Kitten Syndrome and CAWOW!

It has been brought to my attention by me, that the "Cool Ass Word of the Week!" might as well be called the "Cool Ass Word I Pull Out of My Ass Whenever the Hell I Feel Like It!" because the weekly rendition is just not a'happenin. However, CAWIPOOMAWTHIFLI! is WAAAAAAAAY too long of an acronmym, so I'll stick with CAWOW!; be it a misrepresentation of the truth or not. This week's word is:

am·bu·la·to·ry (ăm'byə-lə-tôr'ē, -tōr'ē) pronunciation - adj.
1. Of, relating to, or adapted for walking.
2. a. Capable of walking; not bedridden: an ambulatory patient.
b. Designed for or available to patients who are not bedridden: ambulatory care
c. Moving about; itinerant.

I've been thinking about this word quite a bit lately. See, I am a 30-year-young, or twenty-ten-year-old (if you adhere to the flawless logic of Librarian Extraordinaire), woman in reasonably good health, and being that I do not suffer any circulatory or nervous system ailments, you might assume that my ambulatory nature is quite unimpeded. That's what I assumed. Until a few months ago. Right around the time of Kitten Acquisition, I started to realize something odd. I was unable to walk normally. My heretofor ambulatory legs were not as, uh, ambulatory as before.

I stumbled about the house like a toddler just learning to put one foot in front of the other. And my stumbles were often accompanied by a strange squeaking, not unlike the sound of a kitten meowing. After weeks of study, I've discovered what ails me. Kitten Syndrome.

While it is not a rare condition, it often goes undiagnosed because, well, I fucking discovered it! Duh. Anyway, I've taken some photographic evidence of this condition because words can be so confining, and it is best displayed in photographs anway.







I am happy to inform you that this ailment does not last forever. In fact, the duration of Kitten Syndrome can be shortened by a few swift but gentle kicks of the offending kitten across the room. Hardwood floors are a godsend as they aid in lofting kitty even further, giving the sufferer an extra 1.2 seconds to get in two unhindered steps. If you're quick. And eventually, the kitten will clue in. If yours is dumb, it may take a little longer.

If you've found that you are less ambulatory these days, I'll list some other symptoms so you might make the proper diagnosis.

-Tiny scratches on your body just about anywhere, but primarily on the arms and feeet.
-If you find that your trouble walking is pronounced even further when you are wearing shoes with floppy shoelaces, you can be fairly certain that you are suffering from Kitten Syndrome.
-A kitten in the house. This is a surefire way to make a diagnosis.

If Kitten Syndrome is something you are living with, don't fret. I'm thinking of starting up a support group. Hang tight, and keep kicking kittens. It will eventually help.

In other news, I have a bit of a crying hangover. Thanks to each and every one of you for your love and hugs. You rock like that.

A Letter Writing Campaign

Dear God/dess,

It's not you, it's me. I just need a little time away from you to think about shit, okay? I'm sure I'll be back soon all comfy-cozy believing again that you have some sort of master plan for me.

In the meantime, feel free to give me some kind of fucking break. A windfall of money might be nice. I promise to donate anything above and beyond what we really need to charity.

Love,

Zube Girl

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Dear People Who Say, "God/Life Doesn't Give You More Than You Can Handle,"

Shut up. Yes God/Life does. It's just that you have no choice but to handle it; unless of course you roll over and die instead of handling it. And, I've come too far for that shit.

So enough with belittling my trials and tribulations. I'd rather be proud of handling more than my fair share of fuck-all bullshit than to say it could be worse. Mmmmkay?

Love,

Zube Girl

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Dear Zinnia,

Thank you for chasing your tail and making me giggle despite that fact that I am having yet another miscarriage.

Love,

Zube Girl

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Dear Uterus,

Hon, I know you know what you're doing and I'm trying to keep that in mind. Supposedly everything is fine down there, so I'll just assume you were doing your job.

I guess I'd simply like to request that you ease up on the cramps. Is that possible?

Love,

Zube Girl

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Dear Mom,

I know that you are still sleeping right now, and probably dreaming about your future grandchild that you have just been dying for forever. I hope you sleep well and that your dreams are wonderful, because in a few hours I'm going to call you and blow them out of the water.

I love you, and I'm sorry I'm going to have to make you cry. Again.

Love,

Zube Girl

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Dear Blog Readers,

You guys are more than just my blog readers. You're my friends. Even those of you who read me everyday, and don't comment. Seriously, I am always shocked and more than a little honored that people read me daily, and I don't even know who some of them are.

Anyway, as my friends, would you mind giving me hugs? Because I fucking need them right now.

Thank you.

