Flaming Ass

I’ve recently had a fire lit under mine ass. Not a real fire. A proverbial fire. Proverbial fires are always preferable to real fires when we’re talking about my ass. I should know, having experienced both. It harkens back to an unfortunate incident in college. Not exactly a unique way to start a story, eh? Anywho, a floor-mate thought it would be amusing to flash a lighter right under my rear while I bent over to pick something up. He had no way of knowing that the lint on my fuzzy, flannel (might I add, notorious for all of their wear) Party Animal pajama pants would burst into a flaming trail from my coccyx to my ankles. Unaware that my bottom half was suddenly engulfed in flame and quite shocked that instantly three guys descended upon me to smack my flaming ass I unwittingly fought on the side of the fire and attempted to fend them off. That was a disconcerting experience. To say the least. Fortunately the fire was extinguished fairly quickly and I regained my composure within moments. And never again was there an occasion where I received a spanking from three of my male peers. Don’t believe the rumors…

Ahem, got a little sidetracked. Onto this proverbial fire. I’ve been inspired to write again. I bet you don’t believe me. I hardly do either. Time will tell.

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

Vacation Ruminations

-I'm wearing new underwear. It's riding up my ass in a way that makes me feel oddly sexy. Despite walking funny.

-Speaking of walking, I realized on vacation this week that Hoot, My Belle, and I share a decided lack of grace in our gaits. I wouldn't describe our mobility as walking even. We more like plod. It's kind of cool.

-I love my family. Even you, Bro, despite our spirited, adult-beverage induced political banter!

My Belle, Bro, Hoot, and Zube

-Hoot, Zee, and I shared a cabin because Z-Boy couldn't make this trip. It became apparent that our cabin neighbors wondered about the nature of Hoot's and my relationship. I spiced up matters unwittingly by giving My Belle a good night kiss at the end of the evening in front one particular neighbor, leaving her slack-jawed. When I realized what she might be thinking, I called out, "I love you!" to My Belle as she walked away. Stirring the pot.

-Vacations are nice and being with my family is nicer. But getting home after a then day husband-less sojourn is probably nicest of all.

Missed ya! It's good to be back.

What's Red and White and Nostalgic All Over...

There's nothing like having to call the housekeeping supervisor to ask him if he has made any changes in his staff's toilet cleaning arsenol recently and having to explain to him the reason you're asking is because this morning the toilet seat burned your ass. Literally. Burned it. And that had never happened before. But it wasn't so embarrassing that I didn't feel the need to throw in the fact that the toilet paper then got stuck in the dispenser so I was stuck sitting on a toilet seat with my ass ablaze while trying to strong arm two squares of tp from the stingy bitch because Jesus H, I'm neither camping nor drunk and the drip dry method is not recommended for work.

It's a good thing the housekeeping supervisor has a proven good sense of humor.

Anyway, if I get a wild hair up my (red) ass and decide to flee to a nudist beach today or tomorrow and you happen to be there, say, "Hi!" You'll surely recognize me. I'll be the girl with the scorching red image of a toilet seat on her bum. Ah, and Zube Boy would be disappointed if I failed to mention that my ass is generally pretty white and denty. Really, he's looking out for you guys. He'd hate for you to not recognize me!

I was stalking myself the other day, reading my archives, trying to look all hot and sultry and Legends of the Fall-ish, imagining what it must feel like to be Brad pining over unrequited Zube-love, when I stumbled across this post. I crunched some dates and came to the conclusion that I conceived Zee Baby about a week and a half later. Huh...

I thought that was kinda coincidental.

Are You There, God? It's Me, Zube Girl...

I miss my pregnancy boobs. I never was a very buxom girl. I more rocked the flat-chested waif look in college. And then the flat-chested chunker once I hit 30. And then, voila! Knocked up! With boobies! Whee!

It was very exciting to have cleavage for the first time. And I'd kind of hoped to keep at least a bit of it. Just a small crevice, not wanting to be greedy or anything. But, 'twas not meant to be. They deflated about as fast as a blown up balloon realeased unto the living room amongst a pajama clad clan of giggling school girls at a birthday party. Yup. I think they very nearly made that same pffffffffffbt sound as their blessed volume did flee.

