Al hails from Thick Stout and Coffee. He's cool as shit. He and I share a love of coffee and beer. I've no doubt that if Zube Boy and I were ever in his area, we would have a BLAST at dinner with Al and his wife Joyce. Without further ado...
Ok, today I'm here to talk to you about love and marriage from a man's point of view. Why? you may ask? Because it's a MAN'S world dammit! And don't you ladies forget it!
I like to hear it, I like to say it: "It's a MAN'S world! Woman, get in the kitchen and get me a beer. And make me a cheeseburger while your in there!! "
SSHHH....shit, my wife's coming.... "Oh that's nothing honey, that was the TV..."
Damn, I hate when she sneaks up on me like that.
When I'm not filling in for the almighty Zube Girl, I blog about beer
and coffee (with a good dose of nonsensical ranting thrown in). But this is the Love and Marriage blog, so I'll try to explain the relevance of Love and Marriage and Coffee and Beer. In my world, one set depends on the other.
Love and Coffee
A typical guy doesn't communicate like a typical woman does. Guy's just can't comprehend why it takes so many words to describe something. For instance, I woke up and made coffee in the french press this morning. If you asked both my wife and I to talk about it, it would go something like this...
You: Hey, this is good coffee. Where did you get it? Starbucks?
My answer would be: No way, fuck Starbucks! I roasted it myself and made it in the french press.
Joyce's answer would be: Al made it in the french press. He roasts and grinds it himself. I'm glad you like it. I think it's a little dark and chocolatey, don't you? My girlfriend Jill likes it this way, she'll drink two big cups to get going in the morning... blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah....Isn't it nice out? I'm going to get my travel mug so I can drink this when we go out.......blah blah blah blah....oh, and don't ask him about starbucks either, it's a sore subject around
here...blah blah...plus my kids will start screaming NO
Nothing against my wife, it's not her fault. It's just how women communicate.
You see, guy's have to drink coffee so we can get a jumpstart and at least be able to follow along with what our wives/girlfriends say without getting too lost. I love her, so I drink enough coffee to say more than 'yup' and 'uh huh' when she's talking to me.
Beer and Marriage
Now beer? Beer makes me loud and chatty. I can almost talk like a woman after a few beers. Since Joyce usually doesn't drink. I'll come home, have a few beers during dinner, then we can talk at the same rate for a couple of hours until my buzz wears off. You see? Beer is the great equalizer. If you don't drink it, you won't ever have a two sided conversation that makes sense. Bottoms up fellas!
The bottom line is this:
Guys, If you love her, drink lots of coffee. And, if you want to stay married, drink lots of beer.
Girls, If you love him and don't plan on firing him, make sure the fridge is well stocked with Guinness and the coffee is fresh!
Well, that's my story and I'm sticking with it...
Friday, September 30, 2005
Al hails from Thick Stout and Coffee. He's cool as shit. He and I share a love of coffee and beer. I've no doubt that if Zube Boy and I were ever in his area, we would have a BLAST at dinner with Al and his wife Joyce. Without further ado...
Thursday, September 29, 2005
I am happy to present to you, Bonanza Jellybean. She is a RIOT! For real. Would I lie to you? Well, okay, fine. But not about this. I SO wish I'd had her guest post while I was in North Carolina because I NEEDED some damn forewarnings from a seasoned Southerner. The "Git 'er Done Fer Jesus!" bumper sticker nearly made me lose my cool, calm and collected composure. Nearly.
Bonanza Jellybean here, filling in for ZubeGirl while she’s on vacation and having the time of her life with no husband or job or pets or anything to take care of. Bitter? Me? No. NOT ONE BIT.
See, I’m missing Zube pretty badly right now. I miss her humor. I miss her wonderful artwork. Mostly I miss her because I volunteered to guestblog for a day, thinking “Oh won’t this be fun and I will come up with something so great and witty and wonderful...” and IT’S JUST NOT COMING.
If Zube was at home (or at work) like the rest of us, I wouldn’t be sitting in the suffering that I am COMPLETELY IMMERSED IN right this very second because she would be right there at her computer coming up with the normal things that make us all come back and I wouldn’t have to. Instead, you’re stuck with me, who has spent the last six days trying to think of something to write. Not a great trade.
Here are the topics I considered:
• Zube and I both write about our husbands a lot. They’re usually easy targets, but I don’t know ZubeBoy and my own is being fairly boring right now. For the first time in about 4 years.
• Zube and I both have pets that we love very much. Somehow I don’t think my beagle chasing a baby mouse and me rescuing it in heels before work and stepping in dog poo is a worthy endeavor. Dog poo needs to stay in the family.
• Zube is very big on the letter Z, so I considered doing something cool with that, but all I could come up with was “Zippitydoodah,” and then that song got stuck in my head and I could get no further. “Zsa Zsa,” the only other one I could come up with, wasn’t too good either. Too much makeup and cop slapping does not make for a good guest entry, at least not without research. Zoo? Zebra? FUCK.
• Because Zube is visiting the south on her vacation, I thought about giving her some warnings about scary rednecky things she might encounter over here, but then I realized she’d be in NJ by the time mine went up, and well, New Jersey just ain’t the south. And judging from her comment, she’s already seen just what kind of parallel universe it is over here. And in case anyone was wondering, it is perfectly acceptable in the south to use your car’s bumper to witness for the lord.
So here I sit, knowing I have to get something done, and all I can think of is Zippity-Fucking-Doo-Dah. And then to make it worse, I checked to see what the other guestbloggers were doing, and dammit, they’re great. Bitches.
So, this is the best I could do, in honor of our very own ZubeGirl:
Fuck shit, Bonanza’s got nothing to say
Zube’ll wish she picked another to play
Bonanza’s ass is on her shoulders
It’s the truth, it’s actch’ll
All the others were satisfactch’ll
Zube’ll be back in just a few more days!
I don’t think this what Zube had in mind when she agreed to let me do this.
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Tom with Kn@ppster is not a R@ppster. He's not a R@p St@r either. He's a politcal blogger, and an excellent one at that. Have a look for yourself. After you read him here, of course.
How does someone like me write a guest post for a blog sub-titled "fortified with sarcasm and gratuitous foul language?" Such a departure from the dignified, nay, stately tone of Kn@ppster, I know. But I can do this. I am, after all, a professional.
We should probably get a couple of things straight up front, starting with the fact that I am not Zube Girl. When in doubt, check the asses. Mine is the one that's all hairy and stuff. It would be difficult for me to successfully impersonate her unless we were both watching a horror movie, in which case the lumps under dual afghans might look similar ... at a distance. Mine would be the one with a pile of empty Old Crow bottles on the floor in front of it and a large-caliber pistol muzzle poking out the front.
