When I Don't Like Something...

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

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!

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...

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

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

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

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



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

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

And Seriously...



IndieInk is the shizzle. In my humble opinion.

Who's Your Mommy?

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

My Dearest Childrens,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because what goes down must come up, right?

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

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

Anyway, it's time.

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

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

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

Penance

Still on the List of Things to Do Today:

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

Big day at Casa de Zube.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A few observations:

Firstly, awwwwwww.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I love my Dad.

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

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

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

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

And we're outta beer.

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

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

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

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

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

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



Oops...



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

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

That Filter Got Broke

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Disconnected...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

I'm so there.

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

It Takes a Village...

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I loved him. I love my village.

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

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

Mom's Just Wanna Have Fun...

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

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

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

Sometimes you have to stop.

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

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

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

Thirty Somethings...Thing 9

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?

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

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

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

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.