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

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...

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

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.

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

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.

When Pigs Fly...Or Knock on the Damn Door at All Hours of the Night...

Sometimes, the best way to sum things up is to scream, "Mother-fucking FUCK!" really damn loud.

I think it would be a good idea, at this point, to have my hand surgically replaced with a paintbrush. That would be SO useful to me as we're painting the new house. Inside and out. Ourselves. Actually not ENTIRELY by ourselves. Zube Boy's most awesome Dad is helping us. I'll show you before and after photos when it's all done.

I'm burning my candle at both ends, ladies and gentlemen. And the wick? She is getting short.

The other night, Zube Boy and I were awakened at 1:30AM from a much-needed post painting pass out by a BANG-BANG-BANGING on the door across the street. Where The Dudes live. After a half hour of the nonsense, I poised myself up on the bed and shouted out the window, "WHY DON'T YOU JUST FUCKING GO IN ALREADY!" assuming that it was a drunk friend who wanted to crash on their couch. I assumed wrongly. After my little outburst, I laid back down only to see a VERY BRIGHT flash light shining in our window and up on the ceiling. In a hushed tone, Zube Boy chided, "Honey, those were COPS, you idiot!"

"Oh shit."

I propped myself up on the windowsill again and saw one of Breckenridge's finest staring right back at me. He didn't say anything at first, prolly 'cause he was so ASTOUNDED by my resemblance to the Swamp Thing that he forgot for a moment he woke my swampish ass up at 1:30AM. I stammered, "S-s-sir. I am SO sorry! Really. I thought it was just one of their drunk friends trying to find a place to crash or something."

He laughed. And I was relieved. I'd imagine they don't like to make a habit of bringing Swamp Thing Lookalikes down to the station, so he let me off easy. Cops are kind of guarded about their donuts and I think I heard something about Swamp Things eating, like, a gazillion donuts a day. Or, whatever.

He actually apologized to me for waking us up and asked if we knew whether or not the owner of the black jeep cherokee lived in the house across the street. I said I thought it was a friend of theirs. Apparently the jeep was suspect in a hit and run. And I was no help at all. But they stopped knocking after that. And I was kind of mad at myself because The Dudes and their dog that they like to put outside at midnight and 6:00AM who barks incessantly have been pissing me off to no end and I'd kind of liked to have seen one of their cohorts handcuffed and shit.

Oh well. I learned my lesson. From now on I'm going to stash donuts by the bed at night and I'll offer them some if I'm ever lucky enough to have them staking out the neighbors again.

And. As soon as the police left? While I was staring out my front window in my black as night living room? The Dudes lights started coming on. Fucking assholes. That guy was clearly trying to avoid having to take a breathilizer. I'm certain of it.

Wherein I Can't Shut My Pie-Hole

Oh my GOD! How could I have been so STUPID as to overlook the OBVIOUS? I'm ashamed of myself, really. You see, even after having three miscarriages, it never ONCE occurred to me to explore the possibility that having surgery on my cooch ten years ago, namely an abortion, might affect the current shortcomings of my uterus. I mean, one would think that I, having proclaimed time and again how fucking smart I am and all, would have at least looked into it. Fortunately, for my sake, the Know-It-All Fairy descended upon this blog of mine and thwomped me upside the noggin with her/his Thirty-Year-Old-Studies-Decree-That-the-Miscarriages-Are-YOUR-Fault! Wand. Well, DAMN! Does that mean that if I hadn't ever HAD an abortion, I wouldn't be having these problems? Hmmm...

Pfbt. Whatever. Before any Pro-Lifers out there go parlaying for an all out victorious conversion of the Zube Girl, it's not gonna happen. I've been there, done that. I WAS Pro-Life. I argued until I was red in the face that having a BAYBEE would be HEEEEEALING for a rape survivor. Then I got raped. And found myself pregnant. And I wasn't really finding that healing crap to be very true for myself so I opted to have an abortion. Exercising my right to choose kind of made me think that maybe it wasn't my place to go around denying others that right. So don't go convincing yourself I'm on the edge of conversion or anything.

Without further ado, here is what the Know-It-All Fairy, cloaked in anonymity because I imagine that Fairy's of ALL sorts must protect themselves from crazy-ass magic wand seeking stalkers, had to say:

Anonymous commented on this post:

I'm sorry for your losses. This might explain more...