The thing is, I never really minded being flat-chested. It kind of suited me. And I didn't really know any different. Plus I have a sweet ass, so I flaunted that. But what I'm not too keen on now is the fact that, like the aforementioned balloon in the metaphor above, when they grew, the surface area increased. And when they deflated, well, imagine that balloon again. Airless and floppier than when it was pinched from the bag. I was left with excess surface area. And decreased volume. So now, I've got small, saggy boobs. And that's just totally unfair.*

I always said that I thought implants are stupid, but I gotta tell you that I can understand a teeny bit why some women get them after they're done having their kids. Just sayin'.

Also, I can't even tell you all how much I've appreciated your comments regarding Zee Baby over here. Many, many thanks. That said, we're a bit worried about Zee Baby. And her non-crawling-ness. Not in any 'comparing my baby to other people's babies' way. But we're actually looking into seeing if there may be a real problem. I'm not exactly in the headspace to get into it right now, so more on that later. But just know that you're good thoughts, healthy hips and legs vibes would be much appreciated right now.

Peace out...

*DISCLAIMER- I hope you all know that when I bitch about ANYTHING pregnancy related, it is just, well, bitching. And I wouldn't trade my current state for the world. I sometimes feel guilty bitching. But, you know, that's what I do here half the time. So, yeah...

Shana-na-na...Na-na-na-na...Hey, Hey, Hey...

Good-bye!

Ha! Made ya look!

You know, actually, maybe it's kind of mean of me to mess with you like that. You being those who find my blog more or less these days by searching for things like 'shrinking girl' and 'girl fucking boy' and 'what should a girl do after a miscarriage (Honey, I am so, so sorry you are going through a that) and those of you who maybe are checking to see if I've posted SOMETHING (thanks for checking in Junebee and Rich). I guess we don't know each other like we used to, but perhaps this is one of those friendships that picks up right where it left off. Here's to hoping...

Contrary to popular assumption upon reading that title, I'm not alluding to my departure from the blogging world, for, as you have seen, I need no formal announcement to do such a thing as that! I am not giving up on my blog just yet. I've still got my big toe in that partially open door. And a bit of my face as can be seen in the rudimentary illustration I've made for you below. To close the door completely would be...a bloody affair. And maybe a little crunchy, too. Ouch.



I was just sending out an official goodbye to my trusted friend, the IUD. The Post-Partum Pregnancy Preventer. I have been so fond of my IUD, obliterating any need for thought or planning on my part. No specific time of the day to take a pill. Nor the need to remember to take a pill at all. It's been wondermous. And also a little interesting to be taking a (grateful) journey with such a character that would PREVENT pregnancy. Who'da thunk it? Not me. At least not about two years ago.

Anyway, I'm so thrilled with my IUD and our newly forged, though short-lived, friendship, that I've drawn an ode to it.



As you'll notice, it's, um, abstract. Straight lines and whatnot. A VERRRRRY loose interpretation of the real thing. Which is a damn good thing because I'd hate to have something that pointy up in my cervix for any amount of time. I'd imagine something that pointy would prevent pregnancy for sure. And sex, for that matter.

So, yeah. Done with that. We'll see what happens on the sister-brother for Little Zee front. I'm hoping this time I'll manage to be a little less obsessed. Ha! As if...

Moving along...I figure after such a long blog sabbatical (as I've taken to calling it, sounds so much more...less...slackerific) I should give you the "how's things?" of things.

Well, things are things are things. I'll update you on a few pertinent aspects of my life. Oh, and I'm going to probably make up for lost time with a ton of writing on my part. Ergo, a ton of reading on yours. You've been forewarned.

Zee Baby



She just rocks. Holy shit, you guys, I had NO IDEA how rewarding being a mother would be. Not a fucking clue. I love her to the ends of the earth and back. From the little bitty toe-toes on her teeny, tiny Zube feet to the tippity top of her big old Zube Boy head. I still, ten months after her arrival, tip-toe into her room at night, more than once most times, to stare at her. I can't believe how fucking lucky I am. I only hope as she grows up she feels 1% as lucky to have me and Zube Boy as we are to have her.

I'm finding motherhood to suit me. As if you couldn't tell. Rather than go on and on about it, I'll just let you know that you can still follow her antics here. If I didn't update that blog regularly some relatives would probably hunt me down and kill me and steal my baby. So it's always up to date.