Nor am I Zube Boy, more's the pity. He's the one vacationing with Zube Girl and Zube Girl's ass while I hold the fort here at the blog. Bastard.
Now that we've identified the dramatis personnae I guess it's time for content, which is a problem since I don't really have any. I've tried referring to Zube Girl's own writings for inspiration, but it just doesn't work out.
For example, I've tried to recreate the Zube Boy/Zube Girl dialogues here at home, with little success:
K-Boy: Hey, honey, would you blow me while I read Zube Girl's latest out loud?
K-Girl: Piss off. I'm reading Zube Girl silently all by myself. With one hand in my pocket.
Just doesn't pack the same kinda punch.
I might be able to copy the "pictures of exploding stuff in my house" style if my digital camera didn't resolutely refuse to cooperate with Linux. Exploding stuff is cool. Especially exploding Linux boxes.
Even with a working digicam, I wouldn't be able to replicate the cat monologues. My cat is usually silent, and even when he talks, he mostly just bitches about my refusal to match his 401k contributions.
So, anyway, I guess I'm pretty much screwed. Which means you are, too. At least until Zube Girl gets back.
Have a good time, Zube Girl. But hurry.
PS- Zube Boy, sadly, is not on this vacation 'o mine. He's still at home feeding three hungry felines, and a pissed off canine who is on a diet even though he is okay with being overweight. However, I do relish the thought that he'd be lucky to be hanging with his in-laws. 'Cause they're cool as shit if you ask me.
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Here we have Mother Goosemouse, badass guest star extraordinaire. Hear her out right down thar, and then hop on over to her crib. It's entertaining there!
Zube Girl and I have a great deal in common, and I'm sure that as soon as we sit down and have a beer together, we'll discover loads more. We each have a New Jersey past, a Colorado future, and an incurable potty mouth.
Growing up, I mostly heard choice phrases from my parents and my favorite aunt Linda. None of them dropped f-bombs, but the other top five words (damn, hell, bitch, ass, shit) were used. Not often, but often enough that we knew them.
I didn't learn the word "fuck" until I was in second grade and heard other kids saying it. I asked another girl what it meant. She said, and I quote, "Boys and girls in bed with their butts together."
What the fuck? That answer only served to confuse me more. I mean, what was the point of lying in bed with your posterior touching someone else's? It didn't sound particularly enticing, nor did it sound particularly sinister, so why was it so fun and yet so taboo to say that word?
I'm still not entirely sure why I enjoy using profanity. Sometimes it's because I'm telling a joke. Sometimes it's because I want to get someone's attention (which only works if you don't use profanity that often) - either because I'm angry or because I know that they think I won't say such a thing (which happened quite often working with contractors and sub-contractors in New York). And sometimes those words just FIT.
A friend of mine was told by her father that use of profanity belies an underdeveloped vocabulary. That's OK. I still kick ass at Scrabble because I'm a fucking awesome speller.
Monday, September 26, 2005
PaintingChef is one of the most beautifullest people out there. Yes, I doubled up on my superlatives. That is simply a demonstration of just how much I mean it. Truly. Check her out below, where you'll find her guest posting for my sorry vacationing ass (really, I'm not sorry about that). And then, head over to her blog where you are sure to laugh your ass off, and maybe cry a little sometimes, too.
Let’s talk about meeting random people on the internet, shall we?
I mean sure, you’ve got your standard sick fucks and your children stalking freaks, but every now and then you find something like a hidden gem.
Everyone has their own drama that they deal with. We all have pasts and hidden demons and basically shit that has fucked us up, maybe permanently, maybe not, whatever. And we all think that OUR shit is special and different and that nobody has ever been there and oh my GOD how am I ever going to make it one more day because I am so alone.
And then you find some totally random person who has not only been through the same thing but they had balls and dealt with it head on and suddenly your world got a little easier to be in. Then you find yourself hoping that they aren’t going to read your email and be all “Man…what a psycho freak. This bitch is emailing me; I KNEW that blogging would be bad because how can something with such a weird ass name be good?” But they don’t. They email you back. And they say… “Hey. Nice to meet you. If you lived closer we would totally hang out.”
Finding that internet friend fucking kicks ass.
Sunday, September 25, 2005
Hello all. Chickie here to keep the spirit of the CAWOW! series alive. Believe it or not, I've devoted an immense amount of time looking for this week's word and when I saw this one, I had to have it. It's a nice, compact little word and can probably be used in a variety of situations. Without further ado, please, put your hands together for this week's CAWOW! word... (drumroll, please)
spinky adj. (generally) good; neat, nifty, cool, spiffy. In the phrase spinky new, brand new. Also spinkee.
Nifty and spiffy are a couple of my favorite words and I just love finding another word that does the same thing as they do.
Spinky! Spinky! Spinky!
It just feels good to shout it. I've also had some fun whispering it to myself.
While I'm here I'd like to give an example of something that is the opposite of spinky: men who wear khaki shorts with tennis shoes and knee length socks. Agh! I've just about got all the males in the house switched over to ankle socks for those types of situations but sometimes they sneak the knee socks past me. While at a little league game yesterday I was checking the ratio of knee sockers to ankle sockers and it was about 2 to 1. One spirited fellow was wearing knee socks in the same color as his kids uniform, orange. And then I looked down at my calf and realized that I needed to shave my legs so I quit picking people apart.
Last night I told Sweety that I thought he was super spinky after he told me that he loved me but he did not take it kindly. Some people just don't know how to take a compliment.
So everyone, go spread some spinky around and let me know how it works out for you!
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Well, it's 11:30PM and I have to leave for the airport at 2:00AM because I live in bumblefuck Colorado and getting to the airport for a 6:00AM flight is not so easy-peesy.
I don't think I'm going to be sleeping until I board the plane because if I go to bed now, there's no telling whether I'll wake up to the sound of the two alarm clocks I already set just in case I'm packing last minute things and lose track of time. Can anyone tell I'm a teeny bit of a paranoid traveler? Uh huh.
I'd like to present to you the award winning cast of 'While Zube Girl Was Out'. These folks will no doubt keep you entertained during the intermission.
Sunday, 9/25 - CAWOW! starring Chickie
Monday, 9/26 - PaintingChef
Tuesday, 9/27 - Mother Goosemouse
Wednesday, 9/28 - Tom w. Kn@ppster
Thursday, 9/29 - Bonanza Jellybean
Friday, 9/30 - Al w. Thick Stout and Coffee
Sunday, 10/2 - CAWOW! starring Junebee
I'm off to ponder purchasing some No Doz to keep my weary little eyes open. I seem to recall them working wonders during my high school cheerleading days. I mean, who the hell ever thought it would be a great idea to have high school football games on Sundays?! You know, Sunday...that day after SATURDAY! When, even if you were a dork like me, you wanted to PARTAY.
