIG TIME BLOGGERS like to serve up an over-sized helping of 'I Know Everything' without the requisite side of 'But Really, I'm Pretty Much an Asshole, Just the Same As You' that makes it possible, enjoyable even, to gobble up the morsels they're tossing out.

I wonder, sometimes, if I come across that way. Rereading that last paragraph, I'm gagging on a bit of doubt.

Whaddya know? Turns out I am an asshole. Just like you?

I like to think I walk the fine line, in my ramblings here, between, These Are My Truths and I Have a Hankering to Share Them with You Just in Case One Might Strike Your Fancy, and Hey, I'm a Dumbass Who Can't Figure out My Own Shit, Much Less Yours!

I wouldn't be surprised, though, if I teeter into the realm of sounding like a Know-It-All. How I see me and how you see me are two entirely different things. And I have the most to learn by examining the latter. Not obsessing, mind you. I have to ignore the gene that predispositions me to care too much what you think while still taking it into consideration. That's one of the finest lines I walk.

Anyway, I don't need anyone serenading me with a midnight rendition of "Wind Beneath My Wings" (Brad, I'm looking at you). More importantly, I'm not going to pretend I'm the wind beneath anyone's wings. Because mostly? The opposite is true. I am surrounded by people who make it possible for me to fly. Wait, did I just call you windy? I didn't mean it like that...

This post was brought to you by my inability to decide what to write about today. See what happens when I go throwing caution to the wind? Also? It's super windy outside. I've got wind on my mind.

Speaking of wind...I had the wind knocked outta me. While I was flying high, too. It always seems to happen that way, doesn't it?

Oh well, I think having a non-perfect, kinda turbulent life makes writing about it far more interesting. If I had all the answers, I'd be just another, windy, know-it-all. As it stands, I lack a tiny bit of pride and have an incessant need to deplete my head of extra air.

But, at least, I'm not asking you to fly around on it.

PS- I feel the need to apologize to metaphors. Obviously, I needed to beat the shit out of something to make myself feel better.

He Didn't Marry a Goth Chick, but He Made Me Birth One...

But still, let the record show, he married himself a hippy. Neener neener boo boo!

Lest I confuse the shit out of you, check out her nails.

A few observations:

Firstly, awwwwwww.

Secondly, Dada's 'Gwar is AWESOME' gene is totally kicking my 'Jack Johnson is AWESOME' gene's ass.

Thirdly, I still have not learned to take showers while the kids aren't awake.

Fourthly, I have no idea where Zee's partner in crime, namely, The Sharpie, has taken up residence. I am afraid.

Fifthly, well, there isn't a fifthly. I just thought it'd be fun to type. And look at.

But even I'm not adventurous enough to explore sixthly.

Peace out, bitches. May your music be as awesome as your genes and your nails the color of your wildest dreams.

Chi-Chi-Chi! Li-Li-Li!

Nothing starts the morning off right like a cup of coffee and an e-mail from your Dad containing his awesome chili recipe and a surprising amount of actual measurements. Even better? His self-congratulatory observation of, "How the hell I know all these measurements, I have no idea. I'm usually drunk halfway through the recipe."

I love my Dad.

In other news, I seem to have misplaced my cabana boy. He's probably in a snow drift somewhere. With my grapes. Dammit. I'm feeling a little silly lounging on this chaise without being properly graped. That's the last time I send a dumbass tropical climate type out to fetch me fruit. Lesson learned.

Speaking of grapes, sometimes the kids like to throw things on the floor, most usually messy things, and stomp them to smithereens. When grapes are featured in the daily Stomp-a-thon, I like to pretend it is a loving gesture. They are trying to make me wine. From scratch. What awesome kids. Saltines, on the other hand? No redeeming value there. Though the dog begs to differ. But opinions are rationed frugally around here and he? Doesn't get one. Sorry dude.

I really want a t-shirt that says, "Beer...It Does a Mommy Good." Can't seem to find one, though. I'd like to wear it while I make Dad's awesome chili. Because apparently getting drunk and making chili is not a recipe for disaster. It is...part of the recipe.

And while we're on the subject of chilly, I've gotta brave it. Apparently making chili requires ingredients.

And we're outta beer.

This and That...And No, You Can't Get With Either...

-The other day I brought the kids to Family Gym Time at the local recreation center. I noticed a few people eyeballing me, most notably some Dads, and I thought, "Huh, maybe I look super cute or something and the divorced mens are quite taken." (I just love it when my ego purrs like a kitten.) Upon arriving home, I realized I'd thoughtlessly worn my t-shirt from a local brewery that said only, "Whiskey?" on the front. Oops. Most likely, they were noting which child's cry of, "Mommy!?" I pointedly ignored responded to and warned their own precious spawn to stay a safe distance from mine.

-Or maybe, even more likely, they were thinking, "Yeah. Wish I had some." And, for once, I'm not talking about yours truly. An unprecedented move on this here blog, I know.

