A Winner and A Loser...Or at Least Feeling Like One...Or Both

Okay, let’s just skip over the bit where I tell you all how much I suck. You're familiar with that song and dance, I'm sure. I have been shitting out business contracts at work with alarming regularity and with all that going on, I don’t even want to glance in the direction of my computer at home. Maybe I'm getting too much fiber.

The other day, I cried a little bit. See, I have this wild hair growing, well, you can imagine where, and it’s giving me the urge to go back to college. I dropped out because a lot of shit had happened and was happeing and showering daily was a feat in and of itself, rendering me paralyzed at the mere thought of attending class and studying. So, I stopped going. But now, ten years down the road, I've come to realize it is the one way in which I haven't healed from said horrid shit. Academically. And though consider myself pretty dang smart, apparently that piece of paper from an accredited institution means more.

Anyway, I get this weird palpitation in my heart when I’m calling my old college trying to figure out how to tie up loose ends and all. It’s reminiscent of a panic attack. Dealing with them makes me feel like “That Girl” all over again. It’s fucking weird, and I don’t like it. But I'm suffering through because I think it's important.

Long story short, and the reason for the waterworks, I was misunderstanding one of the ladies I was talking to and she fucking laughed at me. And I nearly crumbled. I know I pretend to be all big and bad and bitchy, but every once in a while, I'm a sensitive shit.

But, I’m over it now. Mostly because a woman named Linda called me back and was VERY, VERY sweet and now I kind of want to hump her leg.

Last order of business: WE HAVE A WINNER!

Thank you ALL for participating! Each and every entry rocked.

All that said, the Winner is: Beer Boy and Philthy Dog.


The prize will be announced shortly…

Congratulations Phil!

Minions and a Super Contest

It's the moment you've ALL been waiting for!

Drumroll please...

Ahem...Just a minute...

Z-Girl: What in the fuck do you call that??? That's not a drumroll!

Minion: I know. All I could find is a trombone. I was trying to improvise.

Z-Girl: You idiot! There is no improvising in minionism. You're demoted. Go put on a loincloth!

Minion: OH NO! PLEASE! Not the nubile young attendant position!!!

Z-Girl: Mmm-hmmm.

Minion: You are a tyrant.

Z-Girl: Yeah, yeah. Now go fetch me a beer.

Okay, forget the drumroll. I'll be taking applications for the position of Minion, if you're interested. But FIRST! We have a contest to begin. Remember that whole Superhero thing from last week? Yes? Very good. No? When then go read the link dumbass.

Anyway, it's voting time. Here are the entries (I think I got everyone, but if I've somehow missed you PLEASE let me know!):

Click on each picture to make it all biggy-like.

1. Happy Villain drew yours truly! I totally dig the armor. I think that when I'm not busy being a stick figure superhero, I'll go with this one...


2. Psychobabble - A Momma and Baby duo! CUTE COLORS! It's all about the colors.


3. Phil, or rather, Beer Boy and Philthy Dog, to the rescue! Hee. You MUST make this one biggy-like, 'cause you've gotta read the fine print.


4. Ginamonster - I LOVE the banana! A woman after my own heart with the Paint Shop superhero.



A few folks have the details of their superheros and superpowers posted on their blogs. I've linked to them below.

5. Bonanza Jellybean - SuperTramp The Avenger of Sluts everywhere!


6. JustDawn by day and this hot little number by night...She'll strip you of your dignity if you cross her!


7. RisibleGirl Patayto, Pototo. Either way, she rocks.



Okay, it's voting time. Just step on over to these Diebold voting machines here and...or...eh. Nevermind. You all know where I was going with that one.

Vote now. Vote often. But really? Only your first one will count.

And after Midnight tomorrow, not a damn one of your votes will count. So hurry up!

Happy Easter!

Zube Boy and I are Godparents. WHEE!

I just ADORE little Alexandria, and not only 'cause she's all cute and baby-like, but because Miss I and The Englishman are like family to us. I couldn't be more honored that they want us to be Alex's special Aunt and Uncle.

Here's a question to all y'all. We're not exactly the religous sort, in fact I'm fairly certain that Miss I and The Englishman are agnostic, if not atheist, and I know that Zube Boy is an atheist. I'm an agnostic, and I generally avoid the word God, though sometimes I replace it with Goddess. All of this makes the moniker 'Godparents' seem silly. Any ideas for other titles? Not that we need one, but it'd be kind of nice. I mean, The Godfatha is pretty cool just, well, BECAUSE! But we're looking for something else that fits better. I mean, Godmutha never had a damn movie written about it, eh? Anyway, suggestions?

Oh yeah, gratuitous photos...




Happy Easter you crazy motherfuckers!!!

Love ya,

Zube

Fucking Feline

Dear The Dumbest Fucking Cat I've Ever Met (AKA Zinnia, AKA Baby Kitty, AKA Lard-Ass),

I have a suggestion for you. Not that I can tell you what it is persay, because at the moment you are indisposed. But, when you decide you'd like to eat SO much that you are willing to, of your own volition, come out from under the house, I'm going to forcefeed you this note in the hopes that SOME of the information herein will manage to, by osmosis, find a place to stick in that sieve-like little peanut of a brain you have.

Twice this week you've abandoned the security of four walls for the freedom of the outdoors. I suppose you want to be like your big brothers and sister, but really, I think you're an indoor cat through and through, and it's time you accept that. Running outside and then cowering under the house only makes you look stupider than if you were to act too good for the outside altogether. I'm hoping that from now on, you'll go the snobby route because helpless little shit is TOTALLY unbecoming.

The first time I heard you meowing from under our abode, I freaked out and crawled under there to rescue you. Which, might I add, wasn't very easy what with you running away from me every time I was about to clutch you in the safety of my arms. But, I figured somehow you had slipped outside, realized it scared you stupid, and I was willing to go the extra mile to help you out. See, I've done things once that I didn't like, so I felt your pain. I kind of figured it was a one time thing.

Then you did it again. The very next day. And I have to tell you, not only am I not feeling the sympathy, but I'm pretty well certain that you are seriously stupid. Because see, there's this excellent thing that, for the most part, I allow our four-legged roommates to exercise. FREE WILL. Free will means that if you don't like being outside and it scares you, then you have EVERY right not to RUN RIGHT THE FUCK OUT THERE AT EVERY OPPORTUNITY! Mmmmkay?

Anyway, we're going on fifteen hours now and Zander, Zack, Zoey and I are getting kind of hungry, so I think we're all going to feast on some treats. I'll open the windows because it's a pretty nice day and I figure you're loneliness will be eased by the sound of us chowing down on goodies.

Happy Easter ya fucking dumb-ass.

Love,

Zube Girl

*****************************************************

Dear Zube Girl,

Meow! Mrrrrrrrrrrrow-meow-mow-mrrrrrrrrrr! MEOW!!!!

Zinnia

What I...

...Didn't really want to hear my coochie doctor say:

"We have a medical student working with us today. Do you mind if he observes?"

...Kind of wish I hadn't said:

"Sure! No problem."

...Kind of wish I had said:

"Eh, what the hell? Can we pass out popcorn and 3-D glasses? I'd be more than happy to accommodate God and everybody's viewing of my nether regions."

I mean, at least then I'd have been a witty bare naked lady, right?

...Thought to myself:

"Well hell, how else is the guy going to learn how to be a good OB/GYN?"

...Couldn't have been more pissed to find in an e-mail from Planned Parenthood this morning:

"Yesterday, Gov. Bill Owens vetoed Colorado’s Emergency Contraception Bill (HB 1212). For the second consecutive year, Owens vetoed a bill that would have provided women with greater access to emergency contraception. "

Linky Goodness:

His drivel on the matter...

Information about the bill and a list of various organizations that supported it...

...Think people don't understand about Emergency Contraception...

It's fucking CONTRACEPTION!!! It PREVENTS pregnancy and ABORTION!!! If a woman is already pregnant? Odds are she will remain so. IT IS NOT AN ABORTIFICANT!!! It helps with the whole NOT GETTING PREGNANT THING! Much like, you know, the BIRTH CONTROL PILL! But hell, some pharmacists are trying to refuse that to women, so I don't know what I was thinking, expecting Pro-Life people to desire to REDUCE the number of abortions. Apparently that's not what this whole fucking dispute is about for some of them. They just want everybody to be pregnant because having kids is WHAT YOU GET for having sex. Or, in my case, getting raped. DUH!

