one of the funniest super bowl commercials EVER...

This was the only good part about Super Bowl XLIII. I just had to put it somewhere!

ZB's movin' on up...

You can now find me here: A Domestic Vignette

lavender

I am partially moved into my purple office. It's been a hurried, but bittersweet process.

While I've been craving my own quiet space for what's going on nearly a decade...I had to swallow the realization - while standing in this room, looking at the dry, bare, purple walls, and the clean, barren floor - that this was to be the baby's room.

I wondered on which wall I'd have chosen to rest the crib, which corner would have snuggled the changing table. I imagined Punky sitting on a rug we don't own, playing blocks with some faceless child who'd just learned to sit up. And, I saw myself, nestled into the doorway with a steaming cup of tea, watching them play, and feeling myself complete.

We're unsure now about any future additions to our family, so I trudge onward, trying to create a career for myself inside this little purple office, the space I now call my own, because of an emptiness I may never fill.

Maybe we're complete as we are. Maybe we're not. Time will tell, I suppose. For now, I'm accepting purple as the color for my space. While it's the color of every bridesmaid's dress I've ever been forced to wear, it really is a nice, calm color. It's a lavender sanctuary to keep me sane, a hideaway where I can cry, and dream, and challenge myself. It's the place where I can be just me.

I've changed my mind - the purple walls suit me just fine.

the great american entertainment expense.

Church.

I had a grand realization just a few minutes ago. The only people I know personally who complain about the taxes they pay for their government to run things and pay for our wars, are people who tithe 10% of their income every Sunday morning. This is interesting. The argument is usually that they don't want the government "taking" their money, that they earned.

Why is it that when conservative America needs guidance, they rush out on Sunday and buy their pastor a new boat?

With the median American income at something like a meager $42,000 per year, well...let's play a game.

Ten percent of that annual income is $4,200. Divide that by 52 Sundays. $80.00 per WEEK. That's $320 per month! That's more than my car payment! (And my mom needs a practical reason why I won't go to church, other than my disbelief.)

Why are we struggling, my conservative friends? Now, I don't mean to be a bitch, but when you can't pay your bills, or struggle to buy quality food for your kids, and allow your conservative elected officals to coddle your white-knuckled fear of terrorism, are you more likely to give up what you need, rather than allow "God" to have a few lean years?

Now, play along for a moment. Let's say, just for the sake of fun here, that God is Santa Claus. And, every week, you go listen to Santa Claus preach to you about being good all year to make sure you get all the toys you deserve when you wake up Christmas morning. But, for this guidance, you have to pay $80 per week. Would you do it?

Seems to me, those who provide spiritual guidance might need to suck it up and take second jobs, like other hardworking servants, such as teachers, or police officers, or even those men and women dying in Iraq to placate your fear.

My friends (insert McCain voice), you can't afford God, and we have a deficit to pay for.

itch for quiche

May the Universe hurl me through space on a tiny rock...but I'm just a language purist at heart. I'm having difficulty accepting into casual IM chats with friends the dork world-inspired "w00t" in place of common exclamations such as "kick ass!", or "fuck yeah!". I recently told one of my gamer friends after her use of the "word" that if two zeros (in place of two Os) ever made it into an acceptable dictionary, I would vomit on her.

Now what do I see as I peruse the Internet? Introductions on message boards of adults declaring themselves not newbies, or even newb, but n00b. What kind of dw33b types with numbers? Must our everyday language also mirror what I once saw as creative personalized license plates? (I mean chuckle creative, not award-winning creative.)

Now, on to the point. Finally, right?

The world Niche. Does it rhyme with itch, or with quiche?

I speak to no one who rhymes with quiche - all rhyme with itch. Since I learned the word (oh damn those five years of college), it's rhymed with quiche. It's the French pronunciation. Makes sense, right? Just because English borrowed the word, doesn't mean we don't owe the word a bit of respect. Say it with me...Niche....soothing, right? To rhyme with itch prompts me to check my scalp for bugs. But, ohhh, Niche...

Am I pretentious for using niche (like quiche) in casual conversation? I always have, and never thought a thing of it. When my mother says niche (like itch), I have to dig my fingernails into my palms to keep from correcting her, although, technically, both forms are perfectly acceptable, at least in American English.

Regardless of how you pronounce Niche, please, don't use numbers to avoid using the letter O. I'm all for having fun and embracing your inner child, but one should strive daily to avoid becoming a moron to the point of no return. If these silly variations become part of your lexicon, there's no turning back, baby.

no tolerance for edges

Recent situations that would normally provide fantastic blog fodder have piled up to the point that they've become almost unusable. Unless, of course, if I took the time to write some things out for organizational purposes. But, things are busy around the ZB household. I've just returned from a trip back home with Punky, and I'm about to start setting up my office. MY OFFICE!!!! Yes, that's right. ZB is getting her shizz together. Well, to be a bit more particular, it's an attempt at recapturing shizz lost. Hmmm, did I ever have the shizz? Maybe I'll post a poll.

Anyway, regarding my new office, it was originally the guest room, but now if any guests actually visit and require a room, they have to sleep in the basement. Mr. ZB has finished painting the former guest room with the color we picked out before we moved into the house when we found a bangin' paint sale at a local hardware store. Now, I remember this being a very pale pink, which we chose to match the bedding I already had for the bed that was in there. But, what's on the wall is a serious NON-color. If you can imagine, it's both pale pink AND lavender, at the same time. It almost makes my eyes cross trying to figure out what the hell color it actually is. I hate it. I do. So, what do I do now? Do I endure it, and hope some decoration will numb my disgust? Or, do we go pick out a new color?

When I mentioned the possibility of repainting to Mr. ZB last night, he wasn't happy. Understandably, painting a room is kind of a pain in the buttocks. I mean, the room could have been painted quite a while ago, but I never really felt like making the mess required to get the job done. Plus, I don't have a lot of patience. When I paint, I slop it around. I have no tolerance for edges...what can I say?

