Oh How I Wish...

...I worked at the hardware store.

Z-Boy: I have to pick up some plumbing stuff for the new house.

Z-Girl: Okay. I'll go, uh, look at the hammocks I wish I had somewhere to put...or something...

***A few minutes later and Zube Boy is checking out some black plumbing pipes***

Z-Girl: Honey, is that where the poo is gonna go?

Z-Boy: No honey. That's where the curlies will go.

Z-Girl: What?!

Z-Boy: It's for the tub, not the toilet.

Z-Girl: Oh, okay.

This conversation would be inconsequential if it weren't for the hardware store employee rounding the corner and looking at us all funny-like at the very end.

Zoey is BACK!!! Thank you ALL for wondering and wishing and cajoling her home. I can't even begin to tell you how devastated I was when she disappeared. I don't HAVE babies, you see, so she IS one of the only babies I know. That was the longest she's ever been gone. And I'm so glad she's home. I never thought I'd strain my lips kissing a cat. I'm kind of a loser. Heh.

My Head Hurts...

If any of you are vying for the crown of Worst Blogger in the Blogverse, you'll have to pry that tiara from my cold dead fingers.

It's mine, bitches.

Would you like to see our walk-in closet?


Yes. That's a toilet.

The master bedroom is tore up. We've hired a friend to fix it. The master bath is now, uh, our closet.

We close on our second house on Wednesday. Did I mention that I feel like a total money-grubbing asshole buying a second house? Like I'm fucking up the local real estate Sitiation? Well, I do. The bleeding heart? Maybe sometimes I do have it. Though I profess not to be that kind of liberal.

Anyway, closing costs are $6,000. Ramen, anyone?

We've put an ad in the paper to rent it out. The most promising response we've gotten so far has been, "Are you negotiable on the rent?"

I've been working like a bitch. 'Mud Season' is officially over and now we're entering upon 'Wedding/Family Reunion" Season. I'm swamped.

Last but not least, my little Zoey is missing. That's the first time I've admitted that to myself. I kind of don't want to believe that she's been gone for longer than three days.

With all of this happenin', I'm trying to avoid the spontaneous combustion dealymabob. Bear with me. Or don't. Your choice. This blog-bustion has been a long time coming. I'm over being sad and dwelling and shit, but I don't have anything amusing to report. In fact, all I have to report is some relatively overwhelming shit.

I've had a hard enough time keeping up with We 3 Bitches. See, I don't want Bonanza and P-Chef to think I'm all sucky bitch, so The Adventures of Zube Girl is playing second fiddle.

I really miss blogging, but I certainly miss my sanity more.

I've Submitted My Letter to the Editor

On Friday, June 30th, Planned Parenthood clinics across the state will be giving out free Emergency Contraception (EC) as they did on July 1st of last year. This is in response to Governor Owens vetoing House Bill 1212 – Colorado's Prescriptive Authority Bill. This bill would have enabled Colorado pharmacists to prescribe and dispense EC to women without a doctor’s prescription.

I urge my fellow Summit County residents to participate in this event. Some of you may think you have no need for Emergency Contraception. When I heard about the event last year, I thought it was a great idea, but didn’t think I’d actually participate. I’m married and planning a family. Why would I need Emergency Contraception?

The truth is I should know better. As some of you may remember from a previous article in the Summit Daily, I am all too familiar with the scenario EC could prevent. Ten years ago, I was a twenty-year-old college student. My car was broken down, and I accepted a ride from a friend of a friend to the grocery store. At the end of that evening, I was a survivor of rape. A month later, I discovered I was pregnant. Ultimately, I terminated the pregnancy. Had I had access to Emergency Contraception, I might not have become pregnant at all.

I encourage you to remember that emergencies happen to us, and people we love, without the benefit of foresight. Though young women are at higher risk of being victimized, rapists don’t necessarily discriminate based on age and marital status. You can bet that I’m going to make the effort to get to a Planned Parenthood on the 30th. We just never know when and how an unwanted pregnancy might occur. I know I didn’t.

I Want. To Touch. The Hiney.

Z-Boy: Honey, shoosh, this is my favorite commercial.

Z-Girl: I don’t know what it is with you and tampon commercials.

Z-Boy: They just, I don’t know, make me wish I got a period.

Z-Girl: Why?

Z-Boy: Because it looks so fun. Those chicks are always going to parties and running in fields and riding bikes and doing yoga.

Z-Girl: Heh.

In other news, I was meeting with someone who wanted to sell me some advertizin’ and shit at work the other day and my mind started to wander a little. I confess. It happens. Anyway, sometimes during those meetings I’ll start imagining really odd things I could do to mess with their salespersony asses. Like, when they ask me if I have any questions, what would they do if I said, “Yes, as a matter of fact. I'd like to know if I can touch your hiney?” Or, I wonder how they’d react if I leaned over and kissed their cheek right in the middle of their shpeel. Is ‘shpeel’ even a real word? It’s not recognized by MS Word. And MS Word’s not giving me any other suggestions. Oh well.

The only bad thing about this 'mind-wandering' thing I get is that I'll be all smirking despite myself and I probably look a little loony.

