Tuesday, July 25, 2006

I'm at a Loss...

For words.

I've been afraid to tell you that. Or couldn't figure out how exactly to tell you. Words used to be my best friends, but now they're, well, letting me down. I can't find the right ones or the right ones can't find me. And that sort of sucks.

I'm not too sad or too happy or too busy. I'm just...hmmm...too trying not to be introspective. Have you ever felt like if you stopped and thought about things, you just might cry? For a really long time? Because it's all too much?

I didn't really want to say anything, because I hate to be anything but the 'little engine that could' but, I just...I'm off track. And I've got every engineer on my payroll working to get me on course again. It's just taking some time. Because that's how I roll.

I'm alive. And I'm okay. But I'm hibernating a tiny bit. Some call it self-preservation. I call it...indescribable. Or, the failure of words. Eether, Eyether.

I hope I haven't worried you, and I hope this post doesn't make you all, "OH, POOR ZUBE!" That's not what I'm looking for. At all. I just had to say...something. However unfunny, unprofound, and un-Zube like it is.

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

Uranus and Fist-Pumping Like It's My Job

-You know what? Sometimes, when I'm sitting at my desk avoiding thinking about the contracts I need to write, my mind wanders a little bit. And ya know what I think about? Uranus. Like, I wonder if Uranus has Butt-Biting Spiders with Ass-Swelling Venom, like my little area of the galaxy. See! It's always been about YOU. You and Uranus. Don't you feel special?

-I've decided to tell the next person I check into the hotel, "Now go to your room," when I'm finished with them.

-I am a dork. I know. But you can be my friend. Everyone needs a few dorky friends under their belt. Or, uh, I didn't really mean it like...nevermind. Just know that if you'd like to befriend a dork, it's nice to send a message first. Because even dorks don't go around accepting friends all willy-nilly and stuff.

-It's cool when you're at work and half the power goes out. Like, the half that's responsible for the phones and the fax and the copy machine. But the half that doesn't go out keeps you up to your eyeballs in internet and microwaveable burritos. I have to admit, I pumped my fist a little bit and hissed, "YESSSSSSSSSSSSSS!"

-Did I ever mention that I'm quite fond of pumping my fist? And hissing? No? Well now, don't you feel in the know?

Tuesday, July 11, 2006

Again With the Humping of Legs...Will It Ever End?

In a word? No. Not in a million years. Or at least not for as long as I'm on this planet, swilling beers. Or folic acid. Potayto, potahto. Kylei, you are TOO damned sweet. Fer real. Just in case inquiring minds want to know, Kylei nominated me as an inspirational blogger. One who says 'fuck' a lot. Heh heh. Kidding. About the 'fuck' part, at least. Anywho, you can find her nomination over yonder. The post she was referring to in the comments is right here. I kind of dig it, too, to be honest. There are some choice naughty words therein that I'm rather proud to have strung together.

Thing is, when ya'll give me props about the stuff I write here, it kind of, I don't know, makes me want to hump your leg. Which isn't all that unusual, sure, given my penchant for humping the legs of those I adore. But it's a compliment nonetheless. Most of the time I feel like just sum beetch with a screwed up uterus who can't manage to shut the hell up about it. Forever and ever, amen. But when I learn that these little rants and goofy dialogues actually mean something to people sometimes, at least maybe something good is coming out of it. As much as I'd like something good to come out of my CERVIX or a big incision in my tummy, hell, I'm not picky, I'll take just about anything good these days. Shit, I don't care if something good comes out of a damn beak (HELLO, STORKS! The hell? Where are you? Just wondering, 'cause the parenting skillz? I am willing to acquire them.)

At any rate, welcome to those of you venturing over here via Club Mom. WARNING: Sometimes I write about my husband's flatulance. And our ridiculous conversations. Mostly when I want to be a member of your club so badly, I can't bring myself to be all introspective about it.

Monday, July 10, 2006


Zube Boy has this week off in order to tie up loose ends at the new house. The renters move in on Saturday and I know for a fact that he's trying to finish up the installation of the new bathtub. So I decide to call and annoy him.


Z-Boy: Hello.