Hmmm, maybe I have an issue with boundaries. After all, I do enjoy the plunges of curves and squiggles made by my cursive Js and Fs and so on when I write freehand. I often wish the earth was flat, but I think the edges would cause me problems. While the impossible thought of bungee jumping into space tickles me (with nowhere to fall but back up...or still down?), a sphere really does make more sense. I'm a spherical girl...living in a spherical world...wishing to paint my whole world one solid color...one that doesn't disgust me. If the world were flat, what would make it go 'round? And, if we found ourselves lost, or misplacing our proverbial shizznizzle, how would we ever find our way back where we started?

(Hehe...what a silly post.)
<3
ZB

P.S. I'm excited to announce that this blog will soon have a new home, more focus, and more regular posts! Aren't you thrilled?

dreams

my sweet little chicken

It seems that while my blood has thinned to deal with the longer, hotter, drier summers in Kentucky, internally I'm unable to recite off the top of my head which month we're in. I'm all screwed up. Seventy degrees on Halloween is something I'm just unable to wrap my head around. It was even warmer last year, when my little itty bitty Punky, ready but lacking the confidence to walk on her own, was propped up in the front yard in her chicken costume with a giant bowl of healthy snacks for trick-or-treaters - yes, I'm that neighbor.

This year, the upcoming election has me absolutely rabid with anticipation, and with our recent family events, I haven't given Halloween even a smidgen of a thought. What was my favorite holiday for the better of 30 years, this year, was just a day. Never in my life would I have imagined a Halloween without even an inkling of spooky passion.

So, with my inability to process the arrival of Halloween, no pumpkins were carved, nor were costumes invented or purchased. Punky was again a chicken. The top half fit wonderfully, and the pants were far too short. Big whoop.

I bought some candy for rogue, assfaced 'treaters who would stop by, regardless of our porch light's being off, and no jack-'o-lanterns aglow. Mr. ZB locked the front door, and we slowly walked our little chicken about a quarter mile up the road to the church for trunk-or-treat, where church-goers decorated their cars, and greedy little brats who, by the way don't even chant trick-or-treat anymore, lined up begging for the literal handfuls of candy this financially-loaded mini mega-church was handing out to hundreds of children in lines waiting to get to the next truck of treats.

It was an interesting experience, topped only by the registration card required for entry, asking for names, address, phone number, and our Christian status, which we agreed would be better left blank. Every American minding his or her own business surely needs more junk mail, especially from the local creepy, mini mega-church. ::sigh::

Tonight, Punky was desperate to walk over the "big boom" again, the train tracks we're unfortunate enough to live so close to. Mr. ZB (aka Dada) was kind enough to offer to take yesterday's leftover chicken for a little walk. Punky was hellbent on taking her orange plastic pumpkin with her to gather treats. I stood at the door, and watched them walk up the road. Punky seemed so small. Only 2 years old, it's easy to see her as the monster she often is, but to watch her walking away with her Dada, I'm reminded of how little she still is, and innocent, and incredibly beautiful.

They arrived at the church, where Punky began a search for the adult-sized Poe she noticed last night in the giant parking lot still brightly lit, despite its emptiness. She wanted to take Mama back over the big boom once Dada brought her home. It took yet another nauseating dose of TeleTubbies and some highly monitored milk chocolate consumption to calm her down.

Now, as I write, she's content as can be, attempting to wear one of Mama's bras, has chocolate smeared all over her face, and is telling me all about the octagon down the street - the stop sign - brilliant child. My little chicken...

Even in my time of loss, I'm so incredibly fortunate.

Finally, other than Punky's chicken imitations, following is one of my favorite photos from our night out - the Oompa Loompa manning the bubble machine. Poor bastard.

a flashback

My apologies for posting so much music lately, but I just don't have much else to spill. ZB is in a big 'ole rut. Inspiration is welcomed, if you have any. Anyhow, I heard this today on Lucy 54, my favorite XM station, while out and about with Punky. Wow! I haven't heard this in forever. It reminds me of this guy, Greg, who was a really good friend of mine Freshman year of high school. He used to write poetry, and was kind of crazy. In fact, I believe he signed my yearbook "Psycho". I should find that and have a moderate chuckle. Enjoy...

nooooooooo...

Say it ain't so! The GOD that is Joaquin Phoenix is quitting acting!

Story here.

...to work on his music?  Are you serious Joaquin?  You're breaking my heart.  Do you have any idea how phenomenal of an actor you actually are?  Do you have any idea how high up on my "list" you are?  Do you?  How dare you quit acting?  I read your interview in Playboy, and I even understand why you want to quit, but you're not as special as you think, hot stuff.  No...you're special...but not quite short bus special.

I'm so disappointed in you.  I named my garden frog after you.  Have fun with your stupid music.  It's probably lame.

I LOVE YOU, JOAQUIN!!!!

ZB's rockin', come on a knockin'

This is absolutely one of my favorite songs. The emotion is much better acoustic, but, it's so much more bad ass live and electric - and enunciated. Plus, Eddie, you're so fucking hot sporting that hippie vagabond look. After 17 years, baby, you're still on my "list", and Mr. ZB knows...hehe...sanctioned...

LOL

crazy!

Woman are always the crazy ones. We dominate more than half of the world's population, yet, somehow, we don't qualify to default to "normal". Why, the crazy cat lady down the street, she's infested with breeding felines pissing all over her antique rugs, which she can miraculously no longer smell; it's she who's crazy, not her family who have written her off, long ago.

So, let's spice her up a bit. Let's make her 22 years old, with a tight ass, perky tits, and slather her in a liquid-like black rubber suit. She's feisty, meows, purrs, and growls, piquing the senses of a stupefied man unable to see that eventually, she'll age, and be just like her great aunt Mildred down the block. Cat Woman. Yeah, she's hot, and she has a tail. You can pull it in your fantasies, but in real life, she'll claw your eyes out.

Batman. Bat...man. Seriously? A grown man who lives in a cave and dresses like a BAT? Yet, no pet bats. Why? Well, that'd be CRAZY! No one with a penis should ever be presumed crazy. That would be disrespectful. Let's make sure he's strong, and has a really fast car - everyone will assume his penis is large enough that no one will care if he's crazy. Why? Well, he's a nice guy. But, not too nice...like Robin. What a loser, right?