Women who had one induced abortion had a 17.5% miscarriage rate in subsequent pregnancies, as compared to a 7.5% rate in a non-aborted group. Richardson & Dickson, "Effects of Legal Termination on Subsequent Pregnancy," British Med. Jour., vol. 1, 1976, pp. 1303-4

Women who had delivered their first pregnancy had (in the second pregnancy) the "best reproductive performance." Those who had a spontaneous miscarriage on the first had "the highest frequency of an early loss." Those with induced abortion on their first had "the highest frequency of late spontaneous abortion and premature delivery." Koller & Eikham, "Late Sequelae of Induced Abortion in Primagravida" Acta OB-GYN Scand, 56 (1977) p. 311.

(Bolding mine)

First off, I find it difficult to believe that you are sorry for my losses. Given that the thirty year old research you've quoted can be found on every Pro-Life website from here to kingdom come, I get the impression that you're anti-abortion. And that's fine. Good for you. I'll fight ya tooth and nail if your goal is to outlaw abortion, but I support your right to feel how you feel about it. Though it seems like, rather than feeling any sort of sympathy for my losses, you're rubbing them in my face and you could say that I don't fancy that so much. Let's not keep up with the facade that you've got any sympathy for me, allrighty?

I do find it interesting that these studies are so damn old. Really. So old that they took place not long after the legalization of abortion in Britain and the US. Which, at least to me, means that the subjects involved in the studies just might have had illegal abortions. And illegal abortions are often not done properly and CAN lead to damage to the reproductive organs. Just for fun, here is a link to a site where the findings of those studies are disputed.

To make you feel a little better about my current state of affairs, after my second miscarriage, one of the first questions I asked my doctor was whether or not he believed my previous abortion could have anything to do with it. He said, "Absolutely not. There is a possibility that ONE miscarriage might be the result of the embryo trying to implant in scar tissue, but if you had a legal first-trimester abortion with no complications and follow-up care, scar tissue would be minimal, and the odds of an embryo attempting to implant in that same exact spot are very, very slim. In fact, it's promising that you have carried a pregnancy further in the past. At least we know that you can." Are ya all warm and fuzzy now? Good.

Lastly, what in the HELL were you thinking making a comment like that on such an emotional post? I mean, come on! Fortunately, I'm far too self-assured to let it bother me, but I have to believe you were trying to induce guilt where none existed. What if I weren't so comfy-cozy with the choice I made? What kind of FUCKED UP ASSHOLE would you be telling an obviously grieving woman that she was responsible for the loss of her pregnancies? A CUNT-LIKE ASSHOLE, comes to mind. And not only because CUNT is one of my most favorite words, either.

And, you know what else kills me? How some Pro-Life people will go around lamenting the badness of abortion, and how they want better for women and blah blah blah and they give hugs and love and support with reckless abandon to women who regret and feel guilty and pray to God for forgiveness for their abortions and any women that create memorial websites in honor of their aborted BAYBEES get coddled and forgiven and paraded about as a reason that abortion is bad because JUST LOOK AT HOW GUILTY AND HORRIBLE THEY ALL FEEL! But show them a woman who is comfortable with the choice she made and doesn't feel guilty, a woman like me, and these same Pro-Lifers POUNCE at the opportunity to create guilt where none exists! I've seen it and experienced it a million times and I have to ask: If abortion is SO HORRIBLE because it makes some women feel guilty, well then, what does that say about you? Huh?

Old Habits Die Hard

I have a bad habit of humping things I love. Or, okay, TALKING about humping things I love. At first I thought it was just a phase. A phase I was so OBVIOUSLY in the throes of a few weeks ago. But it has returned with a vengeance, which leads me to believe it's more of a habit. Or at least a cyclic phase. Or some shit like that. Anyway, enough with the preamble.

Yesterday I arrived home from work to find Zube Boy beaming. Mine keen ears did immediately detect a whirrrring sound, not unlike that of a hair dryer. I gasped.

Z-Boy: Honey, do you know what today is?

Z-Girl: OHMYGOD, OHMYGOD, OHMYGOD!!!

Z-Boy: It's R-R-R-ROOMBA Day!

