Sometimes, a wife is caught off guard by amorous feelings from her husband at bedtime, and before the evening's festivities can continue she must say, "Thust a thecond honey," and pull out her precious tooth grinding preventer.
There is no way to do this and be sexy about it. But, he's still sleeping next to me and even reminds me to put in my 'squeaker' before we go to bed. I guess that the squeaking sound it makes is better than the sound of me grinding my teeth. Either that, or he loves me so much he doesn't want me to have to get another root canal!
I suppose that's just another one of those things that is marriage.
And, for real, if you grind your teeth at night; this little guard I bought at the grocery store kicks ass. It's waaaaaaay less expensive than the ones you get from the dentist. I think it was $30 bucks or something. And no one even paid me anything to tell you that.
Sunday, July 31, 2005
Saturday, July 30, 2005
Z-Girl: Hey, are you behind me?
Nate: Only in your wildest dreams.
Z-Girl: Heh. No, seriously. There's this guy behind me in a red truck with sunglasses that look like yours, and he's following me really close, so I thought maybe it was you.
Nate: Nope, I'm at work digging a hole.
Z-Girl: Okay, well then that fucker needs to quit riding my ass. Later.
Friday, July 29, 2005
Zack and I were hangin' out today. Sharing the living room, as families tend to do. Suddenly, he went into fervent Lick and Gnaw Hineyhole mode. This is when I broke into song. It's one of my favorites, and I call it the "Hiney Licker" song.
It goes something like this, though the lyrics vary from time to time:
Hineylicker, hineylicker, hiney, hiney, hineylicker...
Is my little hineylicker hungry for something other than hiney...
Hiney, hiney, hiney licker...
And so on...
This time, though, I proceeded to sing and let the dog out at the same time. Two teenagers happened to be walking by, and witnessed my acapella performance.
I am so not cool anymore.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Z-Boy: The doctor said you should give me massages throughout the day to help me get better.
Z-Girl: Uh huh?
Z-Boy: The doctor told me that my only hope for recovery would be if my wife would make me cookies.
Man, oh man, oh man. This whole sickness and health thing is hard fucking work! And, the disrobing of the foot turned my stomach. Fucking ewwwwwwww and owwwwww, which I guess would be pronounced something like eowwwwww! They believe he's torn some tendons that, you know, hold his bones together. I've got some photos that don't even do it justice. Just know that where his foot looks yellow? Yeah. That is no malfunction of the camera.
We're probably looking at surgery, but we'll find out for sure on Monday when the doctor looks at the MRI. This is gonna be one long fucking haul.
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
I’ve had something on my mind lately, and I've been remiss to post it because, well, I don’t know really. Sometimes I feel like folks come here to get a good laugh, and when I throw in a serious post I worry that I'll fuck up the ambiance or whatever the hell I’ve got going on here.
Thing is, my twisted sense of humor arose as a coping mechanism. If I hadn’t been able to say, “Ah, fuck it. I’ll stick around and see what else could possibly go wrong,” I might’ve ingested that bottle of pills oh so many years ago. But I didn’t. Okay, so it also had a little to do with envisioning my family at my funeral and realizing it would tear them apart, but I digress...
I’ve been active with Planned Parenthood lately, in particular supporting the cause of mandating hospitals to inform rape victims of the availability of Emergency Contraception. I’ve spoken at a rally, a press conference that was aired on the news, and to a few reporters here and there about my experience of being raped, impregnated by the rapist, and having an abortion ten years ago. I think it is incredibly important to share my story for several reasons, but here are just a couple.
Firstly, I want any other woman who might be in the throes of a similar experience to know that they are going to be okay. Really, really, really. That’s most important to me. Maybe a little crazy, but okay. I'm a little crazy and a little okay, and it's cool. It's cool, too, to cry a lot or a little. Just do what feels right. That's about all you can do. You are not alone, though it may feel that way.
Which leads me to...
Secondly, rape survivors are left largely on their own to deal with the repercussions of their assault. It’s fucking sad and shouldn't be that way. I remember spending much of my energy worrying what people would think of me if I told them. It’s not like breaking your leg. When you break your leg, you ring up your family, friends, and work and say, “Hey, I broke my fucking leg,” and people send you flowers and cards and you get days or weeks off of work.
When you're raped, at least in my experience, it doesn't go down like that. Especially if it's not 'Stranger Jumping Out of the Bushes' rape. I went to class the next day, and work after that. Everyone thought it best if I carried on as usual. So I did, wanting to make them feel better. I proved that I could still tie my shoes, and take notes about algorithms. Truthfully, though, it would’ve been nice if I could have taken some time to recuperate from a broken spirit. Just because you can't see it or slap a cast on it, doesn't mean it can't be broken or injured, ya know?
Rape is something many survivors suffer in silence because it involves sex, which people feel icky talking about it. But, people need to talk about it to make the stigma go away, and since I feel pretty damn okay most days, I do. I’ve got to honor my funny bone by giving appropriate recognition to just where it came from. Being tough as nails, and knowing that each time I laugh, it proves that the mother fucker who raped me couldn’t take that away. Not forever, anyway.
I have noticed that my serious posts go largely uncommented on. And you know what? That’s okay. Seriously you guys. One of the hardest parts about going public for me has been the response from other women who’ve told me how brave I am and relayed their stories. I usually say, “First of all, I’m no braver than you and second of all, it happened to me, and I still don’t know what to say to you except that it sucks and I’m sorry.” I feel like if I'm standing up in front of 200 people telling my story, I should know the perfect response, but I don't.
I'm only human. As are you all. Well, except for the one or two aliens that might read this, which makes me hope that I'm not a case study for earthling normalcy. If so, we're all fucked. But, to the humans, it's okay to be human, and not know what to say.
