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

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

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

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

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

The Kitchen

Before...

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

After...


Repainted, wood floor...


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


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

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

Before...


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


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

After...


Repainted window...Muchas plantas...


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


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

Before...


Nasty carpet meets lemon yellow...


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



After...


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


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

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

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

The Bathroom

Before...


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

After...


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

The Hallway to Bath and Spare Room

Before...


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

After...


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



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

Before...



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

After...


Still need to paint the window trim...


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



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

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



After...


Orange Crush has its place...


Talk about maximizing space...


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


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


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

The Master Bedroom

Before...



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

After...


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


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

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

Peace out...

Random Bits

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

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

Ring-Ring

Mom: Hello.

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

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

Z-Girl: Thanks.

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

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

This post was brought to you by Capitol Z

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Have a Hairy Ass

Or, not quite, but it's getting there.

In other words, my hair is really fucking long. Wait, let me show you a picture.

Hang on. (It's kind of cool how you won't be hanging on for long because by the time I post this, with picture, you'll see it all instantaneous-like. Nifty how that works.)




So, yeah. It's long. And Zube Boy wants me to cut it.

So does my Mom.

So does Hoot.

My Belle doesn't. Well, she thinks I should get a trim. I happen to agree, but I'm struggling with whether to JUST get it trimmed or get it totally cut.

I haven't asked my Dad, but I'm willing to bet he'll say not to get it cut. He likes long hair.

I think I've maxed out Bro with the girly talk back in the miscarriage days. I've lamented the state of my uterus to him, and he was a good sport about it. I don't want to push it.

Here's the deal. I'm ATTACHED to my hair. Like, really attached. And have been for a while. As it's been to me. I mean, I'm willing to bet that there is incriminating evidence in my split ends somewhere. And we all know how long ago those days were for me. Well, maybe we don't, but I do.

Sometimes I find hair that's gotten tangled in the errant threads of my underpants, because who the hell has the money to be buying new underwear these days? And that hair belongs on the BATHROOM SHOWER WALLS, NOT in the intricacies of my unmentionables, donchya know.

It's a hairy situation, I tell ya. And I'm remiss to make up my mind. So I prolly won't. Not anytime soon, anyway.

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.

'Cause I got nothin'

But I think this is kind of cute...

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

PS- I just tried explaining to a temp we hired, who speaks Spanish, IN Spanish where the soda machine is. And I haven't spoken Spanish in so long that the words weren't coming to me easily. So every time I stumbled on a word, I'd trying signing it. Involuntarily. And I would repeat the sign until I thought of the word. While appreciative that I spoke Spanish, he looked at me like I was a little fucking nuts. I'm going to blame it on the fact that Spanish and sign language are stored in the same area of my brain. Or something like that. So, I was thinking in English, speaking Spanish, and using sign language all at one time. How's that for multi-tasking?

I Like Bread Butts and I Cannot Lie...

Seriously. Bread butts are good. I make two sandwiches out of them. Only one butt per sandwich. But the butt has to be on top. Just the way it goes. And I can't eat a sandwich using both bread butts. Because too much of a good thing is Just. So. Wrong. At least in my world.

In other news, let's pretend I posted this yestereday. Because that was my intention. I was playing the "What was I doing a year ago, two years ago today?" and what I found got me thinking. It's like, I always, always wish, in all my years of writing diaries and blogs and such, that I could go back now and console or encourage my past selves when I reread what they've written.

my ghosts on a page. And they feel so real to me. So present. But they're not really. They're the past. Haunting me in the present. And by haunting, I don't mean they make me sad, exactly. I just wish that I could do something to ease their fears and sorrows. And I can't. Because there's no going back.

And no. In fact, I have not taken up smoking pot again. If I had, this entry would sound a little different:

Dude. I bet you guys can totally tell I'm stoned. You can, right? Oh my god. That guy walking his dog out there? I bet you he knows I'm holed up here at the computer all...stoned. EVERY-FUCKING-BODY KNOWS I'M STONED! OH MY GOD IS THAT THE COPS?!

Heh. Had to lay off the leafy greens for that very reason many moons ago.

