Posted By Zube on May 17, 2012

Ready, Paint Fire booked

Invitations purchased

Invitations passed out (Dur…)

Invites texted

Party favors purchased

Snack foods purchased

Beverages purchased

Cupcake mix purchased

Icing purchased

Birthday gift purchased all stealth-like while shopping with Birthday Girl (Couldn’t pull it off)

Birthday gift purchased by Dada while he was shopping for his (Whew, thank you Dada for saving my ass)

Party favors put together

48 cupcakes baked (24 for school and 24 for party)

18 cupcakes baked (with remaining 18 cupcake papers…enough for school)

Birthday Girl delivered to school

Work

Cake ordered from grocery store

Pick up Birthday Girl from school

Pick up birthday cake from grocery store

Buy booze

Drive home to pick up party favors forgotten there

Pick up best friend

Head to Ready, Paint, Fire

Freak the fuck out (for way too long) about what an amazing job your friend at Ready, Paint, Fire did setting up the kids party area…

Look at time

Freak out about time

Set up food on table

Blow up balloons

Welcome first guests

Curse self for thinking balloons and preschoolers in a CERAMICS SHOP was a good idea

Discretely pop a few balloons

Welcome the rest of the guests

Serve up pizza and wings

Curse damn balloons again

Decide birthday cake with distract

Herd cats, erm, kids back to the now cleared of dinner table to serve cake

Light candle

Sing “Happy Birthday!” (In, er, rounds, or something sort of resembling it)

Clap!!!

Serve cake

Eat cake (ensure everyone else is eating it)

Ogle over beautifully set painting table one last time

Shuttle children to painting table

Observe with surprise that this is the part of the party that passes most smoothly

Pat self on back

Initial kids’ painted favors for proper identification and pick-up on Sunday

Call everyone to watch the Opening of the Presents

Attempt in vain to keep up with the wrapping paper debris dispelled by one hell-bent four FIVE! (OMG!!!) year-old

Say good-bye to guests

Clean up

Clean up

Clean up

Pack up car with loot

Wrestle sugared-up children into carseats

Drive home

Unpack loot and sugared-up children

Congratulate self for thinking sugared-up children might love to help carry loot…they do indeed!

Collapse on couch while sugared-up children bounce off of walls

Sing that Phish song in your head

Drool a little

Twitch

Reach for tiara

…

And this, folks, is why you all did not hear from me yesterday about the FIFTH birthday of my sweet baby girl.  Oops, right, right, right.  Sorry, Cora Jane.  BIG girl…*cough* MY baby girl *cough*

Children’s birthday parties?  Are flippin’ frantic, yo!

But, observing the small tweaks at the corner of your adorably shy daughter’s mouth?

 

 

How on Earth did I get so lucky?

Cora Jane, Happy Birthday!  I’d herd thirty kids cats volleying a thousand balloons in a ceramics shop an entire five days for just a glimpse of your precious smile.

You are so worth it…

Category: Mama Zube | 3 Comments »

Posted By Zube on May 13, 2012

Six years ago on Mother’s Day I was anxiously anticipating a procedure I’d been told by the OB/GYN would be a ‘little uncomfortable’ (doctor-speak for, sing it with me, ‘Gonna hurt like fucking hell!’) that would tell me if the reason I’d yet to achieve motherhood was because my uterus was all jacked up and misshapen.

(I ended up with a clean bill of health and confirmation of an, er, uterus shaped uterus.  Thankfully.  A spaceship would have been cool but not as far as baby-making I’d imagine…)

Five years ago on Mother’s Day I was waddling around popping Tums like there was no tomorrow, anxiously anticipating what I hoped and hoped would prove to be a real actual baby.  And not, as I secretly feared, the weirdest tumor EVER with it’s own heartbeat that fooled even the most savvy of ultra-sound techs.

(A few days later, I held sweet little Cora Jane in my arms.  As she screamed her flippin’ head off.  Atta girl!)

Three years ago on Mother’s Day I barely had time to notice I was finally able to achieve ‘Most Normal Pregnancy EVAH’ status because I was too busy chasing an almost two-year-old around with diapers and shoes that I tried and tried to get her to wear so we could LEAVE THE HOUSE.

(A few months later I was able to smother the forehead of my second child, a baby boy, Keenan, with kisses.)

This year on Mother’s Day I find myself reflecting, and I must confess that during the kids’ waking hours I barely have time to recall just how profoundly fortunate I am to have not one, but two precious, sloppy-kissing, milk-spilling, bear-hugging, house-messing offspring.