So, it's off my chest now. Thank you. I feel better. Hopefully, you are no worse for the wear, which would be the best case scenario for both of us.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
I was working in a restaurant when I first moved to Colorado and having waitressed for six years prior I managed to impress the managers and assimilate fairly quickly. On a Saturday night my third week there, I arrived at work to find that I'd been given the best section. Whee!
This was wonderful for me, because I'd finally found myself an apartment and needed some moolah. The restaurant filled up fairly quickly, and I was busy, well, waitressing. Which is fucking hard work people. Tip your servers.
Anyway, I happened to be cruising by the hostess stand where some of the employees who'd been there longer than me were whining to the server manager. This is what I heard:
Them: But why does she get that section!
Server Manager: Because she's good. Now get back to work.
Them: But, she's only been here for three weeks. WAAAAAAAH! Why'd you give her the best section.
Not having time to stand around listening, because I was fucking busy working, I picked up a serving tray, careened by the hostess stand and said, "Because I suck a mean dick."
The server manager was left stuttering, "No, but, no," and my whiney coworkers were speechless. I cackled evilly all the way to the kitchen to pick up some ketcup for table 11 and salads for table 12.
Heh. We all became fast friends after that. I guess a good sense of humah overrides the pissing match that is working in a restaurant.
Monday, July 25, 2005
I opened an e-mail today and was greeted by your precious little, erm, big mug blowing me a kiss. Nevermind all of the crap you said about refinancing and interest rates, I can only presume from the kiss blowing that you are in love with me. And, you know, I can't really blame you. I'm quite a catch if you ask me.
The problem is, I'm married. Well, actually it's not a problem for me, but it does pose a bit of a dilemma for you. I guess some might find it sad that my premarital sexual forays lacked any girl on girl cow action, but I'm okay with it.
As fun as it would be to prance around the pasture with you, I think we should maybe just be friends. Don't get me wrong, you're real pretty and I bet you're super sweet, but I'm just not that into cows. In that way. You know what I mean? And besides, I'm a carnivore, which probably wouldn't sit well with you.
Anywho, thanks for the love note and maybe next time you send a love letter to some other lucky gal, you may want to say what you mean instead of going on about that refinancing bullshit. I almost didn't notice you were trying to tell me you loved me.
Sunday, July 24, 2005
I rather enjoy sharing with you all the things I learn, so I’m going for another round of it.
-While taking a shower, I noticed an odd looking design steamed onto the shower curtain. I said to myself, “Huh. That kind of looks like Pokemon.” Then, I said, “Wow. I didn’t know I knew what Pokemon was.” I learned that I do indeed know at least what Pokemon looks like.
-I learned that I can haul ass uphill, if I believe someone I love might be injured or dead.
-I learned that after your husband has feared imminent death, he might wanna hold your hand a lot. He might also say, “Honey, all I could think was that I was going to die on your birthday and you would have to remember that for the rest of your life. I hated that I might do that to you.” And you will want to melt. Because you can’t believe that while your husband was rolling over in a jeep, all he could think about was you. This love thang is some crazy shit. For real.
-I learned that cocktail weenies are actually pretty good.
-I learned that your hair can grow from long to way longer without you hardly even noticing if you stick it up in a bun as soon as you get out of the shower every day.
-I learned that cutting my hair is an emotionally charged subject for me. I have not, however, learned why yet. I just can't seem to let it go for some reason.
-I learned that I will probably always giggle when a tampon commercial comes on and Zube Boy says, "Honey, shoosh. I like this commercial!" Tee hee.
Saturday, July 23, 2005
At the store...
Z-Girl: Honey, do you need anything?
Z-Boy: No, I'm okay.
Z-Girl: Are you sure? I got a pretty nice tip today from that wedding party. Get something.
Z-Girl: What do you want, honey? Get it.
Z-Boy: Could I get a hose? I really kind of want a hose.
Z-Girl: Yeah, sure.
Later that evening...
Z-Girl: What are you doing?
Z-Boy: I'm going to use my hose...
Z-Girl: Heh heh.
Z-Boy: Shut up!
Z-Girl: Go clean something with your hose, hose-nose.
Z-Boy: I got the hose for us, you know.
Z-Boy: Yeah. Now we can hold hands and garden together.
Z-Girl: And don't forget sing 'Koombaya'.
Friday, July 22, 2005
If you haven't yet, you may want to read yesterday's post before this one.
Ding-ding-ding! Aaaaaand, the winner is...TJ. It's Zooby. Rhymes with Booby. And Dooby. Though, I did figure most of y'all would pronounce it like 'Tube'. Let's just say, if you were calling my house and asked for 'Zube' (rhymes with tube) I would say, "Oh, she died a penniless lonely bitch." Telemarketers. Damn them.
But, you may pronounce it however you like! Just don't call and try to sell me shit.
Which leads me to Anduin Andorian's question:
Where did you get the name Zube from?
It's my maiden name. Actually, most of my friends and Z-Boy call me Zube (Zooby) or some variation thereof. Zoobles, Zoobs, Z. I hated it growing up because I was always last in line, and it rhymed with booby. Which I didn't have much in the way of. Despite the fact that I could write a book with all of the rhymes my clever punkass classmates came up with, once high school hit and the kids started calling me Zube, I grew to love it.
Zube Boy is so named in my blog because I figger if I go by his last name in real life, he can fucking take mine on the internets. Damn patriarchal bullshit that I bought into. Anyway...
How many pairs of flip flops do you have?
Well, well, well. Funny you should ask because Z-Boy and I get in fights about this. Come the month of May, I buy myself an assload of flip flops in, like, fifty different colors because I usually throw them away when they get dirty. Which takes about, oh, a week maybe. As we have learned, Z-Boy is none too fond of the plan I devised for cleaning them so I've thrown in the towel on that battle.
I braved my closet, which is a feat in and of itself. The grand total is seven and a half, but I believe that's actually eight. I only delved into the top 12 layers of shit in my closet and I'll have to call in an archeologist to get through the rest. Or at least borrow a front end loader and a crew of about twelve burly men with hard hats.
