Friday, December 30, 2005

I've written a children's story and I need an illustrator. The pictures will be the most important part of the book as they will convey the TRUTH. If anyone has a talent for drawing what people tell them to draw, you can email me at I will be shopping the final product to publishers, so it may be an opportunity for some special, talented person. Or it could just end
up being good practice.


It's been brought to my attention that haloscan is not letting people comment. I will be putting up blogger comments until I can get the situation resolved. I haven't written about my tits and masturbation habits just to be denied feedback.

Now, since I have very low self-esteem, I read my comments about 4-6 times a day. I KNOW WHEN I GET SPAMMED. There is no need to waste valuable, Zelda-flattering space telling me about it. I will remove it as I come upon it.


I was watching a news program where they were talking about the lady teachers who have sex with their students. The reasons they gave were probably valid, i.e. the boys give them attention they don't get anymore as married women, the boys worship the ground they walk on, their sex drives are more compatible, blah, blah, blah.

But when they got around to talking about solutions, one of the panelists (who were incidentally all women) said that the husbands of these ladies should be treating them "like goddesses," obviously infering that if they did, these women wouldn't fall prey to aggressive, hormonal, teenage boys.

I couldn't believe it. I agree that these women aren't predators and that these boys are not violated in the same way that girls usually are, but for crying out loud. These women are not right. They are doing very bad things that, as adult, married women, they ought to have some control over. These poor men, by all accounts, have been hard-workers who loved their wives. So say that responsible, wage-earning husbands and fathers are in some way to blame for their wives' outrageous behavior is nauseating.

One two-minute conversation ending your marriage is all it takes for you not to be a cheating bitch who sleeps with children as opposed to just a bitch who sleeps with children. And why didn't these panalists suggest that these women are selfish sluts who simply want to have their exciting, illicit romances without giving up their meal ticket? They droned on and on about older women being sexually compatible with teenage boys, but didn't mention how very foolish it is to think with one's genitals.

Sometimes women make me sick on so many levels. Men do too, but since I am a women, I refuse to be caught in a web of feminist hypocrisy. It's the least I can do.

Wednesday, December 28, 2005

Because I Could

I masturbated at work today. I wasn't really in the mood and it took a long, long time. But no one was here, so I thought I wouldn't waste the opportunity.

Tuesday, December 27, 2005

The Worst Christmas Ever

First of all, I want to apologize for not getting over to everyone's blogs to wish them good tidings. I've been insanely busy with what was possibly the worst Christmas ever.

I'll start at the beginning and apologize in advance for the length.

The day after Thanksgiving, I had to tell my mom about my stepdad's indiscretions. I didn't come to that conclusion lightly. I had warned stepdad that if I so much as suspected he was up to something, I would be telling my mom. The day after Thanksgiving, he disappeared for hours and my mom couldn't find him. She told me she thought he was cheating. Still, I didn't say anything except for her to get proof if it. By lucky coincidence, she called my stepdad who gave her some bullshit story and then forgot to hang up his cell phone. My poor mom ended up hearing a sordid conversation between him and another woman.

So I told her about the email and apologized for not telling her sooner. Well needless to say, my mom was furious at stepdad and he was furious at me. And seeing as how he was my boss, it left me in quite an awkward position.

Now as it always happens (at least in my family), the situation is far more complicated than just an ordinary case of adultery. In order to explain it fully, I have to go back through my own family's history to before I was born.

Back in the 60s and 70s, my parents were hippies. My stepdad and his ex were also hippies. And they all became hippie converts to Christianity. They joined a cult called the Children of God. I won't even condescend to give them a link, but there is a lot of information on the internet about them.

Before I go any further, I just want to make clear that my vitriol against this cult is in no way an indictment of Christianity in general.

Part of this cult's schtick was that the world was going to end and America was going to be destroyed, so everyone better hightail it for parts unknown. My parents ended up in the middle east. I was born in Greece, but only just missed being born in Turkey. My sister was born in Iran.

Now, as it turns out, there was a great deal of conflict occurring in Iran in the year of 1978. No one was really hanging out the welcome mat for Westerners and my family and I had to leave under much duress. I don't remember being frightened, but something must have heightened my senses because my first memories are of airplanes in the dead of night, and watching a clock in what I think was a train or a bus station. It had a black and white tile floor.

My parents concluded that perhaps the cult leader had it wrong and it was everywhere but America that was going to be destroyed, so they came back to New York and had the rest of my sisters in quick succession. Eight in all. I should, perhaps, state right here that they no longer wanted anything to do with the cult. And it was the year they left that the cult began to get malignantly crazy, as opposed to benign, hippie crazy.

My father was diagnosed with leukemia when I was 11. We moved to Houston when I was 15 so he could get treatment. But he died when I was 16 leaving my mother with almost no money and eight daughters to raise on her own. A few months after my father died, my stepfather came out to pay my mom a visit. He and his ex had just divorced. They had eight children also. Against everyone's wishes but their own, they married just over a year after my father's death.

Resentment reigned supreme. To my stepdad's credit, he put up with all of it and managed to establish a successful real estate business. This of course has all been done with my mother waiting on him hand and foot and encouraging him the whole way.

