Learning Shit in a Structured Environment

All right. It’s the moment you’ve all been waiting for. Or maybe not, but just go with it okay? I’m on a roll here. I have decided to organize a conference and you wondermous people are invited to attend. I’m thinking the conference might be, like, two days or something. That sounds like a conferencey amount of time, don’t you think?

Anyway, I have a tentative schedule prepared for the first day. I'm working on the second. It's taking a while because there is SO MUCH USELESS SHIT out there to learn, and I'm having trouble focusing on the salient bits. Let me know what you think of my syllabus thus far, and I know that 'syllabus' is probably the wrong word but SHUT UP because it's my fucking conference. Have your own damn conference if you want to get all nit-picky. Ahem. That said, I'm open to suggestions regarding sessions for Day 2. If there's enough suggestions, we might just start a fucking college or something. I'm a big dreamer.

First day:

11:00AM – Noon* - General Session I

“How Smart Are You?”

SO SMART, obviously, if you have time to be attending bullshit confences. Your willingness to participate in ridiculous events such as this one is testament to the fact that your brain must already know all the shit it needs to know about everything else. Pat yourself on the back. No, it is not time for the cocktail party yet. Sit Still. Fuckers.

Noon – 1:00PM – Lunchtime

1:00PM – 2:00PM – Individual Workshops – You May Choose to Attend Any of the Following

Spy Rolls 101

A brief introduction to spytastic expression and the world of sleuthing in general. Workshop focuses on executing a spy roll, and unless the attendee is a complete fucking moron, s/he should be able to execute one by the end of the hour. Wear loose clothing. Also, do not attend if you’re a clumsy fuck, okay?

Thongs: A Philosophical Approach

Is your ass eating your underwear, OR is your underwear hiding in your ass? Round table discussion to be spent sitting, for the most part. Wear boy briefs unless you’re willing to stand up in front of the participants and share your personal experience with the intellectual dilemma at hand.

Introduction to Art

How to draw adorable cartoons – Zube-Style. Please familiarize yourself with the artistic renditions of a Paint Shop Pro genius prior to attendance.

2:00PM - 3:00PM - More Damn Indiviudal Workshops

Spy Rolls 102

Practical applications of the spy roll technique learned in Spy Rolls 101. Main focus will be using rolls to facilitate the sneaky ass kicking of gnomes with shrinking ray guns and celebrity stalkers.

Farting: Taboo or Funny as Hell?

A pre-selected panel of fucking geniuses will discuss the pros and cons of being open and honest about our gas and its passing.

Because Deep Down, We Must All Hate Ourselves and WANT to Be Tortured

The psychology of pet ownership and all of the annoyances that come with it. The first 45 minutes will be a lecture on dealing with your four-legged roommates and the last 15 minutes will be a throw down between randomly selected, and probably most scared-looking, attendees. One will be a Cat Lover and the other will be a Dog Lover. The referee will love both cats and dogs. The winner will determine the answer to the age-old question: Do cats or dogs rule???

Relationship 101

Navigating the slippery slope that is LOVE. Facilitator will focus on dealing with your significant other after nearly fracturing his or her skull and how NOT to get murdered for doing something rather disgusting.

3:00PM - 5:00PM - Happy Hour(s)

5:00PM - 7:00PM** - Cocktail Hour(s)


7:00PM - Whenever - Dance Off

Dancing is REQUIRED of all attendees. If you're afraid to dance, not to worry. I haven't just arbitrarily pulled the schedule out of my ass. There is a REASON the Happy Hour and Cocktail Hour are before the Dance-Off.

*You may have noticed that the schedule is a little light. That's because smart people need some down time. Seriously. It ain't easy being brilliant. If you're looking for something a little more intense, well then, surely you are stupid and don't belong here anyway.

**You may have noticed that there is NO scheduled dinner. Dinner is on your own time, bitches. Besides, anybody who's ANYBODY knows that there is a pork chop in every beer.

I am looking for facilitators and panel members. If you believe you might be qualified for any of these roles, feel free to e-mail me. If you're stupid, though? You're kind of fucked. So, think real hard about how smart you are if you're considering sending me an e-mail. ESPECIALLY if you're kind of self-conscious and you'd get upset if I laughed my ass off at you.

I require 100% attendance of my readership. And that means YOU! Yes, even you lurkers. You can dress in black and wear a ski mask and sit in a corner, but you MUST come! Otherwise, the cocktail party is off. And the cocktail party is only, like, the fucking HIGHLIGHT of the conference!

Oh yeah. Cost is a million dollars. But it'll be worth it. I PROMISE!

Some More Stuff...

-When I found out I was pregnant, the Bad Time, I kid you not, nearly EVERY friend I had who was Pro-Life urged me to have an abortion. They said, "Oh my God, I never knew until it happened to you, that I would feel this way. You HAVE to have an abortion." This surprised the SHIT out of me. But, what surprised me even more was that EVERY person I knew who was Pro-Choice, the people I was SURE would try to convince me to have an abortion said, "Well, what do YOU want to do?" Including my Dad. We all know what I decided in the end, but seriously, isn't the odd? I mean, given the awful circumstances of my pregnancy, I'd have thought that the Pro-Choice people would be the ones who'd be all "GET AN ABORTION!" But, it turned out the opposite.

-When I spoke at that rally for Emergency Contraception, there were some women there with signs that said, "CUNT WARRIORS!" I was pretty pissed. I mean, come on PEOPLE! We're trying to PASS A LAW here! Now, I'm the first person to think, in many other situations, that those signs are pretty fucking funny. The word 'cunt' scares people, so it rather amuses me. But, there's a time and a place. And the time and place is Not. At. An. Important. Political. Rally. Sorry if that makes me a wuss, but why alienate people, you know? Anyway...

-"Shit! She's looking! Meeting adjourned. Act natural..."