Love,

Zube Girl

Things That Suck

Having your much needed hearty yawn rudely interrupted by a dry heave. What the fuck?

Getting a bloody nose at work. Though, it does lead to an office round of, "Riding that train, high on cocaine..." which is kind of kicky.

Seriously, I threw up in my mouth a little bit. Ew.

When all you want to do is tell somebody, ANYBODY, to piss off. Just because you feel like saying, "Piss off." But, everyone you see is being nice to you for some reason. Fucking nice people.

Forgetting your lunch at home on the counter and knowing that the dog is going to eat far better than you today. Damn dog. If I had a land line at home and an answering machine, I'd call there every five minutes and leave messages that say, "ZACK! Get off the counter, that's my lunch, bitch!"

And again with the throw up. Yuck. And what sucks even more is that I really, really need to yawn again, but my body's like, fuck that shit. We don't need yet another sample of this morning's eggs.

Drug Bust

I arrived home from work to a scene of debauchery. Actually, it was more like the scene that debauchery left behind. Apparently, a certain feline, I'm not sure which one because we have quite a feline infestation going on around here, decided they'd had enough with me being the Drug Lord of the house, doling out catnip as I see fit, and took matters into their own, erm, paws.

Mind you, this required a bit of strategy, as the catnip lives in the highest cabinet known to the Zubes behind the doggie treats.


It would seem, one, or perhaps two, of the felines retrieved their drug of choice, and had one hell of a good time. And the most fucked up part about it is their futile attempt to frame the dog by strewing the evidence all over his bed. You'd think they'd at least have the decency to steal him a treat or two while they were thieving away. Selfish bitches.


But, I'm a twinge jealous because it really looks like they had a fucking blast. While I was slaving away at work earning money to buy them more catnip. Even though they don't deserve it. Fiending felines. Whatever. I'm a sucker.

Anyway, it must have been quite a party.


When was the last time YOU slept this well?

Twee Towels and Shit

Well fuck me running. I didn't realize I'd married a fucking comedian.

Z-Girl: GOD why do you fuck up everything?

Z-Boy: What did I do now?!

Z-Girl: Honey, you know the dishtowels get folded and draped over the front of the left side of the sink. Two of them. And the one on the right overlaps the one on the left. That's the way I've been doing it FOREVER and EVER AMEN!

Z-Boy: You just do it like that 'cause your Mom did it like that.

Z-Girl: Bzzzzzz. Wrong answer. That is actually my very own obsessive compulsive habit.

Z-Boy: You're crazy.

Z-Girl: AND, if one gets really wet and needs washing, you pick another one out of this little basket over here and replace the dirty one. But, you have to make sure the new one kind of matches the one that's already out. Like, see...I'm going to put this one with yellow sunflowers out because it goes nicely with the light green checkered one.

Z-Boy: Seriously, what is the big deal.

Z-Girl: It just is, okay? It looks cuter that way.

Z-Boy: You know, honey? I try to see things from your point of view, but I can't seem to get my head that far up my ass.

And Again With the Vacuums

This sign is not only useful for vacuums that are misbehaving, but also for coworkers.

I think the vacuums are the most disgruntled employees at my company. Maybe it is because we keep putting mean signs on their backs.

I Spy With Mine Own Eye

I kind of wish we had a bigger yard. For lots of reasons, not the least of which being that if we had a bigger yard, I think I could really be a spy. I guess that's the sort of sacrifice you make when you live in a pretty beautiful place where the only reasonably affordable houses are on .1 acre.

Anway, in the event that we ever move up the real estate food chain, I would like a nice big back yard where I can practice my spy rolls. As it is, I've got to practice them in the living room. Sometimes I hit my head on the coffee table or land on a cat, and with obstacles such as that, I'm never going to get good at them.

I mean, I know that when I'm a real spy, I'm going to have obstacles in the way. For example, when I leap from the rooftop of one building to another, deftly avoiding the flock of pigeons flying by, I'll need to make sure I spy roll around the big metal vent thingy that the bad guys always hide behind, but right now it's all about technique. I need to get my technique down before I go challenging myself with obstacles, you know?

I think that being a spy is, like, the sexiest job EVER! Except, when you go to cocktail parties and shit, it's not like you can say, "Oh, I'm a spy," when someone asks you what you do for a living. That would kind of suck. The whole point of being a spy is that it's a secret.

Maybe being a spy wouldn't be such a glamorous job after all. But fuck it. I just want to wear the sexy leather uniform spy chicks always have on. In which case, I'll need a boob job, too.

A boob job and a bigger yard. Le sigh. I have big dreams, you guys.

I'm Annoyed With Myself...Or...User's Choice

Do you ever get on your nerves? I do. Often.

