Don't Want to Break a Promise

I made to myself. I swore I would write an entry today. I figure, the thing about starting up a new habit is that it is a bit of a requisite to be all habity about it. And writing is a good habit. Lord knows I need some good habits to counteract the bad ones.

Though I am quite stumped as to what to write about. So I've decided to bitch. Why I thought this wouldn't be the right venue for bitchy variety writing, I havne't a clue. So here goes...

I am tired. Fucking tired. Dog tired. I feel like Tired smacked my ass and called me her bitch and has taken up residence in my brain. Spilling a few brain cells out of my ears to make room for her lava lamps and bean bag chairs.

Also? Totally Tired? While alliterative? Is SO NOT attractive. I seriously look like a fly. All eyes. At least that's how I FEEL. Maybe because my face is working so hard to keep them open, inside my head they feel fucking huge. And don't forget about the bags. Oh yes. Dudes, I have more baggage under my eye-holes that I have kicking around inside my ear-holes. And y'all know, that's a fucking lot.

So there. I wrote. And I was going to go to bed now but guess what? Bee? Is crying. Shit, I'm tired.

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'.

The Pressure Is On...

Self-inflicted, of course. I have started post after post after post today, only to click 'save now' in the hopes that something better, something more profound will come along. The truth is, nothing more profound is going to come along. Nothing I'm willing to publish, anyway. And those half-finished, ah, who am I kidding, one sentence posts will surely languish forever in my Blogger archives. The truth is, there are many, MANY profound things going on. But none of them are ready for you all (the three or four of you, I imagine) to consume.

I'd once bragged that my life was like a petri dish, ready for the unforgiving lens of a microscope. The truth is, that was a lie. And not even a truthy one. Just an outright lie. Don't get me wrong, my life is OBVIOUSLY a bit of a petri dish. I've overshared beyond reason. Many of those who've read Old School Zube know more about me than my therapist. Which is saying...a lot. But apparently the petri dish analogy only applies to 'Shit That I'm Okay with You Knowing About.' Censorship reigns 'round these parts. And that has fed the Monstrous Writer's Block I've been harboring here under my computer desk for the past three years.

I don't even know how to finish this post. And I don't really have time to ponder it much. Nearly three-year-olds and Sharpies do not a A Heavenly Match make so I've got to haul ass out to the kitchen in the hopes that blueberries and cottage cheese will sufficiently distract. Just know that if I don't keep this writing up? I'm only going to get more and more lost. And I've been lost. Not looking to go there again. Purposelessly anyway. Intentionally lost is cool. Fun even. Lost because I'm refusing to ask for directions? Even from me? Not so much.

Flaming Ass

I’ve recently had a fire lit under mine ass. Not a real fire. A proverbial fire. Proverbial fires are always preferable to real fires when we’re talking about my ass. I should know, having experienced both. It harkens back to an unfortunate incident in college. Not exactly a unique way to start a story, eh? Anywho, a floor-mate thought it would be amusing to flash a lighter right under my rear while I bent over to pick something up. He had no way of knowing that the lint on my fuzzy, flannel (might I add, notorious for all of their wear) Party Animal pajama pants would burst into a flaming trail from my coccyx to my ankles. Unaware that my bottom half was suddenly engulfed in flame and quite shocked that instantly three guys descended upon me to smack my flaming ass I unwittingly fought on the side of the fire and attempted to fend them off. That was a disconcerting experience. To say the least. Fortunately the fire was extinguished fairly quickly and I regained my composure within moments. And never again was there an occasion where I received a spanking from three of my male peers. Don’t believe the rumors…

Ahem, got a little sidetracked. Onto this proverbial fire. I’ve been inspired to write again. I bet you don’t believe me. I hardly do either. Time will tell.

Things Like This...

Are what really throw me for a loop.

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

And it might just be happening all over again.

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

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

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.

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!

All About Me...And Then Some (More About Me)

Sometimes, while I'm waiting for ass-puncher carpet installers to show up, I like to play a little game. It's called, "What the Hell Was I Doing a Year Ago Today." So, I clicked on my April 2006 archives and scrolled down to April 11, and what I saw there made me feel like a ginormous ass. See, I had a Superhero Contest, which was awesome fun. And there was a winner. Namely, Phil. And being a winner meant that Phil deserved a prize. And did I ever fucking send one? No.

That's got me thinking about a lot of stuff. Which is good because I have plenty of time because these fucking carpet installers are now two hours late and according to the idiot woman in the office, they're finishing up another job and then they'll be here if they have time, so I've got a whole fucking vacation day to waste waiting for them and thinking about what a self-absorbed brat I've become.