Work

Grr...It's Spring Break. And I work at a hotel. 'Nuff said.

Roomba

Hump it less but love it more.

Zube Boy

He's over it with the Cookie Crisp. Now he's digging Oh's. Still enjoying bathtime. No change on that front.

Home(s)

We still have three houses. Meh.

Our renters are totally cool, though. It's just so weird. Like, the other day, I went to pick up the rent at the house we used to live in when Zee Baby was born. It was the first time I'd been there since the renters moved in. I've kind of avoided going there because I can be a sentimental fuck when it strikes my fancy. Which is often.

The renters are youngish. And dudish. But not the annoying kind of spikey hat, I'm too cool, dudish. The kind I like. The kind Zube Boy probably was before he got married and owned a house/houses and became a Daddy. Anyway, they were cold chillin' with their snowboard posters on the wall, and I just kept glancing over at the spot where our couch was; where my water broke at 3AM on May 16th, 2007. And it was so hard to get my head around the fact that the spot where I was once upon a time made aware of Zee's imminent arrival, now likely sees more bong action than baby bouncing on a knee action. A tear did stir in mine eye. I miss that house.

But it's kept clean. It's respected. And that I dig.

The house we live in now is really cool. Lots of potential. Much smaller than the one we moved out of but with lots of awesome storage. And when you're a pack rat like me, storage is key. I'll post photos soon. We've painted and put down wood floors and it now doesn't bear so much of a resemblence to the play area in McDonald's (I mean, SERIOUSLY! Bright yellow living room, navy blue cabinets, and a lime green bathroom? All within view of one another? What were you thinking?). We've got a nice big yard that is totally snowed in but will be (and was) quite lovely in our short summer months. We have a fire pit. And nice neighbors who adore Zee. Whom, I've convinced myself, will be lovely grandparenty type people to her as she gets older. Much more auspicious than our previous neighbor situation. And let's not forget the nose puncher on the other side. Yeah. Don't miss the neighborhood.

Politics

I'm drinking the Obama kool-aid these days. Yes I am. It just seems to me it would be nice to have someone people on both sides can get behind for once. We've been divided for long enough. And I've heard Independents and Republicans say they'd vote for him. So I'll enjoy this sugary juice for a bit. I don't especially care whose kool-aid you're drinking. Just, you know, care or something.

Haven't done much on the Pro-Choice front. I should probably reconnect with Planned Parenthood. My previous contact is no longer there, but I should make myself available to whoever is there now.

News of Note

As soon as March is done, perhaps I'll be less work and more play. And more write. That sounds nice. I'm getting sleep now (and plenty of it! Zee sleeps from 6PM - 6AM. It fucking rocks!).

I'll be scampering off to Jersey in the beginning of May to see my most awesome neice and nephew and the rest of the fam. Can't wait. I'm totally stoked.

Well, that's what's new and old with me. Let me know if you're still reading so I can check you out, too. In a way, this blog thing got a little out of hand. I really like the whole reciprocity of the reading and writing. You getting to know me. Me getting to know you. Now that I've disenchanted a large population with my disappearance, maybe I'll be able to enjoy the bloggy neighborhood a little more than I was.

I'm out. Still think of you all fondly on those evening tip-toed sojourns into my little girl's room. I can't thank you enough for supporting me throughout a pregnancy that, months out, I could brush off as being breezy. But in the throes of it was scary and lonely and dragging. I love you for keeping me sane, and insane, throughout. And you're partially responsible for the fact that Zee Baby is here. I'll remember that when she's fifteen and tells me she hates me. After she slams the door to her room, I shall spin around and hunt you down. And thank you again.

I Like Bread Butts and I Cannot Lie...

Seriously. Bread butts are good. I make two sandwiches out of them. Only one butt per sandwich. But the butt has to be on top. Just the way it goes. And I can't eat a sandwich using both bread butts. Because too much of a good thing is Just. So. Wrong. At least in my world.

In other news, let's pretend I posted this yestereday. Because that was my intention. I was playing the "What was I doing a year ago, two years ago today?" and what I found got me thinking. It's like, I always, always wish, in all my years of writing diaries and blogs and such, that I could go back now and console or encourage my past selves when I reread what they've written.

my ghosts on a page. And they feel so real to me. So present. But they're not really. They're the past. Haunting me in the present. And by haunting, I don't mean they make me sad, exactly. I just wish that I could do something to ease their fears and sorrows. And I can't. Because there's no going back.

