The Adventures of Zube Girl

When I Don't Like Something...

2011-03-12T07:30:00.003-07:00

I usually try to make friends with it. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, as they say.

So, I dug deep, deep down in my jeans pockets, which was tough because my jeans are feeling a little snug these days and my hand barely fit in there, and paid for zubegirl.com.

I have a new home.

It's over at Wordpress and I have to admit, I'm kinda digging on Wordpress. It seems pretty user friendly. That said, I'm not posturing for an all out evening of humping its leg or anything. A few things are irritating me. Like that fact that, at the top of the page it says 'The Adventures of Zube Girl' above my awesome header made by someone even awesomer that says, wait for it...The Adventures of Zube Girl. I can't figure out how to get rid of the extraneous title. And I hate to be redundant. I seriously don't like repeating myself.

Also? If I went and paid for zubegirl.com well then why the shit does the address change to zubegirl.wordpress.com after you type in zubegirl.com? Minor detail but bugs me, that.

Otherwise, it most certainly isn't finished over there, but we're sort of dating. And I figured I'd go public with my new relationship. If reality tv is such a hit, well then why not reality blog-hosting website dating?

So yeah. That's where you'll find me from now on. See you there! Unless I don't.

Music Theory 101

2011-03-06T08:35:00.013-07:00

Every once in a while I'll be plodding along as per usual, yelling at the kids to stop yelling and wondering whether there is a Standard Measurement of Ridiculousness so I can assign an accurate percentile to just how ridiculous it is that I'm still wearing pajama pants at certain hours of the day in the hopes of inspiring myself to shower and dress, when I'll hear a song I've heard and enjoyed a million times, but this time the lyrics will grip me in a way they never had before. Tightening my chest, bent on squeezing every last ounce of moisture out of my tear ducts. I'll choke back tears until I can steal a few minutes solo in the bathroom because crying while serving pizza for breakfast might be psychologically damaging to my spawn.

Yes, I said pizza for breakfast. That's what they wanted. It had bacon on it and I figure there is no better time than the present to practice being a college student.

The other day, it was this song...

...No change, I can change, I can change, I can change, but I'm here in my mold, I am here in my mold. But I'm a million different people from one day to the next, I can't change my mold, no, no, no, no, no, no, no...

Yes, that.

I won't subject you to my verse by verse interpretation because I'm remiss to give you an Attack of the Eyerolly Sighs and I think the dishes are feeling buoyed by the accompaniment of microscopic allies and have begun plotting to make our house their bitch, so I should probably get on that.

But, suffice it to say, I was hit that day with the realization that "won't" sure feels a lot like "can't" sometimes.

I am here in my mold. I am here in my mold.

At least you know where to find me. And, for that matter, so do I. Silver lining.

This morning I examined both my Mt. Everest sized zit and the ever present ~~crow's feet~~ laugh lines framing my eyes. I looked myself straight in those eyes, something I rarely do, too much unknown there (or should I say, known), and thought, "Zube, you are not getting any younger." And maybe that spiraled into an inner dialogue amongst the judgey voices in my head regarding my complete refusal to 'grow-up' and do something with my life already.

My inner-cheerleader lost a pom-pom in the shuffle but did her best to defend me. "Sure, she's a thirty-five-year-old waitress, but she is a damn good one! Give me a 'W'!"

Thwack! Oh, there's that missing pom-pom. Not sure which judgey asshole had it, I'm eying the scowly guy with the furrowed brow, but regardless, the cheerleader is down for the count. Pom-pom to the head.

Amidst the ringing in her ears, the verse, "Trying to make ends meet, you're a slave to money then you die..." skips. And skips. And skips.

I was once told by someone, someone who should have known better, that I am not successful.

It rung true, which is why it hurt so much and why I can't unhear it. And probably why the person who said it said it.

And since being told that I've worn my failures as a badge of honor.

I will likely brag about them tomorrow.

I'm so cool. Usually.

But, today, that's not one of the million different people I happen to be...

That's okay. I can change...I can change...

Tomorrow.

He's Off to Meet the Wiz...But Needs Your Help!

2011-03-03T06:56:00.010-07:00

So, I have this theory. You're shocked, I know. Oh look, here's one of your eyeballs. I think it just rolled right out of your head. Not sure where the other one is, though.

As with many of my theories, this one does not require the donning of a tin foil hat or the use of a baby monitor. There have been no gnomes in my closet with shrinking ray guns attacking my pants. My pants happen to be fitting these days.

This theory is different.

Bro, Hoot and I have discussed extensively the fact that our baby sister, My Belle, is the coolest of us all. We theorize that awesomeness amplifies with each subsequent sibling. Right, and I am the oldest. This theory is certainly not self-serving.

I've made it abundantly clear in the past that I think my family is the bees knees. Not only my immediate family, but extended family as well. On my mother's side, there are 18 of us grandkids. We're like, twice as cool as the von Trapp family. Plus four.

On Facebook I'm able to keep up with the shenanigans of them all. Which, bash FB all you want, I love it. I don't get to drink beer regularly in their living rooms, but I can still feel like we're not 2,000 miles away from each other.

The second youngest cousin, Aaron, is a riot, and a good kid, and has me entirely convinced that this Awesomeness Amplification Theory translates to cousinry. He is the 17th cousin, and I am the 2nd. This means one of two things to you who read me. A) You think I'm pretty cool and so he must be totally out of this world awesome. Or B) You think I'm an asshole and so this kid stands a snowball's chance at being cool.

I can assure you, he is out of this world awesome and cool as a snowball.

Recently on Facebook he posted a video he'd put together for a contest he hopes to win. The winner gets to meet Wiz Khalifa. I have no frackin' idea who that is, but I'd like to help him. The video had to mention JMU going green and his entry is pretty damn clever. Here 'tis:

And this is where I ask you a favor. Just a little one. If you are on Facebook, would you mind giving him a little vote love? I try not to ask much of you all, but for a shoulder to cry on, a bit of therapy, and a laugh when I need it. Okay, so maybe I ask a lot of you, but at least in this case, someone else is the beneficiary of your kindness.

Here's how you do it:

1. Go here.
2. 'Like' the University Program Board.
3. Go to 'photos'.
4. Click on the 'videos' at the top right.
5. Scroll down to contestant #5.
6. 'Like' his video.

That's all!

In all honesty, it makes me super happy to see kids in college not only attend class, but participate in extracurricular stuff that doesn't involve the consumption of beer. My extracurricular beer consuming got in the way of my major in Deaf Education. So I failed out of college with a minor in Partying. I love when people related to me prove this is not a genetic predisposition. It gives me hope for Zee and Bee.

Thanks a bunch! Also, Aaron promises if you vote for him, you will live forever. It's worth a shot!

Did someone just say shot?

I Need You...

2011-02-28T14:44:00.024-07:00

...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?

2011-02-24T15:24:00.017-07:00

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?

2011-02-21T14:53:00.012-07:00

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

2011-02-20T13:32:00.010-07:00

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...

2011-02-18T14:48:00.000-07:00

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!

2011-02-17T08:10:00.005-07:00

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...

2011-02-14T12:11:00.006-07:00

-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

2011-02-09T13:57:00.010-07:00

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...

2011-02-07T14:56:00.009-07:00

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.

2011-02-06T13:33:00.011-07:00

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...

2011-02-03T11:59:00.004-07:00

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...

2011-02-02T14:28:00.004-07:00

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.

Thirty Somethings...Thing 9

2011-01-27T08:04:00.008-07:00

Day 09 → Someone you didn’t want to let go, but just drifted.

She's just one of those corners in my mind,
And I just put her right back with the rest
That's the way it goes. I guess...

I've had, to my best estimation, nearly three lifetimes worth of amazing friendships. And this lifetime is, I hopity-hope-hope, not nearly halfway through.

Facebook, for all of it's renowned evil, has made it possible for me to be in touch with every last person I can imagine who, before it's advent, might have been a drifted person I sorely missed. And for that I am eternally grateful.

While I'm able to remain in touch with everyone from my past that I might've missed, there is something adrift in the friendship department. And that something is 'circles' of friends.

There are a million things I wouldn't do in a million years. Go back to high school. Go back to college. Go back to my twenties. Go back to, well, yesterday. I have no interest in going back. Because as confused as I am today, I know things I didn't know yesterday and I'd hate to unknow them. I like knowing what I know, you know?

That said, I do wish I could time-warp to past circles of friends in present circumstances.

I'd knock on Jon and Dom's door, really, REALLY loudly because it's always funny to do that, just in case they're getting high. There would be no arm-twisting necessary if I bore a deck of cards and dared utter, "Let's play Hearts!' We'd laugh and compete and shirk responsibility, for just a little bit.

Because we're older now. And, presumably, a touch more responsible. And skipping 'class' has been usurped by responsibilities unskippable.

I'd call Steve and he'd say, "We're hanging out at Ray's and Dan and John and Aaron and Tim and Kelly are going to be there, too." I'd then call Ray who'd remind me which turn it is I take to get to his house again because I always fucking miss it. We'd lounge around listening to the Dead and being, well, really fucking cool.

I'd be in the bathroom with Dee, Carrie, and Kristin and we'd all be jockeying for a good position in the the mirror to do our hair; it's a good thing Kristin is short and Carrie is tall and Dee and I are average. A perfect diamond of hair-doing friends in the mirror. We'd joke about queefing and generally grace the bathroom with our astounding ability to laugh at just about anything and swear in ways no sailor had ever deemed possible.

I miss my circles of friends. I miss the person they made me when I was growing within the comfort and love of their friendship. Each and every person in those circles, and countless others, significantly altered who I am. No. Made me who I am. And while I love being in touch with each and every one of them, even the farm-building ones (bastards), I miss 'us all' for the village we were.

Those circles are now in the past and we'll likely not ever visit that geometrical shape again, so trapezoid it is. Regardless, these circles of friends sent me adrift. They drifted me off to others a better person for having been in their circle.

And while I miss the incarnations of me in large part for the people I surrounded myself by during those incarnations, the Zubes I was - before trapezoids became a way of life - belongs in a treasured corner of my mind.

And, because it's the best thing to do, I just put her right back with the rest. That's the way it goes. I guess.

WHOOOOOO-----AM-----I?

2011-01-26T09:26:00.009-07:00

You know, I can only post so much happy, wisdomy horseshit before my head explodes or I tell my inner Pollyanna and the fluffy white poodle with pink ear bows she rode in on to fuck right off. Whichever comes first. Actually? I'm not going to let either one of those things happen first. Because, instead, I've decided to tell the truth outside the boundaries of Thirty Days of them.

The truth? I'm not awesome. I'm not shitty, either. Well, not too shitty, anyway. While I'm not so great at anything remotely resembling moderation, I somehow manage to be moderately awesome and moderately shitty. I'm pretty sure I'm at least as screwed up as everyone else. And most days that's just fine by me.

Is this some sort of self-love epiphany? Did I go for a long, crunchy walk in the woods, trip over a snow bank, and stumble upon the secret to giving yourself a fucking break already? Nah. Not even. The true reason for this outlook is none other than...sheer laziness. Who would take a walk in this blizzardy mess I call home anyway? Crazy people, that's who. Crazy people who are better than me. And crazy. Just sayin'.

For years and years I dithered around my brain, often seated opposite a therapist, striving to be improved. And I have the bills, some still unpaid, to prove it. I wanted to be improved in ways no one had ever before dared to be IMPROOOOOOOVED.

Oops, sorry. Got to channeling the hookah smoking caterpillar for a second there.

Ahem...I wanted to be so goddamn improved that when you googled 'improved' on the internets, the first thing to turn up would be...

Right.

But then somewhere along the line, a couple of years ago maybe, I got over it. I decided I didn't want to better myself anymore. It's too much work. I just wanted to be as improved and as fucked up as I was at that time, for the unforeseeable future. And, apparently, the present I'm presently rocking is still that unforeseeable future.

What was that I mentioned back there about my inability to do anything in moderation?

The thing about The Things that started to bug me...The Somethings. The eight I've posted so far. Rereading them they make me sound like I'm a better person than I am. I'm not actually a better person than I am. I'm just really good at rationalizing who I am. Rationalizing isn't exactly the most admirable thing to be good at, true, but my flavor of rationalizing is a pithy means to a significant end. That end being happiness. And in my worldview, Happiness = Good.

So, while I might prance around my house congratulating myself for knowing damn near everything and denouncing other, stark raving mad people, don't be fooled. Because ultimately, well...it takes one to know one...

And now, I've got a tea party to go to. I don't want to be late. I'd like to get there before that stupid poodle takes my seat.

Thirty Somethings...Thing 8

2011-01-23T07:18:00.007-07:00

Day 08 → Someone who made your life hell, or treated you like shit.

Well sure. There have been some folks in my life who'd fit quite neatly into this category. One in particular. I can still recall in vivid detail the thud that hoagie made as it hit the wall after sailing past my ear. And the crash of the tv as it gave way to his anger and landed at my feet. And the unleashing of my inner fire-breathing dragon when, from out of nowhere, I belched out through clenched teeth, "Would you just fucking HIT ME! Then I'd have reason enough to walk away!" And the barely audible whisper of my bruised and battered esteem..."He doesn't have to hit you for you to walk away..."

I don't think about those days much and I'm not angry about them anymore. They are simply part of the intricate pattern of my History Quilt. Some of the patches are a little fucked up, but the seams are strong.

There is one person, though, whom I hold most accountable for treating me terribly in the past; someone I should have been able to rely on for kindness and tenderness and compassion. And that person is me.

I'm not going to beat myself up for it given my penchant for letting people off the hook these days. At the time, I didn't think I deserved any better, and that's sad enough without adding to it some self censure. At least now I know I do, in fact, deserve better and act accordingly. Since the dawning of that realization, the folks who happen to treat me shittily either matter enough to have some explaining to do, or simply don't matter at all.

I'm not saying I'm perfectly, awesomely awesome over here in Perfectly Awesome Land or anything. I have not found the magical cure to self-doubt and, once in a while, even self-loathing. But it is no longer where I live. I visit I-Suck-ville once in a while and then head back home. After being the Mayor of I Suck-ville for many years, A sucky Mayor if you'd have asked me at the time, I am more than happy with my humble abode here in the rural stretch between Perfectly Awesome Land and I-Suck-ville.

And hoagies and TVs do not fly here. They are eaten and watched. Preferably simultaneously.

Thirty Somethings...Thing 7

2011-01-20T13:30:00.011-07:00

Day 07 → Someone who has made your life worth living ~~for~~.

The 'for' is superfluous and confusing in my opinion, so I'm striking it. There is a time and a place to end a sentence with a preposition. But, I don't know why they put one there for. Heh. I think I just proved the aforementioned 'for' superfluous but I'm too lazy to show you the algorithm. That was bugging me. I feel better now. Moving along...

Pretentious Asshole vs. Heartfelt Post Material

And the winner is...you be the judge.

The response to this one might seem obvious, and I suppose I could forgo the risk of sounding like a selfish asshole, but I'm feeling contrary today, so Potential Asshole Reputation, or worse, Fucked Up Mother of the Year, here I come.

My children? They do not make my life worth living.

Don't get me wrong, I'd give my life for theirs, if ever such an unfortunate circumstance called for it. I would, without a moment's hesitation, die if it meant either or both of them would be spared. Not a doubt.

I would also struggle to find a reason for living should the unspeakable happen to either one of them, or, even more unspeakably, both. Fuck. Most especially both. Goddamn, this is some jinx-loaded shit to unearth from the recesses of my mind that I know exists but pointedly ignore. I'm sleeping with everything crossed for a week to fend off the jinxes. Unless anyone out there has a better anti-jinx recipe.

But, that still does not mean they make my life worth living.

Let me rephrase the question and change the perspective a bit.

Whose life do I make worth living?

I hadn't even finished typing the question before I scrunched my nose and cringed. Ugh, no one. I've got enough on my hands without having to be someone's reason for living. That's on you, man. I don't want that kind of responsibility.

Right. And I'm old enough to vote and have frothy adult beverages and I'm well above forty pounds. I'll love you, but I don't want to be your life's worth. I hardly want to be the reason you decide to wear that shirt. You should wear it because you like it. And I'll notice how much more comfortable you are when you wear the one you like as opposed to how uncomfortable you are when you wear the one I like.

Does that make a little more sense? Z-Boy loves short hair on girls and hates tattoos. But he loves me more. And I have long hair and tattoos. He loves me when I'm most comfortably me. And likewise. Him and me. I even love that old Gwar shirt with the holes he wears. Because he's so HIM in it.

I live my life for me and I hope that in doing that, selfless little acts peppering the way, Zee and Bee will learn that it is not only okay but right to live their lives for them. It'd be super cool if the selfless acts followed, too. I'm seeing a hint of them, so I think I'm doing okay.

I do not ever want Zee or Bee to factor my pride or approval or disapproval into any major life decision. I'd hate for them to think, "Mom REALLY wants me to be the best President the United States ever saw, so I should probably forget my dreams of being a ballerina." Fuck that.

Zee and Bee? Whether your future involves a podium or tights, a wrench or a keyboard, a pen or a guitar, pennies or dollars...I hope you follow your dreams. I hope you find your life worth living. For you.

Meanwhile I'll be living my life for me. And hoping I did it right. And you take my lead.

Thirty Somethings...Thing 6

2011-01-19T11:34:00.007-07:00

Day 06 → Something you hope you never have to do.

I hope I never get stuck on a desert island with anyone. Not even you. Not even if I can bring one thing. Partially because I'm a social butterfly quadruple squared and so I have an inherent need to be around lots of people, but mostly because I'm pretty fucking annoying in large doses and you'd end up hiding behind palm trees to avoid me. I think I have lots of friends so I can disseminate the annoyingness harmlessly and still remain in good graces with most. Or at least tolerable.

I hope I never perfect cooking a baked potato. I think it adds character to be shitty at cooking something that should be so easy.

I hope I'm never the mother of a bully. I also hope I'm never the mother of a bullied. I do hope I am the mother of a bully bullier. Or two bully bulliers.

I hope my children bury me. I know that's an 'I hope' and not an 'I hope not' but to type it alternatively...my fingers won't do it.

I hope I never have to admit I'm wrong to my kids. Eh, that's kinda bullshit. I hope I don't but I know that when I do it will only serve to make my kids better people. And me a better person. I'm just not looking forward to it is all.

I hope I never forget that sometimes I'm wrong. And I'm using the term 'sometimes' rather loosely here.

I hope I never have to hear the words, "Mom, I'm pregnant," in any context other than joyous. I hope I never lose myself in 'How Things Were Supposed to BE' land if those words are uttered at, well, what I consider not the right time but the deliverer of the words does. I really, really, really fucking hope that if those words are ever uttered and the speaker wants an abortion, I don't have to fly her to another country to get one. I hope I don't have to, but I will.