-Zube Boy and I are having a creativity contest with our magnet words we got from a friend for Christmas. My sentence is on the left. His is on the right. I think he's winning.


-I give him two weeks. Maybe three. Tops. After that? He's history.


Edited to Add: The photo in this post might clarify what the little green guy is.

Suck Will Do What Suck Wants to Do...And Coworkers...That Don't Suck.

Dear All Things That Suck,

Hey! So, uh, how's it going? With the sucking and all? I was just wondering because you haven't been around for a few days, and I wanted to say that I hope you're enjoying yourself wherever it is that you might be sucking presently. You have my express permission to stay there for a bit. Don't feel the need to return anytime soon because I'm rather enjoying myself in your absence.

Sincerely,
Zube

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

The other day, my coworker was saying how sometimes he's overwhelmed with all of the estrogen in his life. Girlfriend. Girl roommates. Female coworkers. I wanted to help out, so I left him a little present on his desk. I should really market this shit:


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

A while ago, I was on the elevator with another coworker.

Coworker: Hey, so do you have any sisters?

Z-Girl: Why? Because you think I'm fucking hot, and that any sisters of mine would be hot, too?

Coworker: Heh.

Z-Girl: I do, as a matter of fact, have two sisters. And they look just like me. Which means, naturally, that they're hot.

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

PS- I'm like a million YEARS behind the times. I now have an AIM account. I am zubegrrl (NOTICE, two 'r's in grrl because I think My Belle is the original zubegirl). If you ever want to chat (like, hmmm, RIGHT NOW!) give me a shout out! I have to admit, I sort of stole the idea from Rich. He mentioned AIM in his blog, and I was like, "Huh, what's this shit about?" Thanks Rich.

Old Habits Die Hard

I have a bad habit of humping things I love. Or, okay, TALKING about humping things I love. At first I thought it was just a phase. A phase I was so OBVIOUSLY in the throes of a few weeks ago. But it has returned with a vengeance, which leads me to believe it's more of a habit. Or at least a cyclic phase. Or some shit like that. Anyway, enough with the preamble.

Yesterday I arrived home from work to find Zube Boy beaming. Mine keen ears did immediately detect a whirrrring sound, not unlike that of a hair dryer. I gasped.

Z-Boy: Honey, do you know what today is?

Z-Girl: OHMYGOD, OHMYGOD, OHMYGOD!!!

Z-Boy: It's R-R-R-ROOMBA Day!

Those were rolling R's in case you were wondering. Zube Boy and I have been anticipating Roomba Day ALL. WEEK. LONG. In fact, Wednesday night we were lying in bed, which is when most of our interesting conversations happen, and Zube Boy said, "Honey, you know what tomorrow is, right?" "ROOMBA DAY! I think I'm going to leave work early."

Geez. We're kind of losers, huh? Fuck it. I embrace my loserness. You should be a loser like me. Get a Roomba. Like RIGHT-FUCKING-NOW! Here, I'll make it easy for you. Go ahead. I'll wait.

You back? Okay. Seriously though? I want to hump this thing. Over and over and over again! Love. It rocks. Not ONLY does it clean under furniture and in corners and around table legs, but it FREAKS the living crap out of the Z-animals!!! HAHAHAHAHA! Useful AND entertaining. You must have one.

Zoey is the only cat brave enough to get near it. She stalks it all feline-like until it bumps into a wall and turns around and CHASES HER!!! Which causes her to run in place all cartoon style until she finally gets momentum and goes careening across the wood floors and crashes face first into a wall. And you all know how much I love that shit.



I feel as though I finally have SOMEONE in the house who appreciates the fact that I have more important queenly duties to attend to than vacuuming. Like right now? I'm attending to a queenly duty. AND? MY HOUSE IS BEING VACUUMED!!!

Brad was probably like, "What the fuck are they doing in there?" last night what with all of the "R-R-R-ROOMBA! Ay-ay-ay!" yelling going on. I bet the neighbors think we're kinky. I'm wondering if that cute little kid from down the street will still be allowed to come to our house and sell us wrapping paper and shit.

Before I went to bed, I could barely contain myself.

Z-Girl: *sniff* Honey?

Z-Boy: What?

Z-Girl: I LOVE my Roomba. Like REALLY love it.

Z-Boy: Aw. Do you want to bring it to bed?

Z-Girl: A little.

Z-Boy: Okay.

Z-Girl: Wow. You'd let me do that?

Z-Boy: Sure. As long as it doesn't get the middle.

Z-Girl: I'll take the middle. You're the best.

The moral of the story is: Even if you already have one love in your life, there is always Roomba for another.

Heh. That was bad. Real bad. Even for me. I'd better go wash out my mouth with soap. Or my fingertips.

Edited to add...If you're fond of crying and snorting all in one sitting, please read this. Sars is ALWAYS good for a hardy-har and her experience with her Roomba and cats is no exception.

A King, A Queen, and a Party

Now that I've shared with you what a Queen does on her day off, I'm wondering just what in the fuck a King does on his day off when the Queen is working? Huh? That's what I want to know.

I have a couple of ideas. I think that as soon as the Queen departs, the King leaps out of bed and pilfers through her underwear drawer. This is followed by a brief foray through the palace with her panties on his head. This is the ONLY explantion I can think of to clarify why the Queen's underwear seems to be everywhere. Because LORD KNOWS, a Queen wouldn't just toss them wherever she might happen to be when she takes them off. And the Royal Subjects SURELY wouldn't see fit to carry them here and there just for shits and giggles.

I do know that sometimes the King shovels snow off of the palace roof. I know this because he tells me. AND I'm the most fucking OBSERVANT Queen there is and I see the tell-tale piles of snow surrounding the palace when I get home. Anyway, knowing that King's have to do shit like this when they have the palace all to themselves kind of makes me glad I'm the Queen.