...Think would look just FABULOUS on my foot...

I Vunt to Suck Your...

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

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

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

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

It's a Bird! It's a Plane! It's...the Lamest Fucking Title That Ever Was!

Last night I couldn't sleep. I kept tossing and turning and shaking the blankets to release Zube Boy's flatulent airy deposits. I had a little farting contest with him, but it wasn't all that fun because he was sleeping the whole time. And he still kept winning. Without even paying attention! I felt kind of loserish, so I seceded.

After I dropped out of the contest, I started fretting because it TOTALLY felt like there was something in the corner staring at me. It was weird. I HATE that. So, I wrapped my blanket around my head, squeezed my eyes shut and tried to ignore the fact that I'm pretty sure a ghost lives in the corner of our bedroom. Fucker.

I got to thinking about Superhero School and how I should go and get my degree and stuff. I was REAL excited, mostly about my outfit. I'm leaning towards a purple, leather body-suit with pink cape and a silver tiara. I feel sexier just thinking about it. Zube Boy would SO dig it.

Anyway, I'm not too sure what I'll specialize in yet. Maybe I'll try my hand at fighting ghosts. Though, poetic justice would most likely have it that, while I can kick OTHER people's ghosts' asses, my own ghosts would always elude me. And that would kind of suck. But that's the life of a superhero, I guess.

After careful thought, I drew my superhero self...

Don't I look cute? My pig-tail on the one side looks a little limp. I think I'll need a new hair-do upon graduation, which shouldn't be a problem because I bet Superheros make an assload of money. I hope so anyway.

I considered having a contest wherein I ask all of you fine folks to share with me a rendition of YOUR superhero outfit. I'd post them here and readers would vote on the best and the winner would get a PRIZE! An undetermined prize as of yet.

But then I realized that despite evidence to the contrary, I'm really fucking sensitive and if no one participated I'd feel like a ginormous ass and cry into my pillow every night. So, I decided not to have a contest. Unless, uh, there is an overwhelming DEMAND for a contest or if I happen to find numerous, or even, ONE entry in my inbox at tzubemcmahon@yahoo.com. Then, you know, I might just be compelled to have a contest.

*****************************************************

HOLY SHIT! Ya'll actually WANT to play! Whee!

Okay, here are a couple of rules:

1. I've set a deadline tentatively for this Sunday at midnight (Mountain Standard Time because if I have to watch the fucking ball drop at 10:00PM and feel like New Year's is over every damn year then all you East Coasters can go by my watch. Besides, it's cool 'cause you'll have an extra two hours. Sorry West Coast. You lose one.)

2. As far as the image, well, there really aren't any rules. Feel free to use ANY medium you feel will unleash your inner ARTEEST. Whether it be a crayon drawing you take a picture of and e-mail me or an actual photo of you in an outfit YOU made or something you draw on Paint Shop Pro or, or, WHATEVER! Really. I don't care if you want to be the fucking Super-Cheerio Heerio and glue cereal on a piece of construction paper. Or, uh, all over yourself. Just, you know, have fun. That's what it's all about.

3. If you'd like your entry to link back to your blog, please let me know in the e-mail!

This? Is fucking exciting. I can't wait to see my superhero friends.

Oh yeah, feel free to have a little profile. Like, what are your superpowers and shit like that.

Fuck Pants

I'm SO FUCKING OVER IT with the pants. Seriously. Here's my problem. I have a sweet ass. A sweet, big 'ole booty. And I'm not eensy weensy at the waist or anything, but it definitely pales in comparison to it's counterpart.

And the geniuses who fucking make the Pants Factories don't seem to understand that SOME OF US are oddly shaped. And it would be nice if we didn't have to choose between squeezing our ample bottoms into pants that fit our waist but not our hineys or setting up camp in pants that comfortably house our bottoms but FALL TO THE FLOOR because they're too big for our waists.

From now on, I'm not wearing pants. It'll be my silent little protest. More like a visual protest. Like, if you can't stand the sight of me in my bloomers and my white-ass legs then MAKE ME SOME BIG ASS, LITTLE WAIST JEANS MOTHERFUCKER!

Oh yeah. I've been thinking about becoming a Scientologist. At first, I was like, "NO FUCKING WAY! They're whack-jobs!" But then I thought about it a little and I figured is it SO far-fetched to believe that aliens are the reason for all of our negative feelings? It sounds weird, but then again, so do Pant Shrinking Gnomes and Butt Biting Spiders with Ass Swelling Venom, and I believe in those. So maybe I'll give the Scientology thing a whirl.

Besides, then I could befriend Katie Holmes and ask her if the Church of Scientology Celebrity Centre is infested with Lip Stinging Bees that carry Collagen Venom. Because FOR REAL. With the lips? Jesus H, Katie. I could set my beer on those.

B Flat...I Mean, the Tire Be Flat...

Z-Boy: Honey, you HAVE to learn.

Z-Girl: Yeah, I know. But NOW?

Z-Boy: Yes, now. Better now than never.

Z-Girl: But all of these truckers are going to think you're mean making a girl do it.

Z-Boy: Nope. They'll all know that I don't want my wife kidnapped or some other crazy shit because she didn't know how to change a tire.

Z-Girl: But can't you just teach me at home in the driveway.

Z-Boy: Nope. Now's perfect.

***************************************************

Z-Girl: WAAAAAAAH! It's HEAVY!

Z-Boy: I know.

Z-Girl: My hands are FILTHY!

Z-Boy: *silence*

Z-Girl: Oh shoot! Honey! There go your eyeballs! I think they might've just rolled right out of your head. Let me go get them while, uh, you change this tire over here.

****************************************************



The whinng? It worked.

In my defense, it was a LONG day. And it was my turn to drive and driving I'd been. For about five hours. And, um...uh...hm...

Shit. Well, his intentions were noble, but I was a whiney bitch.

We're home. Thank fucking GODDESS! I feel, well, a HELL of a lot better. Sincerely. But then again, I haven't been to work yet.

And, as far as the Anonymous commenter, more on that when I don't have Been in a Car for Sixteen Hours Brain. I want to thank you ALL for your comments. I also want to assure you that I am NOT upset about it whatsoever. I'm more in a tizzy about the pimple on my cheek that no amount of toothpaste liberally plastered on my face will get rid of. Actually, that's not a fair comparison, because I TOTALLY upset about that stupid pimple. SO fucking upset that I'm forgetting important verbs. Like AM. Does I TOTALLY upset not sum it up for you?

Anyway. Stupid anonymous people? I don't so much care about.

Ah yes, and Phil? The Wendover suggestion? Perfect! Thank you! I only wish we weren't too tired to play a few hands of Black Jack!

I Don't Know Everything, But I Know How Not to Be a Dick...

Because sometimes I think it's important to let yourself be defended...It helps negate the "One Girl Versus the World" Feeling...And you guys, at least those of you I know about, aren't on vacation. So, I don't mind making you work.

Your assignment today is to respond to this comment which can be found on this post:

For someone with no guilt, you sure threw into a tirade about how not guilty you feel really quick. I didn't think you felt guilty, but now I'm starting to wonder.

I am sorry for your losses. Because I recognize that what you lost were human beings with worth. You just lost something that you wanted. You call them 'pregnancies' and not babies. You aborted one 'pregnancy' and lost others. I know you didn't lose or abort 'pregnancies', but babies. That's just a euphemism.

I am not sorry for the focus of your "pity party post". The "Why me? I had to go through the trouble of killing my first kid and now that I want kids, I can't have any." How sad and selfish is that? You only want kids on your terms. It's all about you. Maybe you'll have some empathy for the infertile couples that would have gratefully adopted your baby that you instead aborted.

Maybe your killing your first baby has nothing to do with you losing the subsequent ones, but I don't pity you.

I am sorry for your losses. I wish your children would have lived. ALL of them.

--
Posted by Anonymous to The Adventures of Zube Girl at 4/06/2006 02:29:12 PM

And don't you worry, I haven't lost my edge or anything. I'm simply about to embark on a vacation nap with the man I WANT to have children with and presently have NO interest in confronting ANONYMOUS dipshits.