Those were rolling R's in case you were wondering. Zube Boy and I have been anticipating Roomba Day ALL. WEEK. LONG. In fact, Wednesday night we were lying in bed, which is when most of our interesting conversations happen, and Zube Boy said, "Honey, you know what tomorrow is, right?" "ROOMBA DAY! I think I'm going to leave work early."

Geez. We're kind of losers, huh? Fuck it. I embrace my loserness. You should be a loser like me. Get a Roomba. Like RIGHT-FUCKING-NOW! Here, I'll make it easy for you. Go ahead. I'll wait.

You back? Okay. Seriously though? I want to hump this thing. Over and over and over again! Love. It rocks. Not ONLY does it clean under furniture and in corners and around table legs, but it FREAKS the living crap out of the Z-animals!!! HAHAHAHAHA! Useful AND entertaining. You must have one.

Zoey is the only cat brave enough to get near it. She stalks it all feline-like until it bumps into a wall and turns around and CHASES HER!!! Which causes her to run in place all cartoon style until she finally gets momentum and goes careening across the wood floors and crashes face first into a wall. And you all know how much I love that shit.



I feel as though I finally have SOMEONE in the house who appreciates the fact that I have more important queenly duties to attend to than vacuuming. Like right now? I'm attending to a queenly duty. AND? MY HOUSE IS BEING VACUUMED!!!

Brad was probably like, "What the fuck are they doing in there?" last night what with all of the "R-R-R-ROOMBA! Ay-ay-ay!" yelling going on. I bet the neighbors think we're kinky. I'm wondering if that cute little kid from down the street will still be allowed to come to our house and sell us wrapping paper and shit.

Before I went to bed, I could barely contain myself.

Z-Girl: *sniff* Honey?

Z-Boy: What?

Z-Girl: I LOVE my Roomba. Like REALLY love it.

Z-Boy: Aw. Do you want to bring it to bed?

Z-Girl: A little.

Z-Boy: Okay.

Z-Girl: Wow. You'd let me do that?

Z-Boy: Sure. As long as it doesn't get the middle.

Z-Girl: I'll take the middle. You're the best.

The moral of the story is: Even if you already have one love in your life, there is always Roomba for another.

Heh. That was bad. Real bad. Even for me. I'd better go wash out my mouth with soap. Or my fingertips.

Edited to add...If you're fond of crying and snorting all in one sitting, please read this. Sars is ALWAYS good for a hardy-har and her experience with her Roomba and cats is no exception.

Well, Would You Look at That...

I have a soapbox under me feet. While I'm up here...

I'm sure some of my readers are Pro-Life, and I REALLY don't intend to alienate you guys, but I'm going to warn you that I'm about to throw a wee bit of a tantrum. Understand that it's simply emotions bubbling over that I usually keep in check because I'm ALWAYS composed in debate. However, this is my playroom and I kind of feel like throwing my toys around for a minute. I'm fucking tired of being diplomatic. I know it's essential, and I know it gets me further than being a raving lunatic, but that doesn't make it any less tiresome.

You all are probably aware that I'm an advocate of choice. I have that big ass ugly button in my sidebar which says so. I wish I could find a more visually appealing one, but the sentiment is more important to me than having a pretty blog. Although, if any of you can recommend a source for buttons that don't blink and express those two of my most sacred beliefs, I'd love you forever. Not that I don't already, but who couldn't use some more Zube love? I'm full of it.

Anyway, choice is something I am PASSIONATE about. So passionate that I actually cried when Bush was reelected because I worry that under his administration the clock is slowly being turned back on Roe v. Wade, while we're all distracted by the War on Terror. My Republican husband didn't even laugh at my crying ass. He hugged me because he understands this passion. There's very little that we don't poke fun at one another for, and this is one of those things.

The reason I'm so passionate about it is that if I hadn't had access to a legal and safe abortion, I, without a doubt, would not be living in Colorado married to the Pro-Choice Republican guy I'm wildly in love with. Who knows where the fuck I'd be, but I'm so happy with where I am, that I've got nothing but love for all of the women and men who were fighting for my right to choose even while I was Pro-Life and fighting to deny myself that right. How's that for irony? "I think it would be healing for a survivor of rape to give birth to the resulting child," ranks way up there on the list of Dumbest Shit I've Ever Said.

