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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She's BAAAAAAACK!

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

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

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

Tweedle Dee and Tweedle *BOOM*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shana-na-na...Na-na-na-na...Hey, Hey, Hey...

Good-bye!

Ha! Made ya look!

You know, actually, maybe it's kind of mean of me to mess with you like that. You being those who find my blog more or less these days by searching for things like 'shrinking girl' and 'girl fucking boy' and 'what should a girl do after a miscarriage (Honey, I am so, so sorry you are going through a that) and those of you who maybe are checking to see if I've posted SOMETHING (thanks for checking in Junebee and Rich). I guess we don't know each other like we used to, but perhaps this is one of those friendships that picks up right where it left off. Here's to hoping...

Contrary to popular assumption upon reading that title, I'm not alluding to my departure from the blogging world, for, as you have seen, I need no formal announcement to do such a thing as that! I am not giving up on my blog just yet. I've still got my big toe in that partially open door. And a bit of my face as can be seen in the rudimentary illustration I've made for you below. To close the door completely would be...a bloody affair. And maybe a little crunchy, too. Ouch.



I was just sending out an official goodbye to my trusted friend, the IUD. The Post-Partum Pregnancy Preventer. I have been so fond of my IUD, obliterating any need for thought or planning on my part. No specific time of the day to take a pill. Nor the need to remember to take a pill at all. It's been wondermous. And also a little interesting to be taking a (grateful) journey with such a character that would PREVENT pregnancy. Who'da thunk it? Not me. At least not about two years ago.

Anyway, I'm so thrilled with my IUD and our newly forged, though short-lived, friendship, that I've drawn an ode to it.



As you'll notice, it's, um, abstract. Straight lines and whatnot. A VERRRRRY loose interpretation of the real thing. Which is a damn good thing because I'd hate to have something that pointy up in my cervix for any amount of time. I'd imagine something that pointy would prevent pregnancy for sure. And sex, for that matter.

So, yeah. Done with that. We'll see what happens on the sister-brother for Little Zee front. I'm hoping this time I'll manage to be a little less obsessed. Ha! As if...

Moving along...I figure after such a long blog sabbatical (as I've taken to calling it, sounds so much more...less...slackerific) I should give you the "how's things?" of things.

Well, things are things are things. I'll update you on a few pertinent aspects of my life. Oh, and I'm going to probably make up for lost time with a ton of writing on my part. Ergo, a ton of reading on yours. You've been forewarned.

Zee Baby



She just rocks. Holy shit, you guys, I had NO IDEA how rewarding being a mother would be. Not a fucking clue. I love her to the ends of the earth and back. From the little bitty toe-toes on her teeny, tiny Zube feet to the tippity top of her big old Zube Boy head. I still, ten months after her arrival, tip-toe into her room at night, more than once most times, to stare at her. I can't believe how fucking lucky I am. I only hope as she grows up she feels 1% as lucky to have me and Zube Boy as we are to have her.

I'm finding motherhood to suit me. As if you couldn't tell. Rather than go on and on about it, I'll just let you know that you can still follow her antics here. If I didn't update that blog regularly some relatives would probably hunt me down and kill me and steal my baby. So it's always up to date.

Work

Grr...It's Spring Break. And I work at a hotel. 'Nuff said.

Roomba

Hump it less but love it more.

Zube Boy

He's over it with the Cookie Crisp. Now he's digging Oh's. Still enjoying bathtime. No change on that front.

Home(s)

We still have three houses. Meh.

Our renters are totally cool, though. It's just so weird. Like, the other day, I went to pick up the rent at the house we used to live in when Zee Baby was born. It was the first time I'd been there since the renters moved in. I've kind of avoided going there because I can be a sentimental fuck when it strikes my fancy. Which is often.