Your turn. Even, and I know you're out there, Pro-Life folks who read me and understand me. I've never, ever, ever, ever insulted you. EVER! I've been careful to insult only the most assholey people. And there are assholey people everywhere. Among the Pro-Choice camp, too, I'm sure. So, can we build a bridge or something that makes us both appear a little more human? Please? Thanks.

A Crazy Lady Filling in for Another Crazy Lady

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

***********************************************

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

Darwinism? Or a tall tale?

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

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

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

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

Greetings From Tahoe!

I hadn't mentioned to you all that we had a last minute change of plans as far as the Tahoe trip. Zube Boy was able to take time off of work and go with me. Which is AWESOME! As much as I was looking forward to hanging out with MY brain, the opportunity to hang out with his was even better. We needed to get away. Seriously needed to.

Plus, it was nice to have another driver. Because FOR REAL sixteen hours is a LONG ASS drive!

I'm happy to announce that we only got into three fights. Well...

Z-Girl: Honey, we're almost here, and we only got in three fights.

Z-Boy: Nuh-uh. Four.

Z-Girl: Shut up! It was NOT four! It was three! I know what the hell I'm talking about.

Z-Boy: Heh.

What a butthead. Anyway, I'm busy working (well, okay, maybe just a little busy working) and dodging RAIN because it's been RAINING since we got here and...um...actually, I just plain old am enjoying my vacation away from the computer.

Tomorrow you'll be showered with the musings of Crazy Lady in Vegas with some nomadic fish tails! Love y'all. Take it sleazy, bitches!

Who Goes There?

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

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

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

I'm just sayin'.

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

Heh.

Ass-capades and Thanks...

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

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

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

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

Who's with me???

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

Thanks, girlfriend. Really and truly.

Wherein I Can't Shut My Pie-Hole

Oh my GOD! How could I have been so STUPID as to overlook the OBVIOUS? I'm ashamed of myself, really. You see, even after having three miscarriages, it never ONCE occurred to me to explore the possibility that having surgery on my cooch ten years ago, namely an abortion, might affect the current shortcomings of my uterus. I mean, one would think that I, having proclaimed time and again how fucking smart I am and all, would have at least looked into it. Fortunately, for my sake, the Know-It-All Fairy descended upon this blog of mine and thwomped me upside the noggin with her/his Thirty-Year-Old-Studies-Decree-That-the-Miscarriages-Are-YOUR-Fault! Wand. Well, DAMN! Does that mean that if I hadn't ever HAD an abortion, I wouldn't be having these problems? Hmmm...

Pfbt. Whatever. Before any Pro-Lifers out there go parlaying for an all out victorious conversion of the Zube Girl, it's not gonna happen. I've been there, done that. I WAS Pro-Life. I argued until I was red in the face that having a BAYBEE would be HEEEEEALING for a rape survivor. Then I got raped. And found myself pregnant. And I wasn't really finding that healing crap to be very true for myself so I opted to have an abortion. Exercising my right to choose kind of made me think that maybe it wasn't my place to go around denying others that right. So don't go convincing yourself I'm on the edge of conversion or anything.

Without further ado, here is what the Know-It-All Fairy, cloaked in anonymity because I imagine that Fairy's of ALL sorts must protect themselves from crazy-ass magic wand seeking stalkers, had to say:

Anonymous commented on this post:

I'm sorry for your losses. This might explain more...

Women who had one induced abortion had a 17.5% miscarriage rate in subsequent pregnancies, as compared to a 7.5% rate in a non-aborted group. Richardson & Dickson, "Effects of Legal Termination on Subsequent Pregnancy," British Med. Jour., vol. 1, 1976, pp. 1303-4

Women who had delivered their first pregnancy had (in the second pregnancy) the "best reproductive performance." Those who had a spontaneous miscarriage on the first had "the highest frequency of an early loss." Those with induced abortion on their first had "the highest frequency of late spontaneous abortion and premature delivery." Koller & Eikham, "Late Sequelae of Induced Abortion in Primagravida" Acta OB-GYN Scand, 56 (1977) p. 311.

(Bolding mine)

First off, I find it difficult to believe that you are sorry for my losses. Given that the thirty year old research you've quoted can be found on every Pro-Life website from here to kingdom come, I get the impression that you're anti-abortion. And that's fine. Good for you. I'll fight ya tooth and nail if your goal is to outlaw abortion, but I support your right to feel how you feel about it. Though it seems like, rather than feeling any sort of sympathy for my losses, you're rubbing them in my face and you could say that I don't fancy that so much. Let's not keep up with the facade that you've got any sympathy for me, allrighty?

I do find it interesting that these studies are so damn old. Really. So old that they took place not long after the legalization of abortion in Britain and the US. Which, at least to me, means that the subjects involved in the studies just might have had illegal abortions. And illegal abortions are often not done properly and CAN lead to damage to the reproductive organs. Just for fun, here is a link to a site where the findings of those studies are disputed.

To make you feel a little better about my current state of affairs, after my second miscarriage, one of the first questions I asked my doctor was whether or not he believed my previous abortion could have anything to do with it. He said, "Absolutely not. There is a possibility that ONE miscarriage might be the result of the embryo trying to implant in scar tissue, but if you had a legal first-trimester abortion with no complications and follow-up care, scar tissue would be minimal, and the odds of an embryo attempting to implant in that same exact spot are very, very slim. In fact, it's promising that you have carried a pregnancy further in the past. At least we know that you can." Are ya all warm and fuzzy now? Good.

Lastly, what in the HELL were you thinking making a comment like that on such an emotional post? I mean, come on! Fortunately, I'm far too self-assured to let it bother me, but I have to believe you were trying to induce guilt where none existed. What if I weren't so comfy-cozy with the choice I made? What kind of FUCKED UP ASSHOLE would you be telling an obviously grieving woman that she was responsible for the loss of her pregnancies? A CUNT-LIKE ASSHOLE, comes to mind. And not only because CUNT is one of my most favorite words, either.

And, you know what else kills me? How some Pro-Life people will go around lamenting the badness of abortion, and how they want better for women and blah blah blah and they give hugs and love and support with reckless abandon to women who regret and feel guilty and pray to God for forgiveness for their abortions and any women that create memorial websites in honor of their aborted BAYBEES get coddled and forgiven and paraded about as a reason that abortion is bad because JUST LOOK AT HOW GUILTY AND HORRIBLE THEY ALL FEEL! But show them a woman who is comfortable with the choice she made and doesn't feel guilty, a woman like me, and these same Pro-Lifers POUNCE at the opportunity to create guilt where none exists! I've seen it and experienced it a million times and I have to ask: If abortion is SO HORRIBLE because it makes some women feel guilty, well then, what does that say about you? Huh?

Need Work - Will Travel...Or rather...Need to Travel and Will Be Working...

California, HERE I COME!

Do you hear that? It's rather faint. I can't tell exactly what it is, er, cheering? Screaming? Old ladies dropping their miniature size poodles and running for cover?

Maybe. Fortunately for California, I think the state's large enough to diffuse a Zube infection. And I'll be working, so my antics will be kept to a minimum.

I'm driving there. I leave Saturday. Here's my route. Most importantly, I have a question: any of you fine folks live out that way who might be able to suggest the perfect place for an overnight stay? Hopefully with a really cool, laid back, hole-in-the-wall bar where, like, retired bikers hang out? Or something? I'd like to try to get to Nevada the first day. I know I promised no more alcohol, but I've decided follow my HCG to zero first, and since that hasn't happened, well, I'd like to have an adult beverage when I reach my overnight refuge. I prefer to steer clear of a night in Utah, what with the mess of having to be sponsored by a member of boozing establishments and all. I mean, I KNOW it's not too hard to get sponsored, especially being a single gal (meaning solo, Zube Boy hasn't run away frantically waving his hands in the air just yet) whooping it up on her own, but I really don't feel like messing with it. So, Nevada it is. If you have any ideas, please let me know.

Also, if ANYONE is interested in guest posting, please e-mail me. I know it's really fucking short notice, and my updates have been abysmal lately anyway, but I hate to leave my little on-screen home all empty and lonely for nine days. That's like a cobweb collecting amount of time, and fucking hate cleaning up when I don't have to. Anyone care to keep the windows open and the breezes flowing around these parts?