Anywho. I've really got to go now. I just realized I forgot to pack my toothbrush. And I'm sure that's not all. Have a fantabulous week, and enjoy my blog buddies. That's a fucking order.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
I was feeling a little deviant today, and so I decided to perform some fucked up searches on Technorati. I just thought it would be amusing to have bloggers checking their stats and proclaiming, "What in the fuck?!" I know I've proclaimed the same thing in mock disgust. But most times, when these searches don't involve children or me fucking my mom, I'm rather amused by them. Sexy sock sniffer is probably my favorite thus far.
What's that? You wanna play? Why, sure! Here are the searches I performed. Click on a blog, and together, we can completely freak out bloggers everywhere by giving them multiple hits for fucked up searches.
Itchy Vagina Lips
My Ass Reeks Help
I Love My Farts
Sometimes My Hiney Stinks
I Have an Ass Obsession
David Hasselhoff Has a Great Ass*
What's the most ridiculous search you can come up with?
*I REALLY don't feel that way! I just thought it would be funny.
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
The Scene: Zube Boy is in the bathtub. I'm in the living room on the computer.
Z-Boy: Are we still on for the dance-off tonight?
Z-Girl: Sure honey. I've just got to practice my routine.
Z-Boy: Okay. You better practice a lot, because I've got mine down.
A few minutes later, I hear singing coming from the bathroom...
Z-Boy: 'Cause I'm as free as a bird now...
Z-Girl: Are you singing in the bathtub again?
Z-Boy: Shush. You're ruining my concentration. I'm practicing my dance moves.
Z-Girl: How can you practice your routine in the bathtub.
Z-Boy: I'm going over the arm movements.
Z-Girl: That's an awful slow song for a dance routine.
Z-Boy: It's kind of an interpretive piece.
Z-Girl: Okay honey.
Monday, September 19, 2005
"I follow him up the steps to his building, climbing over the ghost of me from last night, up to his apartment on the top floor."
The Girls' Guide to Hunting and Fishing by Melissa Bank
I just finished reading this book, and the above excerpt got me thinking. Jane is referring to the drunken ghost of herself sitting on the stoop of Andrew's apartment complex, wondering if she should ring the doorbell and explain all the ways she fucked up their happily ever after. Instead, she waits until tomorrow, and finds herself, Andrew in arm, climbing up the stairs, stepping over last night's Jane.
Ghosts of me are all over New Jersey. That's kind of why I opted to move 2,000 miles away. I couldn't stand to see the hazy visions of me anymore. Everywhere I went there was the 'Fucked Up' Zube Girl of years past. The shadow; traipsing along I-95 in her genie costume on Halloween blubbering to herself about what the result of the HIV test she'd taken that morning would be and why in the hell did that asshole have to rape her anyway...or puking in the bathroom at McGuin's wondering if she'll go to hell like the priest said that one time in church about women who had abortions.
Sometimes, in fact many times, she is not alone. Zube Girl is accompanied by the most beautiful friends imaginable. Friends who cared enough to be human ponytail holders as she hurled up the Medori Sours she loved so much. Probably because those drinks were such a happy color, and happy was an emotion she sought with the ferocity of an addict pursuing her next high. These friends would whisper to another that someone should go get the car started because she needed to get home.
They'd mouth as though they were in the presence of a child "She's upset about the rape." And keys would fly out of pockets left and right. She was going home. Or I was. Because she was me. And I was her. Together, we were the fucked up girl. The girl who was raped.
When my ghost isn't surrounded by loving friends, she is alone. Those are the worst of the visions that haunt me. I had a brass set of sad balls that convinced me to walk home whenever I felt undeserving of friends. And I felt that way often. And I probably didn't deserve them. I'd suck the happiness right out of them, however unintentionally. Then I'd feel guilty as all hell about it. I wasn't good for them; for their happiness. Ergo, they weren't good for me. You know, guilt and such.
Afraid that if I announced I wanted to leave, someone might protest, or care, I'd silently slide out the back door of a party, and put one foot in front of another. Five miles...twenty six miles. No distance scared me. Usually because I was under the influence of copious amounts of alcohol, and felt as though the strength of my sorrow could carry me anywhere.
Even now, as I prepare to embark on another trip to Jersey, I'm thinking about where I'll see her. Most certainly I'll see her on I-95 because you can't really go a damn place without getting on that highway, especially if you want to buy some cute new clothes at Quakerbridge Mall. Which I do. So I'll have to pass her.
It's always bittersweet to see my ghost because I love her now. I didn't then. And I know that that's why she was so fond of fucking up and of getting fucked up. Because I hated her, and I was all she had.
Maybe someday I'll get close enough to give her a hug and thank her for getting me through those years. I'll tell her that she needn't feel bad that she was imperfect about it. Because here I am, years later, quite okay. Thanks to her.
Until then, I'll just love her for who she was. Who I am. However imperfect.
We had a mandatory meeting about health insurance today. Or rather, we discussed a bunch of letters, so far as I could tell. HSA's, UHC, PCP, LSD, and a bunch of other crap. Basically, I have an aversion to understanding grown-up things like 401K's and health insurance. So, like a good girl, I get all of the brochures, and bring them home to my husband. He figgers that shit out for me. I know, I know. Not very Progressive Feminist of me. Shut up. I'm too busy speaking at rallies and saving the world to worry about the hundred dollars I manage to contribute to our retirement.
Anyway, I took some notes:
Other than the fact that there was a lot of sneezing going on (I think we at my work are allergic to meetings) I managed to have a little fun. In my head only, because Good Zube Girl was sadly the Zube Girl du jour.
Insurance Rep: So, even though the plan does not cover lasick surgery or dental work, you can use the funds in your Health Savings Account towards any medical expenses like that.
Coworker: How about prescriptions?
Insurance Rep: Yep. You can get a debit card through the provider and pay for prescriptions with the money in your HSA.
Bad Zube Girl Wanted to Say: What about boob jobs?
It would have been AWESOME if I'd asked it because everyone was sitting there looking all serious. Or seriously bored. Or seriously upset that co-pays are going by the way of the dinosaur at our company. I could have lightened the mood a bit. But, Good Zube Girl wouldn't let me.
I think I nourished the Good Zube Girl by eating a banana and drinking juice for breakfast this morning. I should've opted for the Snickers bar and a beer. Maybe tomorrow...
Sunday, September 18, 2005
I watched The Ring Two today:
As I've said before, having an afghan over your head is the most propitious way to watch a scary movie. Notice it is daytime. Zube Boy and I actually argued about this. I refuse to watch scary movies at night anymore. I LOVE scary movies. Don't feel quite the same about the nightmares.