Hope you’re having a fantabulous day.

Back in the Day...

My yearbook photo (note the NOT so high bangs...or at least they were not so high as I wished they would be...THANK GODDESS!):


My yearbook blurb (I don't think I've changed all that much, to be honest):


Random photo yearbook page that happens to star yours truly twice:



Can you find me? I'll give you a couple of hints:

1. I'm, erm, I mean, I WAS flexible.

2. You won't be able to recognize me by my ski slope nose. Or at least not by the tip of it.

It's a Groovy Kind of Love

Dude, my elbow is fucking GROOVY!


Jealous much? How groovy is YOUR elbow, huh?

And also, the worst picture of me EVAH! And see that bottle of vino behind me? I didn't even HAVE any. I have no excuse.



Lastly, it's kind of ASTOUNDING how many people search for Ass Adventures and find themselves here.

He Said, She Said

or...

A Memoir of A(nother) Year in the Marriage of One Zube Boy and One Zube Girl

or...

The Verbal Olympics of Second Year Veteran Marrieds

or...

Random Snippets Involving Cookie Crisp, Chipmates, and Heaps of Other Stuff

He Said (50 Times): You're going to blog about this, aren't you?

She Said (5 Times): I don't really GET what makes Cookie Crisp SO much better than store brand stuff!

He Said (105 Times): Woman, you're gonna drive me to drinking.

She Said (3 Times): Honey, I'm knocked up.

He Said (365 Times): Honey, where's my hat?

She Said (3 Times): Meh, I'm not knocked up anymore.

He Said (3 Times): I'm sorry. We'll try again.

She Said (1 Time): So, I know you're driving to Mississippi to buy a truck and all and this is kind of a bad time, but I can't wait to talk to you when you get back because I need to make a decision now. See, there's this rally and Planned Parenthood called me because I forwarded them a letter to the editor I wrote about Gov. Owens and Emergency Contraception for rape victims in the ER and they've asked me if I wanted to SPEAK at the rally. And, um, it's OKAY, honey, if you don't want me to, really. But, I don't know, I kind of think it would help me.

He Said (1 Time): You do what will help YOU. Don't worry about me.

She Said (A Gazillion Times): You rock so hard.

He Said (350 Times): Zoobs, where's my work pants?

She Said (530 Times): Right here.

She Said (150 Times): In the dryer.

She said (50 Times): Oops. In the washer still.

He Said (90 Times): CHRIST! Is that Brad peeking in the window again? I'm really sick of kicking his ass all the time. Why do you have to be so hot, Zube? These celebrity stalkers are getting kind of annoying.

She Said (1 Time): How ironic that all this gay marriage ban shit is happening on our two year wedding anniversary. Kind of taints my celebratory attitude.

He Said (1 Time): I just don't get what people are so riled up about. Who cares?

She Said (1 Time): Because DONTCHYA KNOW, honey, that if two dudes were able to marry each other it would THREATEN our marriage.

He Said (1 Time): That's the least of our worries.

She Said (1 Time): Heh.

He Said (1 Time): Unless you suddenly start making me cookies all the time.

She Said (Probably on more than one occasion): BWAHAHAHAHAHA!

He Said (1 Time): Honey, it's really nice being married to you. Happy Aniversary.

She Said (1 Time): Damn. I'm gonna cry. That was fucking sweet. It's nice being married to you, too. If you could just lay off on yanking my pajama pants down when I'm unloading the dishwasher, I'd say our marriage was damn near utopia.

Prepost...And postpre...And Stopper...And Toppers...And, Okay, That's Enough With the What Word Can You Make With These Letters...

A couple of posts back I was wondering what made Pre-Three-Miscarriages Zube Girl different from Post-Three-Miscarriages Zube Girl. I think I've found something that speaks to at least part of the vast openness between that great divide.

Pre-Three-Miscarriages Zube Girl had the luxury of worrying about her ability to be a parent. Whether she would suck or whether she would rock. She'd like to think she'd rock even though her future kid might be all, "JESUS H. MOM! I stayed up late STUDYING and that's why my eyes are all red, HELLO!?!?! I don't know what you're so worried about anyway. I work an after school job, get good grades, and buy my own _______________ (insert fancy pants name here), so back off!" Which, heh, stayed up late STUDYING! Whatever, kid. *snort* But see, I know that for all my concern, I'd raise a decent self-sufficient human being, if not for any other reason than, well, for ALL MY CONCERN ABOUT RAISING A DECENT, SELF-SUFFICIENT HUMAN BEING. Even if the kid smokes pot? S/He'll still be a good one. I think, anyway.

On the other hand, Post-Three-Miscarriages Zube Girl worries that she'll never even BE a parent, so she doesn't want to jinx it by fretting about whether or not her sixteen-year-old will slam the bedroom door because she's just told them s/he can buy her/his OWN Land Rover. See, at the ripe old age of thirty I understand now that fighting with your parents as a teenager? Is kind of important. So long as we're talking about a functional family. And I'm aiming my arrow towards functional. That's my goal. But, taking my family as an example, 'A Little Weird' doesn't fall far from BULLSEYE! And I'll be happy with just short of perfect. Actually, 'perfect' is a little annoying.