I attempted to update 'My Favorite Entries' over yonder in the sidebar and was unable to find any entries that didn't perturb the hell out of me. I hate the word perturb. How appropriate. Anyway, I'm remiss to go reading through my archives in search of little bits I'm actually proud to have written because, well, given this self annoyance I'm experiencing at the moment, it just wouldn't be the best idea.

So, I have a kind of stupid, self indulgent question. What, dear friends, is YOUR favorite entry?

Hey! Check it out! I have a little piece of pink lint in my bellybutton! Oh shit. I'm not doing THAT kind of navel-gazing at the moment.

Care to indulge my curiosity?

Also, in the name of reciprocation, if you wouldn't mind linking to your *own* favorite entry on your blog. I love knowing what folks love about themselves. It lets me know that lovin' on myself is okay. Heh. In more ways than one...HOWEVER, I don't need those kind of links, exactly.

Geez. Now I'm REALLY annoyed. Where'd my beer go?

Just a Few Reasons I Should Not Call Her

Former Friend (snottily): You know, the leather store is having a sale. We could stop by there so you could buy a real wallet.

What I said: Nah. I like this one.

What I should have said: I happen to like my duct tape wallet which was made for me by the twelve year old son of a friend who happens to beam with pride whenever he sees me pull it out of my purse, so fuck off with your condescension.

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Former Friend (speaking in motherese to her precious little cherub): Zube Girl is never going to have any friends for you, is she?

What I said: Nothing

What I should have said: Why would you say something that cruel? You know I can’t wait to have kids.

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

Former Friend: So and so bought a car…blah blah blah…really expensive…blah dee dee…she can’t afford her rent now…yadda yadda yadda.

What I said: That’s a shame. She could have bought something a little more reasonable.

Former Friend: Well, not everyone has a rich husband who can buy them a fancy car.

What I said: Whatever.

What I should have said: RICH?!?! Are you fucking kidding me??? I’ve driven a 1994 Jeep Cherokee with a fucked up engine and over 200,000 miles on it for the past five years. The only reason we bought this stupid 2000 Grand Cherokee is because Zube Boy’s 1995 Grand Cherokee was stolen, and we needed another car. And rich, we are not. I mean, we’re not scrounging the trash bin outside of Daylight Donuts for breakfast or anything because we both work our asses off, but I would not say we are in any way rich. Bitch.

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I'm over feeling guilty about neglecting this friendship to the point where it is unsalvagable. Actually, I'm not over the guilt. That's why I'm attempting to remind myself why I let it sour in the first place.

It Puts the Lotion...

Z-Girl: Hey honey, why don't you put some lotion on my ass?

Z-Boy: Do you think there's enough?

Z-Girl: But the bottle's fu...shut up asshole.

Where's the Beef?

When I was little, Dad used to go to Bermuda for two weeks every August to fulfill his duty as a member of the Army Reserves. This left only Mom and us kids to fend for ourselves. Which always meant we got in a little less trouble. Not because we weren't up to mischief. Just because the, "Wait until your father comes home," threat wasn't as effective when father wasn't coming home for weeks or days.

One of these trips stands out in my memory like none other. I was eight and Bro was six. Mom was VERY, VERY pregnant with Hoot. We all drove Dad to the airport, kissed him lots, and watched him walk away with his big ass green bag full of all kinds of government issue clothing, and perhaps a pair of swim trunks. I loved how Dad looked in his uniform, and I swelled with pride to think of him fighting for our country. Not that we were fighting anyone at the time, but hell, I was 8. I swelled with pride because he made a mean kielbasa. Put him in fatigues and I nearly busted.

Dad boarded the plane, and waved to us one last time, and we turned and made our way back to the car. I could tell that Mom was sad. I even thought she might cry, so I decided not to make a fuss when Bro started whining about sitting in the front seat. I sat right in the back, all "don't worry Mom, I got this one for ya". I was the good eldest daughter that way. And, I wasn't old enough to understand hormones or anything, but I knew well enough that when Mom had a big belly, she cried more easily, and I hated to see it.

As we were driving away, the Hall & Oates song "Every Time You Go Away" started playing and poor Mom done lost her shit and started bawling.

Using my powerful deductive reasoning skillz, I concluded that the song was making her cry, so I intently listened to the words, figuring that what these guys were singing about would give me some clue as to my mother's current emotional state.

And here is what mine little ears did hear:

Every time you go away, you take a piece of meat with you...

"Dad forgot his meat," I thought. "That must be what this is about. I mean, there is probably meat in Bermuda, so Dad should be okay. And even if there isn't, he's a big boy and I know he likes brussel sprouts. Eww. I don't know how he can like those things. Maybe Mom feels bad, though, because she had a piece of meat she meant to give him. What can I do so she'll stop thinking about it?"