I really shouldn't watch them at all. I'm always sorely dissappointed in the evening when Zube Boy refuses to allow me sleep UP his ass. What a husband, eh?
This week's word is brought to us by Kjersten from Mezmerotonous. Thanks Kjersten!
ex·i·gent - adj.
1 : requiring immediate aid or action
2 : requiring or calling for much : DEMANDING
- ex·i·gent·ly adverb
So, I'm off to attend to the exigent care of my wisdom-toothless husband. Sweet dreams all!
Saturday, September 17, 2005
One thing I love about being married is that there is never a shortage of dumb as hell conversations. It cracks me up. Actually, I can't blame it on being married, because it started LONG before when we were living together. It's as though that filter which prevents the 'Things You Only Say to Yourself' from seeing the light of day, slowly begins to malfunction and...well, those things escape your lips.
It's not that they're bad or anything. It's just that they're, uh, dumb.
The Scene: We're watching Law & Order SVU and there is a scene where Olivia and Elliot are in the basement of a football coach who's been accused of molesting little girls (he was later found innocent; I knew he would be because he was accused only 15 minutes into the show, and that's WAY too early, so I figured there'd be a twist) and there's this HUGE poster in the background of a football. It was a close-up of the stitching.
Z-Boy: Honey, can I get a poster like that one?
Z-Girl: Shut up. You don't even like football.
Z-Boy: That doesn't matter. I want to get a bunch of posters with balls from different sports on them and put 'em in the living room.
Z-Girl: Really? That's nice. *Grabs the remote and turns up the TV*
Z-Boy: Football, basketball, soccer ball, golf ball...
Z-Girl: Hockey ball...
Z-Girl: Heh. Hehheh. Heeheehee. Hahahahhahah!
Z-Boy: You crack yourself up, don't you?
Z-Girl: Every goddamned day I do.
The Scene: It's morning. He's laying in bed watching TV, and I'm out in the kitchen making coffee.
Z-Girl: GAH! Dammit! Honey?!
Z-Girl: What's the altitude in Frisco?
Z-Girl: Ya heard me!
Z-Girl: Is it about a couple hundred feet lower than we are?
Z-Boy: Yeah, I guess. Maybe 9,000 feet. Why?
We're at 9,600.
Z-Girl: I know the groceries at Safeway are cheaper but remind me NEVER to fucking buy cinnamon over there again, because apparently the change in altitude was enough to make the cinnamon EXPLODE everyfuckingwhere when I opened it. From now on we buy cinnamon at City Market. It's worth the extra $1.00. I'm not bringing home another fucking spice that's packin' air, bitch!
Z-Boy: Ha Hah. *ala that annoying little shit on Simpsons whose name I can't remember*
Well, that'll be all for today, folks. I've got to go change my shirt. You know? I got to thinking that Cinnamon Tits would be a cool name for a band.
Friday, September 16, 2005
Thursday, September 15, 2005
Not that you care. Or should really. But, just for the record.
~Mother nature. She's a bitch. SNOW! In September. Well, at least it's not accumulating yet, but still. Enough with it. October I can live with. September? No.
~Zube Boy can start his car from BED now! What the fuck? He goes to bed with his precious keys and the handy dandy car turner oner that he just installed and that's it. He wakes up in the morning, grabs his keys, lifts his arm, and blam. Turns the fucker on. While he's laying down. Just like that. I'm hella jealous. Now I want one.
~I think I'm allergic to returning movies on time. For real. I don't know why we avoid paying money to see movies in a theatre, because by the time I return borrowed movies we could've gone to the theatre and eaten five bags of popcorn. And some caviar.
~When mean poo-flinging neighbors come home after being away for two months. And I didn't even CELEBRATE on my blog, because I'm a superstitious TWIT and worried that if I put on my party hat he'd surely return. But, he returned anyway. Last night. His court date is today. It's been such a pleasant two months without him. Dammit. Maybe he'll leave after court.
~When very sweet people, otherwise known as PaintingChef, send you a package and the miserable excuse for postal workers that we have here can’t get their heads out of their asses and deliver it to your post office box al-fucking-ready! They are a bunch of useless sacks of shit. Ever since I got married and changed my name, they've been fucking up. I'm sorry PaintingChef!
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Dear Electric Pencil Sharpener,
Stop looking at me. For real. It's getting old. Yeah, YOU! All staring at me whorishly with your gaping pencil hole. I can kind of hear you chanting; Stick it in there, Stick it in there, You know you WANT to!
The thing is, I DO WANT TO! I think I got that idea myself, though I'm not entirely sure. I was just sitting here with an unfurled paper clip in my hands when I happened to glance over at YOU and a voice in my head whispered, "What would happen if you stuck the paper clip in there? Huh?"
For a minute, my id was all, "Hell yeah, try it!" Fucking id. Always trying to get my ass in trouble. "Shut up id!"
I'm not going to do it. Okay. So, you can leave me alone now and stop looking all enticing. I actually would probably TRY it. But I'm a little afraid that I might get electrocuted and die, and win a Darwin award, or some shit like that. So, in a word, NO. You can give up now. 'Kay?
PS- But seriously, I REALLY do want to and it's hard to restrain myself. I mean, what would happen if I stuck a paper clip in the pencil sharperner? Anyone know?
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
Zip zip zip zip zipper them shut...
Zipper your lips and keep them shut...
Zipper them up then staple them, too...
And you can sew them and zipper them and staple them, too...
Zip zip zip zip zipper your lips...
Z-Boy: Honey, I'm singing a song to you...
Zube Boy loves to sing to me. He's always prancing around the house singing and rejoicing. It's kind of cute. Especially since, well, have you seen him? He's a man's man. After being with him for five years, I'm programmed to find the scent of oil and grease downright fucking SEXY! Yum. Anywho, this manliness makes his performances all the more endearing.
Another one of his favorites is that Whitney Houston song from Bodyguard.
Because IIIIIIIIIII, wiiiiiiillllll allllllwwaaaaaaaaays loooooooooooooove youououououuuuuuuuuu....
Sometimes, though, he'll trick me. I'll be all swooning and smiling, feeling super special and shit. Then he'll switch up the ending of the song:
Because IIIIIIIIIII, wiiiiiiillllll allllllwwaaaaaaaaays loooooooooooooove pooooooooooooooooo....
Monday, September 12, 2005
I have pulled so many things out of my ass today, it's fucking astounding.
Z-Girl: Look honey, it's your keys! I pulled them right out of my ass. How do you like that?
Z-Girl: Hmmm...Your work shirt? Ummm...Oh look, it's right here. It's as though I...