Through my perusal of Pro-Life websites yesterday, I came across several points I'd like to address. The following aren't direct quotes; they're merely points I've seen expressed over and over again. I'm not linking because I have no desire to start a pissing match with anyone. The following is my lil' ole' opinion, peppered with lots of cussing because I'm cranky today. Maturity be damned.

"I had an abortion, and now I regret it. Abortion should be illegal because every-fucking-body else who had one must regret it, too."

There are so many websites where women can go and get hugs and get prayed for and all that happy horseshit because they made a decision they regret. And that's all well and good. I think it's important to support people who've made difficult decisions in a pinch and aren't all okay with it. Unfortunately, though, that's the fucking nature of making a BIG DECISION there's no going back on. I'm sorry you regret having an abortion. That sucks. It really does. But it doesn't mean the right should be taken away from EVERYONE. We can't go around protecting people from making a decision they might regret. Seriously.

I am at peace with what I decided, but I'm not going to turn around and say that every woman who finds herself pregnant in the least ideal situation should have an abortion. See? And I know some women who, though it's nearly impossible to tell anyone, regret not having had an abortion. They're not going around saying pregnant teenagers shouldn't be allowed to have kids. They had their kid and they love it like crazy, but they still wonder where they'd be if they hadn't. They made a decision and they're living with it. Me, too. So are you. And how each of us feels about the decision we've made should not influence the legality of others to make their own.

Now, if you were forced/coerced into having an abortion, that's WRONG and that's not what choice means to me. CHOICE means you have a fucking CHOICE in the matter and THAT is what I stand for. That's why the whole Pro-Abortion label pisses me right off. Let's just say that if I have a daughter and she comes to me at the age of sixteen and tells me she's pregnant, I give her FULL LICENSE to make a decision she can live with. I mean, ideally she wouldn't be in that predicament because she'll have come to me before she had sex and we'd have gone to the doctor and gotten her on birth control, but BIRTH CONTROL does not come with any GUARANTEES. Contraception fails, people.

But, if she wants to have a baby? Fine. If she wants an abortion? Fine. I will love her and support her NO MATTER WHAT. And, if abortion is illegal and that's what she wants? I'll fly her ass to some other country. I'm not really too worried about my future daughters not having access to abortion. It's the poor people who might want one and can't afford to travel to Canada that I'm most worried about.

I don't think the reason there are so many sites like this is that the majority of women regret having an abortion. I believe it's more or less because women who don't regret aborting don't feel the need to publicize it to the world. It's a private decision, and one they're thankful to have been able to make, but also one that people would condemn them for and who the fuck wants to deal with that?

I do because I don't really give a rat's ass what anyone other than my husband and my family think of me. I had an abortion and my whole town knows it. I don't regret it, and I'm sure I'm not the only one.

"Abortion should be illegal, except in cases of rape and incest."

That's simply not possible, and I'll tell you why.

The asshole that raped me didn't have the common decency to give me a black eye or SOMETHING, ANYTHING that would have made me a credible plaintiff. I knew him through a friend. He offered to give me a ride to the store because my car was broken down. I accepted. I, though I felt squicky about it and should have spoken up but, being young and naive, followed him into his house so he could retrieve some unknown thing. Which, come to find out, was in between my legs. And that was that. He didn't rough me up. He didn't have to because I was sufficiently frightened by the inability to breathe. A pillow over your face doesn't leave much in the way of bruising. I acquiesced because I wanted him to ease up on the suffocation. I wanted to get out alive. And I did. Thank fucking goddess.

If I'd have fought and pissed him off, I might've gotten injured, making me more believable. I might've also bought myself a one way ticket to a backyard burial. Who the fuck knows, for sure? If you ask me today if I really think he was capable of murder, I'd say probably not. But when you're deprived of oxygen and gasping for air, you'll think some crazy shit.

Does that suck? Is it unfair? Yeah. It sucks all hell and then some, but would I be willing to have innocent people put in prison for rape just so that I, or any other woman could simply say, "I was raped," and have it believed? No. Of course not. It's a sad fact of life that people lie about shit. That's why we have a judicial system. Innocent until proven guilty, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

All of that to say that I didn't prosecute. If abortions were only legal for survivors of rape, how would I have proven that that is indeed what happened? And, even if I HAD decided to prosecute, do you know how fucking long things take to even GET to trial, much less be given a verdict? I'd have given birth by the time that happened. Actually, I probably would have been forced to carry the pregnancy to term anyway because my word against his surely wouldn't have held up.

