YAY! And Stuff...

First things first. I am incubating a masterpiece. Duh, you might be thinking. Of course she is incubating a masterpiece. It's that Zube blood. But I bet you weren't thinking that I was LITERALLY carrying The Scream in my womb. Don't believe me? Check it out...



You might have to click and biggify the picture to see the resemblence. All joking aside, I really don't have a freakin' clue what is what. Not even my imagination is that vivid. What I did find out is that there is a little heartbeat in there flickering away and that's all I need to know. Well, that and the ultrasound tech calmed my fear that my Scream does NOT, in fact, have an arm growing out of her/his head. I'm relieved.

I am eleven weeks now and we have a heartbeat. Just a week shy of the second trimester, I've decided to be happy and maybe a little excited. Pass the O'Douls! It's time to celebrate.

And, just in case you didn't know, if you're a little fucked up in the head? And you have a kid? You're still going to be a little fucked up in the head. Apparently having a kid doesn't de-fuck up you. Who knew? Not me. I kinda thought once I had a kid everything would fall into place and I'd be all perfectly awesome in my headspace. Not so much. Deliriously happy? Most times. Scared and confused and self-conscious? Once in a while.

So, I'm in counseling again. And I feel a little stupid about it, to be honest. How many times am I going to have to go to counseling before I'm, you know, done? Fixed? Just a smidge outside of normal? That's all I'm aiming for. I don't know. I'm coming to realize that I'm one of those people who needs a little guidancenow and again when it comes to keeping my head straight. That seems reasonable. People visit the dentist twice a year, get a physical once a year, a pap smear once a year. I go to counseling once every two years. Keeps me healthily insane. And I feel better for it.

PS - Yesterday was the thirteen year anniversary. THIRTEEN YEARS! Wow. The day actually passed with nary a thought about its significance. I just realized it today.

Stupid, Malfunctioning...WIRELESS INTERNET!

Ha! Betcha thought I was going to say uterus, eh? Not a chance. Well, yet anyway. Sorry my update was delayed but our wireless internet is sucking it so right now I'm stealing a very distant and very slow connection to let you know...

We have a heartbeat. 120 beats per minute.

Party hats are unwarranted as of yet, but feel free to do a mini-Happy Dance.

Five more weeks and I'll be feeling a little more okay.

Blogging for Two

Zube: Dude, you're hogging all the blankets.

Z-Boy: You have plenty.

Zube: Honey, I'm sleeping for two now, you know.

Z-Boy: Yeah, and one of you is smaller than a grain of rice.

Zube: Whatever. Sleeping for two. Give me more blanket.

Z-Boy: Are you nagging for two, too?

Zube: *YANK* Good night.

This Friday I have an ultrasound. I'll hopefully be reporting the presence of a heartbeat shortly thereafter. I was telling an old high school friend that I was beginning to feel a bit more confident because all of my miscarriages had happened/started happening by now. She responded that she believed all would be fine because Zee Baby fixed my ute while she took up residence there. I think that's an awesome visual, little Zee hammering away, beautifying my innards. I like the sounds of that.

On the Up and Up

You know, it really astounds me just how much energy a tiny being, one smaller than a grain of rice, could sap from its host. It's pretty fucking incredible, if you ask me. That my 24 pound toddler doesn't wear me out as much as a 1mm zygote. Interesante.

Anywho, details...Sorry for the delay, but they were delayed in getting to me...

Quick Lesson Uno: Hcg should double every 48 hours.

Last Friday - hcg 175
Sunday - hcg 449

More than doubled. Excellent.

Quick Lesson Dos: Progesterone should be at least above 15, preferably above 20.

My progesterone - 14

I'm on supplements, but I'm not fretting about the low progesterone too much because with Zee Baby it was only 10.

Sometime between Christmas and New Year's, pending nothing catastrophic between now and then, we'll have a little looksee at the bugger. By then s/he should be thumpa-thumpa-thumping away. Wouldn't THAT just be about the best fucking Christmas present EVAH?!