The renters are youngish. And dudish. But not the annoying kind of spikey hat, I'm too cool, dudish. The kind I like. The kind Zube Boy probably was before he got married and owned a house/houses and became a Daddy. Anyway, they were cold chillin' with their snowboard posters on the wall, and I just kept glancing over at the spot where our couch was; where my water broke at 3AM on May 16th, 2007. And it was so hard to get my head around the fact that the spot where I was once upon a time made aware of Zee's imminent arrival, now likely sees more bong action than baby bouncing on a knee action. A tear did stir in mine eye. I miss that house.

But it's kept clean. It's respected. And that I dig.

The house we live in now is really cool. Lots of potential. Much smaller than the one we moved out of but with lots of awesome storage. And when you're a pack rat like me, storage is key. I'll post photos soon. We've painted and put down wood floors and it now doesn't bear so much of a resemblence to the play area in McDonald's (I mean, SERIOUSLY! Bright yellow living room, navy blue cabinets, and a lime green bathroom? All within view of one another? What were you thinking?). We've got a nice big yard that is totally snowed in but will be (and was) quite lovely in our short summer months. We have a fire pit. And nice neighbors who adore Zee. Whom, I've convinced myself, will be lovely grandparenty type people to her as she gets older. Much more auspicious than our previous neighbor situation. And let's not forget the nose puncher on the other side. Yeah. Don't miss the neighborhood.

Politics

I'm drinking the Obama kool-aid these days. Yes I am. It just seems to me it would be nice to have someone people on both sides can get behind for once. We've been divided for long enough. And I've heard Independents and Republicans say they'd vote for him. So I'll enjoy this sugary juice for a bit. I don't especially care whose kool-aid you're drinking. Just, you know, care or something.

Haven't done much on the Pro-Choice front. I should probably reconnect with Planned Parenthood. My previous contact is no longer there, but I should make myself available to whoever is there now.

News of Note

As soon as March is done, perhaps I'll be less work and more play. And more write. That sounds nice. I'm getting sleep now (and plenty of it! Zee sleeps from 6PM - 6AM. It fucking rocks!).

I'll be scampering off to Jersey in the beginning of May to see my most awesome neice and nephew and the rest of the fam. Can't wait. I'm totally stoked.

Well, that's what's new and old with me. Let me know if you're still reading so I can check you out, too. In a way, this blog thing got a little out of hand. I really like the whole reciprocity of the reading and writing. You getting to know me. Me getting to know you. Now that I've disenchanted a large population with my disappearance, maybe I'll be able to enjoy the bloggy neighborhood a little more than I was.

I'm out. Still think of you all fondly on those evening tip-toed sojourns into my little girl's room. I can't thank you enough for supporting me throughout a pregnancy that, months out, I could brush off as being breezy. But in the throes of it was scary and lonely and dragging. I love you for keeping me sane, and insane, throughout. And you're partially responsible for the fact that Zee Baby is here. I'll remember that when she's fifteen and tells me she hates me. After she slams the door to her room, I shall spin around and hunt you down. And thank you again.

Turtle Power...

Remember this?

Phil sent me that costume back when I maybe only 50% believed I'd ever actually have a real live Turtle to put into it?

Well...





Hoot made that last one her desktop background and e-mailed me that it reminded her of the little girl on Monsters, Inc in her monster costume.



Anyway, thanks again Phil. And this got me thinking...I want to thank all of you. Again. I don't know if I'll ever stop. Thanking you, that is. It's just that, when I was stealing myself for the worst while pregnant, you all were out there KNOWING I was going to have a baby. And I can't tell you how much that meant to me. I couldn't bring myself to do it, but having you all out there knowing it for me was just, well, awesome.

And we're going to having one fucking awesometastic Halloween 'round here. The best ever, without question.

I Remember When...

A long night of rocking had more to do with mood altering substances than it did a baby and a chair.

A croc was something I professed to be full of shit, not, in fact, full of my feet. And yes. I wear crocs. Daily. It's a little sad. But they're so DAMN COMFY!

I anticipated Daylight Savings for the extra hour at the bar. Moreso than the extra hour of sleep.

To go out before 10PM was unthinkable. Now, to go out past 10PM means Zee can't sleep so we're taking her for a drive. Admittedly, that hasn't happened in a couple of months. Thank goddess.