Heh. And now...
I saved Blog Ho's question for last:
Did you get nice things?
I'll show you what I got for my birthday...
That's what the inside of someone's foot looks like. Whose foot, you ask? Well, I'll show you that, too...
But, I'm out of time for now, so I'll save that story for another post. Oh, and we can safely assume that I did not, in fact, get knocked up on my birthday! We're all okay now, though.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Or 1, or 3, or 12. Don't matter to me.
Since I'm being nice to my brain on my birthday, giving it a rest and whatnot, I'm going to make you do all the work. Now, don't run away screaming. It'll be easy and painless. I promise.
Firstly, I'm going to ask you a question. How, my dear readers, do you all pronounce 'Zube' in your heads? I realize that I never told anyone how it is pronounced, and I'm curious to know what you've come up with. I have a theory about it, too, so humor me, pretty please!
Secondly, you get to ask me a question. I am the knower of all things Zube, so whatever you are just dying to know, or couldn't care less about but would like to ask anyway, I'll answer to the best of my ability. I promise not to lie. (You have no way of knowing, though, if that promise was a lie or not, do you?)
I will say that if ANYONE asks me if I wore Zube Boy's holey socks to work today, I'm going to plead the fifth. Fucking laundry.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Tomorrow I’ll be one decade closer to bopping youngins’ over the head with my flowery handbag while berating them for not knowing anything about the Good Ole Days. Well, I could actually do that today, but I think it’s reasonable to wait until I’m about sixty. Sixty seems a more appropriate age for that stuff, and besides, I’ve got to save some fun for later. Maybe by the time I'm sixty I'll even grow to like handbags.
So, the Big 3-0. I’m having lots of feelings about it which I’ll dump on you, ‘cause you all fucking rock with the listening thing. Thanks.
I feel like it’s time to put away my crayons and be a big girl. But, you know what? I’m not gonna. I think I’m going to start writing my checks in crayon and putting smiley faces in the zeros. That’ll show ‘em.
I really, really, really had hoped I’d have my first kid before thirty. I changed that several months ago to at least being pregnant by the time I was thirty. But, it’s not happening. Meh. We’re still on the Not Trying Not to Conceive, But Not Really Trying to Conceive path, so I’ll just go with it.
30. Huh. I’m going to embrace it. Half of my 20’s sucked hardcore anyway. I think I’ve got a lovely decade looming ahead of me.
On that note, here is what my birthday has me wishing for:
-To get knocked up. Hmm. Maybe after my birthday party! That could be fun…
-A new look for my blog. OH WAIT! I’ve got that thanks to Daria with Web Divas. Did I ever mention that she kicks righteous ass? No? Well, she does.
-A kiss from my honey.
-A fucking screen house for my pop-up that my husband will erect while I point imperiously and give direction. That last part, the part about pointing imperiously and giving direction…That would be the reason I’m not getting a screen house for my birthday.
-You know, life is pretty good right now. I’m not going to push it.
Z-Girl: Look at how big the moon looks!
Z-Boy: I'll show you a big moon...
Z-Boy: One with a big brown star in it...
Z-Girl: Ewww. Enough with the brown star. You had me at 'big moon'.
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
I left this little note for a good friend of mine...
My Dear Friend Whose Cats I Checked on While You Were Away,
I hope you had a wonderful time in Florida! The kitties seem to be fine, excepting one little dilemma poor Sonny experienced whilst you were gone. I wanted to leave you a note so you would understand if he seemed a little traumatized, and just in case you happened upon any evidence that I might have missed.
When I got to the house today to feed the felines, I noticed something dangling from Sonny’s bum. Upon closer inspection, I realized it was a piece of poo hanging from a long human hair that apparently he had decided to ingest. I think it was mine, ‘cause it was long and blond, so I'm sorry for shedding in your house. Anyway, to his dismay, it failed to entirely exit the anal canal, and had decided to hold a little terd there with it.
The odd dingleberry must’ve been fairly annoying, because Sonny looked frazzled when I arrived. In an attempt to dislodge the offending hair-held poo, I think he tried dragging his ass across the carpet. Obviously, this served no other purpose than to smear the carpet with, well, you know. Anyway, you’ll be happy to know that I pulled the hair out of his ass (god, I’ve always wanted to write a sentence such as that one) and cleaned up some spots on the carpet. I think I got them all.
It was a little above and beyond, but please don’t feel bad. I tried to stifle my hysterical laughter, since Sonny seemed embarrassed enough already, and the sheer hilarity of the scenario overrode the cleaning up part of the deal.
Well, I’ll see you at work tomorrow!
Z-Boy: Honey, mwah?!
Z-Boy: But, mwah?!
Z-Girl: No. Stop blowing kisses at me.
Z-Boy: Why, my honey?
Z-Girl: Because I don't blow kisses when I'm pissed off.
Z-Boy: What do you blow?
Z-Boy: Damn. I was hoping it was something else.
Z-Girl: Watch your step, ass monkey. You're on thin ice as it is.
Monday, July 18, 2005
I remember my Dad telling me the story of how his Dad almost killed him. We were all crowded in a restaurant, drinking some adult beverages, telling wild stories about family. We’re all a little crazy. We can’t help it; it’s in our genes.
Dad was visiting his sister in North Carolina, and after a long day of job hunting, hopped in the shower. Once finished, he opened the bathroom door only to find he was staring down the barrel of a gun. Behind that gun was his Dad, who promptly muttered something to the effect of, “Well, son of a bitch, I forgot you were staying here.” Nevermind the fact that what burglar in their right mind would stop mid-theft and take a shower, Poppop was beginning to forget a lot of things at that time,including the difference between my sisters and me.
He died a little over two years ago. Had a heart attack mowing his lawn. It was for the best that it happened so quickly and unexpectedly, really, because I can’t imagine that guy sick and hospitalized. He valued his independence more than anything else.
