I Laughed...I Cried...'Cause I Was Laughing So Hard...And...Let Me Check...Yup...Still Laughing...

Phil, I have to tell you that you have truly outdone yourself. And abso-fucking-lutely made my day. But, before I get to the good stuff, I have to ask you a favor.

STOP having my handwriting! Seriously. It fucking freaked me out. When I received the package, I honest to goodness had to think for a moment about whether or not I'd sent myself something. It was scary. Here, have a look...



This is how the package was addressed. And yes. That is my PO Box. I feel safe putting it up here. You know why? Because if I got to get my mail and some creepy motherfucker is standing by my box (heh, I said box) with a trench coat on looking a little too interested in my box's visitors (heh, again...okay, I need to grow up), then I'll just fucking turn around. Because really, it's not every day that people send me cool shit. Mostly I get bills. Lots of 'em. I'm still getting bills for the little embryos I never got to keep. So, I'm usually more than happy to put off a visit to the post office. Ya hear that Brad? Eh, who am I kidding. I think Angelina's got a tight leash on him because he hasn't been bother me as much these days. And he knows where I live anyway.

Where was I? Oh yes. Now, for shits and giggles, I've rewritten the address for all of you in my own handwriting:



Uncanny, eh? I thought so.

But now, onto the important stuff. Check out what this package contained...





The Turtle is going to wear this ALL. THE. TIME. As soon as it fits. And until then, I think I'm going to wear it. On my leg. Because this turtle outfit is too fucking cool to sit in a drawer.

Thank you profusely, Phil. I love it. Zube Boy (who, by the way, knows you by the name of Volume 7, for your comment over here, which he thought was perfect and swore was true!) thanks you, and the Turtle thanks you! I've been smiling like a goon for hours now. Heh.

Working (It)

We've got a crew of folks working at the lodge. They're rebuilding decks on the townhomes. It's kind of nice, actually. I mean, sure it's noisy and all, but it has its perks.

My coworker, whom I'll refer to as G-Unit for the sake of protecting the innocent, is my officemate. He's a dry humor kind of guy, and I love me some dry humor, particularly while working. Today we were tap-tap-tapping away at our computers to the tune of saws and hammers. Suddenly, he spun his chair around and peered out the window at the deck builders.

G-Unit: Zube, so, should I open up the window and yell all serious-like, "YO! Could you keep it down with the saw and hammers out there? We're trying to get some work done!"

Z-Girl: Dude, go for it. While you're at it, could you tell them they need to take their shirts off and bend over more?

Hee hee. Anyway. It's typically pretty boring to stare out my window at work, but not these days:

Pop Quiz

But don't worry. It's multiple choice.

You’re sitting at your desk and the boss’s eight-year-old kiddo gallops up carrying a Styrofoam ball. A painted ball with a ring around it. She excitedly holds it up and says, “Hey, Zube Girl, LOOK! It’s Uranus!” Do you:

a) Spit Gatorade all over your computer monitor.

b) Catch your breath and say, “Oh, honey, Uranus is very cute!”

c) Run into your boss’s office cackling wildly about how her daughter just made your morning.

d) All of the above.

A Crazy Lady Filling in for Another Crazy Lady

I am happy to present to you a guest post by Crazy Lady in Vegas whilst I sun myself on the deck of our oh-so-fabulous room and scan our view of the ski area for Zube Boy on his board wearing his oh-so-sexy new boarding digs. RRRRROWR!

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I am very happy to be filling in for Zube while she is off frolicking in Tahoe. I am jealous that she is getting some quiet time all to herself, even if she is “working” wink, wink, nod, nod* Yeah, working. So let me share with you a day in the life of a crazy lady in Vegas; a full time accountant with 3 kids, 3 dogs, and a husband. And you wonder why I call myself crazy?

Darwinism? Or a tall tale?

Sometime the other night, after I tucked my Little Man into bed, and the morning, when he woke up (after he slept the ENTIRE night without waking up EVEN ONCE) the fish in his room somehow managed to sprout legs, and develop lungs. How in the world could this happened is all very mysterious, you understand. What did they do with this new found power? Take over the world? Global Domination? Enslave all mankind? *insert evil fish laugh here* NO! They formed a fish chain; escaped out of the tank; took the entire bottle of fish food; and managed to dump the entire contents into their tank.