Nice guys finish last? Hehe...nice guys finish alone, in dark closets, or their mom's basement with internet porn of Cat Woman.

Are women crazy? Yes! Am I? That's the whole point.

I'll probably delete this post tomorrow.

lemons are as sweet as they should be.

Must everything taste so sweet? Why, when life hands us lemons, must we insist on making lemonade? Does no one else enjoy the refreshing pucker of an extremely sour citrus fruit? Why must sugar spill over from a glass, half full, so we can put on a pretty face to impress others with our acting skills?

If I'm fucking miserable, by golly, I'm going to show it!

So, readers, you know that the ZB family is dealing with a profound loss. After a D&C yesterday, my miscarriage journey as finally ended, I've written and am working on editing an enormous essay about the experience, and I'm now looking toward healing. We all have our own ways of grieving and recovering, but I'm having difficulty in finding experience or skills that answer some of my questions, match who I am as a woman, and how I need to work through this to continue to be the best mother I can be for my child who's here.

I refuse to sweeten my experience by donning my dearly departed fetus with a name, or by appointing it an angel with wings. First of all, only birds have wings. And, maxi pads. Not fetuses.

Again, in searching online for some solace, privately, I came upon some disturbing e-cards, depicting live babies, photoshopped onto clouds with halos above their heads that I could choose, personalize, and send to someone suffering a loss. Now, I must say, I've received a couple of very, very nice cards from family members (thank you!), but by God, if anyone sends me an informal e-card of a live baby floating in a cloud, I will have their head.

Now, I'm easily pegged as cynical. That's not a secret, nor do I believe it to be a flaw. I eat lemons, despite them making my teeth a bit sensitive; I won't sweeten them, and I won't pretend it doesn't hurt. I will grieve how I will...on my own, apparently, with no guidance, as I can't (and won't) romanticize my baby into a mystical heavenly body.

It is what it is, and it definitely isn't what it is not.

(Maggie, if you're reading this, I want to thank you for your thoughts, your insight, your rationale, your wisdom, your secret, your strength, your honesty, your bravery, and your selflessness. I admire you greatly.)

i know a place where i can go...

so, i was just thinking about this band...

I still have the t-shirt from the show at the State Theatre in Detroit. Hey, Ryan, I know you went with us. Remember? Ahh, the 90s.



Psst, a secret...I wanted to post some Royale Crown Revue, but there wasn't a video for the song I wanted.

Don't you hate when you've been wearing your 2-week disposable contacts for like, 3months, and after a few glasses of wine, they start to stick to your eyes, much like sitting in front of a bonfire for hours where they literally bake to the membrane? UGH...I am one sexy bitch.

save your boobies!

It's breast cancer awareness month!


12-Year-Old Boy Scouts Volunteer To Give Women Breast Exams

some thoughts about adult friends.

Establishing friendships has to be one of the most challenging aspects of adulthood. It's funny how good friends, perhaps former best friends from high school, become lifelong malleable friendships - bending, molding, changing, to fit our needs as we grow older and experience life. Yet, when an adult friend is made, that friend likely does not become a best friend, but only fills a certain hole, a particular need, a two-dimensional friend of sorts, only offering one facet of personality, of hobby, of sport, what have you.

Mothers, especially, have a difficult time with this. We even perpetuate it. We yearn for close female friendships, yet when there's a mismatch of values, of lifestyle, of children's age differences, of occupational choices, or parenting styles, we put those friendships on a shelf to visit them again only to fill a need. It's a very selfish mode of friendship, where we keep everyone else at a perceived safe distance as to not be offended or to offend, to be judged or to judge.

I look at our kids and I wonder where the magic goes. They smile, say hi, hug, and are best friends forever. Women, on the other hand, have conditions, all of which must be met for a relationship to be worthwhile enough to become vulnerable.

Is this the way it's supposed to be? I wonder if my expectations are unrealistic for wanting to connect with other women. Do we become so unique as adults that connections are impossible? I know I'm strong and confident in my convictions, ideals, my politics, and (non-)religious beliefs. I'm the liberal non-Christian friend with whom some visit only when it's desirable for them to hide the cross. I'm the married mother of one in my early 30s whose majority of friends are both unmarried and childless.

It becomes difficult to hold a self-indulgent conversation about who I am - without my legal titles of wife and mother. I suppose it just becomes part of our identities, like the stretch marks on my hips, never to be missed. Or, something to hide? Wow, what a horrible thought. But, that seems to be how we get by. We meet women, connect on a superficial level, and hide our stretch marks. We all have them, but we guard them, as if showing them will invite judgement or betrayal.

Why can't we just be as we are, and be good friends?

the patient patient occupies herself with music videos.

Now, this is a legitimately bad ass cover, wouldn't you say?

rock out with me.

Almost nothing is as nauseating as Rob Zombie vogueing like Madonna, but as cheesy as this video is, I just love this song, especially in the way it hails memories of cruising with the high school boyfriend in his dad's truck on a hot summer Friday night in 1993. In fact, it's on my list of all time favorites. Rock out with me...and wait for the best part - 2:46, baby. Oh, and don't you hate when embedding is disabled by request? So incredibly inconvenient, don't you think? Click here!

fighting consumerism in our kids

"Do we really need that?" is a question I ask of myself often. And, while I tend to be very good at determining what we really do need vs. something that's just a want, I am probably guilty of asking this of my husband a little too often.

As a family, Mr. ZB and I share a healthy disgust of American consumerism; however, as products of our culture continuing to live among the problem - which we believe breeds and proliferates many social problems - we're much the same as most other consumer whores we happen to know.

We love stuff!

Since Punky was born, acquiring unnecessary stuff has been something I've worked on avoiding, with the hope of quickly and easily instilling the value of using what we have, and not creating unnecessary waste. What a joke! Having a baby is unparalleled in the acquisition of stuff, not even by a wedding! And, even if you cloth diaper, like we do - stuff, stuff, stuff - fucking everywhere!

