None the wiser...

Fuck. I'm scared! In about two hours, I'll have four less teeth. Be gone, oh useless, cavity-filled, hard to brush, partly covered by gums, wisdom teeth.

I hate the dentist. With a passion. Well, not the dentist him/herself, but the whole idea of sitting in a chair with scrapy things and needles all around and la, la la. Not to mention feeling five years old all over again. It's something about that chair, I swear.

Apparently, though, I won't recall a damn thing. They'll give me a memory blocker, so that I won't remember what's going on, but I'll be able to respond to directives, such as "Open wider!" Isn't that a little fucked up? They could totally take advantage of that. I wonder if they'll ask me fucked up questions just to entertain themselves...

I can see it now. Knee on my chest. Yanking out my tooth.

"So, you're from Jersey. Do you love Bon Jovi?"

"Ath a mather of fak, I yuv On Govi. Ut, I gever kell angyun 'cuz I'm koo engarassed."

"Do you ever pick your nose?"

"Ogy when I can't bgow da ooger out. Ut, I wipe it og a tissue after."

Then, every time I go to the dentist after, all the receptionists will giggle and whisper. They'll be all, "Oh, my God, she totally thinks Dr. Foxtrot is hot. Yup. She told him. Too bad she doesn't remember! Hee hee!" It's gonna suck.

Geez, as if I wasn't scared enough before I typed this! Fuck.

I'm an Activist...

of sorts...Okay, so I can't always be funny and witty (let's just pretend for a minute that I really am funny and/or witty, please. Thanks!), as will be evidenced by my blog post today. At least 5% of the time, I've got to get serious.

Without further ado, this article about me appeared in the local paper today. It's a shame my ten minutes of fame be attributed to a sucky experience, but maybe it'll do some good.

Do These Pants...

Okay. My husband has failed the Husband Test. Now, I know you're going to say that it might have been a good idea to give him this before we decided to get married, but hindsight is always 20/20 my friends. Heh. Hindsight. Anyway...

Zube Girl: Honey, I'm going to give you the Husband Test.

Zube Boy: It's a little late for...

ZG: Humor me, babe. Okay. This will tell us if we really should be married.

ZB: (eyerolling) I could answer that for you.

ZG: Seriously. Ready.

ZB: As I'll ever be.

ZG: Okay. Honey, do these pants make my butt look big.

ZB: No, honey. Your butt makes those pants look big.

ZG: Shit.

ZB: Did I fail? Should I go get the divorce papers?

ZG: NO!!! You shouldn't be so lucky, you fucker. You get a few points for creativity, so that means we stay together and work on your answer for the next fifty years.

ZB: (Sigh ala Napoleon Dynamite) I'm such an idiot!

ZG: (Storms out of the room, so she can laugh without him knowing she thought it was funny)

ZB: (Shouting down the hall) I'll never make it fifty years if you don't start making me dinner!!! I think I've got about a week left before I starve to death!

ZG: (Shouting back down the hall) You better have a damn good life insurance policy!!!

If We Lived on Uranus...

I would be queen. Don't ask why. That's just the way it would be. 'Kay?

And we would sing songs together on "Uranus Day." Songs like:

"Hands Across Uranus"

"We Are Uranus"

and

"God Bless Uranus"

There would be volunteer organizations with slogans like:

"Save Uranus"

and

"Clean up Uranus"

Actually, I kind of like "Keep Uranus Clean." It has a certain ring to it. We'd fight about that I'm sure, because even volunteers have to fight sometimes, I think.

Anyway, CNN would do news spots like:

"Uranus at War"

and

"The Atmosphere on Uranus: Why We Can Live Here and Not on Earth"

Or something like that anyway.

Oh, and the History Channel. What fun it would be to watch:

"Uranus: A Billion Years Old"

and

"Life on Uranus Five Thousand Years Ago"

My husband would say I was the most annoying person on Uranus. And, I would say he's the dumbest person on Uranus.