I pass on grass, man. But don't worry. I'm not all anti-grass. I'd just pass it to you. To puff or pass. Are you smellin' what I'm not smoking?

In other, other news. Sometimes I like to announce in casual company that my baby hole itches. I like to watch and enjoy the uncomfortable squirming that ensues before I confess I had a c-section. An artificial baby hole, so to speak. One which is probably a little less embarrassing to admit is itching.

Happy Halloween to all and to all a good fright!

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.

You So Wish...

I was your wingman. Admit it.

My coworker was wondering how he might improve his game with the ladies. I, being the fucking marketing genius I am, decided to help a brother out. Chicks dig business cards. And chicks dig Presidents. Well, at least some Presidents. If you ask this chick. This chick is a little discretionary in the Presidential love.

Ahem, anyway. I decided to make him some business cards. Because I'm nice like that. Check it out (identifying info changed to protect the innocent):


He's so gonna get some.

Reach Out and Touch My Hiney, Er, Or, Someone...And, Flashback, Turtles...

Whenever I get off the phone with Bro, Hoot, or My Belle, I say, "I love you." And they say, "I love you, too." Or maybe vice versa and they say it first. But, and here's what's interesting, at least if you're me, I only say it when I'm out here in Colorado. When I'm visiting Jersey, seeing them every day, I don't say it. And neither do they. Noteworthy as well, they've told me that sometimes when ending a conversation with each other, they'll say, "I love you." And there's a little hesitation. And they'll laugh and say, "So, have you been talking to Zube Girl?" I think it rocks that, one, we're in the habit of saying, "I love you," and two, they slip up and say it to each other though they see one another all the time, and laugh and blame it on me. What can I say, sometimes I like to feel important. Yup. You heard it here.

That might have been consequential. Or inconsequential. Or a little bit noteworthy. Or unremarkable. I don't know for sure. Anyway...

The other day I was talking to My Belle about babies and such, a topic we've covered quite exhaustively lately, both having recently been mothered.

This conversation, as some conversations with my sisters are wont to do, ended in tears. Not tears of sadness. Not really tears of happiness either. More like tears of goddamned love and appreciation like you've never seen. Or heard. Or felt careening down your cheeks all wet-like and filled with gratitude. They were some tears I tell ya.

We got to talking about January and how scary January, and pretty much all of the subsequent months, were for me. And for everyone, really. My Belle, pregnant as well, called me at the hospital, crying, and said, "It should be me, not you. You don't deserve this." I told her, "No, no, no! Don't say that! No one deserves this!" And no one does.

She also told me that she went to our Mommom's grave the next day. And begged her to take her baby, if one had to be taken. And to let mine be okay. I don't even know how to pack those words with the emotional punch they deserve. The selflessness of her graveside plea is astounding to me.

When the conversation ended, and the tears were nearly dry, she said, "But Mommom gave us both of them." And she sure as hell did.

The thing is, what I've been thinking about, is how in the hell did my siblings and I end up being like this? And by 'like this' I mean, we love each other. And keep in touch even though I live far away. I talk to my brother and his wife if not every day, every other. And maybe sometimes twice a day. We talk about our little girls and hockey and aren't people assholes, ourselves included? And I talk to Hoot just as often. And she is my absolute voice of reason. Fucking fair as hell Libran that she is. I call her when I want to know if I'm being a heel. Or if I'm right. I prefer to hear the latter, but she pulls no sisterly punches. Which, to be honest, is quite sisterly of her. If I'm being an ass, I at least want to know. I talk to My Belle every morning at 9:15AM her time, 7:15AM mine. We compare notes on how our respective babies slept and what milestones they've accomplished since the prior morning's phone call. And sometimes we cover topics that make us cry.

I stumbled upon this video on a message board I frequent. Aside from the first bit, where I don't THINK, but I really hope she isn't singling out abortion as something women regret, the rest has reduced me to tears. Every. Time. I. Watched. It. Which, I won't even tell you how many that is.