I'll probably be able to sneak in an entry or two, but there will only be like ten computers at this conference, and people always stand behind you huffing and puffing and shit if you take too long, and I HATE that. And lately, I'm not much in the mood for it either.

I really, truly can't wait for the drive. That's the part I'm looking forward to most. Just me and my brain and my car. I get to pee when I want and hold it when I want and listen to Rush Limbaugh just to get myself all fired up if I want. I can flip the channel to Christian radio if I feel like it. I always like to keep myself abreast to their goings-on. I can do all of the stuff I cannot do when Zube Boy and I take a long trip, because a pissy Zube Boy does not a good travel partner make.

I'm quite excited to get to hang out with my brain again. You know, get the kind of thinking done that only gets done when there is SHIT on the radio and you have no one to tell stupid jokes to. It'll be a reunion of sorts.

All Aboard!

This post is brought to you by a wickedly introspective passenger aboard the Why Me? train. She decided to hop aboard mostly for shits and giggles, and partly for old time's sake.

I HATE the Why Me? Train mostly. I avoid it. At least in recent years. I rode that bitch straight through from the tender age of 21 (WAHOO!) to the ripe young age of 25 (WHOA! Where the fuck did time go?), and while I was certainly navigating my way through life in some form, the view from the window was so blurry, flying by me at lightning speed, that I feel like I missed out on a lot of awesome scenery. The "Oh my GOD, it's New York City/the Rocky Mountains/a slew of TUMBLEWEEDS crossing the road!," so to speak, of my early twenties. The good shit. The stuff that happens while you're curled in a ball in the same pajamas you've been wearing for three days, in the same body that hasn't been showered in more, reading your way to SELF-HELP Land! I lost precious years, I feel like, and I don't want it to happen again.

I got off that train when it landed in a town called He Throws Hoagies at My Head!, which is a suburb of a highly populated city called My Boyfriend Is an Asshole!, and moved to Colorado. I vowed to travel the rest of my life differently, never boarding that fucking train again. I negotiated my own path, propelled only by my own two feet.

Recently, I got to thinking, what the hell is wrong with riding that train once in a while? Like, a month or a day or even an hour or so. Not long term, but for a little bit? Really? Why shouldn't I? I've earned it, I think. Hiking my happy ass over all sorts of terrain for five years has taken its toll. Especially when I'm standing at the bottom of a cliff, wondering how I'll ever manage to climb up it. My fucking legs are tired and I'm parched. Putting one foot in front of the other has gotten me this far, but now I'm watching my feet, making sure I don't fall, and that, well, is not conducive to rock-climbing, which requires looking up. I'm not ready to look up. Not yet.

Happy Villain responded to an e-mail I'd sent her proclaiming how okay I was. It reeked of optimism and, well, lies. I'm not okay. Not completely, anyway. She responded, "While I'm glad you consider yourself "fine," I also want you to know that I think it fucking sucks. You're sad, and that's awful, because you don't deserve this," and I want to say to her, "THANK YOU!" Really. From the bottom of my heart. Thank you. Thank you for saying what the battered and bruised cheerleader curled up all fetal-style in the darkest corner of my brain is whimpering through tears. THIS FUCKING SUCKS AND I DON'T DESERVE IT!

I REALLY DON'T FUCKING DESERVE IT!

WHY ME? WHY THE FUCK ME?

Why do I have to be one of the 1% (*cough* that statistic is bullshit *cough* because rape is not just some dude jumping out of the bushes *cough*) of women who get pregnant as a result of rape?

Why do I have to be the one whose body managed to maintain that pregnancy for eight weeks?

Why did it take an abortion to make that pregnancy end?

Only to have the pregnancies of an awesome and loving man fall out? Three times?

Why does life have to fuck with me? I've STRUGGLED and SOUL-SEARCHED to be carefree, happy, and relatively well-adjusted. It's been hard work.

Why do I have to do it yet again?

Why do I have to be the vase of flowers on the dinner table of a shitty amateur magician? One who doesn't quite have the tablecloth trick down yet? And is fond of Jack Daniels?

Why? WHY, WHY, WHY?

No one knows the answer. Not me. Not you. Not the deities. But can I question it? Can I pound my fist in the air and scream it? Can I? Please? Is it okay to wonder WHY ME? I'm sure it is. It has to be. Because otherwise I'm going to stow away on that godforsaken Why Me? train for much longer than if I'd just bought myself a damn ticket with an expiration date.

And then, in the midst of my Pity Party, complete with thready at the feet pajama bottoms that get stuck under the swively computer chair and countless hours of watching shitty-ass actors on Lifetime, My Belle calls and says, "Hoot and I talked and if Project - Make a Baby isn't going to happen in your uterus, it can happen in one of ours."

And she wasn't inferring that we'd find some crazy ass uterine swap thing that has yet to be discovered by scientists. She meant that Zube Boy's and my offspring, if my uterus simply isn't having it, has permission to live in one of their respective uteruses (uteri???) for nine months.

And I'm like, "Why me? Why am I SO fucking lucky? How could this be?"

And she said, "We want this for you. As much as you do. Wouldn't you do it for us?"

"Yes. I would. In a fucking heartbeat, I would."

So, while unluck runs amok, so does good stuff. And sometimes when you're unlucky, you find out just how lucky you really are. Only, you would never have known how awesome it is to hold the clean end of the stick if it weren't for the shitty end. At least I know where to hold on. At least I know now that there is a clean end. At least I've learned that flinging the shit while holding the clean end can be a little redeeming. Heh. Especially when it's aimed at asshats. Cockroaches in your hotel room MY ASS! Did you KNOW you dumb twit that cockroaches don't happen to LIVE at 9,600 feet! Take your lying refund-wanting ass elsewhere. And next time don't take a vacation you can't afford, eh.

Anyway. At least asking, "Why me?" isn't all bad.

I'll Be Popping Something

Z-Girl: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH! YOU SHIT!

Background noise: Ping-ping-roll-ping-ping-ping-ping-roll-roll-roll...

Z-Boy: Oops.

Z-Girl: Dammit. They're all over!

Z-Boy: I'm sorry.

Z-Girl: WHY do you have to tickle my pits WHENEVER my damn arms are even relatively CLOSE to being up?

Z-Boy: I don't know.

Z-Girl: Now there are popcorn kernels EVERYWHERE but in the popcorn maker!

Yo Yo Yo! An Update and Stuff...

I'm so sorry I left ya'll hanging. I didn't have bloodwork done until late afternoon on Monday, and then didn't get the results until late afternoon yesterday. My hormones are continuing to drop. Albeit, they're being painfully SLLLLLLLOOOOOOOOOOW about it. But, that compounded with the fact that things are starting to get ugly down there...well, it's over. Or will be soon, anyway.

Thank you ALL for hoping AND for encouraging me to hope when I felt kind of stupid about it. Seriously.

There are a bunch of things in the Zube's future, after discussing our miscarriage situation with the doctor, including but not esclusive to: Progesterone supplements, a baby aspirin a day, a thyroid test, chromosomal testing (maybe, that ones still lingering on our marital discussion table), and much, much more.

There are also some things that I've decided I'll do before we try again which includes, but, naturally, is not exclusive to: acupuncture, NO caffiene, exercise, no more Happy Hour at all, and la, la, la.

Zube Boy has suggested that we ask our friend Zig to be a sperm donor, if it's true that his and my chromosomes aren't working out. Heh. He was kidding. And Zig is NUTZ, yo! So we'd have a fucking crazy kid. And if it's true that your children are worse than you, well then, Zube Boy doesn't deserve that really. Or maybe he does. Who knows. The man's a mystery, I tell ya. Anyway, we're robably not gonna go the sperm donor route.

In OTHER news! I'm an auntie, remember? Miss I and The Englishman and little Alexandria Jade AKA Alex are all doing wonderfully. And? Miss I grills one hell of a steak. Since I can't cook steak FOR SHIT, we'll surely return again and again. Here are some photos:

Miss I, Alex and I (You can probably figger who is who, but in case you're wondering, I'm the one hogging the baby!):


Oh my, how embarrassing! She fell asleep right in the middle of a good joke! YOU GUYS! I thought you told me I was funny!!!