Other than that, it's a mystery. I mean, if I were the King, I would probably sit around staring at pictures of the Queen all day wondering when the hell she'll be home because I SO, SO, SO miss rubbing her feet. But maybe that's just me.

Oh, by the way, if I had a party, would you all come? Because I feel kind of dorky having internet friends, so I figured if we all hung out and shot the shit and drank beer and stuff, I'd be less of a dork. Bonanza and PaintingChef, I'll even invite Mr. Clooney, even though he'll probably cart Brad's ass here, but hey, friendship is all about sacrifice, right?

I'm also considering inviting that green sillhouette chick up there. She seems pretty cool and I'd like to figure out what the hell she's all about. I bet that bitch can PARTAY! Really. Though, she looks a tad crazy, and it'd be really weird trying to have a conversation with a sillhouette. But hell. I'll try anything once.

Some More of This and That

-Thanks for all the well wishes and thoughts. The Power Puff Girls made their way to me and I'm feeling SO much better. It was weird, though. It was that scary kind of sad that feels like it might be more of a keeper than a fleeting emotion. You know, the depressed kind of sad where everything seems to suck and you actually feel heavier. Not fatter. Just heavier. Anyway, I'm hoping it's passed. This happens to me EVERY. DAMN. YEAR. at the same time. And it always does pass. Seems to coincide with the days getting longer.

-Okay, I have to confess. I TOTALLY have B-Boobs. That picture down there must have been more flattering. I'm compelled to print out a life-size copy of it and tape it to my chest. Heh. Sorry to have misrepresented The Girls.

-I've always wanted to write an autobiography. Not that I've ever taken any action towards doing so. This one time when I was waitressing, I think I was about 23, a couple of regulars who always sat in my section and tipped me really well, asked me what my dreams were. I told them I wanted to write an autobiography. They said, "Oh, honey, you don't want to do that. You're so young. You haven't experienced enough of life to write about it yet." I wanted to say, "I've experienced so much of life that if it's fairly uneventful from here on out, I'll be happy," but instead I smiled. They liked me. They meant well. They really did. Anyway, if I ever follow through with such a venture, I'm going to dedicate my book to them.

-With all of this James Frey business, I don't know that I want to write an autobiography after all. The Smoking Gun would probably be all up in the grill of the person in my past who might play a key role in my story, trying to find out dirt about me, and he'd be all, "I didn't do it!" Maybe I could write a really shitty autobiography so that no one would really care if it was true or not.

-I don't know what to think of the whole John Frey scandal. I'm reading the book right now. I think it's a good read. That's all I really care about. Did he embellish? I bet he did. Am I still enjoying the book? Yeah.

-Zube Boy FUCKING ROCKS! So, I've been seeing the Monster Ballads commercial for a few months now and every time it comes on I swoon and say, "OH MY GOD, Honey, I LOVE this Song!" to each and every 80's hairband love tune. Anywho, this morning on my way to work, he yelled from bed, "Honey, there is a present on the counter for you." MONSTER BALLADS!!! Woo-hoo!!! I'm listening to it at work right now...Heaven isn't so far away...

Hello...

You have reached Zube Girl's blog. She is currently unavailable what with the business of giving herself a pep talk. She is sure that you all know how these things go. Her Mom always told her that if she had nothing nice to say, not to say anything at all, and she has decided that 'nice' might maybe be replaced with 'positive' which is something she is SO not feeling right now.

Lest you worry, she wanted me, her handy-dandy blog-answering machine to let you know that she'll be fine. She's wearing her trusty old 'Everything's Going to Be Okay' T-shirt with the mood saving Power Puff Girls on it...

"We're Coming For You!"

...and watching LOTS and LOTS of Law & Order. She'll be as good as new by, like, tomorrow or something. Probably sooner if the cats keep pissing her off causing her to forget that she's feeling blue and not murderous.

Z-Girl: GET OFF THE FUCKING COUNTER ALREADY FOR THE NINE MILLIONTH TIME ZOEY!!!

PS- As her friend and answering machine, I'd like to request that, upon her return, you not let her know that believing the words emblazened on her t-shirt is maybe a little crazy. She tends to think that the Power Puff Girls really are coming for her, to elevate her mood or something like that. Anyway, let's be hush hush about how unrealistic that is because firstly, if it works, who cares, right? And secondly, none of us has ever accused her of being normal anyway.

Feel free to leave a message, but she'll surely get back to you even if you don't.

You've Got Mail

Z-Girl: Honey, you have mail.

Z-Boy: I know. It's taking a nap right now. I've got Zack keeping an eye out for when it wakes its ass up already.

So. So. SO. HATE. MY. VOICE. So Very Much. Hate It.

Thanks to Chickie, I've been introduced to Audioblogging. I think there's supposed to be a hyphen in audio-blogging, but I'm too lazy to go back and look, so screw it...

First attempt:

*****WARNING!!!! I cuss out loud, too, so you may want to save this audio bit for home if you're sitting in your cubicle or some shit like that!*****

I sprinkled some 'bigger balls' dust on me, and here is the second attempt:

Both suck, but I'm fucking bored. Heh. I think, though, that Zube Boy is totally going to break the Eminem cd he got me for Christmas. Seriously. I'd better learn how to burn that shit quick.

Fortunately, I'm such a freak about talking out loud alone when I'm going to SHARE the monologue later, that you'll very rarely, if ever again, have to deal with me audio-blogging. It was something new, and sometimes I have to try out new things so I can know FOR CERTAIN that I hate them. But, since I dig hearing the voices of others, YOU can feel free to go at it!

I have a little thing to say to shit before I go, if you don't mind.

Dear Shit,

Thanks for happening all at once.

Sincerely,

Zube Girl

The anniversary is going okay. Oh. Hello. It's 9:00AM.