Being in debt meant I owed my friend $20 bucks. For maybe a green leafy substance she gave me in good faith. Or a few beers he bought me. Now being in debt means doctor bills out the wazoo and $800,000 in mortgages.

I used to be a decent, if not at least timely, blogger.

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In other news, I'm a little bit of a liar. I've always proclaimed my life to be an open book. Well, it's not really. Not all of it. I think you guys know that, deep down. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm still in search of my Queen of Oversharing tiara. I think I admit to things other people maybe, probably don't even admit to themselves. But there are some things, many things, that I don't share. Personal shit. And I'm going through some right now. And it's consuming my mind. I'm worrying. A lot. And it's proving very unproductive on the writing front. Because I'm not inclined to share it.

I mean, I still adore little Zee, and Z-Boy and I still make fun of each other at every turn, and things are mostly okay.

I'm just, well, I was reticent to have one rental home. And now we have two...

And work is kind of kicking my ass...

And lack of sleep is wearing me thin...

And, and, and...

Speaking of thin, I weigh 135. I haven't weighed 135 since I got married. Three and a half years ago. When I got pregnant with Zee, I weighed 153. Now, that might sound a little like bragging. But it's really not. It's more a testament to the fact that I am stressed. And tired. And maybe not eating the best. To be eighteen pounds lighter than my pre-pregnancy weight already seems a little excessive. Not that I'm complaining. Or, maybe I am.

Well, lather, rinse, repeat.

How many times do ya'll think I can post the same thing only using different words?

I can't tell you how many times I've considered coming here and posting "The End." And then some, because you all deserve better than for me to just leave you hanging like that. It's like, I want to keep this door open, but I feel kind of like an asshole leaving it open and completely fucking ignoring it.

I just don't know what the next step is.

Erm. Why don't we end on a happier note, shall we?

I remember when...

My favorite joke was...

Why did the monkey fall out of the tree?

Because it was dead.

Now, my favorite joke is...

What has nine arms and sucks?

Def Lepard.

Badum-bum.

The Dog Ate My, Er, Blog

Life? Is currently sucking the life out of me. It's constant. The suck, suck, suckling at the teet of Zubeness.

Moving to a new house.

Finishing remodeling the old house.

Trying to make the house we moved into look a little less like a McDonald's playground, colorwise and all. Which means painting.

Sleeping, waking, sleeping and waking. It's not as bad as it was, but I still haven't gotten a full night's sleep since 5/16/07.

Working.

And on and on and on. I'm not complaining, well, okay, maybe a little. I'll say, though, that I'm happily complaining. It's all good. It's just...so...ALL.

Anyway, I've had stories I've wanted to tell, like the time when Zube Boy and I went out to lunch and I was professing my Queendom of all things 80's hair bands, and he said, "Okay, then name a song by Poison," and I said, "Every Rose Has Its Thorn," and he said, "Duh. Name another one."

"She's My Cherry Pie."

"That's Warrant."

"Oh. Warrant. Hey, they sing EIGHTEEN AND LIFE TO GO!"

"Uh, that's Skid Row."

"Skid Row? Like, the Skid Row that sings Runaway Train?"

"Yeah. Or no. That's Collective Soul*. And that wasn't even the 80's."

"Jesus. I give up."

"Poser."

"Whatever."

But I'm just so wiped at the end of the day and all of my bloggy brain juice is in a martini glass somewhere with my bad ass beret wearing writer self. And I get the distinct impression they're laughing at me.

Anyway, things haven't really changed around here. Yet they have. I mean, we're still us. Just different. And more. But, we're hanging in. Hanging on. I'm managing to keep my nose above water, at least. But the blog, she does suffer.

Sorry 'bout that.

*Um, PS - I am a bigger tool than even Zube Boy thought possible. As pointed out by Amy, a commenter who was trying to help a sister out, Runaway Train was sung by Soul Asylum. And that would be what Zube Boy said. I fucked up yet again. Thanks for trying, Amy! I am beyond help!