So, that argument? Stupid and impossible.

"The abortion industry is full of money hungry assholes."

Hmm...Let's see. When I had an abortion, it was $450. I opted for the general anesthesia. Otherwise it would have been $300. Friends who've had kids have told me THAT costs anywhere from $3,000 to $5,000 if you have a fairly uneventful birth. It's exponentially higher if you have an emergency C-section or something outside the average push, push, why hello there little newborn event. I don't hear anyone calling OB's money grubbing assholes.

And, the cost of birth aside, I'm assuming that having a kid for THE REST OF YOUR EARTHBOUND LIFE costs a bit more than $500 bucks. I mean, come on.

I prefer that a doctor who is going to OPERATE on my UTERUS be, you know, compensated monetarily for that. I don't mind throwing in a little extra dough for the fact that they very likely risk their fucking lives to provide health services they believe in because they CARE about women.

I find it hard to believe that the lady who held my hand and told me not to cry because those rosary bead throwing, "Murderer" screaming fuckers just didn't understand, was doing it because she wanted the portion of the $450 that went to her paycheck. She was going to get it whether she held my hand or not. And okay, maybe she didn't say 'fuckers' but anyway...







Whew. I feel much better having gotten that off my chest. If you've read this entire thing, you deserve a fucking medal and all the Zube love I've got in my reserve. It's hard to fight for and believe in something and yet ALWAYS, ALWAYS, ALWAYS keep your cool. I try. I really, really do, but every once in a while people don't fight fair with me and I want to retaliate. I'd rather do that here than there. Because here, I'm attacking an argument and not a person. There, erm, not so much.

100 Things About Me

1. I decided to do this ‘100 Things About Me’ thing because I read some others and I felt like I was having coffee with the folks who wrote them. And damn do I love coffee.

2. I'm putting this in my March archives, and linking to it, 'cause I think that if people read it, they should really, you know, care or something.

3. I’ll be damned if I know where to start.

4. I was born in Bermuda, but I’m an American citizen because my Dad was in the Navy. I always thought that was hella cool when I was a kid. Still do.

5. When my youngest sister, My Belle, was born, I was 10, my brother, Bro, was 8, and my sister, Hoot, was 3.

6. I was walking on my Dad's back as a youngster, and had a toy drumstick in my mouth. Dad's Mom, my Mom Mom, who happened to be visiting, quipped, “She’s going to fall and jam that thing down her throat.” Soon as she left, I fell and jammed that thing down my throat.

7. Growing up, we had to finish all of our dinner, or we wouldn't get dessert. Mom and Dad decided that we could choose three things we didn't like. My three things were stuffing, brussel sprouts, and pizza.

8. I kept all of my stuffed animals in my bed when I slept. I didn’t want any of them to know I had a favorite. I can’t even bring myself to tell you now which one was my favorite.

9. I had a recurring dream when I was little that there was this banana guy with a top hat and cane dancing and singing in the corner of my bedroom. It was one of those dreams where I felt like I was totally awake, and I would try to scream, but wouldn’t be able to. It was terrifying. Fucking Banana Guy. And even worse, try being a six-year-old explaining just how SCARY that banana guy is to your Mom.

10. Bro wouldn’t play Barbies with me. We came to a compromise, and played ‘house’ with matchbox cars. We’d name them, and they’d have kids and stuff. It was really fun. Much more fun than Barbies as a matter of fact. My favorite was a gold beetle bug named Audrey. She was fucking bad ass.

11. I used to decline playing with my friends so I could help my Mom with my little sisters. To this day they tell me I’m like a second Mom.

12. I am the second oldest of nineteen grandkids on Mom’s side, and the oldest of nine on Dad’s side.

13. My Mom is one of seven kids, and my Dad is one of five.

14. I would love to have a million kids, but I’ll settle for three.

15. I can’t wait to get started on those three.

16. I’m trying to be all organized and sequential about this. I’m finding it difficult. So, fuck it.

17. My Mom has a photo of my brother and me when we were about 5 and 3. We had woken up at 5 in the morning, and decided to go outside and play in the sandbox. Mom woke up and panicked when she couldn’t find us. She finally found us outside. I had gotten my brother all dressed. Pants, t-shirt, and sweatshirt. I, however, was in my underwear. Even today, I find it easier to take care of others than I do to take care of myself.