But while one sleeps…

And the other watches My Little Ponies…

(Um, Cora did her own make-up.  Just like Mommy’s.  Clearly Mommy should have gotten make-up lessons for Mother’s Day, but I digress…)

…on a day dedicated to celebrating motherhood, I am finding myself teary and smiling with incredible gratitude.

They are worth every hardship and every ‘uncomfortable’ procedure I ever endured.

I’d like to send love to my sisters still-in-waiting.  I remember all too well the sorrow and despair of wanting desperately to be a mother and wondering if I ever would.  It’s just not fair and I’m sorry…

I watch this video every Mother’s Day…

I Would Die for That

So I’ll never forget.

Love today to all of the Mothers and Mothers-to-be and Mothers-in-waiting.

Category: Mama Zube | 5 Comments »

Posted By Zube on March 20, 2012

There is only one thing worse than cleaning up after other people whom were not brought forth unto the world via your womb…And that would be cleaning up after other people while carting your womblings and the requisite array of cleaning supplies around in a fucking jeep wrangler with shitty tires and a decided lack of…cubic centimeters.

I hate housekeeping.  Loathe it.  Also high on the hate-o-meter is the fact that the days the kids aren’t in school or daycare while they’re with me are spent ‘helping’ Mommy make beds (if you’re Cora) and jumping on beds Mommy just made (if you’re Keenan).

Confession: I’ve shed a tear or two bent over a bathtub scrubbing other people’s grime.

I will be buying a new car with the settlement money.

And hopefully housekeeping less.  (Um, definitely housekeeping less.  He’s keeping all three.  I’m okay with that.  Seriously.  Just thought the play on words was funny.  Moving along…)

I’ve been fairly quiet as of late.  I’m quite busy what with the business of putting one foot in front of the other.

The divorce is almost final.

I’m seeing the light at the end of the tunnel.  Hopefully it isn’t a freight train.  Or a busload of Spring Breakers from the Lone Star State with fistfuls of hair ready to settle on the bathroom floor of a two bedroom condo they’ve rented for five days.

Maybe, just maybe, the light at the end of the tunnel is a safe, reliable vehicle to drive my kids around in.  And my vacuum.

Because that’s all I’ve wanted for years.

Category: All Things Zube, Mama Zube, Single Zube, Zube Girl | 1 Comment »

Posted By Zube on February 11, 2012

Someone recently asked me for twenty bits of parenting advice on raising a little girl.  Why?  Who the hell knows.  Perhaps they enjoy a visual display of hot air bursting forth from their computer screen.  To each his own.  I don’t consider myself an authority on, well, anything, (unless we’re talking about procrastination…I could give a dissertation on procrastination.  Tomorrow.  Or the next day.  Or the next…Ahem.)  But I do enjoy droning on and on about the things I think I know, and I’ve been struggling to find something to write about, so the task was a timely one.

Zube’s Thoughts on Raising a Little Girl.  A Super One.  Your Mileage May Vary…

1. Bolster her ego.  A lot.  Too much even.  It’ll take a beating as she grows up.

2. Tell her she is smart.  And strong.  And beautiful.  Don’t leave out the latter.  But do make sure the former are repeated in equal measure.

3. Know that you cannot escape what I like to call The Princessy Shit.  It’s pervasive.  But buy her some matchbox cars.  And tell her Princesses are Senators by day.

4. Read her this book.

5. Don’t care if her dress gets dirty.  Boys will be boys, p-shaw.  Kids will be kids.  Getting grass stains happens while having fun.  And special holidays should be fun.

6. Know that girls?  Can be surprisingly mean, surprisingly young.  And since kicking a four-year-old’s ass isn’t an option, make sure you encourage your girl not to be the mean one.

7. Tell her to stand by any girl who is being picked on and maybe that girl will stand by her when she is being picked on.  (Seriously, y’all.  Preschool.  I’m not kidding.  But it hasn’t come up since the beginning of the school year so I think we did all right.)

8. Let her be pissed and throw shit around.  Anger is healthy.  Essential even.  Not enough women are angry if you ask me.

9. Buy her a journal. Seriously.

10. Teach her how to change a tire.  So she can show me.

11. My daughter doesn’t happen to be a teenager but if yours is and she reads the Twilight series, that’s all good, but tell her Bella is a vapid twit.  Just sayin’.

12. Make sure there are an abundance of books by her bed.  Books are a girl’s best friend.

13. Let her pick out her own clothes for school.  Fuck it.  Stripes and flowers and plaid?  And her beaming self-satisfied smile?  The definition of fashion.

14. Excepting serious situations involving physicians, for the love of little red candy apples, DO. NOT. SAY. THE. WORD. DIET. AROUND. HER.