Zube Boy (AKA - The Godfatha) and Zube Girl and Alex. Zube Boy was one of only two men besides Dad to hold her. What is it with boys, eh? Babies, believe it or not, are FAR less fragile than we fear. Anywho...Zube Boy lost his wallet that night. He's convinced that little Alex is a klepto. She's surely got the innocent look down pat. Hee.

The Regurgitating Uterus and Where the Wild Hairs Are

Zube Boy peers over my shoulder while I'm doing a bit of googlin'...

Z-Boy: Brown spotting?

Z-Girl: Yeah, honey. I'm trying to figure out what the hell is going on down there. That's ALL I've had is brown spotting, and not much at that.

Z-Boy: Would it make you feel better to know that sometimes I have brown spotting in my undies, too?

Z-Girl: Yes.

Z-Boy: Okay, then. I do.

Z-Girl: Ew. ffffff-ffffffff*

I'm still hanging out, waiting for the damn fat lady to sing her ass off already. I have to have my blood drawn again tomorrow, and I'm like GAH!!! ENOUGH WITH THE NEEDLES! Hate them. Loathe them. But, I'm really curious to know what my counts are because I still FEEL pregnant. Like, don't come within an inch of my titties or you'll lose your damn head. Which is making this whole escapade worse, in a way. I keep thinking about the fact that I was a twin, and Mom lost one of us, so maybe that's what's going on here? But, my numbers still shouldn't have dropped like they did. I don't think. This dragging on of events is keeping my hope on life support, and, well, I had a VERY strong opinion regarding the Terri Shaivo debacle. It's time to pull the damn plug already.

Z-Girl: It's OVER! Okay. OVER. Not gonna happen.

Hope: But, the last TWO TIMES your symptoms disappeared before everything went awry. This time they haven't.

Z-Girl: I know, but could you please SHUT UP already! PLEASE! Could it just be tomorrow? I need to know what the flip is going on with my uterus. If it's going to regurgitate, I'd like for it to get on with it already.

Hope: There's still hope.

Z-Girl: Shut up. For real. It's not that I don't like you, Hope, but things are dire. And you're making it difficult for me to accept that.

Hope: You can still hope.

Z-Girl: Meh.

Hope: Hope-ity, hope, hope?

Z-Girl: GOD you're annoying.

Hope: You, too.

Z-Girl: I know.

Regardless of all this inner turmoil, Zube Boy and I are sprouting wild hairs in the oddest of places. Our respective asses. There has been talk of running off to Mexico. Preferably the Yucatan. Not permanently. No, no, no. We're far too responsible for that. But for three or four weeks. Just to get away and do some version of the 'Nanny-Nanny Boo-Boo' dance on Project- Make a Baby. What could be more fun than getting jiggy on a beach without peeing on ovulation predictor sticks first?

I'd like to enjoy the gift of the time we've been given. Just the two of us. Shit. Is this a bright side? Am I going soft on ya'll? No. I'm trying to deal with this crap on my terms. You know? Suffice it to say that if any of YOU told me that maybe this was a blessing? I'd kick your ass. And I'm sure you'd expect nothing less. Because you're geniuses like that.

Anywho, I'm okay and I'm not okay. All at the same damn time. It's like duplicitous is my middle name these days. One minute, I'll want to crawl in a hole and die, and the next I'll be thinking, "Why don't you just crawl up your uterus? That seems to do the trick." And I'll laugh. The laughter of a very sick individual. Which is comforting. Because at least it means I'm still in here, among all this chaos. Being a big old bitch. As usual. Heh.


*That's how sound when I'm trying to be annoyed, but laughing despite myself.

Fuck the Bright Side

That crazy ass sillhouette chick up there? The one I daydream about hanging out with over frothy adult beverages? I still wager that she makes a kick ass margarita. Well, I stared at her for a bit wondering if her girlie parts worked properly. After deciding that they did, I stabbed her repeatedly in the cooch with my little cursor arrow. It was cathartic. And she didn't even get mad at me because she's got my fucking back like that.

The weird thing about this whole Miscarriage Mess I'm experiencing these days is that some folks want to look at the bright side of it. And, well, I don't. Not yet. Forgive me if I can't seem to find solace in the fact that at least it's happening early or that now I know I can get pregnant. Well, actually, I have to laugh a little at my fertility. I guess Zube Boy CAN glance my way and I'm pregnant. Three times in seven months. It's just that the little buggers fall out. So, laughable maybe, because not much escapes my scathing humor. But, comforting? No. Not in the least.

This 'looking on the bright side of things' got me thinking about rape. When people say to me something to the effect of, "Well at least blah blah blah...It could be worse," it makes me want to say, "Would you say to a rape survivor, 'Well, at least you didn't get pregnant?' or, 'Well, at least you weren't kidnapped and raped repeatedly?' or, ad nauseum?" No. At least, you shouldn't say those things. Rape is fucking horrible no matter how you spin it. So is this miscarriage business.

I'm not saying that people don't say all the wrong things to rape survivors. They do. I know. The moral of the story is this: People don't like to see other people sad and they try sometimes to look on the bright side of things in the hopes that the person hurting will feel better. Which, well, their intentions are good, but you know what they say about good intentions and the road to hell and all. What people don't seem to realize is that sad is just one step on the journey towards healing. And if that step is taken away, or if the journeying person skips it because they feel undeserving of sadness? The journey will be incomplete. And I've been there, done that. The journey CAN eventually be completed. It's just much tougher when you have to go back to square one years after you thought you were on the verge of HEALED.

I was talking to Hoot the other day and I was explaining this to her. She said, and I've never felt prouder, "One of the millions of things I've learned from you is never to judge someone's sad experiences. Whatever is their most sad thing at the time is their most sad thing at the time. Just let them be sad about it." Aw.

And it's true. I remember approximately ten Februarys ago, sitting in my dorm room contemplating whether I wanted a future of custody battles with a rapist or one without the child of a rapist in it. I heard a knock at my door, and yelled, "Come in!" It was a girl from down the hall that I knew fairly well, but not well enough to tell her what was on my mind at the time. She started tearfully explaining how she was caught in a Love Triangle and didn't know which guy to choose. At first, I wanted to be kind of pissed because I had bigger and badder things on my mind. And then I was like, "What the hell good would it do to get pissed and spout of something like, 'Oh yeah, you don't even KNOW what indecision is!' That'd only make her feel guilty and why should she have? She was crying and stressed, and, well, that IS a pretty big decision." I don't know. I guess you could say I learned an important lesson that day.

What I'm trying to say, more to myself than to anyone else, and in a rather disorganized fashion, if you ask me, is that THIS is my most sad thing right now. And I'm NOT going to think about how much worse it could be. I don't need to. Because it's bad enough and if I think about it in terms of me being lucky, that'll only serve the purpose of making me feel guilty for feeling bad. And I shouldn't feel guilty about that. I know better now.

I felt guilty for feeling bad ten years ago. I thought I should be over it. Recovered. I was lucky. I was alive. I was young. I was cute and in college and had my whole damn life ahead of me. So, I pretended I was all good. I rocked my combat boots and baby barrettes and laughed and smiled and played along. Only underneath, I wasn't all good. And pretending to be all good fueled by guilt only put off the REAL healing about five years or so. Too damn long.

So, with three miscarriages under my belt, I'm going to mourn that for as long as feels right. Until I say enough with the mourning; I'm done. Until I want to look on the bright side. Because I will. When I'm ready. And not a day sooner.

PS- You guys rock. That is all.

Regrouping...

That's what I'm doing. I've worried some of you, and I didn't mean to. It's just that I started blogging because I thought I was funny, and then it turned out that the joke was on me. Heh. Life's a bitch like that sometimes.

In the past few days I've been abysmally sad. And sobbing. And maybe a tiny bit bitchy. Fortunately, Zube Boy is running for Saint of the Year. Because otherwise I'd probably be buried deep in our .1 acre backyard. Sans ceremony.

Today at work, somebody said, "I miss your laugh..."

Me, too. Me, fucking, too.

Counting Down

Ring-Ring

Z-Girl: Hi honey.

Z-Boy: Hey. Where are you?

Z-Girl: Home.