This Post Is Brought to You by the Letter Zee

Little Zee has a blog. I'm hoping this will assuage my urge to make The Adventures ofZube Girl all baby, ALL the time. And it will also be a nice way for our far away relatives to keep tabs on the little shit. It will be notably less cuss-wordy over there because, you know, I don't think earmuffs exist on theinternet. And far be it for me to expose Zee to any more cuss words than she already heard in the womb. Anyway, if you didn't see Old School, you didn't get that. It's okay.

The thing is, I have a problem. I'm not digging on the standard blogger template. And I've been out of the bloggy loop for so long, living under my rock over here in Zube Girl Land, that I no longer know who makes templates. I had mine made by Web Divas two years ago, and they are no longer in business, much to my dismay. Because, while I'm lazier than shit, I really, really am attached to my layout here. I can't blame laziness for the fact that it hasn't changed. Anywho, I'm looking for recommendations, just in case you're the type that doesn't get subtlety and respond better to the brick over the head method. I'm willing to pay big bucks for a template 'cause I'm RICH bitch! Or rather, I'll pay a reasonable rate because I'm not, you know, eating out of my neighbors' garbage cans or anything. Talk to me of blog designers oh buddies of mine.

All that said, Zube is returning. I'm feeling more and more like myself. Like I'm emerging from my cocoon pregnancy state and becoming all bitchy and superhero-ish again. It's tickling my toes. Any day now...

Until then...a gratuitous photo...

An Ass-Kicking Fetus and Other Such Nonsense

-Last night I had a dream that my blog was funny again and didn't talk about being knocked up. Then I woke up.

-I've been hiding out in a little cocoonish world lately. I'm not sad or depressed or anything like that. At least I don't think I am. I'm just really, really hoping this works, and I plod through each day working and watching tv, only to look up at the clock in the evening and go, "Holy shit, I can't believe another whole day has gone by."

-This morning, I was spooning Zube Boy. His ass was all up in my belly. The Turtle started kicking. Zube Boy said, "Did the Turtle just kick my ass?" I said, "Smart kid, that one."

-I'm really, really looking forward to that moment in the delivery room when the doctor sees the kids bits and says, "It's a GIRL!" or "It's a BOY!" Imagining how cool that moment will be has gotten me through many an ultrasound without the temptation to find out what the Turtle's sex is.

-We've settled on a few girl's names. The middle name will be Jane, for my maternal grandmother, Janet. First names in the running are Cora and Fiona. I also really fucking dig Esme, but how the fuck do you pronounce it? I say it Ezmee, but I don't know if that's right. We'd like to have a few names picked out, because what if the kid comes out and totally doesn't look like the one name we've settled on? We're having a bit of difficulty with boys' names. The middle name will be Michael, 'cause that's Zube Boys first name and it's his family tradition to do that. I've got my heart set on the name Otto, Zube Boy's maternal grandfather's name, but I think I may be losing the battle on that one. Seamus* is on the table which goes very nicely with out Mc-Last Name. Naming a kid? Is fucking hard.

*Pronounced, and sometimes spelled, Shamus. It's Irish for James. I think some of you might be pronouncing it See-mus. Just thought I'd clarify.

I Laughed...I Cried...'Cause I Was Laughing So Hard...And...Let Me Check...Yup...Still Laughing...

Phil, I have to tell you that you have truly outdone yourself. And abso-fucking-lutely made my day. But, before I get to the good stuff, I have to ask you a favor.

STOP having my handwriting! Seriously. It fucking freaked me out. When I received the package, I honest to goodness had to think for a moment about whether or not I'd sent myself something. It was scary. Here, have a look...



This is how the package was addressed. And yes. That is my PO Box. I feel safe putting it up here. You know why? Because if I got to get my mail and some creepy motherfucker is standing by my box (heh, I said box) with a trench coat on looking a little too interested in my box's visitors (heh, again...okay, I need to grow up), then I'll just fucking turn around. Because really, it's not every day that people send me cool shit. Mostly I get bills. Lots of 'em. I'm still getting bills for the little embryos I never got to keep. So, I'm usually more than happy to put off a visit to the post office. Ya hear that Brad? Eh, who am I kidding. I think Angelina's got a tight leash on him because he hasn't been bother me as much these days. And he knows where I live anyway.