15. But do ensure she has plenty of time and space to run and jump and scrape her knees.

16. Hug her with reckless abandon.  When she’s crying. And laughing. And proud. And scared.  Hugs are free, thankfully.

17. Don’t smother her though.  Give her plenty of alone time.  And plenty of stuffed animals with whom to share her inner-most thoughts and wildest dreams.  Those things tend to bubble to the surface when a girl is by herself.

18. Make sure she knows it’s okay to fuck up.  Tell her you fuck up, too.  Or, er, screw up.  Make mistakes.  Perfection is annoying.  Making mistakes is interesting.  And human.

19. Frame this poem and put it in her room.

20. Bolster her ego.  A lot.  Too much even.  It’ll take a beating as she grows up.

So there you have it.  My non-exhaustive numbered list of things I?  Manage to screw up time and again.  Because, really, I’m only human.  And so is my daughter.  And hopefully, if I’ve done right by her, she’ll be cool with that.

Category: Mama Zube | 3 Comments »

Posted By Zube on January 31, 2012

Sometimes I think the kids like to hide my tiara.  Not because they tremble in fear at any air of authority I might feign when I wear it or anything.  More like they think it’s adorable to watch me rummaging frantically around the house searching for it muttering something about being The Mommy with disheveled hair and inside-out underwear.  I swear it’s true.  We don’t give kids enough credit for their trickery.

Speaking of my fiendish little spawn, you know what is about the most adorable frackin’ thing ever?  Well, it doesn’t start out adorable but ends up that way, so bear with me.  Unable to view the tv from where she sat eating her snack, Cora requested to sit in another chair at the table.  I proceeded to heed her request and set her bowl by another chair, from where the tv was viewable, and she instantly MELTED DOWN into a sniveling puddle of molten lava.  Exasperated I said, “HOLY COW, DUDE!  You wanted to change seats and now that I’m doing that you’re crying.  What in the world is wrong?!?!”

“But I wanted to sit in the other chair by my BUDDER!”

Heart. Melt.

Though my liquified heart did not prevent me from saying, “Okay.  Next time please just say that, Babe.  No need to cry about it, okay?”  I instantly added, “Do you have any idea how happy it makes Mommy that you want to sit next to your brother?  Thank you.”  Because siblingly love is encouraged around these parts.

Feeling smug, the three of us, we happily watched Alice in Wonderland and chowed on ice cream.

And the kids blew bubbles in their milk and giggled maniacally, sloshing milk all over the table.  And I didn’t even roll my eyes.

I pretended I was at a festive dinner at a royal castle.  The only one there without a tiara.  Because who needs that dang tiara anyway.  Sometimes it’s more fun to be without it.

Category: Mama Zube | 2 Comments »

Posted By Zube on January 30, 2012

The batteries for the tv remote died a few weeks ago.  I, however, don’t have a battery stash.  Let us nevermind the fact that it doesn’t even really matter if the remote batteries are dead because I don’t have cable so there is no channel-changing going on around here anyway.  And if I ever get too lazy to push play on a two hour movie?  Put a beer by the DVD player.  That’ll get me moving.

Although we did have a little remote control car die the other day.  And no replacement batteries for it.  That was unfortunate.  Ask Keenan.

I wanted to change my toenail polish because I’d ridden out the French pedicure I got before My Belle’s wedding (which was, ahem, December 17^th…right) for long enough.  Let me tell you, toilet paper?  Is the shittiest way to remove nail polish EVER!  I ended up just painting over it.  I need to get cotton balls.

The other day I wanted to make a recipe that called for sherry.  As I’m sure you can guess, I?  Do not have sherry.

Thing is, I was the one that wanted to move out seven months ago.  I had an opportunity fall into my lap and I knew that if the split turned permanent I wanted a fresh start.  I’m a bit woo-woo, too, about the psychic energy of a place and had zero interest in remaining at the marital home should the temporary separation become non-temporary.

Which it has.

And while I know that I am entitled to things at the house it is so bizarre that I keep procrastinating procuring any of them.  I mean, I have stopped by now and again to let the dog out or to grab Cora’s ski gear and each time I do I tell myself, “Just get one thing.  Just one.  A wall picture.  A pot.  A pan.  A fucking wooden spoon.  Anything.”  And I never do.  What is that about?  I need that stuff.  It’s mine, too.  But I just can’t bring myself to take any of it.  

Anyone care to offer some insight as to what’s going on here?  Or, even better, anyone experienced something similar during a split?  I have no fucking idea what my problem is.