I hope, if reincarnation is real, I never have to be reincarnated as a person who gets stuck on a desert island with me. Because that would just be trippy.

I hope I never have to be reincarnated. Because this life is real. And it is fun. Hell, it's been really fun at times. And really not at others. But I'd like to just do it once, please.

Thirty Somethings...Thing 5

2011-01-18T12:19:00.012-07:00

Day 05 → Something you hope to do in your life.

This one time in college? I went to class. I must've been really bored and out of weed and too tired to do keg stands and I never did own a flute or anything. So class it was. It was a writing class and I (heart)ed writing back then, too, but I struggled with it a bit while I was experimenting with various and sundry states of mind and having really DEEP conversations at 3AM with guys who wore those old man hats. Anyway, there was an old lady in this class who sat two seats behind me. She was probably the same age I am now. Right, so NOT old, that is to say. She was really annoying, always raising her hand and talking about her kids and generally attaching her lips to the teacher's ass. Figuratively, of course. She was the kind of old lady I'd probably be if I ever decided to drag my ass back to school to complete my degree. And that, my friends, is how easy it is for me to talk myself out of shit. No desire to be that old lady.

But I digress. One day the professor gave us our assignment and we all groaned in unison. Well, 29 of 30 of us did. One of us squealed and instinctively raised her hand. I'm sure you can imagine who that was because if you have the intellectual prowess to be able to navigate your way to my blog on the internet, there aren't just rocks banging around between your ear-holes. When she was acknowledged by the professor she breathlessly stammered, "Well, Ms. Professor, I am VERRRRRY excited about this assignment but I feel like it is a little unfair because all of these kids are just beginning life and won't have much to write about while I've had all kinds of experiences to share."

Commence glaring. Not one person peeped because apparently mocking assholery is too much trouble when there's only one minute left in class. The professor merely said, "I think you'll be surprised," and we all hurriedly shoved our books in our bags and hauled ass outta there, eyes a-rolling.

I recall staring at my word processor that night (told ya, I'm an old lady) as my 'minimal life experiences' flashed before my eyes. In the end, I pussed out. I didn't tell the story of being raped and having an abortion. I wasn't brave enough. Apparently bravery is only something I was apt to embrace almost a decade later. I turned in a paper that certainly told my life story. But not the whole truth. I just wasn't ready to be the sacrificial lamb on the alter of Yuh-Huh I DO SO Have Life Experiences Asshole!

When class reconvened, a few chose to read their autobiographies out loud. There was one girl who took Old Lady's challenge head on. She was the first Goth I'd ever seen, before 'Goth' was ever spoken in mainstream lexicon. She'd never spoken a word in class until that day. She pursed her black lips and closed her thickly lined eyes for just a moment and then unfolded, in vivid detail, her experience of being molested as a child and coming to terms with that through her teenage years. I can't even do the experience justice with words. It was absolutely powerful.

There was not a dry eye in the room, but for hers. She shared her story with such intensity and strength that she's more than just a little bit one of my unsung heroes of the past. She was who I hoped I'd be a decade past my shitty shenanigans of the time.

And she is who I became. I owe her. Which is probably why I'm writing this.

That is the longest preamble in the world to say that I hope, in my life, I will always, always be mindful that everyone, young and old, asshole and martyr, has a story. Something worthy of an autobiography.

Even old ladies who go back to college well past the age most people do in the interest of doing SOMETHING for themselves while sitting in a class full of snotty kids who throw the term 'old' around like it's nobody's business and scorn a genuine interest in learning while they're juggling kids, a relationship, a mortgage, a degree, and, not often enough, a vibrator. Yes, they have stories, too.

I want to spend my life minding people's stories. Which sometimes might not seem so obvious what with me droning on about mine, but it's true. That's what I hope to do. To realize that not only is there a My-ography, but a You-ography, too. We're all a bunch of Ographies. Important ones.

Thirty Somethings...Thing 4

2011-01-17T10:13:00.003-07:00

Day 04 → Something you have to forgive someone for.

This one is easy. Nothing. Really and truly, I'm not currently angry or holding a grudge, new or old.

You're welcome to piss me off so I have something to write about and I promise I'll forgive you. Unless you barge into the grocery store line and start putting your shit on the conveyor belt BEFORE I'M EVEN DONE UNLOADING MY GROCERIES! Some asshole actually did that! She? Does not deserve my forgiveness. Which is saying something because I generally have all kinds of forgiveness to go around.

By the way, did you know that being a superhero is kind of a stressful job? It's really hard to find the time to practice my ninja rolls what with the need for my kids to stuff their pie-holes with not just pie. Not to mention, there's always an ass around here that needs wiping. I barely have time to do the moonwalk never mind stitching that rip in my cape.

But when I do find a spare moment, I think I'll hop on my broom, use my super-duper gps powers to find the Grocery Store Asshole, park by the back door, ninja roll into the kitchen and fill every one of her cabinets to the brim with packaging peanuts.

Then I think I might find it in my heart, somewhere deep down in a corner, to forgive her for not thinking I'm the bees knees.

Thirty Somethings...Thing 3

2011-01-12T12:18:00.009-07:00

Day 03 → Something you have to forgive yourself for.

It's funny, I'd been composing this post in my head while I was giving the kids a bath, because that's how I roll with the rough drafting. The thoughts were swirling, and they centered around the idea that I really had nothing I felt compelled to forgive myself for. Nothing.

Lather...Rinse...Repeat...

I spent years sumo wrestling guilt and it was just...counterproductive. So I decided, quite a while ago, that I'm just forgiven. Not much posty sort of material there and it felt like a bit of a cop-out, but it was the best I could conjure up.

And then something interesting happened. Zee looked at me intensely, that piercing direct look, right in the eyeballs, the one that busy family life doesn't afford often enough, and she said, "Mommy, my growing bigger. When my get big my be just like you!"

"No, no, no, you don't, baby! You be just like you when you grow up!" was the first thought that frantically pounced between my ears, craving to escape my lips. But I said, "That's sweet honey. But I like you just like you."

When the student is ready, the teacher will come. Isn't that a saying? If it isn't it should be.

It made me realize that, while yes, I have come to terms with my inadequacies, I have yet to come to terms with my offspring coming to terms with my inadequacies.

So, perhaps what I need to begin doing in the forgiveness department is pre-forgiving myself for the idiosyncrasies and flaws that will eventually screw up my kids. In hopefully non-spectacular ways.

If I were truly prone to self-reflection and betterment, that would probably mean I'd vow to stop composing blog posts in my head and being more present during bath time. But, fuck it, I'm not that great of a person. I'm only human.

And one of the reasons the intense 'Locking of Eyes' moments are so incredibly moving is because they are so incredibly not the norm. A million of those moments might rob them of their worth.

But still, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I get lost in my own little world sometimes and forget to Be. There. Every Minute. of Every Day.

You know what, Zube? It's okay. You're forgiven. But I don't know about you, Mom.

Ouch. That would hurt. More than shampoo in the eyes, I'd imagine.

Thirty Somethings...Thing 2

2011-01-10T08:01:00.004-07:00

Day 02 → Something you love about yourself.

Allow me, for just a moment, to channel Brad. It's easier to find me lovable through his eyes. Ommmmmmmmmmm.....Do people say "Ommmmmmmmm," when they're channeli...wait...wait...It's working!

Ugh. "Dammit, Angelina, would you shut up for just a minute? I'm loving on Zube. Please and thank you."

Ahem, Zube's hot. Like, supermodel hot. Plus? She's a fucking genius. It's true.

And then, I woke up. As Zube, of course. And made myself breakfast. Because I like to do that for the people I sleep with. Makes me feel a little less whorish.

Really, though, I love how I'm usually able to laugh in the midst of sorrow. Like the time I told my coworker to forward an annoying customer to my uterus because it seemed to have a way with putting a stop to things.

I'm generally quite good at reading people. I love that. I also love that it makes me a really good waitress. Some people want to chat. Others just want to eat their fucking eggs already. And I'm able to tell the difference.

I love that I take pride in waitressing. Others might think it's a bullshit job, but I honestly enjoy it.

I love that I love to take care of people.

I've somehow managed to surround myself by amazing people. Love them. I love myself for finding them.

I love my fierce loyalty to my family.

I still creep up the stairs at night and take one last peek at Zee and Bee before I go to bed. I can't believe I've got them. I love that I don't think that feeling of gratitude and disbelief will ever go away.

Sometimes the door to their room creaks and wakes one of them up during these late night visits. I hate that.

Sometimes the door to my room creaks and wakes me up. Goddamnit, Brad! I hate you!

I love to hate Brad.

It's Not an Eggsact Science

2011-01-09T07:06:00.003-07:00

So, I've been working and working and working and have not had time to put into words what exactly it is I love about myself. I'm getting there.

But last night I was laughing about something that had happened a while ago and it gave me an idea. My friend, Chickie, posted a tale written by someone who was too embarrassed to own it. The chickie that wrote the tale? Yeah, that was me. Almost a year later, I figured I'd own up and share it. Enjoy. I hope you laugh. Hard.

Thirty Somethings...

2011-01-03T13:28:00.014-07:00

I've never been one for New Year's Resolutions. I mean, I have them, but they're generally of the ridiculously attainable mocking variety. This year's? I aspire to be more annoying on Facebook. If you're not already my friend, I betcha want to be my Facebook friend now. Really, I have no intention of being more annoying on Facebook. I mean, any more than I might already be.

But, thinking on this whole New Year's Resolution thing, I might actually give it a go with a real one this year. I want to write more. And, as always happens when I get a hankering for brain spills onto keyboard, this here blog is the medium.

That said, forgoing writing for so long, there are gobs of thoughts yearning for the spotlight and I think a little discipline is in order. I'm not usually much of a Meme-er, but this one seems like a timely homework assignment I'll willingly embrace. Something structured to get me from mass chaos to order to my ultimate goal. Free-flow. I stumbled upon it on Stella's blog. I'm jumping on the wagon, beer in hand. Um, this is the bandwagon, right? I've no business on any other wagon. *Glug*

It is officially called Thirty Days of Truth. And I wouldn't be Zube if I didn't rail a bit against the orderliness of it, quest for discipline notwithstanding. I don't know how many days it will take me. I also don't promise to tell the truth. Some of the questions strike me as, hm, a little stupid? My eyes rolled a bit when I read them. I'll be honest about the eyeroll-worthiness of those and make up gargantuan lies to make my answers interesting. So, my version of Thirty Days of Truth is hereby incarnated Thirty Somethings. But I hereby promise that at the end of this exercise there will be thirty answers. In, hopefully, not as many years.

The point of it all? I answer a question with each post. The questions are thus:

Day 01 → Something you hate about yourself.
Day 02 → Something you love about yourself.
Day 03 → Something you have to forgive yourself for.
Day 04 → Something you have to forgive someone for.
Day 05 → Something you hope to do in your life.
Day 06 → Something you hope you never have to do.
Day 07 → Someone who has made your life worth living for.
Day 08 → Someone who made your life hell, or treated you like shit.
Day 09 → Someone you didn’t want to let go, but just drifted.
Day 10 → Someone you need to let go, or wish you didn’t know.
Day 11 → Something people seem to compliment you the most on.
Day 12 → Something you never get compliments on.
Day 13 → A band or artist that has gotten you through some tough ass days. (write a letter.)
Day 14 → A hero that has let you down. (letter)
Day 15 → Something or someone you couldn’t live without, because you’ve tried living without it.
Day 16 → Someone or something you definitely could live without.
Day 17 → A book you’ve read that changed your views on something.
Day 18 → Your views on gay marriage.
Day 19 → What do you think of religion? Or what do you think of politics?
Day 20 → Your views on drugs and alcohol.
Day 21 → (scenario) Your best friend is in a car accident and you two got into a fight an hour before. What do you do?
Day 22 → Something you wish you hadn’t done in your life.
Day 23 → Something you wish you had done in your life.
Day 24 → Make a playlist to someone, and explain why you chose all the songs. (Just post the titles and artists and letter)
Day 25 → The reason you believe you’re still alive today.
Day 26 → Have you ever thought about giving up on life? If so, when and why?
Day 27 → What’s the best thing going for you right now?
Day 28 → What if you were pregnant or got someone pregnant, what would you do?
Day 29 → Something you hope to change about yourself. And why.
Day 30 → A letter to yourself, tell yourself EVERYTHING you love about yourself

Some are pretty dumb, right? And I'm mentally exhausted just reading the list, so I'll start the project another day. And that's the truth.

Wherein My Mind Gets Blown

2011-01-02T14:27:00.008-07:00

The other day I was showing Zee some photos of family on Facebook. We ventured our way through some pictures of her and Bee and ultimately ended up watching her birth montage...

Make an on-line slideshow at www.OneTrueMedia.com

She stared intently, and proclaimed, "Oh no, Mommy, my crying! My COLD!" while seeing the pictures taken immediately after her debut. And then...she said something that sent my tear ducts reeling. The photo shot when the doctors first held her next to me, assuring me that, yes, in fact, I had a beautiful case of real, actual baby on my hands. Upon seeing that picture, Zee nearly shouted, "Aw, look Mommy! You so happy see me!"

Baby girl, you have no fucking idea just how happy I was. And am still actually.

There was something pretty mind-blowing about that moment. Like time colliding. The collision of two mind-blowing moments. Every time I see that picture of us moments after she was born I recall vividly just how absolutely shocked I was that an actual, real, heart-beaty baby had been in my guts the whole time and I'd not been precariously incubating a weird tumor with a heartbeat as I'd suspected. I just couldn't bring myself to believe that at the end of the day, I'd have a baby they'd let me bring home to my own house and screw up in hopefully minor, quirky, 'Mom's Only Human' ways. Even further from my mind was that some day I'd have a little girl.

And to hear the little girl I dared dream of having once upon a time say, in her precious little girl voice, "Aw, look Mommy! You so happy see me!" packed a similar punch to seeing her upon her arrival. Not a bad punch. Actually more like a fruit punch. Nah, even better, a cotton candy punch. A cotton candy punch with a splash of vodka. It was fucking awesome. And, I'd imagine, just as dizzying.

My sweet little girl, I am just as happy to see you every day 'til ~~Kingdom~~ Queendom come! Believe it or not.

Now, for crying out loud, PICK UP YOUR CRAYONS!!! And get Mommy a tissue. Please. *Sniff*

I Am Fucking Zube

2010-12-30T12:22:00.002-07:00

I've decided. I'm fucking Zube. I don't mean I'm FUCKING Zube. I mean I AM fucking Zube. Right now. That is to say, I'm Zube. And nobody else.

Also? Recent decision of my Zubeness notwithstanding, I'm also indecisive. You heard it here first. Or in your head maybe.

I work too much, in case you were wondering. I quit my job to be at home with the kids and a month and a half later got a kick ass waitressing job with awesome people at a super-cozy little place. Somehow, in recent months, I've acquired two other part time jobs. So now it's as though I'm working more than full time. I've recently been scratching my head and asking myself why the hell I got myself into this mess. Ah. Because I can't say no. Right.

Odds are I'm typing to a wall right now because I up and abandoned this here web page a while ago, but in a way that's okay. I think it is therapeutic to type to walls now and again. And that's all that matters really.

I've Exhausted Non-Anonymity

2010-06-28T18:36:00.006-07:00

I have always prided myself on my dedication to honesty. I believe that, for many years, The Adventures of Zube Girl was home to lots of honest blatherings, uninhibited by the judgment of others. Actually? I think I welcomed the judgment of others. I thrived on being honest about hard shit. And was humble, or at least accepting to people who called me out on the hardness of that shit or whathaveyou.

Recently (I mean, if you consider three years recent) I've come to realize that non-anonymity is impeding my inner-writer. I have been fighting going underground vehemently, but I see no other way around it. I have a million fucking things to say, but they've taken up residence in my head, and won't GET THE FUCK OUT, because I have strictly adhered to this honesty (more like, everyone knows who I am and everyone I know so I don't want to rock the boat) policy.

I've got to stop. For my own sanity. I mean, I've got to stop lying for the sake of being honest.

Which is to say, I must write elsewhere. Elsewhere, where I'm not known (Hi, Mom! I promise I won't talk shit about you! I won't talk shit at all, really. I just need to be fucking honest for once in three years). Or my writing will forever suffer.

If you're so inclined to follow along, drop me an e-mail at zubegirl at gmail dot com. I have not set up this Honest Liars Lair just yet, but will in the next day or so. I might ask for a bit of backstory if you ask where to find me. Just fair warning.

It's been real and it's been fun. Even really fun sometimes. But now it is time to call it quits here. Sorry folks.

Flying the Friendly Skies

2010-06-08T09:18:00.006-07:00

On my recent sojourn to the Land of Zubes, AKA Jersey, I learned many, many things.

-If your kids are crabby for the first hour of a flight? And then angels for the remaining three? People will still give you the old stink eye as you wrestle your children off the plane. That first hour makes a lasting impression, it would seem.

-If your kids are angels for the first three and a half hours of a flight and then lose their fucking minds a half hour before landing and then crash out of exhaustion as the landing gear goes down and you're left in a quandry wondering how on earth you are going to unload two sleeping children, a wheeled suitcase, a diaper bag, a single stroller, to get to baggage claim with only two arms? In this event, people can actually be pretty goddamned nice. One will offer to carry your bags and another will offer to carry your baby and they'll give you a sympathetic smile as you swagger off carrying your previously screaming, now sleeping toddler. They'll take turns helping you push the toddler in a stroller to your destination.

-If you also happen to disintegrate into a puddle of tears at the sight of your honey upon exiting security and then stand sniffling and red-eyed at baggage claim? People are EVEN nicer. They'll tell you how great your kids were the whole trip and how they just must have been tired at the end and how you were such a trooper.

Sometimes traveling alone with the two kids reaffirms my theory that people are inherently good. Sometimes it doesn't.

I had an awesome fucking trip. Totally awesome. And also? Us Zubes make some damn good looking children.

Though said beatiful children will most certainly test your patience and instestinal fortitude in any attempt you make to capture their beautifullness on film. This photo was finally snapped after two hours of diligent cajoling, bribing, and tear-wiping. The photographer was a saint. Truly. The Zubes had actually given up. We were willing to settle for individual shots of each. I'm glad we were persuaded to give it one more go.

A Bowl of Pissy Cheerios with a Wrong Side of the Bed

2010-05-15T06:45:00.004-07:00

MAN, I am just PISSY. It is rather unlike me. Usually any proclamation of foul-moodedness on my part is accompanied by a hearty self-deprecating laugh. Contrary to popular belief, I'm a pretty happy person. But the weather? AAAARGH!

I know I just bitched about it, oh, two weeks ago, but I'm going to bitch about it again. Honestly? I really like snow. Which is lucky for me because we get LOTS of it. But I like it in October and November and December and January and February and March and April. I used to think it was totally laughable when I first moved out here and it would snow in May. A fucking riot. I'd call my Jersey family who'd respond with shock and awe every time. I might've even thought it was nifty.