Here We Go Again...

Cross yer fingers and toes, people. Because you all know how I do pregnancy.

I'm hoping with all my heart that somewhere roundabout the middle of August, Zee Baby has a baby sister or brother.

Man, I just don't know if I'm ready for this again. Another kid? Totally ready. Well, about as ready as one could be, I suppose. But drama? And fear of losing a pregnancy again? Not so much ready for that. I hope the worrying is for naught.

Blood draws scheduled for today and Sunday.

Will keep you posted.

Getting Stoned...

The other day my coworker sauntered into my office to get something out of the filing cabinet adjacent to my desk. I happened to be playing with a small stone one of my other coworker's kids must have left on my desk and forgotten about. It was a cool little stone, too. All shiney and greenish. They prolly miss it. But you know what? It's mine now, bitches! Finders, keepers. Because deep down inside I really am twelve.

Anywho, as my coworker stood pilfering innocently through files, a brilliant idea did stir in mine mind. I saw the opportunity to make a funny.

I threw the stone at him. It hit him in the head.

He looked at me, a little surprised. Okay, maybe a lot surprised. Possibly the same look I'd have had if someone threw a stone, unwarranted, at my head.

Zube: "Dude, you just got stoned."

Maybe you had to be there...

Holy Shit, I Have a Blog!!!

I almost forgot!

You know what's awesome? Having a husband whose response to everything you say is, "Your what itches?" Good times, people.

Z-Boy finally got a work cell phone, which is nice for him because now he doesn't have to answer work calls, "Z-Boy's PERSONAL cell phone!" anymore. But it sucks for me because I had no idea just how often I assault him with text messages, which aren't covered by work's phone plan. I'm going through withdrawls, y'all.

Our last text exchange...

Zube: Honey? I just blew you some kisses, they should get there in a few minutes. Don't step on 'em by accident.

Z-Boy: Oops. The dog ate 'em. I'll wait and see if I can catch them when they come out the other end.

Zube: Ew. I don't know if I'd recommend that.

The end.

PS- Because I know I've been enormously slack in updating Zee Baby's blog, too, I wanted to share a photo with you:


Firstly, dude, I know I'm biased but she is one deliciously cute kiddo, thanks to all of you who cheered me on while I cooked her up 'til she was well done. That said, we were here when I took the picture and Zee was all decked out in rainbowy goodness. It was awesomely fun and I'm totally stoked that Hoot now lives in Colorado, too, so we can do activisty stuff together!

Fucking Suh. Weet.

One Week

I really can't take much more of the waiting...

A few videos that have been tiding me by. If you're so inclined.

#1.


#2. Do not be deterred...

#3.


I can't take the ugliness for another week:





Much less four more years.

Please, please, please...



You can help us, too...

It's a Pearly Something...

Last night, I endured a terrible case of Stinky Husband Syndrome. It was awful. I was able to curtail the toxic stench a bit by shutting the door to the computer room where said Stinky Husband was playing a computer game. But, you know, when you replace carpet with wood floors, and don't replace the doors, there is the ominous presence of a crack between the floor and the door that allows for the passage of small, yet gag-inducing, amounts of noxious fumes.

A while after his Flatulympic Performance, Z-Boy emerged from the computer room, grabbed himself a bowl of cereal and a PBR and proceeded to the bathroom to take a much needed soak in the tub.

I always find it amusing to pester my husband while he is lounging in the bath.

*Knock-Knock-Knock*

Z-Boy: WHAT?!

Zube: Honey?

Z-Boy: Yes?

Zube: Are you washing your hiney really good? 'Cause if you don't, you're gonna hafta sleep on the couch!

Z-Boy: I am, honey.

Zube: Good. You need to really get in there and scrub.

Z-Boy: I will.

Zube: Okay.

Z-Boy: Hey, is this your only toothbrush?

Zube: Yes, it is.

Z-Boy: Okay.