Z-Boy: Pulled it right out of your ass. I know honey. Now give it here please, I'm running late.
And that's not all. I've been pulling shit out of my ass all day at work, too!
~Seven, count them, SEVEN contracts for clients. I fucking rock.
~A clean desk. Big deal, you say? Need I repeat, A CLEAN FUCKING DESK!!! This is a miracle. And the fact that I pulled it, yeah, OUT OF MY ASS! I'm like the next JC. Mock me now, but soon you'll all be wearing bracelets emblazened with WWZGD? Hee. I can feel it.
~Ideas. Numerous ideas. I'm chock full of fucking ideas, and they all come from the same place. There must be some kind of fucking idea factory up in there. I swear.
Coworker: That's a great idea Zube Girl. Where'dya get it?
Z-Girl: Well, you'd never guess! I pulled it right out of my ass!
Did I ever mention that I LOVE my work, and the fact that my coworkers are equally as pottymouthed as I am? No? Well, it's fucking true. LOVE.
Anyway, what have you all pulled out of your ass today? Please share.
Oh yeah. One more teensy thing. I've got two or three open days still for some guest posters if you're interested.*
You all can look forward to the musings of Bonanza Jellybean, Chickie of Skittering Thoughts, Mother Goosemouse, Al of Thick Stout and Coffee, and Tom of Kn@ppster while I'm away. You should be excited to the point of almost PEEING yourselves right now. Promise.
*Pretend I'm staring at you all ominously and shit while you read that. I can look REAL scary when the mood strikes. And lemme tell you, that mood? It's a'freaking strikin' right now.
Sunday, September 11, 2005
I have been horrendously negligent of the CAWOW! Series. Apologies for that. Last edition's word was quite difficult. I managed to use it. In my head anyway. You just can't CALL a woman pulchritudinous. Out loud, at least. Unless you hate her. And if you hate her, why in the fuck would you want to pay her such a fine compliment?
Thanks Dutch Oven (Bonanza Jellybean's sidekick) for presenting the challenge, though. It was fun to imagine actually calling a woman that.
There was a wedding at my work, and as the bride passed the front desk on her way to the ceremony, I seriously gasped and thought immediately, "Oh my GAWD, she looks pulchritudinous." I told her, though, that she looked beautiful. What can I say? I like getting paid, and I figured that 15 minutes before she was to exchange vows with the lucky fellow was not the right time to be tearfully explaining that, "It IS a compliment, I SWEAR!!! Wait here, I'll go get a dictionary..." Anywho, she wore an elegant dress that neither made her boobs all squoosh up under her chin, nor squeezed her chest so tight as to cause a serious case of quadri-boob.
Have you ever seen quadri-boob? It's fucking weird and I wouldn't have believed it was possible until I saw it firsthand. Typically the guilty garment is a strapless dress and it rests right above the victim's nipples. Did I say rest? That's not really what I meant. There is not much resting going on as the dress actually seems to be clinging for fucking dear life, seemingly aware of the importance of its job of keeping the nipples from popping out during the 'I do's' and such. Anyway, this clinging has the affect of creating another line, not too different from that of the cleavage, horizontally across both breasts. Magically, there appear to be four boobs. Crazy shit.
It's sad how some brides seem to think the point of wearing a wedding dress is to be able to smell their tits without bending their neck. Either that, or I'm misunderstanding, and they don't really want to get married and are hoping to suffocate themselves in their cleavage. Who can know for sure? Or maybe I'm just jealous because I could never have a case of quadri-boob. Any attempt at it would be met with its not so sexually flattering opposite: completely flat-ass boob.
What the hell was I saying? Ah yes. The CAWOW! Pulchritudinous...pulchritudinous...Aha! There was the pulchritudinous lady...Ah nevermind. I was too busy picking up Zube Boy's jaw and hurrying him to the ice cream aisle to comment on her pulchritudinousness. Heh.
This week's word was suggested by Junebee.
1. presenting favorable conditions
2. favorably inclined; kindly
Thanks chica! And, a gentle reminder...I NEED SOME MORE FREAKIN' SUGGESTIONS BITCHES! Huh? Oh yeah, subtlety is SO not my middle name. ZUBE is, and don't you fucking forget it!
Well, I'm off like a prom dress. Or, uh, not my prom dress. How about, I'm off like that freaking ho-bag's prom dress who sucked face with MY date ALL FUCKING NIGHT while her date leered at me and I found twenty million ways to cross my legs and avoid eye contact. "Holy shit! Did we just pass a, uh, something...anything that will make you stop staring at me FUCKER?! Look, it's a fucking McDonald's!!! You look like you like McDonald's."
I mean, is it just me, or is leering at a girl whose prom date just ditched her for one of your limo mates not the most propitious of situations to hope at getting your hands up her dress. Humph.
Saturday, September 10, 2005
-There are twenty legs in our house. That’s a lot of freakin’ legs. This leg infestation invariably leads to lots of tripping.
-Having pets and hardwood floors is the GREATEST fucking pastime EVER. Nothing is funnier than seeing the critters running at full speed in the hopes of catching another one of the critters, and going nowhere. Even better is when they eventually gain momentum only to slip and slide across the floor on their ass. And careen face first into a wall. Ha. Love it. Hardwood floors. Best fucking investment in my lifetime.
-We went to see The Exorcism of Emily Rose last night. It was pretty good. Not as scary as I thought, which is a good thing because usually I only watch scary movies at home and not in the theatre. I have a scary movie afghan at home. My Aunt made it for me, and it’s PERFECT because I can cover my head with it and peek through the holes when the scary parts come on. Unfortunately, I feel it is far too cumbersome to bring to the theatre with me. I need a mini afghan for movie going. One that would fit right over my face. Yeah. Everybody knows that movies are less scary when you watch them through the holes of a blanket. Or maybe that’s just me.
-I get all warm and fuzzy when I’m driving behind people on motorcycles and they do that special little downward wave to people on motorcycles in the opposite lane. It makes me squee. And wish I had a motorcycle. But, not really. Because motorcycles scare me. My cousin was an EMT and she said they called them ‘Donorcycles’. That was enough for me to never want to be on one.
-I don’t think I used the word ‘fuck’ once yesterday. I’m fucking losing my edge.
Friday, September 09, 2005
Tears of joy, naturally. I think it's obvious that I love to laugh. Due to this, I conjencture that *everyone* loves to laugh. Sorry for projecting if it's not true for you. And, since I'm not a greedy bitch, I'd like to share the funny stuff. These folks have brought tears of laughter to my eyes today:
As always, you are welcome. Hee.
And thank you to the writers. I needed a good laugh.