This problem is only going to grow. Television is already turning her into a mini-consumer. She's never had a lick of fast food at the tender age of 27 months, yet brand recognition is as spot on as her alphabet comprehension. Currently, she's only allowed to watch PBS, and two approved shows on Disney (an institution we abhor, by the way). The current level of censorship in our household has less to do with content than it does about commercials. Nickelodeon is absolutely not allowed. I refuse to be a victim of my two-year-old's incessant begging for Bratz dolls, or Princess Barbie bullshit that will transform her into the shallow bitch of a girl who barked at a cashier at the grocery store for interrupting her phone call in the checkout line yesterday.

So, I read an article today, which is changing my view a little bit. While I believe some censorship at this age is acceptable (i.e. necessary), continuing in this way long-term could have a very negative effect on the relationship I will develop with my daughter as she grows. I'm realizing that if I don't evolve with some leniency and understanding, I'll be fighting the wrong fight, and create an absolute monster.

If you're interested, please read the article, Outsmarting the Bratz, and let me know your thoughts.

baby, don't you realize...

i love cranberries in my oatmeal.

if i may...

I would like to say a few very matter-of-fact words involving my miscarriage, so if you don't want to read, stop now.

~~~~~~~~

I was hoping to avoid too much discussion of our loss on my blog, but this blog is about me. And, in remembering that I'm just as neurotic as the next mommy blogger, I've decided to let this out.

I'm an intelligent woman, enough so that I realize that there was likely a serious problem with this baby. So, mostly, I've been okay. Only a couple days, and a few moments thereafter have I felt absolute devastation about this situation. I'm pretty okay, and I'm an incredible strong woman.

But, what happens when more than a week has passed, and you're still waiting for mother nature to finish the job? Since taking a couple of days to accept reality, the waiting has been the hardest part. So, I called my doctor's office today to see if I'm should keep Thursday's appointment, which would have been my 10-week prenatal appointment. When I finally received a call back, I began asking questions like, "How long do they let this go on before intervening?", and "Am I at risk for serious infection if this doesn't happen soon?" I was assured that the doctor would go over these things with me on Thursday.

The girl who returned my call was disgustingly upbeat - I've talked to her before - she has a bubbly way about her. Yet, while I'm talking to her regarding my concerns about not passing my dead baby as soon as I'd hoped for (morbid, but true), she responds with lighthearted babble that is (supposedly) intended to placate me.

Considering the circumstances, I'm quite stable, believe it or not, and am able to talk about it with a level head, and a quiet heart. Yet, when this bubbly girl discussing the "passing" as breezily as if I were about to have a long-awaited bowel movement, it kind of gets under my skin a bit.

One could talk to me all day long about how 20 to 25% of known pregnancies end in miscarriage. I already know. Or, how my history of Endometriosis increases that risk by 39%. I know that, too. But, dead or alive, this is my baby, and while I feel strong and ready to let it go, a bit of delicate bedside manner wouldn't hurt. It obviously wasn't meant to be, and I'm certain the Universe knows better than I do, but this baby's genes, flawed or not, were unique, and will never exist again.

When the day comes, it will be more than just "passing tissue", it'll be the most difficult goodbye of my life.

To be honest (with myself), in retrospect, I'd have been angry with her no matter how she talked to me. I'm angry that I had to talk to her at all. I'm angry that this has become part of my journey.

a raw update

The beginning of my raw food experiment did begin Saturday morning, as planned. I have to say, the juice I've been making to have first thing in the morning is freakin' phenomenal! The first batch was good, but the second batch was a modified version of the recipe I originally used, which I'm enjoying much more than the first. So far, it includes, romaine lettuce, kale, celery, lemon, and apple. Mr. ZB lovingly calls it "Pond Scum" because of its luscious, algae-like hue, so it's become part of our household lexicon.

Pond Scum is fabulous! Quite honestly, if it wouldn't become an outlandish expense, I'd be drinking pond scum all day long. (I'll post a photo soon.) Mr. ZB was pleasantly surprised when I conned him into trying it yesterday, but he's hoping to spike it with gin for Halloween.

After four days of raw in the mornings, I have the following story to share:

I've been an obsessive gum chewer for a very long time, and I've been working on giving it up since my bout of food poisoning in March when I was so sick I couldn't stand the taste of anything. Not only do I constantly chew gum, I never miss a day of flossing, even if it's 3 am, and I'm so drunk I can barely keep my knees from buckling underneath me - I floss at all costs. I even brush my teeth at least 3 times a day. Obsessive? Maybe. Bad breath? No. But, I have this issue with not being able to stand the taste of my own mouth. It's definitely on the list of ZB's bizarre idiosyncrasies. Since starting the pond scum, the chlorophyll in the kale keeps my breath as fresh as the day is long! I haven't chewed a piece of gum in five days.

This is huge news! I'm so proud!

the FDA rubs me raw

In the midst of recalls of melamine-tainted Chinese food products, including baby formula that has sickened thousands of infants, and killed four in China, the US Food and Drug Administration's "safety experts" have concluded that melamine is safe for adult consumption - 2.5 parts per million - and would "not raise health concerns even if a person ate food that was tainted with the chemical every day".

See the CNN article for details.

Now, here's the kicker - the FDA has apparently adopted a zero-tolerance policy regarding deliberate use of melamine in food products; however, if melamine happens to accidently find its way into food products while being used for industrial purposes, it's okay as long as it doesn't exceed 2.5 parts per million.

I am appalled. I am sickened. I am outraged. I don't want to ingest melamine. In fact, I'm adopting a zero-tolerance policy for myself. I'm going against the grain - I just can't be the cool kid. I'll be the rebel sad cutter chick who sits in the back of art class drawing skulls and dying flowers. I DON'T WANT MELAMINE IN MY FOOD, regardless of where it comes from.

Just another reason, my friends, to not eat food products.

It's high time we vote with our forks, and stop allowing our government determine what's in our best interest.

Now, while I intended to announce this in an entirely different post, it's fitting for me to divulge now.

