I've Exhausted Non-Anonymity

I have always prided myself on my dedication to honesty. I believe that, for many years, The Adventures of Zube Girl was home to lots of honest blatherings, uninhibited by the judgment of others. Actually? I think I welcomed the judgment of others. I thrived on being honest about hard shit. And was humble, or at least accepting to people who called me out on the hardness of that shit or whathaveyou.

Recently (I mean, if you consider three years recent) I've come to realize that non-anonymity is impeding my inner-writer. I have been fighting going underground vehemently, but I see no other way around it. I have a million fucking things to say, but they've taken up residence in my head, and won't GET THE FUCK OUT, because I have strictly adhered to this honesty (more like, everyone knows who I am and everyone I know so I don't want to rock the boat) policy.

I've got to stop. For my own sanity. I mean, I've got to stop lying for the sake of being honest.

Which is to say, I must write elsewhere. Elsewhere, where I'm not known (Hi, Mom! I promise I won't talk shit about you! I won't talk shit at all, really. I just need to be fucking honest for once in three years). Or my writing will forever suffer.

If you're so inclined to follow along, drop me an e-mail at zubegirl at gmail dot com. I have not set up this Honest Liars Lair just yet, but will in the next day or so. I might ask for a bit of backstory if you ask where to find me. Just fair warning.

It's been real and it's been fun. Even really fun sometimes. But now it is time to call it quits here. Sorry folks.

Flying the Friendly Skies

On my recent sojourn to the Land of Zubes, AKA Jersey, I learned many, many things.

-If your kids are crabby for the first hour of a flight? And then angels for the remaining three? People will still give you the old stink eye as you wrestle your children off the plane. That first hour makes a lasting impression, it would seem.

-If your kids are angels for the first three and a half hours of a flight and then lose their fucking minds a half hour before landing and then crash out of exhaustion as the landing gear goes down and you're left in a quandry wondering how on earth you are going to unload two sleeping children, a wheeled suitcase, a diaper bag, a single stroller, to get to baggage claim with only two arms? In this event, people can actually be pretty goddamned nice. One will offer to carry your bags and another will offer to carry your baby and they'll give you a sympathetic smile as you swagger off carrying your previously screaming, now sleeping toddler. They'll take turns helping you push the toddler in a stroller to your destination.

-If you also happen to disintegrate into a puddle of tears at the sight of your honey upon exiting security and then stand sniffling and red-eyed at baggage claim? People are EVEN nicer. They'll tell you how great your kids were the whole trip and how they just must have been tired at the end and how you were such a trooper.

Sometimes traveling alone with the two kids reaffirms my theory that people are inherently good. Sometimes it doesn't.

I had an awesome fucking trip. Totally awesome. And also? Us Zubes make some damn good looking children.



Though said beatiful children will most certainly test your patience and instestinal fortitude in any attempt you make to capture their beautifullness on film. This photo was finally snapped after two hours of diligent cajoling, bribing, and tear-wiping. The photographer was a saint. Truly. The Zubes had actually given up. We were willing to settle for individual shots of each. I'm glad we were persuaded to give it one more go.

A Bowl of Pissy Cheerios with a Wrong Side of the Bed

MAN, I am just PISSY. It is rather unlike me. Usually any proclamation of foul-moodedness on my part is accompanied by a hearty self-deprecating laugh. Contrary to popular belief, I'm a pretty happy person. But the weather? AAAARGH!

I know I just bitched about it, oh, two weeks ago, but I'm going to bitch about it again. Honestly? I really like snow. Which is lucky for me because we get LOTS of it. But I like it in October and November and December and January and February and March and April. I used to think it was totally laughable when I first moved out here and it would snow in May. A fucking riot. I'd call my Jersey family who'd respond with shock and awe every time. I might've even thought it was nifty.

But having just completed my tenth season (we're so cool up here, we don't count how long we've resided here in years, but in ski seasons...) I'm noticing that each year I get more and more stabby in May. Zee's birthday is tomorrow. When she was born, it happened to be gorgeous. Awesome how it worked out that way since there was not much happening in the adult beverages on sunny decks department.

On her first birthday, we'd hoped to have a huge barbecuey bash complete with a bonfire in the backyard. Problem was, on her birthday weekend we couldn't even trek through the snow to GET to the fire pit. And so we never had that bash.