Where was I? Oh yes. Now, for shits and giggles, I've rewritten the address for all of you in my own handwriting:



Uncanny, eh? I thought so.

But now, onto the important stuff. Check out what this package contained...





The Turtle is going to wear this ALL. THE. TIME. As soon as it fits. And until then, I think I'm going to wear it. On my leg. Because this turtle outfit is too fucking cool to sit in a drawer.

Thank you profusely, Phil. I love it. Zube Boy (who, by the way, knows you by the name of Volume 7, for your comment over here, which he thought was perfect and swore was true!) thanks you, and the Turtle thanks you! I've been smiling like a goon for hours now. Heh.

Again With the Humping of Legs...Will It Ever End?

In a word? No. Not in a million years. Or at least not for as long as I'm on this planet, swilling beers. Or folic acid. Potayto, potahto. Kylei, you are TOO damned sweet. Fer real. Just in case inquiring minds want to know, Kylei nominated me as an inspirational blogger. One who says 'fuck' a lot. Heh heh. Kidding. About the 'fuck' part, at least. Anywho, you can find her nomination over yonder. The post she was referring to in the comments is right here. I kind of dig it, too, to be honest. There are some choice naughty words therein that I'm rather proud to have strung together.

Thing is, when ya'll give me props about the stuff I write here, it kind of, I don't know, makes me want to hump your leg. Which isn't all that unusual, sure, given my penchant for humping the legs of those I adore. But it's a compliment nonetheless. Most of the time I feel like just sum beetch with a screwed up uterus who can't manage to shut the hell up about it. Forever and ever, amen. But when I learn that these little rants and goofy dialogues actually mean something to people sometimes, at least maybe something good is coming out of it. As much as I'd like something good to come out of my CERVIX or a big incision in my tummy, hell, I'm not picky, I'll take just about anything good these days. Shit, I don't care if something good comes out of a damn beak (HELLO, STORKS! The hell? Where are you? Just wondering, 'cause the parenting skillz? I am willing to acquire them.)

At any rate, welcome to those of you venturing over here via Club Mom. WARNING: Sometimes I write about my husband's flatulance. And our ridiculous conversations. Mostly when I want to be a member of your club so badly, I can't bring myself to be all introspective about it.

Bunnies, Bloody Lips, and Mourners

I had the sudden impulse today to liken blogging to bunnies. Of all things. And, you know, the comparison isn't all that far off what with the rapid and rampant population boom of blogs on the internet. They're like damn rabbits. But, more importantly, I was perusing some more or less FAMOUS bloggers, and found myself in total awe. They've been doing this shit for YEARS! They're like the Energizer Bunnies of the blogverse. And lately I've kind of felt like, oh, I don't know...A Duracell Turtle. Or something. I bet you're smelling what I'm stepping in because you're a bright bunch. No dim bulbs in this crowd.

I have this NASTY compulsion to pick my lips when they're dry. All it takes is one little errant piece of epidermis on my lip and an afternoon of bloody lips awaits me. Today, I got this really weird bordering on PROUD feeling about a chunk of skin I pulled off. I sat at my desk sort of staring at it, like, huh? That's a piece of my lip. Then a coworker walked in and I promptly threw it away. I'm fucking gross sometimes.

Yesterday, I was stopped at a green light. Why the hell, you ask, would I STOP at a green light? Well, I do believe that is the PROPER thing to do when you see a hearse pass, no? With all of the mourners and their hazard lights and high beams on bringing up the rear? Methinks you allow the funeral procession to pass through? Not that I'm some kind of guru of propriety or anything, but no one behind me honked, which I took to mean that my assumption was correct and that my meager upbringing combined with my father's LOOK OF DEATH when it came to ill-mannered children, particularly those of half his genetic make-up, didn't result in too much of an asshole.