Given my recent/current pregnancy loss, I'm about to embark on a journey which is part experimental, part spiritual, part to optimize my health and general well being, and part because I just don't know what to do with myself right now. I'm about to go as raw as I can for 30 days.

Initially my plan was to wait until next summer after the baby's arrival. Today, I decided that I'd wait until November 1st. Well, in doing some thinking late this afternoon, I realized that my body just feels toxic, heavy, and flat out disgusting. So, I'm seizing the day, and I'm starting tomorrow. Slow at first, I'm beginning with morning. I bought myself a juicer today, and stocked the fridge with the vegetables that I will use to make a very frightening morning drink to fill my body with living enzymes, calcium, and energy from the sun. From then on, I will be cleansing my body with fresh fruit until lunch, where I will then resume my normal eating habits.

Next week, I'll incorporate the afternoon into my experimental raw lifestyle. Dinner, on the other hand, may remain as is.

I have little interest in becoming a hard core, 100% raw foodist; however, I'm interested enough to experiment with up to 90% raw. Right now, I feel that giving up processed sugar and dairy will be a difficult but enjoyable experience. And, I'll be taking you along for the ride.

So, stay tuned for my raw adventure. In the meantime, start voting with with your fork by making intelligent food choices. Don't let the underfunded, overworked, and heavily lobbied FDA tell you what's best for your body.

park avenue leads to...

how strong do i need to be?

My hand on my belly has never tasted so bitter.

I wonder what I was doing when your heart stopped beating.
I wonder if you noticed; I wonder if you felt it.

I wonder if it was peaceful.

I'm broken and aching, knowing I'll never hold you or know your face. In one day, I've mourned the entire live you'd have lived. You would have been beautiful.

While I wait for the worst day of my life, I sob for you, my poor baby.

I'll take it all; all the pain is all I have to bear for you - it's all I have left.

I'll be as strong as you need me to be.

I am your mother.

potty time!

Punky started yanking at her clothes around noon, begging "Off, mama!" And, like the slave I am, I complied with her demand. Off to the shirt, the pants, and then she rips off her diaper and runs away. Well, I've pretty much given up on keeping my child clothed at all times. Kids love being naked. Then, the phone rings - my mom supplying me with her normal Friday lunchtime call. No sooner does Punky come to me, "Mama, mama, hands mama!" Guess who went pee pee in her potty for the very first time all on her own! Oh, yes, the pride I felt was insurmountable, even while she began stuffing toilet paper into her pee pee potty, and her hands, and any scrap paper she could find lying around the house...sigh.

So, maybe she's ready! I cleaned her up, cleaned up her potty, the whole time providing praise, and slipped some training pants on her. I figured today would be potty training day! A half hour later, she was still dry, so I suggested, "Punky, let's sit on the potty again, baby." I showed her how to pull down her training pants, and helped her sit down.

Commence freak out. She stood up, and screamed for her training pants to be pulled back up. I complied. Who am I to argue with not having to go? She sits back down, very happy and proud. Then, she goes pee pee...a lot...right through the training pants. Punky stands up, looks in her potty and starts wailing, "Ewwww, yuck!!!! OH NO!!!"...throws herself onto the floor, kicking, screaming, flailing, totally out of control. So, I let her have her tantrum.

But, it didn't stop. About 10 minutes later, I was nearly going out of my mind, so to avoid being beaten like an innocent bystander in a riot, I half picked her up, and partially dragged her to her bedroom, where I attempted, for a whopping three minutes to remove her soaked training pants. Once I achieved success, I threw on a diaper as quickly as is possible with a flailing toddler - not quick, people - and while at arms length, put her in her crib. I covered her with her night-night, and explained to her briefly that going pee pee in the potty was very very good, and that I was very proud of her, but that for now, I wanted her to rest, and we'd talk about it later.

I do hope that my attempts to reason with a two-year-old aren't entirely in vain, although it sometimes makes me feel silly since she literally doesn't listen. The tantrums have changed in the last week, and I'm certain we've entered a new chapter in the adventures of Punky. She's so much fun right now, but man, it really does only get harder.

vices

We all have our favorite vices. Some are benign, like my obsessive love affair with chocolate, and others could cause long term damage, like, well, my obsessive love affair with chocolate. ;)

Okay, okay, maybe that's a bit overboard.

Today, I was witness to an adult woman, in the presence of her child, publicly sucking her thumb. Now, I honestly didn't care. At the time, it didn't strike me as odd. Some people chew their nails, some psychotically twist their hair as if they're plotting the demise of their next victim...whatever. But, then the man she was with, a significant other of some sort (they didn't have the married way about them) saw me see her sucking her thumb. He immediately grabbed her arm and yanked it from her mouth. The most enjoyable part of all of this was her complete non issue with having her thumb violently stolen from her. She's used to this!

Personally, if I found myself to be a 30-something woman who was still subconsciously sucking her thumb in public, I'd be taking severe action, striving to be a woman respected. Such action may include the binding of limbs; however, if I found my toes hacking away at the rope with a disposable razor in my sleep, further action might involve amputation with a homemade guillotine, or I might hold a fundraiser to hire a bodyguard to keep my toes in line. Then, there's the issue of the mouth. Maybe I could have my jaws wired shut for a few weeks to break the habit. I once knew a woman who did that to lose weight, though I'd have to question the integrity of the orthodontist who'd go along with such a thing.

Anyway, I'm off topic.

My point is, if you're an adult, you can do whatever you want, including sucking your thumb in public. Vices provide everyday parties for those who can't just be, but there will always be consequences - maybe heart disease, cancer, or just not being taken seriously as an adult woman, the latter of which I'd have the most difficulty living with.

for your listening pleasure.

the new war

'Tis the season of the fourth year. This fall, mommy wars move from the battles over conventional vs. organic, home cooked vs. fast food, and convenience vs. slow-the-fuck-down-already-would-you?...to all out message board and blogger war over politics, and every possible facet within the category.