Well, you've been living with us now for a little over a week, and I thought this an appropriate time to give you the low down on your new family members. We're a crazy bunch, which sometimes will likely piss you off, and other times make you all happy and giddy. Um, I think giddiness is an emotion cats can feel, they simply have trouble expressing it. Right?
Anway, first, there is me. Your Mom. I kick ass, if you ask me. I'll happily feed you anytime AFTER 7:00AM. If you EVER get to thinking that 5:00AM is breakfast time, I'll have to sorely disagree with you. I know you can't tell time, but don't worry. You'll know it's not 7:00AM yet when you get hit in the head with my shoe. A good rule of thumb is this: if Mommy hasn't peed and brushed her teeth, it's too fucking early for breakfast. Got it?
Then there's the Dad. He's cool, and I love him. He'll pretend he doesn't like you, but only when I'm around. He'll be all cuddly and shit when left to his own devices. I know. I've caught him with your kitty brother and sister. Anway, he acts tough, but he's a teddy bear.
Zander is the eldest Z-animal in the family. He's like 7 and that's when cats start being crab-asses. If they ever weren't crab-asses. Which he always was. But that's besides the point. I'm not too worried about you and him getting along because ever since I brought you home he's been up your ass. In conclusion, Zander is a pimp ass mother fucker. I had no idea.
The one and only canine in the house is Zack. I've noticed that you're none too fond of him, unless hissing and clawing his nose is your way of being affectionate. If so, we've got more problems than I thought. Truly, though, he's harmless. Don't tell him I said this but he's kind of simple. He'll even give you half of his bed even though you're a tenth the size of him. At least he does that for Zoey. Zander not so much. I'm not sure if it's because he just doesn't want to share his bed with him or because Zander is far too uppety to be lying with dogs. I think it's the latter. One thing to remember when it comes to Zack is to NEVER EVER play with his nose when he's sleeping. Zoey almost lost her head trying that.
Which brings me to Zoey. Dude, she fucking hates you. I think she's not too keen on Zander's philandering pimp daddy tactics. I don't know what we're going to do about that. I've become painfully aware upon bringing you home that Zander and Zoey might not have been licking and kissing on each other for the benefit of me and my love of saying, "Awwwwww!" Zander is a slut. And Zoey seems quite perturbed that there's a fresh piece of female kitty ass in the house. My only suggestion is to stay the hell out of her way. Zoey is evil. She even scares me and I'm supposed to be the boss around here. Don't fuck with her.
Hopefully you'll store this information in your little pea brain for future reference. Thus far you've assimilated quite well, and I'm sure you'll come to be a wack job just like the rest of the Zubes.
Love ya lots, kitty. *Smooches*
Thursday, September 08, 2005
I kind of feel like I should be sad right now. It's normal for people to be sad every once in a while, no? And, it's about that time for me, because sad shit has happened. The problem is that I avoid being sad like the fucking plague.
I can shed tears like a champ. I have no problem being melancholy for a few minutes out of the day; like when I stub my toe and it really hurts. I'll Boo-Hoo and spew forth a string of profanities that would make my dear mother's ears bleed. I am the queen of a good, short-lived 'WAAAAAH!'
It's the real sad that I don't like so much. See, it's quite possible that I'm on the brink of a little valley right now, which I should likely descend, and sit for a picnic. It seems a wonderful place to have a glass of wine, and look up to the hills on either side. The one I was just upon, and the one to which I'm headed. And I should reflect on how nice it was to be upon the last hill, and how nice it will be, too, to ascend the next. To illustrate, I'm here:
Other than the fact that that seems like a small area for such a big stick figure to picnic comfortably on, and I'm tall as all hell, I'm thinking of other things. No matter my height, I can't see past the trees, and I don't know what kind of terrain awaits me. I worry that rather than a picnic area, I may be standing on the edge of this:
And, I've fucking been there, done that. I've leapt off the edge of that cliff, and now every time I come to the edge of the unknown, I freeze. Each new set of trees hiding what lies ahead, leaves me with an unimaginable fright. I bring every tool know to woman to avoid the decline. Stepstools, stilts, ladders...
Anything to go up and not down. If I could be assured that I would never have to go down as far as I have in the past...never need hooks and pulleys and a fucking rock climbing degree to get back up again...never need pills to sleep and pills to wake up...it might be easier to walk along all nonchalant and unafraid...up and down, up and down...until I get to the finish line.
But, no one can promise me that won't happen. Only, in a way, I can. If I put away the ladders and stop looking for a hot air balloon to hitch a ride on, I might have just enough knowhow to find the cleverest and shortest way down. And up.
I'm not armed with a map, but really, what the hell fun would it be if I was? None, I should think.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Just a heads up. The pigeon feather threat…It was idle. If you are just DYING to interrogate me, and don’t want to post the meme, that’s okay. I really don’t have time to stalk people, much less go around searching for pigeon feathers, what with a husband, three cats and a dog, and Brad Pitt up my ass all the time. So, bring it on people.
I would like to request that ya’ll keep in mind that each comment multiplied by three is the number of questions I have to answer, so let’s not get crazy. The last time I posted a meme with no reciprocal responsibility of meme-postage, I was inundated. Which was cool then because it was a pretty easy one, but this one could get ugly. I mean, 26 X 3 is 78 interview questions, and that’s a fucking lot. That’s a number that kind of scares me.
So I don’t leave my first three interviewers hanging, here’s the first round. I’ll update if I get more.
Rick Stilwell of Caffeinated Adventures asked:
1. What is your favorite movie of all time - the one that will make you drop everything to watch whenever it's on TNT?
Heathers. Love, love, love it. I think Christian Slater is the best thing since sliced bread, and I totally dig Winona Ryder. Oh, wait. Second runner up would be Alice in Wonderland. I feel like Alice quite often. In fact, she may be the subject of my next tattoo, if I can convince Zube Boy to let me get one. Well, he wouldn't NOT let me do anything, but I need to know that he'll still find me the babe he does today if I do it.
2. Where are your keys right now, and why?
In my purse, because if they weren’t, I’d NEVER find them. I hate when I come home in a rush and set them somewhere, because I feel so LOST without them. Even if I don’t need to drive anywhere for days. Who me? A control freak? Maybe a little.
3. If you could ask God anything, and He answered you back - what would that mean to you?
It would mean that I am right, and there is *something* bigger than myself out there in the ether loving me. I actually do feel answered by that *something* quite often; not necessarily by words but by feelings.
Woah. Rick, you’ve tricked me! I’ve let out my sappy Zube. The hopeful one. The one who knows she's not alone even when she feels she is. But, that’s okay. She likes to come out and play, too.