Suckfest - Party of One

At least that's what it feels like around this blog of mine these days. Anywho, I've got my tiara on and a wand in hand, so that should liven things up a bit for the moment.

I must apologize for my recent absence. I have been absolutely CONSUMED by this election. CON. SUMED. Like, this election is sitting fat and pretty crashed on a recliner somwhere with its hand down its pants snoring loudly to the Simpsons after eating a hefty, hearty meal of hot Zube. I haven't had much to say that isn't related to politics these days, so I've fallen a bit silent. One might say I'm so invested in the outcome of this election, I'm rendered speechless.

But, few things will have a girl crawling out of her political cave faster than the chance to share a little piece of her life that maybe, just maybe will help tip the scales, even a tiny bit. I'm scared of Palin for TONS of reason. But there is one that lends me the opportunity to speak out, and so I've written a piece for Colorado Women Against Palin, and it will be posted there sometime soonish (lots o' political goings on here in good old Colorado, being a swing state and all, so they don't want my story to get lost in the fray).

You can say you saw it here first.

(Zee would like to offer up her introduction to my story, too. She's insistent. One and a half year olds can be QUITE insistent, if you ask me.)

';;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;/p=o.=m,mmmm,,,

With that said, here 'tis...

It didn't take long after the announcement that Governor Sarah Palin had been selected to the number two spot of the Republican ticket for me to be appalled. Simply scratching the surface those first few days, I questioned her ethics, her experience, and her readiness. But what made my blood run cold was reading that she was opposed to abortion even in cases of rape and incest.

When I was in high school, some fifteen odd years ago, it was not unusual to find me in red-faced heated debate about abortion rights. In the locker room getting ready for cheerleading practice. Over pizza at the local hangout. During social studies class. I was young, opinionated and unbending in my views. I am quite familiar with Palin's stance, because it is one I espoused. I even opined on more than a few occasions that carrying a pregnancy, conceived of rape, to term would be 'healing' for the victim.

I cringe now imagining myself so pompously commanding to know what was best for all women. I was unaware at the time I so fervently argued against every woman's right to choose, including my own, that life had in store for me the unique opportunity to walk in the shoes I'd proclaimed to have so much insight into wearing.

In college I was raped and three weeks after the rape, a pregnancy test confirmed my worst fears. I had become pregnant as a result of the attack.

I found that, for me, rather than seeing the potential for 'healing' in continuing the pregnancy, I was debilitated by the mere thought of it. After much soul-searching and wrangling with my previous personal beliefs, I ultimately decided to terminate the pregnancy.

I no longer profess to know what is best for every woman in any case. Through the years I have shared my story many times in the hopes of protecting a right I so ardently fought to deny myself. It is the least I can do to thank those women and men before me who protected my right to choose, even as I railed against them.

I have not once abandoned the cause, even as I struggled through three miscarriages while trying to start a family with my husband. I shared my story at a State Senate Committee Hearing while 21 weeks pregnant with my daughter and facing the very real possibility that I might lose that pregnancy, too, due to pre-term labor. I cannot stress to you how important it is to me to keep abortion a safe and legal option for all women, but especially for those victims of rape and incest. Preserving choice has become my life's work.

Palin frightens me on numerous levels, but I am horrified by her position on this issue in particular. Palin has not walked in the shoes of a rape survivor. I hadn't either until, well, I did. I won't deny that I have an understanding of those who theorize about women and the shoes they wear. I have done that myself. But because I understand them does not mean that I won’t speak out against them. Women deserve better than the extreme Anti-Choice stance Palin represents.

Through the years, I have been touched by so many women who’ve shared their stories with me. They’ve approached me after rallies and sent me e-mails after reading my blog. I know that becoming pregnant after a rape is not so rare as we would like to think. A woman once e-mailed me and told me that she had been raped, became pregnant, and gave her son up for adoption. She went on to say how strong I am, how strong we all are, and she urged me to continue fighting the good fight. Rape survivors deserve a choice, she said. Whether it is the choice I made or you made or others have made. To this day I am encouraged by her. And I am simply compelled each time I look into my baby girl’s beautiful eyes and imagine her future.