*Edited to Add* WOW. My stomach hurts from laughing so hard. Thanks to Lysie for e-mailing me the Gizoogle link.

Who knew jive could be so fun???

Snippet from Zube Girl blog transtizzled to Jive!:

Bizzay sizzay but I'm messin' bored doggystyle. Heh. I think, though, tizzy Zube Boy is totally going ta break tha Eminem cd he gots me fo` Christmas. Seriously. I'd gangsta learn how ta bizzurn thiznat shit quick.

Wanna See My Buns?

Well here they are, you freakin' perverts...


They're kind of blurry, but you get the idea. And I was SCRATCHING the TIP of the inside of my nose. NOT picking it. Jeebus. Don't you people have husbands with trick cameras, too?!

You know, Zack is SO going to freak out when our Roomba gets delivered.


Could scaring the piss out of your pooch with a vacuum cleaner be considered cruelty to animals?

Going to work when the moon is out fucking sucks...


And it's often a bit chillier at that hour, too.

I was digging the view from my desk today.


Fortunately, I wasn't DIGGING through a foot of ice while standing on a roof today. Though the view may have been better from up there. Arguably.

Sometimes I like to tell myself that the summertime is not SO far away and soon we'll be camping and four-wheeling and shit...



...then I go outside and realize that we can't even SEE one of the four-wheelers OR the pop-up camper and the only four-wheeler we can see is, uh, on top of a flatbed trailer. Then, camping and shit seems MUCH further away.

I haven't talked much about the snow because I figger you all get sick of hearing about it, but FOR REAL! WITH THE SNOW! It's insane. And I love it. So, so pretty.

Keep it real gals and guys. Oh yeah. One more thing. Tomorrow is the ten year anniversary. I wonder if I'll cry? I haven't yet. And I'm not so much feeling it either. But, that's usually the way it is. It sort of side-swipes me like a hefty bag of rocks out of nowhere in the middle of the afternoon. Oh well. I'm always up for a good healthy cry. Especially one that celebrates how far I've come.

Peace out, punks!

No Soup for Me Today...

Zube Boy has off today and I'm at work. Punk.

I called him around 10AM, and guess what? He didn't fucking answer.

He finally called me back a couple of hours later.

Ring-Ring

Z-Girl: Hello?

Z-Boy: Hi honey.

Z-Girl: Oh, hi.

Z-Boy: Sorry I missed your call.

Z-Girl: Yeah, yeah. Are you calling me back to ask me what I'd like you to bring me for lunch?

Z-Boy: No.

Z-Girl: You mean, you're not bringing me lunch?

Z-Boy: No.

Z-Girl: That is SO RUDE! I always bring you lunch when it's my day off and you're at work.

Z-Boy: Well honey, that's because you are always out and about on your days off. You don't just lounge around the house in your speedo all day.

Z-Girl: Heh.

So Cool................NOT!

I’m a world renowned secret keeper. Well, okay. Not quite 'world renowned' but I’m usually real good about keeping secrets. Like when people say, “Hey, Zube Girl…Psssst…I’m knocked up!” I keep that shit to myself. Um. Except for the time when Miss I called me and told me she had a bun in the oven and I was trying to call Zube Boy and tell him ‘cause she said I could, only he wouldn’t answer his damn cell phone because he NEVER freakin' does. And so I decided to send him a text message because he’ll usually call me back if I text him some crazy ass news. The text said, “Miss I is PREGNANT!” And that was supposed to SO shocking and startling that he’d be compelled to call me and ask me about it. Only, he didn’t call me back, and instead announced to the guys in the shop where he works with Miss I’s husband, The Englishman, “Miss I is PREGNANT!” and THEN called me and, well, the fucking secret was out. It was okay, I did a little damage control and stopped the secret in its tracks, and tearfully told Miss I and she didn’t even get mad because she’s cool as shit like that and she has a husband, too. And sometimes, especially when husbands aren't warned, they might just mistake a SECRET for an ANNOUNCEMENT.

That up there was a really fucking long paragraph. I HATE long paragraphs. But, I just couldn't find a good place to split it up. Oh well.

Anyway, other than that time, I’m a good secret keeper. When people TELL me shit and say, “Remember, it’s a secret,” I treat it as such.

BUT, and there always is a but, isn’t there? When I figure out secrets all by myself, I’ll tell that shit to anybody who’ll listen. And that's what I'm about to do. Yesterday, I was sitting around thinking about how, though I prefer mashed potatoes made from scratch, instant potatoes really aren't so bad and they're not NEARLY as much of a pain in the ass to make, when suddenly, it hit me. The secret. I’m going to share it with you because it’s a really important one and shouldn’t even be a secret to begin with. Ready?

There are no cool people. That’s it. No one is cool.

I mean, think about it. There are people out there who profess to be cool and go on and on about being cool, but they’re really just trying to convince themselves that they ARE cool, because maybe other people said so. And there are people that maybe YOU think are cool and all the while they might be thinking YOU are cool or they’re wishing they were as cool as SOMEONE ELSE. It’s like, people think I’M cool, and if that’s not a clue as to how ridiculous the cool label is, ‘cause, PFFFFBT, I am SO FAR from cool, I’m hot. Which, actually I AM hot. That goes without saying. But cool? No. Not even a little. Crawling around on the bathroom floor naked meowing at your cats is a far cry from something a cool person would do. Actually, it's questionable whether or not I was even hot at that moment. I bet I still was. But only a little.

Anyway, since I’ve gone and spilled the secret, we can all stop worrying about being cool now. Okay? If you don’t hear from me for a few days, I’ve probably been kidnapped by the Secret League of the Cool Illusion Perpetuators and they're probably torturing me all Clockwork Orange style. They'll let me go eventually when my body's natural reaction to saying, "There is no such thing as cool," is to throw up all over myself.