Z-Girl: Hi, honey.

Z-Boy: Oh, hi.

Z-Girl: Are you at the new house?

Z-Boy: Yup.

Z-Girl: Are you playing in the bathtub?

Z-Boy: Yup. I'm blowing bubbles.

Z-Girl: With your mouth or your butt?

Z-Boy: Both. I'm having a little competition.

Z-Girl: Heh. Heheheheheheh.

After a few snorts and slobbering a little bit, I hung up. Seriously? Where does he come up with this shit? I have no idea.

PS- Dude. I can't. Believe. I. Spelled. Turd. WRONG! Thank you to junebee and Rich for pointing that out. Of all people, one would think I would know the proper spelling of 'TURD' what with my pottymouth and all. Sheesh. I'm ashamed.



Z-Boy: Hello.

Z-Girl: Hi, honey. Where are you?

Z-Boy: Walmart.

Z-Girl: Oh. So, I have a question for you.

Z-Boy: What?

Z-Girl: I was wondering who the winner of your little competition was.

Z-Boy: What?

Z-Girl: Your butt or your mouth, DUH! Your little Bubble Blowing Competition?

Z-Boy: Oh, yeah. There is no winner yet.

Z-Girl: What do you mean? You're at Walmart. I figured it was over.

Z-Boy: No, it's ongoing.

Z-Girl: What, like a marathon or the Tour de France or whatever?

Z-Boy: Yeah.

Z-Girl: So you get to take breaks and stuff?

Z-Boy: Jesus Christ, of course honey! You have to take breaks. Otherwise I'd, I don't know, start bleeding or something.

Z-Girl: Oh, okay. Keep me posted.

Z-Boy: Will do.

Z-Girl: Bye.

Z-Boy: Bye.

Friday, July 07, 2006

You Can't Polish a Terd...

The title of this post has absolutely nothing to do with the post itself. It's just, like, one of my most favorite sayings is all.

The house we just bought is right down the street from the house we live in. Which is fortunate for us because we've been doing a lot of back and forth. I drove over to the new house where Zube Boy was replacing the bath tub so I could get the broom for our house because when you have two houses, one of them is sure to be neglected at some time or another and I needed something to foist out the fur that is COVERING our floor. Seriously.

Z-Girl: Honey, do you know where the broom is?

Z-Boy: Why? Do you need to fly somewhere?

Z-Girl: *exasperated sigh* Honey, I’m SERIOUS! I have to sweep the other house. Where is it?

Z-Boy: I don’t know.

Z-Girl: *frantically searching* AH! Here it is! Bye!

Z-Boy: Have a nice flight!

Z-Girl: Shut up.

Tuesday, July 04, 2006

You Know What's Stupid?

Pulling a little metal fragment out of your foot and throwing it back on the floor. In front of you.

You know what else is stupid? The fucking weather. But not me. Oh no. I'm not stupid. In fact, I have found the SOLUTION to drought. No, really. I have. I'm like a one woman scientist/spy/model/wet-hair-putter-on-the-shower-waller fucking ARMY. I am. See, the weather up here in los montaƱas has been pretty shitty. Well, it's actually been really fucking beautiful out, but apparently the trees are parched and they need some rain all up in their asses. Or roots. Which is kind of a bad situation when there are trees every-damn-where. Surrounding big ass million dollar second homes with numbskull rich-bitch owners who refuse cut down the trees in the line of fire, quite literally, to their homes because they don't want to ruin the AMBIANCE of their 'little cabin in the woods'. Bitch please. With ten god damn bathrooms and an indoor sauna? I think not. I'll show you a little cabin in the woods. Where you can take a nice undisturbed shit in the little outhouse about thirty feet away. It's the kind of place where people actually used to LIVE but now we only go there for a brief foray and romp in the forest so we can return to our REAL house and take a damn shower already.

