I Hope You Don't Mind If I Piss You Off

A few posts back I wrote about how there are so many women out there who are the strength behind my voice. They're the reason I won't shut up about having been sexually assaulted; because as long as we're cloaked in silence about it, nothing will ever fucking change. That inspired some of you to share with me. Again. And I can't tell you how honored I am that you'd do that. Seriously.

I'd like to say right now that if there is ANYONE out there who just wants to FUCKING TELL IT, I'm all ears (and eyes). Nothing feels better than getting that shit out. Believe me, I know. I'm nearly on the verge of okay because I've told it over and over and over again. It helps. It really, really does. So, please. Don't be scared. I won't breath a word of it, unless you're cool with that. Which leads me to..

One writer, whom we'll call "Fabulous Gal," or FG for short, e-mailed me her story. It so touched me that I asked her if I could post it. With her permission, here it is...

I know I commented before, after I read your 'my story' page. But after reading what you wrote today, I felt alot better about sharing my story. I hope you don't mind; i've never written about it on my blog and frankly, I don't know if I ever could. But I think it would feel better to get it out here, because you're right - carrying it alone is an absolutely humongous bundle of shit.

I was raped 5 years ago, next week. I had gone to a nightclub with my girlfriends, and some random guy offered to buy me a drink. He had laced it with rohypnol. Within 45 minutes I was a walking, talking blank. The lights were on, but no one was home.

He wound up carrying me out of the club a couple hours later, thrown over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He dug my wallet out of my purse and drove me to my apartment and raped me in my own bed. Many hours later I woke to find vomit from one end of my apartment to the other.My bathtub was filled with puke. It's utterly amazing that I didn't choke on my vomit and die in my sleep.

I went to the ER the next morning, where a rape kit was done by our local sexual assault crisis agency. The rape kit thing will haunt me for the rest of my life - all I could think of when I layed on that table having pubic hairs pulled out, fingernails scraped, and then the removal of what was on the inside- was that this is what they do to dead women in a morgue. But I was alive and there.

Photographs were taken of the bruises all over my body - there was one on my back the size of a grapefruit. They held a ruler up to it before snapping the photos- to show how large it was. 7 inches.

The guy apparently dragged me up the carpeted stairs to my bedroom because the entire front of my legs, top to bottom, were covered with rugburn. The end result - the investigation was botched and my assailant got away. The rape kit was sent to a pathology lab out of state only to be declared lost, a month later. Oh, and the photos mysteriously 'didn't come out' and then the negatives were allegedly destroyed. The police department said oops.. sans apology.. and dropped the case; citing that without any forensic evidence/proof I was drugged, I had no case.

I was too fucking scared to go back to my apartment so I stayed with an ex who took care of me for weeks while I remained in a catatonic state.. unable to tend to my kids. I don't know what snapped me out of it, but I eventually did and found the apartment where I am now.. isolated, yet safe.

I hadn't given much thought to all of this in a few years.. until I started reading your blog. It's hard to. It's hard enough to wake up and breathe every day and raise kids alone and survive college. I've barely been allowed to feel anything, or get through this in my own head.

My friends always said, that scumbag must have been 'hooked up', and indeed.. I just recently learned that he was.

Three nights ago I was watching the news and I saw a man - an investigator for a local police department - giving a press conference. His face scared me out of my skin - he looked exactly like the man that raped me. His name flashed at the bottom of the screen... Same last name. It had to be his brother. Or cousin, who the fuck knows. But this area is small, it was not a common last name - and I just KNOW. They've got to be related.

Now I'm feeling more rattled, more pissed off, more fucked over than I did years ago. I wish there was something I could do to prove this happened to me. Just for the sake of my own sanity - and just for others to know so they could protect themselves.

FG

Would y'all do me a favor and drown this girl in some love? Please? What a fucking courageous person. She deserves nothing less than all the props in the world, especially right now. Those anniversaries are fucking hard. For real.

To have done the right thing only to get doubly fucked over in the end...there are no words.

Thank you. You all rock with the props thing. Pass 'em on.

Didn't mean to get you all pissed off on a holiday, but nothing'll change if we don't get all angry and shit,no matter what day of the year it is.

I hope you have a wonderful New Year. May the World be a better place this year because of people like FG and you.

Dear FG,

You are nothing short of amazing. Your kids are lucky to have a Mom like you. And that fucker'll rot in hell. Don't you worry about that. Karma's a bitch.

Love,

Zube

Well, DUH!

Ring-Ring

Z-Girl: Blah Blah Management, this is Zube Girl.

Dumbass: Hi. I was wondering, is the ski resort open today?

Z-Girl: Um, yes?

Dumbass: Are you sure? It snowed all last night, and it's still snowing this morning.

Z-Girl: Uh, the ski resort is pretty well equipped to deal with snow.

Dumbass: Okay, thanks!

Z-Girl: Right. No problem.

These Boots Were Made For...Hey. Did You Ever Notice How I Take Really Shitty Pictures?

I am VERY attached...to my boots.

My boots, however, are not so attached...to themselves.


Fuck. I just might cry.

Do you think this is beyond the wondermous powers of super glue? Wait. Don't answer that.

Marriage and Routines...of the Dancing Variety

Z-Boy: Jesus Christ honey, what are you doing?

Z-Girl: Dancing.

Z-Boy: Is that what that's called?

Z-Girl: You're just jealous.

Z-Boy: Are you almost done?

Z-Girl: Ow.

Z-Boy: What?

Z-Girl: I think I pulled a butt muscle.

Z-Boy: That's kind of what it looked like for a while there.

Z-Girl: Shut up.

Right Across the Street Means Right Across the Street You Fucking Moron!

Or, to put it nicely...

Guest: Where is the chairlift?

Z-Girl: Right across the street.

Guest: Across the street?

Z-Girl: Yup. Right across the street.

