When I Don't Like Something...

I usually try to make friends with it. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, as they say.

So, I dug deep, deep down in my jeans pockets, which was tough because my jeans are feeling a little snug these days and my hand barely fit in there, and paid for zubegirl.com.

I have a new home.

It's over at Wordpress and I have to admit, I'm kinda digging on Wordpress. It seems pretty user friendly. That said, I'm not posturing for an all out evening of humping its leg or anything. A few things are irritating me. Like that fact that, at the top of the page it says 'The Adventures of Zube Girl' above my awesome header made by someone even awesomer that says, wait for it...The Adventures of Zube Girl. I can't figure out how to get rid of the extraneous title. And I hate to be redundant. I seriously don't like repeating myself.

Also? If I went and paid for zubegirl.com well then why the shit does the address change to zubegirl.wordpress.com after you type in zubegirl.com? Minor detail but bugs me, that.

Otherwise, it most certainly isn't finished over there, but we're sort of dating. And I figured I'd go public with my new relationship. If reality tv is such a hit, well then why not reality blog-hosting website dating?

So yeah. That's where you'll find me from now on. See you there! Unless I don't.

Music Theory 101

Every once in a while I'll be plodding along as per usual, yelling at the kids to stop yelling and wondering whether there is a Standard Measurement of Ridiculousness so I can assign an accurate percentile to just how ridiculous it is that I'm still wearing pajama pants at certain hours of the day in the hopes of inspiring myself to shower and dress, when I'll hear a song I've heard and enjoyed a million times, but this time the lyrics will grip me in a way they never had before. Tightening my chest, bent on squeezing every last ounce of moisture out of my tear ducts. I'll choke back tears until I can steal a few minutes solo in the bathroom because crying while serving pizza for breakfast might be psychologically damaging to my spawn.

Yes, I said pizza for breakfast. That's what they wanted. It had bacon on it and I figure there is no better time than the present to practice being a college student.

The other day, it was this song...



...No change, I can change, I can change, I can change, but I'm here in my mold, I am here in my mold. But I'm a million different people from one day to the next, I can't change my mold, no, no, no, no, no, no, no...

Yes, that.

I won't subject you to my verse by verse interpretation because I'm remiss to give you an Attack of the Eyerolly Sighs and I think the dishes are feeling buoyed by the accompaniment of microscopic allies and have begun plotting to make our house their bitch, so I should probably get on that.

But, suffice it to say, I was hit that day with the realization that "won't" sure feels a lot like "can't" sometimes.

I am here in my mold. I am here in my mold.

At least you know where to find me. And, for that matter, so do I. Silver lining.

This morning I examined both my Mt. Everest sized zit and the ever present crow's feet laugh lines framing my eyes. I looked myself straight in those eyes, something I rarely do, too much unknown there (or should I say, known), and thought, "Zube, you are not getting any younger." And maybe that spiraled into an inner dialogue amongst the judgey voices in my head regarding my complete refusal to 'grow-up' and do something with my life already.

My inner-cheerleader lost a pom-pom in the shuffle but did her best to defend me. "Sure, she's a thirty-five-year-old waitress, but she is a damn good one! Give me a 'W'!"

Thwack! Oh, there's that missing pom-pom. Not sure which judgey asshole had it, I'm eying the scowly guy with the furrowed brow, but regardless, the cheerleader is down for the count. Pom-pom to the head.

Amidst the ringing in her ears, the verse, "Trying to make ends meet, you're a slave to money then you die..." skips. And skips. And skips.

I was once told by someone, someone who should have known better, that I am not successful.

It rung true, which is why it hurt so much and why I can't unhear it. And probably why the person who said it said it.

And since being told that I've worn my failures as a badge of honor.

I will likely brag about them tomorrow.

I'm so cool. Usually.

But, today, that's not one of the million different people I happen to be...

That's okay. I can change...I can change...

Tomorrow.

He's Off to Meet the Wiz...But Needs Your Help!