Being 2000 miles away, I wasn’t able to attend his funeral services. Actually, I would have been able to afford it if I’d skipped paying some bills, but I was not allowed to attend. I called my Dad, and began to tell him that I’d found a last minute flight for only $700. His reply is etched in my memory so clearly, it’s as though it happened just yesterday:
“Zube Girl, you know your grandfather would chew your ass if you paid $700 to go to his damn funeral. Grab yourself $20, go to the bar, tell funny stories about him, do shots in his honor, and I promise you he is more likely to be there with you than he is to be at some stupid funeral. Even his own.”
Thing is, Dad was right, and just hearing him say that made me smile remembering the crazy old bastard I was so sad about losing. On the day of the funeral, I grabbed a $20 and headed to my favorite local bar. The one saving grace of living in a town with 3,000 or so other transplants is that everyone is so willing to stand in as family in the event of a memorial at a bar. Most folks ventured out here on their own, and they all know it could just as easily be them mourning the death of a loved one over the watering hole. It was actually not the first time I’d done shots for a grandfather, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.
And, I wouldn't have it any other way. You know, I'm pretty sure he was there, too. I think I heard him say, "For godsfreakin' sake, these fucking wings itch. Hey, Zube Girl, what are you, a pansy ass? What's with the lemon and sugar with yer vodka? Girly girl. Love ya."
Or, maybe I was just drunk. Who knows? Who cares? Not me.
Sunday, July 17, 2005
So, I’m pinching an idea from Zazzafooky’s blog, and I hope she doesn’t mind. TJ is awesomeness. Check her out. She posted the story of how she and her husband met and married, and it has me waxing nostalgic about when Zube Boy and I first crossed paths. And, since I love reading stories such as this, I’m posting my own.
It was December of 2000, and I was living with three other roommates. One of the guys I lived with, we’ll call him Wag, had just moved to Colorado and had spent the first month living at Zube Boy’s house getting himself established. He moved into my place after that month, because I had a bedroom to offer, and not just a couch.
Wag had a couple of friends visiting from Denver for the weekend, and on Sunday morning, his friends realized that their car wasn’t working. Wag had learned while living with Zube Boy, that he was a genius of a car mechanic, and decided to ring him up to see if he’d be willing to help out. This is how the conversation went, from what I’ve managed to piece together.
Wag: Hey, what’s up?
Wag: Uh, I was wondering if you’d be able to stop by here and check out my friend’s car. They’re about to head back to Denver and it won’t start.
Z-Boy: What’s in it for me?
Wag: Hmmm…Well, we’ve got a little beer in the keg left over from last night and I’ve got a good-lookin' roommate you should check out.
Z-Boy: Eh. Okay.
Zube Boy came over, fixed the car, and had a beer while I giggled and sashayed about, working my sexy flannel pajamas. Because what single, childless 25-year-old in her right mind isn’t flouncing around in pajamas at noon on Sunday?
We hit it off pretty instantly. We were both sarcastic chuckling fools. That’s one of the first things I remember loving about him. Most men guffaw. Zube Boy chuckles. It’s excellent.
But, that’s not necessarily all she wrote. I visited Jersey for Christmas the two weeks following our first encounter, and returned with my little sister in tow who visited me for another week after that.
On January 6, 2001 my friend, Mel, and I were preening in the mirror, about to paint the town red, when my phone rang. It was Zube Boy. He sounded sooooooo nervous and cute. I had been told by Wag that he was extremely shy, and Wag was having a hell of a time getting him to call me and ask me out. I didn't call him because, ironically enough, I'd written off men for an indefinite amount of time two months prior to having met him. On this evening, he invited me to the Big Air snowboarding competition. Unfortunately, I already had plans. I told him I would call him the next day, to which he replied, "Okay," but I’m sure he thought, “Yeah, right.”
Anyway, I did call, not the next day, but two days later. Yeah, I played by 'The Rules' at first, and didn't want him to think I was desperate. Our first date was at my place. My roommates kindly hid upstairs while I made dinner for this quiet mystery of a man. We were supposed to watch a movie, but actually ended up arguing politics. I eventually got fed up with his Republican ass and said, “Oh my god, would you just shut up?!” That’s when I kissed him. We got caught making out on the couch by my roommate.
And THAT, my friends, is all she wrote. We moved into our own place two months later and married three years after that.
Saturday, July 16, 2005
Zube Boy is an atheist, and I guess you'd call me an agnostic. He believes that when we die, we die and that's that. No afterlife. No spirit world. I believe in something, but I don't think it's possible to know exactly what in the hell it is. I'm just sure there is an afterlife, and I try to be a good person so I won't go to a room filled with spiders forever and ever, amen, after I die. 'Cause that's possible. Anything's possible according to me.
Thing is, I think it's better to be an agnostic. Now, hear me out. If Zube Boy is right, and we just die and that's it, he doesn't get to rub it in. We'll just be all dead and shit. "The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out" kind of dead. He doesn't get to say, "Ha! You stupid agnostic fool! I win!"
On the other hand, if I'm right, you can bet your ass that I'm going to be dancing circles around the dumbass singing, "I was ri-ight! Hah! I won our last earthly fight sucka! Hey, is that a spider on your shoulder?" Hee.
Friday, July 15, 2005
Z-Boy: Zack's got a really bad case of mud butt.
Z-Girl: Whaddya mean?
Z-Boy: Whaddya mean, whaddo I mean?
Z-Girl: I mean, does he have a bad case of diarrhea, or what? What the hell is mud butt.
Z-Boy: Oh. I mean, he has mud on his butt. Check it out.
Z-Girl: Oh. We've got to give him a bath.
Zube Girl: Come on, Mom…
Girl: Please be home…
Hello…You have reached…
Girl- Dammit...I’ll try her cell phone.
Girl: She’s gotta answer her cell...