Although, true to the nature of a little cabin in the woods, you do only visit YOUR abode briefly. Once at Christmas. And then maybe once in the summer. Because SUMMER? It EXISTS in the mountains? My GOD! HOW COOL! There really IS a Breckenridge in the summertime when the ski resort isn't open! As is evidenced by the ASSLOAD of cars that turned my typical five minute commute home yesterday into a half an hour one. Yes! Summer in the mountains. Wow. Well, just a quick gaperish kind of question for you. How much less do the mountains WEIGH in the summer without the snow? Actually, I'm not joking about that question. Zube Boy was asked that. By a teacher. Who wanted to tell her students. He, after a moment of silence, told her that the scale had been out of order since he started working there. Jesus H. Where's my I Digress MUCH wand? I'd like a cape, too, while you're at it...

I was sayin'? Ah yes. Fire. And danger. There's a little Smokey the Bear sign we see upon entering town that keeps us abreast to the current Fire Danger level. Right now he's sportin' a VERY HIGH warning.

But not for long. Oh no. You know why? Because we have brought on torrential rains since, uh, Friday I think. And it didn't even require dancing naked on Main Street wearing only a big red clown nose. All we had to do was SCRAPE and PRIME our house! Easy peasy. Now? We're stuck with an even SHITTIER looking paint job than what we started out with. Chipped gray with streaks of bright white. Yum. I bet the neighbors love us. They'll love us even more when they find out we rented it out to three dudes. Heh. But that's a whole 'nother post.

Peace out. I'm gonna go dance naked on Main Street with a clown nose to make the torrential afternoon rains go the hell away. Or maybe I'll just watch a parade. And have a beer. Happy Fourth.

Sunday, July 02, 2006

When Pigs Fly...Or Knock on the Damn Door at All Hours of the Night...

Sometimes, the best way to sum things up is to scream, "Mother-fucking FUCK!" really damn loud.

I think it would be a good idea, at this point, to have my hand surgically replaced with a paintbrush. That would be SO useful to me as we're painting the new house. Inside and out. Ourselves. Actually not ENTIRELY by ourselves. Zube Boy's most awesome Dad is helping us. I'll show you before and after photos when it's all done.

I'm burning my candle at both ends, ladies and gentlemen. And the wick? She is getting short.

The other night, Zube Boy and I were awakened at 1:30AM from a much-needed post painting pass out by a BANG-BANG-BANGING on the door across the street. Where The Dudes live. After a half hour of the nonsense, I poised myself up on the bed and shouted out the window, "WHY DON'T YOU JUST FUCKING GO IN ALREADY!" assuming that it was a drunk friend who wanted to crash on their couch. I assumed wrongly. After my little outburst, I laid back down only to see a VERY BRIGHT flash light shining in our window and up on the ceiling. In a hushed tone, Zube Boy chided, "Honey, those were COPS, you idiot!"

"Oh shit."

I propped myself up on the windowsill again and saw one of Breckenridge's finest staring right back at me. He didn't say anything at first, prolly 'cause he was so ASTOUNDED by my resemblance to the Swamp Thing that he forgot for a moment he woke my swampish ass up at 1:30AM. I stammered, "S-s-sir. I am SO sorry! Really. I thought it was just one of their drunk friends trying to find a place to crash or something."

He laughed. And I was relieved. I'd imagine they don't like to make a habit of bringing Swamp Thing Lookalikes down to the station, so he let me off easy. Cops are kind of guarded about their donuts and I think I heard something about Swamp Things eating, like, a gazillion donuts a day. Or, whatever.

He actually apologized to me for waking us up and asked if we knew whether or not the owner of the black jeep cherokee lived in the house across the street. I said I thought it was a friend of theirs. Apparently the jeep was suspect in a hit and run. And I was no help at all. But they stopped knocking after that. And I was kind of mad at myself because The Dudes and their dog that they like to put outside at midnight and 6:00AM who barks incessantly have been pissing me off to no end and I'd kind of liked to have seen one of their cohorts handcuffed and shit.

Oh well. I learned my lesson. From now on I'm going to stash donuts by the bed at night and I'll offer them some if I'm ever lucky enough to have them staking out the neighbors again.

And. As soon as the police left? While I was staring out my front window in my black as night living room? The Dudes lights started coming on. Fucking assholes. That guy was clearly trying to avoid having to take a breathilizer. I'm certain of it.


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