Thus spent, their arms, legs, and lungs *poof* evaporated into thin air. They feasted the night away, gorging on all those yummy, yummy flakes. Now, if you are wondering what happens when you empty an entire container of fish food into a tank, I can tell you. The water becomes very much like the swamps of the Florida Everglades. Green. Slimy. Thick. One of those fish, I suspect the ring leader, was looking pale and peaked; gasping for air (or would that be water?) on his side, when I scooped him out and dumped him into a mixing bowl filled with fresh water. A mixing bowl, because - where else do you put a dying fish in need of fresh water: while trying to save the fish, feed 3 kids breakfast, pack lunches, get 3 kids dressed, and get ready for work, all at the same time? All, except for the bottom feeder, were delivered to the mixing bowl, with the help of a pasta scoop, because, one of the tasks those devious fish accomplished on their night mission was to tear the net beyond all use, and then to shove it haphazardly into the small trash beside the dresser.

Oh yes, I forgot to tell you of the stench that creating a mini eco-swamp causes in the bedroom of an innocent 5 year old bystander. I spent the day at work with my lungs coated in primordial ooze, and my eyes smarted with held back tears because the foulness has followed me to work and hung over my desk in a vaguely threatening green cloud that made me feel like retching.

I can only count my blessing that my sweet, angelic little boy managed to sleep thru the entire nocturnal wanderings of his amphibious friends. Or who knows what could have happened then.

It's a Girl! And Workplace Antics.

Sometimes I wonder what the hell is wrong with me, but then I remember that I was born ass first in the Bermuda Triangle. Or, on the tip of the triangle anyway.

No wonder I'm fucked up. Do you think the New Jersey Department of Education would find that an acceptable reason to defer my school loans? I guess it would be fun trying, anyway.

So, I want categories on my blog. I can't do that on blogger, can I?

Okay, enough about blogging.

While working yesterday, I discovered that my screensaver had been messed with...


Knowing full well who the guilty party was because, well, I might've started the shit, I decided to get back at him. I was unable to access his computer to change his screensaver as he was not logged in and I don't know what his password is, so "Geoff Pees to Bed" will have to wait for another day, but I did exact my sweet revenge in another manner.



Can you tell what I did?

Working That Ass

Z-Girl: *sniff-sniff* Dude, do you smell that?

Co-Worker: Smell what?

Z-Girl: *sniff* I don't know. It smells kinf of like *sniff* poo.

C0-Worker: Oh yeah. I farted.

Z-Girl: Oh my god! I thought maybe (general manager)'s dog shit in the office! That fucking reeks.

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Co-Worker: Hey, do you guys smell something burning?

All of the Rest of Us in the Office: *sniff-sniff-sniff-sniff* No, oh wait, um, ewwwwwww! Bastard!

Al With Thick Stout and Coffee is Rocking Out

Al hails from Thick Stout and Coffee. He's cool as shit. He and I share a love of coffee and beer. I've no doubt that if Zube Boy and I were ever in his area, we would have a BLAST at dinner with Al and his wife Joyce. Without further ado...

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Ok, today I'm here to talk to you about love and marriage from a man's point of view. Why? you may ask? Because it's a MAN'S world dammit! And don't you ladies forget it!

I like to hear it, I like to say it: "It's a MAN'S world! Woman, get in the kitchen and get me a beer. And make me a cheeseburger while your in there!! "

SSHHH....shit, my wife's coming.... "Oh that's nothing honey, that was the TV..."

Damn, I hate when she sneaks up on me like that.

When I'm not filling in for the almighty Zube Girl, I blog about beer
and coffee (with a good dose of nonsensical ranting thrown in). But this is the Love and Marriage blog, so I'll try to explain the relevance of Love and Marriage and Coffee and Beer. In my world, one set depends on the other.

Love and Coffee
A typical guy doesn't communicate like a typical woman does. Guy's just can't comprehend why it takes so many words to describe something. For instance, I woke up and made coffee in the french press this morning. If you asked both my wife and I to talk about it, it would go something like this...

You: Hey, this is good coffee. Where did you get it? Starbucks?