But having just completed my tenth season (we're so cool up here, we don't count how long we've resided here in years, but in ski seasons...) I'm noticing that each year I get more and more stabby in May. Zee's birthday is tomorrow. When she was born, it happened to be gorgeous. Awesome how it worked out that way since there was not much happening in the adult beverages on sunny decks department.

On her first birthday, we'd hoped to have a huge barbecuey bash complete with a bonfire in the backyard. Problem was, on her birthday weekend we couldn't even trek through the snow to GET to the fire pit. And so we never had that bash.

Her second birthday was a bit better. We did manage to swing a barbecuey bash. But it was butt ass cold and rainy. At least it wasn't snowing. Though it did snow later that month.

This year...still snow. We didn't even bother with planning a bash.

Oh, P-Chef, Tennessee never sounded so good.

I've got to go shovel the deck. Again.

Brush-a-Brush-a-Brush-a

2010-05-08T19:25:00.003-07:00

Z-Boy: Man, my forearms hurt.

Zube: All four of them?

Z-Boy: Shut up. Dork.

Six months ago I remember telling anyone who would listen that if I never saw another paintbrush again, it would be too soon. It is too soon.

In anticipation of putting our house on the market we are staining and painting the exterior and painting what we gave up on about, oh, six months ago.

I fucking hate painting. I really, really do.

I Don't Fucking Know

2010-05-06T12:20:00.006-07:00

There are some things that people should just know. Even stupid people. Usually, I know everything, but once in a while something crops up and I don't have a fucking clue. Generally, I keep it to myself because I'm proud like that and I always like to imagine that some idiot is listening and it is better not to let an idiot hear that you don't know something. Because unlike smart people, idiots have NO IDEA what does NOT reside in their brains. Only what does. And one of the things that resides in an idiot's brain is the misconception that they DO know everything. Because the shit they don't know, well, their brain cells can't fathom its existence.

You know what's awesome? What I just did right there. I turned my not knowing something into an attribute of smartness. Damn, I'm good.

Anywho, I don't know something. I assure you it does not involve driving. In fact, only I know how to drive. Not a single other asshole on the road at any given moment knows how to drive as well as I do. Well, except that one time I accidentally cut someone off (though I'm pretty sure they were going WAY too fast in the right lane because I swear I looked and didn't see anyone) but I've forgiven myself for that one because ten minutes earlier I was being told that, in fact, I had just miscarried. And aside from that being a pretty good fucking excuse (shut up, I know I really shouldn't have been driving, but crying in the car in the hospital parking lot waiting for someone to pick me up was not as appealing as crying at home in my bed, ahem) I am now a bit more reticent with the Road Rage because I try to imagine that the asshole who cut ME off maybe just found out some bad shit, too. And I'd hate to add to their need to cry. So, believe it or not, I wave and smile when people cut me off. You heard it here first.

Where the hell was I? Oh yes. My ignorance. Here 'tis: I haven't a damn clue how to have a garage sale. I have garage sale stuff, and I have a garage. Though not a thing will fit in the garage because Z-Boy has an affinity for collecting transmissions and engines and half built go-carts made from scratch. More importantly, though, I have a driveway. A big one. And shit. Shit to sell. Soon. Ish.

But I don't even know where to begin. I'd toss it all, or give it away, but I feel a little like, being at home, in between diapers and crying and breaking up fights (holy shit, Zee is almost three and Bee is only nine months but did I mention, I'm BREAKING UP FIGHTS already? Zee is bigger, you'd think she'd win, and mostly she does, but Bee has a hell of a grip for such a wee one...) I should take the time to maybe try to earn a little cash. I don't even mind having an Everything's a Dollar ~~Garage~~ Driveway Sale. Well, you know, except for everything that's not a dollar. Like the Playstation 2? X-Box? I don't know what the hell it is but Z-Boy said $20 for it would be a steal. And the $10 video camera, too.

But, alas, I am stupid. And am completely at a loss as to how to begin this process. Advertising, displaying, pricing...ugh.

I'm not sure whether I should feel fortunate or unfortunate that I don't know how to do this. This seems like something that people should just know. But! I know many things that people just don't. Like that a barnacle has the largest penis of all creatures, in comparison to the size of its body. Don't believe me? Google it. I'll wait...

Fuck It, Fight It, It's All the Same...

2010-05-04T12:29:00.007-07:00

I like to cuss. I'm certain that if you've even ever been here only once, this confession should come as no surprise. I wouldn't even call it a confession. More a statement of fact. And if this is your first time here, well then now you fucking know. And you'd have noticed soon enough without the warning. I talk like a truck driver and perhaps even moreso now in the presence of adults in real life and here on the internets (Hey you! The twelve-year-old who thinks I'm a MILF! Go do your homework! What are you, Brad's cousin or something?) because I have to reign in the F-Bombs around the childrens. And there is just something so goddamn cathartic about swearing for me.

That said, there is one swear that I use with the utmost discretion. I reserve it for only the most deserving of recipients. That is the word cunt. It isn't that the word bothers me especially. Honestly? I'm always afraid that when I use it someone will say I'm not a real feminist and so I make especially sure that when I'm calling someone a cunt, it is worth any hassle I will get. I've got to tell you, I haven't received my card in the mail just yet, but I'm a member of the Feminist Club just the same. And I don't even pretend not to be. Like, "Oh, OF COURSE I think women should be equal, but I'm not a FEMINIST! Ew! They're, like, hairy and ugly and stuff!" I'll say it loud and proud. I'm a feminist.

And yet, I cannot rectify the fact that I'm a feminist with the fact that nothing gives me more pleasure than calling someone I don't like a fucking cunt. I suppose I could equate it to calling someone a prick. But that'd be a lie. It just isn't the same.

Still, though? At the risk of ruining my feminist street cred and all? My former coworker is a FUCKING CUNT! And that is ultimately why I quit my job. I hadn't wanted to say anything while I was still working because, though none of my former coworkers read my blog, it would be easy peasy for them to find if they put in a little effort. And, well, let me call a spade a spade, Cunt was looking for every opportunity to throw me under the bus since she had already succeeded in getting my coworker fired and seemed bored with her lack of a victim. Now that I'm gone and I've come to realize that I don't give a rat's ass about burning bridges (why should I worry about burning bridges when employers don't have to worry about the same?) I'll spill it.

In the end, this was a good thing. I had been finding my job not leg-humpworthy for years. And I think my ex-boss is losing her damn mind what with nearly humping Cunt's leg on a thrice daily basis.

What is really cool, though, is that knowing I was leaving eventually, and knowing that I decided when I'd leave, and knowing that they could all fucking kiss my ass because I knew shit they didn't know and they needed me to stay and I could leave whenever I fucking wanted, well, it gave me power. I'm power-trippin' yo. Hence the unabashed use of run-on sentences. I found my voice. I spoke up for myself in a way I hadn't for the eight years I'd been there.

I don't have the intestinal fortitude to go into the details of Cunt's cuntiness, but I thought I'd share an e-mail I sent to my boss with you. Mostly because I read it and smile and thought you might, too. And it sort of sums things up so you'd get the general idea of what happened. Because some of you have so kindly asked.

Without further ado...Here it is...An e-mail to my ex-boss...

Boss,

Here’s the thing. I totally get that you need to back up Cunt at this point. She’ll be staying and I’m not. It behooves you to sing her praises. It would be silly to do anything else from a business standpoint. It even makes sense that, in order to buoy Cunt, I be painted as incompetent. That’s fine, too. She needs the boost, not me because I’ll be gone.

That said, working with The Two Cunts (the sacchariny sweet one when you and Delores are around and the condescending, snotty one when you are not) is disconcerting to say the least, offensive to say the most. I am staying past April 7th for your and Delores' sake, despite Cunt. But while you backing her up makes good business sense for you, me tolerating condescension from her and being treated as though I’m incompetent does not make good personal sense for me.

Last night I almost decided to rescind my offer to stay past my originally planned resignation date of April 7th. I’ve decided against that because I don’t want to do that to you or to Delores. But, once April 7th comes, I am prepared to leave if I find working with Cunt too stressful. I’d likely be willing to come in and train Delores hourly if it comes to that.

I also want to add, I was a little thrown by your response to my e-mail offering to leave notes about the groups that had absolutely no acknowledgement of the project I was taking on. I mean, I don’t need anyone to do an interpretive dance to “Wind Beneath My Wings” or anything. Heck, I don’t even need a thank you. But it would have been nice if it had mentioned, after singing Cunt’s accolades, “That’d be cool, Zube.” These aren’t notes My Predecessor gave me, nor would I have expected her to. It is stuff I figured out on my own over the past eight years.

Anyway, I’d hate for our relationship to spiral downwards in the upcoming weeks. Seriously. That’s what I fear most. But I also don’t want to willingly play the part of sacrificial lamb for the next six weeks.

Zube

Suffice it to say, my ass was not harrassed outwardly and I worked the remaining weeks I'd been asked to stay.

But now, thank the dieties, I'm done. And on that note...

$#@!%&

2010-05-01T07:44:00.002-07:00

Here is what I know. It isn't EVERYTHING I know because, well, that's a whole fucking lot. If you've known me for any amount of time then you already know this. So we'll say this is just a smattering of things I know.

I know that I live in the Rocky Mountains in Colorado.

I also know that sometimes it snows once the ski resort closes.

I know that this snow, if you ask me, is fucking useless.

I know I probably have no right to bitch about snow because of my aforementioned knowledge of living in the Rocky Mountains and knowing it snows.

I know that I don't care if I probably shouldn't bitch about the snow.

Because if there's anything I know how to do it is bitch.

Lasly, I know I got a little slack there for a week. I'm unemployed and I've been trying in vain to thoroughly enjoy it. But it is difficult to be cooped up in the house, the very SMALL house, while it is snowing outside with two kids and one sick husband.

Ugh.

What's Cooking? Uh, Not Much. Until Just Recently.

2010-04-22T12:07:00.003-07:00

I used to LOVE to cook. I mean, like, I adored it. I'd sift through recipe books and plan menus and experiment with new and funky things. I was no PaintingChef, or even simply a Chef, but I was pretty damn good. And, more importantly, I enjoyed the process.

In recent years, though, my passion for all things kitcheny has spiraled to the depths of Pulseless Hobby. My cooking has flatlined. I feel like a Domestic Goddess if only one half of the Zee Bee equation has a snotty nose at the end of the day and the overcooked Hamburger Helper makes it to the table undropped, a few morsels scattered on the kitchen floor for the canine-feline bunch notwithstanding.

I will confess, though, that mostly? I love to cook for compliments. Way less messy than fishing for them what with not having to wear unflattering fishing gear and hook a worm and all that grody stuff. I get a thrill out of hosting Thanksgiving dinner even though it involves a little sweat and copious amounts of wine because when someone says, "GODDAMN this turkey is good, Zube!" it makes my fucking year.

Here's the thing, though. Cuisine Compliments have just never been Z-Boy's strong suit. It took only one, "My Mom doesn't make chicken soup like that," and a disinterested refusal to try my version and the wind? She was violently sucked out from under my culinary sails. We've since covered this egregious transgression EXHAUSTIVELY in the Zube household, so no need to chastise.

Since the kids have made their debut, I've been trying to wrestle my ego back into cooking. It is not easy due to the aforementioned Operation: Deflate Culinary Diva and time constraints but I've got to tell you, nothing will inject your heart with Skittles and Care Bears faster than when your almost three-year-old opens the refrigerator all by herself, grabs the tupperware of 'Mama's Soup!' and thrusts it at you while you're fixing to make her a bowl of cereal for breakfast. In fact, I'm pretty sure if you looked it up in the dictionary, this is the definition of awesome.

I have been tempted back into the apron by the lure of actually being on the receiving end of Mom's Home Cooking references someday (thought my kids will be told EXPLICITLY that I don't care if their future partner's chicken soup tastes like yesterday's ass sprinkled with toe jam, they should NEVER mention my cooking being superior, though they'll certainly be allowed to think it. Ahem.).

Maybe one way to get to loving to cook again is to take the path that's just a tad longer. I'll start by loving to cook for my kids. I'm sure the personal satisfaction will follow suit.

Pucks Are Stupid (And This Time I'm Including The Real World Puck, Too)

2010-04-21T08:20:00.004-07:00

Pre-Game Zube...

With Post-Game Zube Art.

You might recall that yesterday I declared not loving feeling stupid? Yeah. What really sucks, too? After the Devils scored first, Z-Boy suggested I have a shot each time the Devils scored. And that HE have a shot each time the Flyers scored. I'm sure he was being all awesome and supportive and assumed I would get to do more shots.

Alas, I had just one. While he had four. So. Not. Fair.

Puck Time - And I'm Not Talking About the Crazy Ass Real World Variety Puck

2010-04-20T13:45:00.006-07:00

Tonight Z-Boy and I have a big date. Complete with a babysitter and everything. The reason being? The DEVILS are playing the FLYERS! Which is always a good lead up to a minor family fued. Because I'm a Devils fan while all of the other crazy ass people in my family are Flyers fans. Most especially Bro. But Bro and I are okay with the friendly hockey ferocity, so long as we steer clear of the alcohol and the politics. Because the alcohol and the politics lead to drunken shout-outs in earshot of other innocent campers followed by hugs and slurred confessions of, "I love you even though you're an idiot."

Here's why I'm really fortunate, though. Z-Boy likes hockey. Actually it is the only sport he and I like, period. Which, among other things (like quiet no tv Sundays), means that our children will probably grow up to be total jocks and we'll have to endure hours upon hours of soccer, football, baseball, blowball, suckball, well, you get the idea. I told him I'd be happy if they played hockey. He concurs. But the awesome thing about Z-Boy is that he's not really a fan of any hockey team yet he humors me and totally cheers for my Devils when we watch. Well, when we have the game on and he watches for me because I have this fucked up superstition that I have to have the game on but can't look at the tv or the Devils start losing. It is a little ridiculous. But he shouts out what is going on while I'm deliberatly ignoring the tv. Because he has my fucking back like that.

I'm stoked. And I really hope they win because I'm wearing my Devils shirt and everything and will be the only Devils fan in the bar, I'm pretty sure. Amongst Flyers fans. It would be just my luck that my favorite bar in fucking COLORADO happens to be the favorite bar of all sorts of Jersey and Pennsy Flyers fan transplants.

I really don't love feeling stupid. Here's to hoping I don't have to. Go DEVILS!

So Helpful

2010-04-19T13:32:00.001-07:00

Zube: So the doctor gave me some muscle relaxers for daytime use and valium for sleeping which will hopefully help my muscle spasm and restore the use of my back and arm.

Z-Boy: Who sang that song Mother's Little Helper?

Zube: Um, I don't think they were singing about valium. More like speed. Valium would be SO not a Mother's Helper. At all.

Z-Boy: Oh. Well, same difference.

Zube: Not really.

They Say a Picture Is Worth...

2010-04-16T11:18:00.009-07:00

1,000 words. I'd like to amend that. A picture is worth four words.

Where do I begin?

Firstly, I should probably remember I am not a twelve-year-old boy. That's one way to begin.

But on the other hand, the twelve-year-old boy one, what exactly is going on in this pre-tomato snack playtime session? Something tells me there is a Guiding Light in here somewhere. But since I've not slept for any substantial amount of time in months and never watched a full hour of The Soap Operas EVER, not even hung over as all get-out in my dedicated pursuit of passing my Partying major in college, I'm drawing a blank. If by blank I mean that my brain is being inundated by various and sundry sordid stories behind the photo. I'm just too spent to pick one.

The childrens and I were up at 3:30AM today. All three of us. Awesome, no? Yes.

Mostly, I think you guys are funnier than I am...and I'm sort of needing you to make me laugh, if you're so inclined.

Alannis Forgot a Few Verses Is All I'm Saying

2010-04-12T13:31:00.012-07:00

The other day a teenage girl came to the front desk because her family was departing our beloved resort and she wanted to partake in the consumption of some yogurt on the long drive to the airport and hoped we might have a plastic spoon. We don't have plastic spoons behind the front desk as a rule, but we do have a little kitchen in the back that is kept well-stocked by tourists throughout the winter with tons of random shit not worthy of an airplane ride. I told her I'd go check.

Lo and behond, there was a box I did spy with mine own eyes of plasticware up on a shelf. I grabbed it and peeked inside. Sadly, plastic spoons must be popular, whereas plastic forks and knives are not. The box was overflowing with exactly what she did not need. I wasn't sure how adventurous she was with her yogurt eating endeavors so I brought her a plastic fork and a plastic knife and, as I handed them to her, said, "There were no spoons, I'm sorry, but here is a fork and a knife in case they might come in handy." I should have stopped there, after she said the requisite, "Thank you," but I carried on.

"It's a little ironic, don't you think?"

She laughed at me in that ironic way that teenagers laugh at 'old people' and left me to snicker on, all by my lonesome.

It was ironic, though. And I think Alannis might have written that song with exactly our situation in mind.

Anywho, dabbling in irony as I am, I thought I'd share this photo with you...

That used to be a wine rack.

PS- I love hats. I mean, that probably wouldn't pass the truthiness test. I love hats MY KIDS WEAR. I, personally, hate hats.

Also ironic? I have a perfect replica of the Big Dipper on my chin. And wrinkles.

And one more, for good measure. Zee is FINALLY wasting away in nap(Mommy-gets-a-break)ville, and Bee just woke up.

Awesome.

Oh-Oh-Oh-Oh-Oh, Oh-Oh-Oh-Oh...The Write Stuff

2010-04-10T09:56:00.008-07:00

Recently I've been putting some thought into writing, like, fer realz. I mean, not that writing here is fer fake or anything, it is damn realz. But it doesn't bring in any dough. Which is totally cool by me. I don't have to set the world on fire here. It is a place where I embrace my inner Cartman with the not caring and the doing what I wanting. Which is sometimes absolutely NOTHING, as has been painfully obvious in recent history.

I wonder what writing would be like for me if I, like, couldn't say like. And had to use proper punctuation. If I couldn't fuck with grammar. See, I know grammar rulez. Very well, in fact. I break them regularly, of course, but I like to tell myself that even in breaking them, I'm still a real writer. I think it takes some knowledge of the rules you're breaking to, in fact, break them well. Humor me, if you would. That's my excuse. And you know all about excuses. They are like...not brains. Everyone has got an excuse, but not everyone has got a brain. Assholes on the other hand...

Anywho, I wish I could find a publication that just LOVED to feature totally run-on sentences, the F-Bomb, and periods. for. emphasis. Does such a thing exist? Because if it does, I'm their girl! Please contact them and let them know what they're missing!