"Hey Mom? Remember that lady at McDonald's with a earring in her nose? Do you think that when she gets sick and blows her nose, boogies get stuck in there?"

Not only did I manage to change the subject, but I'd made her giggle. Which made me giggle. Which made Bro giggle. Until we were all giggling like crazy about the poor lady at the McDonald's who goddess forbid should ever get a wretched cold. Thank goodness that nose rings are hoops instead of studs now, because for real? A studded earring in your nose? Ew.

I think I'd rather forget to take my meat with me.

All in a Day

I feel the need to say something to Wednesday. You are such a cute day. It's really sweet how predictable you are showing up at the same time every week. I think I may be falling in love with you. Wait. No. I AM in love with you. Hump Day. Who doesn't fucking love Hump Day?

This morning while I was putting on my underwear, it broke. Heh. It must have been reading my blog.

I feel a little like Linda Blair after the whole head spinning bit. My neck is KILLING ME.

Would y'all mind sending a little love to a good friend of mine? I mean, I always miss happy hour with good friends, but I'm sad to say that after two months she is once again able to go to happy hour with me, and I'm so sad for her because I know how she feels. Yes, some things are better than beer. Better even than reasonably priced beer.

I hereby banish the synapses that prompted me to wonder why a bad man's zygote had to be removed from inside of me and the zygote of one of most wonderful men I've ever met just fell out. I decree that thoughts such as those are now required to check into some of the brain cells I killed back in college.

It's a rainy day, which is kind of cool. I'm all over moisture in October that's not in the form of fluffy, white snow. I only wish that I could've hung out at home in my pj's and watched all four of the Sopranos Season One DVDs instead of working.

I'm actually in a good mood today, so I don't get what's with the morose posting. I am officially the bouncer here at My Brain, and rowdy mean thoughts sometimes need a little roughing up and kicking out. There ya go.

Threesomes

I've been tagged by Phil over at Echos in a Nomad's Head. Phil is cool as shit and he has, quite possibly, the cutest dog ever. Next to mine, of course. Anyway, I'd been tagged by this meme forever and a day ago, so instead of coming up with new answers, I've decided to repost the repeats because I dug my answers back then when I think all of three people were reading me.

***Previous Answers***

Three screen names that you have had: SluttyWifeLookingforLove, TooSexy4U, and zubegirl.

Three things you like about yourself: I'm not real hairy, I'm sexier covered in mud from four wheeling than I am all dressed up, and I make really good wings.

Three things you don't like about yourself: I'm just way too much of a babe. I get hand cramps writing my phone number on cocktail napkins. It's not easy, folks. 'Nuff said.

Three parts of your heritage: My great-grandfather was a bootlegger, my great uncle was a Monseñor of the Catholic church, and my Dad is smarter than your Dad. So NYAH!

Three things that scare you: Celery in my tuna, Brad Pitt's obsession with me, and making left turns onto busy streets.

Three of your everyday essentials: Coffee, toilet paper, and phone calls from Jersey folk.

Three things you are wearing right now: My fairy tattoo, my astrology glyph tattoo, and my flower tattoo.

Three of your favorite songs: I'm a Little Teapot, London Bridge is Falling Down, and Ring Around the Rosie.

Three things I want in a relationship: Complete and total submission to my every whim. That's all. Well, a little worshipping and toe sucking never hurts.

Two truths and a lie: I lie, I make my life sound way more exciting than it is, and I always tell the truth.

Three things you can't do without: AM 760 Boulder's Progressive Talk, the word 'Fuck', and the letter 'Z'.

Three places you want to go on vacation: East Gibip, Bumblefuck, and Istanbul...no...Constantinople. Nah, Istanbul. Or Constantinople. You know, that's nobody's business but the Turks.

Three things you just can't do: Lick my elbow, pour coffee without drizzling it all over the counter, and sand drywall.

Three kids' names: Cletis, Tipsy, and Rufus.

Three things you want to do before you die: Have kids, teach my kids to do chores, and totally screw up my kids. That is my dream.

Three Celeb crushes: John Stewart, George Clooney, and Winona Ryder, erm, I mean, Brad Pitt. Yeah. Every gal loves Brad Pitt. Even though he's fucking psycho.

***Additions that were not on the previous meme***

These threes were not on the prior rendition of the meme, so I've answered them separately.

Three of your favorite musicians: Zube Boy in the Bathtub, Me in the Car, and any 80's hair-band that gets me reminescing.