Guest: Where exactly is the street?

Z-Girl: If you step out those two doors right there, you'll see a street and the chairlift will be right across it.

Guest: So the street is right out there?

Z-Girl: Yup.

Guest: Will we be able to see it?

Z-Girl: Yes, as soon as you step out the front doors.

Guest: What if we can't find it?

Z-Girl: You will. It's right outside those doors.

Guest: *looking skeptical (or stupid, depending on who you ask)*

Z-Girl: Here, I'll show you.

Guest: Okay.

I walk them out the front doors and point across the street. To the place where there is, lo and behold, a fucking chairlift.

Guest: Oh wow. It is right there.

Z-Girl: Just like I said. RIGHT ACROSS THE STREET.

Guest: Thanks!

Z-Girl: You're welcome.

Huh? What? Nyquil? And Shit That's Important...To Me Anyway

-This morning I went to work and not three minutes after arriving, my boss said, "Oh my God! What are you doing here? Go home. You're painful to look at!" Surprisingly, I couldn't have been happier to hear her say that. It's days like this that make me want to dry hump my couch. Or just lay on it. And watch Montel. Yeah. I'm all sick and shit. Still. Nyquil is the best thing ever.

-I was interviewed by Brian, a super nice journalist from Glamour magazine, back in October while I was vacationing in Jersey. He was writing an article about women's reproductive health and wanted to talk to someone who would have benefited from the availability of Emergency Contraception to prevent a pregnancy after rape. Before I agreed to an interview, I called Zube Boy to see if he'd be all cool with that. He said, "Of course, I've always wanted to be married to a Glamour Girl." I said, "Yeah, um, honey, it's not like they're going to do a photo shoot or anything. At the most, I'll get in, like, one quote." His response: "I know, but do it anyway. If it'll help other people, it'll help you, and that's all I care about." Have I ever mentioned how much he rocks with the support thing? Well, he does.

The article is supposed to be in the February issue. I'm kind of nervous because shortly after going public as a rape survivor, I learned that you never know exactly which quotes are going to be pulled from a twenty five minute conversation. I fret that they'll publish one thing I said, out of context, and it'll make me sound stupid. I don't know why I'm so worried about it. I mean, it's not like I'm being interviewed by Focus on the Family or some other crazy ass religous group who'd take great pleasure in contorting my words. Regardless, I won't really feel comfortable until I read the article. Anyone know when the February edition might come out? I'm not exactly an avid reader of Glamour, but I can't wait to get my hands on this issue.

-The ten year anniversary of the night I was raped is coming up on January 21st. TEN FUCKING YEARS! And here I am, still writing about it. Sometimes, on a really insecure day, I wonder if people who read my blog are thinking, "Goddamn, when will she fucking get over it already?"

Thing is, not that I'm over it, or ever will be, but I'm okay with it. I share because I want others to know that they can, and likely should, share, too. That's the only way to get it out. It's the reason I feel pretty damn okay most of the time. Every time I tell it, it's like I'm throwing a little piece of the shittiness away. People give me props for being strong, and while I appreciate that, I'd like to extend the accolades to folks who are going it alone. That's a bundle of shit to carry all by yourself. I know because I did it for awhile.

To anyone who has ever commented on my blog or e-mailed me to share your story, THANK YOU. My voice is emboldened by yours. I could never, ever do this all by myself. I hope you don't have to either.

-I love comedians who can't help but laugh at themselves. Not the ones who laugh just to emphasize the fact that what they're saying is supposed to be funny. The ones that are so fucking funny they can't help it and start giggling in the middle of their act.

-Zube Boy had a hard time getting out of bed this morning. I wanted to help him so I farted. Really loud. He got to work early. After calling me fucking disgusting, of course.

You Know the Drill

I think that if Zube Boy ever comes home and catches me chasing the cats out of the bathroom with his drill, I'll probably be out of the running for Wife of the Year. Not that he'd be worried about the cats' welfare or anything like that. More because you just don't mess with a man's drill. That's, like, rule #5621 in the marriage handbook. Don't fuck with his tools.

Actually, I don't think I'll have to worry about him nominating me for Wife of the Year. A Wife of the Year is probably well versed in the function of all the dials on the washing machine. Not just Cold and Regular Wash. And she probably separates colors, too.

My favorite Christmas picture:


Though it's possible it might give me nightmares. I usually feel safer with Zack sleeping next to my side of the bed. I think he's an excellent Boogey Man attack dog and he protects the top of my head from being touched by beings from another dimension. I just hope he doesn't turn his Kujo-ass on me!

Note to self: Zack doesn't like so much when you tie Christmas bows around his mouth all muzzle style.

It's Not a Small World, After All

I wish the world were a little smaller. It would be awesome to be able to head on over to Zube Boy's folks' Christmas party, then to my Mom's, and on to my Dad's all in a day. But, since Colorado, Illinois, Jersey, and North Carolina probably aren't going to morph into one in the forseeable future, and Zube Boy and I happen to have jobs that mean we're more often doling out fresh towels and fixing chairlifts to ensure other people's enjoyment of the Holiday Season, we'll be having our own little Christmas with our adopted Colorado family tomorrow.

That is if the germs in my throat will ease up on the bonfire they've got goin' on down in there. Damn, they can party.

Merry Christmas to all you Christmas celebrators, and happy day to the rest of you. May you find joy in the little things. For example, a horizontal icicle. I'm quite tickled to have found one.


I know it's just a freak display of nature, but I'm kind of worried, too, that my wind chime is plotting to kill me. It would be ironic if I were killed by my own ingenious method. By a fucking wind chime, no less.

Oh yeah. One thing I DON'T miss about back home Holiday traditions? Christmas morning back in Jersey always meant we ate pea soup for lunch. EW. Nasty. Not even the Barbie Dreamhouse made that shit easier to swallow.

