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

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

Anyway...

Dear Universe,

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

Seriously, asshole.

Sincerely,
Zube

Just So You Know...

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

LOST: One Cape and One Broom

If Found, Please Contact: One Pissed Off Wonder Bitch

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

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


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



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

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

Vacation Ruminations

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

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

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

My Belle, Bro, Hoot, and Zube

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

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

Missed ya! It's good to be back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Zee Baby


Bro's Girl


My Belle's Boy


Later taters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I found this quote in particular pretty offensive:

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

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

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

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

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

Zubes and Other Sirius Shit

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

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

That is all...

Like Mother, Like...Daughter?

If this kid is learning her cell phone skillz from me, I think I need to re-examine my usage.

Also, minor Zube freak-out for your viewing pleasure. I hate creepy crawlies camping out on my shoulder.

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

What's Red and White and Nostalgic All Over...

There's nothing like having to call the housekeeping supervisor to ask him if he has made any changes in his staff's toilet cleaning arsenol recently and having to explain to him the reason you're asking is because this morning the toilet seat burned your ass. Literally. Burned it. And that had never happened before. But it wasn't so embarrassing that I didn't feel the need to throw in the fact that the toilet paper then got stuck in the dispenser so I was stuck sitting on a toilet seat with my ass ablaze while trying to strong arm two squares of tp from the stingy bitch because Jesus H, I'm neither camping nor drunk and the drip dry method is not recommended for work.

It's a good thing the housekeeping supervisor has a proven good sense of humor.

Anyway, if I get a wild hair up my (red) ass and decide to flee to a nudist beach today or tomorrow and you happen to be there, say, "Hi!" You'll surely recognize me. I'll be the girl with the scorching red image of a toilet seat on her bum. Ah, and Zube Boy would be disappointed if I failed to mention that my ass is generally pretty white and denty. Really, he's looking out for you guys. He'd hate for you to not recognize me!

I was stalking myself the other day, reading my archives, trying to look all hot and sultry and Legends of the Fall-ish, imagining what it must feel like to be Brad pining over unrequited Zube-love, when I stumbled across this post. I crunched some dates and came to the conclusion that I conceived Zee Baby about a week and a half later. Huh...

I thought that was kinda coincidental.

I Dream of...Spinach and Artichoke Dip

Zube: Honey?

Z-Boy: Uh-huh.

Zube: One day when I grow up, I'm going to have a restaurant.

Z-Boy: Uh-huh.

Zube: And instead of appetizers on the menu, I'll have happytizers.

Z-Boy turned his head away from me, but I think I felt the faint breeze of an exaggerated eyeroll making its way around the car.

Zube: Isn't that cute?

Z-Boy: Very cute, honey.

I have dreams, people.

If It Isn't Broken, Even Just a Little, Then Something Is Amiss

Twelve years ago, when I had the abortion, I remember promising myself that someday I would become a mother and I would make it right. I would be such a fucking stellar mother that the heavens would open up and angels would swarm down plucking giddily at harps and that somehow I'd bring balance to the universe. Or my little tiny piece of it anyway.

I was operating under the misguided assumption that having a baby would fix me. Make right many things I felt were broken and had been for a long time. And since Zee's arrival, lo those many months ago, I've been coming to terms with the fact that that's an awful lot to ask one teeny tiny little person and, well, life just shouldn't work like that. And it would be really fucking unfair to Zee to shoulder the weight of being the miraculous cure to Her Mom's Shit. I think that’d fuck her up far more than having a Mom who just happens to have a few loose screws and some minor cracks in her foundation. You know?

In a way, I can’t shake that I’ve gone back on my promise. I’m not the most stellar mother ever. I’m just, well, me. And all of my imperfections. I still get sad that I was raped and got pregnant. And then had an abortion. And I still, once in a while, shake my fist angrily at the universe that I went on to have three miscarriages years later. Usually when I'm pondering the possibility that when we try to grow our family again, I might have more. And, and, and...

I hope, though, that when she's all growed up she'll love me even if I'm sometimes sad and occasionally a little too Where's My Black Beret? Oh I'll Find It After I Cry Myself a River introspective. Even if I did break a promise I made to myself back when I didn't have the foresight to know that our children aren't brought into the world to fulfill our promises.

I hope Zee believes, as I do, that we're all the more interesting for our loose screws and cracks...I really, really hope so.

Playing Footsies...With Brad...Well, Brad's Face, Anyway

Sometime when I wear slippers or socks it hinders my stealth ninja-like movements. So at night I always struggle with the decision to wear, or not to wear, footware. You see, when you're totally desirable like me you never know just who is going to be lurking around the corner (Yes, Brad, I'm looking at you) awaiting a swift Zube-style kung-fu-ing. With a little chop suey-ing thrown in for good measure. You never know when a bottle of soy sauce is going to come in handy. Stings the eyes.