Z-Boy: What happened?

Z-Girl: My counts went down and they should've doubled.

Z-Boy: I'm sorry.

Z-Girl: Eh, it's okay.

Z-Boy: So, did they say what we do next?

Z-Girl: Well, I scheduled an appointment for a fertility consult next Monday...

Z-Boy: Okay.

Z-Girl: ...And it's with the same doctor who saw me before, and he's probably going to say that we need to get our chromosomes tested. I'm afraid that's going to be REALLY FUCKING EXPENSIVE.

Z-Boy: Why do you think that?

Z-Girl: Because when he talked about it before he warned me that it'd be expensive.

Z-Boy: Oh.

Z-Girl: And you know if a doctor is telling you it'll be expensive, well, it's probably REAL expensive.

Z-Boy: Yeah.

Z-Girl: But, you know, I think our chromosomes should get along and shit. I really do. I mean, well, actually, let me think about this...Maybe, on second thought...

Z-Boy: Heh.

Z-Girl: Mine are probably all WOO-HOO careening down my fallopian tube all rock and roll style...

Z-Boy: I bet they're nuts...

Z-Girl: And yours are all mellow and practical looking at mine like they're freaks or something...

Z-Boy: Heh.

Z-Girl: And then they get together and stare at each other all, uh, what the fuck kind of human are we supposed to make of this mess???

Z-Boy: Okay honey. Take it easy...

Z-Girl: Yeah, I think I might've gotten a little carried away there for a minute. Well, I'll see you after work.

Z-Boy: Okay. I love you.

Z-Girl: I love you, too.

Z-Boy: Bye.

Z-Girl: Bye.

Anywho, now you know the dirt. Thank you ALL for the prayers and vibes and thoughts. Sincerely. Reading your comments made ME feel loved, and that means a hell of a lot right now.

I hope the above conversation doesn't have you all thinking that I don't care about the turn of events here. I do. I really, really do. In fact, when I STOP caring about ANYTHING, I'll probably be dead. Because I seem to care too much about a lot of different shit. It's just that, really, what the hell else are you gonna say? I mean, shit, I actually giggled for a few minutes, and since I've been either sobbing or on the verge of tears all damn weekend, the laughter was a welcome respite. And, if I ever stop laughing? I'll probably be dead, too.

I care and I laugh. That's me.

Oh, and I cry, too. And I think I might just go do some of that now.

Thank you again for being the rocking readers and commenters that you are. I may take a hiatus from blogging. Feel free to e-mail me if you like. I'm never one to shy away from exploring dark shit, but most of the dark shit I explore is WAY, WAY back in the Dark Ages of Zubedom, and I've pretty much got my feelings on it sorted out. This, however, is very fresh, and I feel like some things are best left to culture in a petri dish for a bit before being tossed under the microscope for all to see. You know?

Who knows how I'll feel about it tomorrow, though. I may not want to take a hiatus. I may want to whip out the damn microscope and share the culturing. Really, I'll do whatever I damn well please. I don't want to commit either way. I guess I've got some commitment issues going on. Much like my offspring, it would seem.

Here We Go Again. Actually, Again Again. Or Maybe Not.

So, how much do ya'll think the above gear might weigh? Care to venture a guess? Eh. I know. It's kind of tough to know for sure, and I wouldn't have had a CLUE how much it weighed until I went to the doctor yesterday. Now, I'm certain. The above garments, I hereby swear, weigh 18 pounds. They must. I mean, check out the clunky shoes. They're at least five pounds each.

That's the story I told Zube Boy, anyway. See, the scale at the doctor's office said 148. And I do declare that that is just plain WRONG! I KNOW for a fact that I weigh 130. Granted, that's five pounds heavier than what my license says, but the way I see it, if they don't ask me when I renew my license, if I've gained weight, I don't have to offer that information up. I think the Motor Vehicles people should be doing the investigatin' and shit. Besides, maybe I LOOK like I weigh 125, which is really the salient point of having your weight listed on your license, right? Right? I thought so.

NO WONDER I'm exhausted after work. Who the hell wouldn't be after traipsing around the office all day wearing 18 pounds of clothing?

You may be wondering why I went to the doctor in the first place. Or you may not be. I'm going to tell you anyway, because it's important and stuff and may explain a lot. Like my blog hiatus.

As much as I'd like to explain, all I can really muster is to say Here We Go Again. Well, maybe.

Do not read further if you're squeamish...

We've got weirdness going on down in the nether regions, which doesn't fare well since I got a positive pregnancy test a week ago.

I came home from work yesterday morning to rush to an appointment.

Z-Girl: Hi honey.

Z-Boy: What are you doing home?

Z-Girl: I have to go to the doctor. I don't think Stinky is sticking.

Z-Boy: Oh no.

Have I ever told you how wonderful he is? Yes? Well, it bears repeating. My husband is too awesome for words, really. He's said nothing but the perfect things and I'm not going to share them with you because I love being the special person who gets to know how truly thoughtful and caring he is. Neener!

I've been, shall we say, gassy, lately. Hence nicknaming the offspring-to-be (or not-to-be) Stinky. If that's silly, fuck it. We only get to be pregnant for, like, a week anyway, so whatever. I'll take all the liberties I feel like in that damn week.

I can say a lot without having to say much at all. Here are some words and phrases that have been pounding in my head since yesterday's appointment...

...Spotting can be normal...brown...old blood...red blood would be bad...it's not red...cramps can be normal...ectopic...blood test...HCG should double by Sunday if everything is okay...things may be wrong...but they could be okay...IF you have a third one, that's the magic number where we start taking things really seriously...la la la...

Sticking my fingers in my ears and singing Mary Had a Little Lamb at the top of my lungs isn't making those words go away. I can't stop obsessing. I just want to know.

I've stopped bleeding. And it really wasn't much at all.

I've stopped cramping. But they were VERY crampy and very scary.

My cervix is still closed and not tender. Which is good, I've been told.

I threw up this morning. It would be nice if THAT would go away if I'm not going to remain knocked up much longer.

The tatas, they are still hurting. That's how I knew for sure that something was wrong the last two times. Even before they went REALLY wrong. The tata pain abated. Not this time, though.

So, I'd like to be hopeful, but I'm finding it tough. I've looked in every corner of my mind for a little hope and found only a few glimmers. I'll work with those. If ya'll have hope to spare, please send it this way. I'm like a Hope Whore right now. I've used up my stash and now I'm eyeballing other people's.

As always, thank you. I'll know for certain Monday. Or sooner if things go wrong.

Hopefully, you won't hear from me until Monday.

Leaving Notes on Cars

Dear Dickhead,

So, what's it like being a dickhead anyway? I figured you should know. Oh yeah. Thanks for TOTALLY cutting me off and swiping the parking spot I'd been waiting for patiently for five minutes. Must be nice to be an asshole and steal spots from people.

Sincerely,
Zube

PS- You're kind of lucky. I stood by your car for about five minutes and ultimately decided that instead of keying it I'd leave a note.

Something Smells Funny

I've been lounging on the couch reading a book and eating Starburst for the last hour. It's kind of nice. It must've looked kind of nice, too, because three cats decided to join me. The only problem is, I got kind of carried away in my own little world and started farting without giving it a second thought. And now, Jesus H! Now the living room stinks like the bowels of hell and Zube Boy is due home any minute. And I'm not sure if the cats are just in a REALLY deep sleep, or, uh, comatose. Oh yeah, and the dog's sleeping in the hallway instead of on his bed in the living room. If that tells you anything.

Well, I'm off to light some candles that will hopefully dissipate the Ass-Rot that is currently wafting through our living quarters. I think the odds that I'll get any nookie tonight are slim to nil.

And She's Off...And Running...Is It April Yet?

DAYUM, I'm busy! Babies born, honey's birthday's had, marital un-bliss, and sweaty, drunk college kids. Don't mind me. I'm just farting around March and neglecting my blog.

Little Alexandria Jade was born and she's 5lbs 13 oz of beautiousness. Love her. And Miss I and The Englishman are just going to ROCK at the Mommy and Daddy thing! I know it. And I am going to be the best fucking Aunt Zube EVER!