Palin may have her lipstick. But I have my shoes. And in them, with my daughter on my hip, I will proudly continue to walk the path I’m on, preserving the rights of every daughter

And just to add...

McCain? I'm no fan. No anymore. I'll be a bad Democrat and say he was a pretty all right guy and I actually kinda liked him. In 2004. But he's different now. It's obvious to me that he's caving to the religous right and sacrificing the real, small government fiscal conservatives to win the election. And that pisses me off.

Though, Palin? I'm seriously considering taking my Bermuda born ass to a lawyer ASAP and asking about claiming my dual citezenship so The Zubes can move to another country if she has a shot at being President. And I'm only half joking. Maybe a quarter.

Later, taters.

Thinking of You, Del...

And lighting a candle in your honor...

Del Rose Forbes-Cheatham

If Hoot Only Knew

Z-Girl: Honey, Hoot wants to come up from Denver and spend the night tonight. She'll come up early and cook us dinner. Would that be cool?

Z-Boy: Does she still want to have my baby?

Z-Girl: She only offered to do that if I couldn't cook us up a baby properly. Which I did, so she's not going to have your baby.

Z-Boy: Oh.

Z-Girl: Sorry.

Z-Boy: Well, I guess it's okay if she's making us dinner.

Z-Girl: Thanks.

I Haven't Had the Last Laugh...

...in almost nine years.

Zube: GOD, I can't wait until tomorrow!

Z-Boy: Why?

Zube: Because I just get better looking every day!

Z-Boy: *eyeroll* Well, I can't wait until tomorrow either.

Zube: Why, do you get better-looking every day, too?

Z-Boy: No but maybe you'll be better looking.

Zube: Assmonkey.

Wherein I Appall Even My Most Feverish of Admirers...

Ahem, Brad, might I suggest that at this point you step away from the keyboard and mozy on over to the nursery to snuggle your two beautiful babies right now? I mean, it's terribly annoying to be repeatedly calling 911 after you've fallen out of a tree YET AGAIN peeping through my window at my flannel pajama clad babeness, but it's sorta like how that guy Cliff, on Singles, had barbecues no one attended because of the noisy planes near his house, but when he moved he missed the noisy planes bunches and, well, it's like that with me and you. I'd miss you stalking me. And I promise, if you read this, you will totally and absolutely NOT be infatuated with me anymore. And while Z-Boy would be pleased to not have to deal with me screeching, "YOU AGAIN!?!?" on a semi-regular basis, well, I think he'd kinda miss beating you up, too. Adrenaline rush and all.

Anyway...

Dear Universe,

If you're going to be all fucked up and unfair and assault me with a Mount Everest sized pimple on my cheek that would send Heather Chandler running to the kitchen for a drain cleaner fueled wake-up drink at the ripe old age of thirty-three whilst also bestowing me with random black hairs I must pluck out of my chin every other week or so (I mean, the chin hair seems a little premature, no? As long as I'm still dealing with pimples?) would you at least find a morsel of kindness in your shriveled up, cold, black heart and not place the pimple in such a spot that it blocks my view in the mirror of the aforementioned black hair I'm trying to pluck?

Seriously, asshole.

Sincerely,
Zube

Just So You Know...

It's kinda like that right now. Kinda like North America somehow morphed into a huge bootish Italy and it's kicking my ass. Or I still can't draw for shit. Which is nothing new. But, with the weight of the world and all, I'm having a rough go of things at the moment. Hopefully it's just temporary.

LOST: One Cape and One Broom

If Found, Please Contact: One Pissed Off Wonder Bitch

Because, seriously, there is no thriftier way to get your kid to daycare and yourself to work than to fly the friendly skies. Unless, of course, we're talking about an airplane. Because those things are becoming hellaciously expensive and exceedingly less accommodating. How nice they want me to pay more for my ticket while simultaneously revoking the privilege of bringing, you know, enough underpants for a week unless I want to pay more to *gasp* bring luggage with me on my trip! What nerve I have to attempt to protect the general public from the glowing glory of my white ass. Capes and brooms, however? Need no other fuel to operate than awesomeness and bitchery. And that shit is free.

