Brush-a-Brush-a-Brush-a

Z-Boy: Man, my forearms hurt.

Zube: All four of them?

Z-Boy: Shut up. Dork.

Six months ago I remember telling anyone who would listen that if I never saw another paintbrush again, it would be too soon. It is too soon.

In anticipation of putting our house on the market we are staining and painting the exterior and painting what we gave up on about, oh, six months ago.

I fucking hate painting. I really, really do.

I Don't Fucking Know

There are some things that people should just know. Even stupid people. Usually, I know everything, but once in a while something crops up and I don't have a fucking clue. Generally, I keep it to myself because I'm proud like that and I always like to imagine that some idiot is listening and it is better not to let an idiot hear that you don't know something. Because unlike smart people, idiots have NO IDEA what does NOT reside in their brains. Only what does. And one of the things that resides in an idiot's brain is the misconception that they DO know everything. Because the shit they don't know, well, their brain cells can't fathom its existence.

You know what's awesome? What I just did right there. I turned my not knowing something into an attribute of smartness. Damn, I'm good.

Anywho, I don't know something. I assure you it does not involve driving. In fact, only I know how to drive. Not a single other asshole on the road at any given moment knows how to drive as well as I do. Well, except that one time I accidentally cut someone off (though I'm pretty sure they were going WAY too fast in the right lane because I swear I looked and didn't see anyone) but I've forgiven myself for that one because ten minutes earlier I was being told that, in fact, I had just miscarried. And aside from that being a pretty good fucking excuse (shut up, I know I really shouldn't have been driving, but crying in the car in the hospital parking lot waiting for someone to pick me up was not as appealing as crying at home in my bed, ahem) I am now a bit more reticent with the Road Rage because I try to imagine that the asshole who cut ME off maybe just found out some bad shit, too. And I'd hate to add to their need to cry. So, believe it or not, I wave and smile when people cut me off. You heard it here first.

Where the hell was I? Oh yes. My ignorance. Here 'tis: I haven't a damn clue how to have a garage sale. I have garage sale stuff, and I have a garage. Though not a thing will fit in the garage because Z-Boy has an affinity for collecting transmissions and engines and half built go-carts made from scratch. More importantly, though, I have a driveway. A big one. And shit. Shit to sell. Soon. Ish.

But I don't even know where to begin. I'd toss it all, or give it away, but I feel a little like, being at home, in between diapers and crying and breaking up fights (holy shit, Zee is almost three and Bee is only nine months but did I mention, I'm BREAKING UP FIGHTS already? Zee is bigger, you'd think she'd win, and mostly she does, but Bee has a hell of a grip for such a wee one...) I should take the time to maybe try to earn a little cash. I don't even mind having an Everything's a Dollar Garage Driveway Sale. Well, you know, except for everything that's not a dollar. Like the Playstation 2? X-Box? I don't know what the hell it is but Z-Boy said $20 for it would be a steal. And the $10 video camera, too.

But, alas, I am stupid. And am completely at a loss as to how to begin this process. Advertising, displaying, pricing...ugh.

I'm not sure whether I should feel fortunate or unfortunate that I don't know how to do this. This seems like something that people should just know. But! I know many things that people just don't. Like that a barnacle has the largest penis of all creatures, in comparison to the size of its body. Don't believe me? Google it. I'll wait...

Fuck It, Fight It, It's All the Same...

I like to cuss. I'm certain that if you've even ever been here only once, this confession should come as no surprise. I wouldn't even call it a confession. More a statement of fact. And if this is your first time here, well then now you fucking know. And you'd have noticed soon enough without the warning. I talk like a truck driver and perhaps even moreso now in the presence of adults in real life and here on the internets (Hey you! The twelve-year-old who thinks I'm a MILF! Go do your homework! What are you, Brad's cousin or something?) because I have to reign in the F-Bombs around the childrens. And there is just something so goddamn cathartic about swearing for me.

That said, there is one swear that I use with the utmost discretion. I reserve it for only the most deserving of recipients. That is the word cunt. It isn't that the word bothers me especially. Honestly? I'm always afraid that when I use it someone will say I'm not a real feminist and so I make especially sure that when I'm calling someone a cunt, it is worth any hassle I will get. I've got to tell you, I haven't received my card in the mail just yet, but I'm a member of the Feminist Club just the same. And I don't even pretend not to be. Like, "Oh, OF COURSE I think women should be equal, but I'm not a FEMINIST! Ew! They're, like, hairy and ugly and stuff!" I'll say it loud and proud. I'm a feminist.