Her second birthday was a bit better. We did manage to swing a barbecuey bash. But it was butt ass cold and rainy. At least it wasn't snowing. Though it did snow later that month.

This year...still snow. We didn't even bother with planning a bash.

Oh, P-Chef, Tennessee never sounded so good.

I've got to go shovel the deck. Again.

Brush-a-Brush-a-Brush-a

Z-Boy: Man, my forearms hurt.

Zube: All four of them?

Z-Boy: Shut up. Dork.

Six months ago I remember telling anyone who would listen that if I never saw another paintbrush again, it would be too soon. It is too soon.

In anticipation of putting our house on the market we are staining and painting the exterior and painting what we gave up on about, oh, six months ago.

I fucking hate painting. I really, really do.

I Don't Fucking Know

There are some things that people should just know. Even stupid people. Usually, I know everything, but once in a while something crops up and I don't have a fucking clue. Generally, I keep it to myself because I'm proud like that and I always like to imagine that some idiot is listening and it is better not to let an idiot hear that you don't know something. Because unlike smart people, idiots have NO IDEA what does NOT reside in their brains. Only what does. And one of the things that resides in an idiot's brain is the misconception that they DO know everything. Because the shit they don't know, well, their brain cells can't fathom its existence.

You know what's awesome? What I just did right there. I turned my not knowing something into an attribute of smartness. Damn, I'm good.

Anywho, I don't know something. I assure you it does not involve driving. In fact, only I know how to drive. Not a single other asshole on the road at any given moment knows how to drive as well as I do. Well, except that one time I accidentally cut someone off (though I'm pretty sure they were going WAY too fast in the right lane because I swear I looked and didn't see anyone) but I've forgiven myself for that one because ten minutes earlier I was being told that, in fact, I had just miscarried. And aside from that being a pretty good fucking excuse (shut up, I know I really shouldn't have been driving, but crying in the car in the hospital parking lot waiting for someone to pick me up was not as appealing as crying at home in my bed, ahem) I am now a bit more reticent with the Road Rage because I try to imagine that the asshole who cut ME off maybe just found out some bad shit, too. And I'd hate to add to their need to cry. So, believe it or not, I wave and smile when people cut me off. You heard it here first.

Where the hell was I? Oh yes. My ignorance. Here 'tis: I haven't a damn clue how to have a garage sale. I have garage sale stuff, and I have a garage. Though not a thing will fit in the garage because Z-Boy has an affinity for collecting transmissions and engines and half built go-carts made from scratch. More importantly, though, I have a driveway. A big one. And shit. Shit to sell. Soon. Ish.

But I don't even know where to begin. I'd toss it all, or give it away, but I feel a little like, being at home, in between diapers and crying and breaking up fights (holy shit, Zee is almost three and Bee is only nine months but did I mention, I'm BREAKING UP FIGHTS already? Zee is bigger, you'd think she'd win, and mostly she does, but Bee has a hell of a grip for such a wee one...) I should take the time to maybe try to earn a little cash. I don't even mind having an Everything's a Dollar Garage Driveway Sale. Well, you know, except for everything that's not a dollar. Like the Playstation 2? X-Box? I don't know what the hell it is but Z-Boy said $20 for it would be a steal. And the $10 video camera, too.

But, alas, I am stupid. And am completely at a loss as to how to begin this process. Advertising, displaying, pricing...ugh.

I'm not sure whether I should feel fortunate or unfortunate that I don't know how to do this. This seems like something that people should just know. But! I know many things that people just don't. Like that a barnacle has the largest penis of all creatures, in comparison to the size of its body. Don't believe me? Google it. I'll wait...

Fuck It, Fight It, It's All the Same...

I like to cuss. I'm certain that if you've even ever been here only once, this confession should come as no surprise. I wouldn't even call it a confession. More a statement of fact. And if this is your first time here, well then now you fucking know. And you'd have noticed soon enough without the warning. I talk like a truck driver and perhaps even moreso now in the presence of adults in real life and here on the internets (Hey you! The twelve-year-old who thinks I'm a MILF! Go do your homework! What are you, Brad's cousin or something?) because I have to reign in the F-Bombs around the childrens. And there is just something so goddamn cathartic about swearing for me.