-I let Zee choose her own outfits, within reason. Or, more accurately, within season...summer stuff won't fly in winter, but mismatched? Bring it. Folks who bear witness to her creative clothing concoctions probably either think I am mentally unstable or fostering her own spunky brand of flower pants, plaid shirt independence. Really? Neither is true. I just want to go to the grocery store already and the Path of Least Resistance guides my parenting compass more often than not. And most life decisions, honestly. Just ask my college professors who resisted giving me 'A's for being really fucking cool and making the keg my bitch.

-I had a dream the other night that my Dyson sucked up an entire pillow, no problemo. I woke up feeling especially smug. And like I needed to vacuum our bed.

-I'm having a crazy hair day. And I'm a two-dimensional Medusa. Don't look! I refuse to be responsible for you turning into a stick figure.



Oops...



Too late. Dude, you're skin and bones!

If it's any consolation, you can get with this. If you're into that.

That Filter Got Broke

I've always bragged about my lack of the filter you're supposed to have between your brain and your mouth. I'm not sure if I simply wasn't born with it, or if it deteriorated over time. I have a feeling it is the latter because, once upon a time, I struck myself as quite reserved. In all honesty? I'd rather blame it on genetics. That's a much more convincing defense. But I'm feeling a little defensive, so, there's that.

Sometimes I fret about who reads this here blog. Not that much, obviously, because I share it willy nilly everywhere. I confess, though, that I hope in sharing it I can make tiny differences here and there. Make one other person feel less alone. One who was raped, or one who had an abortion, or one who struggled with infertility. I open my book to those who are alone. We're not alone. I will seek you out because I have so much regard for your ability to live in silence. It is me, contrary to popular belief, who is the weaker of us. I know I'm not alone because I've sought out companionship in the 'Shit Life Deals Club'. What's the point of carrying the card if you can't show it to anyone? But see, you're not card-carrying like that. I'm in awe, and maybe a little envious.

Admittedly, though, back to the subject of my 'All Told Blog', I worry about family. I mean, I've overcome any hesitation about making a gourmet meal out of my toes whilst gazing upon the soiled shirts and pants I've left out to air for god and everbody to see on the internets. But maybe the people who have the dubious honor of residing on a branch in my family tree wonder, well, maybe she does go out on a limb a little too often. Do I compromise the whole tree?

I'm not threatening to stop telling it all. Or promising, either. But I do wonder, sometimes, what the impact of my public honesty might be on those I hold dear to my heart. Who might be embarrassed? Who rolls their eyes? Who is glad, at least, that I'm not Snooki? Who would understand if I wasn't humiliating myself for free, but for fame and fortune?

The thing is, I'm just not wired for anonymity. I'm me. Uncensored. And as often as it bites me in the ass, it brings me closer to people. And that's worth the trouble. More than worth the trouble, actually. Because there is no trouble, that I know of anyway. It is the trouble there might be that I'm unaware of which haunts me a tad.

I concluded a long time ago that I don't have the discipline to be famous or fortunate. Or to write for money. I'm far more suited to being undisciplined and infamous and unfortunate. And laughing the whole way. I'd have less to write about otherwise. And less to be happy about, too, I'm pretty sure.

I just hope my filterlessness, undisciplined, infamous, and unfortunate ways leave the people I hold dear no worse for the wear is all. And others, maybe, better for it. Pipe dreams, here. Guilty as charged.

Disconnected...

I'm sorry, but due to events beyond our control, your call could not be completed as dialed.

That was the recording I heard the other day when calling my Mom. On speed dial. As I've done a million and twenty times before. It wasn't too strange; calls haven't been completed as dialed in the past but the message was new to me and seemed, I don't know, over the top? A little catastrophic? It was weird.

Do you ever feel as though you're unintentionally giving off the wrong vibe? Like, no matter what you say, and the positive spirit with which it is said, it is received wrong?

I feel as though, due to events beyond my control, I'm just...not connected.

I like to blame these episodes on the stars. They're way too beautiful to be blaming shit on, I know, but they're also way too far away to actually give a rat's ass about my blame anyway. Probably why I like them so much.

The stars aren't aligned in my favor right now. Not that anything is going terribly wrong. But terribly right seems, I don't know, a universe away.

I Want to Go to the Ball. The One with a Foot in Front and a Party at the End.

The way I see it, the 30 Days of Truth are like the 12-Steps for people who are addicted to writing. You go through the 30 Days of them and you don't want to fucking write ever again. So I'm pointedly ignoring Days 11 and Beyond. I'm ignoring so pointedly, my head hurts. Or maybe my head hurts because Bee threw a matchbox at it...Whatever.

My children? Are most certainly my offspring. This afternoon, they're staging a protest. Not to worry, it is quiet and peaceful. My little pioneers...