So, I have this theory. You're shocked, I know. Oh look, here's one of your eyeballs. I think it just rolled right out of your head. Not sure where the other one is, though.

As with many of my theories, this one does not require the donning of a tin foil hat or the use of a baby monitor. There have been no gnomes in my closet with shrinking ray guns attacking my pants. My pants happen to be fitting these days.

This theory is different.

Bro, Hoot and I have discussed extensively the fact that our baby sister, My Belle, is the coolest of us all. We theorize that awesomeness amplifies with each subsequent sibling. Right, and I am the oldest. This theory is certainly not self-serving.

I've made it abundantly clear in the past that I think my family is the bees knees. Not only my immediate family, but extended family as well. On my mother's side, there are 18 of us grandkids. We're like, twice as cool as the von Trapp family. Plus four.

On Facebook I'm able to keep up with the shenanigans of them all. Which, bash FB all you want, I love it. I don't get to drink beer regularly in their living rooms, but I can still feel like we're not 2,000 miles away from each other.

The second youngest cousin, Aaron, is a riot, and a good kid, and has me entirely convinced that this Awesomeness Amplification Theory translates to cousinry. He is the 17th cousin, and I am the 2nd. This means one of two things to you who read me. A) You think I'm pretty cool and so he must be totally out of this world awesome. Or B) You think I'm an asshole and so this kid stands a snowball's chance at being cool.

I can assure you, he is out of this world awesome and cool as a snowball.

Recently on Facebook he posted a video he'd put together for a contest he hopes to win. The winner gets to meet Wiz Khalifa. I have no frackin' idea who that is, but I'd like to help him. The video had to mention JMU going green and his entry is pretty damn clever. Here 'tis:



And this is where I ask you a favor. Just a little one. If you are on Facebook, would you mind giving him a little vote love? I try not to ask much of you all, but for a shoulder to cry on, a bit of therapy, and a laugh when I need it. Okay, so maybe I ask a lot of you, but at least in this case, someone else is the beneficiary of your kindness.

Here's how you do it:

1. Go here.
2. 'Like' the University Program Board.
3. Go to 'photos'.
4. Click on the 'videos' at the top right.
5. Scroll down to contestant #5.
6. 'Like' his video.

That's all!

In all honesty, it makes me super happy to see kids in college not only attend class, but participate in extracurricular stuff that doesn't involve the consumption of beer. My extracurricular beer consuming got in the way of my major in Deaf Education. So I failed out of college with a minor in Partying. I love when people related to me prove this is not a genetic predisposition. It gives me hope for Zee and Bee.

Thanks a bunch! Also, Aaron promises if you vote for him, you will live forever. It's worth a shot!

Did someone just say shot?

I Need You...

...to do something for me, if you're so inclined. Mozy on over to IndieInk when you get a free minute. Why? Well, primarily because it's fucking awesome and has introduced me to lots o' great writers I'd have otherwise never stumbled upon. Less importantly, because I will be the featured writer tomorrow morning. Did you like that? How humble I came across? I'm humble above all else (the most humble person you've ever met, in fact).

Ahem. Tomorrow, this post will be featured, and I wanted to forewarn you so you had some time to peruse the awesomeness that is IndieInk before it made its debut.

And honestly? Not mocking humility. You all know I eat humble-pie here regularly. A little while after I'd been notified my submission would be published, I felt undeserving. Not good enough. There is some seriously amazing shit over there. I regretted even having submitted a piece at all for a hot minute. Or a cold many minutes.

And while I was in the throes of this chilly slice of time, the episode on Sesame Street the kids were watching featured this...



Don't worry that it's not good enough for anyone else to hear...Just sing.

Well, I did. And if no one's eyes bleed as a result, I'm good with that.

And Seriously...



IndieInk is the shizzle. In my humble opinion.

Who's Your Mommy?

I thought I'd share a few of my parenting philosophies here. Not that you, my readers, give a shit what they are, but I thought it would be cathartic for me to say them 'out loud' given some of the dirty looks I get in public. You're simply the unwitting victim of my posturing. Sorry.