'Tis the Season...For Some Competition

It is time. My turn. I'm up. Shit. This here blog is now in battle at The Blog Thunderdome. Feel free to mozy on over there and put in a good word for me. Or not. You're free to vote for whomever you like. Fucker. And, if you're so inclined, wish my competition, Life. My Take, good luck 'cause I'm a sucker for good sportsmanship.

If I lose, I am banned from blogging for two months. If I win, um, well, I win. The stakes are high but please keep in mind, I SUBMITTED my blog to this. I wasn't randomly chosen by mean Blogtanics to be sacrificed on the Sucky Blog altar or anything. I entered of my own volition, ergo, I will not be throwing any sort of temper tantrum should I lose. I'd appreciate the same from you. In the words of Dave, the great Thunderdome organizer, "...two lady types are battling so we don't have to worry about lame-ass, whining men for a change." Amen to that. It pains me to see boys piss and moan. Truly. And it's been going on in some of the battles. It's one of those situations that's kind of embarrassing to watch. You know? Anyway, I won't do it.

Besides, a two month break might be nice. Um, not that I'm saying I WANT to lose or anything, but just that I'd be okay with it because I'm annoyingly optimistic that way. Just the other day I was thinking about the fact that I've been blogging for ten months, which is longer than any of my relationships prior to Zube Boy lasted. And, might I add, he enjoys reminding me of this when we argue. Generally, he says, "No WONDER no one could stand to be with you for more than seven months." Heh. He's been saying that shit for five years though, so I'm none too concerned. I prefer to think that those relationships didn't last long NOT because I'm a bitch, but because I got tired of being the target board for hoagies and television sets. But, whatever. Splitting hairs. Wait. What the hell am I talking about? This has nothing to do with anything. Moving right along...

I stand here now, trembling on the brink of banishment. Knowing that I suck, but hoping that I don't suck all hell and that the judges might find some redeeming qualities in my writing. Let the battle begin.

Edited to Add: By all means no one HAS to vote. I hope this post didn't seem to imply such. It's all in good fun. Also, if ya do vote, leave a reason perty please. 'Cause it'll make things more interesting and otherwise just filling out the poll will make this seem like a popularity contest. Which it isn't. Doesn't matter one iota who gets more poll votes, as the judges have gone against popular opinion time and again.

Oh How I Love Thee...The Word Ass

It is not unusual for me to use the word 'ass' after an adjective to give said adjective a little more OOMPH. For example, some stupid ass people and their big ass SUV's think they're invincible on snowy ass roads and drive up my ass because I'm a cautious driver and am not going fast enough for their tastes. Even though I drive a big ass SUV, too, I am aware that this means if I slide, I'll certainly slide a long ass distance what with the heavy ass crap in the body of my vehicle.

Anyway, this OOMPHing practice doesn't lend itself very well to some phrases, particularly in the written word, as I've discovered blogging.

Sentences on Zube Girl's cutting room floor...

I have long ass hair.

She has big ass lips.

I have a big ass hole in my ear...*

In other news, I've been thinking a lot about my pants. And how they're shrinking. Aside from the invasion of gnomes with shrinking ray guns, which I believe to be taken care of, I've got another theory. I'm pretty sure that our house has been overrun with Butt Biting Spiders. And these spiders have a very powerful ass-swelling venom. So, it's quite possible that I have a swollen ass.

It's just a thought. I should call an exterminator and ask them if they've ever heard of such a creature.

*the rest of that sentence goes like this...because my hoop earring got stuck on my book bag when I was in high school and ripped it.

Kids Who Rock, and Snorting, Uh, Stuff

I’m not sure if I ever mentioned that I went to college to study Education of the Deaf and Hard of Hearing. I actually made it all the way through my teaching practicum before I dropped out of school. Going to class and shit infringed on time I preferred to spend practicing my keg-stand hobby. That said…

During my first week as a student teacher in a High School for the Deaf, I had the distinct pleasure of meeting a young man we’ll call Bob. Bob had a moderate hearing loss and was also blind. Actually, he wasn’t ENTIRELY blind. He could see a little bit. Bob had a special computer that made things fucking HUGE so he could read them by scrolling over the entire screen. He got by. And he was one kick ass kid.

I was still getting my happy ass settled and to say that I was nervous about the upcoming weeks would be a gargantuan understatement. I hadn’t wanted to teach high school age kids because I happened to look about 16 when I was in college. In fact, I once got yelled at by some old guy while getting into my car. He said I should be riding a bicycle, not an Astro van. I gave him the finger. And blew smoke in his face. Fucker.

Where was I? Oh yeah. So, I looked young. During my first week of the practicum, I had already been asked to the Prom. By a student. Heh.

One day while the kids were all taking a test, the teacher and I were making the rounds to see how the students were getting along. I happened to overhear this fucking GEM of a conversation.

Teacher: Can you see your screen okay? You’re squinting.

Bob: No. I think I’m gonna go blind.

I let out a big old, “PFFFFFFFFFFBT! Tee hee.” I love it when people joke about shit they could be crying over.

One more thing…YOU have GOT to be fucking KIDDING ME! BWA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!!! I can’t believe I’m #2. If I won't swallow the shit, I'm sure as FUCK not going to SNORT it! Come on.

Edited to add: Lest you all think I'm a few sandwiches short of a picnic, we can blame the wacko search on someone whose server resides in El Paso, Texas. NOT ME! Lordy.

Would There Be Pigs at Such an Establishment? Oh Yeah, and Brain Death.

Do you guys have any idea what a vacation to a Piss Farm might entail? Or, what the hell a Piss Farm would even be all about?

I'm just wondering because while cruising behind some tourist sporting and USING his fucking video camera while driving at a whopping 12 miles an hour, that's where I loudly announced out my car window that he should be vacationing.