18. I love my family something fierce.

19. I am a Jersey Girl, through and through. I am almost too proud of it.

20. I hated Jersey when I lived there.

21. I moved to Colorado when I was 24.

22. In Colorado I came to love Jersey. And Bruce Springsteen. And Bon Jovi.

23. I never had big hair. I hated the fact that a can of Aquanet wouldn't keep my uncooperative bangs all swooshed up on top of my head.

24. When I look at photographs of my friends and I in eighth grade, I’m glad loopy bangs eluded me.

25. My brother got beaten up once outside of a bowling alley. He looked like the elephant man.

26. I sat outside of that bowling alley every night for the next couple of weeks. I thought that if I could find the guys who did it, I could beat them up right back.

27. I was so angry, that I truly think I could’ve.

28. I was staunchly Pro-Life as a teenager.

29. Then, in college, I was raped and got pregnant. I am now staunchly Pro-Choice.

30. The anniversary of my rape is January 21. I usually take the day off, and get a massage or go shopping. I cry a little every year, too. I often wonder if I’ll ever not cry on that day.

31. This past year, on the ninth anniversary, I was crying and Zube Boy caught me. I said, “I’m sorry I cry about this every year.” He hugged me and said, “I’ve been with you for the past four, and I’ll be with you for the next fifty. And you probably will cry. And that’s okay.” The man is gold, I tell ya.

32. When I turned 17, I didn’t want to get my license. I was the youngest in my class, and all of my other friends already drove me around.

33. When I finally decided I wanted to get it at 17 and a half, I was all geared up to take the test, and my Mom realized she forgot her insurance card. It was hard to convince all the other kids at school that I hadn’t failed.

34. There were times in college when I was so severely depressed, I considered suicide.

35. I imagined my funeral, and the sadness of my family members and decided I couldn’t do that to them. I lived for them for a few years.

36. That didn’t stop me from imagining that I was an innocent bystander killed in an armed robbery. Then, at least, I could die, but not by my own hand. Which somehow seemed better. What can I say. I was depressed.

37. A few years later, I was an innocent bystander in an armed robbery. Something about having a gun two feet from my head made me realize just how much I wanted to live.

38. My life did not flash before my eyes, however. All I could think about was the last time I’d spoken to each of my family members and whether or not I’d told them that I loved them.

39. I am naturally blonde, but I dyed my hair red for seven years. I’m back to blonde now.

40. My Belle loves when I tell her the story of when she first came home from the hospital as a baby. She fell asleep on me, and I wouldn’t move, because I didn’t want to wake her up and make her cry. I always tell her it was love at first sight.

41. There’s this little boy who lives down the street, and he always knocks on our door and asks us if we need our weeds wacked. I think it’s so cool that he’s out earning money. He charges us $5.00, but I usually give him more. I’d never tell him that he’s a terrible weed wacker.

42. I always buy at least one thing from all of his school fundraisers, too.

43. I’ve learned that kids have a hell of a lot of fundraisers these days.

44. I dated a guy, whom we’ll refer to as Assface, when I was 23. He was, well, an assface. A month after we moved in together, he lost his job, and his two kids moved in with us. Suddenly, I was thrust from singledom into supporting a boyfriend and his two kids.

45. He was emotionally abusive. But, he told me I was lucky because he didn’t hit me, like his Dad hit his Mom. I kind of believed it.

46. One might say my self esteem was suckful at best back then.

47. One day, this barely audible voice inside me said, “You deserve better.”

48. Fortunately, I listened.

49. I kicked him out and adopted a cat. I decided that Alexander the Cat was more of a man than any other I’d been with thus far.