My Dearest Childrens,

Lest you get confused about what I expect of you, or think I'm an unreasonable asshole, I wanted to lay out for you what having me as a Mom entails. In fairness, the rules may change. I swear, I knew how to be the world's most AMAZING mother, until I had kids. Then everything I KNEW that I knew flew out the window with all of my free time and lazy afternoons. I reserve the right to reassess when you are no longer one and three and I'm once again reminded that I don't know how the hell to raise kids who are three and five. Because, life lesson, circumstances will prove time and again that you don't, in fact, know anything everything. This is ultimately a good thing, but frustrating when you try to fight it. Ahem...carrying on...

-If the situation merits? I will put you in time out. Anytime. Anywhere. No idle threats here. The grocery store? Check. The airport? Check. Wendy's? Check. You might make noise which might make others uncomfortable, and my neck might turn red from other people's glares, which might make me uncomfortable, but when your future sprawls out before my mind's eye and I envision you not being a complete asshole in it, some of your actions call for immediate consequences. Uncomfortableness notwithstanding. I'm not sorry about delivering these consequences. Embarrassed, maybe, but not sorry. I'd be sorrier about unleashing an asshole out unto the world. There are enough of those.

-I will not yell at you for jumping on the bed. Our mattress is shitty anyway and I remember just how tickled I was when I stole a few jumps on my Mom and Dad's bed when I was your age. I see no point in making rules just for the sake of enforcing them. But please don't fall. And, because I'm the furthest person ever from perfect, I will roll my eyes when I warn you that bodily harm might result from your bed-jumping forays. It's okay though. Because you are my kids and so you will roll your eyes and say, "OOOOOOOOOOOOOKAY MOMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!" and resume jumping. This is all laid out in some Parent-Child Rule Book I don't have the time or the inclination to locate. I have laundry to do. But, believe me. Because I said so.

-Same with blowing bubbles in your milk. Only not in public. Beds are few and far between in public but milk and straws are plenty. When other people are around? Blowing bubbles in your milk is rude. At home? Have at it. Just pass the salt and put your plates away when I ask.

-Growing up, my own Mom and Dad never EVER compared us siblings or wished out loud that one was like the other or vice versa. I am wholly convinced this is why we grew out of our childhood spats to absolutely adore one another, for who we are. I recall Hoot coming home from school one day in tears because a teacher who'd had both Bro and I said, "Ah, you're a Zube. Let's hope you're like your sister and NOT your brother." Said teacher was rumored to have slept with the entire basketball team in the locker room and I knew it was likely untrue but I spread that rumor with the ferocity of a sister whose beloved brother had been thrown under the bus before the impressionable eyes of his even younger sister. Is this a character flaw of mine? Maybe. But defending my family is a character flaw I fiercely embrace. I hope you will, too. Besides, it's not like the teacher got fired. Though she was shitty and probably deserved it.

That was a very long, unabridged way of saying, I will never compare you two. You are your own people. You are different. Not at all the same. Do not compete. I will not tolerate it nor encourage it. Even now, at your tender ages, I see the vast difference in your personalities, and I love each one of you for how simply YOU you are. You'd do best to love each other for the same reason. And if you do as you grow older? I will know that while I might not be Mother of Any Year Ever by any stretch, I'll settle for raising Siblings of a Lifetime. After all, I feel it is my job to set you off properly into the world, and being set off with a friend for life is about the most optimistic scenario in my eyes.

I am willing to sacrifice being 'cool' if only to see one of you approach and console the other after a particularly harrowing time-out. My insecurities about being a mother are far less important than knowing, long after I'm gone, you'll have someone who will look you in the eyes, pat you on the back, and say, "It's okay," even after you've just gotten in trouble.

Sincerely,
Mommy (who tries like mad, but is only human after all...which you won't get until you're way older. Like, her age.)

Isn't It Sad? Why Yes! It Is! How Goes It Pal?