And yet, I cannot rectify the fact that I'm a feminist with the fact that nothing gives me more pleasure than calling someone I don't like a fucking cunt. I suppose I could equate it to calling someone a prick. But that'd be a lie. It just isn't the same.

Still, though? At the risk of ruining my feminist street cred and all? My former coworker is a FUCKING CUNT! And that is ultimately why I quit my job. I hadn't wanted to say anything while I was still working because, though none of my former coworkers read my blog, it would be easy peasy for them to find if they put in a little effort. And, well, let me call a spade a spade, Cunt was looking for every opportunity to throw me under the bus since she had already succeeded in getting my coworker fired and seemed bored with her lack of a victim. Now that I'm gone and I've come to realize that I don't give a rat's ass about burning bridges (why should I worry about burning bridges when employers don't have to worry about the same?) I'll spill it.

In the end, this was a good thing. I had been finding my job not leg-humpworthy for years. And I think my ex-boss is losing her damn mind what with nearly humping Cunt's leg on a thrice daily basis.

What is really cool, though, is that knowing I was leaving eventually, and knowing that I decided when I'd leave, and knowing that they could all fucking kiss my ass because I knew shit they didn't know and they needed me to stay and I could leave whenever I fucking wanted, well, it gave me power. I'm power-trippin' yo. Hence the unabashed use of run-on sentences. I found my voice. I spoke up for myself in a way I hadn't for the eight years I'd been there.

I don't have the intestinal fortitude to go into the details of Cunt's cuntiness, but I thought I'd share an e-mail I sent to my boss with you. Mostly because I read it and smile and thought you might, too. And it sort of sums things up so you'd get the general idea of what happened. Because some of you have so kindly asked.

Without further ado...Here it is...An e-mail to my ex-boss...

Boss,

Here’s the thing. I totally get that you need to back up Cunt at this point. She’ll be staying and I’m not. It behooves you to sing her praises. It would be silly to do anything else from a business standpoint. It even makes sense that, in order to buoy Cunt, I be painted as incompetent. That’s fine, too. She needs the boost, not me because I’ll be gone.

That said, working with The Two Cunts (the sacchariny sweet one when you and Delores are around and the condescending, snotty one when you are not) is disconcerting to say the least, offensive to say the most. I am staying past April 7th for your and Delores' sake, despite Cunt. But while you backing her up makes good business sense for you, me tolerating condescension from her and being treated as though I’m incompetent does not make good personal sense for me.

Last night I almost decided to rescind my offer to stay past my originally planned resignation date of April 7th. I’ve decided against that because I don’t want to do that to you or to Delores. But, once April 7th comes, I am prepared to leave if I find working with Cunt too stressful. I’d likely be willing to come in and train Delores hourly if it comes to that.

I also want to add, I was a little thrown by your response to my e-mail offering to leave notes about the groups that had absolutely no acknowledgement of the project I was taking on. I mean, I don’t need anyone to do an interpretive dance to “Wind Beneath My Wings” or anything. Heck, I don’t even need a thank you. But it would have been nice if it had mentioned, after singing Cunt’s accolades, “That’d be cool, Zube.” These aren’t notes My Predecessor gave me, nor would I have expected her to. It is stuff I figured out on my own over the past eight years.

Anyway, I’d hate for our relationship to spiral downwards in the upcoming weeks. Seriously. That’s what I fear most. But I also don’t want to willingly play the part of sacrificial lamb for the next six weeks.

Zube

Suffice it to say, my ass was not harrassed outwardly and I worked the remaining weeks I'd been asked to stay.

But now, thank the dieties, I'm done. And on that note...

$#@!%&

Here is what I know. It isn't EVERYTHING I know because, well, that's a whole fucking lot. If you've known me for any amount of time then you already know this. So we'll say this is just a smattering of things I know.

I know that I live in the Rocky Mountains in Colorado.

I also know that sometimes it snows once the ski resort closes.

I know that this snow, if you ask me, is fucking useless.

I know I probably have no right to bitch about snow because of my aforementioned knowledge of living in the Rocky Mountains and knowing it snows.

I know that I don't care if I probably shouldn't bitch about the snow.

Because if there's anything I know how to do it is bitch.