Lastly, and more importantly, I'm scared SHITLESS, to be honest, about not bringing in any income in the very near future. As those of you who are my buddies over on Facebook already know, I'm going to be leaving my job. That's another story for another day. Like, a day when I'm no longer employed by them and can talk smack. But suffice it to say, I am So. Done. Well Done. I will miss the paycheck, but that is about it. I'd been clinging to a family feel the place had years ago but lost through the course of time. And now that I've finally realized that, I am absolutely thrilled to move on and it no longer feels like I'm leaving beloved family behind. I did that once already, sniff, love ya Jerz! Wouldn't want to do it again. Thankfully, I'm not. At all. April 28th can't come soon enough.

And this imminent joblessness is the catalyst for my thoughts on writing for work. But there is a bitchy girl in me (well, duh!) who has been chanting, "It is not possible." There is another, humble and hopeful sort of girl in me, that keeps chanting, "But, what IF?." Eh well. Dreams people. Sleep wouldn't be the same without them. Did I just say sleep? Sleep is a dream around here these days. Let's call this writing thing a waking dream. A sweet one.

And sweet dreams to you all, whatever those might be...

I Am Pretty Sure...

2010-04-02T13:03:00.009-07:00

I'm not capable of doing justice to this story with the use of mere words. But fuck it. I'll try.

I went grocery shopping yesterday. A typically mundane chore. Well, if mundane were to mean terribly exciting what with the added drama of one quite self-possessed toddler with her own mini-sized shopping cart (those things are a blessing and a curse) and one not-so-tiny big old baby who has just overcome an illness, the likes of which The Excorcist's Regan would have been thorougly impressed. That kind of mundane. Obviously, I am in dire need of a dictionary.

Zee loves the mini-carts at our grocery store. Love being an understatement. I love them... to a degree. They certainly serve the purpose of keeping her occupied and ENJOYING grocery shopping forays, yet they add all sorts of complicating, what an asshole of a mother, potential. Good times.

Zee has absolutely ZERO concept of OTHER PEOPLE SHOPPING. Something of which I am hyper-aware, particularly in a ski resort town. During March. Spring Break, in fact. I am SO aware of other people at the grocery store that I often find myself serving a can of black beans and tuna sandwiches for dinner because I drove through the parking lot and convinced myself I was actually JUST KIDDING about going inside. When the nearest parking spot to the grocery store is in front of the liquor store, six stores away, well, I don't need any more temptation than already exists to test my theory that there is a pork chop in every beer. For all ages. Ahem.

At any rate, Zee will cut people off in her fevered quest for hot chocyat and other goods. I admire the girl's zeal. Though, understandably, not everyone does.

Yesterday, during one of Zee's spastic shopping excursions, she set her sights on some yummy-looking grapes and ran directly in the path of a gentleman. I yelled out in exasperation, "ZEE, COME HERE and PLEASE watch where you are going!" I turned to him and said, "I'm sorry." He smiled at her and said, "Oh, it's okay."

The thing is, I know this man. He may or may not know me. I'm sure he recognized me in that 'we live in the same small town' kind of sense but beyond that, I just don't know. At one point in time, I had a number of friends who worked for him. And it had come to pass that they told me he'd lost his little girl.

I have taken Zee to play in the park dedicated to his daughter, his only child, on many occasions. There is a wall erected there, bearing a plaque with her image. She died of cancerand the brick wall is covered with tiles drawn by the children in her class the year she died.

When the moment between us passed, time stopped for me there in the pasta aisle. I could barely breathe, for breathing seemed to carry with it the threat of tears. I held my breath and choked back sobs.

It was as though the feelings I'd never fully been able to call up while tracing the bronze tendrils of his daughter's hair on the plaque at the playground came barrelling at me with the force of a...shit...I don't even know. This is where words fail.

I was overcome. Absolutely overcome. Overcome with the thought that my daughter might have reminded him of his daughter and how he lost his daughter and how I'd be simply devastated if I lost my daughter but I couldn't even imagine it, only holy fuck he KNOWS what it is like to lose a daughter and maybe seeing my daughter caused him pain. I tried for a moment to understand and found myself choking on sorrow. Borrowed sorrow. Which then felt ingenuine. I didn't even deserve it.

I remember MANY times during The Miscarriage Era, going to the grocery store and seeing rounded bellies everywhere. And on the best of days, I simply wished those women knew how fortunate they were. And this doesn't even compare to that. The situations are more than worlds apart.

I suppose that, for whatever reason I am writing this, it is zig-zaggedly getting at this...life is precious. And so fleeting, however long. Cherish every bit of it.

I needed that reminder desperately. And I feel selfish for saying that. But I so feel it in a way that I hope is only self-consciously afraid of appearing selfish. And doesn't appear outwardly so. Though I'm going to assume it appears selfish. Because I have not ever suffered such a loss.

You just never know, in the throes of the pasta aisle at City Market, what will rock you to your core and remind you of just how human, and fragile, we all are. Every one of us.

Don't Want to Break a Promise

2010-03-31T20:51:00.005-07:00

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...

2010-03-27T09:40:00.013-07:00

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!

2010-03-24T11:59:00.003-07:00

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

2010-03-22T13:02:00.007-07:00

- 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...

2010-03-20T14:41:00.006-07:00

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

2010-03-19T12:51:00.004-07:00

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.

If Ever a Burglar...

2009-10-18T13:19:00.004-07:00

Dared to break into my house, and the baby (hereafter known as Bee) and I happened to be sleeping? I would totally kick his ass. I mean, unless he didn't wake us up. In which case, it'd all be cool. But if Bee and I happened to be frolicking about as is not unusual for us in the early, early AM (Bee is TOTALLY a Zube, that boy can party late night with the best of them), I would most likely hand Bee and his bottle over to the would-be burglar, grab his big black sack and fill it with the metric ton of SHIT that is bursting through the seams of my house. I'd even offer our garage up for his use to have himself a little garage sale bonanza. And I'd make lemonade. Spiked with vodka. So people would get drunk enough to buy our crap. He might want to leave his ninja suit at home and dress all civilian-like so as not to scare potential buyers away. He can put the suit on once everyone gets good and tipsy and things get really wild and people are whooping it up, swirling my incongruos collection of soup spoons through the air, though. I think once spoon in air swirling begins, all bets on attire are off. It's ninja time. I mean, if he happens to be into that sort of thing. Which, well, seeing as that's how we met...or would meet. If, you know, such a thing ever happened.

I've come to the conclusion that having teeny kids is not conducive to writing. Yeah. What can I say? I'm a little slower than you all who've had that shit figured out for, oh, I don't know, two and a half years now? I've decided to be okay with it. I mean, the fact that I don't have the kind of time I need to write doesn't change the fact that I like to write. There is so much manual labor involved with Zee and Bee right now that I'll merely have to take out my penchant for writing by making interesting grocery lists. And badgering innocent bystanders. "Um, excuse me grocery store man, but would you kindly tell me where I can find pacifier screws? Oh yes, you know, the ones that fit in the little holes of the pacifier so you can screw them to the baby's mouth? I can't seem to find them. And also, do you happen to know any pediatric surgeons? I still can't seem to locate the screw holes on the baby. It's entirely possible that I've missed them as I'm usually looking whilst in a sleep-deprived state at 2AM, but..."

Anyway, you can rest assured that while I'm decidedly NOT busy letting you know about every tiny hair that grows out of my chin here, I will be screwing around somewhere in the world.

Good LORD ZUBE!!!

2009-08-20T08:14:00.009-07:00

HEY ZUBE!! I'm HIJACKING YOUR BLOG!!

I told you I'd do it if you didn't.

PaintingChef here.

Not that she's told you but Zube had a PRECIOUS little boy on July 30th.

Please welcome the newest member of the Zube Family...

IT'S A BOY!!!

I've tried to find the relevant details on Zube's Facebook page for his weight, height, head size, etc. but I have failed. What we do know is that he is absolutely perfect and he'd really like those damn kids to get of his effing lawn.

Congratulations Zube Family!!

***Update by Zube***

Have I ever mentioned just how much I lurve P-Chef? Anywho, yes, Keenan Michael was born on July 30th at 8:18 AM weighing 5lb 15 oz. Sounds like a bit of a squirt, but he's a good size considering the altitude and lack of oxygen in the air round these parts. We're all smitten, Zee is thrilled with her little brother (and was particularly thrilled with the Lincoln Logs he brought her from within mah belly). Things around here are sleepless and wonderful. I can't believe I did it again. Thanks to all who are still paying attention.

People Are Strange...

2009-06-16T13:22:00.003-07:00

When you're a stranger.

Well folks, let me just take off my imaginary bobo and put on this blue sweater and say, "Hi Stranger! Er, I mean, neighbor!"

Firstly things first. If you are interested in keeping tabs on me and the second kid I'm cooking up in there, might I suggest that you can find me, FAR MORE OFTEN, here. Feel free to friend me, just give me a clue that you know me from this here blog because believe it or not, I can be a little discerning about who I befriend on Facebook.

Ahem, now that that is out of the way. Things are progressing fantastically in mah belly. I'm almost 32 weeks along and the repeat c-section has been scheduled for August 7. We'll have to see if this one makes it that far or if s/he will decide to come earlier like her/his sister! I've had such a normal pregnancy that I've even ceased to anticipate the other shoe dropping. It's fucking nuts, yo.

Anyway, I've received a few e-mails asking after me and wanted to update those of you who kindly still care. :-) Things are fan-friggin-tastic. I'm just mostly wiped-out.

Things Like This...

2009-02-28T13:45:00.004-07:00

Are what really throw me for a loop.

I'll be idly sitting on the pot, minding my own business, checking out the view, when, BAM! It'll hit me like a freight train. A happy freight train, mind you, carrying puppies and clowns and oodles of bubbles. Wait, nevermind the clowns. They're scary. Just imagine Amtrak on a deliriously happy acid trip. I have a baby. A real live baby. And she's more wonderful than I could ever imagine. Sometimes when I'm smack in the middle of parenting and tying shoes and picking up strewn crumbs I don't have the headspace to remember. But when I'm doing my business on the throne, well, I really can't thinking of anything else.

And it might just be happening all over again.

All's clear in the baby #2 department. Not near the drama I'd experienced up until now with Zee. It's a little eerie. I'm just knocked up. All normal-style. No bleeding or funkiness. I have to admit I miss the twelve thousand ultrasounds a little bit, but I'll settle for hearing a thumpa-thumping heartbeat now and again if it means I don't have to worry about the welfare of the little frog.

I'm also dealing with the mother of all writing blocks. I'm working on it. In an active way, which feels good. I'm writing my ass off, just not here. I have so much cluttering my brain that I'm just not ready to share with god and everybody. I need to quiet my inner critic before I'm ready for the spotlight again. Sorry 'bout that. Really, I'm sorrier for me 'bout that. I miss it here. But I'll be back.

YAY! And Stuff...

2009-01-23T12:03:00.006-07:00

First things first. I am incubating a masterpiece. Duh, you might be thinking. Of course she is incubating a masterpiece. It's that Zube blood. But I bet you weren't thinking that I was LITERALLY carrying The Scream in my womb. Don't believe me? Check it out...

You might have to click and biggify the picture to see the resemblence. All joking aside, I really don't have a freakin' clue what is what. Not even my imagination is that vivid. What I did find out is that there is a little heartbeat in there flickering away and that's all I need to know. Well, that and the ultrasound tech calmed my fear that my Scream does NOT, in fact, have an arm growing out of her/his head. I'm relieved.

I am eleven weeks now and we have a heartbeat. Just a week shy of the second trimester, I've decided to be happy and maybe a little excited. Pass the O'Douls! It's time to celebrate.

And, just in case you didn't know, if you're a little fucked up in the head? And you have a kid? You're still going to be a little fucked up in the head. Apparently having a kid doesn't de-fuck up you. Who knew? Not me. I kinda thought once I had a kid everything would fall into place and I'd be all perfectly awesome in my headspace. Not so much. Deliriously happy? Most times. Scared and confused and self-conscious? Once in a while.

So, I'm in counseling again. And I feel a little stupid about it, to be honest. How many times am I going to have to go to counseling before I'm, you know, done? Fixed? Just a smidge outside of normal? That's all I'm aiming for. I don't know. I'm coming to realize that I'm one of those people who needs a little guidancenow and again when it comes to keeping my head straight. That seems reasonable. People visit the dentist twice a year, get a physical once a year, a pap smear once a year. I go to counseling once every two years. Keeps me healthily insane. And I feel better for it.

PS - Yesterday was the thirteen year anniversary. THIRTEEN YEARS! Wow. The day actually passed with nary a thought about its significance. I just realized it today.

Stupid, Malfunctioning...WIRELESS INTERNET!

2008-12-27T07:16:00.003-07:00

Ha! Betcha thought I was going to say uterus, eh? Not a chance. Well, yet anyway. Sorry my update was delayed but our wireless internet is sucking it so right now I'm stealing a very distant and very slow connection to let you know...

We have a heartbeat. 120 beats per minute.

Party hats are unwarranted as of yet, but feel free to do a mini-Happy Dance.

Five more weeks and I'll be feeling a little more okay.

Blogging for Two

2008-12-22T13:31:00.004-07:00

Zube: Dude, you're hogging all the blankets.

Z-Boy: You have plenty.

Zube: Honey, I'm sleeping for two now, you know.

Z-Boy: Yeah, and one of you is smaller than a grain of rice.

Zube: Whatever. Sleeping for two. Give me more blanket.

Z-Boy: Are you nagging for two, too?

Zube: *YANK* Good night.

This Friday I have an ultrasound. I'll hopefully be reporting the presence of a heartbeat shortly thereafter. I was telling an old high school friend that I was beginning to feel a bit more confident because all of my miscarriages had happened/started happening by now. She responded that she believed all would be fine because Zee Baby fixed my ute while she took up residence there. I think that's an awesome visual, little Zee hammering away, beautifying my innards. I like the sounds of that.

On the Up and Up

2008-12-11T08:17:00.004-07:00

You know, it really astounds me just how much energy a tiny being, one smaller than a grain of rice, could sap from its host. It's pretty fucking incredible, if you ask me. That my 24 pound toddler doesn't wear me out as much as a 1mm zygote. Interesante.

Anywho, details...Sorry for the delay, but they were delayed in getting to me...

Quick Lesson Uno: Hcg should double every 48 hours.

Last Friday - hcg 175
Sunday - hcg 449

More than doubled. Excellent.

Quick Lesson Dos: Progesterone should be at least above 15, preferably above 20.

My progesterone - 14

I'm on supplements, but I'm not fretting about the low progesterone too much because with Zee Baby it was only 10.

Sometime between Christmas and New Year's, pending nothing catastrophic between now and then, we'll have a little looksee at the bugger. By then s/he should be thumpa-thumpa-thumping away. Wouldn't THAT just be about the best fucking Christmas present EVAH?!

Here We Go Again...

2008-12-05T10:57:00.003-07:00

Cross yer fingers and toes, people. Because you all know how I do pregnancy.

I'm hoping with all my heart that somewhere roundabout the middle of August, Zee Baby has a baby sister or brother.

Man, I just don't know if I'm ready for this again. Another kid? Totally ready. Well, about as ready as one could be, I suppose. But drama? And fear of losing a pregnancy again? Not so much ready for that. I hope the worrying is for naught.

Blood draws scheduled for today and Sunday.

Will keep you posted.

Getting Stoned...

2008-11-28T08:48:00.005-07:00

The other day my coworker sauntered into my office to get something out of the filing cabinet adjacent to my desk. I happened to be playing with a small stone one of my other coworker's kids must have left on my desk and forgotten about. It was a cool little stone, too. All shiney and greenish. They prolly miss it. But you know what? It's mine now, bitches! Finders, keepers. Because deep down inside I really am twelve.

Anywho, as my coworker stood pilfering innocently through files, a brilliant idea did stir in mine mind. I saw the opportunity to make a funny.

I threw the stone at him. It hit him in the head.

He looked at me, a little surprised. Okay, maybe a lot surprised. Possibly the same look I'd have had if someone threw a stone, unwarranted, at my head.

Zube: "Dude, you just got stoned."

Maybe you had to be there...

Holy Shit, I Have a Blog!!!

2008-11-25T12:42:00.008-07:00

I almost forgot!

You know what's awesome? Having a husband whose response to everything you say is, "Your what itches?" Good times, people.

Z-Boy finally got a work cell phone, which is nice for him because now he doesn't have to answer work calls, "Z-Boy's PERSONAL cell phone!" anymore. But it sucks for me because I had no idea just how often I assault him with text messages, which aren't covered by work's phone plan. I'm going through withdrawls, y'all.

Our last text exchange...

Zube: Honey? I just blew you some kisses, they should get there in a few minutes. Don't step on 'em by accident.

Z-Boy: Oops. The dog ate 'em. I'll wait and see if I can catch them when they come out the other end.

Zube: Ew. I don't know if I'd recommend that.

The end.

PS- Because I know I've been enormously slack in updating Zee Baby's blog, too, I wanted to share a photo with you:

Firstly, dude, I know I'm biased but she is one deliciously cute kiddo, thanks to all of you who cheered me on while I cooked her up 'til she was well done. That said, we were here when I took the picture and Zee was all decked out in rainbowy goodness. It was awesomely fun and I'm totally stoked that Hoot now lives in Colorado, too, so we can do activisty stuff together!

Fucking Suh. Weet.

One Week

2008-10-28T20:35:00.003-07:00

I really can't take much more of the waiting...

A few videos that have been tiding me by. If you're so inclined.

#1.

#2. Do not be deterred...

#3.

I can't take the ugliness for another week:

Much less four more years.

Please, please, please...

You can help us, too...

It's a Pearly Something...

2008-10-27T10:40:00.004-07:00

Last night, I endured a terrible case of Stinky Husband Syndrome. It was awful. I was able to curtail the toxic stench a bit by shutting the door to the computer room where said Stinky Husband was playing a computer game. But, you know, when you replace carpet with wood floors, and don't replace the doors, there is the ominous presence of a crack between the floor and the door that allows for the passage of small, yet gag-inducing, amounts of noxious fumes.

A while after his Flatulympic Performance, Z-Boy emerged from the computer room, grabbed himself a bowl of cereal and a PBR and proceeded to the bathroom to take a much needed soak in the tub.

I always find it amusing to pester my husband while he is lounging in the bath.

*Knock-Knock-Knock*

Z-Boy: WHAT?!

Zube: Honey?

Z-Boy: Yes?

Zube: Are you washing your hiney really good? 'Cause if you don't, you're gonna hafta sleep on the couch!

Z-Boy: I am, honey.

Zube: Good. You need to really get in there and scrub.

Z-Boy: I will.

Zube: Okay.

Z-Boy: Hey, is this your only toothbrush?

Zube: Yes, it is.

Z-Boy: Okay.

Suckfest - Party of One

2008-09-30T15:19:00.007-07:00

At least that's what it feels like around this blog of mine these days. Anywho, I've got my tiara on and a wand in hand, so that should liven things up a bit for the moment.

