When I Don't Like Something...

I usually try to make friends with it. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, as they say.

So, I dug deep, deep down in my jeans pockets, which was tough because my jeans are feeling a little snug these days and my hand barely fit in there, and paid for zubegirl.com.

I have a new home.

It's over at Wordpress and I have to admit, I'm kinda digging on Wordpress. It seems pretty user friendly. That said, I'm not posturing for an all out evening of humping its leg or anything. A few things are irritating me. Like that fact that, at the top of the page it says 'The Adventures of Zube Girl' above my awesome header made by someone even awesomer that says, wait for it...The Adventures of Zube Girl. I can't figure out how to get rid of the extraneous title. And I hate to be redundant. I seriously don't like repeating myself.

Also? If I went and paid for zubegirl.com well then why the shit does the address change to zubegirl.wordpress.com after you type in zubegirl.com? Minor detail but bugs me, that.

Otherwise, it most certainly isn't finished over there, but we're sort of dating. And I figured I'd go public with my new relationship. If reality tv is such a hit, well then why not reality blog-hosting website dating?

So yeah. That's where you'll find me from now on. See you there! Unless I don't.

Music Theory 101

Every once in a while I'll be plodding along as per usual, yelling at the kids to stop yelling and wondering whether there is a Standard Measurement of Ridiculousness so I can assign an accurate percentile to just how ridiculous it is that I'm still wearing pajama pants at certain hours of the day in the hopes of inspiring myself to shower and dress, when I'll hear a song I've heard and enjoyed a million times, but this time the lyrics will grip me in a way they never had before. Tightening my chest, bent on squeezing every last ounce of moisture out of my tear ducts. I'll choke back tears until I can steal a few minutes solo in the bathroom because crying while serving pizza for breakfast might be psychologically damaging to my spawn.

Yes, I said pizza for breakfast. That's what they wanted. It had bacon on it and I figure there is no better time than the present to practice being a college student.

The other day, it was this song...



...No change, I can change, I can change, I can change, but I'm here in my mold, I am here in my mold. But I'm a million different people from one day to the next, I can't change my mold, no, no, no, no, no, no, no...

Yes, that.

I won't subject you to my verse by verse interpretation because I'm remiss to give you an Attack of the Eyerolly Sighs and I think the dishes are feeling buoyed by the accompaniment of microscopic allies and have begun plotting to make our house their bitch, so I should probably get on that.

But, suffice it to say, I was hit that day with the realization that "won't" sure feels a lot like "can't" sometimes.

I am here in my mold. I am here in my mold.

At least you know where to find me. And, for that matter, so do I. Silver lining.

This morning I examined both my Mt. Everest sized zit and the ever present crow's feet laugh lines framing my eyes. I looked myself straight in those eyes, something I rarely do, too much unknown there (or should I say, known), and thought, "Zube, you are not getting any younger." And maybe that spiraled into an inner dialogue amongst the judgey voices in my head regarding my complete refusal to 'grow-up' and do something with my life already.

My inner-cheerleader lost a pom-pom in the shuffle but did her best to defend me. "Sure, she's a thirty-five-year-old waitress, but she is a damn good one! Give me a 'W'!"

Thwack! Oh, there's that missing pom-pom. Not sure which judgey asshole had it, I'm eying the scowly guy with the furrowed brow, but regardless, the cheerleader is down for the count. Pom-pom to the head.

Amidst the ringing in her ears, the verse, "Trying to make ends meet, you're a slave to money then you die..." skips. And skips. And skips.

I was once told by someone, someone who should have known better, that I am not successful.

It rung true, which is why it hurt so much and why I can't unhear it. And probably why the person who said it said it.

And since being told that I've worn my failures as a badge of honor.

I will likely brag about them tomorrow.

I'm so cool. Usually.

But, today, that's not one of the million different people I happen to be...

That's okay. I can change...I can change...

Tomorrow.

He's Off to Meet the Wiz...But Needs Your Help!

So, I have this theory. You're shocked, I know. Oh look, here's one of your eyeballs. I think it just rolled right out of your head. Not sure where the other one is, though.

As with many of my theories, this one does not require the donning of a tin foil hat or the use of a baby monitor. There have been no gnomes in my closet with shrinking ray guns attacking my pants. My pants happen to be fitting these days.

This theory is different.

Bro, Hoot and I have discussed extensively the fact that our baby sister, My Belle, is the coolest of us all. We theorize that awesomeness amplifies with each subsequent sibling. Right, and I am the oldest. This theory is certainly not self-serving.

I've made it abundantly clear in the past that I think my family is the bees knees. Not only my immediate family, but extended family as well. On my mother's side, there are 18 of us grandkids. We're like, twice as cool as the von Trapp family. Plus four.

On Facebook I'm able to keep up with the shenanigans of them all. Which, bash FB all you want, I love it. I don't get to drink beer regularly in their living rooms, but I can still feel like we're not 2,000 miles away from each other.

The second youngest cousin, Aaron, is a riot, and a good kid, and has me entirely convinced that this Awesomeness Amplification Theory translates to cousinry. He is the 17th cousin, and I am the 2nd. This means one of two things to you who read me. A) You think I'm pretty cool and so he must be totally out of this world awesome. Or B) You think I'm an asshole and so this kid stands a snowball's chance at being cool.

I can assure you, he is out of this world awesome and cool as a snowball.

Recently on Facebook he posted a video he'd put together for a contest he hopes to win. The winner gets to meet Wiz Khalifa. I have no frackin' idea who that is, but I'd like to help him. The video had to mention JMU going green and his entry is pretty damn clever. Here 'tis:



And this is where I ask you a favor. Just a little one. If you are on Facebook, would you mind giving him a little vote love? I try not to ask much of you all, but for a shoulder to cry on, a bit of therapy, and a laugh when I need it. Okay, so maybe I ask a lot of you, but at least in this case, someone else is the beneficiary of your kindness.

Here's how you do it:

1. Go here.
2. 'Like' the University Program Board.
3. Go to 'photos'.
4. Click on the 'videos' at the top right.
5. Scroll down to contestant #5.
6. 'Like' his video.

That's all!

In all honesty, it makes me super happy to see kids in college not only attend class, but participate in extracurricular stuff that doesn't involve the consumption of beer. My extracurricular beer consuming got in the way of my major in Deaf Education. So I failed out of college with a minor in Partying. I love when people related to me prove this is not a genetic predisposition. It gives me hope for Zee and Bee.

Thanks a bunch! Also, Aaron promises if you vote for him, you will live forever. It's worth a shot!

Did someone just say shot?