When the hearse passed, I did the sign of the cross. And then I cried. It happens every damn time. So weird.

A Crazy Lady Filling in for Another Crazy Lady

I am happy to present to you a guest post by Crazy Lady in Vegas whilst I sun myself on the deck of our oh-so-fabulous room and scan our view of the ski area for Zube Boy on his board wearing his oh-so-sexy new boarding digs. RRRRROWR!

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I am very happy to be filling in for Zube while she is off frolicking in Tahoe. I am jealous that she is getting some quiet time all to herself, even if she is “working” wink, wink, nod, nod* Yeah, working. So let me share with you a day in the life of a crazy lady in Vegas; a full time accountant with 3 kids, 3 dogs, and a husband. And you wonder why I call myself crazy?

Darwinism? Or a tall tale?

Sometime the other night, after I tucked my Little Man into bed, and the morning, when he woke up (after he slept the ENTIRE night without waking up EVEN ONCE) the fish in his room somehow managed to sprout legs, and develop lungs. How in the world could this happened is all very mysterious, you understand. What did they do with this new found power? Take over the world? Global Domination? Enslave all mankind? *insert evil fish laugh here* NO! They formed a fish chain; escaped out of the tank; took the entire bottle of fish food; and managed to dump the entire contents into their tank.

Thus spent, their arms, legs, and lungs *poof* evaporated into thin air. They feasted the night away, gorging on all those yummy, yummy flakes. Now, if you are wondering what happens when you empty an entire container of fish food into a tank, I can tell you. The water becomes very much like the swamps of the Florida Everglades. Green. Slimy. Thick. One of those fish, I suspect the ring leader, was looking pale and peaked; gasping for air (or would that be water?) on his side, when I scooped him out and dumped him into a mixing bowl filled with fresh water. A mixing bowl, because - where else do you put a dying fish in need of fresh water: while trying to save the fish, feed 3 kids breakfast, pack lunches, get 3 kids dressed, and get ready for work, all at the same time? All, except for the bottom feeder, were delivered to the mixing bowl, with the help of a pasta scoop, because, one of the tasks those devious fish accomplished on their night mission was to tear the net beyond all use, and then to shove it haphazardly into the small trash beside the dresser.

Oh yes, I forgot to tell you of the stench that creating a mini eco-swamp causes in the bedroom of an innocent 5 year old bystander. I spent the day at work with my lungs coated in primordial ooze, and my eyes smarted with held back tears because the foulness has followed me to work and hung over my desk in a vaguely threatening green cloud that made me feel like retching.

I can only count my blessing that my sweet, angelic little boy managed to sleep thru the entire nocturnal wanderings of his amphibious friends. Or who knows what could have happened then.

Who Goes There?

Do you ever feel like you live in a fortress with big, huge walls that no one could EVER scale in a million years and that, just so’s you won’t get lonely in there and start feeling all hermity, you have a megaphone with which to keep people outside of your fortress in the know on what the hell you’re up to in there?

Only it’s weird because, even though you’re sharing most of the daily happenings in your impenetrable fortress, even some of the really ugly shit, you still keep a bit of it to yourself because, well, it's yours after all?

That's what blogging feels like to me sometimes. I have my walls and my Stuff That Nobody Else Knows About, but I have my megaphone, too. And that, somehow, makes it easier to be holed up in here.

I'm just sayin'.

And? I really suck at April Fool's Day jokes. I'm terrible. So terrible, in fact, that it's CRUSHING my ego. I think I'll go jump off a bridge now.

Heh.

Ass-capades and Thanks...

Guess what! I'm special. Wanna know why? Do you have the feeling I'm going to tell you? Yes? Jesus, what are you people? Psychic? Or am I really just that predictable?

Anyway. I'm special because of my butt. "Yeah, yeah, who isn't?" you might be asking yourself. And you're right, in a way. Everyone's butt is special. But, mine? Is REALLY, REALLY special and I'll tell you why. Because it travels. It travels far and wide. It never seems to stop. In fact, it is venturing further and further from the command center as we speak and to be honest, I'm a little proud of it. It's like a space shuttle exploring the furthest recesses of space! Daring to go where NO BUTT HAS EVER GONE BEFORE! Whee!