Lasly, I know I got a little slack there for a week. I'm unemployed and I've been trying in vain to thoroughly enjoy it. But it is difficult to be cooped up in the house, the very SMALL house, while it is snowing outside with two kids and one sick husband.

Ugh.

What's Cooking? Uh, Not Much. Until Just Recently.

I used to LOVE to cook. I mean, like, I adored it. I'd sift through recipe books and plan menus and experiment with new and funky things. I was no PaintingChef, or even simply a Chef, but I was pretty damn good. And, more importantly, I enjoyed the process.

In recent years, though, my passion for all things kitcheny has spiraled to the depths of Pulseless Hobby. My cooking has flatlined. I feel like a Domestic Goddess if only one half of the Zee Bee equation has a snotty nose at the end of the day and the overcooked Hamburger Helper makes it to the table undropped, a few morsels scattered on the kitchen floor for the canine-feline bunch notwithstanding.

I will confess, though, that mostly? I love to cook for compliments. Way less messy than fishing for them what with not having to wear unflattering fishing gear and hook a worm and all that grody stuff. I get a thrill out of hosting Thanksgiving dinner even though it involves a little sweat and copious amounts of wine because when someone says, "GODDAMN this turkey is good, Zube!" it makes my fucking year.

Here's the thing, though. Cuisine Compliments have just never been Z-Boy's strong suit. It took only one, "My Mom doesn't make chicken soup like that," and a disinterested refusal to try my version and the wind? She was violently sucked out from under my culinary sails. We've since covered this egregious transgression EXHAUSTIVELY in the Zube household, so no need to chastise.

Since the kids have made their debut, I've been trying to wrestle my ego back into cooking. It is not easy due to the aforementioned Operation: Deflate Culinary Diva and time constraints but I've got to tell you, nothing will inject your heart with Skittles and Care Bears faster than when your almost three-year-old opens the refrigerator all by herself, grabs the tupperware of 'Mama's Soup!' and thrusts it at you while you're fixing to make her a bowl of cereal for breakfast. In fact, I'm pretty sure if you looked it up in the dictionary, this is the definition of awesome.

I have been tempted back into the apron by the lure of actually being on the receiving end of Mom's Home Cooking references someday (thought my kids will be told EXPLICITLY that I don't care if their future partner's chicken soup tastes like yesterday's ass sprinkled with toe jam, they should NEVER mention my cooking being superior, though they'll certainly be allowed to think it. Ahem.).

Maybe one way to get to loving to cook again is to take the path that's just a tad longer. I'll start by loving to cook for my kids. I'm sure the personal satisfaction will follow suit.

Alannis Forgot a Few Verses Is All I'm Saying

The other day a teenage girl came to the front desk because her family was departing our beloved resort and she wanted to partake in the consumption of some yogurt on the long drive to the airport and hoped we might have a plastic spoon. We don't have plastic spoons behind the front desk as a rule, but we do have a little kitchen in the back that is kept well-stocked by tourists throughout the winter with tons of random shit not worthy of an airplane ride. I told her I'd go check.

Lo and behond, there was a box I did spy with mine own eyes of plasticware up on a shelf. I grabbed it and peeked inside. Sadly, plastic spoons must be popular, whereas plastic forks and knives are not. The box was overflowing with exactly what she did not need. I wasn't sure how adventurous she was with her yogurt eating endeavors so I brought her a plastic fork and a plastic knife and, as I handed them to her, said, "There were no spoons, I'm sorry, but here is a fork and a knife in case they might come in handy." I should have stopped there, after she said the requisite, "Thank you," but I carried on.

"It's a little ironic, don't you think?"

She laughed at me in that ironic way that teenagers laugh at 'old people' and left me to snicker on, all by my lonesome.

It was ironic, though. And I think Alannis might have written that song with exactly our situation in mind.

Anywho, dabbling in irony as I am, I thought I'd share this photo with you...

That used to be a wine rack.

PS- I love hats. I mean, that probably wouldn't pass the truthiness test. I love hats MY KIDS WEAR. I, personally, hate hats.

Also ironic? I have a perfect replica of the Big Dipper on my chin. And wrinkles.

And one more, for good measure. Zee is FINALLY wasting away in nap(Mommy-gets-a-break)ville, and Bee just woke up.

Awesome.