Christine of Blood and Tears asked:
1. What was the most expensive single item of clothing you have ever bought for yourself?
Hmmm…This is tough, because I’m SO not a clothes shopper. Which is a little sad, because I’ve made it such a priority to put my money into our house, that sometimes I think my living room looks better than I do.
But, a few years ago, I spent $90 on the most awesome pair of boots. I was so sad when I had to retire them. *sniff* I’ve tried to find another similar pair, but I’m even less inclined to spend that much money on a pair of shoes than I was back then.
2. If you could have a conversation with ANYONE, living or dead, who would it be? And Why?
Harriet Tubman. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve had the same answer to that question. She just sounds like an amazing fucking person, and one helluva strong woman despite all of the huge obstacles she was up against. And, not only was she strong for herself, but for other people. That astounds and inspires me.
You know, I would’ve had a different answer for a couple of years in my early twenties. Jerry Garcia. I still think he’s cool as shit, but I’ve stopped smoking pot since those days, and the urge to meet him isn’t quite so strong.
3. What color are the sheets that are on your bed right now?
Black. And they need to be washed. Shit.
Phil of Echoes in a Nomad’s Head asked:
1. What is the longest period of time you've worn one pair of underwear without washing it?
I would have to say, two days. MAYBE two and a half, but that’s a stretch because I’m kind of anal about that shit. But, you know, sometimes you go camping and decide to stay for an extra night or two without enough supplies. What can I say?
2. Who is your favorite porn star of all time and why?
Okay, I am SO not a prude, and I think porns are funnier than hell. I used to hang out with a group of guys several years ago, and they would kind of forget once in a while that I lacked a, ahem, certain appendage. So, we would be in the video store checking out the dirty movies and I’d have to pipe in every once in a while with, “Yo. Guys. Girl on girl action is okay, but could we get at least one with some dudes?” Hee. What the fuck is it with guys all hanging out together watching porn. I’ll never understand that.
That said, I don't know the names of ANY porn stars. Damn.
3. If you HAD to live for one day as an item in your bathroom, what would it be and why?
A mirror on the door. In front of the toilet. Not to be too demanding or anything, but I want to see the funny faces people make when they pinch a loaf, AND THEN the funny faces they make when they catch their funny pooing faces in me. The mirror. Yes.
Kjersten of Mezmerotonous asked:
1. What was your favorite class in college?
Philosophy. Though I failed it. Or wait. I think I actually scraped by with a D. But, after the class was over, I read the entire text and was like, "Huh. Philosophy is kind of cool." I did that with a lot of my classes. I'm not a big fan of structured learning.
2. What was your first job? (babysitting and lawn mowing type jobs don't count)
So, my paper route from ages 11 to 14 aside, my first job would be when I was sixteen. I worked at a farmer's market selling flowers, fruits, and vegetables. I dated the son of the owners, a farm-hand, for a few months. He turned out to be a lying wack job like none other. Apparently he married a girl who looks a lot like me. He was a little, um, obsessed shall we say. I broke up with him, and just never returned.
3. What is your most favorite book of all time?
This is hard as shit, because I LOVE reading and LOVE books. I'd have to say, A Wrinkle in Time. I still try kything every once in a while.
Courtney of Five Second Dance Party asked:
1. What movie/tv star do you wish would just curl up and die already?
Paris Hilton. For real. She's famous for being fucking...rich? That pisses me off.
2. Is there any food that you can't tolerate? What is it? And not because of allergies-just because you hate it.
Stuffing. Ever since I was young I have HATED stuffing. I actually dry heave when I try to eat it. I don't like the texture, the way it looks, the taste. EW.
What was the most awkward situation you've ever found yourself in?
You know, I would have to say the couple of days before my wedding. Everyone around me was happy, and all I could do was cry and throw up. I was terrified that people would realize once the party started just how little I spent on it, blood, sweat and tears notwithstanding. I hired a DJ and a caterer. I made my own invitations, grew my own nails and had my sister do a french manicure, ordered flowers online and made my own bouquets, boutineers, and centerpieces, had friends bartend, had his Dad marry us, and on and on and on. In the few days preceding, I worried incessantly that everyone there would realize I didn't have money coming out of my ass, and had spent less than $5,000, which, if you've never had a wedding, is a fairly small amount for 104 guests.
In the end, it was a blast. And I got nothing but compliments. I was even told I should be a wedding planner. I was like, "Fuck that noise." Planning one was enough. Ergo, I'll be married forever. Promise.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
I posed three questions to TJ over at Zazzafooky, and now it's my turn. Here's the rulez, yo:
~ Ask me 3 questions. Any 3, no matter how personal, private or random.
~ I have to answer them honestly. I have to answer them all.
~ In turn, you post this message in your own blog or journal and you have to answer the questions that are asked of you.*
*If you interrogate me, and then don't post the meme on your blog, I will hunt you down and tickle your armpits with pigeon feathers. If that doesn't sound insufferable to you, then, well, you're just plumb fucking crazy.
Zube Boy thinks he's such a bad ass. He likes to torment me by writing 'Zubesmell' all over the damn place:
That would be the side of our countertop, which is still awaiting its oak trim. I've found it written on drywall, which is now painted over, on subfloors now covered with tile, and la la la.
Notice the only normal name above? Punk. Our roommate Zig, dubbed Ziggles by yours truly, moved out of our house, uh, six months ago. Yeah. We're a bit slow.
Also, check out the address when you click on this picture.
I can only conclude that the subject of this experiment, I mean marriage, is obsessed with the Zubesmell. And, hell. I can't fucking blame him.
In other news, I GET TO TAKE A DAMN VACATION FINALLY!!! I'll arrive in North Carolina on September 23rd via Denver to visit my padre and his fabulous wife. From North Carolina I head up to Jersey on the 26th to attend my cousin's wedding and kick up dirt or, uh, pavement, on my old stomping grounds. October 3rd marks the end of my holiday, and I'll head back up to my little rancher in the mountains, and my husband who'll have been pining for my lovin' for, what's that, like ten days?
What this means to you all is that I will have limited internet access. Well actually, Mom has dial-up but I'm too much of a snobby brat to fuck with that so while I'm sure I'll pop on once in a while, I probably won't be updating quite so often.
I'm looking for guest writers. I'd hate for my blog to be inactive for so long, and I'm sure I'll be able to post a couple of times, but I'll probably be knocking back some adult beverages and hanging with the family. I think it would serve me well to step back from the keyboard and such. And, what fun it will be to relay stories of the OTHER Zubes upon my return. The clan that's 2,000 miles away from here is cool as shit and the more time I rock out with 'em, the more tales for the telling.