Speaking of birthdays, Zube Boy's was yesterday. We went to our favorite bar and ordered our favorite meal (cheesesteaks that are, like, REAL cheesesteaks, but in Colorado...and I'm from Jersey, I know a real cheesesteak when I see one). After cheesesteaks, we went out for ice cream at Coldstone. Zube Boy made fun of me because I wanted the Cocoa Banana Cabana, and was all embarrassed ordering it. I asked him if he would order it for me, but he pulled out his "It's My Birthday So I Don't Have to Order My Wife's Embarrassing Ice Cream Named Dessert" card. You know. Similar to the Get Out of Jail FREE!" card. Yeah. Anyway, we had a ton of fun.

Let's see, what else. Oh yeah, Zube Boy and I are having marital negotiations right now. We're kind of fighting. But don't worry, it's funny. Well, at least it's funny if you're not me. After five years of pretty much sleeping on specific sides of the bed, I want to change. But Zube Boy's not digging it. He calls bullshit on my, "But MY side is the GHOSTY side of the bed!" whining. I'm working on him though. Seriously. One night I accidentally fell asleep on his side and I got THE BEST SLEEP EVAH! I didn't even have to wrap my head up all burrito-like in the comforter and I didn't wake up ONCE in the middle of the night worrying about ghosts touching my nose. So, I concluded that my side of the bed is haunted. Logically, since Zube Boy doesn't believe in ghosts, AND he loves me, the conclusion I came to was that he should sleep on my side from now on. I'm not getting very far.

So, it's March. Or rather, it's SPRING BREAK 2006!!! Which means that I am swamped yet again by various church groups and college groups and a commute to and from work that somehow manages to extend from six minutes to twenty. Just know that if you are fond of visiting the Zube, she will be sure to disappoint this month. But, not to worry. She'll be back in April with a vengeance. Work is going to be insane for the next few weeks, and I'm going to be doing my best to keep up with that. Which means I'll likely be doing my worst at keeping up with my blog.

Well, PEACE OUT, homies!

Canine Flatulympics

You know Mom and Dad, it's not very nice to laugh at another's misfortune. Is it MY fault that sometimes air comes out of my butt while I'm sleeping and it freaks me out and wakes me up and makes me run away from my bed? I really don't get the air leaking out of my butt thing. It's weird. AND to top it all off it smells kind of funny. And then you guys make me feel all stupid and hold your noses and shoo me away. I mean, it's not like I'm doing it on purpose. You should really be nice. Okay?


*****************************************************

I feel MUCH better now. Thank you all! And Miss I even asked her doctor about cold-havin' folks coming to the hospital and the doctor said babies have incredible immune systems, so I WILL be going to the hospital OHMYGOD, TOMORROW! Whee!

And, I'm not even sick anymore, save a coupla sniffles.

Clearly, I've Lost It...

My nose is all stuffy.
My eyes are all puffy.

The snot, it is seeping.
The eyes, they are weeping.

The nose is a blowin'
This bitch is a woe'in,
Dammit, where've all my tissues been goin'?
Oh yeah, in addition, I think my issues are showin'!

Fuck. Poetry is FAR too confining for the mood I'm in right now. I'm PISSED. And I have a cold. I am one pissy, snotty, weepy, cold-havin' mother fucker. And also, I'm feeling a little sorry for myself on top of that. Great combo, eh? Anyway...

In a futile attempt to make myself giggle, I'd like to share some photos with you.

I call this one Six Cats Shitting on a Couch...


It's sort of the beginning of a series. Or, would two photos be a series? Maybe a sery? Heh. Whatever. I'm not really sure what to call the subsequent photo, but I'm leaning towards Don't Believe Me? Check the Shit Out!


Okay, it made ME giggle, and that's what's important here, right?

Hey! Wanna buy a duck?

A what?

A duck!

Does it quack?

Of course it quacks! It's a fucking duck!

Hee. Life always feels a little more liveable when you can quote a drinking game. My luck, though, that'll be a game that was only ever played in my dorm room, so none of you will have any idea what I'm talking about.

Ginamonster sent me a little gift the other day from her online shop and now I kind of want to hump her leg. Allow me to introduce you to the newest Soap Stars here at General Mental Ward...




I'm looking for NAMES! I'm all about naming things, and rubber duckies are no exception. So, offer up some names if you're so inclined. The only one I've come up with so far is 'Hell in a Handbasket' for, well, obvious reasons. But, 'Hell in a Handbasket' is far too long a name, AND the basket (c/o Bonanza's Christmas gifty soap, by the way) is actually more of a FINGERbasket than a HANDbasket.

There'll be a soap opera happenin' here soon with the duckies. It will involve a honeymoon rafting cruise and an affair of some sort; I haven't quite meshed out the details. But I'm working on it.

One more thing before I go. Did you know that if you have a cold, and you happen to know and be around pregnant people, you should stay away from them? I know this. Actually, common courtesy compels me to keep my distance from EVERYONE when I have a cold. But, I've been reminded a few times to stay away from this or that pregnant lady because it's EXPECIALLY important, what with the little babies in their bellies and all.

I'd appreciate the advice if I maybe had a hobby of licking people on the mouth and spewing snot on their faces unless otherwise advised. But REALLY? The warning is unnecessary because I'm WELL FUCKING AWARE that me and my germs need to stick to ourselves. Oddly enough, the pregnant people aren't reminding me of this. Other people are. And I KNOW they mean well and I should take it as such but, HELLO! I know! I didn't just crawl out of hole yesterday, okay? Thanks.

Anyway, all of the talk about pregnant ladies and about how I should stay away from them got me thinking that I could've been 8 or 5 months pregnant today...But, uh, I'm not. As if that weren't bad enough, now I'm like a fucking leper who has to stay away from the blessedly pregnant people. It kind of sucks, you guys.

Miss I's kiddo is due by C-section on Friday, and I'm SO scared that my cold will prevent me from going. That little girl is going to be practically my niece. And I might not even be able to visit her.

The asshole in my brain is saying, "NANA-NANA-BOO-BOO! Not even can you NOT have your own babies, but the dieties will see to it that you can't even be around other people's!" HAHA!

Gah DAMMIT! I'm crying again.

So. Not. In. A. Good. Place.

A Fly on the Wall

Z-Boy: Honey?

Z-Girl: Yeah.

Z-Boy: Do you think I have an anger management problem?

Z-Girl: Well...

Z-Boy: JESUS-GOD, DO YOU EVER SHUT THE FUCK UP???

Z-Girl: Heh.

*crickets chirping*

Z-Boy: So?

Z-Girl: So what?

Z-Boy: Do I?

Z-Girl: Maybe.

**************************************************

Z-Boy: Honey, guess what?

Z-Girl: What?

Z-Boy: The other day I was home and you were working and I watched Forrest Gump.

Z-Girl: That's nice.

Z-Boy: And that part came on where Forrest says, "Stupid is as stupid does," and it made me think of my hon...um...brother.

Z-Girl: Your brother, eh?

Z-Boy: Yeah.

Z-Girl: That's not what it sounded like you were going to say.

Z-Boy: I was confused for a minute honey.

Z-Girl: Sure you were.

Tag You, Tag Me...And I Bet You WISH You Were as Slackerific as I!

About a million years ago, one of my bestest blog buddies, Junebee, tagged me with a meme. I was so busy accusing dinosaurs of shrinking my pants back then that I've just gotten around to her meme now. And, in case you were wondering, the dinosaurs? They are not pant-shrinkers. In fact, they're SO pissed off about their own pants being shrunk, and having to run around naked and shit, that they've created their own investigative team to determine who the crooks are.

But you know what? It's like a million years later, and the poor naked dinosaurs will never know that it was the gnomes who were shrinking their pants. Oh well. Sucks to be them.

Anywho, the rules: Remove the blog in the top spot from the following list and bump everyone up one place. Then add your blog to the bottom slot, like so:

Eddy (This blog doesn't even EXIST anymore, that's how long I take to do these damn things!
Yaniboy
Xanadu
Herding Cats
Zube Girl

Then you get to select five people to pass the love on to so they can do this meme,
like so:

Suicidal Eggs
Pussy Lickers
Just Say YES!
United Queens of Blogmania
I've Gotta Hole for YOU, Punk!