But apparently, even bitches like me can't fly without a cape. And I haven't the faintest clue where the hell I put it. I thought I left it on the back of the toilet right next to my tiara, because everyone knows that that's where important shit goes (literature, extra toilet paper, maybe a tampon or two), but alas, it was not there. How on earth will I teach my darling, little girl the joys of careening through the sky, spitting on Hummers and couples wearing matching outfits riding tandem bikes, without my handy cape?


Upon the devastating realization that my cape was missing, I went rummaging for the next best thing: my broom. Which I was certain I'd stashed by the back door. Because if ever a witch needed a quick escape, the back door makes for the cleverest exit. But again, I was foiled. Despite the fact that on the broom Zee usually gets a gnat in her eye, thus causing her to squint:



She usually enjoys the ride. Well, she seems to enjoy it more than, say, listening to me tell her stories on the way home from daycare about how, two days in a row now, I have worn my underpants inside out and what the fuck is up with that? I think she finds the deafening wind blowing through her ears while on the broom quite a relief from the daily blathering of her mother.

Eh well. Sorry, kid. We're gonna have to stick with the 13-year-old Cherokee, $4.09/gallon gas, and boring stories about my unmentionables. At least until I can prove that your Dad stole my cape and broom and flies down to Shotgun Willie's in Denver each evening after we're fast asleep. But he's a smart guy, that Daddy of yours, and catching him might take a while. Especially if he's on my broom. With my cape.

Vacation Ruminations

-I'm wearing new underwear. It's riding up my ass in a way that makes me feel oddly sexy. Despite walking funny.

-Speaking of walking, I realized on vacation this week that Hoot, My Belle, and I share a decided lack of grace in our gaits. I wouldn't describe our mobility as walking even. We more like plod. It's kind of cool.

-I love my family. Even you, Bro, despite our spirited, adult-beverage induced political banter!

My Belle, Bro, Hoot, and Zube

-Hoot, Zee, and I shared a cabin because Z-Boy couldn't make this trip. It became apparent that our cabin neighbors wondered about the nature of Hoot's and my relationship. I spiced up matters unwittingly by giving My Belle a good night kiss at the end of the evening in front one particular neighbor, leaving her slack-jawed. When I realized what she might be thinking, I called out, "I love you!" to My Belle as she walked away. Stirring the pot.

-Vacations are nice and being with my family is nicer. But getting home after a then day husband-less sojourn is probably nicest of all.

Missed ya! It's good to be back.

I, Like, Totally Forgot to Tell You...

I'm vacationing, dudes. And gagging on spoons. Or rather, I'm gagging on an insufferable, opressive heat wave that's so thick it's tangible. I've been making sculptures of mountains covered in snow with it. My Colorado ass is hideously unaccustomed to humidity and weather in the upper 90's. Don't get me wrong, I'm having a blast with Mom, Bro and Sis, Hoot, My Belle and the accompanying gaggle of children and significant others, but it is fucking hot. I'm such a pansy ass I upgraded to an air conditioned cabin further away from the rest of the gang. And I think you all know just how much I enjoy my gang and being near them, but I couldn't bear the heat.

I'm currently enjoying a slight reprieve after a metric ton of (immensely appreciated) rain last night which thankfully cooled things down instead of leaving us to roast in a bed of steam.

Zee Baby is having a blast with her cousins but missing her Daddy tremendously. Apparently having rental properties comes with responsibilities and Z-Boy couldn't make it because the renters we've had for two years have moved on and we have to find new ones. Carrying the mortgage for any amount of time would be a suckful endeavor to say the least.