That said, there is one swear that I use with the utmost discretion. I reserve it for only the most deserving of recipients. That is the word cunt. It isn't that the word bothers me especially. Honestly? I'm always afraid that when I use it someone will say I'm not a real feminist and so I make especially sure that when I'm calling someone a cunt, it is worth any hassle I will get. I've got to tell you, I haven't received my card in the mail just yet, but I'm a member of the Feminist Club just the same. And I don't even pretend not to be. Like, "Oh, OF COURSE I think women should be equal, but I'm not a FEMINIST! Ew! They're, like, hairy and ugly and stuff!" I'll say it loud and proud. I'm a feminist.

And yet, I cannot rectify the fact that I'm a feminist with the fact that nothing gives me more pleasure than calling someone I don't like a fucking cunt. I suppose I could equate it to calling someone a prick. But that'd be a lie. It just isn't the same.

Still, though? At the risk of ruining my feminist street cred and all? My former coworker is a FUCKING CUNT! And that is ultimately why I quit my job. I hadn't wanted to say anything while I was still working because, though none of my former coworkers read my blog, it would be easy peasy for them to find if they put in a little effort. And, well, let me call a spade a spade, Cunt was looking for every opportunity to throw me under the bus since she had already succeeded in getting my coworker fired and seemed bored with her lack of a victim. Now that I'm gone and I've come to realize that I don't give a rat's ass about burning bridges (why should I worry about burning bridges when employers don't have to worry about the same?) I'll spill it.

In the end, this was a good thing. I had been finding my job not leg-humpworthy for years. And I think my ex-boss is losing her damn mind what with nearly humping Cunt's leg on a thrice daily basis.

What is really cool, though, is that knowing I was leaving eventually, and knowing that I decided when I'd leave, and knowing that they could all fucking kiss my ass because I knew shit they didn't know and they needed me to stay and I could leave whenever I fucking wanted, well, it gave me power. I'm power-trippin' yo. Hence the unabashed use of run-on sentences. I found my voice. I spoke up for myself in a way I hadn't for the eight years I'd been there.

I don't have the intestinal fortitude to go into the details of Cunt's cuntiness, but I thought I'd share an e-mail I sent to my boss with you. Mostly because I read it and smile and thought you might, too. And it sort of sums things up so you'd get the general idea of what happened. Because some of you have so kindly asked.

Without further ado...Here it is...An e-mail to my ex-boss...

Boss,

Here’s the thing. I totally get that you need to back up Cunt at this point. She’ll be staying and I’m not. It behooves you to sing her praises. It would be silly to do anything else from a business standpoint. It even makes sense that, in order to buoy Cunt, I be painted as incompetent. That’s fine, too. She needs the boost, not me because I’ll be gone.

That said, working with The Two Cunts (the sacchariny sweet one when you and Delores are around and the condescending, snotty one when you are not) is disconcerting to say the least, offensive to say the most. I am staying past April 7th for your and Delores' sake, despite Cunt. But while you backing her up makes good business sense for you, me tolerating condescension from her and being treated as though I’m incompetent does not make good personal sense for me.

Last night I almost decided to rescind my offer to stay past my originally planned resignation date of April 7th. I’ve decided against that because I don’t want to do that to you or to Delores. But, once April 7th comes, I am prepared to leave if I find working with Cunt too stressful. I’d likely be willing to come in and train Delores hourly if it comes to that.

I also want to add, I was a little thrown by your response to my e-mail offering to leave notes about the groups that had absolutely no acknowledgement of the project I was taking on. I mean, I don’t need anyone to do an interpretive dance to “Wind Beneath My Wings” or anything. Heck, I don’t even need a thank you. But it would have been nice if it had mentioned, after singing Cunt’s accolades, “That’d be cool, Zube.” These aren’t notes My Predecessor gave me, nor would I have expected her to. It is stuff I figured out on my own over the past eight years.

Anyway, I’d hate for our relationship to spiral downwards in the upcoming weeks. Seriously. That’s what I fear most. But I also don’t want to willingly play the part of sacrificial lamb for the next six weeks.

Zube

Suffice it to say, my ass was not harrassed outwardly and I worked the remaining weeks I'd been asked to stay.

But now, thank the dieties, I'm done. And on that note...

$#@!%&

Here is what I know. It isn't EVERYTHING I know because, well, that's a whole fucking lot. If you've known me for any amount of time then you already know this. So we'll say this is just a smattering of things I know.