My answer would be: No way, fuck Starbucks! I roasted it myself and made it in the french press.

Joyce's answer would be: Al made it in the french press. He roasts and grinds it himself. I'm glad you like it. I think it's a little dark and chocolatey, don't you? My girlfriend Jill likes it this way, she'll drink two big cups to get going in the morning... blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah....Isn't it nice out? I'm going to get my travel mug so I can drink this when we go out.......blah blah blah blah....oh, and don't ask him about starbucks either, it's a sore subject around
here...blah blah...plus my kids will start screaming NO
STARBUCKS...


Nothing against my wife, it's not her fault. It's just how women communicate.

You see, guy's have to drink coffee so we can get a jumpstart and at least be able to follow along with what our wives/girlfriends say without getting too lost. I love her, so I drink enough coffee to say more than 'yup' and 'uh huh' when she's talking to me.

Beer and Marriage
Now beer? Beer makes me loud and chatty. I can almost talk like a woman after a few beers. Since Joyce usually doesn't drink. I'll come home, have a few beers during dinner, then we can talk at the same rate for a couple of hours until my buzz wears off. You see? Beer is the great equalizer. If you don't drink it, you won't ever have a two sided conversation that makes sense. Bottoms up fellas!

The bottom line is this:

Guys, If you love her, drink lots of coffee. And, if you want to stay married, drink lots of beer.

Girls, If you love him and don't plan on firing him, make sure the fridge is well stocked with Guinness and the coffee is fresh!

Well, that's my story and I'm sticking with it...

Bonanza Jellybean, Yo!

I am happy to present to you, Bonanza Jellybean. She is a RIOT! For real. Would I lie to you? Well, okay, fine. But not about this. I SO wish I'd had her guest post while I was in North Carolina because I NEEDED some damn forewarnings from a seasoned Southerner. The "Git 'er Done Fer Jesus!" bumper sticker nearly made me lose my cool, calm and collected composure. Nearly.

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Bonanza Jellybean here, filling in for ZubeGirl while she’s on vacation and having the time of her life with no husband or job or pets or anything to take care of. Bitter? Me? No. NOT ONE BIT.

See, I’m missing Zube pretty badly right now. I miss her humor. I miss her wonderful artwork. Mostly I miss her because I volunteered to guestblog for a day, thinking “Oh won’t this be fun and I will come up with something so great and witty and wonderful...” and IT’S JUST NOT COMING.

If Zube was at home (or at work) like the rest of us, I wouldn’t be sitting in the suffering that I am COMPLETELY IMMERSED IN right this very second because she would be right there at her computer coming up with the normal things that make us all come back and I wouldn’t have to. Instead, you’re stuck with me, who has spent the last six days trying to think of something to write. Not a great trade.

Here are the topics I considered:
• Zube and I both write about our husbands a lot. They’re usually easy targets, but I don’t know ZubeBoy and my own is being fairly boring right now. For the first time in about 4 years.
• Zube and I both have pets that we love very much. Somehow I don’t think my beagle chasing a baby mouse and me rescuing it in heels before work and stepping in dog poo is a worthy endeavor. Dog poo needs to stay in the family.
• Zube is very big on the letter Z, so I considered doing something cool with that, but all I could come up with was “Zippitydoodah,” and then that song got stuck in my head and I could get no further. “Zsa Zsa,” the only other one I could come up with, wasn’t too good either. Too much makeup and cop slapping does not make for a good guest entry, at least not without research. Zoo? Zebra? FUCK.
• Because Zube is visiting the south on her vacation, I thought about giving her some warnings about scary rednecky things she might encounter over here, but then I realized she’d be in NJ by the time mine went up, and well, New Jersey just ain’t the south. And judging from her comment, she’s already seen just what kind of parallel universe it is over here. And in case anyone was wondering, it is perfectly acceptable in the south to use your car’s bumper to witness for the lord.

So here I sit, knowing I have to get something done, and all I can think of is Zippity-Fucking-Doo-Dah. And then to make it worse, I checked to see what the other guestbloggers were doing, and dammit, they’re great. Bitches.