And no. In fact, I have not taken up smoking pot again. If I had, this entry would sound a little different:

Dude. I bet you guys can totally tell I'm stoned. You can, right? Oh my god. That guy walking his dog out there? I bet you he knows I'm holed up here at the computer all...stoned. EVERY-FUCKING-BODY KNOWS I'M STONED! OH MY GOD IS THAT THE COPS?!

Heh. Had to lay off the leafy greens for that very reason many moons ago.

I pass on grass, man. But don't worry. I'm not all anti-grass. I'd just pass it to you. To puff or pass. Are you smellin' what I'm not smoking?

In other, other news. Sometimes I like to announce in casual company that my baby hole itches. I like to watch and enjoy the uncomfortable squirming that ensues before I confess I had a c-section. An artificial baby hole, so to speak. One which is probably a little less embarrassing to admit is itching.

Happy Halloween to all and to all a good fright!

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.

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.

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.

Peeing...It's Not Just For Boys to Put Out Campfires Anymore!

I found this little packet in with one of my ovulation predictor tests...


It sucks that you can't eat the little pop-rock thingies inside the packet. For a minute there I thought, "What a GREAT fucking idea! Not ONLY will I be able to pee on a stick and find out if I'm ovulating, but I'll be able to enjoy pop-rocks all the while. It's genius, no? Anyway, it would be kind of cool if they inserted a can of soda and some edible pop-rocks into the ovulation predictor test packaging. 'Cause then I could, like, find out if I'm ovulating AND disprove an urban legend. All at once. Just like that. Talk about multi-tasking.

Wanna see what Zube Boy does? Okay...





Do you SEE that mud?!?! Really, I should have taken a picture of Zube Boy, but sometimes husbands are kind of like pets with the being photogenic thing when there is no camera anywhere to be found. Suffice it to say that he entered the house (I recognized the eyes) through the laundry room and wasn't allowed to take a step further until he stripped down to his boxers and undershirt. Heh. COVERED IN MUD, I say.

We had an awesome Memorial Day weekend. Check out our campsite:



Here we are sittin' by the fire...(there were no grandmas to be found...not my grandma and not your grandma...in case you were wondering):


That homemade wine was fucking DELICIOUS! Wow.

Word to the wise: Remember to fill your tank before driving your pop-up camper pulling jeep up steep four wheel drive trails, because driving down that shit in neutral with your gas gauge reading '0 MILES TO EMPTY' is SCARY AS HELL at best. But, um, I made it. Thankfully.

Oh yeah, I took a picture of my ass to give to Rocky Jay because it would seem he's running low on ass shots. And since I'm such a great fucking sport, and I think there is an underrepresentation of girls with regular old asses in the world, here 'tis:



The End. Hee.

Who Nose Why These Things Happen...

Do you gals ever have one of those days when after you’re all done getting ready for work or play you give yourself the final once over in the mirror and you’re like, “Dude! I am SO TOTALLY CUTE!” It happened to me today. I got my eyebrows waxed on Saturday which, is it just me or does that completely change the way your face looks sometimes? For the better. Anyway, I also got this new green eyeshadow which brings out the green flecks in my ocular organs and I actually FIT into my favorite pair of jeans again. They were getting a little, er, snug. I blamed it on the dryer. For a few weeks anyway. But that’s not the point. The point is, I felt awesome this morning. Like, really, really hot. But, it didn’t last long.

I sauntered into the office to find five of my coworkers having an impromptu AM meeting. About nothing at all, really. Which, to be honest, are any meetings ever about anything? None that I’ve known.

Z-Girl: Mornin' all!

Rick (Coworker): Yo. *flicks his nose*

Z-Girl: What?

Rick: Dude. You got a boog.

Z-Girl: Oh shit. *flicks the offending boog away* Good lookin’ out, man.

Rick: No prob.

Z-Girl: It’s nice to know you've got my back.

Rick: I’m good like that.

Z-Girl: And my nose.

Rick: Heh.

Needless to say, my pompous ass was properly deflated.

I'm Wearing Underwear That Is a Little Too Big...Or, okay, Maybe a Lot...

Which might explain why I donated money to Republicans today.