I know that I live in the Rocky Mountains in Colorado.

I also know that sometimes it snows once the ski resort closes.

I know that this snow, if you ask me, is fucking useless.

I know I probably have no right to bitch about snow because of my aforementioned knowledge of living in the Rocky Mountains and knowing it snows.

I know that I don't care if I probably shouldn't bitch about the snow.

Because if there's anything I know how to do it is bitch.

Lasly, I know I got a little slack there for a week. I'm unemployed and I've been trying in vain to thoroughly enjoy it. But it is difficult to be cooped up in the house, the very SMALL house, while it is snowing outside with two kids and one sick husband.

Ugh.

What's Cooking? Uh, Not Much. Until Just Recently.

I used to LOVE to cook. I mean, like, I adored it. I'd sift through recipe books and plan menus and experiment with new and funky things. I was no PaintingChef, or even simply a Chef, but I was pretty damn good. And, more importantly, I enjoyed the process.

In recent years, though, my passion for all things kitcheny has spiraled to the depths of Pulseless Hobby. My cooking has flatlined. I feel like a Domestic Goddess if only one half of the Zee Bee equation has a snotty nose at the end of the day and the overcooked Hamburger Helper makes it to the table undropped, a few morsels scattered on the kitchen floor for the canine-feline bunch notwithstanding.

I will confess, though, that mostly? I love to cook for compliments. Way less messy than fishing for them what with not having to wear unflattering fishing gear and hook a worm and all that grody stuff. I get a thrill out of hosting Thanksgiving dinner even though it involves a little sweat and copious amounts of wine because when someone says, "GODDAMN this turkey is good, Zube!" it makes my fucking year.

Here's the thing, though. Cuisine Compliments have just never been Z-Boy's strong suit. It took only one, "My Mom doesn't make chicken soup like that," and a disinterested refusal to try my version and the wind? She was violently sucked out from under my culinary sails. We've since covered this egregious transgression EXHAUSTIVELY in the Zube household, so no need to chastise.

Since the kids have made their debut, I've been trying to wrestle my ego back into cooking. It is not easy due to the aforementioned Operation: Deflate Culinary Diva and time constraints but I've got to tell you, nothing will inject your heart with Skittles and Care Bears faster than when your almost three-year-old opens the refrigerator all by herself, grabs the tupperware of 'Mama's Soup!' and thrusts it at you while you're fixing to make her a bowl of cereal for breakfast. In fact, I'm pretty sure if you looked it up in the dictionary, this is the definition of awesome.

I have been tempted back into the apron by the lure of actually being on the receiving end of Mom's Home Cooking references someday (thought my kids will be told EXPLICITLY that I don't care if their future partner's chicken soup tastes like yesterday's ass sprinkled with toe jam, they should NEVER mention my cooking being superior, though they'll certainly be allowed to think it. Ahem.).

Maybe one way to get to loving to cook again is to take the path that's just a tad longer. I'll start by loving to cook for my kids. I'm sure the personal satisfaction will follow suit.

Pucks Are Stupid (And This Time I'm Including The Real World Puck, Too)

Pre-Game Zube...


With Post-Game Zube Art.

You might recall that yesterday I declared not loving feeling stupid? Yeah. What really sucks, too? After the Devils scored first, Z-Boy suggested I have a shot each time the Devils scored. And that HE have a shot each time the Flyers scored. I'm sure he was being all awesome and supportive and assumed I would get to do more shots.

Alas, I had just one. While he had four. So. Not. Fair.

Puck Time - And I'm Not Talking About the Crazy Ass Real World Variety Puck

Tonight Z-Boy and I have a big date. Complete with a babysitter and everything. The reason being? The DEVILS are playing the FLYERS! Which is always a good lead up to a minor family fued. Because I'm a Devils fan while all of the other crazy ass people in my family are Flyers fans. Most especially Bro. But Bro and I are okay with the friendly hockey ferocity, so long as we steer clear of the alcohol and the politics. Because the alcohol and the politics lead to drunken shout-outs in earshot of other innocent campers followed by hugs and slurred confessions of, "I love you even though you're an idiot."