I think it would be fun. Are ya with me?

Zzzzzzzzzz...THWUMP!!!

GF RFNJ 'SAm C;L/
xa<;'zbhjfD mbdzV:MC
"ZS

That's what you get when your cat is trying out for the Feline Olympics. In his sleep. While on top of your computer desk.

It was mildly amusing, I must say. Zander was cold chillin' all belly up, legs askew, dead asleep. All of the sudden, he started to sleepily roll over where nothing but air existed to roll onto. So, he landed on the keyboard. Right in front of my hands. He almost landed on my hands, but you see, I have cat-like reflexes. Unlike my, ummm, cat.

Shocked the hell out of me. Shocked the hell out of him.

And then he quickly jumped to the floor, sashayed over to the wood stove, and proceeded to lick his paw, staring at me blankly, all "What are you looking at, I didn't fall!" Only, I have proof. Squee!

Zander, you suck at kitty olympics, dude.

Yeah, I'm talking to you, Mister! 

Keepin' It Real...

Zube Boy: Hello?

Zube Girl: Hi Honey.

ZB: I've been trying to call you all morning.

ZG: Umm, no. Actually, I've been trying to call you all morning, but, nevermind.

ZB: Oh.

ZG: So, how's work?

ZB: Fine. I'm just keepin' it real.

ZG: Really? Still? You were keepin' it real yesterday when I called you, too.

ZB: Yeah, I've been keeping it real a lot these days.

ZG: But, it's gotta be tough to keep it real at all times. How do you do it?

ZB: Well, sometimes I take breaks. I wasn't keeping it real for like an hour yesterday.

ZG: Shit.

ZB: Yeah, I know. I'm getting old.

ZG: I know the feeling.

ZB: Yeah.

ZG: Well, I'd better get back to work.

ZB: Okay. Honey...

ZG: What?

ZB: What's for dinner?

ZG: Heh.

ZB: No, really.

ZG: Heh heh. Heheheheheh.

ZB: You're a bitch.

ZG: Really, I've gotta get back to work.

ZB: Well, are you gonna make me cookies?

ZG: Seriously, you crack me up.

ZB: Glad I could be of service.

ZG: Okay, gotta go.

ZB: Buh bye.

ZG: Keep on keepin' it real!

Awwwwww...

Get out your barf bags folks, 'cause I'm about to get all sappy on your asses.

Zube Boy and I were at the bar last night with a bunch of his coworkers. One of them, Coby, announced that he will be proposing to his girlfriend soon, and naturally all of the other guys were slapping him on the back and giving him shit. He and Zube Boy chatted for a while, and I flitted about socializing, as I'm wont to do. When we were about to leave, I stopped by to congratulate Coby, and he said congratulations weren't in order yet, as he hadn't asked and she hadn't yet accepted.

Me: "Well then, good luck!"

Coby: "Thank you. You're the first person to say that."

Me: "You know, for all the shit Zube Boy and I give each other and for all the fucked up sarcastic things we say about being married, marriage is a fucking wonderful thing."

Coby: "You know what's pretty cool about the fact that you just said that? Your husband just said almost those exact words to me a few minutes ago."

Damn. I love my old man!

Uuugh. I think I just got a cavity.

How to Give Your Cat a Bath...

...and why the Hell you would even want to try!!!

We have learned the hard way that if a bucket with a trace of oil in the bottom is left outside for a long period of time, and you have a very rainy week, the water will fill the bucket, the oil will sit on top and appear to a kitty to be solid (albeit, Zoey isn't the brightest kitty in the world, but that's besides the point). Always wanting to be perched higher than ground level, the curious little cat may just decide to jump on top of the appearingly solid platform of oil. And unless your cat is the next messiah (now that's a really scary thought), he or she will not sit stoically on the surface. They will sink. And get oil in their fur.