That said, even when I do eventually bring myself to gather up some furniture and housewares and kitchenware and, not even kidding, the rest of my clothes, the thought of setting up a new home is still sometimes SO FUCKING DAUNTING.  It’s like, in ten years we amassed quite a bit of stuff you just don’t think about amassing until you need it one day.  Wax paper, which I use about once every two years.  Made Rice Krispie Treats the other day.  Didn’t have it.

Nutmeg.  Thermometer.  Cough drops.  Tape.  Paper clips.  Nails.

Fuck.  I hadn’t even thought about the fact that I have no tools.

It’s overwhelming, y’all.

That’s sorta where I am these days.  In other news, on the left I posted a link to my Amazon Wish List.  You will notice that it is primarily comprised of things for the kids.  Things that will hopefully make my place a little less corporate apartment and a little more like the home we all used to live in with its lively colors and copious amounts of homey stuff.  The one they still get to spend time in.  The wish list is primarily for the kids’ sake.  So they get to feel at home at my place, too.

Aw, hell, who am I kidding.  I need that stuff as much, maybe even more, than they do.

And OF COURSE do NOT feel obligated to purchase anything from that list.  I’m sure you all know that.  At least I fucking hope so.  I am just super shitty at admitting that help is welcome.  Until the kids start mentioning all of their things at Dada’s house and how come you can’t have that Mommy.

When you’re trying to remind yourself every day to be strong?  That’s maddeningly deflating.  And they’re so young they don’t understand what they’re saying.  I don’t blame them for asking.  Just…ugh.

Category: Single Zube | 7 Comments »

Posted By Zube on January 22, 2012

And when I ask, “Guess what?” I’m really hoping you know because I don’t have the foggiest idea.  Sometimes seems like everyone but me knows what.  Like I was frantically coloring a picture of myself wearing a tiara on the wall with a purple crayon while the entire world, including my minions, got the Memo of What is What.

Though, I’ll tell you, I might not know what but what I do know is this…

Um…

I mean…

Well…

Shit!  I forgot.  Awesome.

Just when I thought I knew something, there it went.  With so many tiny, youthful pores.

And my funny, interesting stories.

Oh wait, I actually used to have tiny, youthful pores.

If you’re my friend on Facebook, not only are you a lucky dog, you, but you know that I am advocating, voraciously I might add, for my job title to be Office Wench.  I feel like that would look totally awesome on my resume.  Because I aspire to be good enough at mixing drinks to be a bartender.  Administrative Assistant is just so…stiff.  And stiff isn’t something bartenders are keen on.  Unless it’s a drink.

I sell doors, and I think Door Bitch has kind of a nice ring to it.  But I have zero interest in growing up to work the door at a bar.  Because I’d be all COME-ON-IN-EVERBODY!!!  LET’S GET THIS PARTY STARTED!  And I have an aversion to being crappy at my job.  So that’s out.

See, I have dreams people.

Oh, and guess what?  One of them was to write a blog entry today, no matter how not funny and not interesting it might be.  And I think I did just that.  Good thing ’cause why shake things up around here by telling starting to tell funny, interesting stories.

Unless you’ve got one.  I’m not opposed to them showing up in the comments.

So, that’s what.

 

Category: Zube Girl | No Comments »

Posted By Zube on January 10, 2012

In the real world. But her internet persona is apparently on life support.

How the fuck are you people? Please share. I’m sick of talking about my life. Hence the deafening silence around here as of late.

I am busy. Selling doors. Fluffing pillows. Doing payroll. Working a million frackin’ jobs to pay the bills.

In other news, I’m getting a divorce. Not chugging the Hater-ade or anything. Or even sipping it. It just…is what it is.

I want to say, also, that the kids received some gifts for Christmas from some Secret Santas. I really haven’t the faintest clue who they may be but I cried when I opened the Amazon packages. If it happened to be any of you all, you get the Spreading Christmas Cheer Award. For fucking serious.

Anyway, I wanted to write something. And looky here, I did it! Go me.

Smooches. Love and miss y’all. Peace out.

Category: Mama Zube, Single Zube | 6 Comments »

Posted By Zube on October 3, 2011

I suck at math and I’ll brag about it all day long, but even a simple-minded shitty math maverick like myself knows that $885 – $1,127 is going to equal ugly if the two checks I’m picking up tomorrow for two of my four part-time jobs don’t make up the difference.

Funny thing is, I don’t even want to figure out the difference because I’m afraid that they won’t. I’m smart like that. Ignorance is bliss.