The part of the video that especially gets me is toward the end where a smiling, giggling even, woman is holding up a sign that says, "Surrogate for my sister." And my sisters offered that after all of the miscarriages. Both of them. Wow. When I said, "That's too much to ask," they said, "We want this for you as much as you do. Would you do it for us?" In a fucking heartbeat I would. In a fucking heartbeat. But to think that someone would sacrifice for me like that? Astounding.

I just don't get how this happened. Why do I love my brother and sisters so much? Enough to talk to them every day or so. I wonder, did my Mom and Dad have something to do with it? Cultivating this sibling love? If so, how? I wish I knew the recipe for No, Really, I Genuinely Like My Brother and Sisters. I want to duplicate it.

Maybe we're just four people who were born to like each other. A lot. Maybe it was a crapshoot. And we ended up lucky. If that's the case, I hope it happens like that for my kids.

If I'm so lucky to have another one. Or two.

Speaking of my kids, have I mentioned that we're going to start trying again in February? The soonest my doctor will approve after me having a c-section? We might be jumping back on this horse soonly. Or soonish. Or really fucking soon. I'm sure you've all immediately deduced that we're anticipating problems. And while, at 32, I'm not necessarily getting old in the childbearing realm, it took us two years to get from 'trying' to 'having a baby' this time. And I'd love to have three. And two years (at least) times three is six. Last I checked. And 32 plus, at least, four, is 36. Math sucks. Because it's so unbending and, well, mathish. But, I also think that once diapers are OVER, I might not want to acquaint myself with them again. So bring 'em on. All at once. Before I realize how nice it is when they're over.

So, now that this post has come full circle, or full squiggly line more or less, I have a question for you. How do you feel about your siblings? Do you have advice? Do you hate them? Adore them? Think they're cool? Think they don't suck? Think they do? Any input as to how any one of those scenarios, or others, might be brought about? Are they too much older? Too close? Just close enough? Or, or, or? It's something I've been wondering about recently. And I'd love to hear others' thoughts on it. Because it's honestly a fascinating subject.

And just because I haven't posted a pic of Zee in a while, I'd like to add one of my favorites to date here...


By the way, we are at an Irish pub in Denver. Yes. We're those people in the bar. With a baby. With three older local gentlemen who TOTALLY admired Zee and her perfect Irish name. And I don't think I look particularly fabulous. But I love the photo for some reason. We visited the pub after our perfectly respectable family date to the aquarium...


Where The Turtle met some turtles. Among other aquarium residing residents.

All part of our big Denver getaway. Which fucking rocked socks. And really hit home for me, after our few months of 'Ships Passing in the Night' familyness, that we are, in fact, a family. I might've shed a tear or two during the weekend upon realizing that. Whew. I was pretty sure, but now I know. And I think I'm too far out from breastfeeding to blame the emotional outburst on hormones. I hope.

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!

Jersey Rocked...

Which probably doesn't surprise you. Now, before I get to the meat and potatoes of this post, I wanted to let you all know that I really love my uvula. It's cute, I think.

Now that that's out of the way...

The Scene: Mom's in the kitchen. I'm in the living room. My Belle, her boyfriend, and my step-dad are various distances in between. It's important for you to know that I brought two bottles to Jersey for Zee. You'll see why.

Mom: ZUBE GIRRRRRRRL!

Z-Girl: YEAH?

Mom: ARE BOTH OF YOUR NIPPLES THE SAME?

Z-Girl: UH, LAST I CHECKED! BUT THAT WAS A WHILE AGO!

Mom: *realizing what she just said* Oh my God.

Z-Girl: Heh.

Mom: Ha. I'm washing the bottles. I'm trying to figure out which nipples are Zee's and which are Stan's. That's what I meant.

Z-Girl: Whew. I thought it was sort of a weird question.

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We had a family picnic on Saturday. Moments after huddling around with my cousin and brother and sister discussing our babies' respective ouncely intake, Dad sauntered over. He had himself a little chuckle and said, "You know, just a few years ago, if I'd have heard you kids huddled around discussing three and four ounces, I think I might have had to intervene and let you know that that's quite a bit and you could get in big trouble." Heh. What a difference a few yeras can make.