I must apologize for my recent absence. I have been absolutely CONSUMED by this election. CON. SUMED. Like, this election is sitting fat and pretty crashed on a recliner somwhere with its hand down its pants snoring loudly to the Simpsons after eating a hefty, hearty meal of hot Zube. I haven't had much to say that isn't related to politics these days, so I've fallen a bit silent. One might say I'm so invested in the outcome of this election, I'm rendered speechless.

But, few things will have a girl crawling out of her political cave faster than the chance to share a little piece of her life that maybe, just maybe will help tip the scales, even a tiny bit. I'm scared of Palin for TONS of reason. But there is one that lends me the opportunity to speak out, and so I've written a piece for Colorado Women Against Palin, and it will be posted there sometime soonish (lots o' political goings on here in good old Colorado, being a swing state and all, so they don't want my story to get lost in the fray).

You can say you saw it here first.

(Zee would like to offer up her introduction to my story, too. She's insistent. One and a half year olds can be QUITE insistent, if you ask me.)

';;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;/p=o.=m,mmmm,,,

With that said, here 'tis...

It didn't take long after the announcement that Governor Sarah Palin had been selected to the number two spot of the Republican ticket for me to be appalled. Simply scratching the surface those first few days, I questioned her ethics, her experience, and her readiness. But what made my blood run cold was reading that she was opposed to abortion even in cases of rape and incest.

When I was in high school, some fifteen odd years ago, it was not unusual to find me in red-faced heated debate about abortion rights. In the locker room getting ready for cheerleading practice. Over pizza at the local hangout. During social studies class. I was young, opinionated and unbending in my views. I am quite familiar with Palin's stance, because it is one I espoused. I even opined on more than a few occasions that carrying a pregnancy, conceived of rape, to term would be 'healing' for the victim.

I cringe now imagining myself so pompously commanding to know what was best for all women. I was unaware at the time I so fervently argued against every woman's right to choose, including my own, that life had in store for me the unique opportunity to walk in the shoes I'd proclaimed to have so much insight into wearing.

In college I was raped and three weeks after the rape, a pregnancy test confirmed my worst fears. I had become pregnant as a result of the attack.

I found that, for me, rather than seeing the potential for 'healing' in continuing the pregnancy, I was debilitated by the mere thought of it. After much soul-searching and wrangling with my previous personal beliefs, I ultimately decided to terminate the pregnancy.

I no longer profess to know what is best for every woman in any case. Through the years I have shared my story many times in the hopes of protecting a right I so ardently fought to deny myself. It is the least I can do to thank those women and men before me who protected my right to choose, even as I railed against them.

I have not once abandoned the cause, even as I struggled through three miscarriages while trying to start a family with my husband. I shared my story at a State Senate Committee Hearing while 21 weeks pregnant with my daughter and facing the very real possibility that I might lose that pregnancy, too, due to pre-term labor. I cannot stress to you how important it is to me to keep abortion a safe and legal option for all women, but especially for those victims of rape and incest. Preserving choice has become my life's work.

Palin frightens me on numerous levels, but I am horrified by her position on this issue in particular. Palin has not walked in the shoes of a rape survivor. I hadn't either until, well, I did. I won't deny that I have an understanding of those who theorize about women and the shoes they wear. I have done that myself. But because I understand them does not mean that I won’t speak out against them. Women deserve better than the extreme Anti-Choice stance Palin represents.

Through the years, I have been touched by so many women who’ve shared their stories with me. They’ve approached me after rallies and sent me e-mails after reading my blog. I know that becoming pregnant after a rape is not so rare as we would like to think. A woman once e-mailed me and told me that she had been raped, became pregnant, and gave her son up for adoption. She went on to say how strong I am, how strong we all are, and she urged me to continue fighting the good fight. Rape survivors deserve a choice, she said. Whether it is the choice I made or you made or others have made. To this day I am encouraged by her. And I am simply compelled each time I look into my baby girl’s beautiful eyes and imagine her future.

Palin may have her lipstick. But I have my shoes. And in them, with my daughter on my hip, I will proudly continue to walk the path I’m on, preserving the rights of every daughter

And just to add...

McCain? I'm no fan. No anymore. I'll be a bad Democrat and say he was a pretty all right guy and I actually kinda liked him. In 2004. But he's different now. It's obvious to me that he's caving to the religous right and sacrificing the real, small government fiscal conservatives to win the election. And that pisses me off.

Though, Palin? I'm seriously considering taking my Bermuda born ass to a lawyer ASAP and asking about claiming my dual citezenship so The Zubes can move to another country if she has a shot at being President. And I'm only half joking. Maybe a quarter.

Later, taters.

Thinking of You, Del...

2008-09-11T16:12:00.003-07:00

And lighting a candle in your honor...

Del Rose Forbes-Cheatham

If Hoot Only Knew

2008-09-03T05:52:00.005-07:00

Z-Girl: Honey, Hoot wants to come up from Denver and spend the night tonight. She'll come up early and cook us dinner. Would that be cool?

Z-Boy: Does she still want to have my baby?

Z-Girl: She only offered to do that if I couldn't cook us up a baby properly. Which I did, so she's not going to have your baby.

Z-Boy: Oh.

Z-Girl: Sorry.

Z-Boy: Well, I guess it's okay if she's making us dinner.

Z-Girl: Thanks.

I Haven't Had the Last Laugh...

2008-09-02T08:13:00.003-07:00

...in almost nine years.

Zube: GOD, I can't wait until tomorrow!

Z-Boy: Why?

Zube: Because I just get better looking every day!

Z-Boy: *eyeroll* Well, I can't wait until tomorrow either.

Zube: Why, do you get better-looking every day, too?

Z-Boy: No but maybe you'll be better looking.

Zube: Assmonkey.

Wherein I Appall Even My Most Feverish of Admirers...

2008-08-22T12:49:00.007-07:00

Ahem, Brad, might I suggest that at this point you step away from the keyboard and mozy on over to the nursery to snuggle your two beautiful babies right now? I mean, it's terribly annoying to be repeatedly calling 911 after you've fallen out of a tree YET AGAIN peeping through my window at my flannel pajama clad babeness, but it's sorta like how that guy Cliff, on Singles, had barbecues no one attended because of the noisy planes near his house, but when he moved he missed the noisy planes bunches and, well, it's like that with me and you. I'd miss you stalking me. And I promise, if you read this, you will totally and absolutely NOT be infatuated with me anymore. And while Z-Boy would be pleased to not have to deal with me screeching, "YOU AGAIN!?!?" on a semi-regular basis, well, I think he'd kinda miss beating you up, too. Adrenaline rush and all.

Anyway...

Dear Universe,

If you're going to be all fucked up and unfair and assault me with a Mount Everest sized pimple on my cheek that would send Heather Chandler running to the kitchen for a drain cleaner fueled wake-up drink at the ripe old age of thirty-three whilst also bestowing me with random black hairs I must pluck out of my chin every other week or so (I mean, the chin hair seems a little premature, no? As long as I'm still dealing with pimples?) would you at least find a morsel of kindness in your shriveled up, cold, black heart and not place the pimple in such a spot that it blocks my view in the mirror of the aforementioned black hair I'm trying to pluck?

Seriously, asshole.

Sincerely,
Zube

Just So You Know...

2008-08-18T09:15:00.004-07:00

It's kinda like that right now. Kinda like North America somehow morphed into a huge bootish Italy and it's kicking my ass. Or I still can't draw for shit. Which is nothing new. But, with the weight of the world and all, I'm having a rough go of things at the moment. Hopefully it's just temporary.

LOST: One Cape and One Broom

2008-08-05T07:08:00.013-07:00

If Found, Please Contact: One Pissed Off Wonder Bitch

Because, seriously, there is no thriftier way to get your kid to daycare and yourself to work than to fly the friendly skies. Unless, of course, we're talking about an airplane. Because those things are becoming hellaciously expensive and exceedingly less accommodating. How nice they want me to pay more for my ticket while simultaneously revoking the privilege of bringing, you know, enough underpants for a week unless I want to pay more to *gasp* bring luggage with me on my trip! What nerve I have to attempt to protect the general public from the glowing glory of my white ass. Capes and brooms, however? Need no other fuel to operate than awesomeness and bitchery. And that shit is free.

But apparently, even bitches like me can't fly without a cape. And I haven't the faintest clue where the hell I put it. I thought I left it on the back of the toilet right next to my tiara, because everyone knows that that's where important shit goes (literature, extra toilet paper, maybe a tampon or two), but alas, it was not there. How on earth will I teach my darling, little girl the joys of careening through the sky, spitting on Hummers and couples wearing matching outfits riding tandem bikes, without my handy cape?

Upon the devastating realization that my cape was missing, I went rummaging for the next best thing: my broom. Which I was certain I'd stashed by the back door. Because if ever a witch needed a quick escape, the back door makes for the cleverest exit. But again, I was foiled. Despite the fact that on the broom Zee usually gets a gnat in her eye, thus causing her to squint:

She usually enjoys the ride. Well, she seems to enjoy it more than, say, listening to me tell her stories on the way home from daycare about how, two days in a row now, I have worn my underpants inside out and what the fuck is up with that? I think she finds the deafening wind blowing through her ears while on the broom quite a relief from the daily blathering of her mother.

Eh well. Sorry, kid. We're gonna have to stick with the 13-year-old Cherokee, $4.09/gallon gas, and boring stories about my unmentionables. At least until I can prove that your Dad stole my cape and broom and flies down to Shotgun Willie's in Denver each evening after we're fast asleep. But he's a smart guy, that Daddy of yours, and catching him might take a while. Especially if he's on my broom. With my cape.

Vacation Ruminations

2008-07-30T12:08:00.005-07:00

-I'm wearing new underwear. It's riding up my ass in a way that makes me feel oddly sexy. Despite walking funny.

-Speaking of walking, I realized on vacation this week that Hoot, My Belle, and I share a decided lack of grace in our gaits. I wouldn't describe our mobility as walking even. We more like plod. It's kind of cool.

-I love my family. Even you, Bro, despite our spirited, adult-beverage induced political banter!

My Belle, Bro, Hoot, and Zube

-Hoot, Zee, and I shared a cabin because Z-Boy couldn't make this trip. It became apparent that our cabin neighbors wondered about the nature of Hoot's and my relationship. I spiced up matters unwittingly by giving My Belle a good night kiss at the end of the evening in front one particular neighbor, leaving her slack-jawed. When I realized what she might be thinking, I called out, "I love you!" to My Belle as she walked away. Stirring the pot.

-Vacations are nice and being with my family is nicer. But getting home after a then day husband-less sojourn is probably nicest of all.

Missed ya! It's good to be back.

I, Like, Totally Forgot to Tell You...

2008-07-24T07:48:00.008-07:00

I'm vacationing, dudes. And gagging on spoons. Or rather, I'm gagging on an insufferable, opressive heat wave that's so thick it's tangible. I've been making sculptures of mountains covered in snow with it. My Colorado ass is hideously unaccustomed to humidity and weather in the upper 90's. Don't get me wrong, I'm having a blast with Mom, Bro and Sis, Hoot, My Belle and the accompanying gaggle of children and significant others, but it is fucking hot. I'm such a pansy ass I upgraded to an air conditioned cabin further away from the rest of the gang. And I think you all know just how much I enjoy my gang and being near them, but I couldn't bear the heat.

I'm currently enjoying a slight reprieve after a metric ton of (immensely appreciated) rain last night which thankfully cooled things down instead of leaving us to roast in a bed of steam.

Zee Baby is having a blast with her cousins but missing her Daddy tremendously. Apparently having rental properties comes with responsibilities and Z-Boy couldn't make it because the renters we've had for two years have moved on and we have to find new ones. Carrying the mortgage for any amount of time would be a suckful endeavor to say the least.

I brought ten outfits for Zee. She has worn all of one. She wore it yesterday when it was raining. Yesterday finally felt blissfully like a warm day at home. Cold day in Virginia. Go figure. At least I know to pack much lighter next time.

Well, we shall reacquaint when Zee and I are finished playing with water and camera's respectively. I think I've found a new hobby in taking pictures. I've taken almost three hundred so far thanks to my Mother's Day gift camera with lots o' memory. And when you take that many pictures you're bound to get a couple that don't suck. Here are some of my faves:

Zee Baby

Bro's Girl

My Belle's Boy

Later taters.

Deep Down Inside, I'm Sort of a Koombaya-aholic. But Always with a Touch of Snark.

2008-07-15T14:16:00.008-07:00

I recently received a gift that spurned an argument amongst myselves. The argument went something like this:

Snarky Zube: Ummmmmm, okay. So how the hell do you thank someone for that?

Koombaya Zube: Well, that’s easy, you simply say, “Thank you for the gift. It was very kind of you.”

Snarky Zube: Right, and just ignore the bit where he said he finds my blog disturbing?

Koombaya Zube: You know, why get into a tangle? I mean, he sent you a gift. Say thanks and leave it alone.

Snarky Zube: But it was akin to, oh, I don’t know, kicking me in the groin and following it up with a french kiss.

Koombaya Zube: A really snazzy french kiss. Leather bound. With your name engraved on it.

Snarky Zube: Right. An appropriate follow-up to getting kicked in the groin.

Koombaya Zube: But the thing is, unless dude works at a bible factory, one attached to a DVD store, and gets a hefty discount on engraved bibles and Passion of the Christ DVDs, he spent quite a bit. To send you a gift. So you say thanks.

Snarky Zube: I KNOW that, but see, that's a pretty passive-aggressive play to yank out of the playbook. This guy calls me a sad, little girl who writes a disturbing blog, then smooths it over by saying, “I don’t mean to be condescending, yadda yadda,” and then gives me a really nice gift. And there’s no way in this situation to address the negative stuff he said with out coming off sounding like an asshole. It smacks of the, "No offense, but insert offensive comment," bullshit that I can't stand.

Koombaya Zube: But, you know, why give him the impression that all heathens are assholes? I mean, we're really not an asshole.

Snarky Zube: Well, not always. Thanks to you.

After a little more internal dialogue, I've concluded that there is a way to make both of the girls happy. I'm gonna be all Koombaya and say thank you for the gift. Sincerely. I don't ascribe to any religion but I'm nothing if not well read. And surely the twelve years of Catechism I piously endured through elementary and high school are a bit rusty, so I wouldn't mind brushing up on my bible skillz. And while, odds are, I'm not going to be witnessing for the Lord anytime soon, I don't mind the education at all.

I appreciate you sharing something with me which worked for you and I can tell it was heartfelt. I am so happy that you found your answer in Him. I would never, ever, ever in one million and two years begrudge anyone for having faith in something. Whether it's something a whole host of others believe or whether it's something Lone Rangerish, like paying homage to the Staypuff Marshmellow Man. Whatever brings you peace and fulfillment and happiness, dude, you go with your bad self.

Now to give voice to the snark. I take issue with some of your letter. I'm not posting the entire thing; just a portion which I'd like to address. And for my other readers, please know, the rest of the letter was very genuine and not unkind.

I have read your blog several times and to be honest, I find it very disturbing. Not by just the fact that you had an abortion but because you feel such a need to share it on line. I feel the same as some of your other readers that have responded that you have never really dealt with the whole incident of being raped and having terminated your pregnancy. I am very sorry for what you have been through and I sense that there is a part of you that is very empty and lonely on the inside and no amount of talking about it or getting the approval of others is ever going to fill the void that is in your life.

When I read your work, I hear a frightened, sad little girl that is searching for something that she can’t quite put a name to. Why else would you feel the need to always appear to have it all together on the outside when on the inside you’re so unsure of yourself.

I am in no way condemning you or judging you for your past or present lifestyle. We all have done things that we look back on and regret or question. We’re all human.

Okay, first of all, I'm certainly not an idiot. I am well aware that having a public diary opens me up to both friend and foe. I'm a big girl, though, so I continue with that in mind. I never said anyone HAD to agree with me. In fact, I think I've said the opposite quite a few times. And in case it got lost in the blather, NO ONE here should feel compelled to agree with me. Ever. It would do me a great disservice.

What jumps out at me is that you said my blog disturbs you. Which, okay, to a degree I understand why you'd still be reading. I like to watch Fox News because it's sort of like a Sean Hannity/Bill O'Reilly Hate Sandwich and I like to take a big bite, remark on how chewy and disgusting it is, spit it out and flip the channel to CNN or CSPAN. I know when to put down the remote and walk away. And if I'm contemplating sending Sean Hannity an Obama '08 bumper sticker accompanied with a letter explaining what I think his 'problems' are with regard to his political views and if he would just believe like I do so that I could accept him, well, I pretty much missed that "Put the Remote Down' window.

I'm not forcing you to read my blog just as no one forces me to watch Fox News. But if my blog disturbs you on a visceral level, well, it might be time to take a break. Hell, even my adoring husband needs to take a break from me once in a while. It's not hard to believe that a very religious reader might need one as well.

I found this quote in particular pretty offensive:

...you have never really dealt with the whole incident of being raped and having terminated your pregnancy.

Through years of therapy, writing, speaking for Planned Parenthood and the simple and profound fact that EVERY DAY I live the life of a rape survivor, I don't know how else you'd want me to 'really deal' with it. It seems a large leap you've taken into my brain to draw the conclusion that I haven't really dealt with it. If you're implying it doesn't seem as though I'm over it, then you're right. I'm not. I never will be. Thank goodness for that, too, because if I were to ever be 'over it' I'd imagine the experience wouldn't be such a catalyst to do, what I deem, good works. I hope I never get over it.

I don't pretend to know all the answers here. I don't mean to portray myself as even 'having it all together'. I'm a jumbled mess of Zube-ness and I kinda like it that way. However, where you hear a frightened, sad little girl, I hear a Merely Confused, Albeit Opinionated, Pretty Sarcastic, Hopelessly Pollyanna, ADULT WOMAN. One who doesn't take so kindly to the paternalistic approach. But, we'll never see eye to eye on this as we're individual beholders. But I can promise you that where you see that little girl, I see a woman. And I am proud of her.

In the end, do not think that your attempt to reach out has gone unappreciated. I do appreciate it and I hate to slap the hand that reaches out in an honest attempt to save someone. But I do like to couple my helpings of religious proselytizing with a healthy mound of salt. And I don't feel the need to be saved. I thank you for the gift and will continue to carry on with my lifestyle, the one you are not judging. And don't you worry about me regretting this Fondness of Saying Fuck Lifestyle, or Whatever the Heck Lifestyle I am living. I do try with all my might not to waste my emotional fortitude on such a useless emotion as regret.

Peace to you. I am glad you found Jesus. Truly.

Zubes and Other Sirius Shit

2008-07-14T15:35:00.009-07:00

Sometimes I get all freakin' nosy and I like to check out what kind of antics other Zubes get into. This one in particular made me LAUGH MY ASS OFF. Although, lucky for him, no relation to me. It's nice to 'read' a Zube with a similar sense of humah!