In news other than check-frauduality or whatever the fuck you’d call it…check fragility? Hopeful banking? Yesterday I had the distinct pleasure of having this conversation after pick-up:

Cora: Mommy, why can’t you like my Dada?
Zube: Oh my goodness, why would you think that babes?
Cora: Because my Dada told me.

Thing is, it’s not even true. Not in the least. It just seems dumb for us both to be miserable even if traditional values dictate it is best for the kids.

Just a little bit ago I was hiding in my room, sobbing on the floor, totally anti-movie-star caliber red-faced sobbing.

Then I realized I had shit to do and little people around here who are looking to me to know exactly how it is we deal with the world. I’d probably serve them best not to model the prostrate wet eyes version of world wheeling and dealing.

So I got up. After picking up some stray morsel from my bedroom carpet and saying, “What the fuck is an olive doing on my floor?” naturally. Messy kids.

Messy life. Beautiful. Messy. Life.

Category: Mama Zube, Single Zube, Zube Girl | 5 Comments »

Posted By Zube on September 22, 2011

To someone I know.

And because it happens every fucking day, which in my own dramatic life I tend to forget, I’m reposting this post.  It needs to be said.  And I’m here if you happen to need me.  I have a cause and this is it.

Ahem…Here goes…

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

I’ve had something on my mind lately, and I’ve been remiss to post it because, well, I don’t know really. Sometimes I feel like folks come here to get a good laugh, and when I throw in a serious post I worry that I’ll fuck up the ambiance or whatever the hell I’ve got going on here.

Thing is, my twisted sense of humor arose as a coping mechanism. If I hadn’t been able to say, “Ah, fuck it. I’ll stick around and see what else could possibly go wrong,” I might’ve ingested that bottle of pills oh so many years ago. But I didn’t. Okay, so it also had a little to do with envisioning my family at my funeral and realizing it would tear them apart, but I digress…

I’ve been active with Planned Parenthood lately, in particular supporting the cause of mandating hospitals to inform rape victims of the availability of Emergency Contraception. I’ve spoken at a rally, a press conference that was aired on the news, and to a few reporters here and there about my experience of being raped, impregnated by the rapist, and having an abortion ten years ago. I think it is incredibly important to share my story for several reasons, but here are just a couple.

Firstly, I want any other woman who might be in the throes of a similar experience to know that they are going to be okay. Really, really, really. That’s most important to me. Maybe a little crazy, but okay. I’m a little crazy and a little okay, and it’s cool. It’s cool, too, to cry a lot or a little. Just do what feels right. That’s about all you can do. You are not alone, though it may feel that way.

Which leads me to…

Secondly, rape survivors are left largely on their own to deal with the repercussions of their assault. It’s fucking sad and shouldn’t be that way. I remember spending much of my energy worrying what people would think of me if I told them. It’s not like breaking your leg. When you break your leg, you ring up your family, friends, and work and say, “Hey, I broke my fucking leg,” and people send you flowers and cards and you get days or weeks off of work.

When you’re raped, at least in my experience, it doesn’t go down like that. Especially if it’s not ‘Stranger Jumping Out of the Bushes’ rape. I went to class the next day, and work after that. Everyone thought it best if I carried on as usual. So I did, wanting to make them feel better. I proved that I could still tie my shoes, and take notes about algorithms. Truthfully, though, it would’ve been nice if I could have taken some time to recuperate from a broken spirit. Just because you can’t see it or slap a cast on it, doesn’t mean it can’t be broken or injured, ya know?

Rape is something many survivors suffer in silence because it involves sex, which people feel icky talking about. But, people need to talk about it to make the stigma go away, and since I feel pretty damn okay most days, I do. I’ve got to honor my funny bone by giving appropriate recognition to just where it came from. Being tough as nails, and knowing that each time I laugh, it proves that the mother fucker who raped me couldn’t take that away. Not forever, anyway.

I have noticed that my serious posts go largely uncommented on. And you know what? That’s okay. Seriously you guys. One of the hardest parts about going public for me has been the response from other women who’ve told me how brave I am and relayed their stories. I usually say, “First of all, I’m no braver than you and second of all, it happened to me, and I still don’t know what to say to you except that it sucks and I’m sorry.” I feel like if I’m standing up in front of 200 people telling my story, I should know the perfect response, but I don’t.

I’m only human. As are you all. Well, except for the one or two aliens that might read this, which makes me hope that I’m not a case study for earthling normalcy. If so, we’re all fucked. But, to the humans, it’s okay to be human, and not know what to say.

So, it’s off my chest now. Thank you. I feel better. Hopefully, you are no worse for the wear, which would be the best case scenario for both of us.

Category: Activist Zube | 6 Comments »