Girl: What in the hell is she doing?
Hi! This is Mom's cell phone…
Girl: Well, what in the hell am I supposed to do now?
An hour later…
Mom: Hey, were you trying to call me?
Mom: What’s up?
Girl: Well, I was in the grocery store which was crowded as all get out, and I didn’t know where to find corn starch. I figured that’s the kind of thing Moms know.
Mom: Why didn't you ask one of the people who work there?
Girl: Did you hear me say 'crowded as all get out'? And besides, you know how much I hate asking people questions.
Mom: Except for me.
Girl: Aw, you love it Mom.
Mom: Yeah, I know. Did you find it?
Girl: Yup. Baking aisle.
Mom: You know gravy is better when you make it with corn starch instead of flour?
Girl: Huh, I didn’t know that.
Mom: Okay, well, sorry I didn't answer.
Girl: S'allright. Love ya.
Mom: Love you, too.
Zube Girl: Okay, Zack. I need you to fess up. Did you poop in Psycho Twat's yard?
Zack: Who me?
Girl: Yes, you.
Zack: Well, you see, I don't really remember where I poop. I mean, come on, you should understand given the fact that one of your nicknames for me is Peabrain. Anyway, I've done a little sleuthing, and snapped this photo...
Zack: As you can see, sometimes my buddies come over and I can't be responsible for knowing where they poop. We're just dogs, Mom. Geez. Nature calls and we answer. That's about the extent of thinking that goes into it.
Girl: Yeah, I know. I sure am glad you got that photo though. Wanna biscuit?
Zack: Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. Oh my god. You're the best Mom a dog could ever ask for...Ooh, would you rub my belly, too? I promise, I'll never, never, never poop over there.
Girl: Whatever, Peabrain. You'll forget that promise in, like, two seconds.
Zack: Okay, okay. But with the biscuit. Get on that, lady. I'm hungry.
PS- I want to thank EVERYONE for their advice on the nose-punching incident. If you'll hang in there, I promise the Zube's will be back to their usual crazy antics!
Thursday, July 14, 2005
If you haven't already, you'll want to read the post below, or this won't make sense.
So, there was blood everyfuckingwhere...Zube Boy, thankfully, walked away and said, "Call 911."
Which I did. I was in a panic. Psycho Twat had retreated to his house and I wasn't concerned about another confrontation, but I was so shook up to witness Zube Boy getting walloped in the face by a grown man. And ugh. The blood.
The county sheriff's department must've been beside themselves with joy having something other than your run of the mill DUI to police. Two cars showed up, and a fire truck with an EMT crew to ascertain whether or not Zube Boy's nose was broken. It wasn't.
Here's the thing. We're struggling with whether or not to actually follow through with the pressing of the charges. I mean, we've got to live next to this guy and things were already bad, but maybe if we drop the charges, he’ll realize what a huge favor we did him. It was a third degree assault charge, and the fine is upwards of $1,000.
We were going to say forget it last night, but the police officer said to just leave it be for now. Psycho Twat's court date is set for September 14th and he is required to leave us alone between now and then, otherwise it would be intimidation, which is a felony. We can drop the charges any time before that date.
I’m trying to be super fair in my head about this. I mean, it’s gotta suck being the only guy in the neighborhood who doesn’t have a dog. But, that’s just the way things are in this neighborhood. We happen to live in the one section of town where homes can be purchased for under $300,000. I mean, I know we’re not entirely innocent in this scenario, but palming someone in the nose is just out of hand.
We've got two months to figure it out. I'm just not sure what to do.
Zube Boy got punched in the nose last night by our fuckwit psycho neighbor.
The Long Story
I arrived home from work to an unpleasant scene. Zube Boy and our neighbor, whom I’ll refer to as Psycho Twat for the duration, were exchanging words. Psycho Twat is just not right, and we’ve not gotten along with him for one and a half of the two years we’ve lived next to him.
Honestly, we kind of kissed his ass when we first moved in having been warned by the people we bought the house from that he’s an asshole. We invited him to parties, and Zube Boy offered to shovel the snow on his walkway when he broke his leg. Which is a huge task considering that, for just about six months out of the year, it’s snowing round these parts.
Eventually, things started to feel strained. Psycho Twat stopped saying hi. We went about our business and basically ignored him. Every once in a while, we’d exchange unfriendly words about our friends stopping by and having a car tire over his property line. Let me explain that houses are just about on top of one another in our little community. It’s difficult to describe, but basically each rancher *cough* double-wide *cough* is on approximately .1 acre. It’s your rough and tumble blue collar community, and most folks manage to suck it up and get along.
Excepting our neighbor who seems to believe that he owns a million dollar home in a upstanding community. Or rather, that his Dad gave him a million dollar home…
Anyway, Zube Boy was on the ground arms deep in the guts of his jeep when he heard…
He crawled out to see what all the thwumping was about. Psycho Twat had a shovel in his hands and was using it to fling dog shit at our house. Now, I will admit here that said shit may have been Zack’s. It is possible. It is also possible that the shit being thrown had previously resided in the intestines of any one of the twenty other dogs that run around our neighborhood unabated. Zack poos in our backyard. He seems content to park his happy little ass in the confines of our yard. But, perhaps he wanted to try something new and exciting in the world of pooping. Who knows?
Whether it was Zack’s or not, we would have been more than happy to clean it up. We’re all about keeping the peace, and have shoveled his yard before without being asked. No one else in the neighborhood does this, even though just about everyone has a free-roaming dog. But, we were not given that opportunity, as Psycho Twat skipped over the friendly neighborly request bit, and went straight to the act of throwing feces at our house. Mature way for a guy in his late 30’s to act.
Anyway, Zube Boy looked at Psycho Twat who said, “What? What?”
Boy: Ummm, you’re throwing shit at my house.
Twat: Yeah, because your fucking dog just left a big fucking steamer in my yard!