What were you doing 10 years ago?
Probably smoking pot and swearing to myself that I'd NEVER forget what I was doing that monumental moment. Or some shit like that. But really? I forget. I know I was a little messed up exactly ten years ago.

What were you doing 1 year ago?
Going crazy. Just about. Wondering how I was ever going to perform the job I was promoted to if I was still chipping in to help out with the job I was promoted from. Oh yeah, I might've been pulling Zube Boy's toes and bitching that he could've at least washed his feet first. And I bet only three of them cracked.

Five snacks you enjoy:
1. Triscuits and cottage cheese
2. Peanuts
3. Sweet Tarts
4. Boulder chips
5. Microwaveable burritos and sour cream

Five songs to which you know all the lyrics:
1. “Every Rose Has Its Thorn” (Poison)
2. “Just Wait” (Blues Traveler)
3. “Cleanin' Out My Closet” (Eminem)
4. “Hurt” (Nine Inch Nails and Johnny Cash)
5. “You Don't Know How It Feels” (Tom Petty)

Five things you would do if you were a millionaire:
1. Buy assloads of Emergency Contraception and drive around the country doling it out and educating women about it.
2. Pay off my bills.
3. Donate half of it to various organizations supporting Choice, Separation of Church and State, the Homeless, the under-privelaged, and so on.
4. Finish our house and buy another one with a yard big enough to enable my Spy Roll practice sessions.
5. Fly you all here and have a big ass party complete with daycare for the Mommies and Daddies.

Five Bad habits
1. Avoiding hurting people's feelings at all costs
2. Saying 'Fuck'
3. Eating popcorn
4. Being too honest
5. Ignoring confrontation

Five things you would never wear again:
1. Two-tone jeans
2. Braces
3. Leg warmers
4. Flannel shirts
5. Anything flourescent

Five Favorite Toys:
1. Zube Boy's '84 CJ
2. Zube Boy's '52 Dodge M37
3. Scrabble
4. Roomba
5. Sims 2

Not only did I leave ONE meme flailing in The Land of Neglect, I abandoned TWO. Here is the other from Black Eyed Grrl.

The rules: The tagged victim lists 8 different points of their perfect lover/partner, mentioning the sex of said partner. Tag 8 victims to join this game & leave a comment on a post letting them know they’ve been tagged. If tagged before, no need to contribute.

1. Is sensitive but tough. A tall order, I know, but the current love meets both requirements. He rules like that.
2. Is appreciative of his partner's intelligence even though they might be of opposing political affiliations.
3. Is kind and thoughtful.
4. Is a big fan of generic cereal. Oh wait. Mine happens to be an 'IS' List, not a 'WISH' List. Scratch that.
5. Is funny as hell.
6. Works hard.
7. Compliments my cooking.
8. Hugs me when I cry.

Thank you for the tag, gals! Hope you all had a rockin' weekend. May your pants fit you!

Today I Am...

Do you ever, when you have a free minute to breathe and relax and escape from the craziness you're convinced surrounds you, sit and think about who you are and who you were and how they were always one in the same person, yet a little different, too? Do you ever fall silent and let memories come and go as they please? Have you ever wondered, "JESUS FUCKING H! Am I stoned or what?" Heh. Me, too.

Anyway, I'm sitting here in my sensible off-white ribbed turtleneck, corduroy brown jacket, and noticeably non-ripped, non-frayed at the bottom jeans in the house I share with my wondermous husband and four crazy ass animals, and kind of giggling to myself about the many incarnations of Zube that landed me here, in this chair, surrounded by all these four-legged nutcases, today. I feel really grounded and really, um, conscious of myself right now. In a good way.

Lots of times I feel fractured from the past Zubes. I try to assimilate and accept them, but it usually takes effort. Today, or at least this minute, I am me and all the me's I've been before wrapped into one. And it's easy.

Today I am...

...The girl who wore ice blue lipstick and rainbow kiddy barrettes and combat boots in her early twenties.

...The sister who, after leaving a party with her brother at 2:00AM and discovering that a house fire had spread to an entire block of her town, rushed home, woke up her Mom, and the three of them frantically brewed coffee, gathered snacks, and packed it all in the car and headed over to the Red Cross, only to be told, "We've got everything under control. Go home." Non-plussed, they drove around the perimeter of the area and offered the snacks and coffee and juice drinks to the firemen and women, whom exlaimed, "Thank you SO much! The Red Cross hasn't been able to get to us in over an hour."

...The student who sat on the stoop outside her dorm and smoked cigarettes like a fiend hoping that her panic attack would pass because she only had an hour before her first student teaching class and wanted to make a good impression.

...The adult who always has and always will speed up and aim center when driving towards a puddle, laughing hysterically.

...The teenager who cried on her Senior trip while going through the haunted house at Disney World because her supposed friends were making fun of her again. Though she was very relieved to be on a really dark ride so that no one would see her crying.

...The daughter whose father finally pulled her aside and said, "It's okay to look me in the eye. I love you even when you make mistakes and I don't want you to feel like you're walking on eggshells all the time. People screw up," after she'd finally confessed to having gotten a DUI.

...The ex-girlfriend who stuck maxi pads all over her ex-boyfriend's car because he told her he'd rather do cocaine than hang out with her.

...The employee who worked as an aide to a Democratic politician during the Monica Lewinsky debacle.

..The girl who got VERY annoyed when people asked her, "So, what do you REALLY do for that politician, anyway?"

Today I am me. Who are you today?

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

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

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

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

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

Z-Girl: Oh. Sorry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sink or Swim or Just Float Around

This white water rafting guide came into my work the other day with a little promotional blow-up raft filled with candy. I BEGGED and PLEADED to be the lucky owner of the mini-raft, and I won, but probably only because the bosses eight-year-old daughter wasn't around. I feel a little bad about that. Oh well.

Here, have a look at the raft:


Ain't it adorable? Are you thinking what I'm thinking? Good! Then you must be some kind of a fucking genius, too.

On the way home from work, I stopped by the grocery store and bought one essential item...


Once home, I shoo-ed Zube Boy out of the kitchen and went about getting my surprise in order. It only took a few minutes.


Tee hee! It works! YAY!

Z-Girl: HONEY!!!

Z-Boy: WHAT?!

Z-Girl: BATHTIME!!!

If Only He Had a Rubber Ducky

I think I know what Zube Boy was talking to himself about in the bathtub yesterday. How would I know, you might ask? Because I fucking know EVERYTHING! Hello! Haven't you people learned?

Oh yeah, I drew a picture, too. It only seemed right. After all, he doesn't hesitiate to draw VERY unflattering images of his beautiful wife.

Z-Boy: BUBBLES!!! Bubbles, bubbles, bubbles!

Z-Boy: Whee!

Z-Boy: Dude, these ChipMates SUCK!

Z-Boy: Hell yeah, they do. That's because THE WIFE SUCKS!

Z-Boy: HAHAHAHAHA!

Z-Boy: You know what ChipMates really are, don't you?

Z-Boy: What?

Z-Boy: They're what's swept off of the Cookie Crisp factory floor.

Z-Boy: WHAT?!?!?!

Z-Boy: For real. I know stuff about stuff.

Z-Boy: That's nasty.

Z-Boy: Yep. Uh-oh. I hear the wife stomping down the hallway.

Z-Boy: The wife that won't buy me name brand cereal?

Z-Boy: Yup. That's the wife I'm talking about.

Z-Boy: Damn her. Always storming in on my Zube Boy time.

This is what was going on before the conversation in the post below. I just know it.

Interrupting the Bathtub Bandit

With a cat licking his brains out in one ear and a crackling and popping woodstove in the other, it's hard to hear what your husband is saying from the bathtub. Especially with the bathroom door closed. Though, I was sure I heard the familiar muffled sound of his voice. So, I peel my lazy Law & Order SVU watching ass off of the couch and walk over to the bathroom door.

Z-Girl: *impatiently* What?

Z-Boy: What?

Z-Girl: Were you calling me?

Z-Boy: No.

Z-Girl: I heard you talking.

Z-Boy: I was talking to myself.

Z-Girl: Oh. Heh. Well, I'm sorry if I interrupted.

Z-Boy: Eh. That's okay. It was kind of a boring conversation anyway.

Z-Girl: Honey.

Z-Boy: What?

Z-Girl: You're awesome.