Don't Hate Me Because I Have a Vivid Imagination

If I happened to be at a cocktail party with a bunch of celebrities and Brad was there and he asked me out to dinner, it’d go something like this. I think.

Brad: Zube, please, please, please, PLEASE just go to dinner with me!!!

Z-Girl: Brad, you are just so pathetic when you beg.

Brad: PLEASE!

Z-Girl: Fine. You know, I really need to talk to you about stalking me and shit. It’s kind of annoying. Like the other night…

Brad: Okay. I’ll pick you up at 8:00.

Z-Girl: Oh no, doll. I don’t think so. 8:00 is like a DATE kind of hour. You can pick me up at 6:00. That’s a friendly hour.

Brad: If that’s what you want.

Z-Girl: Actually, I think it’d be better yet if I met you. Much more platonic, you know? Where shall we meet?

Brad: Well, there’s this really cool sushi bar in…

Z-Girl: BZZZZZZZ! Wrong answer. No. I only eat sushi in the privacy of my own home because I’m too uncoordinated to feed myself with two sticks and I won’t eat with my fingers in public. Not to mention that the fast pace and the whole ordering from those dudes right there and watching them make it and not knowing what in the hell to get…No. Far too traumatic for my tastes.

Brad: You’re fucking nuts.

Z-Girl: ME! NUTS!? Well, maybe a little. But you know you love it. And besides, whose the freakin' stalker here?! You're off your rocker Brad. You know what? Fuck this dinner thing. I don’t think Zube Boy would like it too much anyway. And besides, you don't want to get Angelina all pissed off with her being pregnant and hormonal.

Brad: Oh well. I tried. I guess I’ll see you tonight. Could you at least leave the blinds open?

Z-Girl: Seriously, no. But, could you try not to trip over the hose this time? Scared the crap out of me. I fell over while I was putting on my underwear.

Brad: Mmmm. I know.

Z-Girl: Brad, you are hopeless.

Then he'd start singing that song that goes something like, "Hopelessly in LOOOOOOVE with you," and I'd stand there looking all tragically embarrassed. Just at that moment when I'm looking all cute and vulnerable, Eminem would glance my way, and we'd lock eyes.

And that'd be it. I'd be stuck with yet another celebrity stalker.

You know, if I ever get an invitation to a celebrity cocktail party and I ask you if I should accept or not, would ya'll remind me that it just wouldn't be worth the trouble? Thanks.

Squeeing and Wives That Are Nasty

You know, some people better watch their backs lest I squee all over them. And sqee is hard as hell to get out of your clothes. I know it. You need like a stain stick or something. Anway, I just thought I'd share a couple of posts with you that I'm crushing on at the moment, because I'm good at sharing like that.

Happy Villain - OH. MY. You MUST get to the part about the boog. It's a bit 'o reading and it starts out kind of sad, but ends HYSTERICALLY! Kind of like life, you know?

Rich - Okay, I am SO not embarrassed about sticking my fallen hairs to the shower wall. Not after reading this, anyway.

Commence with the leg-humping!

Oh yeah. Speaking of sticking wet hairs to the shower wall, I had an interesting little dialogue this morning.

Z-Girl: Hahahahaha! So, honey, I like, wrote this entry on my blog about how I stick my hair to the wall in the shower and...

Z-Boy: Wait.

Z-Girl: What?

Z-Boy: Wait a minute.

Z-Girl: What?! Hello?! I'm right in the middle of a freakin' story here.

Z-Boy: You do that shit on purpose?

Z-Girl: Ummm, what do you mean?

Z-Boy: What do you MEAN, what do I MEAN? You put your hair on the wall on purpose?

Z-Girl: Um...

Z-Boy: Do you?

Z-Girl: Well, what do you think? I mean, do you think it just all FALLS there? Come on! How the hell would hair fall UP onto the wall of the shower???

Z-Boy: So you do? Do it on purpose?

Z-Girl: Maybe a little.

Z-Boy: Honey, that is nasty.

Z-Girl: Well, I'm NOT the only ONE! Storm and Happy Villain and Chickie and, and, and Crazy Lady and Maya and Tablefor4 do it, TOO!

Z-Boy: Great. So there are other people on the internet who are crazy asses like you?

Z-Girl: We're NOT crazy. As a matter of fact, WE'RE ALL QUEENS!

Z-Boy: Same difference.

Z-Girl: Heh. You're funny. Dammit. If you weren't so funny, I'd kick you where it counts.

Z-Boy: Anyway, what were you saying?

Z-Girl: Nevermind.

It's All About the Queendom

During the winter, Zube Boy and I have opposite schedules. I'm mostly busy during the week getting ready for and booking ski groups, and some weekends when really big groups arrive, and he's mostly busy during weekends dealing with the ski groups I book, and many, many other people, too. It kind of sucks because it means the winter months don't leave much time for us to hang out, but we more than make up for it in the summer when our days off once again coincide and we go camping and four-wheeling and dining together to the point where we're batshit crazy with one another and looking forward to the winter.

Anyway, this means that most Saturdays and Sundays, when I'm not working, I'm left to my own devices. Sometimes, it's actually pretty fun. I like to prance around the house and pretend I'm the Queen! And the animals are my Royal Subjects. Please, do not misread ROYAL subjects to be anything near LOYAL subjects because each and every one them would drop me like a flaming brown bag of feces if someone else were to throw ground beef their way. That's what makes them ROYAL. It's all about the diet.

I thought that some of you might be curious about how a Queen spends her time, so I've decided to share with you.

A Day in the Life of a Queen...

6:45AM - Get out of bed and make coffee for the King. Even though the King should be making his own damn coffee, the Queen really wants some, too, and she takes the time to add cinnamon. Besides, it's nice to send the King off properly because he does such a great job of polishing her crown. All hail the King! In case you are wondering, the reason the Queen does not sleep in is because she knows that in order to appreciate having the palace all to her herself, she must be awake. DUH!