Boy: Okay. He's been laying here next to me all day, but...
This is when I arrive home from work. This entry is already long as shit, so I’ll just say that things escalated for about 10 minutes. There was a slight pause when Psycho Twat got in Zube Boy’s face and I stepped in between them, shook my finger in his face and said, “You back the fuck away from him.” Both gentlemen seemed a bit taken aback by my feisty involvement.
Eventually, the argument turned to the subject of property lines. I can’t even tell you how ridiculous it was to see a grown man screaming and crying about six inches of land, and whether it was his or not. Much to Psycho Twat’s chagrin Zube Boy walked in the house and promptly emerged with the property map we received when we bought the house.
I started to walk away and turned around to see Psycho Twat leap across our property and palm Zube Boy in the nose.
Click here to read the rest of the story...
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
If I wasn’t already spoken for, I would marry:
Daria- She is the diva-est of Web Divas. Seriously. I’m going to be rocking a new look here in my little corner of the blogosphere, and you might say I’m so excited that peeing myself is entirely possible. I’m quite impressed with what she has done with “Well, I kind of like orange. And green, too. Yeah.” If anyone is looking for a blog makeover, pick Daria. She has ESP when it comes to what you're looking for. And, she’s from Jersey. That’s right bitches. You know my Jersey love knows no bounds.
My Dentist- If I were a dog, I would hump his leg, like, 24/7. That’s how much he means to me. I seriously HATE going to the dentist. Hate, people. But, this guy is the most wonderfullest of all the dentists in the world. He is so gentle and reassuring. He even summons a handholder for me when he’s got a big scary needle all ready to puncture my precious gums. Love.
The Waitor at Ruby Tuesday That Carded Me- I wanted to kiss him. And then, as if I weren’t already developing a major crush on him, he said, “No way,” after looking at my birth date. It required every ounce of willpower I had not to sprawl out on the table and scream, “Ravish me!”
Suffice it to say that there are many, many people in the world who couldn’t be luckier. That I’m already married, that is.
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
Sometimes I get a little sad when I think about the fact that I’ll probably never live in New Jersey again. When Zube Boy and I vowed to stay together forever, we were also relinquishing the possibility that we'd ever move back to our respective home states. Neither of us wants to live where the other grew up.
Still, I miss my Jersey peeps. I really, really do. My best friend, Gia Pet, is the rockingest Jersey Girl ever. She knew and loved me when my self esteem was a little fish terd on the ocean floor. She was the one who never tired of lovingly explaining that just because my boyfriend threw the remote past my head, didn’t mean he was doing me any favors. Only Dickheads throw anything in their girlfriend’s general direction.
I always listened intently, but it wasn’t until I heard that advice from my inner Zube Girl, that I actually did something about it. And Gia Pet was totally cool with waiting for that eventuality.
We were like, “The Bitchtastic Duo – Yanking Bar Stools Out From Under Unsuspecting Assholes Everywhere.” Actually, she did the yanking, and I did the laughing. Then we both did the leaving, ‘cause apparently bouncers think stunts of that nature are none too funny. Even if the lad on the floor grabbed your ass.
Now I only get to hang out with her once every couple of years, and it involves boarding planes and lots of money.
But, with marriage comes compromise.
At my work, I'm exposed to numerous couples who are in the process of planning a wedding. I often wonder, when they're all wrapped up in whether or not the napkins will match the buttons on the bridesmaids dresses, if they've really considered the things they might be giving up. Things other than, you know, sex with other people.
While you do have to make sacrifices, there are many, many things that you gain. I can't even describe the awesome feeling of having a best friend who loves you even when you leave your dirty socks on the coffee table and it pisses them off. While I miss the people who got me through my Fish Terd Esteem Era, I've found someone who loves me because of the way that era turned me out. It's quite lovely.
Monday, July 11, 2005
If the roof caves in on his head, I will not say "I told you sometimes walls are there for a reason."
I've been breathing in and out, repeating this phrase over and over again. I picture it scrolling through my mind's eye.
The problem with remodeling your house with no expert assistance is that there is no one but yourself to blame when things go terribly wrong. Our brilliant idea is to knock down a wall in between two smaller bedrooms to make it into a large master bedroom.
Yesterday Zube Boy got a wild hair up his ass and decided to start knocking the wall down. Nevermind the fact that we are still sleeping in there because, ahem, we have another unfinished room we were going to move into while we were working on the master bedroom. I chalk this up to boys' penchant for tearing shit up, as opposed to fixing the shit that's already tore up, but that's just my li'l ole opinion.
I had expected that, at the very least, we'd invite some measuring tape bearing, pensive-face guy who would furrow his brow and let us know that, yay or nay, it will be safe to remove that wall.
Zube Boy thinks I'm overreacting. I think he's suffering from delusions which have him believing that since he is an electrician, this automatically makes him a walltrician. Which, well, NO! Just because you know shit about WIRES does not mean you know shit about WALLS.
Madon. I'm on the edge of my seat today.
I've edited to add my rendition of the wall. From this picture you can see that I suck at Paint Shop Pro, and couldn't even figure out how to make Zube Boy's head an actual circle, but there you have it.
There was a possibility (see how it's directly under the peak of the roof) that it might be load bearing because it is the only wall directly underneath the peak.
Anyway, gladly, I was wrong. The wall came out, and at least for now, the roof seems to be staying in place. I have sufficiently recovered from my hissy fit and am sad that I wasted my Bitchy Wife free pass for the week on this.
Sunday, July 10, 2005
I'm not feeling very creative today, so I'm just going to post a love note I put in our local paper on Valentine's Day. I'm like a legend at my husband's work now. People I don't even know will meet me and say, "Oh my god, are you the one who wrote the poem? I loved it!" Hee. Enjoy.