Anyway, I've been horrible with responding to your comments, which makes me feel like a self absorbed bitch. I have no excuses other than to plead brain-death due to dealing with lying fuckers at my wondermous hotel who swear they never received fresh towels even though their fresh towel deliverer happens to be my good buddy.

Speaking of brain-death, I have a little story that is probably totally fucking innappropriate, but I'm too tired to care. When I found out I was pregnant the REALLY BAD TIME, the first family member I called was my cousin, who also happened to be one of my best friends.

The next day she called me to check in, and explained how the night before she was crying to her friend, "My cousin Zube Girl was raped and is pregnant." Apparently, her words were muffled and difficult to understand through sobs.

Her friend gasped and said, "Oh my God, she's BRAIN DEAD!"

My cousin yelled back, "No you idiot, she's PREGNANT, not BRAIN DEAD! PREGNANT!"

When she relayed this conversation to me, I couldn't help but laugh. And then, neither could my cousin. Soon we were cackling away like a couple of hyenas panting, "Heh. She thought you were brain dead...But I'm NOT brain dead, I'm pregnant...HA!...I could see how she might've heard that though..." And so on. Twisted humor. My life's story.

Oh, and speaking of humor, I'm all giddy and honoured and shit because Kyknoord nominated me for the Best of Blog's, Most Humorous category. Wow. I don't even really know what to say.

Though, I probably killed my nomination by crossing the, "Uh, even though YOU might've laughed, that shit was NOT funny," line. Meh. Whatever. It's just another testament to the fact that humor probably saved my life. Laughing is always better than eating pills by the fistful. I promise.

I think this might rank up there with being as humorous as the movie Heathers. Which I thought was pretty funny. In a dark sort of way.

I'm a Plunger...

You guys, I think my fucking feet are going to fall off. Seriously. The church groups up in this here hotel are running me ragged. And I'm loving every minute of it. But still.

You know what kicks ass? When young men call the front desk to say that their toilet is clogged and they don't want to plunge it, and the maintenence guys are busting their asses shoveling snow so you don't want to bother them, and you decide to take care of that shit your damn self. It really makes the story if you're a chick. And you're dressed all cute. Just so you know. Anyway, you knock on their door, head to the bathroom, roll up your sleeves and unclog the bitch while all of the virile young men watch. With the most ashamed look on their mugs. Heh. Love it.

And I'm telling you, there is nothing like hot Episcopalian youth ministers who say fuck and drink beer. My faith in some of God's Fan Club has been restored a little. I'm still having trouble resisting the leg-humping urge.

And Then I Threw Up

Help! My ass needs to be rescued before I drown in my own vomit! I swear, I'm not responsible for this! I mean, it might be tolerable, laughable even, if there was cheesy porn music in the background, but without the beernt-chicka-ber-neer it's just, well, fucking gross.

I'm thinking Zander is pretty fond of Zinnia. Pussy slut. Heh. That right there should lead to some interesting searches showing up in my cache. Fuck it.

What? Did I hear you say, "Aw, it can't be that bad."

It is that fucking bad. Get out your bibs, folks, lest you sqee all over yourselves.








Wait!? Where'd ya go? The bathroom? But, please! Come back! I LOVE you! Can I lick your face?

Fuck. It's contagious.

Until we meet again, I'll be in quarantine. Hopefully the sudden urge to hump my pillow will quell.

I Swear to God...

Episcopalians are the fucking bomb. I shit you not.

The Scene: I've just finished checking a church group into the hotel. They're about to head off and my coworker makes a wisecrack about my perfection and wonderfullness.

Z-Girl: You guys are all set. I'll deal with the smart-alec over here.

Group Leader: Oh yeah, well I've got to deal with a bunch of smart ASSES.

Z-Girl: Tee hee. You guys cuss?!

Group Leader: Oh yeah. Shit, damn, fuck. I'm Episcopalian. Jesus loves me God dammit. Where's the nearest liquor store?

Z-Girl: I think I love you. You're lucky I'm married, or I'd hump your leg.

Go Pop Yourself

I like to sing. A lot. One would think that with all of the singing I do, I might, you know, get better at it. But no. I suck at singing. Fuck it. I'll continue singing my ass off no matter how ear-bleedingly horrible my voice is because it makes me happy. And if something makes me happy, I do it over and over and over again. Zube Boy likes to sing and dance, too. I think he's with me on the benefits of singing. You should try it. Really.

Anyway, sometimes I sing commercial jingles or plain old songs. But, most often, I make up my own shit 'cause I'm a creative bitch.

It only takes the littlest thing to throw me into a singing frenzy. For example, yesterday, I was at work and was suddenly overcome with the urge to eat popcorn. I sauntered over to the microwave, tossed in a bag, and hit the 'Popcorn' button. Modern technology rocks like that. I don't even have to know how long to put the shit in there. Anyway, the word 'Pop' appeared:


...and I simply couldn't resist. I burst into song...

"Pop, pop, pop, pop, POP that shit...

Pop it like a cherry you microwave playah...

I'm gonna eat it after you POP it...

'Cause sloppy seconds don't bother me one bit...

Pop, pop, pop, pop, POP goes the popcorn..."

This song was kind of cute because it was sort of a rap and lent itself very well to doing a little dance, too. And that's the fucking BOMB when I get to sing AND dance. The dance had an uncanny resemblence to 'Doin' the Butt' however I threw in a little more arm movements for good measure.

It was fun. I am SO glad, though, that no one walked in and ruined the moment.

I Feel Pretty

Z-Boy: Here honey.

Z-Girl: What the hell is this?

Z-Boy: $2.00.

Z-Girl: What, pray tell, am I going to buy with $2.00?

Z-Boy: I don't know. Get yourself something pretty.

Z-Girl: $2.00 isn't going to get me anything pretty.

Z-Boy: Well, maybe you could buy yourself some make up or something.