Also, I have satellite radio in my car and subscribe to Sirius Radio for stations. I finally figured out that the Sirius is short for SIRIUSLY SUCKS! Oh wait, no, I'm wrong. It's actually short for SIRIUSLY FUCKING SUCKS. Ahem. I swear that little satellite radio contraption has NO IDEA how lucky it is not to have ended up SPLAT on someone's bumper like so many millions of little bugs after NOT DETECTING THE ANTENNA right smack in the middle of Blind Melon's Tones of Home. It's also lucky I didn't graciously take said antenna from atop the car and aid the contraption in finding it. But I wasn't exactly sure where to find some Sirius ass in which to implant it. Siriusly, though, I thought the whole point of satellite radio was to not have to deal with losing radio signals. I think I'm about done paying for that shit. Grrr...

That is all...

Like Mother, Like...Daughter?

2008-07-12T11:47:00.005-07:00

If this kid is learning her cell phone skillz from me, I think I need to re-examine my usage.

Also, minor Zube freak-out for your viewing pleasure. I hate creepy crawlies camping out on my shoulder.

Make an on-line slide show at www.OneTrueMedia.com

What's Red and White and Nostalgic All Over...

2008-07-11T08:28:00.004-07:00

There's nothing like having to call the housekeeping supervisor to ask him if he has made any changes in his staff's toilet cleaning arsenol recently and having to explain to him the reason you're asking is because this morning the toilet seat burned your ass. Literally. Burned it. And that had never happened before. But it wasn't so embarrassing that I didn't feel the need to throw in the fact that the toilet paper then got stuck in the dispenser so I was stuck sitting on a toilet seat with my ass ablaze while trying to strong arm two squares of tp from the stingy bitch because Jesus H, I'm neither camping nor drunk and the drip dry method is not recommended for work.

It's a good thing the housekeeping supervisor has a proven good sense of humor.

Anyway, if I get a wild hair up my (red) ass and decide to flee to a nudist beach today or tomorrow and you happen to be there, say, "Hi!" You'll surely recognize me. I'll be the girl with the scorching red image of a toilet seat on her bum. Ah, and Zube Boy would be disappointed if I failed to mention that my ass is generally pretty white and denty. Really, he's looking out for you guys. He'd hate for you to not recognize me!

I was stalking myself the other day, reading my archives, trying to look all hot and sultry and Legends of the Fall-ish, imagining what it must feel like to be Brad pining over unrequited Zube-love, when I stumbled across this post. I crunched some dates and came to the conclusion that I conceived Zee Baby about a week and a half later. Huh...

I thought that was kinda coincidental.

I Dream of...Spinach and Artichoke Dip

2008-07-10T08:20:00.005-07:00

Zube: Honey?

Z-Boy: Uh-huh.

Zube: One day when I grow up, I'm going to have a restaurant.

Z-Boy: Uh-huh.

Zube: And instead of appetizers on the menu, I'll have happytizers.

Z-Boy turned his head away from me, but I think I felt the faint breeze of an exaggerated eyeroll making its way around the car.

Zube: Isn't that cute?

Z-Boy: Very cute, honey.

I have dreams, people.

If It Isn't Broken, Even Just a Little, Then Something Is Amiss

2008-07-08T08:53:00.004-07:00

Twelve years ago, when I had the abortion, I remember promising myself that someday I would become a mother and I would make it right. I would be such a fucking stellar mother that the heavens would open up and angels would swarm down plucking giddily at harps and that somehow I'd bring balance to the universe. Or my little tiny piece of it anyway.

I was operating under the misguided assumption that having a baby would fix me. Make right many things I felt were broken and had been for a long time. And since Zee's arrival, lo those many months ago, I've been coming to terms with the fact that that's an awful lot to ask one teeny tiny little person and, well, life just shouldn't work like that. And it would be really fucking unfair to Zee to shoulder the weight of being the miraculous cure to Her Mom's Shit. I think that’d fuck her up far more than having a Mom who just happens to have a few loose screws and some minor cracks in her foundation. You know?

In a way, I can’t shake that I’ve gone back on my promise. I’m not the most stellar mother ever. I’m just, well, me. And all of my imperfections. I still get sad that I was raped and got pregnant. And then had an abortion. And I still, once in a while, shake my fist angrily at the universe that I went on to have three miscarriages years later. Usually when I'm pondering the possibility that when we try to grow our family again, I might have more. And, and, and...

I hope, though, that when she's all growed up she'll love me even if I'm sometimes sad and occasionally a little too Where's My Black Beret? Oh I'll Find It After I Cry Myself a River introspective. Even if I did break a promise I made to myself back when I didn't have the foresight to know that our children aren't brought into the world to fulfill our promises.

I hope Zee believes, as I do, that we're all the more interesting for our loose screws and cracks...I really, really hope so.

Playing Footsies...With Brad...Well, Brad's Face, Anyway

2008-07-06T12:05:00.006-07:00

Sometime when I wear slippers or socks it hinders my stealth ninja-like movements. So at night I always struggle with the decision to wear, or not to wear, footware. You see, when you're totally desirable like me you never know just who is going to be lurking around the corner (Yes, Brad, I'm looking at you) awaiting a swift Zube-style kung-fu-ing. With a little chop suey-ing thrown in for good measure. You never know when a bottle of soy sauce is going to come in handy. Stings the eyes.

Anyway, there is nothing more embarrassing (and perhaps life-threatening) than attempting to execute a seamless kick in the jaw than slipping and falling on your ass in the process.

The thing is, though, I hate having bare feet in the house. A city street? Sure. My living room? Nah. What with all of the animal fur getting stuck in between my toes and stuff. So I usually opt to wear socks or slippers despite the risk.

Which is cool in it's own right because I can then do the Moonwalk with finesse. And ease. I'm being so descriptive here I bet you can actually almost picture it.

Also, I'm pretending I missed the comments where you all asked to see me breakdance. You see, I'm afraid I forgot to mention I don't do it WELL. But, now that I've divulged that fact, you probably want to see me do it even more. Hmm...

Shit and Get Off the Pot...And When You Do, Come Down to the Front Desk Your Damn Self, Shall We Say, to Clear the Air...

2008-07-06T11:41:00.011-07:00

A lot of times at the hotel, parents are too damn lazy to peel their asses off the couch to come down to the front desk and ask a question. Instead they send their personal assitant/s. Er, child/ren.

It's kind of a pain in the ass to explain to an eight-year-old how to hook up to the wireless internet. And it becomes a very intricate game of 'telephone' when said children return to their parents to explain the process.

Though, as they say, every cloud has a silver lining.

Kid: Hi!

Zube: Hi, what can I do for you?

Kid: Well, my Mommy wanted me to come down here and tell you that the toilet is clogged. But she didn't want me to tell you she did it.

Zube: *Stifling a smile* We'll send someone over to help you out with that.

Kid: Thanks! *whispering* But she did do it!

Zube: I gathered.

Lesson to lazy ass parents: If you're guilty of plugging up the shitter, don't expect your kid to cover for you (and also, again with the lazy ass, there is a PLUNGER in your bathroom right next to the toilet...the one YOU clogged). I do, however, appreciate your shameless offer to be the highlight of my otherwise fairly mundane day.

Slapping and De-Stalifying...

2008-07-03T14:09:00.009-07:00

When your 14 month old is slapping you in the face repeatedly and throws her head back cackling as though you grabbing her hand and saying no is the most HYSTERICAL FUCKING THING EVAH, it's probably not appropriate to laugh, is it? I mean, for the record, I didn't laugh. I was trying hard not to. But I think my concerted effort to conceal a smile was evident. Which I bet is just as bad.

Today I got annoyed that no photos are ever taken of me. So I went on a self-portait spree whilst Zee was napping. Most of them turned out shitty.

But I got a couple I'm mildy satisfied with.

At least I know that should all of my other business ventures fail, I can try my hand at real estate. Or at least have the cheesy photo for the business card.

Since Amy gave my blog a breath of fresh air, I've decided to update my sidebar, which I hadn't done in years. Firstly, I've added some new links under Zube Classics. The others were all three years old. Things on the right side of this page have gotten a bit stale. Anyway, I've added:

Old Habits Die Hard
Artsy Fartsy Guy Over Here
Fuck the Bright Side

Well, I think it's that time of the day where breakdancing is in order. When I'm home alone and Zee is napping, I can breakdance like a mother-fucker. You never would have guessed, would you?

Other Cast and Crew...

2008-07-02T09:19:00.022-07:00

I thought it'd be nice to give you all a glimpse at the folks who make appearances here at my humble abode on the internets. My family.

Mom:

Oh, Mom, Mom, Mom. She's the most wondermous lady ever. I live 2,000 miles away from her yet I talk to her every day. The woman knows everything. And I mean EVERYTHING. All of the Walton's kids' names? Check. The seven dwarves names? Check. The theme song to Bosom Buddies? Check. Where to find corn syrup in the grocery store? Check. Okay, so maybe sometimes I talk to her more than once every day. Sometimes she pretends she's in a hurry, but she loves it.

She's also Zee's Mommom. And Zee will undoubtedly revere her as I did my Mommom. It's genetic, I'm sure.

Dad:

Most of the time, Dad is just your average, every day Poppop.

But if he happens to show up with his hawaiin shirt on, look out. You are about to spend an evening with someone else entirely. Well, okay, maybe he's not another person entirely, just amplified. Meet Corona Dad:

Bro:

Bro is my bestest ever friend. Ever. He and I have known each other longer than any of our other friends. Honestly, when we were little I think we might have hated each other more often than not. But we had our moments.

I think I dug the hell out of him most when he was too young to know it was not entirely cool to help his big sister hang her baby doll clothes out to dry.

But, growing up, we compromised, in between fighting over who rode shotgun, you know, back when kids were allowed to ride shotgun. He used to play house with me using matchbox cars. It was cool.

Our birthdays are three days apart, so we always shared parties. It kind of annoyed me to have my little brother and all of his friends galavanting rowdily while my friends and I tried to play with my newest Barbie. But now, I cherish when we can be together for our birthday party. Like last year:

Sis:

Bro's wife, Sis, has been adopted into our loony flock. It's been official for a while, but it was super-official when I drug her into my frantic paranoia and made her drive over to my Mom's house to make sure my Mom was okay because she hadn't answered her phone for an hour. Mom wasn't there, but Sis did a little investigatin' to ease my worried mind and discovered my Mom was at the dentist. Oops. I never said I didn't have my crazies. Now Mom calls me every time she has a dentist appointment to let me know. Sometimes I think I'm more of a pain in the ass to be related to 2,000 miles away than I ever could be within a 30 mile radius.

Hoot:

Hoot is that person I call when I want to know if I'm right or being an ass. She's also the person who helps me figure out whether being an ass is worth it, for a good cause. Or not. Usually not. Damn her Libran sense of complete and total fairness. But, to be honest, she's probably saved me from myself on plenty of occassions. I'll happily keep her.

And soon she will be moving to Denver. FUCKING WOOT! Zee will have an aunty nearby and that makes me happier than you could ever imagine.

My Belle:

My Belle is the baby of the family. When she came home from the hospital, I kinda thought of her as my baby, too:

Okay...I'm going to give you a second to get over the shock of HOLY SHIT, Zube, I mean, I don't wanna be mean, but you could have played a starring role in The Ugly Duckling. What, you mean glasses half the size of your face and beyond were never in style? Can you belive I picked those out myself. Yeah.

I think I'm pretty fucking cute now. I earned it.

Carrying on...

Hoot and My Belle have always been, and remain still, The Girls. When The Girls were little, I was totally obsessed with styling their hair (probably because I wished I had my OWN fucking hair, note ugly ass haircut above). I can still whip up a kick-ass inside-out French Braid. Just not on myself. Oh, I can't wait 'til Zee grows herself some long hair!

My Belle is now a Mama, too. And it's awesome because it has given us a bond the likes of which we didn't have before, me being ten years her senior.

Now that you've met my near and dear, I'll leave you with one last photo that about sums us up...And thanks to Sis for being the photographer!

The Clan:

Coming soon to a wedding near you! Run!

A Little Bit of This and That

2008-06-30T16:27:00.001-07:00

-I can't STAND when lotion gets that little crusty bit that hangs off of the tip of the bottle if you don't use it for a while. I usually fling it on the wall. Between that, and some of you who might remember my hair on the shower wall capers, you all would probably decline to be my houseguest.

-Actually, crusty lotion cruising on the walls and hair in the shower notwithstanding, I'm kinda neat-freakish.

-Recently a wise woman told me, after I'd confessed I get a little jealous when Zee Baby magically transforms from crabby-pants to charming, beaming, arm-waving baby as soon as Zube Boy walks through the door after work, "Daddies get all the glory even though Mommies do most of the hard work. Get used to it." I've been mulling this over for a bit.

-Even though I break free from the restraints of Good Grammar quite regularly, I almost always know what rule I'm breaking and so to my mind, that makes it okay. I get thoroughly annoyed, though, when I'm unsure of a particular rule. But most often I can't be arsed to look it up. I just let it bug me.

If a Tree Falls on Your Neighbors Deck, Will Homeowner's Insurance Cover It?

2008-06-29T18:14:00.007-07:00

I mean, if you're the one who put it there?

Sorry I broke my promise to blog every day, but I've been busy. Zube Boy and I have an assload of trees that have been killed by the pine beetle in our yard (assload is a highly technical term meaning approximately 25...or so...in this case anyway) that need to be felled. And burned or chipped before the beetle takes flight again this summer. And seeing as how dead trees are highly flammable and all and we're overdue for a forest fire 'round these parts, it'd be a good idea to rid our yard of them even if we weren't trying to be all, Protect Other Trees from the Pine Beetle.

Admittedly Zube Boy has done most of the hard work, chainsawing, dragging the winch and yadda yadda, but I took on the honorable role of winch operator. I've included a video (in which you will see my tree falling friend Bud Weiser...and you'll also prolly wonder if we're fucking idiots pulling the tree down like that, just know, the winch is anchored on another tree further away so we weren't, in fact, trying to pull the tree in my general direction.

Feel free to fast forward to the end of the video where you'll hear me, "Oh Shit,"ing...That's where it gets exciting.

Also? It all worked out. And Zube Boy was never near as scared as I was. He's more of the calculating type. While I'm more of the arms flailing, "OH SHIT!" type. As you've just seen. I was a little concerned about our neighbor's deck just to the right of the video. And the two healthy trees we were about to topple over. But Zube Boy employed his other handy dandy winch posessing vehicle. And we (ahem, he) fixed the situation. While I had visions of the opening scene of Ghost Ship tumbling around my head as there was a very tense cable about, um, a foot from it.

Needless to say, I'll not be applying for a tree falling position anytime soon. Or anytime at all. Ever.

The Cards You're Dealt

2008-06-26T20:00:00.008-07:00

When I was in college, I used to read people's tarot cards. I was pretty damn good at it. The less I knew you, the better the reading. I remember doing a reading for a guy at a party, a mini party obviously because if I was doing keg stands at a big party I wouldn't have had time to do a tarot card reading. He was a bit skeptical and I ended up flooring him. This was a friend of a friend of a friend and I'd never met or heard of him before. I read in the cards, and in my heart, that he was applying for college and trying to decide whether to major in music or engineering. I never gave him an answer but I hope he went with music. Because while the reading told him to follow his heart, it didn't say to follow Zube's words.

I miss reading tarot cards. I miss feeling psychically in tune. But it is tough for me to navigate being psychically in tune and being a little too woo woo. And I was pretty woo woo lo those many years ago. But now I'm just a little too practical. I'm a swinging pendulum. Wondering when I'll start swinging the other way. And hoping gravity will help the pendulum swing less and less either way. Until I'm right in the middle.

Tweedle Dee and Tweedle BOOM

2008-06-25T10:02:00.004-07:00

You know, life is always making me eat my words. Well, and ice cream, too, but that's another matter entirely. I was thinking to myself while driving to the post office that blogging is nothing like riding a bike. Presumably, once you know how to ride a bike, it's pretty easy to hop back on and hit the ground running...er...pedaling. But, with blogging, it's different. The more you write, the better you become at it, and when you take a break you have to start all over.

Anywho, I'm not eating my words over that last sentence up there. That's true. However, while the bike analogy was bouncing 'round my noggin, I was fortunate enough to glance up the street and witness a couple fall off their two person bike.

So, maybe blogging isn't like riding a bike. A single person bike. I'll eat those words. With some ice cream. And chocolate sauce. And caramel...Ahem. But a two person bike? Without the matching clothes, of course, because, believe it or not, there is a limit to my too muchery. That analogy I'll accept.

And I would also like to thank my lucky stars. Without them I would not have had the distinct pleasure of witnessing a couple falling off of a two person bike. If stars ate ice cream, I'd send up buckets full.

I Have the Most Crushingest of Crushes Right Now...

2008-06-24T17:57:00.010-07:00

Not so long ago I'd caught the blogging fever again. It was exciting. And feverish. I wasn't quite my old self but I'd made the leap. I decided that a new template might be just the breath of fresh air I needed to assist my jump back into the fray. And I loved my old template. Really loved it. But I wanted a change. Because, just between you and me, I've changed. While no one was looking. Not at me anyways. Kids are a great diversion like that. (See? I did it again!)

Well, I got a new template and instead of spending my days, fingers a-typing with fervor whilst breathing in fresh air and belting out, "The Wind Beneath My Wings," I kinda got the wind sucked out of me. There were issues. Major issues. About a year of my archives were completely fucked up and unreadable. The unreadable year happened to be The Miscarriage Era. Among other typos and misplacements, that was the most gut-punchingest of all. I remember seeing in my statcounter that someone was trying to read through those days and I wanted to conjure up their e-mail address all ESP-style,and send them a message: "I hope, hope, HOPE that you are simply Brad Pitt trying to decode my unreadable blatherings from The Miscarriage Era because your obsession knows no bounds, but if you happen to be a recurrent miscarrier like me and are looking for some HOPE like I did when perusing recurrent miscarriers' blogs who went on to actually have a baby, please e-mail me back and I will cut and paste and e-mail the archives to you. Because I just put my HOPE to bed. After she bit my finger. Hard. And I laughed between tears." But, thankfully, I don't have to conjure up my ESP skillz after all.

Because Amy saved the day. Thank you Amy. You seriously have NO idea how much you have rocked my socks. Seriously. I always knew I could count on another girl with a Mike to pull me out of the doldrums. Us girls with Mikes have gotta stick together because if we do, we're unstoppable. Dealing with Mikes, who wouldn't be?

All that said, welcome to my new home. I hope you like it as much as I do. And I've made a promise to myself tonight to post something every day this week. No matter how stupid. Because that's how this whole thing started. I mean, hell, my May '05 archives are embarrassing. But you don't get to be a gud riter bi not riting! That's how this shit started out. So pardon me whilst I embarrass myself for a bit. Again.