I don't know if anyone has ever seen an oily cat. It doesn't look all that weird actually. It kind of looks like they're just wet. I was so preoccupied when I arrived home from work, that I glanced at Zoey, and thought to myself, "Huh, the cat looks really wet." This should have been a sign that something was amiss, but my cat has a peculiar habit of sitting in the bathtub and letting the water from the faucet drip on her head. She could have walked into the room with a feather boa, and I wouldn't have given it a second thought. This actually happened at a Halloween party we hosted. She fetched a boa from the closet, and pranced into the living room with it in her mouth, either side trailing behind her. She actually looked rather elegant and I just figured she wanted to dress up like everyone else. But, I digress...

You come to expect strange things from Zoey. So, I figured I'd never know what really happened that mysterious afternoon, and went about making dinner (Zube Boy, stop laughing! It's sort of a story, so I'm allowed a little poetic license).

Six hours later...

Zube Boy is in bed, and I'm reading in the living room. Zoey still looks wet. She's developed this strange tic. She walks a bit, shakes each of her back legs one at a time, then sits down and licks her butt. This tic occurs about once every five or so feet. Even stranger still, she's trailed by Zack, the dog, and Zander, the other cat, who are sniffing at her. She looks absolutely miserable, whatever that means. In fact, cats have always seemed to me to have a perpetual scowl on their faces, happy or not. How do you explain to them when they're on your lap purring, demanding love as though you never give it, that when you tried to pet them five minutes ago, they scratched you! Anyway, I put down my book, and decide to investigate.

I pick her up. She doesn't feel wet. She feels slimy. My first instinct is to smell her. Though I can't place the smell, I do recognize it as similar to the way The Boy has smelled when he's come home from a hard day of work. I'm sure he'll be able to tell me what it is. So, I hold the cat as far away from me as possible, enter the bedroom of my slumbering husband, flick on the lights, say, "Ewwww. Honey will you smell the cat?" and shove her in his face. In retrospect, that must've pretty strange for him, but being the fabulous guy he is, and quite possibly being accustomed to my odd requests, he took a sniff. "That's oil."

"Oil? How the hell would she get into oil?"

"Ummm, there was a bucket outside, and oil probably rose to the top when it rained. I bet she tried to sit on it."

"Hmmm."

We decide she needs a bath. Zube Boy, wanting to offer moral support, hops out of bed. You know, he actually hopped out of bed a little too quickly, and I think I detected a mischevious grin on his face that momentarily replaced his genuine look of concern. But, that's okay. In moments like these, I begrudgingly accept the fact that the cats are "my cats."

"So, should I just stick her in the shower?"

"No, you need dish soap."

"Dish soap?!?! You mean, like, dishwashing detergent?"

"No, like the stuff you wash the dishes in the sink with. You remember that stuff?"

Now, it hadn't been THAT long since I'd used dish soap, but I still didn't get how it would help the cat. Zube Boy, realizing he was dealing with a laywoman, explained that it breaks up oil. "Like in the Dawn commercials when the ducks are covered in oil from an oil spill. You know that commercial?"

"Oh yeah, those poor ducks." So, I retrieved the dish soap quickly, remembering my poor Zoey.

As my pajama clad husband and a very eager dog (who seems to have a sixth sense for cat torture) stood behind me, I stuck the cat in the shower, rubbed dish soap all over her, and reached for the shower nozzle. Zube Boy, always the nice guy, said, "Wait, let me run hot water in the sink, so the shower water won't take so long to get warm." As I relish the fact that he's so great, the water gets hot, and he gives me the okay. I turn the nozzle, shut the shower door, and step back. The Boy looks at me quizzically. "You're going to do it like that?"

"Yeah, why not?"

"That's not going to work."

Just as I'm about to pontificate my experience and success as a cat owner thus far, I shut my mouth. It is quite clear that my plan is not working. After only her fifth attempt, Zoey is close to mastering the distance she'll need to jump and perch herself on the shampoo shelf.

"You mean, I'm going to have to get in there with her?