7:00AM - Having sent the King to work and brushed her teeth, she decides to practice her Karate Kid-esque stance and kick. A good Queen knows that at any point in time one of her Royal Subjects may just need a swift ass kicking. And practice makes perfect.

7:05AM - She notices that her Karate Kid-esque kicks are causing quite the fur-storm. Not because her kicks have come into contact with a canine or feline, mind you. The tumbleweeds exist because the royal cleaning crew has been nowhere to be found for the past week. Fur-like tumbleweeds annoy a Queen to no end because royalty thrives in a pristine environment. So the Queen decides, though vacuuming is beneath her, that she will vacuum anyway because breathing cat-hair fortified oxygen is even MORE beneath her.

7:30AM - Resume practicing Karate Kid-esque kicks.

7:45AM - Prance to the bathroom. And leave the door open. Because nothing pleases a Queen more than to sit on her throne, all home alone, with the bathroom door wide open.

7:46AM - Throw soap and wadded up balls of toilet paper at the Royal Subjects, whom apparently have NO regard for a pissing Queen's need for privacy. Fucking Royal Subjects.

7:47AM - Realize that practicing Karate Kid-esque kicks serves NO purpose whatsoever when kicks generally need to be executed while sitting on the throne.

7:50AM - Practice kicking the Royal Subjects' asses while sitting on the throne.

8:00AM - Close the bathroom door. After crawling on hands and knees hissing at the Royal Subjects until they retreat, all the while laughing heartily in their own feline way at a Queen on her knees in the bathroom hissing.

8:10AM - Take a shower. Pull out loose hairs from upon her royal head and stick them to the shower wall. Because really? Some Queens are kind of gross. Much to the dismay of their kingly partners.

8:20AM - Wrap herself in the biggest towel EVAH! Send a little verbal thanks out into the ether to the King's Aunt and Uncle for giving the best towels in the world as a wedding gift.

8:30AM - After putting on make-up and sticking her hair up in a bun, unbrushed...again...wrap herself tighter in big ass towel and squish boobs together. Imagine what a drop dead gorgeous Queen she would be with bigger boobs.

8:31AM - Wink and smile coyly into the mirror.

8:40AM - Put on royal flannel pajamas. After, of course, generously distributing lotion on herself. Particularly in areas where dryness is an issue. No Queen needs a chapped ass.

8:45AM - Sit down at the royal computer and empart her queenly knowledge upon the world. Giggle endlessly at the thought of herself as a Queen Bitch. Imagine what her bitchy friends are doing this wonderful weekend. Wonder what would happen if folks no longer e-mailed wethreebitches at yahoo dot com to beseach the words of wisdom she and her Queen Bitch friends have to empart.

9:45AM - Hop in her royal carriage, after putting on sweatpants and a sweatshirt, to go to 7-11 and buy a little teeny $5 bag of kitty food because if there is one thing a Queen WILL NOT do, it is go to the grocery store on a holiday weekend to hang out with a bunch of freakin' gapers.

10:00AM - Vow to return to the palace as quickly as humanly possible because DAMN that chick at the register sure as HELL has no idea that she's dealing with a Queen here.

10:15AM - Feed the Royal Subjects.

10:30AM - Give the royal computer another go. Share an exhausting day in the life of a Queen. Or rather, a half a day. Because, as a Queen, some things are best left a mystery. Or a secret.

Whatever...

I'm tired. I'm tired, I'm tired, and I'm tired.

I know the Thunderdome verdict is up, and I won, and they sure as HELL didn't go easy on me. But honestly? I laughed while I read it. And that's the whole point of the thing. I'm actually a bit relieved that Malfouka, Dave, and Adam delivered some humor where Nyte and I failed. Not ONE iota of the verdict surprised me. Well, I was a bit surprised to have won. EVERY other blog that received the most popular votes lost. I had no reason to believe my blog would be any different. I actually nodded in agreement with much of what was said about my blog because it was TRUE. And...the way I look at it, if I'm going to spend a good portion of my time laughing at other people, I damn well better be capable of laughing at myself. And I am.

I knew, knew, they'd rag on my '100 Things.' If I cared, I never would have signed up. I'll only say that at least it's not Meme Central here. I think I might've MAYBE answered five memes in the 10 months I've been blogging and passed the tag along, like, once. Huh. Maybe twice. I can't remember.

Actually, almost sadly, I wasn't even tagged for the '100 Things.' I did it myself way back in the beginning because, believe it or not, I enjoyed reading the '100 Things' of other people. It's just interesting to know what folks highlight when they only have a limit of 100. Also, it was cathartic for me. And, if anyone reads it, I think it's a bit of a warning. Maybe instead of '100 Things' I should call it '100 Clues as to the Shit You Will Find Ruminated About at This Here Blog.' Seems a little more honest.

All of that aside, I'm hiding. I'm having what I like to call a 'Whatever Day.' Whatever if I'm five days late and four tests later, there's no fucking reason for it. And Whatever if it seems like everyone I know is pregnant or nursing. And Whatever if I'm never going to be a Mom because my reproductive system is a punk ass bitch. And Whatever if I have tears streaming down my face because I'm tough and fuck those tears and it'll happen and...Whatever if it's 1PM on a bright, sunny Saturday and I'm in my flannel PJs playing Sims 2. Such a great word. Whatever. And all I have to do is 'Woo-Hoo' a couple of times on Sims 2 and BAM. Baby. Much easier.

Sometimes, at 1PM on a Saturday when your husband is at work and not around to make you laugh, there is no better view than this:


Really, I'm not a Fashion Queen. I just wear slippers that say so while I'm Playing video games.