Anyway, there is nothing more embarrassing (and perhaps life-threatening) than attempting to execute a seamless kick in the jaw than slipping and falling on your ass in the process.

The thing is, though, I hate having bare feet in the house. A city street? Sure. My living room? Nah. What with all of the animal fur getting stuck in between my toes and stuff. So I usually opt to wear socks or slippers despite the risk.

Which is cool in it's own right because I can then do the Moonwalk with finesse. And ease. I'm being so descriptive here I bet you can actually almost picture it.

Also, I'm pretending I missed the comments where you all asked to see me breakdance. You see, I'm afraid I forgot to mention I don't do it WELL. But, now that I've divulged that fact, you probably want to see me do it even more. Hmm...

Shit and Get Off the Pot...And When You Do, Come Down to the Front Desk Your Damn Self, Shall We Say, to Clear the Air...

A lot of times at the hotel, parents are too damn lazy to peel their asses off the couch to come down to the front desk and ask a question. Instead they send their personal assitant/s. Er, child/ren.

It's kind of a pain in the ass to explain to an eight-year-old how to hook up to the wireless internet. And it becomes a very intricate game of 'telephone' when said children return to their parents to explain the process.

Though, as they say, every cloud has a silver lining.

Kid: Hi!

Zube: Hi, what can I do for you?

Kid: Well, my Mommy wanted me to come down here and tell you that the toilet is clogged. But she didn't want me to tell you she did it.

Zube: *Stifling a smile* We'll send someone over to help you out with that.

Kid: Thanks! *whispering* But she did do it!

Zube: I gathered.

Lesson to lazy ass parents: If you're guilty of plugging up the shitter, don't expect your kid to cover for you (and also, again with the lazy ass, there is a PLUNGER in your bathroom right next to the toilet...the one YOU clogged). I do, however, appreciate your shameless offer to be the highlight of my otherwise fairly mundane day.

Slapping and De-Stalifying...

When your 14 month old is slapping you in the face repeatedly and throws her head back cackling as though you grabbing her hand and saying no is the most HYSTERICAL FUCKING THING EVAH, it's probably not appropriate to laugh, is it? I mean, for the record, I didn't laugh. I was trying hard not to. But I think my concerted effort to conceal a smile was evident. Which I bet is just as bad.

Today I got annoyed that no photos are ever taken of me. So I went on a self-portait spree whilst Zee was napping. Most of them turned out shitty.



But I got a couple I'm mildy satisfied with.



At least I know that should all of my other business ventures fail, I can try my hand at real estate. Or at least have the cheesy photo for the business card.

Since Amy gave my blog a breath of fresh air, I've decided to update my sidebar, which I hadn't done in years. Firstly, I've added some new links under Zube Classics. The others were all three years old. Things on the right side of this page have gotten a bit stale. Anyway, I've added:

Old Habits Die Hard
Artsy Fartsy Guy Over Here
Fuck the Bright Side

Well, I think it's that time of the day where breakdancing is in order. When I'm home alone and Zee is napping, I can breakdance like a mother-fucker. You never would have guessed, would you?

Other Cast and Crew...

I thought it'd be nice to give you all a glimpse at the folks who make appearances here at my humble abode on the internets. My family.

Mom:

Oh, Mom, Mom, Mom. She's the most wondermous lady ever. I live 2,000 miles away from her yet I talk to her every day. The woman knows everything. And I mean EVERYTHING. All of the Walton's kids' names? Check. The seven dwarves names? Check. The theme song to Bosom Buddies? Check. Where to find corn syrup in the grocery store? Check. Okay, so maybe sometimes I talk to her more than once every day. Sometimes she pretends she's in a hurry, but she loves it.


She's also Zee's Mommom. And Zee will undoubtedly revere her as I did my Mommom. It's genetic, I'm sure.


Dad:

Most of the time, Dad is just your average, every day Poppop.


But if he happens to show up with his hawaiin shirt on, look out. You are about to spend an evening with someone else entirely. Well, okay, maybe he's not another person entirely, just amplified. Meet Corona Dad:


Bro:

Bro is my bestest ever friend. Ever. He and I have known each other longer than any of our other friends. Honestly, when we were little I think we might have hated each other more often than not. But we had our moments.


I think I dug the hell out of him most when he was too young to know it was not entirely cool to help his big sister hang her baby doll clothes out to dry.