Now to the present situation. Stepdad hasn't been cheating on my mom with some skanky native. No. He has been seeing members of the cult. They call themselves The Family of God or simply The Family. They are up to their same old tricks which include having the women (married and unmarried) sleep with men who have money and bring them into the fold. A more parasitic group never existed. I could go on and on about the mind games and house of cards logic these deluded individuals practice, but I'm sure you can guess.

Part of the problem is that it is very appealing at first. It appears to be a laid-back, whole grain, patchwork skirt kind of atmosphere. Women are allowed to sleep with anyone for the purpose of "conversion." And they justify it all in their morning bible study. Honestly, what man wouldn't jump at that opportunity?

But that well dries up pretty fast and once you're involved, it degenerates quickly into petty power struggles and a deep, overriding fear of damnation. Your free will is sapped into the collective and suddenly you are no longer an independent, autonomous person, but a powerless, defensive member of a cult. It becomes a drug and you become an addict. You may think you've left, but one day you hear someone call you by your cult name and suddenly you belong to them once more.

I'm rather afraid this is what has happened to stepdad. He doesn't want to divorce my mom, but I don't think he wants to stop seeing these people either.

So the current situation is quite tense. My mother, in an understandable but foolish fit of rage, told my sisters everything. Most of my sisters haven't dealt fully with our father's death and our mother's hasty remarriage, so as you can imagine, stepdad was persona non grata for the holidays.

Two of my sisters wanted absolutely nothing to do with him and said they wouldn't come down for the holidays if they had to step foot in his house. So I offered up what seemed to me the only workable solution. Have everyone except stepdad over to my house before Mass. Stepdad could then meet my mom for midnight mass and then go home with her and the kids who live there. But Stepdad didn't like that idea and insisted on going to the early Mass. My mom, who can't say no to anyone but me, tried to talk the recalcitrant sisters into letting stepdad into the house just for a little while. My sisters didn't budge, and stepdad, possessing the maturity of a coked up adolescent, decided to come in anyway.

Knowing the shit was a millisecond away from the proverbial fan, I took him outside and tried to gently persuade him to go have a drink for a few hours, then come back. He said no. My sisters came out in full on fuck-you-in-your-cult-loving-ass mode, and everyone said the fuck word at least 11 times apiece at 7:30 pm in a quiet little family neighborhood on Christmas Eve. I've seen more refined homeless shelters.

Stepdad, drove off in a royal snit, my mom jumped in Jethro's car and screamed at Jethro to follow him, which, bless his precious heart, he did. So, if I may wallow a bit in self-pity, I was left with The Bitches, my Jewish grandmother, my German grandfather, and without my husband on Christmas Eve. I had spent hours making a pretty cool hors d'oeuvre supper which went uneaten, and I had the added misery of knowing that my dear husband was hungry and stuck with my insane, grief-stricken mother.

Christmas morning was a blast though.

Gwennie and Emma loved their presents. I think we hit one out of the park on those. And I got Jethro a couple of shirts, which he need badly. And he got me a gorgeous bathrobe and slippers. I liked the slippers so much, I had a nightmare that I accidentally wore them outside.

And now to wax unforgivably sentimental. My greatest gift is always Jethro. Somehow he saw through all the drama and found something good in me - enough that he wanted to share himself with me forever. I couldn't dream of more, and there is nothing more to be had.

Tuesday, December 20, 2005

The Downside of Having Your Jewish Grandmother for the Holidays

Setting: all fours on the living room floor

Zelda: "C'mon. Live a little. She probably won't be back for hours."

Jethro: "But just our luck and she walks right in."

Zelda unzippers frantically

Zelda: "Well make it fast then."

Jethro: "But the repercussions of having someone of that age..... ah fuck....

tittie fondling and dry humping ensues.

Jethro: "Oh, hi Bubbie."

Zelda scrambles psychotically for the sofa.

Zelda: "We were just trying out a new adjustment."

Bubbie (with a New York Jewish accent): "Oh you'll have to try that on me later. I've been having this chronic lower back pain. I can't even stand 15 minutes. And my feet! Forget about it.......

Sunday, December 18, 2005

Bathroom Attendants and Other More Enjoyable Wastes of Skin and Air

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Friday, December 16, 2005

The Home Stretch

Jethro: "Just think. You're a doctor's wife."

Zelda: "Yeah. Now I'll have to give you head and stuff."

I love making Jethro laugh so hard he falls on the floor. But it could have been the margaritas.

So Jethro's finished. All his adjustments are done just in time for graduation TOMORROW!!! I can't believe it. I simply can't believe it. I've been in survival mode for so long, it's hard to adjust to the idea that we will soon have normal lives again with Pop going off to work and Mom putting out hard-core to make up for not having or wanting any kind of career except that which is largely unattainable.

And speaking of careers, Gwendolyn is telling everyone she wants to be a chiropractor. Or a policewoman. Personally I think she'd make a great prison warden. But the other day I took her and Emma to a toy store to get an idea of what they wanted for Christmas. There was little ironing board on display and some stuffed animals on a shelf. I watched them take the stuffed animals and give them adjustments on the ironing board. The cashiers were looking at them perplexedly and I explained their dad was a chiropractor. They thought that was pretty funny.