Cute Archives and the Hour of Truth

Sometimes I feel bad for my archives. I'll be reading something I wrote in August or July, and I'll get all sad for it, because it's maybe pretty funny and kind of cute. I'll gingerly stroke my computer moniter and coo, "You are such a cute little post...Too bad you're buried in my archives..." And since I'm remiss to repost shit I wrote back when maybe three people were reading, it'll stay back there. With some of the other shit I couldn't be HAPPIER is buried deep in the recesses of my archives. Gah!

Anyway, I'm sort of on the edge of my seat because the Thunderdome verdict should be up any day now. I'd like to say that no matter the outcome, Nyte has been nothing but a gracious opponent. Even though we've probably had the LAMEST and most BORING drama-free battle in Thunderdome history. But fuck it. She's nice. I dig her. I'll apologize because I know I love me some fucking drama over there, and we didn't deliver. Meh. Whatever.

Fucking Bipedals...Oh Yeah, and Again With That Abortion Thing

Zack: You know, I'd just like to say something before I go hiding in Dad's shop. It was those DAMN CATS that made me sleep on the couch. They were all coaxing me and shit, saying how you and Dad weren't going to be home for a while and how I should just sleep on the couch like they do. It's almost like they knew you were going to come home from work early.

And I said, "But NO, you guys! I weigh 95lbs, and you only weigh, like 10lbs! Big Ass Dogs aren't supposed to be on the couch!"

But, they wouldn't let up, Mom! I swear. Fucking pussies. I mean, look at 'em!


It's like they planned it. To see me all in trouble. I hate 'em.


Anyway, I'll be over here until you're ready to kiss my ass and say you're sorry for yelling at me. You freakin' bipedals have no idea how hard it is to be a damn canine in a house full of felines. Didn't you ever watch Lady and the Tramp, for chrissakes??? Kitties are fucking mean!

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

Aside from being amused by Zack's lecture, I'm kind of sad right now. I'm sad because there are people out there who think I'm a murderer. A fucking murderer. I mean, they didn't say it all straight-forward like; "Zube Girl, YOU are a MURDERER!" To the contrary, they're kind of underhanded about it. They try to poke holes in my story. They project, in a factual tone, about how I'm some moo-cow woman who had herself an abortion at the hands of some fucktard who wanted to make a lot of money. They don't say this about ME. No. They say it about WOMEN WHO HAVE ABORTIONS...Which happens to include, well, me...

But I'm keeping my cool because I'm very nearly SADISTIC with keeping my cool and shit. It's the only way I'll get everyone else anywhere. And when it comes to abortion, it's not all about me. It's about my daughters. And yours. And how I can maybe, hopefully, PLEASE ensure that women have access to safe and legal abortions.

PRETTY PLEASE...

Anyway, I got to thinking, while I appreciate the nomination for Most Humorous Blog over at Best of Blogs, I don't really care if I'm a finalist or not. See, I don't think I'm always funny. Maybe sometimes, but not enough to get an award for the shit. Believe it or not, I've felt pressure to be humorous recently. Not that I've payed any mind to that pressure, but it made me realize that no matter what anyone comes here expecting, I'll post whatever I damn well please. Funny or not. It's pretty kick-ass to have been nominated, and thank you Kyknoord and Spiderwalk; I totally want to hump your leg. Lucky for you, I don't know where you live. Because I would. Totally. Hump your leg.

But, rather than win some award, I prefer folks think I might be the girl in the cubicle next to them who cracks jokes all of the time and survived fucked up things in her life...with her sense of humor intact. Because that girl deserves some fucking credit. Whether she's me or some other chick.

Dancing With Dogs...But NOT With Celebrities...

You know, I was thinking today about Eminem. Last night I was fucking rocking out to his cd which Zube Boy, being the wonderful husband he is, bought me for Christmas. Zube Boy was a little embarrassed because I was dancing right in front of the window and he was afraid the The Dudes might see me, but fuck it, right? I mean, you only live once. I'll dance in front of any damn window I please. ESPECIALLY to Eminem. Zack didn't seem to care. He was dancing right along with me. See, dogs don't give a shit about stupid little things like making an ass of themselves. Sometimes I think people should strive to be a little more like dogs.

Anyway, I feel kind of bad for Eminem. He's all famous and stuff, which means that we don't really run in the same circles. So he'll probably never have the opportuinity to bear witness to my coolness. Poor guy. He doesn't even know what he's missing out on. It's probably better that way because I can tell by the lyrics of some of his songs that he gets a little sad once in a while. And if he knew what he was missing by not being my friend, it might, well, send him over the edge I think.

If You Wouldn't Mind Getting a Cavity, Feel Free to Continue Reading

Dear Zube Boy,

Today marks five years that we've been together. I know, Ha Ha, it feels like ten. You're too funny. Hee. But really? I want to thank you. For everything. For all of the laughs and all of the hugs and all of the flowers and all of the support. For proving to me that there are wonderful, wonderful men out there. And that I could actually be lucky enough to fall in love with one. One who would love me back.

Thank you for turning my tears of sorrow into tears of laughter. Thank you for being strong when I'm, well, not so much. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to know that it is possible to love someone more each and every day. Thank you for going to rallies with me and rallying for me. Thank you for asking me, "Are you okay?" and saying, "You'll do fine," when I'm nervous as hell about speaking in front of a large group of people. Even when you are just as nervous, if not more, about being in front of a large group of people.


Thank you for being brave enough to stand by me; the only man among a sea of women. Thank you for being so concerned with what will help me, that you forget to think about how it will put you in the limelight. And I know how much you hate the limelight. You are so understated, it's inspiring. Thank you for being what other men should aspire to be.

Thank you for laughing with me at the dumbass who, after eating Thanksgiving dinner at our house, told a friend that we had a very negative relationship. I hope he enjoyed the arsenic laced turkey, too.