Wait...That was a low blow. I didn't mean it all mean-like and stuff. In all honesty, I think my money will go further with these folks than it would in the Democratic Party...

Log Cabin Republicans

Republicans for Choice

And so there it went...Besides, Zube Boy is a Republican in line with these two organizations, so I think it's only fair to attribute some of our donations their way.

Also, if you were ever curious about math and clothes shopping and the intersection of the two, well, it might behoove you to keep in mind that if you are a woman who wears 9/10 jeans, you are NOT a woman who wears 9/10 underwear. 9/10 DOES NOT = 9/10...Mmmmkay? Please take this as a warning: Never EVER EVER EVER buy underwear that is all rolled up neatly in a little package that you ASSUME is your size because I think the underwear people TOTALLY forgot to communicate to the jeans people that 9/10? Is more like a 13/14. Which is cool by me because my ass is feeling particularly tiny today. So tiny and lithe that it's going for a swim...in it's digs...

What I...

...Didn't really want to hear my coochie doctor say:

"We have a medical student working with us today. Do you mind if he observes?"

...Kind of wish I hadn't said:

"Sure! No problem."

...Kind of wish I had said:

"Eh, what the hell? Can we pass out popcorn and 3-D glasses? I'd be more than happy to accommodate God and everybody's viewing of my nether regions."

I mean, at least then I'd have been a witty bare naked lady, right?

...Thought to myself:

"Well hell, how else is the guy going to learn how to be a good OB/GYN?"

...Couldn't have been more pissed to find in an e-mail from Planned Parenthood this morning:

"Yesterday, Gov. Bill Owens vetoed Colorado’s Emergency Contraception Bill (HB 1212). For the second consecutive year, Owens vetoed a bill that would have provided women with greater access to emergency contraception. "

Linky Goodness:

His drivel on the matter...

Information about the bill and a list of various organizations that supported it...

...Think people don't understand about Emergency Contraception...

It's fucking CONTRACEPTION!!! It PREVENTS pregnancy and ABORTION!!! If a woman is already pregnant? Odds are she will remain so. IT IS NOT AN ABORTIFICANT!!! It helps with the whole NOT GETTING PREGNANT THING! Much like, you know, the BIRTH CONTROL PILL! But hell, some pharmacists are trying to refuse that to women, so I don't know what I was thinking, expecting Pro-Life people to desire to REDUCE the number of abortions. Apparently that's not what this whole fucking dispute is about for some of them. They just want everybody to be pregnant because having kids is WHAT YOU GET for having sex. Or, in my case, getting raped. DUH!

...Think would look just FABULOUS on my foot...

Fuck Pants

I'm SO FUCKING OVER IT with the pants. Seriously. Here's my problem. I have a sweet ass. A sweet, big 'ole booty. And I'm not eensy weensy at the waist or anything, but it definitely pales in comparison to it's counterpart.

And the geniuses who fucking make the Pants Factories don't seem to understand that SOME OF US are oddly shaped. And it would be nice if we didn't have to choose between squeezing our ample bottoms into pants that fit our waist but not our hineys or setting up camp in pants that comfortably house our bottoms but FALL TO THE FLOOR because they're too big for our waists.

From now on, I'm not wearing pants. It'll be my silent little protest. More like a visual protest. Like, if you can't stand the sight of me in my bloomers and my white-ass legs then MAKE ME SOME BIG ASS, LITTLE WAIST JEANS MOTHERFUCKER!

Oh yeah. I've been thinking about becoming a Scientologist. At first, I was like, "NO FUCKING WAY! They're whack-jobs!" But then I thought about it a little and I figured is it SO far-fetched to believe that aliens are the reason for all of our negative feelings? It sounds weird, but then again, so do Pant Shrinking Gnomes and Butt Biting Spiders with Ass Swelling Venom, and I believe in those. So maybe I'll give the Scientology thing a whirl.

Besides, then I could befriend Katie Holmes and ask her if the Church of Scientology Celebrity Centre is infested with Lip Stinging Bees that carry Collagen Venom. Because FOR REAL. With the lips? Jesus H, Katie. I could set my beer on those.

Ass-capades and Thanks...

Guess what! I'm special. Wanna know why? Do you have the feeling I'm going to tell you? Yes? Jesus, what are you people? Psychic? Or am I really just that predictable?