Amy, YOU are the wind beneath my wings...

And I Think You Might Know Me Better, Just a Little, After This...

2008-06-11T19:01:00.010-07:00

Umm, why is the first sentence not showing up? WTF?

I decided to give myself a little bloggy project, because stream-of-consciousness writing is failing me abysmally 'round these parts. I am a huge fan of music. Huge. I have always had songs that can instantly package me up in a time machine and transport me to a memory-laden part of my brain. There are others I love because they speak to my core. Shake me up and stir me a bit, maybe coat my rim with a little salt, and inspire me to enjoy, relish who I am, where I am. I wanted to list them here for posterity. My top ten. And just, you know, in case you're in search of something to post about, I'm terribly nosy, er, rather, curious, and I love to hear what music speaks to other people. Just sayin'.

The List.

10. When I was having a rough spell in college, and wanted with every fiber of my being to be a bouncy, happy soul, and writing dark entries in my diary outside of Forcina Hall donned in my combat boots and baby barettes and my Dad's old worn-out WAY TOO BIG jeans wasn't working for me, this song would steal me briefly to a happy place where I was that free spirit I so badly wanted to be.

9. You may remember me mentioning an asshole in my past who sent a hoagie sailing past my head and threw a television in my general direction. We were together for about five, maybe six months. For the last four or five of those months, I listened to this song over and over again, wistfully tearing up. And when I'd finally had enough of him quelching my Zube-ness and kicked his ass out, I'd listen to this song smiling. And blast it to the highest decibal possible on my cheap old cd player when he proceeded to sell drugs on my porch. Asshole.

TLC - unpretty

8. When I was in high school, I adorned my notebooks with little I Love Myself doodles. I didn't really mean it at the time, but I hoped that writing it over and over again, someday I might. Still don't know if I believe it, but this song reminds me of the need to try.

7. In 2003, my Uncle John died of a heart attack. He was only 45 and left behind three young children. It was tragic. I was heartbroken. He had always been kind of my favorite uncle. My Mom said when she went to his house while visiting for his memorial, he had a picture of me on his mantel. I didn't know he had cared about me enough to display my photo. And sadly, he probably didn't know how much I cared about him. The truth of it is, while I was saddened by his death, it made me promise myself that I would never take people for granted. I can't tell you how often I put off a visit to him in Wisconsin. I thought I had all the time in the world. But the fucked up thing about life, and death, is that you just don't know. It's the reason I started blogging. I wanted people to be able to find a little piece of me should I be gone. So they didn't feel like they'd missed out on so much. Like I did with Uncle John.

Uncle John loved the Devils. I love the Devils. In 2003, they won the Stanley Cup just a few weeks after he died. For him. Or so I like to think. After they won, I played this song on the juke box. And everyone at the bar toasted him. The bartender bought the shots.

6. Because I'm always striving to be.

Artist Site

One Year Ago Today...

2008-05-16T20:59:00.006-07:00

I had a beautiful baby girl. Matter of fact, I still do. Have a beautiful baby girl, that is. Holy shit.

Then...

Now...

I love the hell out of you, Zee.

The appointment yesterday went well. We're not crazy. She's a bit behind. Nothing insurmountable. We were sent home with some exercises to do with Zee and we have a follow-up in a month. All is good. More details on that later. Today we mostly just enjoyed our little girl. Amazing.

We Always Have a White Christmas and That's Cool, But This Is Ridiculous...

2008-05-10T10:49:00.012-07:00

There's really only one reason I'd wake up on a May morning and five minutes after peeling the sleep from mine eyes, throw my arms up and proclaim, "You have GOT to be fucking KIDDING ME, DUDE!"

Who this dude I'm so pissed at is, I have no idea. But come on. At this point, I could do without six inches of snow. Really.

Oh yeah, and half of those beautimous trees in that photo? Must go. Stupid fucking pine beetle. Luckily, all those trees are blocking a pretty cool view, so weeding out a few won't be such a horrible thing. Just, possibly, a horribly time consuming and maybe a little expensive thing. Depending on how many Zube Boy can manage to fall and haul with his big old honking '52 Dodge. Anyway, upset as I might be about the tedious business of removing the trees, I'm of the mind that the pine beetles are nature's last attempt to thin out the forest. We've prevented forest fires for way too long. It's nature's way.

On another note, I sometimes wonder if Eminem, like, throws in one of his cd's every once in a while and cleans out his sock drawer or something. After gazing longingly at pictures of yours truly, of course. I mean, I know he's all famous and shit, but even if I were famous for my voice, I have a feeling I would still probably dial zero for the hotel office with lightning speed because I can't stand the fact that it is my voice on my work's answering machine. "Thank you for calling Blah Blah Management..." AHHHHHHHHHHHH! It's what Zube nightmares are made of, people. If hell is your worst fear, I'd probably have to listen to myself for all of eternity. Every new person we hire, I am the first to announce what a lovely voice they have. I have yet to be successful in passing off this onerous task. I don't know. I was thinking maybe Eminem gets totally over himself, too, and that's one more thing we have in common. In addition to liking the word 'fuck' a lot.

I didn't mean to leave you hanging regarding Zee Baby's little tree trunk legs, but things were up in the air for a bit. We've decidet to take her to The Children's Hospital in Denver next Thursday. The day before her one year birthday. They're going to evaluate her gross motor skills. I'm really not too worried as she's been making her way around pretty well and standing more (with assistance). But it will be nice to have confirmation that there is or isn't a problem. And if there is, we'll work on it. Nothing more to it.

We had her pictures taken for her one year birthday and this is my favorite pose...

The photographer joked that she absolutely had to take one like that because each time she attempted to pose Zee in another manner, Zee defaulted to this one. The photographer said it just seemed to be Zee. And it is. Hence this being my favorite photo of the bunch.

No matter how prepared we are for this evaluation, I've never been one to turn down some good luck wishes.

I was in Jersey last week. It rocked socks. I adore my family. As if you didn't know that. A gratuitous photo...

My Belle, Bro and me and the infamous grandchild trifecta. And you know what? I know, or at least I'm pretty sure, I'm using the term trifecta incorrectly. But I don't have the heart to look up the definition because it just sounds so fucking cool. If anyone feels the need to correct me, though, I promise not to cry. I wore my big girl panties today. And they're not twisted or anything. I might still carry on in blissful, feigned ignorance if you do correct me. Just a warning.

Well, it's still fucking snowing. Dammit. I'm out. To make snow angels. Hopefully the last of the season. Yah. Sure. As if. This is the Rocky Mountains after all.

Probably Won't Find This First in the Baby Books...

2008-04-25T21:02:00.011-07:00

Zee Baby went to her first Gay Pride Rally...

We went to a rally organized by the local high school here in support of gay rights and in honor of the Day of Silence.

Most importantly we wanted to support our friends' son who, as a Senior in high school, just came out. When I was in high school, I got all bitter about all of the things that happened to rhyme with 'Zube' and the fact that my classmates were literary geniuses (geniui?) in poetry. Booby, dooby, booty, you get the picture. Come to find out, I had it easy.

Anyway, I'd love for you all to send my friends' son some loving, supportive vibes right now...'cause those are the best kind. It might be nice if you expressed them here. I'm not one to beg for comments but sometimes when you do something hard it's nice to know that people are supporting you, out there thinking you're tough as shit and all...I should know. I'd like, if possible, to give him visible proof of just how much he rocks.

I want to thank him for speaking tonight at the rally. And for taking a step toward making the world my daughter grows up in a better, more accepting place. I want her to know that she'll be accepted for who she is, no matter who she loves, and without people like him today, that might not happen tomorrow.

Chris, I'm proud of you, kid.

Come On...

2008-04-21T13:32:00.006-07:00

The DHL guy stopped by some moments ago and saw my coworker and I in the back office(during the ski sesason we usually close the blinds so we don't get random skiers walking in looking for the front desk, but since the ski resort is mother-fucking closed, WOOT! we're letting in the light). Anyhow, seeing as how A (coworker) and I were sitting there, he decided to walk right in rather than passing us by on his way to the front desk...

DHL Guy: Hey, I saw you guys sitting here, so I hope you don't mind...

A: Eh, you just wanted to come in my back door.

He promptly turned around and walked out and met us at the front desk.

Has anyone seen my shit? I seem to have lost it.

Also, I'm going to be rocking a new look around here. I'm in dire need of a breath of fresh air, figuratively speaking.

I Got Your Back...

2008-04-16T10:20:00.014-07:00

...'Cause that's how I roll.

So, in a nutshell (a nutshell about as big as your frackin' head, mind you) here's the deal with Zee Baby. And why I'm a little worried. Or maybe I'm just worried that I should be worried. I'm not exactly sure about anything but that there is worry involved. Somehow.

You may remember that Zee Baby was born by c-section because she was breech. And had been breech for a REALLY long time. I remember the doctors telling me from 26 weeks on, "Oh, the baby has plenty of time to turn," each time I had an ultrasound and she had her hiney aimed down the chute. They were singing a different song by 36 weeks and at 37 weeks we scheduled a c-section for 39 weeks, only she decided all on her own to be borned at 38 weeks. (For some reason I just started singing 99 bottles of beer on the wall in my head...)

She was kind of weirdly jacked up in there. Her left leg sort of scrunched up under and behind her tush and her right leg straight up in front of her face. I've drawn a picture of her in utero...

...which will probably leave you even more confused than my description alone did. So to give you, perhaps, a better idea, this is what she looked like just moments after emerging all Alien-Style from mah belly...

...Okay, first, AWWWWWW! Ahem. Now that that's out of the way.

In the nursery the nurses called her The Ballerina because whenever she was released from the vice-like grip of The Hospital Blanket Burrito Wrap, her little legs defaulted to that position. And, while changing her diaper, they'd opine about how she looked as though she were mid-leap in a performace, lacking only the ballet slippers.

Anywho, I wouldn't be so concerned about Zee's love for sitting and loathe for crawling but for that whole breech thing. And for the fact that she was in the same position for almost three months. And we've also noticed recently that...

She STILL seems to default to that position. And having noticed that while looking through pictures, I guess I'm just a little concerned that maybe, just maybe, being in that position for so long, in addition to looking REALLY fucking uncomfortable, might have actually messed with her little baby muscles some. You know? And maybe it's something we shouldn't ignore or brush off as 'in her own time' and all that.

Or maybe, just maybe, she's just happy to sit and throw her board books around already and she'll crawl when she damn well pleases! I mean, really, what's the damn use in crawling anyway? Who crawls? I know I haven't. Not since college anyway. And I'm sure even if she NEVER gets this crawling thing down, she'll get herself home from the bars somehow. Us Zube girls are efficient as hell like that.

In the end, I guess it's something I'd like to look into because I'd prefer to find out early that all's good and I'm worrying over nothing than to wish a few months or a year down the road that I'd looked into sooner.

So there's that...

(78 bottles of beer on the wall...)

Are You There, God? It's Me, Zube Girl...

2008-04-15T11:40:00.005-07:00

I miss my pregnancy boobs. I never was a very buxom girl. I more rocked the flat-chested waif look in college. And then the flat-chested chunker once I hit 30. And then, voila! Knocked up! With boobies! Whee!

It was very exciting to have cleavage for the first time. And I'd kind of hoped to keep at least a bit of it. Just a small crevice, not wanting to be greedy or anything. But, 'twas not meant to be. They deflated about as fast as a blown up balloon realeased unto the living room amongst a pajama clad clan of giggling school girls at a birthday party. Yup. I think they very nearly made that same pffffffffffbt sound as their blessed volume did flee.

The thing is, I never really minded being flat-chested. It kind of suited me. And I didn't really know any different. Plus I have a sweet ass, so I flaunted that. But what I'm not too keen on now is the fact that, like the aforementioned balloon in the metaphor above, when they grew, the surface area increased. And when they deflated, well, imagine that balloon again. Airless and floppier than when it was pinched from the bag. I was left with excess surface area. And decreased volume. So now, I've got small, saggy boobs. And that's just totally unfair.*

I always said that I thought implants are stupid, but I gotta tell you that I can understand a teeny bit why some women get them after they're done having their kids. Just sayin'.

Also, I can't even tell you all how much I've appreciated your comments regarding Zee Baby over here. Many, many thanks. That said, we're a bit worried about Zee Baby. And her non-crawling-ness. Not in any 'comparing my baby to other people's babies' way. But we're actually looking into seeing if there may be a real problem. I'm not exactly in the headspace to get into it right now, so more on that later. But just know that you're good thoughts, healthy hips and legs vibes would be much appreciated right now.

Peace out...

*DISCLAIMER- I hope you all know that when I bitch about ANYTHING pregnancy related, it is just, well, bitching. And I wouldn't trade my current state for the world. I sometimes feel guilty bitching. But, you know, that's what I do here half the time. So, yeah...

Pinked Out

2008-04-04T09:15:00.006-07:00

I like to pretend Zee Baby likes dinosaurs.

But really, I like dinosaurs.

I'm totally not all pinky-pinky girly-girl and I dress Zee in all of the wonderful colors of the rainbow. I'm not morally opposed to pink. It's a cool color. But sometimes it seems like the only color out there for girls clothes. So, I find myself shopping, as you'll notice above, in the boy's section. Eh well.

That said, I think it's kind of funny that her most favoritest blanket in the world that she sleeps with every night? Is this pink silky number with a shoe and a tiara on it that says, "I'm a Princess."

Ha! I'm hoping she'll be a happy blend of both Tomboy and Princess. That'll work.

Boredom...

2008-04-02T13:55:00.003-07:00

I made a present for my honey and I thought I'd share it with you. Just a warning...You do not want to play the video if you're at work. The song is a little, erm, offensive. Just sayin'.

Make an on-line slideshow at www.OneTrueMedia.com

He Pisses on Kisses. I Pass on Pissed Kisses.

2008-03-31T10:08:00.009-07:00

The Scene: I'm downstairs in the office, Zube Boy is upstairs in bed (still not feeling on the up and up). From the office, I cannot hear him squawking.

After a while I hear the tell-tale creaking of the stairs, foreshadowing the imminent arrival of my pajamified husband.

Z-Boy: *heads into the bathroom* Honey?!

Z-Girl: Yes, dear?

Z-Boy: Oh, what are you doing in there?

Z-Girl: Playing on the computer.

Z-Boy: Well, I've been blowing you kisses down the stairs forever now because I thought you were in the living room. I just came down and the kisses were all stuck at the bottom of the steps.

Z-Girl: Why don't you tell them to come over here? Oh wait! Here they come, marching in the office door!

Z-Boy: Nope. Nope. That's definitely not them.

Z-Girl: How do you know?

Z-Boy: Because I picked them all up and threw 'em in the toilet when I came in here.

Z-Girl: And now you're peeing on them?

Z-Boy: Yup.

Z-Girl: That's...nice.

PS - There are some DAMN funny comments here if you're so inclined to take a peek.

Thinking Out Loud

2008-03-30T11:17:00.004-07:00

HO. LY. SHIT. Zube Boy and I just got our asses handed to us. We caught a bug. Zee had it, too, but she is apparently less of a baby than any of the other human members of this household. I literally had an hour or so where I felt so desparate I almost called my work to ask someone, anyone, to come over and take Zee for a bit. I couldn't stand up without puking. We muddled through, and all is well now, but we're still feeling the repurcussions of 36 hours of nothing in, everything out. And though I've always yearned for a nice, roomy bathroom, I am now thankful for the tiny bathroom in our house. Thoughtful of it to have the bathtub so strategically placed right next to the toilet.

Whew. So, now that we've got the oversharing out of the way, I'm going to do some thinking out loud here. I promised myself a long time ago, even before Zube Boy and I were trying for a baby, that if I ever had one this blog would remain MY space. Not MY space as a MOMMY. I swore I'd keep the Mommy blathering to a minimum. I don't know I've done so well with that, but it's what I'm attempting. At the moment, though, I am really, really, and I mean REALLY struggling with something Mommy-related. So I'm going to write it down mostly for the sake of my own clarity and also because, hell, you all have been tremendously helpful before. I hope you don't feel used. If so, kindly shoot me an e-mail and I'll let you know where you can send the bill.

The brief synopsis...

Zee Baby goes to daycare two days a week. Her Daycare Provider, we'll call her DCP, has been a wealth of knowledge in the past with everything from cold remedies to helping ease up on Zee's constipation when she was just a wee little thing. DCP was an ER nurse and has been in daycare so long some of her charges are probably my age. Or at least in college. Hopefully not majoring in partying like I did, but I digress.

As helpful as she's been in the past, DCP's advice is really beginning to grate. Since Zee was five months old, she has told me that Zee has Sensory Processing Disorder. It all started because Zee covers her ears when she hears a loud noise. She's not a big huge fan of the vacuum. I've taken in all DCP has to say, done some research (that site linked above is a good one), and really sat with my thoughts on this. I've concluded that I really don't FEEL anything is wrong with Zee. I just don't. I think I'd know if something was up. And I also don't think I'm being all "not MY baby!" because as we've all learned here, I'm well aware I'm not immune to being on the small side of heaping odds. And their are so many conditions out there that to me sometimes it's amazing most kids are healthy. So I don't think I'm in denial.

What sealed the deal for me was when I approached my doctor with DCP's concerns, he knew her by name, rolled his eyes and said, "Oh, she had a couple come in here CONVINCED their child had Sensory Processing Disorder because he wouldn't wear a hat. It took me an hour to get them to believe that some children just don't like hats." He asked if Zube Boy and I were concerned. We honestly admitted that our biggest concern was DCP's 'diagnosis' but that we didn't feel anything was wrong. The doctor pretty much said, "Zee is fine. She's interactive here with me, smiley, doesn't mind being touched...I've had one child in my practice officially diagnosed with Sensory Processing Disorder and you could tell that something was a little off. Don't worry. If you're ever concerned, let me know and we'll revisit the idea."

Case closed. Or so I thought.

So, where I am now...

Ugh. Basically, I have another daycare option come June. Nothing until then. But DCP keeps bringing up this diagnosis and reminding me that the earlier we deal with it, the better it will be for Zee. She also, and I don't know if this is on purpose, but she'll show me some of what the other kids are doing that Zee isn't doing yet. Not in a comparative way but in a, "Look at so-and-so, almost walking at 10 months!" Zee's not crawling. She's 10 and 1/2 months old. And I'll to tell you I'm the biggest proponent of All. Kids. Have. Their. Own. Pace. But I'm not going to lie. It's a little unsettling when your kid is the one on the slow end of those big milestones. My niece started crawling at 6 months and my nephew is crawling now and he's 9 months. So yeah, I am well aware that kids her age are doing things she isn't. Thanks for making that point, DCP. I'm also aware that other kids weren't holding their own bottle at 6 months and feeding themselves cheerios all pincer-style at 8. So Zee has been in the forward crowd, too. I think all kids lag and lead in different areas.