So, this is the best I could do, in honor of our very own ZubeGirl:

ZUBE-A-DEE-DOO-DAH

Zube-a-dee-doo-dah, zube-a-dee-ay
Fuck shit, Bonanza’s got nothing to say
Zube’ll wish she picked another to play
Zube-a-dee-doo-dah, zube-a-dee-ay

Bonanza’s ass is on her shoulders
It’s the truth, it’s actch’ll
All the others were satisfactch’ll
Zube-a-dee-doo-dah, zube-a-dee-ay
Zube’ll be back in just a few more days!

I don’t think this what Zube had in mind when she agreed to let me do this.

It's Time for Tom From Kn@ppster...

Tom with Kn@ppster is not a R@ppster. He's not a R@p St@r either. He's a politcal blogger, and an excellent one at that. Have a look for yourself. After you read him here, of course.

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How does someone like me write a guest post for a blog sub-titled "fortified with sarcasm and gratuitous foul language?" Such a departure from the dignified, nay, stately tone of Kn@ppster, I know. But I can do this. I am, after all, a professional.

We should probably get a couple of things straight up front, starting with the fact that I am not Zube Girl. When in doubt, check the asses. Mine is the one that's all hairy and stuff. It would be difficult for me to successfully impersonate her unless we were both watching a horror movie, in which case the lumps under dual afghans might look similar ... at a distance. Mine would be the one with a pile of empty Old Crow bottles on the floor in front of it and a large-caliber pistol muzzle poking out the front.

Nor am I Zube Boy, more's the pity. He's the one vacationing with Zube Girl and Zube Girl's ass while I hold the fort here at the blog. Bastard.

Now that we've identified the dramatis personnae I guess it's time for content, which is a problem since I don't really have any. I've tried referring to Zube Girl's own writings for inspiration, but it just doesn't work out.

For example, I've tried to recreate the Zube Boy/Zube Girl dialogues here at home, with little success:

K-Boy: Hey, honey, would you blow me while I read Zube Girl's latest out loud?

K-Girl: Piss off. I'm reading Zube Girl silently all by myself. With one hand in my pocket.

Just doesn't pack the same kinda punch.

I might be able to copy the "pictures of exploding stuff in my house" style if my digital camera didn't resolutely refuse to cooperate with Linux. Exploding stuff is cool. Especially exploding Linux boxes.

Even with a working digicam, I wouldn't be able to replicate the cat monologues. My cat is usually silent, and even when he talks, he mostly just bitches about my refusal to match his 401k contributions.

So, anyway, I guess I'm pretty much screwed. Which means you are, too. At least until Zube Girl gets back.

Have a good time, Zube Girl. But hurry.

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PS- Zube Boy, sadly, is not on this vacation 'o mine. He's still at home feeding three hungry felines, and a pissed off canine who is on a diet even though he is okay with being overweight. However, I do relish the thought that he'd be lucky to be hanging with his in-laws. 'Cause they're cool as shit if you ask me.

Mother Goosemouse is in Da House!

Here we have Mother Goosemouse, badass guest star extraordinaire. Hear her out right down thar, and then hop on over to her crib. It's entertaining there!

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Zube Girl and I have a great deal in common, and I'm sure that as soon as we sit down and have a beer together, we'll discover loads more. We each have a New Jersey past, a Colorado future, and an incurable potty mouth.

Growing up, I mostly heard choice phrases from my parents and my favorite aunt Linda. None of them dropped f-bombs, but the other top five words (damn, hell, bitch, ass, shit) were used. Not often, but often enough that we knew them.

I didn't learn the word "fuck" until I was in second grade and heard other kids saying it. I asked another girl what it meant. She said, and I quote, "Boys and girls in bed with their butts together."

What the fuck? That answer only served to confuse me more. I mean, what was the point of lying in bed with your posterior touching someone else's? It didn't sound particularly enticing, nor did it sound particularly sinister, so why was it so fun and yet so taboo to say that word?

I'm still not entirely sure why I enjoy using profanity. Sometimes it's because I'm telling a joke. Sometimes it's because I want to get someone's attention (which only works if you don't use profanity that often) - either because I'm angry or because I know that they think I won't say such a thing (which happened quite often working with contractors and sub-contractors in New York). And sometimes those words just FIT.

A friend of mine was told by her father that use of profanity belies an underdeveloped vocabulary. That's OK. I still kick ass at Scrabble because I'm a fucking awesome speller.