Z-Girl: Piss off.

I realize I haven't answered your comments from yesterday. I apologize. I have eight ski groups arriving in the next four days, so I'm fucking swamped. Things'll settle in the middle of next week. I'm not whining about it. In fact, I dig being busy as shit because it makes the day go quicker. Plus, my boss kicks righteous ass, and even though I'm salary which usually means you can work all you want for the same amount of money, she lets me accrue comp time. So maybe Zube Boy and I will get to take a nice long weekend jaunt in January or something. If he's still lucky enough to be married to my ass. Anyway...

Today's entry was going to be a photo of my desk, which looks like gnomes have set up camp and built themselves elaborate paper houses on it. And then there was a tornado in Gnome Town. All the gnomes flew up in the air and are probably dead. Which, well, good. Fuck 'em. Evil little bitches.

But now I'm left with all this paper and shit everywhere.

Unfortunately, though, my camera won't upload photos onto my work computer, so you won't be able to see it.

Edited to Add:

So as not to leave you picture-less today, I've drawn up a little something for my other half, and I'd like to share it with you. Do you think he'll like it?


It's sort of Picassoesque in its absractness, don't you think?

A Little Suck and a Little Wafer, Too

Zube Boy met my family for the first time when my brother got married and we hauled ass to New Jersey to attend the blessed Catholic event. Zube Boy had never attended a Catholic mass and in my purple bridesmaid gown fury, I forgot to, well, warn him about the shit that goes down at such affairs. To make matters worse, he sat alone while I sat with the other seven bridesmaids. Pews apart. Hee. Pews.

He managed with the sitting and standing and kneeling by following everyone else's lead. But when it came time to partake in the eating of the bread, he made the mistake of following everyone else's lead again. Even though everyone he was following was Catholic, and he should have sat it out. Only Catholics who've received their First Holy Communion are allowed to eat the Body of Christ.

Anyway, at some point after he had taken the bread in his hands, someone said to him, "Hey, you're not supposed to eat that if you're not Catholic." So he didn't.

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

The ceremony is over, and I meet my beau outside of the church.

Z-Boy: (Pulling something out of his pocket) Honey, I got you a cookie.

Z-Girl: (Realizing the 'cookie' was actually the Body of Christ wafer) Oh my God, honey, put that back in your pocket! It's a sin not to eat it.

Z-Boy: But I'm not Catholic, so it's a sin for me TO eat it.

Z-Girl: Yeah, yeah, yeah. But, just put it away before somebody sees it.

I don't know how he ever rid himself of the 'cookie' and I'm not sure I want to know. He was understandably aggravated with me for not letting him in on the secret rules and rituals of Catholicism.

I suck. It's official.

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

We were discussing this event recently.

Z-Boy: Honey, remember when I put the cookie in my pocket at your brother's wedding?

Z-Girl: Heh. Yeah. And when you tried to give it to me outside of the church?

Z-Boy: I should of tossed it on the church lawn. It would have been kind of funny to see some old lady clutching her chest and screaming, "Oh dear God, the Body of Christ is on the lawn!!!"

Z-Girl: *snorts* It would have, wouldn't it?

Z-Boy: Especially since, you know, it's really only a cookie.

Where the Cum Gets Dumped, and Then Some

-Yesterday, I was reading this post by Chickie and decided to have some fun of my own throwing screaming and terrified eggs into the garbage disposal.


Thank you Chickie. It was fun.

-During a few summers while I was in college, I worked on a paint crew. It was a fucking blast and we were all raunchy and shit and got into rubber band fights and I would go home with red welts all over my legs. But, so would the other guy. I loved it. Anyway, one day we were, well, painting, I'd imagine, and trying to figure out the worst insult possible for a girl we didn't like. Cum dumpster was what we came up with. I love it. And it doesn't even have the word fuck in it. But it's just so wrong.

-Yesterday I stormed around the house hissing and screaming, "What is WRONG with you people?!?!?! I mean CATS! Shut up!"

-Sometimes, I'll just be sitting here at the computer and I'll glance around at all of the felines. Like right now. And all three of them are giving me the old stink eye. In moments like this, I feel the teeniest bit crazy.

-I had a panic attack several years ago. I was driving home from work during rush hour and all of the sudden I started hearing video game music in my head and I felt like all of the the other cars were trying to hit me, and that I should hit them back. I stopped at the next exit until the attack passed. Somehow I made it there without ramming into any other cars.

-I don't have a fucking clue what a Podcast is. The only pods I know of are in my closet where I'm cultivating gnome-eating pod-people to protect my home and the size of my pants.

-Somebody said to me once, "Did you know gullible isn't in the dictionary?" I said, "Wow. That's weird. I wonder why not." They said, "Fucking-A, Zube, you ARE fucking gullible." I said, "Fuck you."

When I Grow Up...

The Scene: We're watching TV and one of those commercials for WWF wrestling comes on.

Z-Girl: Honey, I want to be a WWF wrestler when I grow up.

Z-Boy: I thought you wanted to be a hockey referee?

Z-Girl: Well, yeah, that too. I can be both, can't I?

Z-Boy: But, if you want to be REALLY good at either one you should probably focus.

Z-Girl: Hmmm...

Z-Boy: What's icing?

Z-Girl: Like the stuff on cakes?

Z-Boy: No, honey. In hockey.

Z-Girl: Well, I think it's when one team hits the puck over the, um, line, and like, none of his other teammates have crossed it yet or something.

Z-Boy: Uh, do you know what that line is called?

Z-Girl: I forget.

Z-Boy: Well, you're gonna have to know that shit if you want to be a hockey referee.

Z-Girl: I'm sure they'll teach me the rules in hockey referee school. Do they have a school for that?

Z-Boy: Eh. I think you should be a WWF wrestler.

Z-Girl: Why?

Z-Boy: You don't know how to ice skate either. I think you're better suited for wrestling.