I brought ten outfits for Zee. She has worn all of one. She wore it yesterday when it was raining. Yesterday finally felt blissfully like a warm day at home. Cold day in Virginia. Go figure. At least I know to pack much lighter next time.

Well, we shall reacquaint when Zee and I are finished playing with water and camera's respectively. I think I've found a new hobby in taking pictures. I've taken almost three hundred so far thanks to my Mother's Day gift camera with lots o' memory. And when you take that many pictures you're bound to get a couple that don't suck. Here are some of my faves:

Zee Baby


Bro's Girl


My Belle's Boy


Later taters.

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

I recently received a gift that spurned an argument amongst myselves. The argument went something like this:

Snarky Zube: Ummmmmm, okay. So how the hell do you thank someone for that?

Koombaya Zube: Well, that’s easy, you simply say, “Thank you for the gift. It was very kind of you.”

Snarky Zube: Right, and just ignore the bit where he said he finds my blog disturbing?

Koombaya Zube: You know, why get into a tangle? I mean, he sent you a gift. Say thanks and leave it alone.

Snarky Zube: But it was akin to, oh, I don’t know, kicking me in the groin and following it up with a french kiss.

Koombaya Zube: A really snazzy french kiss. Leather bound. With your name engraved on it.

Snarky Zube: Right. An appropriate follow-up to getting kicked in the groin.

Koombaya Zube: But the thing is, unless dude works at a bible factory, one attached to a DVD store, and gets a hefty discount on engraved bibles and Passion of the Christ DVDs, he spent quite a bit. To send you a gift. So you say thanks.

Snarky Zube: I KNOW that, but see, that's a pretty passive-aggressive play to yank out of the playbook. This guy calls me a sad, little girl who writes a disturbing blog, then smooths it over by saying, “I don’t mean to be condescending, yadda yadda,” and then gives me a really nice gift. And there’s no way in this situation to address the negative stuff he said with out coming off sounding like an asshole. It smacks of the, "No offense, but insert offensive comment," bullshit that I can't stand.

Koombaya Zube: But, you know, why give him the impression that all heathens are assholes? I mean, we're really not an asshole.

Snarky Zube: Well, not always. Thanks to you.

After a little more internal dialogue, I've concluded that there is a way to make both of the girls happy. I'm gonna be all Koombaya and say thank you for the gift. Sincerely. I don't ascribe to any religion but I'm nothing if not well read. And surely the twelve years of Catechism I piously endured through elementary and high school are a bit rusty, so I wouldn't mind brushing up on my bible skillz. And while, odds are, I'm not going to be witnessing for the Lord anytime soon, I don't mind the education at all.

I appreciate you sharing something with me which worked for you and I can tell it was heartfelt. I am so happy that you found your answer in Him. I would never, ever, ever in one million and two years begrudge anyone for having faith in something. Whether it's something a whole host of others believe or whether it's something Lone Rangerish, like paying homage to the Staypuff Marshmellow Man. Whatever brings you peace and fulfillment and happiness, dude, you go with your bad self.

Now to give voice to the snark. I take issue with some of your letter. I'm not posting the entire thing; just a portion which I'd like to address. And for my other readers, please know, the rest of the letter was very genuine and not unkind.

I have read your blog several times and to be honest, I find it very disturbing. Not by just the fact that you had an abortion but because you feel such a need to share it on line. I feel the same as some of your other readers that have responded that you have never really dealt with the whole incident of being raped and having terminated your pregnancy. I am very sorry for what you have been through and I sense that there is a part of you that is very empty and lonely on the inside and no amount of talking about it or getting the approval of others is ever going to fill the void that is in your life.

When I read your work, I hear a frightened, sad little girl that is searching for something that she can’t quite put a name to. Why else would you feel the need to always appear to have it all together on the outside when on the inside you’re so unsure of yourself.

I am in no way condemning you or judging you for your past or present lifestyle. We all have done things that we look back on and regret or question. We’re all human.