Don't Want to Break a Promise

I made to myself. I swore I would write an entry today. I figure, the thing about starting up a new habit is that it is a bit of a requisite to be all habity about it. And writing is a good habit. Lord knows I need some good habits to counteract the bad ones.

Though I am quite stumped as to what to write about. So I've decided to bitch. Why I thought this wouldn't be the right venue for bitchy variety writing, I havne't a clue. So here goes...

I am tired. Fucking tired. Dog tired. I feel like Tired smacked my ass and called me her bitch and has taken up residence in my brain. Spilling a few brain cells out of my ears to make room for her lava lamps and bean bag chairs.

Also? Totally Tired? While alliterative? Is SO NOT attractive. I seriously look like a fly. All eyes. At least that's how I FEEL. Maybe because my face is working so hard to keep them open, inside my head they feel fucking huge. And don't forget about the bags. Oh yes. Dudes, I have more baggage under my eye-holes that I have kicking around inside my ear-holes. And y'all know, that's a fucking lot.

So there. I wrote. And I was going to go to bed now but guess what? Bee? Is crying. Shit, I'm tired.

I, Like, Totally Forgot to Tell You...

I'm vacationing, dudes. And gagging on spoons. Or rather, I'm gagging on an insufferable, opressive heat wave that's so thick it's tangible. I've been making sculptures of mountains covered in snow with it. My Colorado ass is hideously unaccustomed to humidity and weather in the upper 90's. Don't get me wrong, I'm having a blast with Mom, Bro and Sis, Hoot, My Belle and the accompanying gaggle of children and significant others, but it is fucking hot. I'm such a pansy ass I upgraded to an air conditioned cabin further away from the rest of the gang. And I think you all know just how much I enjoy my gang and being near them, but I couldn't bear the heat.

I'm currently enjoying a slight reprieve after a metric ton of (immensely appreciated) rain last night which thankfully cooled things down instead of leaving us to roast in a bed of steam.

Zee Baby is having a blast with her cousins but missing her Daddy tremendously. Apparently having rental properties comes with responsibilities and Z-Boy couldn't make it because the renters we've had for two years have moved on and we have to find new ones. Carrying the mortgage for any amount of time would be a suckful endeavor to say the least.

I brought ten outfits for Zee. She has worn all of one. She wore it yesterday when it was raining. Yesterday finally felt blissfully like a warm day at home. Cold day in Virginia. Go figure. At least I know to pack much lighter next time.

Well, we shall reacquaint when Zee and I are finished playing with water and camera's respectively. I think I've found a new hobby in taking pictures. I've taken almost three hundred so far thanks to my Mother's Day gift camera with lots o' memory. And when you take that many pictures you're bound to get a couple that don't suck. Here are some of my faves:

Zee Baby


Bro's Girl


My Belle's Boy


Later taters.

Deep Down Inside, I'm Sort of a Koombaya-aholic. But Always with a Touch of Snark.

I recently received a gift that spurned an argument amongst myselves. The argument went something like this:

Snarky Zube: Ummmmmm, okay. So how the hell do you thank someone for that?

Koombaya Zube: Well, that’s easy, you simply say, “Thank you for the gift. It was very kind of you.”

Snarky Zube: Right, and just ignore the bit where he said he finds my blog disturbing?

Koombaya Zube: You know, why get into a tangle? I mean, he sent you a gift. Say thanks and leave it alone.

Snarky Zube: But it was akin to, oh, I don’t know, kicking me in the groin and following it up with a french kiss.

Koombaya Zube: A really snazzy french kiss. Leather bound. With your name engraved on it.

Snarky Zube: Right. An appropriate follow-up to getting kicked in the groin.

Koombaya Zube: But the thing is, unless dude works at a bible factory, one attached to a DVD store, and gets a hefty discount on engraved bibles and Passion of the Christ DVDs, he spent quite a bit. To send you a gift. So you say thanks.

Snarky Zube: I KNOW that, but see, that's a pretty passive-aggressive play to yank out of the playbook. This guy calls me a sad, little girl who writes a disturbing blog, then smooths it over by saying, “I don’t mean to be condescending, yadda yadda,” and then gives me a really nice gift. And there’s no way in this situation to address the negative stuff he said with out coming off sounding like an asshole. It smacks of the, "No offense, but insert offensive comment," bullshit that I can't stand.

Koombaya Zube: But, you know, why give him the impression that all heathens are assholes? I mean, we're really not an asshole.