Y'all, I've never seen Jethro so happy. We went to a little party for his class last night. He was already out there, so I got a ride to it with some of his friends who live near here. When I saw him he came up and gave me the biggest hug I've had in months, lifting me off the ground - no small feat, and a dangerous stunt for a chiropractor.

Have I mentioned lately how ridiculously in love with him I am?

Wednesday, December 14, 2005

The Sacred and Profane

My family and I were in Iran when the Shah was deposed and Khomeni took power. We had to flee for our lives.

Jethro and his family were in Vietnam when the North Vietnamese took Saigon. They had to flee for their lives.

It's interesting to watch the history channel and see our lives intertwined with international events, but I fear it may also give one an exaggerated sense of one's place in history. Is it any wonder I strive so hard for a kind of depraved mediocrity?

The question is, what do Jethro and I do with those experiences? Somehow, I don't think we were thrown together just to bury them. I keep thinking there is a story that needs to be told, but I don't know how to tell it. Every time I try, I become accutely aware of my sex life or something comedic (or both). Why do I seek out the profane when there is something more to be said? It's not that I feel guilty, it's just that I feel pressure to do something more. There are so many pieces of me struggling to make it to the page, but winning the battle every time is the large-bosomed, foul-mouthed, pseudo-slut. I'm beginning to have a wee bit of contempt for her. She's just so pervasive.

That's all. It's time the meds. Not that I take them, but if I publish this (as I have been debating with myself for 10 minutes as to whether I should), I probably ought to.

Monday, December 12, 2005

Friday, December 09, 2005

Reason # 4,906 Why Zelda Does Not Belong In An Office

"Hi Janet," sez I to a woman who was not Janet, but who bore a striking resemblance. Janet is not attractive. The woman glared at me and did not say "hi" back. I pretended I was talking to my hand, which is actually named Charlston A. Winthrop VII. He's a little uptight, but he's loaded.


Those Dreams We Dream

I had the best dream last night. There has only ever been one guy who dicked me over. We were friends and he had no right to do it, but he was a Bastard so he did anyway.

I dreamt last night that he came into the living room wearing a kilt. Now normally I love kilts. They make me hot and creamy or however you else you may want to refer to sexually piqued. Perversely, part of the reason I love Jethro is that he will never EVER indulge this fantasy.

But in my dream, Bastard sat down with his legs akimbo and I got a good look. Nothing to write home about. But when I pointed out to him that he was giving us all a free show, he scooted closer to the dude he was sitting next to and started rubbing his leg.

I fucking knew it.

Thursday, December 08, 2005

"Jingle Bells, Mommy smells
Emma laid an egg.
Daddy is a chicken bird
And Gwennie rules the world!"

And that's how Gwennie takes us all out without even having to reload.

Wednesday, December 07, 2005


So much family crap. I'm inundated. Posting will resume when Jupiter aligns with Casper the Friendly Ghost and everyone either drops dead or decides to go on about their lives.

Monday, December 05, 2005

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

So my neighbor, the wife of the child molester, asked me if I could pick up her boys after school. Her husband, the child molester, doesn't have a job but he can't pick them up because he isn't allowed within some yards of a school. I don't mind doing it since I pick Gwennie up anyway, but when we're in the car, someone said something about the tooth fairy and the little shit with the big schlong said, "There is no tooth fairy. Your mom is the tooth fairy." Gwennie's face fell and then the little brat went on. "Yeah, and Santa is dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Your Mom and Dad are the ones who give you the presents."

I almost beat the kid then and there. I don't think I've ever come so close to cracking a kid across the mouth. I told him he was stupid and had no idea what he was talking about. Yes I did. And I don't care. What's the worst that could happen? The child molester's wife won't let me pick up her brats anymore? I'm fucking heartbroken.

I don't think Gwennie believes him, but what a sad way to learn the secret. I hope I can keep it until she's at least 8.

Friday, December 02, 2005

What Goes Down Must Come Up

Normally, I do not discuss my own bowel movements or other defacatory processes. Jethro's are up for grabs (in the literary sense), but I'm a lady and ladies do not take dumps. At least until two days ago. I ate some bad edamame. Edamame are soybeans the Japanese cover in salt and eat like a snack. Very nutritious except for the ebola virus.

I came home and was pretty hungry having skipped lunch. So I boiled some frozen edamame, salted it and ate it by the fistful. Pretty soon thereafter, I started feeling sick and nauseous. Then I started vomiting, and then I started vomiting from another direction. I had to go pick up Emma, but every time I tried to leave, I had to throw up or go poo. Finally, I had to call my sister-in-law to go get her. Gwennie had never seen me sick like that so she was kind of frantically running around and begging me not to throw up on her. I told her to stay out of the way and I wouldn't, but I think I did a little bit. When I'd finally thrown up everything I had eaten from three weeks back, it quit and I felt light years better.

But the saddest part of this entire story is that while I was in the middle of turning my asshole inside out, I was thinking, "Should I blog about this?"