Here's why I'm really fortunate, though. Z-Boy likes hockey. Actually it is the only sport he and I like, period. Which, among other things (like quiet no tv Sundays), means that our children will probably grow up to be total jocks and we'll have to endure hours upon hours of soccer, football, baseball, blowball, suckball, well, you get the idea. I told him I'd be happy if they played hockey. He concurs. But the awesome thing about Z-Boy is that he's not really a fan of any hockey team yet he humors me and totally cheers for my Devils when we watch. Well, when we have the game on and he watches for me because I have this fucked up superstition that I have to have the game on but can't look at the tv or the Devils start losing. It is a little ridiculous. But he shouts out what is going on while I'm deliberatly ignoring the tv. Because he has my fucking back like that.

I'm stoked. And I really hope they win because I'm wearing my Devils shirt and everything and will be the only Devils fan in the bar, I'm pretty sure. Amongst Flyers fans. It would be just my luck that my favorite bar in fucking COLORADO happens to be the favorite bar of all sorts of Jersey and Pennsy Flyers fan transplants.

I really don't love feeling stupid. Here's to hoping I don't have to. Go DEVILS!

So Helpful

Zube: So the doctor gave me some muscle relaxers for daytime use and valium for sleeping which will hopefully help my muscle spasm and restore the use of my back and arm.

Z-Boy: Who sang that song Mother's Little Helper?

Zube: Um, I don't think they were singing about valium. More like speed. Valium would be SO not a Mother's Helper. At all.

Z-Boy: Oh. Well, same difference.

Zube: Not really.

They Say a Picture Is Worth...

1,000 words. I'd like to amend that. A picture is worth four words.

Where do I begin?


Firstly, I should probably remember I am not a twelve-year-old boy. That's one way to begin.

But on the other hand, the twelve-year-old boy one, what exactly is going on in this pre-tomato snack playtime session? Something tells me there is a Guiding Light in here somewhere. But since I've not slept for any substantial amount of time in months and never watched a full hour of The Soap Operas EVER, not even hung over as all get-out in my dedicated pursuit of passing my Partying major in college, I'm drawing a blank. If by blank I mean that my brain is being inundated by various and sundry sordid stories behind the photo. I'm just too spent to pick one.

The childrens and I were up at 3:30AM today. All three of us. Awesome, no? Yes.

Mostly, I think you guys are funnier than I am...and I'm sort of needing you to make me laugh, if you're so inclined.

Alannis Forgot a Few Verses Is All I'm Saying

The other day a teenage girl came to the front desk because her family was departing our beloved resort and she wanted to partake in the consumption of some yogurt on the long drive to the airport and hoped we might have a plastic spoon. We don't have plastic spoons behind the front desk as a rule, but we do have a little kitchen in the back that is kept well-stocked by tourists throughout the winter with tons of random shit not worthy of an airplane ride. I told her I'd go check.

Lo and behond, there was a box I did spy with mine own eyes of plasticware up on a shelf. I grabbed it and peeked inside. Sadly, plastic spoons must be popular, whereas plastic forks and knives are not. The box was overflowing with exactly what she did not need. I wasn't sure how adventurous she was with her yogurt eating endeavors so I brought her a plastic fork and a plastic knife and, as I handed them to her, said, "There were no spoons, I'm sorry, but here is a fork and a knife in case they might come in handy." I should have stopped there, after she said the requisite, "Thank you," but I carried on.

"It's a little ironic, don't you think?"

She laughed at me in that ironic way that teenagers laugh at 'old people' and left me to snicker on, all by my lonesome.

It was ironic, though. And I think Alannis might have written that song with exactly our situation in mind.

Anywho, dabbling in irony as I am, I thought I'd share this photo with you...

That used to be a wine rack.

PS- I love hats. I mean, that probably wouldn't pass the truthiness test. I love hats MY KIDS WEAR. I, personally, hate hats.

Also ironic? I have a perfect replica of the Big Dipper on my chin. And wrinkles.

And one more, for good measure. Zee is FINALLY wasting away in nap(Mommy-gets-a-break)ville, and Bee just woke up.

Awesome.

Oh-Oh-Oh-Oh-Oh, Oh-Oh-Oh-Oh...The Write Stuff

Recently I've been putting some thought into writing, like, fer realz. I mean, not that writing here is fer fake or anything, it is damn realz. But it doesn't bring in any dough. Which is totally cool by me. I don't have to set the world on fire here. It is a place where I embrace my inner Cartman with the not caring and the doing what I wanting. Which is sometimes absolutely NOTHING, as has been painfully obvious in recent history.