And I'm sorry for it. The self-absorbed brat part. I'm sorry about the carpet asses, too, but they'll be more sorry once I tell everyone and their goddamned brother how much they suck and not to use their useless fucking company EVER. Ahem. But, with regard to the self-absorbed brat situation, I'm simply at a loss as to what to do about it. See, I've been through so much in the past year and a half. Not that I'm telling you all anything you don't already know. Most of you who are still hanging in there with me have been there through it. First miscarriage in September 05. Second in October 05. Third in March 06. And now the Turtle. And all the drama that that has entailed.

There's something I'm trying to say. Something that's itching to get out. And it might take a while to get there because I'm not so sure what it is. So bear with me.

I feel like I've been holding my breath since September 11th, when I got my positive pregnancy test. In hindsight, it was kind of a life affirming thing to happen on such a sad day, but at the time I really had no idea that this pregnancy would turn out any differently from the others. So that life affiirmation was lost on me. Carrying on...Subconsciously I credit my sheer willpower for the success of this pregnancy. Kind of like every time I fly I'm convinced we didn't crash because I willed it not to happen the whole time in air. And both scenarios are stupid and totally false. I know this. But I can't seem to stop my mind from being consumed.

And the end to that means is neglect of, mostly, people in my life. And my work has suffered to. But that'll recover. It's the people I worry about. Friendships I haven't been so good at maintaining because I can't seem to get my head out of my ass. Or my uterus. More likely my uterus. And that worries me. I just hope the people in my life will be around when this kid gets born and I find myself craving meaningul, adult interaction.

I've also neglected my writing. And that sucks. Writing has always been this great escape for me. And I felt that, after blogging quite consistently for over a year, I was really starting to understand the art of using the word fuck. Among others.

I'm a little scared. I'm scared that when I have this kid, that absorption won't stop. The obsessiveness. And it MUST. I am a firm believer in Mom's having lives of their own, ya know? I don't think kids learn squat about what it's like to be a grown-up, in particular, a grown-up woman, when Mom's sole purpose in life is her children. I think that kind of maternal smothering actually says the opposite of what I want my child, boy or girl, to think about women.

So, where do I go from here? I seroiusly don't know. I'm allowing myself six more weeks (or hopefully at least 3) to let this whole pregnancy thing rule my life. And then? And then there'll be a kid, hopefully, who eats and poops and cries. And it'll be completely independent of my body, so I won't have to worry about the chance of me fucking it up. Physically anyway. Heh. I have no doubts that my kid'll be at least a touch fucked up as a direct result of me. I mean, everyone's screwed up a little because of their parents, aren't they? I just hope I can be honest about my shortcomings.

I guess what I'm saying, and taking fucking forever to do so, is that if you'll hang in there just a little longer while I keep sucking, there is a light at the end of the tunnel. Now, if you were a male on the receiving end of a blow job, I'm sure you wouldn't mind one bit. But given that that's not the situation, your mileage may vary.

I'm hoping that someday soon I'll remove my pregnancy blinders and be able to take note of the other Super Heroes in my life. Because life outside my box, erm, eh, heh, I mean, the box, is lovely and insane. And I'd miss me if I stayed away much longer.

Now, if that made a bit of sense to any of you, I'd offer up a prize for your super hero understanding skillz. But, just ask Phil, I suck at giving prizes. So I'll just say, damn. You're good. And even if you didn't get it? Damn. You're still good. 'Cause neither did I. And damn, I'm good!

I Vunt to Suck Your...

You guys, I've been KIDNAPPED! Don't worry, I'm executing swift ninja kicks and spy rolls and I think any day now I should be back at my humble home, fully recovered.

My kidnappers are these fucked up little monkeys that thrive on, of all things, BLOG MOJO! It's totally weird, they bite my fingertips and suck the Blog Mojo out. And then they giggle endlessly while chanting, "WE LOVE BM! WE LOVE BM!" Kicky little fuckers. They're all about the potty humor. Which is probably why I'm in the very predicament I find myself.

Wish my monkey-butt-kicking luck! Even first class spies need luck you know!

Oh yeah, KEEP THE ENTRIES COMING! They're FUCKING AWESOME!

A Metaphor...

I've found blogging to be kind of like riding waves. I've drawn some pictures for you, as I know how much you appreciate my artistic renditions. Please keep in mind that I drew these a while ago, when I SUCKED at Paint Shop Pro. As we all know, I am a phenomenal Paint Shop Pro-er these days.





It seems that I go through phases where I have ten post ideas vying to make the final cut from my brain to my fingertips. I can't keep up with the stories in my head. Yet other times, I have the creativity of a pothead on Special K. And that's not much. Don't ask me how I know.

Just so's you know, I'm chilling on the beach drinking Corona right now, gearing up to wade back out into the ocean. Not REALLY, unfortunately. But figuratively. Bear with me.

In other news, I think it's kind of cute how Brad is trying to make me jealous with this whole Angelina bit. I just hope he doesn't break Angelina's heart. I really like her. In fact, she is on my top five same sex celebrity list.