Anyway. I'm special because of my butt. "Yeah, yeah, who isn't?" you might be asking yourself. And you're right, in a way. Everyone's butt is special. But, mine? Is REALLY, REALLY special and I'll tell you why. Because it travels. It travels far and wide. It never seems to stop. In fact, it is venturing further and further from the command center as we speak and to be honest, I'm a little proud of it. It's like a space shuttle exploring the furthest recesses of space! Daring to go where NO BUTT HAS EVER GONE BEFORE! Whee!

What's your butt up to? Oops. I guess that's kind of a personal question, huh? Oh well. Screw it! Is your butt a traveler, too? You should be PROUD! Seriously! We should CELEBRATE our nomadic asses!

In fact, I think this is just the kind of thing that CLUBS were invented for. Instead of Hair Club for Men, we'll be Butt Club for Ass-Capaders! Our slogan would go something like, "Our Asses Are GOING PLACES! NYAH!"

Who's with me???

Also, I'm feeling even MORE special today because PaintingChef nominated this post for March's Perfect Post over at Petroville. How fucking cool is that?

Thanks, girlfriend. Really and truly.

Something Smells Funny

I've been lounging on the couch reading a book and eating Starburst for the last hour. It's kind of nice. It must've looked kind of nice, too, because three cats decided to join me. The only problem is, I got kind of carried away in my own little world and started farting without giving it a second thought. And now, Jesus H! Now the living room stinks like the bowels of hell and Zube Boy is due home any minute. And I'm not sure if the cats are just in a REALLY deep sleep, or, uh, comatose. Oh yeah, and the dog's sleeping in the hallway instead of on his bed in the living room. If that tells you anything.

Well, I'm off to light some candles that will hopefully dissipate the Ass-Rot that is currently wafting through our living quarters. I think the odds that I'll get any nookie tonight are slim to nil.

Waht Teh Fcuk?

I've seen 'teh' all over the blogverse. What in the HELL does it mean? I've been wanting to ask you all for AGES, but I kept forgetting.

You know what I think is really fucking stupid? When people have full length mirrors in front of the toilet. I mean seriously. There are some things NO ONE should see you doing. Not even YOURSELF. You know? Because that face? Um, my friend, please take the full length mirror off of your bathroom door because I've gone and embarrassed myself and now I can't stop making fun of ME! Ahem.

If I were to participate in the Bitch Olympics, if there were indeed a Bitch Olympics, I would get a Gold Medal in Eyerolling. FOR SURE! You all have got NOTHING on me in that department. Well, maybe you do. I don't know. But this is MY blog wherein I am the eyerolling QUEEN! Go brag about YOUR eyerolling greatness on your own damn blog. Sheesh.

Anyway, I have a notion that I would not even PLACE in the Conveying a Cavalier Attitude While Being Handed Your Tampon by the Sweet Teenage Boy Nice Enough to Help You Pick Up the Contents of Your Spilled Purse event. It's just a notion, really, unless someone out there actually believes that, "PFFFFFFFFBT! BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA! HOW EMBARRASSING!" could be surmised as a cavalier response. I think that instead of laughing and laughing at the look on his face when he realized what he was handing me, I maybe should've just taken it from him, and saved him some face. That probably would have been the nice thing to do.

Zube Boy was fussy yesterday because I bought Chip Mates instead of Cookie Crisps. He thinks I think he's only worth generic brands of cereal. I pulled some rule out of my ass because I'm a wife, and that's what I do best. It was something like, generic brands of cereal are better than their counterparts when eaten in the bathtub. And since that's where most of his cereal consumption happens, I thought that's what he'd prefer.

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.

Would You Believe That I Am a Clean Freak?

Yeah. Shut up. That aloe plant has been pissed off for-fucking-ever but it just won't die. It's like we're having a standoff or something. I won't let it die, and it won't die. But it won't live happily, just to spite me.


I think I can hear this bra faintly pleading to my readers..."Pleeeeeeease, somebody...tell Zube Girl to handwash us...we're dying a clumpy padding death over here..."


Who me? Blog braless? Well maybe sometimes when my tittays are overcome with urge to be free.


So black and sexy and lacy...It MUST BE REMOVED NOW, or the viewing of Law & Order SVU will suffer...