What's your butt up to? Oops. I guess that's kind of a personal question, huh? Oh well. Screw it! Is your butt a traveler, too? You should be PROUD! Seriously! We should CELEBRATE our nomadic asses!

In fact, I think this is just the kind of thing that CLUBS were invented for. Instead of Hair Club for Men, we'll be Butt Club for Ass-Capaders! Our slogan would go something like, "Our Asses Are GOING PLACES! NYAH!"

Who's with me???

Also, I'm feeling even MORE special today because PaintingChef nominated this post for March's Perfect Post over at Petroville. How fucking cool is that?

Thanks, girlfriend. Really and truly.

Sometimes I Get Wheely, Wheely Annoyed...Heh...That Was Maybe the Lamest Title Ever...

The other day, we were having snow removed from the back parking lot at work. As always, there was a vehicle there without a parking pass. We had every right to have it towed, but we always make an attempt to find the errant parker by calling some of the condos in the vicinity. See, no matter whether it is our right to tow them, invariably the towee gets twelve shades of bitter and goes on a rampage about how unfair we are and how we enjoy towing people and pissing them off, ad nauseum. That's never fun. Pissed off people aren't fun. Why people insist we relish in ruining their day is beyond me.

Anywho, I was calling various condos and asking if they might happen to possess a blue Durango which might happen to be parked in the back driveway and might happen to not have a parking pass on it. Most folks simply said no. One lady in particular irritated the daylights out of me.

Z-Girl: Hi! I was wondering, do you happen to have a blue Durango parked in the back driveway without a tag?

Lady: *disgustedly* Uck! NO! WE have a HUMMER!

Z-Girl: Oh. Sorry.

And I meant it. There are Hummers EVERY-FUCKING-WHERE around here. They make me bonkers. To say that I despise them would be an understatement of epic proportions. I mean, why get an $80,000 vehicle that LOOKS like it should be offroading but is too fucking nice and EXPENSIVE to actually get dirty and fuck up? It's silliness.

So, Lady, I'm sorry your hubby had to buy a car named after something he wishes he was getting more of.

The other day, this guy grabbed a luggage cart from next to the elevator, looked over at me, and asked, "Excuse me, but do these fit on the elevator?"

I replied, "No, you have to use the stairs." Heh. It took him a minute, but eventually he laughed. Because really, what would be the point of having luggage carts with wheels to schlep your belongings to your room if they didn't fit on the elevator?

Need advice? We Three Bitches need advisees. E-mail us at wethreebitches [at] yahoo [dot] com. Perty please. No question is beyond our infinite knowledge. Obviously.

Oh, in case you were wondering, I'm not going to go anon. I guess if I get found by the one person I don't want to find me, I'll make the best of it. 'Cause I'm kind of a survivor like that. At least that's what I keep telling myself.

Damn.

Does life ever shock the hell out of you? Yeah, me too. A most awesome friend from college e-mailed me today. I've got so much more to say about it, as always, but all of the words are getting clogged at my fingertips because they're rushing the stage. That's what happens sometimes when you have a problem shutting your cake-hole. I'm afflicted with the cake-hole flapping syndrome. Though, I don't flap the cake-hole to piss off other people. I do it because I'm fond of oversharing.

Anyway, Kenyatta, I'm so glad you stumbled across my blog. I've got to thank you for the numerous times you helped me pick up the pieces of my life. I don't know that I was ever a good enough friend to deserve it. But, you were there anyway.

More to come. I promise. Or threaten.

Squeeing and Wives That Are Nasty

You know, some people better watch their backs lest I squee all over them. And sqee is hard as hell to get out of your clothes. I know it. You need like a stain stick or something. Anway, I just thought I'd share a couple of posts with you that I'm crushing on at the moment, because I'm good at sharing like that.

Happy Villain - OH. MY. You MUST get to the part about the boog. It's a bit 'o reading and it starts out kind of sad, but ends HYSTERICALLY! Kind of like life, you know?