Which reminds me, I've been meaning to tell any future embryos of mine that even though I've sworn to myself that you WILL purchase your own first car, and you WILL NOT have all the fancy clothes you want no matter how much money we have, and you WILL share a room at some point in your life with a sibling because I did, with my brother and then my sister and then both sisters, and then my brother got all sad because he had his own room and I got to share my room with TWO people, so Mom let My Belle stay in his room for a few weeks upon Bro's insistence, and he said, uh, nevermind, she cries at night, and...um...nevermind...

Anyway, I think it was good for my character, sharing a room. It prepared me for life and sharing and caring and all that good stuff, and...WOOOOOOOOAAAH! I'm getting a little ahead of myself here. Note to Self: Yo, Zoobs, let's get pregnant and STAY pregnant for at least 35 weeks, which I think is a safely viable gestational age (I haven't researched pregnancy much past the first trimester...It's all about self-preservation, people. Really, 'tis, and I can't be concerning myself with 'trimester' pregnancies when I fail to achieve even a 'unimester' one) before worrying about SIBLINGS! Jeebus. Sorry, every once in a while I have to remind myself that the dreams which live inside my head are not always the same ones that manifest in real life. Allrighty then...

...Where was I? Ah yes...I was going to make all kinds of promises to my potential children-to-be that might convince them that while I MIGHT be sort of a Bitch Mom, I'll be AWESOME. Really. You will SERIOUSLY love me. You can be WHATEVER you want!

You can...

-Have purple hair (so long as that doesn't interfere with the high school job thing...there's always tattoo parlors out there looking for high school help...I think?)

-Be Gay (Damn kid, I'll love ya more, because you'll fucking need it what with all the gay-hating going on around these, ahem, united states of ours.)

-Not want to go to college (because I didn't. I went anyway because that's what everybody else thought I should do. But I know that being all smart and shit doesn't necessarily mean that you're college material. This is one thing your Dad and I will wholehartedly agree on. We'll never pressure you to do what doesn't feel right. You'll be smart. I know that. And you'll do what's right with it. I'm sure.)

-Tell me ANYTHING. And I mean ANYTHING (*wishing right now that I had the ability to Double-Capitalize*). I promise not to go all MATERNAL when you really, really fucking need me. Life happens to people. This I know. And if something horrible happens to you? Even if you maybe had a tiny bit, or a BIG bit to do with it? I SWEAR I'll step back and breathe...only to return with a big hug and a hearty, "I'm sorry life had to happen to you THAT way, but here's how we deal with it." I'll avoid trying to fix it because fixing it never really works anyway. At least when we're talking about life and not plumbing or a bad starter.

While I'm being all random and whatnot, I'd like to thank those of you who've stuck by me throughout my weird blog abandoness. You LURKERS, too! I'm having trouble posting things because all I can think about is the fact that I bled for a month, then manhandled my boobs for the past week and a half (which OHMYGOD MAYBE I'M PREGNANT BECAUSE THEY'RE SORE!) (But they're more probably only sore because I've been manhandling them ), and I want to be pregnant/have a baby so bad it, uh, kind of hurts. And there are many other gals out there that rock the infertility blog thing so much better than I ever could. Anyway, I've been sporadic at best because I'm concerned about beating ya'll over the brow with my woes. Which makes for a VERY random, VERY sucky (in my opinion) blog, and I can't believe you've hung in there.

So, thanks.

Bunnies, Bloody Lips, and Mourners

I had the sudden impulse today to liken blogging to bunnies. Of all things. And, you know, the comparison isn't all that far off what with the rapid and rampant population boom of blogs on the internet. They're like damn rabbits. But, more importantly, I was perusing some more or less FAMOUS bloggers, and found myself in total awe. They've been doing this shit for YEARS! They're like the Energizer Bunnies of the blogverse. And lately I've kind of felt like, oh, I don't know...A Duracell Turtle. Or something. I bet you're smelling what I'm stepping in because you're a bright bunch. No dim bulbs in this crowd.

I have this NASTY compulsion to pick my lips when they're dry. All it takes is one little errant piece of epidermis on my lip and an afternoon of bloody lips awaits me. Today, I got this really weird bordering on PROUD feeling about a chunk of skin I pulled off. I sat at my desk sort of staring at it, like, huh? That's a piece of my lip. Then a coworker walked in and I promptly threw it away. I'm fucking gross sometimes.

Yesterday, I was stopped at a green light. Why the hell, you ask, would I STOP at a green light? Well, I do believe that is the PROPER thing to do when you see a hearse pass, no? With all of the mourners and their hazard lights and high beams on bringing up the rear? Methinks you allow the funeral procession to pass through? Not that I'm some kind of guru of propriety or anything, but no one behind me honked, which I took to mean that my assumption was correct and that my meager upbringing combined with my father's LOOK OF DEATH when it came to ill-mannered children, particularly those of half his genetic make-up, didn't result in too much of an asshole.

When the hearse passed, I did the sign of the cross. And then I cried. It happens every damn time. So weird.