Thank you for eating the tomato stuffed with cous-cous and ranch dressing I made you five years ago today. Even though, now I know, that you hate tomatoes.

I know we joke about the fact that I could have been honey-less, usually when you want me to make you cookies or something and I need a little encouragement. But, all joking aside, when that jeep flipped over, the world stopped. I didn't see anyone else. I didn't hear anyone else. I didn't even notice that I was navigating my way up an 70 degree incline of slippery dirt in flip flops. I think I flew. Or angels carried me. Or something. I only remember hearing, "Oh fuck, they flipped. The jeep. It flipped," and then being there at your side. I don't think I took a breath, until I heard you speak. I don't think I've ever wanted to hug someone forever. Until then.

I know I get all fiercely independent, and I think that's one of the things you admire about me, but all of my, 'I am Zube, hear me ROAR' lunacy aside, you mean the world to me. And I don't know that I'd be meowing, much less ROARING, if I didn't have you there, cheering me on. Or egging me on. Depending on how you look at it.

Thank you for giving me quite possibly the best years of my life so far. And thank you for the years ahead. I know they'll be just as awesome.

Okay, I have to cut this shit out. I've got a lump in my throat, and wet shit in my eyes, and I'm feeling the sudden urge to sing Wind Beneath My Wings. See what you do to me?

Anyway, you rock. I adore the ever-living shit out of you. I only hope that I've been half as much to you as you have been to me.

Love,

Zube Girl

PS- If you would quit leaving dirty cereal bowls on the side of the bathtub, it'd be possible for you to give me the most PERFECT years of my life. But, I'll settle for best. Oh yeah. It would also help if you'd stop taking fucked up pictures of me.

First Day With My New Feet

The Scene: We're laying in bed, just about to go to sleep.

Z-Girl: Honey?

Z-Boy: Yeah.

Z-Girl: Remember that time when we went on a double date with Miss I* and the Englishman?

Z-Boy: Yeah.

Z-Girl: Remember how Miss I and I were walking together and you and the Englishman were walking behind us?

Z-Boy: Yeah.

Z-Girl: Remember how I sort of tumbled all slow motion style and landed flat on my face?

Z-Boy: Yeah.

Z-Girl: And, do you also remember how you and the Englishman sort of split to walk around me, as if you didn't even know who I was and Miss I was left to help me up?

Z-Boy: Yeah.

Z-Girl: Why did you walk right past me?

Z-Boy: I was going to get help.

Z-Girl: Mmmhmm. Sure you were.

*Miss I (short for Mission Impossible, 'cause this chick is on a mission) and the Englishman are our best married couple friends.

Rock-a-Bye Drunk College Fuckers. Heh.

WHEE! I did it! As of yesterday, all 200 college students were all checked in and snuggled safely in their beds, or, uh, running around the property piss drunk and butt-ass naked, to the chagrin of other guests, but anyway. My part's done. I book 'em and get 'em in. Then they're the front desk's problem. Until the damage report comes in. Then they're my problem again. But that's five days away. In the meantime, I'm going to breathe.

Sometimes, after saying shit over and over and over and over again, my tongue gets tied.

Z-Girl: Do you know where Ski Slope Condos is?

College Kid: Nope.

Z-Girl: *pointing to a map* Okay, you'll make a left at this stop, a left at this light, a left here onto Blah Blah Avenue, and you'll see the condoms, uh, miniums, um, I mean, condomsminiums...Damn. The condominiums will be on your right.

College Kid: Hahahahahaha!

Z-Girl: Shut up! It's been a long day for me! Now go to your room. Hee.

Pissy Pom-Poms, and Yeah, I Was a Cheerleader...Stop Laughing!

Dear Jesse*,

So, like, remember that time after, I think it was a pep rally or something, when you were all freaking out and shit and yelling, "What the fuck?!?!" because all of the sudden your pom-poms smelled like piss? I know it was almost sixteen years ago, but I wanted to say I'm sorry. See, it wasn't really a bizarre accident. I switched our pom-poms while you weren't looking because I'd just gotten a new kitten who, well, you can guess.

Anyway, I was thinking about this for some reason the other day, and decided I should feel bad. It's just that I kind of thought you were a fucking bitch, so I didn't really mind pawning the pissy pom-poms off on you. And? You were such a dramatic person, I figured it would be fun for all to watch you throw a hissy fit. And it kind of was. Plus, you're fucking loopty loop bangs made me and my flat, staticky hair having in the fucking 80's ass jealous as all hell.

I do wonder how you ever got that smell out. I know I tried for-fucking-ever to do it. Well, yeah...Sorry.

Sincerely,

Zube

*Names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Urinus Punctuationus

Dear Pee Fart,

Come on you punk ass motherfucker! I mean, seriously! No warning? Nothing? You just snuck out right in the middle of an innocent goddamn piss.

By the time I clenched my asshole shut, you'd escaped and the girls at the sink were all giggling and shit. I hate you. As if you care.

Sincerely,

Zube Girl

PS- I notice you like to frequent public restrooms. Or maybe I just don't notice you at home. You are one cunning fart, I'll tell you that. Fucker.

Is This Love? Or am I Dream...Having a Nightmare?

I realized that I've never shared an artistic rendition of Zube Boy with you. I decided to draw a picture of us emptying the dishwasher. Well, one of us at least.


In other news, I have my head so far up my ass these days that it's nearly made its way up through my digestive tract, and will likely soon be erupting out of my mouth. Whatever the fuck that means. I'll tell you what it means for you, though. I'm still sucking with responding to your comments AND checking your blogs. I'm sorry. Life first, I guess.

I'm moving hundreds of people in and out of the hotel at a shocking rate. I always forget during the summer when I'm all chillin' like a villian at work just how insanely busy the winters really are. Notice I started this blog in March. And didn't post very much at that. Hence the tight relationship my head and my ass seem to be rocking.