Now, I'm a huge fan of politics. I love reading about it, I love debating it, and just like everyone else, I'm always right. ;) But, seriously, there are certainly others in my social circle (props to Mel!) who know much more than I do. I don't purport to be any sort of expert (not in this subject), but I will tell you, quite honestly, there is some severely disturbing flat out damn ignorance proliferating like a bad scabies infestation.

I would now like to introduce a liberal (note double entendre) dose of medicated ointment to relieve all our itching.

Muslims are peaceful people. Period! There is no negotiation. I've had just about enough of the idea that "maybe some" are peaceful, loving people. Muslim extremists/terrorists, are an exception to the rule. Think of the KKK as a "Christian" organization doing God's work. Same thing.

Now, if you're so ignorant that you don't believe my statement above, you are a disappointment, and an embarrassment. Quite frankly, anyone who believes such hateful nonsense doesn't deserve to have a voice in this election. Hate monger all you want, just as long as you take it with you on your long walk off a short pier.

I had a thought today, while reading some hateful ideas on a mommy board, that it would be a fun experiment to put a sticker on my car that says something like, "Hug a Muslim". But, you know, in imagining actually doing that, I felt afraid of what a Christian extremist might do to me or my child in the car. Hateful Americans, your personal value has fallen below that of the suffering American dollar.

These are very sad days, my friends.

just a song to enjoy.

sherrie

When I think back to all that's happened in the last several months, the things I've been fortunate enough to do, the people I've been fortunate enough to meet, the good times I've had with my family and extended family, the times I've been able to see my good friends, and the moments where I finally feel connected to my mother in a way that always seemed impossible...it makes it almost unbearable to be let down.

You may remember this post.

I was out to lunch with my mother today, something we used to do often when we used to work in the same office, before we moved to Louisville. (Yes, by the way, I've been on a little vacation.) During our lunch, we were talking about office politics, since I know all her coworkers just as well as she does. I asked her how Sherrie is doing, mid-bite of salad. There I am, chomping away, eyeing my next tomato and crouton attack, when I realize she didn't answer me. I looked up. Mom was staring at me.

OMG

"Did she die?"

"Rachel, I told you."

You you fucking didn't.

Now, I just have to vent a bit here, but this is the way it goes. Rachel routinely gets no relevant information. Ever. And, then came the excuses...

"I didn't think you knew her that well."
"I swore I told you when I called you on a Friday."
...I can't even continue...

So, I ask, "Mom, when did she die?"

She didn't remember.

There I am, sobbing in the restaurant, into my salad, my 2-year-old almost in tears, "Mama, you okay? You okay, Mama?"

What's interesting is that I've been thinking of Sherrie lately. I'd hoped to hear from her after I sent the card. So, after we finished what became an awkward and regrettable lunch date, I came back to my parents' house, where I now sit. Thanks to Google, I found her obituary very easily - May 2, 2008 - just under a month from the day I sent the card. I'm more glad now than ever that I sent it.

Sherrie battled cancer for years, and I'm sorry she's gone, but I'm glad that she's not hurting anymore. The creepy thing, May 2, 2009 is Baby Zuke's due date. Not that that means anything, but when I learned I was pregnant and my due date was figured, I kept thinking, This day is something...what is it? But, I hadn't known.

There is no proper end to this post. So...the end.

Thanks for reading.

the stereo's broken...

I was wondering if I could play this tape.

rapturous

A clip from one of my favorite movies - Before Sunrise.

save this painting!

Love art? Save this painting from certain peril!



This was painted by my friend Pam, and it has been entered in a contest where the losers' paintings will be destroyed by "chainsaw, acid bath, samurai sword, etc." You have the chance to help save this painting from certain destruction by voting here: http://vote.artvsart.com/city/louisville

The point? Pam could win money, and she could really use some right now. Go vote, and then pat yourself on the shoulder for doing a good deed for the day.

(I wish someone would inform them that dissolving a painting in an acid bath may not be very eco-friendly - *sigh*)

happy anniversary!

I can't say for sure what I expected to receive as a gift for my third wedding anniversary, but it certainly wasn't a traditionally assigned leather good. Nor, was it the modern alternative of crystal or glass.

After a few days of pondering my comment about spicing some things up, Mr. ZB took it upon himself to stop at an adult store on his way home today and pick up my anniversary gift. Black fuzzy handcuffs!

How cute!

I was totally surprised, and a little taken aback at the thought of Mr. ZB going into an adult store on his own, wading his way through dongs, vibrators, and blow up dolls hanging from the ceiling. How sweet of him to endure such a thing. Usually, ahem, he does this short of shopping in the privacy of his dark corner of the basement.

While I didn't expect our spicing things up, nor my anniversary gift for that matter, to involve a locking mechanism, I'm surely glad he didn't follow the traditional suggestion of leather to sanction the purchase of a whip. That's just not my style. ;)

big...bang

It should come as no surprise to you that I have a strong belief in the nurturing of nature. And, while I consider myself a realist, I'm an oddly paranoid person, easily spooked, quick to assume outlandish explanations by my own invention rather than trust in a simple, straight line connecting the shortest distance between two points.

No doubt, if you're a worldly person, you know of the Large Hadron Collider intended to aid in our understand of the formation of the universe. The collider is buried some 300 feet below ground across the borders of France and Switzerland, in a 17-mile tunnel, where on Wednesday, the collider will begin to circulate a beam of protons through the tunnel.

Soon, however, the collider will begin to do its job - smash protons.

Scientists predict that this will not be the cause of Earth's demise, however I'm one of those crazy skeptics. Unfortunately, it's not up to me. What gets me is this: if you hold a lit firecracker on an open palm, you get burned, but if you hold a lit firecracker in your fist, you become an amputee.

How about we smash protons on the surface? Is it really a good idea to smash protons 300 feet below ground? Granted, I'm no scientist, but I thrive on common sense.

Food for thought: It might just be that humans were not intended to go around smashing protons.

Maybe if it works, Mattel will start marketing some Micro Hadron Colliders. Eight year olds can smash some protons and open up some worm holes to escape chores and homework. Children will go missing. Someone will finally discover the dimension containing all of our lost socks.