Three physical things about the opposite sex that appeal to you: A fine ass, a wit to match my own, and intelligence.

Three of your favorite hobbies: Offroading, Scrapbooking (Shut up!), and arguing politics.

Three things you want to do really badly now: Pee, take off my confining turtleneck, and turn on the fucking heater 'cause it's cold in my crib.

Three careers you're considering/you've considered: Supreme Court Justice, nanny for Nanny 911, and an author.

Three ways that you are stereotypically a boy: The remote? It's fucking mine, bitch. I think that takes up about three qualities right there.

Three ways that you are stereotypically a girl: "Fuckin'-A, I broke a nail", "Honey, did you polish my tiara yet today?" and "What are you thinking RIGHT NOW honey?"

Three people that I would like to see post this meme: Texas Soccer Mom, Anduin Andorian, and Hot Latin Lover...

What Goes Around, Comes Around. Heh.

Dear Ass,

Stop eating my underwear.

Love,
Zube Girl

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Dear Zube Girl,

Stop wearing thongs.

Love,
Ass

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Dear Thongs,

Stop crawling up my ass.

Love,
Zube Girl

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Dear Zube Girl,

Ease up on the Cheetos, babe.

Love,
Thongs

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Dear Ass and Thongs,

Fuck you both.

Love,
Zube Girl

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Dear Cheetos,

I love you.

Love,
Zube Girl

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Dear Zube Girl,

I still love you!

Love,
Gramma Panties

Calling Mr. Tittay, Calling Mr. Tittay

-Today I booked a reservation for a Mr. Harry Tittay of Intercourse, Pennsylvania. Uh, no, it was not real. The Reservations Manager is off and I'm fucking jealous, so in the name of fucking with him, I sent him an e-mail asking that he give Mr. Tittay a call because we have yet to receive payment. That's what you get if you work with me and have days off that don't synchronize with mine.

-While in line at the post office, my nose started to itch. My hands were full of bills and purses and shit, so I was unable to scratch it. A little voice in my head said, "Why don't you ask the nice elderly gentleman behind you to scratch it? He's not carrying anything." I spent the next half hour in line giggling to myself and scratching my nose with the corner of my cell phone bill envelope.

-Sometimes I think my lips are cute. Like a little bow. Other times I hate them because they're too small.

-When I returned from the post office, I told my coworkers that I'd received a package so big it wouldn't even fit in my box. It was true.

-I've got a terrible case of Dreadlockus Lumpy-hairitis. This affliction is generally caused by a missing brush. And since my brush has been missing for about five days you might say my case is getting severe.

-For some reason I've been repeating in my head, "A cocksucker is a cocksucker is a cocksucker." I think I'm giving myself advice, but I'm not sure as to what situation I'm advising myself just yet. I hope I figure it out soon, because that's some damn good advice if you ask me.

A Commenter Has Queried Me

...and that makes me feel like Da Bomb...

Oh Great Zube girl - please empart your married knowledge on mine head.

If my family lives there (400+ miles away) and his family lives here... Do I dump my plans of ever living near my beloved family and stay with him or dump him and take the risk of never finding a goodie again?

Damnit!!!

- So confused

I responded that I'd devote an entry to answer the question, and Confused offered up a little more clarifying info:

Awesome, I am excited for your post!

Although, for me it is no rush. I recently bought a house with said boyfriend (complete with joint bank account) so it will be a longish sticky process to disengage if that is what I eventually decide to do.
And you are great!

- Still confused.

p.s. to clarify, he won't move from here.

Firstly, THANK YOU for calling me great. I'm a sucker for that shit.

Much like you two, Zube Boy and I lived together, bought a house, and had the joint bank account thing going on all before we got married, and I always kind of thought, "Eh, what's the big freakin' deal about being married? It can't be all that different." And in some ways it wasn't. I mean, I knew that he likes to eat ice cream in the bathtub and leave his dirty ice cream dish next to his dirty towel, and he was well aware of my peculiar and annoying habit of leaving my bras on any and all surfaces within the vicinity of the television and the computer.

However, in other bigger ways, it was different. One of the biggest things on my mind was giving up the notion of every living in Jersey again. It is good that you are weighing the compromises you’ll face now, while things are surely tangled, but do not require months in family court to disband.

First off, let me say that if you love Mr. Confused and are happy sharing your life with him, house and bed and finances and all that shit, you've got a wonderful thing going on. One I'd not be inclined to pass up.

I do wonder after reading your question, though, why he would not move from where the two of you are currently residing? Is it because of a great job or an undying love for the locale? Or is it because he would be remiss to move away from his family? And maybe this is just me, but if my beloved weren’t able to even consider making the same sacrifice I am willing to make for them, I’d eventually come to resent that.