Zube Boy grins.

"Okay." So, he and I both block the shower door to prevent the pissed off feline hellion from plowing through. I manage to get my hands around her. Then, with one hand under her belly by her front legs, and the other alternately holding her still and lathering, she starts to get sudsy. This continues for quite a while only interrupted every once in a while by Zube Boy saying, "Wait, what about that back leg?" A wet cat is not a pretty sight. Zube Boy said something about me needing to feed her more. She really looked like a rat. An angry rat with no chance for surivival unless it raises all hell. I quietly admire her agility. Humans would be invinsible if we had four legs which could move in every single direction at the same time! No matter how high I held her, one limb always managed to find a surface from which to push or pull. I experimented with this while chanting "Go, go, Gadget Cat!." I swear she's a really compact four foot cat.

Finally, I started rinsing her off. Just as I was about to ask Zube Boy for a towel, he said, "You're done?" Now, I'm not a genious, but I quickly recognized this as an abbreviation of the statement, "What are you thinking, you're not done yet." Defeated, I looked at the slinky wet mess and the pile of black hairs in the shower, and felt Zoey's slimy belly.

Lather, Rinse, Repeat.

After about ten more minutes, we were both done. It seemed as though she was only flailing three limbs at a time. Zube Boy grabbed a couple of towels and Zack pranced around like a kid who's just seen his little sister get in trouble. Zander was nowhere to be found. I assume he thought Zube Boy and I were systematically torturing all of the furry beings infesting the house and the dog was too stupid to realize this. Zube Boy kissed me goodnight, and Zoey and I recovered towelwrapped on the couch.

I figure, if our marriage can withstand this little nightmare, and live to tell with only a few scratches, I'm sure that we can make it through anything!

In fact, the next day while Zube Boy and I were cleaning the refrigerator, I said, "Honey, look, we're spending time with each other!"

He said, "You know, if you'd have asked me when I was in high school what I'd be doing now, I would've said I'd be with some really hot goth chick going clubbing. But instead I'm here cleaning the refrigerator with you, my beautiful wife!"

"And don't forget, showering cats!"

That's Just the Way it Snows, Sometimes...

Yeah, so it's snowing...and it's the end of April. I'm going to post some photos to remind me that *someday* soon, it will stop snowing. At least long enough for us to off road for a couple of hours!


Get ready... 


Hang on... 


Almost... 


Yeah!!! Please stop snowing, Colorado Skies! I can't wait to do this again! 

But...No...Shut up.

Seriously, Georgie.

I can only handle three and a half more years of this shit if you would only shut the fuck up. I remember my Mom telling me that if I kept my face a certain way for an extended period of time it would get stuck, and since I'm obsessed with CNN of late, and scowl every time I see your mug, I'm quite afraid my face will be stuck in a perpetual scowl.

And, while you're at the task of shutting up, get the hell out of my uterus, too. 'Kay? Get a womb or your own. The thought of you all stomping around in there, protecting my eggs and playing a fanatic game of "World Leader" makes me cringe.

*snork*

Okay, I have to admit though that the image itself makes me giggle a little, but this is a seriuos rant. Let me compose myself. Ommmmmmmmm. Whew. Much better. I prefer that image to this one, though. There seems to be a serious lacking of people with their genitals on the inside in that picture, huh? Sadly, my mind's eye picture of you strenously fighting to be 'King of the Hill' in my womb is not real in the literal sense, and the latter photo is.

Honestly, I'm kind of hoping that you keep up with your Christian Regime. I know for a fact it's pissing off my Republican husband. I think I'm going to register as a Republican so I can vote for John McCain in the 2008 primaries. And don't nobody tell me he's not running, 'cause I'm not hearing it...

*sticks fingers in ears*

Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb...