I wonder what writing would be like for me if I, like, couldn't say like. And had to use proper punctuation. If I couldn't fuck with grammar. See, I know grammar rulez. Very well, in fact. I break them regularly, of course, but I like to tell myself that even in breaking them, I'm still a real writer. I think it takes some knowledge of the rules you're breaking to, in fact, break them well. Humor me, if you would. That's my excuse. And you know all about excuses. They are like...not brains. Everyone has got an excuse, but not everyone has got a brain. Assholes on the other hand...

Anywho, I wish I could find a publication that just LOVED to feature totally run-on sentences, the F-Bomb, and periods. for. emphasis. Does such a thing exist? Because if it does, I'm their girl! Please contact them and let them know what they're missing!

Lastly, and more importantly, I'm scared SHITLESS, to be honest, about not bringing in any income in the very near future. As those of you who are my buddies over on Facebook already know, I'm going to be leaving my job. That's another story for another day. Like, a day when I'm no longer employed by them and can talk smack. But suffice it to say, I am So. Done. Well Done. I will miss the paycheck, but that is about it. I'd been clinging to a family feel the place had years ago but lost through the course of time. And now that I've finally realized that, I am absolutely thrilled to move on and it no longer feels like I'm leaving beloved family behind. I did that once already, sniff, love ya Jerz! Wouldn't want to do it again. Thankfully, I'm not. At all. April 28th can't come soon enough.

And this imminent joblessness is the catalyst for my thoughts on writing for work. But there is a bitchy girl in me (well, duh!) who has been chanting, "It is not possible." There is another, humble and hopeful sort of girl in me, that keeps chanting, "But, what IF?." Eh well. Dreams people. Sleep wouldn't be the same without them. Did I just say sleep? Sleep is a dream around here these days. Let's call this writing thing a waking dream. A sweet one.

And sweet dreams to you all, whatever those might be...

I Am Pretty Sure...

I'm not capable of doing justice to this story with the use of mere words. But fuck it. I'll try.

I went grocery shopping yesterday. A typically mundane chore. Well, if mundane were to mean terribly exciting what with the added drama of one quite self-possessed toddler with her own mini-sized shopping cart (those things are a blessing and a curse) and one not-so-tiny big old baby who has just overcome an illness, the likes of which The Excorcist's Regan would have been thorougly impressed. That kind of mundane. Obviously, I am in dire need of a dictionary.

Zee loves the mini-carts at our grocery store. Love being an understatement. I love them... to a degree. They certainly serve the purpose of keeping her occupied and ENJOYING grocery shopping forays, yet they add all sorts of complicating, what an asshole of a mother, potential. Good times.

Zee has absolutely ZERO concept of OTHER PEOPLE SHOPPING. Something of which I am hyper-aware, particularly in a ski resort town. During March. Spring Break, in fact. I am SO aware of other people at the grocery store that I often find myself serving a can of black beans and tuna sandwiches for dinner because I drove through the parking lot and convinced myself I was actually JUST KIDDING about going inside. When the nearest parking spot to the grocery store is in front of the liquor store, six stores away, well, I don't need any more temptation than already exists to test my theory that there is a pork chop in every beer. For all ages. Ahem.

At any rate, Zee will cut people off in her fevered quest for hot chocyat and other goods. I admire the girl's zeal. Though, understandably, not everyone does.

Yesterday, during one of Zee's spastic shopping excursions, she set her sights on some yummy-looking grapes and ran directly in the path of a gentleman. I yelled out in exasperation, "ZEE, COME HERE and PLEASE watch where you are going!" I turned to him and said, "I'm sorry." He smiled at her and said, "Oh, it's okay."

The thing is, I know this man. He may or may not know me. I'm sure he recognized me in that 'we live in the same small town' kind of sense but beyond that, I just don't know. At one point in time, I had a number of friends who worked for him. And it had come to pass that they told me he'd lost his little girl.

I have taken Zee to play in the park dedicated to his daughter, his only child, on many occasions. There is a wall erected there, bearing a plaque with her image. She died of cancerand the brick wall is covered with tiles drawn by the children in her class the year she died.

When the moment between us passed, time stopped for me there in the pasta aisle. I could barely breathe, for breathing seemed to carry with it the threat of tears. I held my breath and choked back sobs.