One cool thing is that 400 miles isn’t SO, SO bad. Take that with a big ole grain of salt, because I’m 2000 miles away from my clan. A visit with them involves either 34 hours in a vehicle or hours tossing back adult beverages in various airports all over this great country. 400 miles is, what, about a seven hour drive? So, it’s not too, too bad.

I hope that doesn't sound patronizing. I have a friend, or used to, from New Zealand. I eventually refused to discuss our respective families with her because it always ended with her saying, "At least YOUR family doesn't live halfway around the world like MINE does." I don't mean to dismiss you like that. Any distance is tough if you genuinely enjoy the company of your family.

I think I'd encourage you only to think about the reasoning behind his 'no moving' stance. And, if you can live with whatever that reason may be, then fucking rock on!

I'll leave you with a bit 'o knowledge I've gleened from living far away for six years. If I lived back in Jersey again, I have a feeling that I'd just, well, get used to everyone being around, you know? The way things are now, when I go home for a visit, it's a BIG FUCKING DEAL, and cousins and aunts and uncles and all the rest have an excuse to get together and enjoy one another's company. I think it was Hoot who once told me she loves it when I come home because EVERYFUCKINGBODY crawls out of the woodwork and she gets to reconnect with them, too.

If I lived there, I'm sure I'd eventually slip into the woodwork just like everyone else. Doesn't mean I don't wish I could be on Hoot and Bro's pool league team, but it helps a little.

Good luck!

I'm an Internet Slut...

I'm whoring myself elsewhere in the blogverse today. Namely, on my good buddy, PaintingChef's blog. If you're a crazy ass stalker, and would like to follow me wherever I might post, or if you're just interested in reading *something* written by my lame ass on this, the 13th day of October, as I'm not posting anything else, go here.

Pssst....

A lot of interesting discussion goes on over at this here blog. Actually, a lot of ignorant bashing happens, too. From *both* sides. But I guess that goes with the territory. I would just like to thank the writers for putting themselves out there and sharing their experiences working at an abortion clinic.

Working That Ass

Z-Girl: *sniff-sniff* Dude, do you smell that?

Co-Worker: Smell what?

Z-Girl: *sniff* I don't know. It smells kinf of like *sniff* poo.

C0-Worker: Oh yeah. I farted.

Z-Girl: Oh my god! I thought maybe (general manager)'s dog shit in the office! That fucking reeks.

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Co-Worker: Hey, do you guys smell something burning?

All of the Rest of Us in the Office: *sniff-sniff-sniff-sniff* No, oh wait, um, ewwwwwww! Bastard!

Archival Digging and, Just So You Know, I'm a Pussy..

I've been tagged by Jules and Hot Latin Lover for a little meme I've seen cruising its way around the internets. Without further ado...

Here are the instructions:

1. Delve into your blog archive.
2. Find your 23rd post (or closest to).
3. Find the fifth sentence (or closest to).
4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions. Ponder it for meaning, subtext or hidden agendas…
5. Tag five people to do the same.

There's a Mushroom in My Pocket

"But after two bites, I started to feel a little like a chipmunk stocking up for a snack later in my flavor saver pockets."

Meaning, subtext, or hidden agendas: Um. I'm drawing a blank. Heh. I do get a snort whenever I read the words 'flavor saver'. Oh yeah. And, uh, vicoden anyone?

I'm not tagging anyone because I'm a whore like that and I like to keep all of the good shit to myself.

In other news, would you like to know why I couldn't sleep last night?

Okay, hang on a second. I'm trying to find the perfect image on Google, but I'm scaring the everliving shit out of myself. God, I am such a fucking baby. Hang on while I chant "scary movies are NOT real" a few times...

Pause

Whew. So, I awoke at the asscrack of 4:00AM and couldn't get back to sleep because I kept seeing THIS little fucking shit standing next to my bed...


I think that The Grudge is by far the scariest movie I've ever seen. I saw it months and fucking months ago, and the image of that little fucking kid still creeps up under my squeezed shut eyelids at random moments when I happen to wake up in the middle of the night.

I'm never watching a scary movie again. Or drinking beer. I swear.

Edited to Add...

This one is even scarier...


I fear that I will never sleep in peace again...

Sisterly Love and Lazy Snow Bunnies...

Hoot texted me on Saturday...

Hey! I sent you a picture from my camera phone. I hope you have a good Monday morning!