Or, it will happen that $10 billion was wasted on a big circular tunnel. Cool! A tunnel! (Note sarcasm.)

Let's hope we all make it to see 2009 without being smashed into a black hole, or without flesh dripping from our bones in nuclear fallout.

Can't things be left just as they are?

sweet, juicy...and crunchy?

One of my favorite summertime treats is watermelon. Yum! Watermelon! But, it's becoming increasingly more difficult to find one in the store that has seeds. Apparently, most people seek out the genetically modified seedless model. Not I. I love watermelon seeds!

I'm the only person I know who eats them. And, I'm talking, seek out the seeded variety, choose cuts with the most seeds, crunch into every seed I possess, savor the flavor of the seeds, and finish any seeds that I find swimming in the bowl when the watermelon is gone. I even go so far as to snub the offer of watermelon if it is seedless. Yes, I do love them that much. Never have I met another human who eats them on purpose.

To satisfy some curiosity, and possibly to gather ammunition against my grandmother the next time she tells me (going on three decades now) that watermelon will grow in my stomach if I eat the seeds, I did a bit of research.

Watermelon seeds contain 13 grams of fat per ounce, and a significant bit of protein. They also contain 3 grams of Zinc (25% the RDA for women under age 50), and 2 grams of iron (14% RDA). They're nutritious! Can you hear the angels singing?

It might also be keen to add that Nigerians make soup out of some watermelon seeds, and they are a preferred snack in China, just to name couple.

I am, therefore, decidedly normal, in my own special ZB way.

insomnia

I've been having trouble sleeping now for about 6 weeks. I wake up around 3:00 or 4:00 am, and toss and turn for up to two hours before I get back to sleep, with only minutes before Punky wakes herself up for the day. After many weeks of this, I can't take much more.

It's now 4:45 am, and I've been awake since 3:00. Mr. ZB has been snoring, and Chloe, our creepily clingy calico would not leave me alone, no matter how many times I pushed and kicked her off the bed. Deciding i needed to get some sort of sleep tonight, I made my way to the guest bedroom to grab a blanket, and I made my way to the living room couch. Funny how I didn't choose to sleep in the guest room, right? Since I'm pregnant, you don't get to argue with me.

So, I turn off the light, and feel my way to the living room couch, and quietly put some of Punky's toys and books on the floor that we'd left out last night. Finally....I sit...

***In cat puke***

No joke. The one night I sleep without pants...can you believe it?

So, I cleaned up the cat puke, scrubbed the couch, and turn around to get my blanket....

***I step in cat puke***

Oh, yes. No lie.

So, I cleaned up my foot.

After turning on the light again to clean up the floor, I find cat puke on my shoe, too.

Now that I've vented, I'm very tired, and am going to curl up on the couch to enjoy the fact that Mr. ZB suddenly stopped snoring since I left the room (hmmm, maybe he does it on purpose!), and try to avoid the wet spot on the couch so I can get some sleep before his alarm goes off in an hour.

Good...er, morning...

whoops.

when people get smart...

It's time to increase marketing!

Americans are at a constant disadvantage. We have government representatives, lobbyists, and food industry all working together, not to mention farmers who rely on subsidies just to scrape by and feed their own families.

America, you've read the statistics, you're taking charge of your health, and you're getting smarter.

Bad move.

There's now a marketing campaign aimed at you to dispel the truths you've acquired, and to redirect you back to stupid. The fall to stupid is a long one. Remember as you read the following what's behind this campaign. Money. This is not about your health. This is not about truth. This is not about what's right. It's about filling our diets with a cheap form of sugar that breaks down differently in our bodies, leaving us craving more food, leaving us more susceptible to diabetes and obesity. I hope you choose to spread this message.

Sweet Surprise

I am appalled and flat out disgusted at the misinformation provided by this website. Ohhhh, yes, I see now - the Corn Refiners Association. Increase demand for HFCS - fantastic idea. Let's continue converting millions of acres of land to growing more corn to support ethanol consumption, and cheap food. Let's drown out more family farms. Let's import more vegetables, because we've run out of land on which to grow them. Let's work to further increase (solely) the price of corn, so more people go hungry so we can eat more (insert an eternal list of every food product to which HFCS is added) and drink more Coca Cola.

This marketing campaign has begun because YOU have decreased consumption. Publicly traded companies are required to show a profit every quarter, and they can't do that unless you buy more. But, you can't buy more unless you consume more. And you won't consume more unless what you're already consuming isn't leaving you satisfied.

Do some research, and get smarter. Common table sugar, and even totally natural forms like honey and maple syrup, leave you feeling sated. HFCS is processed by the body in a different way, and does NOT signal the brain that you're full. It's a cheap sweetener, and therefore a very simple way to manipulate you to increase your consumption of food products.

The biggest mistake we can make when it comes to our health and our futures, is to believe the rhetoric that a calorie is a calorie. It's a lie, and it's one that's delivered us to the health situation where we collectively find ourselves.

sigh...

There's almost nothing a good, long, hard 2 hour nap won't fix.

The world is a sunny place again, where I can skip down the street and share a mutual wave of hello with a pigeon; where the neighbors pick up their dogs' poop in front of my yard; where the scent of roses appears to me with seemingly no source...

Hehe, I'm bullshitting. But, I do actually feel much better.

Top it all off with a wonderful dream and soft sheets...

...sigh.

vacation = mommy rehab

Where's that British TV nanny chick when you need her?

Maybe I should be more direct in saying that I need some severe help in putting the breaks on, or in generally dealing with, my 2-year-old's incessant whining.

Now, I fully understand, and even cherish the fact that she acts like she does towards me because she fully trusts me with her feelings, and expresses herself honestly and fully; I do love that. But, sometimes, I'm just shamefully self-involved, like once a month when my fuse starts short, my eyes burn red with anger, my breasts seem to inflate to twice their natural size (which is already quite large enough, thank you), and the inability to button my jeans threatens to smash my self-esteem into dust particles destined for refuse.

Getting through this day has been a challenge. And, even at this moment, when I'm trying to steal a few moments alone (Ha!...alone...as if that actually happens) my eyes nearly bust from their sockets, and I scream inside my head at every innocent (but, repeatedly frequent) squeal spilling from the inner depths of my child.