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Well, I'm going to go check out my lovely uvula again. I should take a photo to show you guys. It's really quite sassy.

Photos of the weekend can be found here, for those of you so inclined to take a peak.

Odds and Ends...

-This morning I made a critical decision. Shower or sleep in? Sleeping in won. I am totally regretting that now.

-I am so fucking tired, you guys. I'm going on almost ten weeks of waking up every three to four hours at night. It's starting to wear on me.

-Zee and I are going to kick it in Jersey next weekend. Zee will meet her two cousins. I'm giddy with anticipation. I'm really not looking forward to the flight, though. By myself. With a 10 week old. Eek.

-Moving sucks. In my next life, I'm going to be a rich bitch so I can pay other people to do that shit. Either that, or I'll be a seahorse. I've always kind of wanted to be a seahorse. And I'd imagine boxes aren't involved when they move. That'd be nice. And the men do the whole pregnancy thing. I could live with that.

-Whenever I cook at home or eat at someone's house, I always take the least appealing looking piece of meat when the plate is passed. I've always done this. I don't know why.

-My birthday on Saturday was cool. Pretty chill. Went out for a couple of frothy adult beverages with Zee and Zube Boy. I was that lady with a baby in the bar. But really, it was 4PM and the bars here are no smoking. I didn't feel bad. Some people gave us funny looks, but fuck 'em.

-The other day, I farted and a little bubble got stuck between my butt cheeks. It felt totally weird. I had to do kind of a cross between the jig and the Macarena to release it. I was hoping it would make some sort of 'bloop' sound. It was silent. I was disappointed.

-Zube Boy has gotten me addicted to You Tube. I found this video. It was horrifying to watch the first time. I peeked through my fingers. I've since watched it several times and you know what? It is incredibly heartening. I might've even cried a little a couple of times. The way the coach and the audience all step up to help her through. Maybe the world isn't such an ugly place after all.

-Nothing will remind you of the importance of stretching like a baby. I love watching Zee Baby do her red in the face post nap stretches. I've learned to imitate her and it really, really feels good. You should try it.

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Listen!

I'm one of those people who's all, "No, no, SERIOUSLY, it's a GOOD SONG! Listen to the WORDS!"

It's kind of ironic, but since Zee Baby made her debut, the local radio station has been playing the hell out of this song. It makes me cry every time. Not in a bad way. Not in a happy way. But in a, um, I don't know, a real way. I love it. But I'm not going to tell you what the song is about because Zee is sleeping and I have only moments to impart my feelings.

Just know that I LOVE IT. And, if you are so inclined, you'll have to listen to the words to know just why.

I love it because it doesn't stand on a soap box and tell you, or me, how to feel.

I love it because it's raw and honest and doesn't hide anything.

I love it because it speaks to me, even though I could never, in a million years, have written it.

I love it so much I want to hump it.

My relationship with this song, as most passionate relationships go, is a Love-Hate one. I hate it, too.

I hate it because it reminds me that I decided to have an abortion all alone. Like, pretty much, ALL ALONE. There was no, "Hey, let's go out for coffee or have a deep talk on a picnic table at the park or let's hibernate in your dorm room and decide what the hell we do about the situation we created together." There was none of that. Sure, there was, "Well, Zube Girl, we will support you NO MATTER WHAT you do, but as your Mom and Dad, we just can't make that decision for you. Or even, really, with you." I was smart enough to figure that the asshole that raped me wasn't going to be much help in making that decision. I'm a smart cookie like that. It was all on me.

I hate it, too, because it reminds me that, instead of a boyfriend, my Dad brought me to the clinic. And people looked at us funny. He being so much older than me. I could feel their assumptions creeping up my back. It sucked. But I don't ever think I'll be able to thank my Dad enough for being there.

I hate it even more because it reminds me that the abortion is MY secret. It's not really a secret anymore. I've told the whole damn internets about it. But it's mine. My decision that I made all by myself. I'm a little bit of an idiot because I force myself to see the positive side of that. At least I didn't have a boyfriend who disagreed and wanted me to do something else. But 'at leasts' don't assuage the craptasticness of the situation completely. There will be no ex-boyfriend writing a touching song about my abortion.