It was as though the feelings I'd never fully been able to call up while tracing the bronze tendrils of his daughter's hair on the plaque at the playground came barrelling at me with the force of a...shit...I don't even know. This is where words fail.

I was overcome. Absolutely overcome. Overcome with the thought that my daughter might have reminded him of his daughter and how he lost his daughter and how I'd be simply devastated if I lost my daughter but I couldn't even imagine it, only holy fuck he KNOWS what it is like to lose a daughter and maybe seeing my daughter caused him pain. I tried for a moment to understand and found myself choking on sorrow. Borrowed sorrow. Which then felt ingenuine. I didn't even deserve it.

I remember MANY times during The Miscarriage Era, going to the grocery store and seeing rounded bellies everywhere. And on the best of days, I simply wished those women knew how fortunate they were. And this doesn't even compare to that. The situations are more than worlds apart.

I suppose that, for whatever reason I am writing this, it is zig-zaggedly getting at this...life is precious. And so fleeting, however long. Cherish every bit of it.

I needed that reminder desperately. And I feel selfish for saying that. But I so feel it in a way that I hope is only self-consciously afraid of appearing selfish. And doesn't appear outwardly so. Though I'm going to assume it appears selfish. Because I have not ever suffered such a loss.

You just never know, in the throes of the pasta aisle at City Market, what will rock you to your core and remind you of just how human, and fragile, we all are. Every one of us.

Don't Want to Break a Promise

I made to myself. I swore I would write an entry today. I figure, the thing about starting up a new habit is that it is a bit of a requisite to be all habity about it. And writing is a good habit. Lord knows I need some good habits to counteract the bad ones.

Though I am quite stumped as to what to write about. So I've decided to bitch. Why I thought this wouldn't be the right venue for bitchy variety writing, I havne't a clue. So here goes...

I am tired. Fucking tired. Dog tired. I feel like Tired smacked my ass and called me her bitch and has taken up residence in my brain. Spilling a few brain cells out of my ears to make room for her lava lamps and bean bag chairs.

Also? Totally Tired? While alliterative? Is SO NOT attractive. I seriously look like a fly. All eyes. At least that's how I FEEL. Maybe because my face is working so hard to keep them open, inside my head they feel fucking huge. And don't forget about the bags. Oh yes. Dudes, I have more baggage under my eye-holes that I have kicking around inside my ear-holes. And y'all know, that's a fucking lot.

So there. I wrote. And I was going to go to bed now but guess what? Bee? Is crying. Shit, I'm tired.

We Are Family...

When Bee was born, Z-Boy and Zee visted us at the hospital regularly. Prior to Bee's debut, I'd so worried about Zee's reaction to her new sibling. I mean, sure, we'd read books about having a new sibling and talked about the baby in Mommy's belly. Because I am a paranoid freak with the pregnancy gig, I'd purchased a doppler and listened to Bee's heartbeat once in a while for reassurance. Zee became accustomed to this ritual and would pull out the doppler and lube up my belly and encourage another listening session. Even given all that, I just wasn't sure if she GOT it. I mean, you just never know how reality will translate, no matter how you prepare.

It turned out my worry was for naught. She totally GOT it.

I wish we'd had the video camera out when Bee was being ushered off by a nurse to have some tests done before we could all go home and Zee absolutely lost her mind. "MY BAYBEEEEEEEEEE! MY BABY GO? MY BABY GO? MY BAYBEE, MOMMY!?" echoed through the halls of the maternity wing as Z-Boy and I tried to stifle both our laughter and our tears. She cried until he was returned twenty minutes later. And so did I. Hormones. What can I say?

Almost eight months in, I still have to drag Bee past his room when dropping them off at daycare to Zee's room, drop her off, and then make the trek back to Bee's room near the entry to deliver his smiley ass to his caregivers. To do otherwise would mean a meltdown of epic proportions. Believe me, I've tried. Leaving her baby behind, unless he is under Mommy's watchful eye, is not allowed on Zee's watch.

And can I tell you? It's goddamned adorable. Beautiful, even. You know, I'm no runner-up for the Mother of the Year. Hell, I wouldn't even be found on the awards dinner guest list. But I definitely hope that, despite my proclivity for returning binkies after pulling off an animail hair, I am fostering a good relationship between my kids. Zee certainly had her insecure and non-spectacular moments after being siblinged, but I was always on the receiving end of her ire. Never her byudder. And as much as it might hurt sometimes? Well, tough titties for me.