But, growing up, we compromised, in between fighting over who rode shotgun, you know, back when kids were allowed to ride shotgun. He used to play house with me using matchbox cars. It was cool.

Our birthdays are three days apart, so we always shared parties. It kind of annoyed me to have my little brother and all of his friends galavanting rowdily while my friends and I tried to play with my newest Barbie. But now, I cherish when we can be together for our birthday party. Like last year:


Sis:

Bro's wife, Sis, has been adopted into our loony flock. It's been official for a while, but it was super-official when I drug her into my frantic paranoia and made her drive over to my Mom's house to make sure my Mom was okay because she hadn't answered her phone for an hour. Mom wasn't there, but Sis did a little investigatin' to ease my worried mind and discovered my Mom was at the dentist. Oops. I never said I didn't have my crazies. Now Mom calls me every time she has a dentist appointment to let me know. Sometimes I think I'm more of a pain in the ass to be related to 2,000 miles away than I ever could be within a 30 mile radius.


Hoot:

Hoot is that person I call when I want to know if I'm right or being an ass. She's also the person who helps me figure out whether being an ass is worth it, for a good cause. Or not. Usually not. Damn her Libran sense of complete and total fairness. But, to be honest, she's probably saved me from myself on plenty of occassions. I'll happily keep her.


And soon she will be moving to Denver. FUCKING WOOT! Zee will have an aunty nearby and that makes me happier than you could ever imagine.


My Belle:

My Belle is the baby of the family. When she came home from the hospital, I kinda thought of her as my baby, too:


Okay...I'm going to give you a second to get over the shock of HOLY SHIT, Zube, I mean, I don't wanna be mean, but you could have played a starring role in The Ugly Duckling. What, you mean glasses half the size of your face and beyond were never in style? Can you belive I picked those out myself. Yeah.

I think I'm pretty fucking cute now. I earned it.

Carrying on...

Hoot and My Belle have always been, and remain still, The Girls. When The Girls were little, I was totally obsessed with styling their hair (probably because I wished I had my OWN fucking hair, note ugly ass haircut above). I can still whip up a kick-ass inside-out French Braid. Just not on myself. Oh, I can't wait 'til Zee grows herself some long hair!


My Belle is now a Mama, too. And it's awesome because it has given us a bond the likes of which we didn't have before, me being ten years her senior.


Now that you've met my near and dear, I'll leave you with one last photo that about sums us up...And thanks to Sis for being the photographer!

The Clan:

Coming soon to a wedding near you! Run!

A Little Bit of This and That

-I can't STAND when lotion gets that little crusty bit that hangs off of the tip of the bottle if you don't use it for a while. I usually fling it on the wall. Between that, and some of you who might remember my hair on the shower wall capers, you all would probably decline to be my houseguest.

-Actually, crusty lotion cruising on the walls and hair in the shower notwithstanding, I'm kinda neat-freakish.

-Recently a wise woman told me, after I'd confessed I get a little jealous when Zee Baby magically transforms from crabby-pants to charming, beaming, arm-waving baby as soon as Zube Boy walks through the door after work, "Daddies get all the glory even though Mommies do most of the hard work. Get used to it." I've been mulling this over for a bit.

-Even though I break free from the restraints of Good Grammar quite regularly, I almost always know what rule I'm breaking and so to my mind, that makes it okay. I get thoroughly annoyed, though, when I'm unsure of a particular rule. But most often I can't be arsed to look it up. I just let it bug me.

If a Tree Falls on Your Neighbors Deck, Will Homeowner's Insurance Cover It?

I mean, if you're the one who put it there?

Sorry I broke my promise to blog every day, but I've been busy. Zube Boy and I have an assload of trees that have been killed by the pine beetle in our yard (assload is a highly technical term meaning approximately 25...or so...in this case anyway) that need to be felled. And burned or chipped before the beetle takes flight again this summer. And seeing as how dead trees are highly flammable and all and we're overdue for a forest fire 'round these parts, it'd be a good idea to rid our yard of them even if we weren't trying to be all, Protect Other Trees from the Pine Beetle.

Admittedly Zube Boy has done most of the hard work, chainsawing, dragging the winch and yadda yadda, but I took on the honorable role of winch operator. I've included a video (in which you will see my tree falling friend Bud Weiser...and you'll also prolly wonder if we're fucking idiots pulling the tree down like that, just know, the winch is anchored on another tree further away so we weren't, in fact, trying to pull the tree in my general direction.

Feel free to fast forward to the end of the video where you'll hear me, "Oh Shit,"ing...That's where it gets exciting.