*makes sure the din of naysayers has subsided*

Don't forget that there are Pro-Choice Republicans out there buster. The kind of Republicans who truly embrace the whole "less government" dealymabob of the Republican platform. Yeah, those guys and gals. I'm hoping you piss them off mightily so that us Moderate Democrats and Moderate Republicans (whom I'm thinking are the true majority), can have a big old summit of some sort and deliberate the kicking of some BIG government ass.

So, keep on keepin' on, Bushie. I beg you to widen the rift in the Republican Party. The true majority will find itself eventually, despite this whole partisan bitterness we've seem to got going on.

After all, We Are the People, aren't we?

Tori Can Kiss My Amos...

I went to a Tori Amos concert last night with Comrade Jersey Girl. CJG is heading back to her old stomping grounds in the Garden State, and we decided to get together for the concert to send her off properly. Only, it didn't really work out that way; the proper part, at least.

We arrived at the Paramount right on time. Go us! Finding our way through Denver, detours and all. We head to the doors in search of seats H10 and H11. Seat Finder Lady with the handy flashlight schleps us up to the 8th row, (H = 8th letter of the alphabet). We sit through the opening act, sipping on our $6.00 beers.

The lights dim. First act's over. Time for Tori.

As the stage folks are setting up, Seat Finder Lady approaches us with a couple standing next to her. She asks to see our tickets. We show them to her. She says, "Oh, you're in seats 10 and 11. These are seats 1 and 2."

CJG: "Oh, no biggie, we just thought since you pointed to these seats when we came in, this is where we were supposed to sit. We'll just move down."

Me: (looking down the row) "Ummm, there aren't any more seats at the end. There's a big camera there."

Seat Finder Lady: "Yeeeeah. Well, Tori wanted a camera there, so we have some other great seats for you."

Us: "Oooooooh, okay."

Then, smooth talking Guy Smiley Guy sidles up to us and shuffles us to our "really great" new seats. Right in the middle! Of fucking row S (you do the math).

Long story short, we paid more money for seats in the front, and were ousted so Tori's fancy cameras could replace our asses. We got no compensation. No free beer. No refund. Just the run around.

I haven't been to a concert since, hmmm, the Grateful Dead, and I can barely remember that. Heh. The amount of time having passed not being the only reason, but I digress.

I will never pay to go to a fucking concert again.

Perhaps if my ass was minty fresh, I'd have been worthy of a seat in Row H. Damn.

I Don't Get Along With Other Women...

What. The. Fuck. Ever. I'm sorry. I just don't buy that shit. Yeah, it was cool to say it in high school. I said it, and it was generally true, but there was a reason for it. The reason being that it gave me more 'cool girl' street cred to say it. In high school. To high school boys.

When I hear other folks of the female persuasion say this, particularly over the age of twenty, I typically roll my eyes, and move right along. A heads up to ya'll. It's just not cool after high school to say you don't get along with 51% of the world's population.

I dig women. Women fucking rock, in my humble opinion. Some love pink. Some loathe it. Some wear heels. Some wear flip flops. Long hair. Short hair. Businesswomen. Stay at home moms. Working moms. Working girls. Whatever. What's not to love? I mean, on any given day we wear, oh, maybe a twenty hats. It's cool. We're cool.

So, next time you're hanging out with the dudes, and the phrase "I don't really get along with other women," is dangling from the tip of your tongue, I beg you to reconsider letting it fly. Because you are, in essence, putting those dudes up on a pedastool because they are sooooo much cooler than, pffft, women.

And get yourself some girlfriends. For real. Perhaps the reason you don't generally get along with other women is because they can smell from a mile away that you won't like 'em 'cause they have a vagina. Just like you do, hon.

Can't I Just Be Alone?

I started reading this book, Geisha (great, great book), on Saturday night. I read, oh, about 150 of 423 pages. I woke up on Sunday at the buttcrack of dawn because for some reason, I can't sleep in on weekends anymore. I peeked out the window and the sky looked like it wanted to snow, or freeze my snot if I dare go outside, so I decided to park my ass on the couch and read. All. Day. Cause what a fabulous way to spend the ickiness that is a cold, dreary Sunday. Right?