I'm beginning to dream of a real mommy vacation. Not grocery shopping. Not a few hours stolen at a coffee shop. I want a week. Alone. In a strange city. Among strange people. Eating strange food. Drinking whatever I want, whenever I want. Sleep until noon. Spend hours in a tub. Fancy restaurants. Total freedom, people.

The day is coming (although probably not for a while), and I think I deserve it. My toddler may be a whiner, but aren't they all? I'm a good mommy...damn it. I've learned that self sacrifice is my nature, and I do nothing half-assed.

Today's horoscope: August 31, 2008
Have fun today, Rachel. Put your worries aside and live this day as if it were your last on Earth. Keep a light and cheery outlook on life and don't dwell on minor mishaps. This is a day to enjoy the sunshine and keep smiling no matter what circumstances may arise. You will find that your good mood is contagious, and that pretty soon you will be the pied piper of good cheer and a positive attitude.

I might just keep myself awake laughing in bed tonight. Hmm, laughter is good for the soul, right?

"you know i like dancin' with you"

This is some 80s cheese for sure, but "I know what I like."

a lazy saturday

Punky and I were out of the house by 8:30 am to let Mr. ZB sleep in. He's been working so much, I figured that he deserves some extra quiet time. Out to gather food for next week, and pizza ingredients for today!

We took our time, window shopping, looking at children's books, and after finishing our regular shopping, decided on the self check-out just so that some cashier or other shopping guest didn't disrupt my euphoric but calm morning.

I've wanted to share photos of my homemade (totally from scratch) pizza before, but honestly, it's never tasted as good as it does today. The trick is to slice your baby portabellas (previously, I'd sauteed them whole, and chopped after), and throw in a couple of handfuls of vadalia onion which I always have pre-chopped in my refrigerator.



A cast iron skillet and olive oil are essential to get the rich flavor.



Disregarding an hour and a half for dough preparation, this pizza involved about two solid hours of work. I only wish I could share the flavor with you, because it's indeed the best part. The work was worth it; I've never experienced such flavor on pizza.



Now, I'm off to eat a little more pizza, drink a little more beer, and hope that Punky sleeps for another hour, at least.

Have a fantastic weekend!

082708

and i ran...i ran so far away.

Before dinner tonight, and after Mr. ZB came home from work, I decided on the fly that I needed today to be the day I run outside. I've been promising myself this for some time (divorcing the treadmill), but had originally planned for this next Friday. I had the urge, and seized the moment to take 30 minutes for myself to go outside, without my cell phone, without my ID, without the Internet (for which my heart reserves a nice squishy, blood rushing corner); I even walked out without a house key.

Just me. Alone with my thoughts. Or, so I'd hoped.

It took just under one minute and thirty seconds for one of our neighborhood's chronically unemployed wandering slugs to start talking to me.

"Hey there! Did you just move in?"

"No."

"Juss wonderin', 'cuz I ain't never seen you before. I'm Mike."

Well, Mike, fat white guy with cornrows and no jobby job, you have seen me before, because you wave to me all the time, fucktard.

This is precisely why I don't exercise outside and alone. Men. Women are not meat; we are not prey; we do not exist merely for your physical enjoyment, nor are we ready for you to give it to us, big boy, just by your acknowledgement that our tits have entered the room.

I eventually made my way around the whole neighborhood, through all the side streets, and had to turn around a few times to avoid lapping the whole thing more than once. I was trying to avoid Mike. On my cool down walk, I ended up walking passed our house, walking down another side street, then back to the house. At the corner of the side street, Mike and his greasy neighborhood cronies caught a glimpse of me. Apparently, I was at a safe enough distance that they felt it acceptable to start the whistles and cat calling.

I sprinted home and parked my butt on the back patio where I commenced near panic attack, severe disappointment in the common man, and inevitable penis envy.

I wonder what it would be like to leave home and be viewed as a person, not a woman, not a mother, and definitely not some kind of quivering pocket pussy.

Even with this, I hope to run outside on Friday. I loved it, it was a better workout, and it was nice to unplug for a while. My hope is that Mike and his dickless bitches will just get used to me and leave me alone.

Cross your fingers.

passages

Buy a ticket, and watch the show. My life is a movie, and I'm a virgin director. One is never a veteran of her own movie, for there's only one. Every dance seduces her next move, calculated, yet naive. The queen checks, and the queen mates; she chooses the passage. The king is an innocent bystander, erected with his own glass ceiling.

Venomous, my passages exalt me - chosen doors, and windows of opportunity. I am a woman. Life begins with me.

aunt karen

Karen: "Hi, Rachel! This is Aunt Karen! How are you?"

(I don't have an aunt Karen, but I went with it.)

ZB: "I'm great! How are you?

Karen: "I'm good, honey. I'm good"

(Who IS this person???)

Karen: "Listen, I wanted to call and talk to you about..."

(What followed was confusing, because obviously she didn't have the right Rachel, but she went on and on...and on...and I rather enjoyed that she was putting so much effort into this conversation, only to have to do it again later - I'm a smidgen evil like that.)

Karen: "...so, I'd still love your help with that project, but unfortunately, you won't be allowed to come into the office to do it."

(Pause)

ZB: "Uhh, I'm sorry, but what's going on?"

(I was suddenly confused when I realized that she sounded exactly like a former boss of mine, Karen, from a job I left 4 years ago.)

Karen: "This is Rachel, right?"

ZB: "Yes."

Karen: "Rachel V******"

ZB: "Ohhh, no. You have the wrong number."

Karen: "Well, this number is programmed into my phone, and she's had the same number for a long time."

(Apparently she thought she could convince me that I was wrong, or lying - maybe hiding the actual Rachel in the closet, or possibly the trunk of my car.)

ZB: "What number did you dial?"

Karen: "***.****"

ZB: "Karen, I apologize, but I've had this number for 7 years. There must be some mistake."

Thinking about it more, I think she was my old boss. I can't possibly imagine how the mix up with the numbers happened, or why she would still have my cell phone number after 4 years, but it was an entertaining distraction, nevertheless.

How rare to call a wrong number and get someone with the same name of the person intended. Too fun! I want another!

Karen, let's try again! This time, I'll call you!