Snarky Zube: Well, not always. Thanks to you.

After a little more internal dialogue, I've concluded that there is a way to make both of the girls happy. I'm gonna be all Koombaya and say thank you for the gift. Sincerely. I don't ascribe to any religion but I'm nothing if not well read. And surely the twelve years of Catechism I piously endured through elementary and high school are a bit rusty, so I wouldn't mind brushing up on my bible skillz. And while, odds are, I'm not going to be witnessing for the Lord anytime soon, I don't mind the education at all.

I appreciate you sharing something with me which worked for you and I can tell it was heartfelt. I am so happy that you found your answer in Him. I would never, ever, ever in one million and two years begrudge anyone for having faith in something. Whether it's something a whole host of others believe or whether it's something Lone Rangerish, like paying homage to the Staypuff Marshmellow Man. Whatever brings you peace and fulfillment and happiness, dude, you go with your bad self.

Now to give voice to the snark. I take issue with some of your letter. I'm not posting the entire thing; just a portion which I'd like to address. And for my other readers, please know, the rest of the letter was very genuine and not unkind.

I have read your blog several times and to be honest, I find it very disturbing. Not by just the fact that you had an abortion but because you feel such a need to share it on line. I feel the same as some of your other readers that have responded that you have never really dealt with the whole incident of being raped and having terminated your pregnancy. I am very sorry for what you have been through and I sense that there is a part of you that is very empty and lonely on the inside and no amount of talking about it or getting the approval of others is ever going to fill the void that is in your life.

When I read your work, I hear a frightened, sad little girl that is searching for something that she can’t quite put a name to. Why else would you feel the need to always appear to have it all together on the outside when on the inside you’re so unsure of yourself.

I am in no way condemning you or judging you for your past or present lifestyle. We all have done things that we look back on and regret or question. We’re all human.

Okay, first of all, I'm certainly not an idiot. I am well aware that having a public diary opens me up to both friend and foe. I'm a big girl, though, so I continue with that in mind. I never said anyone HAD to agree with me. In fact, I think I've said the opposite quite a few times. And in case it got lost in the blather, NO ONE here should feel compelled to agree with me. Ever. It would do me a great disservice.

What jumps out at me is that you said my blog disturbs you. Which, okay, to a degree I understand why you'd still be reading. I like to watch Fox News because it's sort of like a Sean Hannity/Bill O'Reilly Hate Sandwich and I like to take a big bite, remark on how chewy and disgusting it is, spit it out and flip the channel to CNN or CSPAN. I know when to put down the remote and walk away. And if I'm contemplating sending Sean Hannity an Obama '08 bumper sticker accompanied with a letter explaining what I think his 'problems' are with regard to his political views and if he would just believe like I do so that I could accept him, well, I pretty much missed that "Put the Remote Down' window.

I'm not forcing you to read my blog just as no one forces me to watch Fox News. But if my blog disturbs you on a visceral level, well, it might be time to take a break. Hell, even my adoring husband needs to take a break from me once in a while. It's not hard to believe that a very religious reader might need one as well.

I found this quote in particular pretty offensive:

...you have never really dealt with the whole incident of being raped and having terminated your pregnancy.

Through years of therapy, writing, speaking for Planned Parenthood and the simple and profound fact that EVERY DAY I live the life of a rape survivor, I don't know how else you'd want me to 'really deal' with it. It seems a large leap you've taken into my brain to draw the conclusion that I haven't really dealt with it. If you're implying it doesn't seem as though I'm over it, then you're right. I'm not. I never will be. Thank goodness for that, too, because if I were to ever be 'over it' I'd imagine the experience wouldn't be such a catalyst to do, what I deem, good works. I hope I never get over it.

I don't pretend to know all the answers here. I don't mean to portray myself as even 'having it all together'. I'm a jumbled mess of Zube-ness and I kinda like it that way. However, where you hear a frightened, sad little girl, I hear a Merely Confused, Albeit Opinionated, Pretty Sarcastic, Hopelessly Pollyanna, ADULT WOMAN. One who doesn't take so kindly to the paternalistic approach. But, we'll never see eye to eye on this as we're individual beholders. But I can promise you that where you see that little girl, I see a woman. And I am proud of her.