Wrong. I mean, it was right for about an hour, until the Roommate awoke from his slumber and clambered onto the other couch and asked the dreaded question, "Do you mind if I turn on the TV?" Sigh. Fine.

You know, I watch TV once in a while. I'd say I probably put in a good 6 or so hours a week mostly in the evenings when ZubeBoy and I are too wound up for shuteye, but feel like layin' in bed. I'm fond of Roommate, but damn if the TV isn't on At All Times when that boy is in the house. Whatever.

I hibernated in the bedroom reading my book while the drone of the TV wafted down the hallway until about 5:00PM. I decided to go to the Clubhouse so I could read in the hot tub, and not in my bed, because my intention that morning was never to lay in bed reading all day. It was to read on the couch all day. Splitting hairs, I know, but there is a difference.

I grabbed my book, hopped in the car, and drove to the Clubhouse. I didn't see any cars out front, so I smiled to myself. Wheeee, I get to be alone!!! I turned the key and stepped inside. To piggyback a line from a popular movie:

I see naked people. They're everywhere.

Yup. Only I didn't need any sort of sixth sense. There were three naked people, right before my eyes. Naked people of the erm, older variety. Not that I've got a problem with saggy boobs and droopy butts or anything. I'm no picture of perfection myself, my friend. But, Lord, guys, at your age, haven't you figured out yet that Water + Your Penis = Shrinkage? Not to mention that, ummm, as a resident of French Creek you share the pool/hot tub facilities with about 1,000 other people.

I just smiled as they apologized and freaked out. I couldn't rightly turn around and leave the building all, "Ohhhhmmmmmyyyyy GGGGGGoooooodddddd! They're nnnnnnneeeekkkkkkkiiiiiiddddddddd! Eeeeeewwwwww!"

So, I sat my ass in the adjacent hot tub (feeling pretty damn good in my bathing suit I must say), and read my fucking book for about an hour. Then I went back home to where Roommate was still on the couch watching TV (He actually totalled 15 hours on the couch watching TV yesterday, but who's counting?) I eventually went to bed, having not finished my book. I'll try again another day.

The Dieties did not have it in the stars for me to be alone yesterday.

Boozing by Appointment Only

Here's the thing. I love me an adult beverage on almost any given day, I won't deny that, but, I've got issues with 'Girl's Night Out'. It sucks because the whole premise of it is to have fun. I have two groups of friends who have established Girl's Nights, which I am expected to excitedly attend. There are 'Girl's Nights' with hang-out friends on the first Monday of every month and with work friends the second Tuesday of every month.

At each month's beginning, I open up my big black planner, and enter in all of the month's scheduled events, including Girl's Night. Instead of anticipating the gathering, I've come to dread it. I mean, if one of my gal pals happened to call me up at beer:30 on the first Monday in May and ask me if I'd like to go to Mi Casa for $1.00 beers, I'd be all, "Hell Yeah!" about it. But, there's something about knowing that on December 5, 2005, I'm probably going to be pouting on a couch in The Crown over a dish of ice cream with my lady friends, that just sucks the fun right out of, well, fun. And then what are you left with? Nothing.

I'm thinking my annoyance has become more evident because I'm turning *Gasp* 30!!! And, I'm all, "What the fuck happened? I used to be cool, and now I'm fucking scheduling the consumption of beer in my god-damned planner! Whatever came of spontaneity?"

It's bad enough that I almost joyfully peed my pants because we got this awesomeness of a new washer (it is sooooo quiet, I know you're jealous...Right?), but now I have to plan to drink beer!?!? What next? Adult diapers? Well, okay, I'm jumping the gun. But, baby diapers? Ummm. You know, we're actually thinking about that. Le Sigh.

Can I just tell my friends to call me up and surprise me on 'Girl's Night' and I'll be all about it? Is that okay?