Now, DCP has mentioned her opinion regarding MY daughter to two of my friends whose children also attend the same daycare. And I'm boiling. I am seriously considering pulling her out for the next two months and taking a pay cut at work so I don't have to bring her there anymore.

The worst part of all of this is that given the constant and pervasive mention of it, I'm starting to doubt myself and my intuition a little. A little voice in the back of my head is going, "Are you SUUUUURE there's nothing wrong? I mean, you were SO SURE Zee was a boy, and she wasn't? What does that say about your intuition, Mama?" I don't know. Of course I want the best possible shot for Zee and if I felt something was wrong I would go to the ends of the earth to find someone who would believe me and help us address it. But I don't want to go around diagnosing her with things willy nilly just for shits and giggles. And I think if you try hard enough in any case, you'll find something wrong with everyone. Hell, it's what makes humans so god-damned interesting.

But I don't want my 'All Kids Are Different' mantra to do a disservice to Zee. So, for the sake of being all facty and diagnostic, below I've pinched a list of symtoms from the site I linked to above. I've highlighted in red the ones that might apply to Zee, and I'm even being a little liberal. Not all are true in all cases. I've added notes where I deem applicable in blue. Here they are:

Sensory Processing Disorder Symptom Checklist For Infants &Toddlers
__ Resists being held or cuddled
__ Cries and/or arches back when people try to hold him/her
__ Distressed by diaper changes
__ Distressed by baths and/or water splashing on him/her
__ Doesn't fall into a predictable sleep/wake pattern or cycle
__ Cries excessively throughout the day (more than a half hour or hour at a time)
__ Doesn't smile often, appears “sad” or “uncomfortable” much of the time
__ Has distinct preferences for adults of certain energy levels or voices (i.e., intonation, loudness, high pitched, low pitched, etc.)
__ Avoids eye contact, has difficulty focusing on objects or following them with eyes
__ Distressed when moved suddenly or whole body and/or head is tipped
__ Distressed by rocking motions
__ Distressed when moving in space (i.e., swinging around, bouncing up and down, or being “thrown” up in the air)
__ Doesn't appear to respond to name or familiar voice
__ Can't seem to calm baby down no matter what you try (or there is only ONE thing that does, i.e., a car ride)
__ Difficulty breastfeeding
__ Difficulty with sucking, chewing, or swallowing
__ Doesn't tolerate new foods well
__ Gags or vomits from textured foods or on variety of different foods (very limited diet for age)
__ Does not seem to sense when diaper is wet or dirty
__ Cries inconsolably until a wet or dirty diaper is changed
__ Prefers to be without clothing
__ Severe separation anxiety
__ Tantrums many times a day
__ Distressed by sunlight or bright lights
__ Distressed in public places, especially if crowded or noisy Zee doesn't like big crowds. Neither does her dad. He just doesn't cover his ears and cry. He has 33 years of experience using his legs and a bit more free will under his belt so he turns around and walks away.
__ Doesn't enjoy regular interactive movement games, i.e., peek-a-boo, pat-a-cake, etc.
__ Doesn't notice new toys/novel toys and/or resists playing with them
__ Only uses one hand to manipulate and explore toys and/or can't switch from hand to hand
__ Unable to bang toys together or clap hands (at appropriate age)
__ Keeps hands fisted and closed most of the time
__ Distressed by dirty hands or face
__ Cries inconsolably when left with strangers or less familiar people
__ Significantly late to talk, walk, gesture, smile, hold bottle, sleep through the night, manipulate/play with toys, etc.
__ Major difficulties transitioning to solid foods and/or rice cereal after bottle or breast fed
__ Can not hold onto or use objects or utensils well for age
__ Regularly avoids certain foods, food categories, consistencies, temperatures of food, eliminates whole food groups, etc.
__ Difficulties with excessive reflux or allergies to foods and/or formulas
__ Doesn't seem to notice sounds others do
__ Frequent ear infections
__ Sensitive to sounds others don't seem to be bothered by Sometimes a few kids will be playing with noisy toys and Zee will cover her ears when they are all going at once. The other kids don't seem to mind.
__ Difficult to engage; is an observer, doesn't interact with peers or adults
__ Apprehensive and/or distressed by playground equipment
__ Distressed by baby swings, jolly jumpers, wagon/stroller rides, car rides, etc.
__ Avoids putting toys in mouth, exploring them with her mouth
__ Baby gags or vomits when objects are placed in his mouth
__ Beyond teething stage, always has something in his/her mouth, or chewing on clothes, hands, fingers
__ Avoids categories of toys, i.e., vibrating, stuffed animals, rough textured toys, slippery/slimy toys, brightly colored objects, etc.
__ Appears overwhelmed, cries, or falls asleep when overstimulated
__ Refuses/distressed by certain positions, i.e., being on tummy, on back, sitting, etc. Not a huge fan of tummy time.
__ Stays in one position and becomes uncomfortable when moving to another; if moving on own has significant difficulty transitioning to another position (hard to do, awkward) She's started transition from sitting to belly, but can't seem to move back.
__ You find you are always trying to be one step ahead of baby; trying to control his environment and “warning” people what to do/not to do so baby is comfortable
__ Difficulty staying asleep for more than 30 minutes at a time, or wakes up frequently throughout the night, unable to soothe himself back to sleep
__ Seems to get too much sleep, very short time when he is alert, playing, responding, and interacting
__ Has significant difficulty waking up
__ Needs a particular sound to stay asleep, i.e., fan, nature tape, white noise, music, etc. This is probably my fault. It's dry as hell around here so we have a humidifier running in her room at night and now she has trouble sleeping without it.
__ Will not sleep if there is any noise
__ Wakes with the sun
__ Can not fall asleep anywhere but home, in familiar environment
__ Needs excessive help to fall asleep...rocking, bouncing, singing, rubbing back, etc. for long periods of time
__ Uncomfortable if not swaddled tightly; or, if older, needs heavy blankets, stuffed animals, or tighter pajamas for weight and pressure on them to fall asleep well
__ Able to switch moods effectively and relatively quickly... easily distracted if upset, “gets over it” within a reasonable amount of time, a favorite toy/face/sound will soothe him/her
__ Excessively attached to a pacifier
__ Never attached to any comfort object, i.e., blanket, stuffed animal, rubbing something, pacifier, thumb, etc.
__ Doesn't reach for or hold toys (especially textured toys) at appropriate age
__ Closes hand if toy coming near it, or drops it immediately if placed in hand
__ When begins to walk, walks on tip toes only, will not put bare feet on ground/floor
__ Distressed by textured materials under themselves
__ Appears distressed by movement; i.e., a startled response, arches back, frightened look in eyes, etc.
__ Does not crawl before walks (or limited/different type of crawl) She's not walking yet, but I imagine she'll walk before she crawls. She does this scootching thing where she moves herself sitting with her heals, so I would say that would qualify as a 'different type of crawl'.
__ Craves movement, distressed if not moving, being swung, rocking, bouncing, rocks self constantly
__ Does not play reciprocally with caregivers or familiar people
__ Frequently engages in repetitive, non-purposeful play with one or two objects
__ Can not switch activities or participate in daily routines without distress when transitioning from one to another DCP has noticed this one, but we haven't. I guess sometimes she pitches a fit when they transition from playtime to feeding time and such.
__ Baby is not understood using language, cues, gestures, etc. and becomes frustrated frequently
__ Frequent head banging, hitting, biting, pinching, or hurting self or others She bangs her head on the back of her high chair. This one disconcerted me a bit when she started so I'd looked it up on the internet. I read that it could be a symptom of autism, and we're not concerned about autism with her given her progress socially. Another site said it could be a sign of genius. I just think it's a sign that she takes after her Dad. Who likes Gwar for crying out loud. She was born to be a head banger.
__ Breaks toys frequently
__ Unable to be gentle with animals
__ Appears uncoordinated, frequently bumps into things
__ Can not focus attention on play, caregiver, or toy long enough to interact (for age level)
__ Wanders around aimlessly or engages in non-purposeful activities in excess, i.e., spinning, rocking, staring at certain objects, etc...not interested in play or doesn't use objects for purposeful play

Looking at the vast see of black ink, I just don't think her symptoms make her anything more than, well, Zee. She's an interesting little tiny person who knows she can't stand the freakin' vacuum cleaner and covers her ears because it's the only way she knows how to try to keep the noise out. She also know she LOVES being tossed in the air by her Daddy and playing peek-a-boo with Mommy. She is perfectly imperfect. The only way I'd want her.

To the root of my question, a question which typing all of this out now has just helped me realize...Am I a bad Mom? A blind Mom? Because DCP and her harping are starting to make me feel that way. Oy. That was it. My biggest problem with all of this.

Thanks all, and I don't blame you one eensy bit if you didn't get through this whole thing.

Our House, Is a Very, Very, Very Fine House

2008-03-19T18:54:00.045-07:00

In the event that you all might be even remotely interested in what we've been up to in the past half a year or so, aside from raising a kiddo, working like maniacs, and perilously ignoring my blog, I'm obliged to show you. I'm a little proud, you might just say.

But, before I share, things are looking good on Zee Baby's end. Quite literally. I'd show you pictures of her tushie, but that'd be, I don't know, illegal or something. At the very least it'd be improper. Just know that her diaper rash has begun to clear, thanks to your suggestions.

So, I've gone on about this house be bought and the McDonald's Playground-ness of it, so I figured I'd show you some before and after shots. The before photos are from our walk-through before we put in an offer.

Ta-da...(Because drumrolls are totally overrated.)

The Kitchen

Before...

Yes, in fact, that is a light blue cabinet thrown up in the middle there. For artistic measure, no doubt.

After...

Repainted, wood floor...

Some chochkes thrown in 'cause I'm a big fan of all things antique chochke...

Still have to paint the back door and the kitchen window trim white...

The Dining 'Room' (Being quite liberal here with the definition of a 'room')

Before...

Orange Crush fades to Lemon Yellow. Orange Crush = Good Song...Bad Color. Lemon Yellow = Good Lemon, Put one in My Lemon Drop Shot Please...Not so much a yummy color for my walls.

Teensy baby resting on owners' table (these were taken in June, about fifteen minutes later my one month old had a meltdown).

After...

Repainted window...Muchas plantas...

Still need to paint that window trim, too...

The Living Room/Hallway to Bathroom (Aw, heck, who am I kidding, the rooms downstairs are practically up each others' arses, but let's pretend their separate rooms.)

Before...

Nasty carpet meets lemon yellow...

A tapestry is a good way to cover up a wall covered in bricks that was partially painted lemon yellow. It would seem that painting bricks SUCKS. Big time. It is not a project worth following through. Tapestries are a quick fix. In case you doubt me or my predecessors and attempt to paint a brick wall just know that you should have a tapestry handy.

After...

Not ideal, super tiny, but it's currently working for us...The lack of living space is why, in a few years, we'll be doing a major remodel. That we're PAYING SOMEONE ELSE TO DO. Because I'm plain over the shit. There is talk of temporarily sending me to Jersey while the worst of it is going on. Z-Boy's idea. He's a smart man. If that happens, he'll be a smart alive man. Survival of the fittest.

Just in case you're super fucking nosy like me, close-ups of the photos.

In case you hadn't noticed, I don't particularly care that it's been deemed lower middle class to display photos in your living room...

Crooked, yeah. I know. But I can't be arsed to get all particular about that...

The Bathroom

Before...

Citrus colors dominated our living quarters. I'm convinced that the previous owners were constantly under the influence of vodka and tequila. And their respective citrus companions. Can't blame them.

After...

I'm not a huge fan of the haystack color on the walls, but it's a vast improvement... If you ask me.

The Hallway to Bath and Spare Room

Before...

Because who couldn't use a bottle of wine en route to the lime green loo.

After...

Because I'm all braggy niece-in-law...A chalk drawing Z-Boy's Uncle made us for our wedding...

The Downstairs Guest Room/Office Converted to Craft Room/Office

Before...

Nothing spectacular, albeit nothing completely assaulting to the ocular vessels...A welcome change.

After...

Still need to paint the window trim...

Notice the sewing machine my honey bought me today because he rocks that hard. And I think I might've said a million and one times that I'm SO glad I had a girl because now I can sew her clothes. Boys clothes are tougher. He couldn't rock harder if he had a vagina and was, well...me. Some guys are just lucky like that.

Closet Turned Zee's Room (the most exciting transformation yet, if you ask me)

There are two pretty teeny bedrooms upstairs. The couple before us used Zee's room as a master closet. It's about that size, to be honest...

After...

Orange Crush has its place...

Talk about maximizing space...

I received that rocking chair for my first birthday from my Mom-mom and Pop-pop. Love those kind of hand-me-downs. Actually, I LOVE all KINDS of hand-me-downs.

I'm not one for wallpaper borders but this one clutched me by the throat and said, "Put me on your registry, DAMMIT!" Love it.

My favorite feature of the room...the rug is cool, too.

The Master Bedroom

Before...

Even with daylight streaming through the ever-so-tiny window, you can barely see this room. Sometimes it's nice to move beyond primary colors, not that I'm an art teacher or anything. Thank Goddess.

After...

We've done the least with our bedroom...

It's intended for sleep. And it provides that well enough. So we'll leave it alone for now. At least I don't feel like I'm hibernating in a cave of Navy Blue-ness when I retire.

Well peeps, this took longer than I'd imagined, so I'm going to retire to my tan refuge.

Peace out...

Random Bits

2008-03-18T09:19:00.007-07:00

Today I saw seven skiers, skis askew over their shoulders, walking paintstakingly in their ski boots out the lobby doors on their way to the chairlift. They were all in line. Upon seeing them, I instinctively started to sing, "Hi-ho, hi-ho..." I don't think they thought I was as funny as I did.

Last week a coworker and I were trying to nickname the seven people in the office. We were short one nickname, so I called my Mom.

Ring-Ring

Mom: Hello.

Z-Girl: Okay, so Doc, Dopey, Grumpy, Sleepy, Happy, and Sneezy. Who am I missing?

Mom: Umm, let me think, Doc, Happy, um, Bashful!

Z-Girl: Thanks.

You know, I could look these things up on the internet, but it's just not the same. Oh, I'm Doc, by the way. What can I say, I got first pick.

I'm feeling just awful for poor little Zee. She's got a raw tushie. Not that that's the kind of thing you prolly want to know, but hell, who asked you? Diaper rash sucks. And what kills me, is she's been absolutely cheery throughout the hole (Umm, not entirely an inappropriate typo) thing. I mean, I know how crotchety I get when my bung-hole is a little itchy and her whole ass is on fire and she's still smiling. What a trooper. I think she enjoys the 'Naked Time' I've implemented with the express interest of airing out her bottom. Come to think of it, who doesn't enjoy 'Naked Time'? Eh well, we're working on this diaper rash deal as best we can. Anyone have any suggestions? I was going to assk (Haha! Okay, these typos are killing me.) the Mommas, but I'm sure that anyone out there is capable of tossing out an amusing cure for what ails my poor little Zee. And that, my friends, I Am asking you. Whether you wanted to hear about this debacle or not.

This post was brought to you by Capitol Z

PS - Just fair warning...If you're considering 'dropping in' on someone who works in the ski industry in MARCH to discuss your future event, think again. Howz about you try calling and making an appointment. And it just might not be possible for another week or so. Certainly, it would impress you to know that the person you're wanting to meet with is MORE CONCERNED with the events she has currently taking place than ones that are in the future. Wouldn't you expect people to give your the same courtesy when she is busy attending to your event?

I'm Here...And Humble...

2008-03-16T18:46:00.007-07:00

My life as a mother is still so colored by my miscarriages. Not necessarily the sadness of them. But the fact that I know, having had them, that other women struggle to have a baby, too. And some are in the midst of that struggle. And it breaks my heart.

There have been times when Zube Boy and I have been seated in a restaurant with Zee Baby. The hostess will attempt to seat a couple near us. And they'll ask to sit somewhere else. Sometimes I'm tempted to get all, 'Dude, my kid is totally well-behaved in restaurants, at least for now,' on them. Okay, maybe I actually have gotten all motherly proud like that to Zube Boy. But then I get a little sheepish. And I wonder if maybe it isn't the fact that my baby might misbehave that makes them want to sit elsewhere. Maybe they're trying to have one, too. And it's hard. Fucking hard. Maybe I was one of those people. Yes. I was.

I'm remiss to 'show off' Zee Baby. Ever. When I'm at work on Sundays, Zee randomly joins me. It's difficult as HELL to find daycare on Sundays! A problem I am lucky as hell to have. Anyway, I try NEVER to get all goofy grinned, Tee-hee, isn't my baby CAH-UTE! while checking people in to the screechy tune of her "MA-MA-MA-MA!" I AM proud glowy Mom, when people ask, and go nuts over her, but when they don't, I maintain whatever professionalism I can in such a situation.

I just never know who might be struggling in my midst. And I KNOW how that feels. Actually, wait. I DON'T know how that feels. Not anymore. I can try to remember. But I can't fully FEEL what it's like to stare the what if's in the face. What if? What if I NEVER carry a baby to term? What if I'm NEVER a mother the conventional way? What if I'm NEVER a mother?

I don't know how that feels anymore. And while I thank goddess every day I DO know what it's like to be a mother, I am a mother. I'm no longer able to say, "I KNOW how you feel. And it sucks." All I can say now is, "I used to know how you feel. And it sucks." Even writing that feels crushingly arrogant. But I hope no one takes it that way.

I don't know. I've been thinking about this a bit lately. I do pipe up when people dote on Zee. I let them know she was hard-earned. I also let them know how I was entirely NOT relaxed. Because if I can help in ANY fucking way, I would like it to be by dispelling that whole fucking 'JUST RELAX!' myth. That one. Ugh. Fucking hated that one.

Nothing about my pregnancy with Zee was 'relaxed'. Not her conception. Not unless one could consider taking my temperature every morning and timing sex 'relaxed'. Not about her early weeks in utero. When I thought I was miscarrying her, too. Thought I HAD miscarried in fact, and took all the cold medicine in the world to rid myself of the non-crying-induced sniffles. The curable ones. Not during my entire pregnancy. Bleeding for the first 20 weeks, bedrest for the next 16. Naturally, I only share these things when I deem it appropriate. Because I am the Queen of Propriety. Ha! Not a chance. But, really. I just want people to know, if they're thinking of asking their niece-in-law when in the hell she is planning to have children, rethink that please. And don't tell her to fucking relax if she responds, "Well, it's hard." You just never know.

I pray like fucking hell that those of you who want babies join me where I am now. Be it through luck, medicine, adoption, all of the above. Some of the above. Don't lose hope. Until you're over it. And you'll know when you are. And I don't blame you one tiny bit if where I am now distances us a bit. I can't fully understand it anymore. But I do. I'll hold your hand. And I'm grateful for our friendship.

Well, like that made a damn bit of sense. I'm feeling sleepy. And introspective. And out. Peace.