I arrived at work to find this photo in my inbox. Hee. It's a little tough to make out, but dude in the center is rocking a FINE mullet. I fucking LOVE mullets. Don't get me wrong, I'm kind of glad that Zube Boy is a little, erm, hairless on top, and since he's no fan of the Fading Glory Mullet, I can breathe a sigh of relief that we'll never have to have the, "I know I LOVE mullets, I just don't want YOU to have one," conversation. Anyway, he shaves his whole head which I think is damn sexy. Sexier even than a mullet.

It was nice to arrive at work in one piece and find such a splendid e-mail. See, I kind of had a rough morning. I haven't heard the final word, but I'm thinking we got something like 18" of snow between yesterday and today. My technique for figgering shit like this out is quite technical, so follow closely.

Last night I drove to the clubhouse to throw our trash in the dumpster. I swept about 8" of the white stuff off of my car. Are you with me? Okay, good. This morning, I swept another 10". That adds up to 18".

Just to be sure, I decided upon arriving at work to measure the distance from the bottom of my boot to just below my knee cap. The reason being that this is where I noticed, while wading to my car this morning, that the sea of white stuff reached. And guess what? 18". Almost 19" actually. But, I'm not one to exaggerate, so I'll stick with 18".

Pardon the horrible quality of this picture. Our digital camera is MIA since Mr. Zube Boy went camping on Saturday. I'm not going to give him too much shit, because I'm lucky he returned when he did other wise he'd be buried. I'd just like to fess up and say, "My name is Zube Girl, and I am a lazy sack of shit who prefers to drive around with 18" of snow on top of her car than to spend a half an hour getting snow down her pants sweeping it off. Yes, I am one of those people."

Indeed. That's me.

And Then, Six and a Half Years Later, I Laugh at Her...Does That Make Me a Bitch?

Sometimes I go back and read my diary. And laugh heartily at myself. The tearful kind of laugh.

This usually happens when Zube Boy goes camping with the boys and I'm left to my own bitchy, self-deprecating devices.

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Zube Girl, circa 1999...

The Real Me...

is not perfect.

doesn't know.

tries to be perfect.

but isn't.

cares.

tries not to.

loves.

but is afraid.

is fucked up.

is normal.

will change the world!

plays.

cries.

but knows it will end.

is invisible.

is omnipotent.

knows she's beautiful.

but feels ugly.

Sometimes.

That's me...

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

I guess it's nice to know that I'm still the same introspective asshole I was six and a half years ago. I like to tell myself that poking fun at me goes a long way, but then I read this...

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Zube Girl, April 20something, 1997...

I thought I had a lot to say, but I really don't remember what it was. The only thing I know is that one day I will read this entry and not remember who I was when I wrote it.

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

I knew that I wouldn't really know me. I called myself out?! I don't like getting called out. Particularly by my own damn younger self.

I'm sure that six and a half years from now I'll be thinking the same thing I am today about the girl I was six and a half years ago. The me right now. So, to my thirty-seven-year-old self...You're a bitch. I love ya.

Jimmies: Rainbow or Chocolate

Zube Boy doesn't believe me that sprinkles are called jimmies by more people than just my immediate family. I showed him. Click for a close-up.


Jimmies...they're not just for preventing 'going raw dog'...

I Miss You and Shit Like That

Z-Boy: Hi honey.

Z-Girl: Hi! I’m just shopping and missing you and I figured I’d call and say hey.

Z-Boy: So, you went to North Carolina to shop?

Z-Girl: Hell yeah. Are you lonely or is your girlfriend over?

Z-Boy: Well, my girlfriends here, but that’s okay. They can talk to each other.

Z-Girl: Heh. How is it that you come up with that shit so quick?

Z-Boy: It's a gift.

Z-Girl: I miss you, but I don't miss you one-upping me when I'm trying to be a smartass.

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

Z-Boy: Hi bitchlips.

Z-Girl: Hi hundies. How’s work?

Z-Boy: Okay. How’s New Jersey?

Z-Girl: S’allright. So, I’m watching Dawson’s Creek right now and I had to call you…

Z-Boy: You’re watching what?!?!

Z-Girl: Okay, shut up. That’s not the point. Anyway, I’m watching Dawson’s Creek and these two kids are kissing…

Z-Boy: Yeah…

Z-Girl: And it makes me want to kiss my honey.

Z-Boy: Awww…

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Z-Boy: Hey wiggles. How’s the wedding?

Z-Girl: It’s fun. Guess what the grand entrance song at the reception was?

Z-Boy: What?

Z-Girl: Bon Jovi. Living on a Prayer.

Z-Boy: I swear to God, only in Jersey.

Z-Girl: Hee. Okay, well I have to go borrow my cousin’s husband because I don’t have one of my own here to dance with.

Z-Boy: Maybe you can dance to, “I’m a cowboy, on a steel horse I ride, I’m wanted, wanteeeed, dead or alive…”

Z-Girl: You know you wish you were here.