50. Alexander got really sick and almost died. I was sure this was a sign that I wasn’t supposed to be with any man.

51. A part of me thinks that Assface had something to do with Alexander getting sick in the first place.

52. Alexander is fine now.

53. After I kicked Assface out, he proceeded to sell drugs out in front of my house.

54. I decided that moving to Colorado would save my life. It did.

55. There are angels. I do not doubt that one bit.

56. And ghosts. I know this.

57. I threw a big 'Going Away' party for myself and gave away all of my shit.

58. I packed what was left in my little geo prism and Alexander and I headed for the mountains.

59. When I arrived in Colorado on December 30, 1999, I had $40 to my name.

60. Zube Boy and I were not destined to start dating until a little over a year later, but we realized after dating that we were at the same New Year’s Eve party the second night after I moved here. He remembered me because when the clock struck midnight, someone broke my dress strap giving me a hug. I stapled it back together because the bar couldn’t find any safety pins. He thought I was pretty.

62. My Mom's Mom and I have a very special bond. It seems to have transcended death.

63. I used to dust her knick knacks as a kid for $2. They were stored in a cedar display case, and I loved the smell of it.

64. A month after I had moved to Colorado and found an apartment, I stood in the middle of the kitchen, and started to cry. I looked up and said out loud, "Just what in the fuck am I doing? I'm all alone here. I don't know if I can do it." As soon as I said it, I was overcome with the scent of cedar. There was nothing cedar in the apartment. I said, "Thanks Mom Mom. I was feeling quite alone for a minute there."

65. She also came to me in a dream after she died. Among a zillion other comforting things, she told me that I'd have three children.

66. I once had a dream that Zube Boy and I were sitting at a dinner table with two boys and a girl. The girl was the youngest. If this pans out, I'll be freaked.

67. You know what? I won't be freaked. I think I'll be dissappointed if it doesn't pan out.

68. My Mom sends me colored maple leaves every fall. We don't have those here. It makes me cry every time. In a good way.

69. Zube Boy and I had our first date on January 8, 2001. I knew on that day that he was the guy I would marry.

70. I never wondered if he would call. He just didn't make me. Nor did I make him.

71. We moved in together after dating for only two months.

72. But, didn't get married until three and a half years later.

73. It was not all sunshine and flowers. In fact, I would say it was fucking hard work.

74. I believe that if you're not scared shitless even a little bit at the prospect of marriage, you're not fully cognizant of the promise you are about to make.

75. I kissed him first. We were arguing about politics because he's a Republican and I'm a Democrat. I figured there was no other way to shut him up.

76. When I was on #25 of this list, I was like, "Jeebus, I can't think of 100 things." Now I'm thinking, "Oh shit. I only have 25 more."

77. I have never seen Zube Boy cry.

78. This makes me kind of sad for some reason.

79. Instead of an engagement ring, I got 'Engagement Cabinets'. They are fucking lovely. Knotty hickory. Yum!

80. He actually bought me an engagement ring a month before the wedding. I call it my 'Anillo de Compromiso' which is 'Ring of Compromise' in Spanish. Because Engagement Cabinets are just way too cool.

81. Our wedding cost ~$4,500. The only thing I didn't do myself was the food. I've been told by 105 of the 105 people there that it was one of the best weddings they've ever been to.

82. I was totally afraid the whole thing would be a huge disaster. It wasn’t.

83. I don't think I'll ever be too old to hear my Dad say he's proud of me.

84. I love myself.

85. I always had, but stopped for a while. A few years ago, I missed loving myself. So, I started again.

86. Zube Boy is my #1 fan. And I am his.

87. I have gone public with the rape and abortion in the hopes that I can help other people. If it were not for Zube Boy, I wouldn't have.

88. Every morning when I drive to work, I'm still shocked by the beauty of the mountains.

89. I live in Breckenridge, Colorado. For those of you who are non-skiers, it is a ski resort. And I do not ski. Or snowboard, for that matter.

90. I love off-roading.

91. If Zube Boy and I can laugh our way through marriage, I think we'll do fine.

92. I dated myself for about a year. I was a great date. And, it was cool because I always put out.

93. I would not have married Zube Boy if he liked George Dubyah.

94. We are remodeling our home.

95. And, I don't mean that we are living with construction workers. I mean that we ARE construction workers.

96. I had a loooooooong life before the 'Love and Marriage' part came along. So did Zube Boy. And we're cool with that. We're two whole people joined together, rather than two half people trying to make a whole. I love that about our marriage.

97. I collect watering cans.

98. I have lots of plants.

99. My sisters and Mom and I have the same flower tattoo on our ankle. We did it as a spur of the moment thing when they came to visit me one year. Mom picked it out.

100. I can't believe I'm done.