Apparently, as much as naps suck, they are far more entertaining than going to a Superbowl Party. I've recently given up on naps almost entirely (and by default my sanity...and my hair) because the mental gymnastics and cajoling involved with getting either one to take a nap leaves me listless and twitching in the middle of the floor (I know, right? Weird how you can be listless and still twitch. Proof positive Zee and Bee have evil powers. News Flash!).

Anyway, listlessly twitching is far less productive than being a cranky and bossy Mama an hour before bedtime. Actually, being a cranky and bossy Mama an hour before bedtime is fairly productive. Gets shit done, that. So I'm cool with No-Nap-alooza these days.

And while I'm secretly touched that I seem to have passed the Football is Boring as Shit gene on to my children, a tear did stir in mine eye, they're missing a critical bit of genetic info. The word Superbowl isn't as long as supercalifragilistexpialidocious which is awesome because if it were? I'd be passed out the couch with The Protesters midway through 'cali'. But, before the word 'Superbowl' has my eyelids hitting terminal velocity to 'out of service' the word 'Party' pops up.

And with that little gem I'm thinking, "Party?! Adults!!! Grown-up people! People who don't, uh, get out of the bathtub and run the Still Dripping Naked Marathon around the house, stopping only to put their hands on their knees and watch their tinkle hit the floor while giggling maniacally? Or, if they do, I don't have to chase them with a diaper at least? Or even watch? I'm so in on that PARTY! Nevermind the guy across the room with popping forehead veins who keeps shushing me in between shouting at the tv. Stuff a nacho in it, dude. I'm at a PAR-TAY! And we all have PANTS ON!"

I'm so there.

Or, I'm so there AFTER Project Nap to Screw Up Mom's Plans.

It Takes a Village...

Not only to raise children, of which I am painfully aware. Traipsing around the world, or our little piece of it anyway, with two small, mildly unreasonable, to put it mildly, minions, I have come to rely on the kindness of strangers. Whom I fondly call my Village People.

My Village People make the world safer for my children. They do. Sure it's easy, even commonplace, to view the world as an evil place with potential predators lurking around every corner and while, yes, I concede that danger is out there, it just seems such an awful and ugly way to navigate through life. And I've found that, when I look for it, nah, expect it, kindness prevails.

A few months back, when Zee was going through a particularly feisty phase, we were making our way through the grocery store parking lot and she, in a fit of rage, wrestled free from the kung-fu grip that is the customary hand-holding practice around here, and darted away. I stumbled forward trying to snatch her hood with the hand that wasn't wrapped around Bee, and...let's just say...the hood eluded my tenuous grasp.

Nearby a tattoo-laden guy, in his early twenties or so, was tinkering with his truck stereo, somehow without the aid of a step-ladder or a hot air balloon, and glanced our way. From his vantage point, about twenty feet in the air, or so it seemed, he saw what I did not. A car plugging along toward the very stretch of parking lot Zee was about to bolt into. Without hesitation, he tossed his screwdriver aside and jumped from his truck, leaping in front of the oncoming car with his arms outstretched.

Hands trembling, I quickly caught her and chastised, OH did I chastise, and I turned to him, choking back tears, and thanked Tattoo Guy profusely for putting himself in harm's way to ensure my little girl's safety.

He shrugged and said, "No big deal. She's just little," patted her on the head and went back to the task of loudening his stereo. Not that the loudening was necessary given the ringing in my ears I noticed as we, safely, rounded out our parking lot journey and entered the grocery store.

And I loved him. I love my village.

And now, because apparently I'm trying out for the Circular Thinking Olympics, the point of this post? Not only does it take a village to raise children. Apparently it takes a village for me to write. And so, whether it is a construction hat or headdress or a cowboy hat you don, if you're so inclined, I want to read you. I've come to realize that what I most enjoy about blogging is the Village feel of it. I know you and you know me. So, please let me know where I can find you. And I'll bring over some soup. Or something equally villagey.

I want to be one of your Village People. If you'll have me. Every village needs an idiot, doesn't it?

Mom's Just Wanna Have Fun...

Best part? I only had to do the tiniest bit of rearranging. The letters were all in a little cluster just waiting for my inner 'Bratty Mommy' to overcome my motherly propriety. Which took all of about two seconds. What that says about me, I'm not sure but you're free to draw your own conclusions.

Boy, I was on a roll there for a bit with the writing and the confessing and the pondering and the...writing.

I'm currently trying to convince myself that writing doesn't always go like WRITE WRITE WRITE WRITE AWESOME STUFF ALL. THE. TIME. NEVER. STOPPING.

Sometimes you have to stop.

And wonder, 'Did I just insinuate that what I write is awesome?' Oopsie.

Ultimately, this entry has been brought to you by my burning desire to mark the vast whiteness that lay before my cursor, and nothing else.

Too bad I didn't have enough letters on the fridge to write 'I'm an...' Woulda brought the whole post full circle.