On a warm day in June
You made me your wife
To love and cherish
For the rest of your life
It’s been nine months
And I think it is time
To sell all your stuff
My sweet Valentine
Pete warned you about it
So don’t look forlorn
Your tubing bender and welder
Just don’t match our décor
The 84 CJ and 52 Dodge
Will soon reside in someone else’s garage
Your hobbies are messy
And make everything smell oily
But don’t worry, Honey,
I’ll replace your jigsaw with a doily
I’ve been so busy at work
And haven’t done it
But being married means your wife
Gets to sell all your…
Just kidding! I love you and all the junk you came with!
Friday, July 08, 2005
I go to these business meetings with members of our Chamber of Commerce. They're a bit mundane. Each month, we go around the room and each person tries to find interesting ways to say 'business sucks' or 'business rocks' until everyone has had their turn.
One month, I'd like to spice things up. I picture it going something like this:
Chamber Member: And Zube Girl, how are things on your end?
Zube Girl: Well, I've had this weird itching sensation on my anus, the dog has been eating rocks and throwing them up on our bed, and Zube Boy has had a terrible case of Nocturnal Stink Ass, so I guess you could say it's business as usual!
I figure if I couple that reply with one of my most winning smiles, I'll throw 'em off long enough to run out of the room unnoticed. They'll be left in a quagmire wondering, "Did that really happen?" And, their conclusion will be, "No, it just couldn't have. Someone must have spiked the water and we're all hallucinating."
They'll hurriedly compose themselves and carry on with impressive displays of flow charts and pie graphs, throwing in phrases such as 'industry standards' and 'economy' for good measure. All will be right with the world again.
Meanwhile, I'll be singing "Paradise City" at the top of my lungs and doing shots of tequila at the bar next door.
I am a group sales manager at a ski resort hotel. When I'm not at work being told my job isn't brain surgery by pompous rich assho...erm, skiers, or getting yelled at by pious church group leaders who apparently go to church every Sunday and already know they are going to Heaven, so don't have to be nice anymore, there are many other hats I wear.
A Namer- I name everything. My car? Cecilia. My fushia plant? Lola. The spider I stomped on, collected in toilet tissue, and ceremoniously flushed down the toilet last night? Harry. Poor Harry. Yes, I'd say I have a naming addiction. Or maybe fetish is a better word. I don't know. I said I was a Namer, not a Figurer Outer of What That Naming Proclivity Would Be Called!
A Conspiracy Theorist- I've got conspiracies galore. Like, why my neighbor is only home during the day and out all night? Because he's a MURDERER, duh! That one couldn't be more obvious. Night job, my ass.
A Knower of Where All Things Are...Or At Least, All of My Husband's Things- I have all the answers to questions such as, "Where are my keys?" and "Where in the hell might a find a clean pair of boxers?" and "Where is that thing I got in the mail a month ago?" The last one took a little while, but once I ascertained what that 'thing' was, I found it without hesitation. Oddly enough, I couldn't find my own birth certificate before our trip to Puerto Rico. No, that took hours of searching.
A Lazy Sack of Poo- Which is why I'm done writing this now. I want to lounge on the couch, sip on cinnamon coffee, and be fanned by my scantily clad, nubile young attendants. Whee!
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Zander: I mean it. I'm leaving. I'm sick of being a Zube and all of the Mickey Mouse bullshit that entails. Now, go get me the keys, Mom.
Zube Girl: Awwwwwwww. You look so cute! Let me take a picture. Say cheese.
Zander: Listen woman. This is not a photo op. I'm out of here. I am a refined cat, and I deserve to be with a wealthy family rolling in catnip on the finest carpet and dining on salmon fillets prepared by my own personal chef. Not living in a double wide, slumming it with a bunch of commoners. Now get me the keys!
ZG: Firstly, it's a rancher, not a double wide, and secondly, that truck is without an engine, so keys won't do you a damn bit of good.
Zander: Why am I not surprised?
Let's Revisit the Subject of Uranus, Shall We?
I bet the weather is so lovely on Uranus. A little windy, but nice and warm.
I can just imagine the gorgeous scenery. Those beautiful rolling hills that seem to go on forever. Yes, Uranus is probably a lovely place.
Don't get me wrong, as we thoroughly enjoyed our Honeymoon cruise around the Western Carribean, but I'm thinking Uranus would be the perfect place to spend a HoneyMoon.
Zube Girl: Dude, check out my black eye.
Everyone I Happen To Show It To: What black eye?
Girl: Right here. See?
EIHTSIT (Hee, that kind of looks like Eat Shit): Huh. It just looks like you have on purple eyeshadow. Kind of dark eyeshadow. But, that's it.
Girl: Bzzzz…Wrong answer. You're supposed to say, "Holy shit! Look at that shiner! You are one TOUGH TITTED BITCH!"
EIHTSIT: Ummm...Okay, fine.
Girl: And that's when I say, "That's right mofo! You should see the other guy! So, step off, 'cause this bitch is rough!"
EIHTSIT: You need medication. Really STRONG medication.
Girl: Maybe sometimes.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
-If your face launches an attack on your husband’s forehead in the middle of the night, he might be mad at you even though you were sleeping and didn’t mean it.
-After an evening of ‘Nocturnal Face to Forehead Death Match’, you might wake up with a black eye. And your husband might have a big bump on his noggin. And you both may, in fact, be grumpy as shit.
-You cannot, two days later, tell your husband the unprovoked ‘Attack of the Face’ was a preemptive strike for a dream you had the following night. I mean, you can tell him that, but his eyes will just roll right the fuck out of his head. The fact that the next evening you had a dream he was married to you, but having babies with some girl you barely knew in high school has nothing to do with prior skull to skull combat.
-Even though you are extremely angry at your ‘Dream Husband’ for being an Assholey, Baby-Making with Another Woman, Sack of Shit, it is not okay to be mean to him in real life.
Monday, July 04, 2005
Zube Girl: My bologna has a first name...
Zube Boy: Honey...
Girl: It's O-S-C-A-R...