Z-Girl: Maybe you're right.

Z-Boy: I think I am.

Meet My Guardian Angel

Because I needed a concrete reminder of her existence. Sometimes life is too hard to keep up the facade that you're invincible. All by yourself, anyway. She's five years old now. She's been around longer than that, but I've only believed in her for five years. And the tattoo needs to be retouched. Which is cool because that means even guardian angels age. Heh.

What does your guardian angel look like?

A Metaphor...

I've found blogging to be kind of like riding waves. I've drawn some pictures for you, as I know how much you appreciate my artistic renditions. Please keep in mind that I drew these a while ago, when I SUCKED at Paint Shop Pro. As we all know, I am a phenomenal Paint Shop Pro-er these days.





It seems that I go through phases where I have ten post ideas vying to make the final cut from my brain to my fingertips. I can't keep up with the stories in my head. Yet other times, I have the creativity of a pothead on Special K. And that's not much. Don't ask me how I know.

Just so's you know, I'm chilling on the beach drinking Corona right now, gearing up to wade back out into the ocean. Not REALLY, unfortunately. But figuratively. Bear with me.

In other news, I think it's kind of cute how Brad is trying to make me jealous with this whole Angelina bit. I just hope he doesn't break Angelina's heart. I really like her. In fact, she is on my top five same sex celebrity list.

GO DEVILS!!!

Why can't he just take a normal, nice picture of me?

In fact, Zube Boy just asked, "What picture is that you're posting? I bet it's ugly?"


It's time for Zube Girl to kick some ass...


He cowers, as well he should...


Take THAT you PUNK ASS BITCH!


Aww. I blew my nose for like an hour after I saw this one. I swear nothing came out. That boogie must still be in there.


Z-Boy: Honey, you can kiss my whole asshole.

Z-Girl: That's an all day job, but I'm dedicated.


This photo op was brought to you by my excitement over my new Jersey Devil's shirt. I have been SO excited all week to go to the bar and cheer on my Devil's wearing my Christmas present from Bro. Even better, I'll be in a bar amongst a bunch of AVs fans.

Not that you care or anything. Later.

He Loves Me...He Loves Me Not...He Laughs at Me...

I sent Zube Boy a text message today:

Honey, would you be sad if an icicle fell on my head and I died?

His response:

After I was done laughing...

Blog Shit...But First...

Before I get to blogging about blogging, I'll tell you what this temperature means. It means that your fucking car might refuse to start and you'll have to drive your husband's car to work, only by the time you give up on trying to woo your own car into starting, and get your husband's started, you are already late and there isn't a half hour to let the car sit and warm up.

It will also mean that because you wasted a half an hour trying to get your car started and you are now late, you must rush around to get ready to leave, and will, invariably, forget your work keys.

I'm all pissy today. And fucking cold. I'm sorry I keep talking about the coldness. Sort of. It's just everpresent in my world today.

Onto other things...I like to save all of my blog musings to post at once because nothing fucking irritates me more than reading a blog about nothing but blogging. Well, unless that's the point of the thing, such as with these bitches over here. That's some funny shit.

I gave up on the Rent My Blog thing over at Blog Explosion. I dig the concept, however I was turned down for nearly every bid I made and though the nice little DENIED e-mail they sent me said not to take it personally, well, I kind of did. The only cool cat who took me on was TJ over at Zazzafooky, 'cause she rocks socks.

We Three Bitches, my little side project with Bonanza Jellybean and PaintingChef is going AWESOMELY. Check it out. We're rolling right along and have questions to get us through almost the end of December. So, if you've got some shit you're pondering, throw it our way.

We've also kind of adopted another blog called Ask the Soldiers. Head on over there and show those guys some love because no matter the politics of the thing and how you personally feel about the war, there are many brave men and women who are far away from home for the Holidays and then some and they deserve our support.

I got a mention over at this here blog which is awesome because they liked my post about abortion, AND it's called the fucking TamponBlog. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! HA. I love it.


Lastly, every two weeks or so, I'm on the fucking EDGE of my SEAT! Reason being, a couple of months ago, Zube Boy was looking over my shoulder while I was snickering at a verdict doled out over at the Blog Thunderdome. He convinced me to enter by telling me I had a good blog and getting my head all big. So, I fucking did. If I lose, the punishment is no blogging for two months, and because I'm not a whiney fucking sack of baby poo, I will adhere to that punishment should it be served, because I'll have knowingly entered into such a deal. I just wish that it would be MY FUCKING TURN ALREADY because the waiting is killing me.

Anyway, check it out because it's fucking DRAMA at its best sometimes, and you just may have to defend my honor there someday so I'd like for you to get comfy.

Zube out.

I'm Seeing White...

There are some new people I've been seeing 'round these parts, and always attempting to be polite, I'd like to say HOWDY, even though I don't know who you are (Washington, Texas, Arizona and then some). Feel free to say hello. I promise we don't bite here. (And by WE, I mean my readers and I don't bite...Some of my various personalities just may...I'm not making any fucking promises.)


Add 7 to that shitty number up there and that is our predicted HIGH for tomorrow. And, need I remind you that when you add a positive numeral to a negative numeral you actually subtract? Yeah. I didn't have to blow the basic math teacher to get a B. Now, Algebra...

Heh. Just kidding.

Seriously! I'm just kidding...


Z-Girl: So, honey, I was thinking that an icicle would make the perfect murder weapon. Just get a hairdryer and melt that shit when you're done. No fingerprints. No murder weapon. You're golden.

Z-Boy: Why would you be thinking about that?

Z-Girl: No reason.


Check out our new TV. And yes. That is Fox News. I know I'm a liberal, but I take turns watching all of the news channels. Evens me out. Or feeds my addiction to being annoyed. Whatever.