Z-Boy: You’re right.

Sometimes I Talk to Myself...Just Not Out Loud...

No dude. Come on. Don’t Google him. It always bums you out.

Yeah, I know. But it’s like I…I don’t know…

Why do that to yourself?

Well, I kind of want to make sure he’s not successful.

You checked a couple of years ago, and he wasn’t. Can’t we just keep on thinking that?

But, it’s a little bit like a power trip, too. You know? I can look him up and see what he’s up to anytime I want, and he probably doesn’t even remember my name.

Fine. Go ahead.

Okay…Here goes…

Huh. Same shit. The band’s still not together.

Wait a minute. What’s this?

Woah. He changed his name and joined a new band.

Fuck.

Well, they haven’t done anything in a year and a half.

Yeah, but still. Hmm…New search.

Naturally.

What have we here?

Their website hasn’t been updated in a while.

Yeah. Hey, check this out.

Dumb bitch.

I can’t believe she’s bragging on a message board that she made out with him. Like he’s some kind of big star or something.

Wouldn’t it be funny if we responded.

Heh.

“Like, oh my god, you made out with him, but he raped me. Does that make me more special? *winks*”

Dude.

What?

That wouldn’t be funny at all.

I know.

Besides, she doesn’t know.

You’re right.

Can we stop this now?

Yeah. I’m kind of upset. I just hate seeing his picture.

I told you.

It’s like I can’t help it though.

You’ve been thinking about this shit kind of a lot lately. You okay?

I don’t know. It’s just been on my mind.

It might be getting’ around that time again.

Mmm-hmmm.

You knew last time when you left counseling that you’d probably end up going back after a few years.

Ew!

What!?

Katie Holmes is fucking pregnant.

Pfffbt.

*ring-ring*

“Blah Blah Management, this is Zube Girl…”

You Can Dress Them Up...

My Belle, Bro, this blogger, and Hoot at the wedding. Mom must be so proud. We did have the decency to put our middle fingers away until the bride and groom entered the reception hall because naturally the bridal trolley pulled up just as soon as we were set to take the picture. I even bummed a cigarette to hold from my cousin so I wouldn't be the odd woman out.

The cool thing about this wedding was that we had family on the bride's side and the groom's side. Heh. Yes. The groom was my cousin on Mom's side, and the bride was the cousin of my cousin on my Dad's side. Figger that shit out. They're not related, bloodwise at least, whatsoever. And, the wedding was in New Jersey, not West Virginia.

I had a blast. I miss my brother and sisters so much that it's shadowed my joy of being home in Colorado just a teensy bit. 2,000 miles is just so, so, so far. Damn.

In Case You Were Wondering...

I'm back. Back in Colorado with Zube Boy and the Z-animals. My fabulous husband finished our laundry room/entryway while I was gone, so the first thing I encountered upon my return was a kick ass laundry room in the most fabulous shade of blue and knotty pine wainscoating. He rocks, but you all knew that.

Some random vacation musings...

-Hoot, my sister, called me crying while I was at my Mom's house. She needed consoling because a spider had landed on her head in class, and instead of screaming her arachnophobic ass off, she ran out of the room with no explanation to the teacher or other students. I'm all over her to write a guest entry for me about it. Hearing her tell it was HILARIOUS!

-I took a little time to go back and read my archives while I wasn't blogging. After a few months of entries, I got TOTALLY annoyed with myself. I was like, "Jeebus, why don't I just shut up ALREADY?!" Then, a little voice in my head said, "Hey, you don't have to read this shit." "Oh yeah." I felt a little better knowing that neither does anyone else.

-I got my hair cut for the first time in a year and a half. The fucker cut off six inches. Okay. It looks great and it's still long, but I thought he was only going to cut off four. I'm a little amused by the fact that I'm getting myself all worked up about two inches. Not really worth getting too excited about, eh?

-I dug through boxes and boxes of shit in my Mom's attic and have FINALLY, after years of searching, found my diary from when I was 10/11 years old. Don't worry, my friends, I'm sure I'll manage to squeeze a few gems out of it to share with you here in the future. Let's just say I REALLY REALLY wanted a bra and for someone to ask me to the dance. I got the bra. And that's about it. I'm SO glad to have found that diary. Now all I am missing is the one I wrote in high school and my collection of Zube Girl's diaries will be complete. I kind of hope I find that one before my Mom does. I mean, it was high school after all. Heh.

-Lastly, and most importantly, a huge THANK YOU to all of my guest bloggers. You all are awesome, and for a week I was able to read and enjoy my own blog. You're the best.