Girl: My bologna has a second name, it's M-A-Y-E-R...
Girl: Oh, I like to eat it everyday, and if you ask me why I'll say....
Girl: 'CUZ OSCAR MAYER HAS A WAY WITH B-O-L-O-G-N-A!!!
Girl: Yes, dear.
Boy: Would you stop singing that song, please?
Sunday, July 03, 2005
Here we have Zube Boy at the wheel, Zube Girl navigating, and Zack, uh, standing there waiting for something exciting to happen.
Our entourage consisted of three vehicles total. We were in the rear. Heh.
It was a fairly shitty day, considering it's the month of freakin' JULY. But who needs sunshine when you've got fucking hail. Anyway...
There were some sketchy parts that freaked out Zube Girl's inner scaredy cat...
Zack gets annoyed with all the stopping. He's more of a 'Go Doggy Go' kind of dog. But, you know, sometimes you gotta pee!
"Honey, do you really think I can do it? I don't even know how to drive stick..."
"Sure you can...at least I hope you can, because there's no turning back now..."
Okay, I feel like a rock star, but unfortunately, it never looks as difficult in the pictures as it really is...Le sigh.
Whee! Happy Fourth of July! If you have a husband, I highly recommend doing something with him that quells the urge to smack him upside the head. In celebration of a holiday, of course...
Saturday, July 02, 2005
In the event that Zube Boy is ever found frozen to death by ice cubes, and I'm to blame, I want to assure that my gentle readers understand why.
I was having a lovely conversation with my Mom yesterday, and Zube Boy was taking a bath. The cacophony coming from the bathroom made it difficult to have any semblance of a grown up conversation.
Mom: So, do you have any plans for the Fourth of July?
Zube Girl: Yeah. I'm going to hide in the house all weekend and wait for the 5 million tourists to go home.
Zube Boy: Hoooooooooooney!
Mom: What's that noise?
Girl: Oh, it's just my kid, erm, I mean, husband.
Mom: Do you want me to let you go?
Girl: No, no, no. It's fine. I'm on the phone!
Mom: I think we're going to go down the shore for the weekend...
Boy: Hoooooooooooooooney! Help!
Girl: For goddsfreakinsake.
Mom: Hon, I'll let you go. Call me tomorrow.
Girl: Okay, Mom. Love ya.
Mom: Love you too.
Boy: Honey, honey, honey!
Boy: Honey, I dropped a Cocoa Puff in the bathwater!
Boy: What should I do?
Girl: Well, for starters, you could STOP EATING FOOD WHILE YOU'RE IN THE BATHTUB, and then you could hide in the bathroom and never, ever, ever come out. 'Cause when you do, I'm going to kick your ass.
I bet you all didn't know that once upon a time, I was a world renowned detective, did you? I was one stealth mother fucker. For real. As much as I loved the fast-paced world of sleuthing, there came a day when I decided detective work was not for me. Doing triple back-flips and kicking bad guys in the face requires a spriteness that at the tender age of 27, I had begun to lose. So, I quit.
Anywho, having been a detective, my 'Something's Up' radar is finely tuned. I know when something is fucking up, people. And there is definitely something up in my yard. The lawn people are acting strange, like they're hiding something from me. I decided, this fine Saturday morning, to don my black leather one-piece super sexy detectiving outfit and investigate.
I crawled across the porch, which, just to let you know, is difficult to do in a sexy manner, but I managed. I crouched behind the grill, camera ready, and waited. And waited and waited and waited. After what seemed like an eternity, something caught my well-trained eye, and I managed to get a snapshot.
Gerome the Gnome is kissing Percy the Frog's ass. Yes, I name my lawn ornaments. What of it? Anyway, apparently, Gerome is eyeing Percy's regal shady spot in the yard, and Percy himself is swinging a deal. Sneaky fucker. It would seem that Percy forgot I am the Queen of the Yard, and he has no say whatsoever in the placement of lawn people.
You know, in all honesty, I'm pretty sure my husband had something to do with the gnome kissing of frog ass. Doesn't he know that my imagination is vivid enough? Encountering scenes such as this is going to put me over the edge someday.
Friday, July 01, 2005
To the person in the UK who stumbled upon my blog by searching "peeing" and "stall" on technocrati, thanks a lot. After my initial, "Tee hee. People search for the darndest things," I decided to click on the search myself, and see what other blogs out there are talking about peeing and stalls.
Now, I'm in someone's flipping stats as though I had searched the same thing! Gah!
For the past six years, I've been feeding you roundabout the same time every morning. 7:30ish. Sure, this pattern has been interrupted here and there by the occassional boozefest, when Zube Boy and I embibe a little much, and stay in bed forever and ever, amen, but typically, I'm up at 7:00 or 7:30AM, even on weekends, and that's fucking early.
I'm curious as to why you cry and scratch at the bedroom door every mother fucking morning at 5:00AM? Seriously. Remember the time you did that and Mommy was so bitter that she opened the bedroom door, picked up your flailing clawy ass and sent you sailing out the back door? Actually, I'm pretty sure you remember, because when I open the bedroom door now, you haul ass down the hallway. Only to resume scratching as soon as I clamber back into bed.
I've taken to sleeping with a pile of shoes next to me. I guess the loud banging sound they make against the bedroom door scares you to bits. Only, last night, I forgot to move the pile of shoes by the bedroom door next to the bed before I went to sleep. So, all I had left in my arsenol were numerous decorative pillows, and apparently, they don't frighten you in the least.
I don't know where in the hell you got the idea that breakfast is at 5:00AM. It most certainly wasn't ME giving you that impression. Me being the only fucking person who has been your BREAKFAST FEEDER for the past SIX YEARS! So, I'm asking you to please, just stop. Okay?
PS- Just an FYI. Scratching the walls surrounding your litter box, contrary to your belief, does not successfully cover your stenchy poo. Never will.