Anyway, some dumbass sold this three-year-old 55" TV to us for $200 because the picture was too red. He thought it was broken. Zube Boy just had to adjust the color. That's it. Perfect picture and everything. Zube Boy thought he was going to have to rip the guts out and fix it; maybe buy a part or two. And it STILL would have been worth $200. Thank goddess for idiots.


See those white stripes? That's where my honey rides his snowmobile around all day waiting for chairlifts to break down so he can work his fucking electrician magic. This is the view from our street. Sometimes I like to wave to him while he's working. He never knows, though, until he gets home and I tell him. Unappreciative bastard.

Pssssssst...if ANY of my readers are interested in a ski trip like, RIGHT FUCKING NOW (or within the next couple of weeks) you should really, really e-mail me because we are throwing some AMAZING specials out there to move some leftover shit we've got. And I swear, I don't mean to go all salespersony on your ass, but these lodging deals are amazing.

He's Full of Something...

Z-Girl: Honey?

Z-Boy: Yeah.

Z-Girl: Do you want to be cremated or buried when you die?

Z-Boy: I wanna be stuffed.

Z-Girl: Heh.

Z-Boy: And I want you to put little wheels on my shoes so you can take me for a walk everyday.

Z-Girl: Mm-hmm.

Z-Boy: And, and, and, oh yeah, I want a party every year on my birthday with strippers and lap dances.

Z-Girl: 'Kay.

Z-Boy: And, let me think...

Z-Girl: You know, honey, this is going to be really time consuming. I mean, what if I get remarried? Don't you think my new husband would get a little jealous of all the time I'll be spending with your stuffed corpse?

Z-Boy: Well, it's not like I'll have to sleep in your bed or anything.

Z-Girl: Okay. That's a relief I guess.

Z-Boy: You could just, you know, prop me up in the corner of the bedroom.

Well, Would You Look at That...

I have a soapbox under me feet. While I'm up here...

I'm sure some of my readers are Pro-Life, and I REALLY don't intend to alienate you guys, but I'm going to warn you that I'm about to throw a wee bit of a tantrum. Understand that it's simply emotions bubbling over that I usually keep in check because I'm ALWAYS composed in debate. However, this is my playroom and I kind of feel like throwing my toys around for a minute. I'm fucking tired of being diplomatic. I know it's essential, and I know it gets me further than being a raving lunatic, but that doesn't make it any less tiresome.

You all are probably aware that I'm an advocate of choice. I have that big ass ugly button in my sidebar which says so. I wish I could find a more visually appealing one, but the sentiment is more important to me than having a pretty blog. Although, if any of you can recommend a source for buttons that don't blink and express those two of my most sacred beliefs, I'd love you forever. Not that I don't already, but who couldn't use some more Zube love? I'm full of it.

Anyway, choice is something I am PASSIONATE about. So passionate that I actually cried when Bush was reelected because I worry that under his administration the clock is slowly being turned back on Roe v. Wade, while we're all distracted by the War on Terror. My Republican husband didn't even laugh at my crying ass. He hugged me because he understands this passion. There's very little that we don't poke fun at one another for, and this is one of those things.

The reason I'm so passionate about it is that if I hadn't had access to a legal and safe abortion, I, without a doubt, would not be living in Colorado married to the Pro-Choice Republican guy I'm wildly in love with. Who knows where the fuck I'd be, but I'm so happy with where I am, that I've got nothing but love for all of the women and men who were fighting for my right to choose even while I was Pro-Life and fighting to deny myself that right. How's that for irony? "I think it would be healing for a survivor of rape to give birth to the resulting child," ranks way up there on the list of Dumbest Shit I've Ever Said.

Through my perusal of Pro-Life websites yesterday, I came across several points I'd like to address. The following aren't direct quotes; they're merely points I've seen expressed over and over again. I'm not linking because I have no desire to start a pissing match with anyone. The following is my lil' ole' opinion, peppered with lots of cussing because I'm cranky today. Maturity be damned.

"I had an abortion, and now I regret it. Abortion should be illegal because every-fucking-body else who had one must regret it, too."

There are so many websites where women can go and get hugs and get prayed for and all that happy horseshit because they made a decision they regret. And that's all well and good. I think it's important to support people who've made difficult decisions in a pinch and aren't all okay with it. Unfortunately, though, that's the fucking nature of making a BIG DECISION there's no going back on. I'm sorry you regret having an abortion. That sucks. It really does. But it doesn't mean the right should be taken away from EVERYONE. We can't go around protecting people from making a decision they might regret. Seriously.

I am at peace with what I decided, but I'm not going to turn around and say that every woman who finds herself pregnant in the least ideal situation should have an abortion. See? And I know some women who, though it's nearly impossible to tell anyone, regret not having had an abortion. They're not going around saying pregnant teenagers shouldn't be allowed to have kids. They had their kid and they love it like crazy, but they still wonder where they'd be if they hadn't. They made a decision and they're living with it. Me, too. So are you. And how each of us feels about the decision we've made should not influence the legality of others to make their own.

Now, if you were forced/coerced into having an abortion, that's WRONG and that's not what choice means to me. CHOICE means you have a fucking CHOICE in the matter and THAT is what I stand for. That's why the whole Pro-Abortion label pisses me right off. Let's just say that if I have a daughter and she comes to me at the age of sixteen and tells me she's pregnant, I give her FULL LICENSE to make a decision she can live with. I mean, ideally she wouldn't be in that predicament because she'll have come to me before she had sex and we'd have gone to the doctor and gotten her on birth control, but BIRTH CONTROL does not come with any GUARANTEES. Contraception fails, people.

But, if she wants to have a baby? Fine. If she wants an abortion? Fine. I will love her and support her NO MATTER WHAT. And, if abortion is illegal and that's what she wants? I'll fly her ass to some other country. I'm not really too worried about my future daughters not having access to abortion. It's the poor people who might want one and can't afford to travel to Canada that I'm most worried about.