I hate not being happy. I try to hide my not happy like I try to hide a Mt. Everest size zit with an abundance of cover-up. I'll laugh as I tell you I'm in an awful mood and had a really shitty morning. It is an attempt to fake it 'til I make it. Which means, I smile most when I'm really not happy. Damn. Just blew my cover.

I typically react to the hint of sadness by turning around and attempting to scrape and claw my way back up the incline I'd only begun to descend. Which is sorta stupid. Why go backwards? Why? Well, because it is safer to stand there at the mouth of the abyss, looking out over the unknown tree strewn valley than to actually make my way into it. Admittedly, though, it doesn't really get me anywhere.

I'll lie to myself and say I'm preparing. If preparing meant procrastinating, I wouldn't be lying.

Eventually, Sad morphs into a buddy and steps up and says, "Dude, stop laughing at me. Seriously. It was endearing for a while, but now, well, really. We've gotta go."

And the smartest thing to do at this moment is to clutch Sad's arm tightly, and start walking. Descending.

Because what goes down must come up, right?

I keep reminding myself that if it weren't for my past rendezvous with my old friend, Sad, I wouldn't be the person I am today. Scars from the bramble and all.

And so...Maybe I'm getting to the part where Procrastination meets Prepared. I foreshadowed that a bit back there and didn't even realize it...

Anyway, it's time.

It's Getting Hot in Here...What with the Abundance of Hot Air Escaping My Pie-Hole

If there is one lesson in life I am destined to learn again and again and again. And again. It is this: I don't know shit.

I feel compelled to share that with you. I don't know everything. I barely know anything. Whew. Now I can cross something off of my List of Things to Do Today:

Penance

Still on the List of Things to Do Today:

Shower
Polish my tiara
Shovel snow off the deck
Scare myself
Make dinner

Big day at Casa de Zube.

I've been perusing blogs recently, looking for a few good reads, and I have to tell you, I'm a little relieved that I'm not a BIG TIME BLOGGER. Honestly, it seems a lot of the BIG TIME BLOGGERS like to serve up an over-sized helping of 'I Know Everything' without the requisite side of 'But Really, I'm Pretty Much an Asshole, Just the Same As You' that makes it possible, enjoyable even, to gobble up the morsels they're tossing out.

I wonder, sometimes, if I come across that way. Rereading that last paragraph, I'm gagging on a bit of doubt.

Whaddya know? Turns out I am an asshole. Just like you?

I like to think I walk the fine line, in my ramblings here, between, These Are My Truths and I Have a Hankering to Share Them with You Just in Case One Might Strike Your Fancy, and Hey, I'm a Dumbass Who Can't Figure out My Own Shit, Much Less Yours!

I wouldn't be surprised, though, if I teeter into the realm of sounding like a Know-It-All. How I see me and how you see me are two entirely different things. And I have the most to learn by examining the latter. Not obsessing, mind you. I have to ignore the gene that predispositions me to care too much what you think while still taking it into consideration. That's one of the finest lines I walk.

Anyway, I don't need anyone serenading me with a midnight rendition of "Wind Beneath My Wings" (Brad, I'm looking at you). More importantly, I'm not going to pretend I'm the wind beneath anyone's wings. Because mostly? The opposite is true. I am surrounded by people who make it possible for me to fly. Wait, did I just call you windy? I didn't mean it like that...

This post was brought to you by my inability to decide what to write about today. See what happens when I go throwing caution to the wind? Also? It's super windy outside. I've got wind on my mind.

Speaking of wind...I had the wind knocked outta me. While I was flying high, too. It always seems to happen that way, doesn't it?

Oh well, I think having a non-perfect, kinda turbulent life makes writing about it far more interesting. If I had all the answers, I'd be just another, windy, know-it-all. As it stands, I lack a tiny bit of pride and have an incessant need to deplete my head of extra air.

But, at least, I'm not asking you to fly around on it.

PS- I feel the need to apologize to metaphors. Obviously, I needed to beat the shit out of something to make myself feel better.