Wherein I Appall Even My Most Feverish of Admirers...

Ahem, Brad, might I suggest that at this point you step away from the keyboard and mozy on over to the nursery to snuggle your two beautiful babies right now? I mean, it's terribly annoying to be repeatedly calling 911 after you've fallen out of a tree YET AGAIN peeping through my window at my flannel pajama clad babeness, but it's sorta like how that guy Cliff, on Singles, had barbecues no one attended because of the noisy planes near his house, but when he moved he missed the noisy planes bunches and, well, it's like that with me and you. I'd miss you stalking me. And I promise, if you read this, you will totally and absolutely NOT be infatuated with me anymore. And while Z-Boy would be pleased to not have to deal with me screeching, "YOU AGAIN!?!?" on a semi-regular basis, well, I think he'd kinda miss beating you up, too. Adrenaline rush and all.

Anyway...

Dear Universe,

If you're going to be all fucked up and unfair and assault me with a Mount Everest sized pimple on my cheek that would send Heather Chandler running to the kitchen for a drain cleaner fueled wake-up drink at the ripe old age of thirty-three whilst also bestowing me with random black hairs I must pluck out of my chin every other week or so (I mean, the chin hair seems a little premature, no? As long as I'm still dealing with pimples?) would you at least find a morsel of kindness in your shriveled up, cold, black heart and not place the pimple in such a spot that it blocks my view in the mirror of the aforementioned black hair I'm trying to pluck?

Seriously, asshole.

Sincerely,
Zube

Just So You Know...

It's kinda like that right now. Kinda like North America somehow morphed into a huge bootish Italy and it's kicking my ass. Or I still can't draw for shit. Which is nothing new. But, with the weight of the world and all, I'm having a rough go of things at the moment. Hopefully it's just temporary.

LOST: One Cape and One Broom

If Found, Please Contact: One Pissed Off Wonder Bitch

Because, seriously, there is no thriftier way to get your kid to daycare and yourself to work than to fly the friendly skies. Unless, of course, we're talking about an airplane. Because those things are becoming hellaciously expensive and exceedingly less accommodating. How nice they want me to pay more for my ticket while simultaneously revoking the privilege of bringing, you know, enough underpants for a week unless I want to pay more to *gasp* bring luggage with me on my trip! What nerve I have to attempt to protect the general public from the glowing glory of my white ass. Capes and brooms, however? Need no other fuel to operate than awesomeness and bitchery. And that shit is free.

But apparently, even bitches like me can't fly without a cape. And I haven't the faintest clue where the hell I put it. I thought I left it on the back of the toilet right next to my tiara, because everyone knows that that's where important shit goes (literature, extra toilet paper, maybe a tampon or two), but alas, it was not there. How on earth will I teach my darling, little girl the joys of careening through the sky, spitting on Hummers and couples wearing matching outfits riding tandem bikes, without my handy cape?


Upon the devastating realization that my cape was missing, I went rummaging for the next best thing: my broom. Which I was certain I'd stashed by the back door. Because if ever a witch needed a quick escape, the back door makes for the cleverest exit. But again, I was foiled. Despite the fact that on the broom Zee usually gets a gnat in her eye, thus causing her to squint:



She usually enjoys the ride. Well, she seems to enjoy it more than, say, listening to me tell her stories on the way home from daycare about how, two days in a row now, I have worn my underpants inside out and what the fuck is up with that? I think she finds the deafening wind blowing through her ears while on the broom quite a relief from the daily blathering of her mother.

Eh well. Sorry, kid. We're gonna have to stick with the 13-year-old Cherokee, $4.09/gallon gas, and boring stories about my unmentionables. At least until I can prove that your Dad stole my cape and broom and flies down to Shotgun Willie's in Denver each evening after we're fast asleep. But he's a smart guy, that Daddy of yours, and catching him might take a while. Especially if he's on my broom. With my cape.