E-mail me* if you are at all interested. Pretty please. Don't be scared. You all know I don't bite. I pinch, but not if you're cool. And if you're reading this, you're cool in my book. Just so's ya know, if I don't get any damn e-mails, I'm going to stalk, I mean solicit help. So, ACT NOW!
*The e-mail link is right up thar under my profile. Duh!
Monday, September 05, 2005
MRS. ZUBEBOY'SFIRSTNAME ZUBEBOY'SLASTNAME IS NOT MY FUCKING NAME!!! I mean, I may in fact BE a little nuts, but it doesn't mean that I've actually GROWN a pair since our wedding day, which makes addressing an invitation to Mrs. Michael Whatever all kinds of fucking weird. Thanks for the honor of adding an 'S' to Mr. Otherwise I might've thought you were sending a letter to my husband. You're a champ.
When I see things addressed to this Mrs. Michael person, I feel like I've been swallowed up by the institution of marriage. And have suddenly been bequeathed with a pair of balls. Which, fuck that. If I've got to bleed once a month, I could do without the sacs. I just can't be bothered with chafing and worrying about letting it hang to the left or the right when I've got, oh I don't know, CRAMPS from hell every two out of 28 days. Mmmmmkay?
It's bad enough that my fabulous Zube surname had to take a backseat and become my middle name, which in case anyone wanted to know, people NEVER bother to include though I ask them to very nicely. Middle fucking initial my ass. How about I squeeze my middle fucking NAME in that there box. It's only four letters bitches, and I can write real small when I'm so inclined.
Hillary Rodham Clinton rocked three names for years. Why the fuck can't I? Okay, so I'm not the wife of a former President or anything, but I have a sceptor and a tiara and I make one hell of a margarita. I've got credentials coming out of my ass.
Even the reporter who asked me how I wanted my name printed in an article about ME forgot the Zube. I said, "Please make sure you include Zube in the article." Hello! That whole story you wrote about me? The girl who survived that horrid shit and lived to tell, had the surname ZUBE. Did it EVER occur to you that maybe, just maybe, I wanted to make sure that folks who knew me way back when I was a heap of depressed shit puking and crying into a toilet at a frat party, could google search my sorry ass only to discover that I'm doing pretty damn okay nowadays? Print my damn name the way I requested. Fucker.
I cut a little slack for old people who address mail to Mrs. Hisfuckingfullname, because that's the way they've been doing it for, oh, maybe eighty years. But if you're in your twenties or thirties, you can feel free to address any mail that's coming my way to MY PROPER FUCKING NAME thankyouverymuch.
Did I mention that I'm having major regrets about changing my name at all? No? Well, I am.
Sunday, September 04, 2005
Work on Friday was rough. Interspersed with phone calls from people wanting to make reservations at our ski lodge, were distressed folks from New Orleans. See, I work in Colorado, but our home office is in New Orleans. They don't have vacation rentals down there. No. They own and rent upwards of 3,000 apartments. Apartments that are empty now. Hopefully. Well, one of them at least has a fish in it. It's owner told me she managed to pile her two cats into her car, and now she and her feline friends are in Arkansas, with nowhere to go, and no idea if they'll have somewhere to go in the coming months.
And she was worried about paying her rent. I almost cried. I told her that she was not the only one concerned about paying her rent. That our office had been receiving phone calls from many people who'd been displaced, but that we aren't really sure of the condition of the apartment buildings, as no one is allowed back into the area.
I also spoke with a father who is, was, is, I don't know, an employee of our company in New Orleans. He is in Texas now. He was supposed to get paid on Friday. He didn't. He's running out of money.
Our paychecks also migrate from the New Orleans office, but we've got a petty cash account that should hold to pay our employees for at least a month. Though, I hope my bank will honor it because the paycheck will be written from a New Orleans bank which is, so far as I know, not functioning. But I've got a roof over my head, and enough macaroni and cheese stockpiled in the cupboards to survive. And a Mom and Dad to call if things ever went horribly wrong. Which I'd be remiss to do because I'm a big girl now, but I've got that option, you know?
It's just SO awful. All of those people with nowhere to go. I want to hop in my car and drive to Houston and volunteer, but the thing is I need to keep working to pay my mortgage and I don't even think I'd be able to AFFORD to pay $3 a gallon for the gas it would take to make the trek.
I've heard that Colorado will be housing some people in unused army dormitories. I'm resolved to volunteer and clean out my closet because most of the folks I've seen have only the clothes on their backs.
I have been watching the news in horror, but it really hits home when you're on the phone with someone and you hear their cats meowing in the background, and they're tearfully worrying, in fact HOPING, that they need to pay their rent. And you want them to pay their rent, too. But you just don't know if there is anything for them to rent anymore.
I'm not really one to pray, but I do believe in the power of benevolent thoughts, and I'm thinking a lot of those these days. I hope they help, along with what I can donate to the Red Cross.
Saturday, September 03, 2005
Thank you ALL for your well wishes and gleeful comments. Sincerely. You guys are too fucking sweet. I'm just a little sad to report that the Zygote was not quite ready to be an earthling yet, and so it did not stick. Although I may have shed a tear or two, as is usual I am donning my handy-dandy rose-tinted glasses. I just wouldn't be me without them. Everything happens for a reason, and this is no exception.
Prior to this, we weren't really trying to get me knocked up. We weren't really trying not to get me knocked up either, but there was no purposeful babymaking going on behind our closed doors. Zube Boy was a bit ambivalent about having kiddos at this point in our lives, however, he was surprised to find himself super-excited and then super-disappointed when it didn't stick around, and now he is fully on board with the babymaking deal.
Straight from the pie hole of my infamous husband, "We'll make another one." And I'll be taking vitamins and shit, which really should be happening before you get knocked up and not start the day you, uh, take a pregnancy test and get a big fat positive. Folic acid, people. Makes for good spines, and great brains. I'm all over it now.
Just a little snippet of a conversation we had this morning, so y'all know that the Zubes are still, well, the Zubes:
The scene: We're in the bedroom where I'm getting changed and Zube Boy is watching the boob tube.
Z-Girl: Honey, check out my jugs.
Z-Boy: Blank stare
Z-Girl: Um. Well. Okay. Maybe they're a little more on the scale of Avion water bottles...
Z-Boy: No, honey. No. They're like free samples.
Doesn't he know that he should be showering me with kisses and rubbing my feet?!?! What the fuck?! Heh. Just kidding. I wouldn't have him any other way. In fact, if he weren't taking jabs at my attention whoring sex kitten wannabe self, I would suspect something was up. Something fiendish. I will say, though, that it would be nice if he would stop calling me donkey-lips. That's just, um, not cute. At all.
Again. Thanks for rocking. Yous guys are so good with that!
Until next time, peace out bitches!