I just hope that my kids will have a relationship like those I have with my siblings. I think we're getting there.

She's BAAAAAAACK!

Do you see her? My friend? Silhouette girl up there? I've missed her so. And somehow, some way, Amy managed to swipe her from an old account on Photobucket I'd totally forgotten I even had. Because Amy? Not only has a broom and a cape and a tiara. She has a wand, too. And a wizard hat, I'm pretty sure. The wizard hat is just my unconfirmed suspicion. She hasn't fessed up to owning one yet. Probably a good thing because I'd steal that shit. Sure, sure, I profess to be such a great person and all. But we're talking about A WIZARD HAT, people! And besides, if I were always a great person, well, that would be a HUGE waste of all of my ninja skillz. Right?

I'm hoping that by shaking things up around here and starting ENTIRELY from scratch with all of my links and gadgets and whozits and whatsits, yet tying in my enduring friend from back in the day when I, like, really blogged and had a jacked up uterus, maybe things will get moving in my head. Well, not that that has been the issue. Things move in my head ALWAYS. It's like a fucking national chain moving company up there. (A bad one, though. They break a lot of stuff. And get lost on a regular basis...) But perhaps things will flow more freely to my fingertips instead of constantly breaking down en route. Or stopping at the titty bar for a coupla beers. Damn slow movers. Ahem.

But? The really important thing? SHE IS BAAACK! I'm hoping to come back with her. And lastly, Amy rules! Just sayin'.

This and That

- Beer and a brand spankin' new phone are the perfect recipe. For a long bath. Just ask Z-Boy.

- Today marks the passing of the last large group that will trample through my hotel this ski season. Which means that I am now officially allowing myself a bit of Short Timer's. April 27th can't come soon enough...

- I am ASHAMED of the degree to which I have had my head in the sand with political and newsy stuff these days. So much has been going on and I have a lot of catching up to do.

- Knowing that I'll be hitting myself in the ass with my office door soon has given me a newfound freedom. I've said some pretty brazen things. And spoken up for myself. And apparently? People respect that shit. Too bad I waited until now to start.

- I wrote a rather snarky work e-mail that referenced interpretive dancing to "Wind Beneath My Wings." I don't know how in the hell I managed that, it just sorta happened. It also just sorta happened that while the person I sent it to could have gotten pissed, she didn't. I secretly wonder if she couldn't help but smile at that particular sentence and perhaps it softened the blow. I'll never know.

- In my attempt to begin writing again, I've decided to loosen up on myself a bit. Gotta get things flowing again somehow. This and That helped back in the day so I'm revisiting the idea.

The Pressure Is On...

Self-inflicted, of course. I have started post after post after post today, only to click 'save now' in the hopes that something better, something more profound will come along. The truth is, nothing more profound is going to come along. Nothing I'm willing to publish, anyway. And those half-finished, ah, who am I kidding, one sentence posts will surely languish forever in my Blogger archives. The truth is, there are many, MANY profound things going on. But none of them are ready for you all (the three or four of you, I imagine) to consume.

I'd once bragged that my life was like a petri dish, ready for the unforgiving lens of a microscope. The truth is, that was a lie. And not even a truthy one. Just an outright lie. Don't get me wrong, my life is OBVIOUSLY a bit of a petri dish. I've overshared beyond reason. Many of those who've read Old School Zube know more about me than my therapist. Which is saying...a lot. But apparently the petri dish analogy only applies to 'Shit That I'm Okay with You Knowing About.' Censorship reigns 'round these parts. And that has fed the Monstrous Writer's Block I've been harboring here under my computer desk for the past three years.

I don't even know how to finish this post. And I don't really have time to ponder it much. Nearly three-year-olds and Sharpies do not a A Heavenly Match make so I've got to haul ass out to the kitchen in the hopes that blueberries and cottage cheese will sufficiently distract. Just know that if I don't keep this writing up? I'm only going to get more and more lost. And I've been lost. Not looking to go there again. Purposelessly anyway. Intentionally lost is cool. Fun even. Lost because I'm refusing to ask for directions? Even from me? Not so much.