Rich - Okay, I am SO not embarrassed about sticking my fallen hairs to the shower wall. Not after reading this, anyway.

Commence with the leg-humping!

Oh yeah. Speaking of sticking wet hairs to the shower wall, I had an interesting little dialogue this morning.

Z-Girl: Hahahahaha! So, honey, I like, wrote this entry on my blog about how I stick my hair to the wall in the shower and...

Z-Boy: Wait.

Z-Girl: What?

Z-Boy: Wait a minute.

Z-Girl: What?! Hello?! I'm right in the middle of a freakin' story here.

Z-Boy: You do that shit on purpose?

Z-Girl: Ummm, what do you mean?

Z-Boy: What do you MEAN, what do I MEAN? You put your hair on the wall on purpose?

Z-Girl: Um...

Z-Boy: Do you?

Z-Girl: Well, what do you think? I mean, do you think it just all FALLS there? Come on! How the hell would hair fall UP onto the wall of the shower???

Z-Boy: So you do? Do it on purpose?

Z-Girl: Maybe a little.

Z-Boy: Honey, that is nasty.

Z-Girl: Well, I'm NOT the only ONE! Storm and Happy Villain and Chickie and, and, and Crazy Lady and Maya and Tablefor4 do it, TOO!

Z-Boy: Great. So there are other people on the internet who are crazy asses like you?

Z-Girl: We're NOT crazy. As a matter of fact, WE'RE ALL QUEENS!

Z-Boy: Same difference.

Z-Girl: Heh. You're funny. Dammit. If you weren't so funny, I'd kick you where it counts.

Z-Boy: Anyway, what were you saying?

Z-Girl: Nevermind.

Whatever...

I'm tired. I'm tired, I'm tired, and I'm tired.

I know the Thunderdome verdict is up, and I won, and they sure as HELL didn't go easy on me. But honestly? I laughed while I read it. And that's the whole point of the thing. I'm actually a bit relieved that Malfouka, Dave, and Adam delivered some humor where Nyte and I failed. Not ONE iota of the verdict surprised me. Well, I was a bit surprised to have won. EVERY other blog that received the most popular votes lost. I had no reason to believe my blog would be any different. I actually nodded in agreement with much of what was said about my blog because it was TRUE. And...the way I look at it, if I'm going to spend a good portion of my time laughing at other people, I damn well better be capable of laughing at myself. And I am.

I knew, knew, they'd rag on my '100 Things.' If I cared, I never would have signed up. I'll only say that at least it's not Meme Central here. I think I might've MAYBE answered five memes in the 10 months I've been blogging and passed the tag along, like, once. Huh. Maybe twice. I can't remember.

Actually, almost sadly, I wasn't even tagged for the '100 Things.' I did it myself way back in the beginning because, believe it or not, I enjoyed reading the '100 Things' of other people. It's just interesting to know what folks highlight when they only have a limit of 100. Also, it was cathartic for me. And, if anyone reads it, I think it's a bit of a warning. Maybe instead of '100 Things' I should call it '100 Clues as to the Shit You Will Find Ruminated About at This Here Blog.' Seems a little more honest.

All of that aside, I'm hiding. I'm having what I like to call a 'Whatever Day.' Whatever if I'm five days late and four tests later, there's no fucking reason for it. And Whatever if it seems like everyone I know is pregnant or nursing. And Whatever if I'm never going to be a Mom because my reproductive system is a punk ass bitch. And Whatever if I have tears streaming down my face because I'm tough and fuck those tears and it'll happen and...Whatever if it's 1PM on a bright, sunny Saturday and I'm in my flannel PJs playing Sims 2. Such a great word. Whatever. And all I have to do is 'Woo-Hoo' a couple of times on Sims 2 and BAM. Baby. Much easier.

Sometimes, at 1PM on a Saturday when your husband is at work and not around to make you laugh, there is no better view than this:


Really, I'm not a Fashion Queen. I just wear slippers that say so while I'm Playing video games.