I hate it because I could never have written it. Not in a million years. Because it just wasn't like that for me. Even though it kind of was.

Now that Zee is here, I've been thinking about stuff. Choice being one of them. I've often wondered at how, surprisingly, the miscarriages, rather than making me less Pro-Choice, made me more so. They made me realize just how personal my ute is and how nobody else needs to be getting their nosy asses up in her proceedings. I figure other people are entitled to feel the same.

The other day, Zube Boy returned home from work. He walked over to say hi to Zee, and at the sound of his voice, she broke into a huge grin and waved her arms and kicked her feet. It was the very first time she acknowledged so gleefully her Daddy coming home from work. A tear did stir in mine eye. And Zube Boy was beyond thrilled, whisking her up and hugging her. It was nothing short of awesome-tastic. A scene I'm sure I'll be able to replay in my mind's eye for many years to come.

I reflect on that moment a lot. I think about how different my life could be. I often hear Pro-Life folks lamenting the children that will never be because of abortion. I can't help but think, well what about the children that wouldn't be here if it weren't for abortion? Because Zee is one of them. And when I see such joyous interactions between her and her Daddy, there isn't a doubt in my mind I made the right choice, albeit a difficult one. Children deserve to be swooped up and showered with kisses by their Dads. Or their Moms. Whether it's one of each or two of both. They deserve loving parents. Zee has that. I could not have provided that for the child of my rapist.

The song reminds me just how difficult it was to choose. And how lonely it felt. But, as with all difficult things, we get through them. And sometimes we don't know their purpose until many moons later. Like, maybe eleven years, three months and some days.

I'm Fairly Certain the Words Stripper Pole Have Never Been Uttered in That Office...Until Zube Boy and I Came Along

In the past two months I've had a baby, had visitors, travelled to Chicago not only to attend a wedding, but also to be in it, and now...

We bought a new house. I forgot to mention to you all that was in the works. We closed on Thursday. This is the third closing I have attended and the fourth for Zube Boy. I think we're pretty fun to close with.

A week or so ago, I subtly hinted to Zube Boy that my birthday was coming up. I said, "Honey, you know my birthday is coming up." He thought for a moment and said, "How about I buy you...a house?" Ha. Sure. I imagine he won't be paying the mortgage alone and that seems to violate the whole gift thing on so many levels. Anyway, at the start of closing, I told the realtor and the closing agent, in my most serious tone, that at the end, they had to sing Happy Birthday to me. They sort of laughed, not knowing if I was serious or not.

In the house we bought, there are two bedrooms upstairs and one downstairs. The previous owners used the two upstairs as one big room. One was allocated as the closet and the other was for sleeping. The realtor asked me if we had figured out where the baby was sleeping yet. I told him that eventually I'd like to have the baby downstairs, but I didn't feel comfortable with that just yet, so for the time being we'd set her up in the room the owner's used as a closet. And then we'd move her a few months or so down the road if I felt a little better about it. Zube Boy chimed in, "So, are you saying that in a few months the baby is going to come out of the closet?" Badum-bum. Ching. I said that if she is to come out of the closet in the future, it would probably be just a few years longer.

We also had to sign a paper that had our aliases listed, promising that those were the only ones we had. Actually, we had none. The realtor noted that sometimes some pretty funky stuff shows up on those reports. I said, "Like stage names from someone's college stripping days?" He laughed and said that we didn't have anything weird. I breathed a sigh of relief and told Zube Boy it was a good thing they didn't find him out.

At the end, I pointed to a post in the corner of the room and said that it must've been very difficult for Zube Boy to keep his pole dancing impulses in check.

Who knew closing on a house could be so fun. It took about two hours.

I'm up to my ears in the maelstrom that is my life these days. Not getting enough sleep. Little Zee is still waking up during the night. Moving. After moving, we have to finish the remodel on our house so we can sell it. The shit is hitting the fan and I'm trying to dodge the flying poo.

Hope you're all well. I'll keep you updated.