Okay, first of all, I'm certainly not an idiot. I am well aware that having a public diary opens me up to both friend and foe. I'm a big girl, though, so I continue with that in mind. I never said anyone HAD to agree with me. In fact, I think I've said the opposite quite a few times. And in case it got lost in the blather, NO ONE here should feel compelled to agree with me. Ever. It would do me a great disservice.

What jumps out at me is that you said my blog disturbs you. Which, okay, to a degree I understand why you'd still be reading. I like to watch Fox News because it's sort of like a Sean Hannity/Bill O'Reilly Hate Sandwich and I like to take a big bite, remark on how chewy and disgusting it is, spit it out and flip the channel to CNN or CSPAN. I know when to put down the remote and walk away. And if I'm contemplating sending Sean Hannity an Obama '08 bumper sticker accompanied with a letter explaining what I think his 'problems' are with regard to his political views and if he would just believe like I do so that I could accept him, well, I pretty much missed that "Put the Remote Down' window.

I'm not forcing you to read my blog just as no one forces me to watch Fox News. But if my blog disturbs you on a visceral level, well, it might be time to take a break. Hell, even my adoring husband needs to take a break from me once in a while. It's not hard to believe that a very religious reader might need one as well.

I found this quote in particular pretty offensive:

...you have never really dealt with the whole incident of being raped and having terminated your pregnancy.

Through years of therapy, writing, speaking for Planned Parenthood and the simple and profound fact that EVERY DAY I live the life of a rape survivor, I don't know how else you'd want me to 'really deal' with it. It seems a large leap you've taken into my brain to draw the conclusion that I haven't really dealt with it. If you're implying it doesn't seem as though I'm over it, then you're right. I'm not. I never will be. Thank goodness for that, too, because if I were to ever be 'over it' I'd imagine the experience wouldn't be such a catalyst to do, what I deem, good works. I hope I never get over it.

I don't pretend to know all the answers here. I don't mean to portray myself as even 'having it all together'. I'm a jumbled mess of Zube-ness and I kinda like it that way. However, where you hear a frightened, sad little girl, I hear a Merely Confused, Albeit Opinionated, Pretty Sarcastic, Hopelessly Pollyanna, ADULT WOMAN. One who doesn't take so kindly to the paternalistic approach. But, we'll never see eye to eye on this as we're individual beholders. But I can promise you that where you see that little girl, I see a woman. And I am proud of her.

In the end, do not think that your attempt to reach out has gone unappreciated. I do appreciate it and I hate to slap the hand that reaches out in an honest attempt to save someone. But I do like to couple my helpings of religious proselytizing with a healthy mound of salt. And I don't feel the need to be saved. I thank you for the gift and will continue to carry on with my lifestyle, the one you are not judging. And don't you worry about me regretting this Fondness of Saying Fuck Lifestyle, or Whatever the Heck Lifestyle I am living. I do try with all my might not to waste my emotional fortitude on such a useless emotion as regret.

Peace to you. I am glad you found Jesus. Truly.

Zubes and Other Sirius Shit

Sometimes I get all freakin' nosy and I like to check out what kind of antics other Zubes get into. This one in particular made me LAUGH MY ASS OFF. Although, lucky for him, no relation to me. It's nice to 'read' a Zube with a similar sense of humah!

Also, I have satellite radio in my car and subscribe to Sirius Radio for stations. I finally figured out that the Sirius is short for SIRIUSLY SUCKS! Oh wait, no, I'm wrong. It's actually short for SIRIUSLY FUCKING SUCKS. Ahem. I swear that little satellite radio contraption has NO IDEA how lucky it is not to have ended up SPLAT on someone's bumper like so many millions of little bugs after NOT DETECTING THE ANTENNA right smack in the middle of Blind Melon's Tones of Home. It's also lucky I didn't graciously take said antenna from atop the car and aid the contraption in finding it. But I wasn't exactly sure where to find some Sirius ass in which to implant it. Siriusly, though, I thought the whole point of satellite radio was to not have to deal with losing radio signals. I think I'm about done paying for that shit. Grrr...

That is all...