Dear Internet, You Aren't That Bad...

PaintingChef is one of the most beautifullest people out there. Yes, I doubled up on my superlatives. That is simply a demonstration of just how much I mean it. Truly. Check her out below, where you'll find her guest posting for my sorry vacationing ass (really, I'm not sorry about that). And then, head over to her blog where you are sure to laugh your ass off, and maybe cry a little sometimes, too.

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Let’s talk about meeting random people on the internet, shall we?

I mean sure, you’ve got your standard sick fucks and your children stalking freaks, but every now and then you find something like a hidden gem.

Everyone has their own drama that they deal with. We all have pasts and hidden demons and basically shit that has fucked us up, maybe permanently, maybe not, whatever. And we all think that OUR shit is special and different and that nobody has ever been there and oh my GOD how am I ever going to make it one more day because I am so alone.

And then you find some totally random person who has not only been through the same thing but they had balls and dealt with it head on and suddenly your world got a little easier to be in. Then you find yourself hoping that they aren’t going to read your email and be all “Man…what a psycho freak. This bitch is emailing me; I KNEW that blogging would be bad because how can something with such a weird ass name be good?” But they don’t. They email you back. And they say… “Hey. Nice to meet you. If you lived closer we would totally hang out.”

Finding that internet friend fucking kicks ass.

From Behind

Ring-Ring

Nate: Hello.

Z-Girl: Hey, are you behind me?

Nate: Only in your wildest dreams.

Z-Girl: Heh. No, seriously. There's this guy behind me in a red truck with sunglasses that look like yours, and he's following me really close, so I thought maybe it was you.

Nate: Nope, I'm at work digging a hole.

Z-Girl: Okay, well then that fucker needs to quit riding my ass. Later.

Nate: Bye.

Bowled Over

After a few adult beverages at the bowling alley, I embarked on my third trip to the restroom. As I went about my business, I read the walls of the stall, because that is a shitload of fun. One day, I'm going to get a pen and write 'For a Good Time, Read All the Shit on Bathroom Stalls'. I have dreams, people. I really do. Anyway, where was I?

Oh yeah.

Some Chick (from the stall next door): Hey.

Zube Girl: Ummmmmm...Hey?

Chick: What are you doing?

Girl: Peeing? What are you doing?

Chick: *silence*

Girl: Dude, do you like, need some toilet paper or something?

Chick: Oh my God. Can I call you back? Some girl is, like, answering me. Yeah, I'm in the bathroom. 'Kay. Bye.

Yep. Story of my life.

Are Ya Hungry?

In honor of Cinco de Mayo, I'll tell you a story about my 'Waitressing in a Mexican Restaurant' days.

There was this guy who bartended at On the Border* when I was a waitress there, oh, I don't wanna remember how many years ago. His name was Bill, and he was fucking hilarious. Bill and I actually worked down the street at Casa Lupita, which closed a month before On the Border opened up. With our full repertoire of tequila and chimichanga knowledge, a number of us conveniently made On the Border our new home way from home.

Anywho, those of us who'd worked with Bill previously had the pleasure of knowing he was a sarcastic fuck, and acted accordingly.

So, it'd be Saturday at around 9:00 or so, and we'd all be getting tired and hungry and whiney. It's tough serving food to people from 3:00PM to 10:00PM when you yourself are not allowed to eat. At some point, Bill would be hiding behind the server bar chowing down on some enchiladas in between making a Borderita and a jack and coke because he had the privilege of being able to hide from the managers.

An innocent server, whom we'll call Rob (basically, fill in the blank), would high tail it to the server bar to grab his drinks, and spot Bill eating. I was witness to this conversation so many times.

Rob: Hey, is that my house marg?

Bill: Yup.

Rob: Thanks.

Bill: Hey.

Rob: What?

Bill: Are ya hungry?

Rob: Yeah, actually, I'm starving. (Eyeballing Bill's enchiladas) (Heh)

Bill: Then, why don't you go eat a dick.

Rob: Fuck you.

Damn. I miss Bill.

*I was gonna do one of those little linky things to the restaurant's website, but their website does that thing where once you click on it, you can't hit the 'back' button to return to the previous page, so fuck 'em.