Also? It all worked out. And Zube Boy was never near as scared as I was. He's more of the calculating type. While I'm more of the arms flailing, "OH SHIT!" type. As you've just seen. I was a little concerned about our neighbor's deck just to the right of the video. And the two healthy trees we were about to topple over. But Zube Boy employed his other handy dandy winch posessing vehicle. And we (ahem, he) fixed the situation. While I had visions of the opening scene of Ghost Ship tumbling around my head as there was a very tense cable about, um, a foot from it.

Needless to say, I'll not be applying for a tree falling position anytime soon. Or anytime at all. Ever.

The Cards You're Dealt

When I was in college, I used to read people's tarot cards. I was pretty damn good at it. The less I knew you, the better the reading. I remember doing a reading for a guy at a party, a mini party obviously because if I was doing keg stands at a big party I wouldn't have had time to do a tarot card reading. He was a bit skeptical and I ended up flooring him. This was a friend of a friend of a friend and I'd never met or heard of him before. I read in the cards, and in my heart, that he was applying for college and trying to decide whether to major in music or engineering. I never gave him an answer but I hope he went with music. Because while the reading told him to follow his heart, it didn't say to follow Zube's words.

I miss reading tarot cards. I miss feeling psychically in tune. But it is tough for me to navigate being psychically in tune and being a little too woo woo. And I was pretty woo woo lo those many years ago. But now I'm just a little too practical. I'm a swinging pendulum. Wondering when I'll start swinging the other way. And hoping gravity will help the pendulum swing less and less either way. Until I'm right in the middle.

Tweedle Dee and Tweedle *BOOM*

You know, life is always making me eat my words. Well, and ice cream, too, but that's another matter entirely. I was thinking to myself while driving to the post office that blogging is nothing like riding a bike. Presumably, once you know how to ride a bike, it's pretty easy to hop back on and hit the ground running...er...pedaling. But, with blogging, it's different. The more you write, the better you become at it, and when you take a break you have to start all over.

Anywho, I'm not eating my words over that last sentence up there. That's true. However, while the bike analogy was bouncing 'round my noggin, I was fortunate enough to glance up the street and witness a couple fall off their two person bike.

So, maybe blogging isn't like riding a bike. A single person bike. I'll eat those words. With some ice cream. And chocolate sauce. And caramel...Ahem. But a two person bike? Without the matching clothes, of course, because, believe it or not, there is a limit to my too muchery. That analogy I'll accept.

And I would also like to thank my lucky stars. Without them I would not have had the distinct pleasure of witnessing a couple falling off of a two person bike. If stars ate ice cream, I'd send up buckets full.

I Have the Most Crushingest of Crushes Right Now...

Not so long ago I'd caught the blogging fever again. It was exciting. And feverish. I wasn't quite my old self but I'd made the leap. I decided that a new template might be just the breath of fresh air I needed to assist my jump back into the fray. And I loved my old template. Really loved it. But I wanted a change. Because, just between you and me, I've changed. While no one was looking. Not at me anyways. Kids are a great diversion like that. (See? I did it again!)

Well, I got a new template and instead of spending my days, fingers a-typing with fervor whilst breathing in fresh air and belting out, "The Wind Beneath My Wings," I kinda got the wind sucked out of me. There were issues. Major issues. About a year of my archives were completely fucked up and unreadable. The unreadable year happened to be The Miscarriage Era. Among other typos and misplacements, that was the most gut-punchingest of all. I remember seeing in my statcounter that someone was trying to read through those days and I wanted to conjure up their e-mail address all ESP-style,and send them a message: "I hope, hope, HOPE that you are simply Brad Pitt trying to decode my unreadable blatherings from The Miscarriage Era because your obsession knows no bounds, but if you happen to be a recurrent miscarrier like me and are looking for some HOPE like I did when perusing recurrent miscarriers' blogs who went on to actually have a baby, please e-mail me back and I will cut and paste and e-mail the archives to you. Because I just put my HOPE to bed. After she bit my finger. Hard. And I laughed between tears." But, thankfully, I don't have to conjure up my ESP skillz after all.

Because Amy saved the day. Thank you Amy. You seriously have NO idea how much you have rocked my socks. Seriously. I always knew I could count on another girl with a Mike to pull me out of the doldrums. Us girls with Mikes have gotta stick together because if we do, we're unstoppable. Dealing with Mikes, who wouldn't be?

All that said, welcome to my new home. I hope you like it as much as I do. And I've made a promise to myself tonight to post something every day this week. No matter how stupid. Because that's how this whole thing started. I mean, hell, my May '05 archives are embarrassing. But you don't get to be a gud riter bi not riting! That's how this shit started out. So pardon me whilst I embarrass myself for a bit. Again.

Amy, YOU are the wind beneath my wings...