I don't think the reason there are so many sites like this is that the majority of women regret having an abortion. I believe it's more or less because women who don't regret aborting don't feel the need to publicize it to the world. It's a private decision, and one they're thankful to have been able to make, but also one that people would condemn them for and who the fuck wants to deal with that?

I do because I don't really give a rat's ass what anyone other than my husband and my family think of me. I had an abortion and my whole town knows it. I don't regret it, and I'm sure I'm not the only one.

"Abortion should be illegal, except in cases of rape and incest."

That's simply not possible, and I'll tell you why.

The asshole that raped me didn't have the common decency to give me a black eye or SOMETHING, ANYTHING that would have made me a credible plaintiff. I knew him through a friend. He offered to give me a ride to the store because my car was broken down. I accepted. I, though I felt squicky about it and should have spoken up but, being young and naive, followed him into his house so he could retrieve some unknown thing. Which, come to find out, was in between my legs. And that was that. He didn't rough me up. He didn't have to because I was sufficiently frightened by the inability to breathe. A pillow over your face doesn't leave much in the way of bruising. I acquiesced because I wanted him to ease up on the suffocation. I wanted to get out alive. And I did. Thank fucking goddess.

If I'd have fought and pissed him off, I might've gotten injured, making me more believable. I might've also bought myself a one way ticket to a backyard burial. Who the fuck knows, for sure? If you ask me today if I really think he was capable of murder, I'd say probably not. But when you're deprived of oxygen and gasping for air, you'll think some crazy shit.

Does that suck? Is it unfair? Yeah. It sucks all hell and then some, but would I be willing to have innocent people put in prison for rape just so that I, or any other woman could simply say, "I was raped," and have it believed? No. Of course not. It's a sad fact of life that people lie about shit. That's why we have a judicial system. Innocent until proven guilty, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

All of that to say that I didn't prosecute. If abortions were only legal for survivors of rape, how would I have proven that that is indeed what happened? And, even if I HAD decided to prosecute, do you know how fucking long things take to even GET to trial, much less be given a verdict? I'd have given birth by the time that happened. Actually, I probably would have been forced to carry the pregnancy to term anyway because my word against his surely wouldn't have held up.

So, that argument? Stupid and impossible.

"The abortion industry is full of money hungry assholes."

Hmm...Let's see. When I had an abortion, it was $450. I opted for the general anesthesia. Otherwise it would have been $300. Friends who've had kids have told me THAT costs anywhere from $3,000 to $5,000 if you have a fairly uneventful birth. It's exponentially higher if you have an emergency C-section or something outside the average push, push, why hello there little newborn event. I don't hear anyone calling OB's money grubbing assholes.

And, the cost of birth aside, I'm assuming that having a kid for THE REST OF YOUR EARTHBOUND LIFE costs a bit more than $500 bucks. I mean, come on.

I prefer that a doctor who is going to OPERATE on my UTERUS be, you know, compensated monetarily for that. I don't mind throwing in a little extra dough for the fact that they very likely risk their fucking lives to provide health services they believe in because they CARE about women.

I find it hard to believe that the lady who held my hand and told me not to cry because those rosary bead throwing, "Murderer" screaming fuckers just didn't understand, was doing it because she wanted the portion of the $450 that went to her paycheck. She was going to get it whether she held my hand or not. And okay, maybe she didn't say 'fuckers' but anyway...







Whew. I feel much better having gotten that off my chest. If you've read this entire thing, you deserve a fucking medal and all the Zube love I've got in my reserve. It's hard to fight for and believe in something and yet ALWAYS, ALWAYS, ALWAYS keep your cool. I try. I really, really do, but every once in a while people don't fight fair with me and I want to retaliate. I'd rather do that here than there. Because here, I'm attacking an argument and not a person. There, erm, not so much.

I'd Like to Introduce You to Random...

Why I'm glad my commute home from work is only five minutes...


At work, we write our name on our food so vultures won't descend upon it...without at least knowing whose it was. I get bored with labeling my food "Zube," so I like to experiment with other ways to keep my coworkers hands off of my Subway turkey sandwich.


(In case you can't read it, it says, "I've been licked."

This Bud's for you...


I'll give you one guess as to where the heating vent is...



Before I leave for work, I lay the stools down because I think they must get tired standing up all the time. Oh, and they happen to prevent 95lb dogs with little gray hairs that are INSANELY difficult to get out of ANYTHING from sleeping on the couch.


Zack seems to forget that he is 95 lbs of muscle and, well, fat (we're working on that) when it comes to kitties with claws. We read on the internet after getting Zack that you're not supposed to have Weimareiners and cats because Weims are hunters and have been known to kill cats. I fail to believe this when Zack is whining and crying while all three cats are happily chomping away at the food I've just put in his bowl. Zack waits for Mommy to scare the big mean kitties away before he'll eat it.

It's kind of ridiculous how scared he is of them. I mean, look at his nub of a tail practically curling up into his asshole. If that doesn't say, "I submit," I don't know what does.

I Kind of Wish I Could...

-Make it warmer in Antarctica because March of Penguins made me ball my eyes out. Bless those penguin Dads and Moms. They are so brave. And they don't even think twice about it.

-Feel pretty even without having my eyebrows waxed.

-Stop worrying about feeling pretty.

-Clean up dog puke before the cats get to chowing down on it.

-Not throw up while cleaning up dog puke.

-Take on other people's pain. Because I fucking hate when there's hurting going on outside of myself and there's nothing I can do about it. I can still make jokes when I'm hurting, and some people can't so I want to take it away from them and make it funny.

-Publish a book.

-Have my old car back.

-Eat all the black olives in the world without getting sick.

-Have the years when I was 20 to 25 back because sometimes I feel like they were wasted on being sad.

-Pee my name in the snow.