In the end, do not think that your attempt to reach out has gone unappreciated. I do appreciate it and I hate to slap the hand that reaches out in an honest attempt to save someone. But I do like to couple my helpings of religious proselytizing with a healthy mound of salt. And I don't feel the need to be saved. I thank you for the gift and will continue to carry on with my lifestyle, the one you are not judging. And don't you worry about me regretting this Fondness of Saying Fuck Lifestyle, or Whatever the Heck Lifestyle I am living. I do try with all my might not to waste my emotional fortitude on such a useless emotion as regret.

Peace to you. I am glad you found Jesus. Truly.

Zubes and Other Sirius Shit

Sometimes I get all freakin' nosy and I like to check out what kind of antics other Zubes get into. This one in particular made me LAUGH MY ASS OFF. Although, lucky for him, no relation to me. It's nice to 'read' a Zube with a similar sense of humah!

Also, I have satellite radio in my car and subscribe to Sirius Radio for stations. I finally figured out that the Sirius is short for SIRIUSLY SUCKS! Oh wait, no, I'm wrong. It's actually short for SIRIUSLY FUCKING SUCKS. Ahem. I swear that little satellite radio contraption has NO IDEA how lucky it is not to have ended up SPLAT on someone's bumper like so many millions of little bugs after NOT DETECTING THE ANTENNA right smack in the middle of Blind Melon's Tones of Home. It's also lucky I didn't graciously take said antenna from atop the car and aid the contraption in finding it. But I wasn't exactly sure where to find some Sirius ass in which to implant it. Siriusly, though, I thought the whole point of satellite radio was to not have to deal with losing radio signals. I think I'm about done paying for that shit. Grrr...

That is all...

Leaving Notes on Cars

Dear Dickhead,

So, what's it like being a dickhead anyway? I figured you should know. Oh yeah. Thanks for TOTALLY cutting me off and swiping the parking spot I'd been waiting for patiently for five minutes. Must be nice to be an asshole and steal spots from people.

Sincerely,
Zube

PS- You're kind of lucky. I stood by your car for about five minutes and ultimately decided that instead of keying it I'd leave a note.

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.

Rolling, Rolling, Rolling

Just so you know, I'm having one of those days. One of those days where, like, maybe you get in the shower only to realize that you forgot to take off your underwear? You know? Come on, I know you've had some of those.

And my fucking eyes hurt from rolling so much. Seriously. I think they might be permanently damaged from all of the excessive rolling they've been doing today. Certain undermining people don't seem to know how to keep their fucking cake-holes from flapping.

These Boots Were Made For...Hey. Did You Ever Notice How I Take Really Shitty Pictures?

I am VERY attached...to my boots.

My boots, however, are not so attached...to themselves.


Fuck. I just might cry.

Do you think this is beyond the wondermous powers of super glue? Wait. Don't answer that.

I Feel Pretty

Z-Boy: Here honey.

Z-Girl: What the hell is this?

Z-Boy: $2.00.

Z-Girl: What, pray tell, am I going to buy with $2.00?

Z-Boy: I don't know. Get yourself something pretty.

Z-Girl: $2.00 isn't going to get me anything pretty.

Z-Boy: Well, maybe you could buy yourself some make up or something.

Z-Girl: Piss off.

I realize I haven't answered your comments from yesterday. I apologize. I have eight ski groups arriving in the next four days, so I'm fucking swamped. Things'll settle in the middle of next week. I'm not whining about it. In fact, I dig being busy as shit because it makes the day go quicker. Plus, my boss kicks righteous ass, and even though I'm salary which usually means you can work all you want for the same amount of money, she lets me accrue comp time. So maybe Zube Boy and I will get to take a nice long weekend jaunt in January or something. If he's still lucky enough to be married to my ass. Anyway...

Today's entry was going to be a photo of my desk, which looks like gnomes have set up camp and built themselves elaborate paper houses on it. And then there was a tornado in Gnome Town. All the gnomes flew up in the air and are probably dead. Which, well, good. Fuck 'em. Evil little bitches.

But now I'm left with all this paper and shit everywhere.

Unfortunately, though, my camera won't upload photos onto my work computer, so you won't be able to see it.

Edited to Add:

So as not to leave you picture-less today, I've drawn up a little something for my other half, and I'd like to share it with you. Do you think he'll like it?


It's sort of Picassoesque in its absractness, don't you think?

Blog Shit...But First...

Before I get to blogging about blogging, I'll tell you what this temperature means. It means that your fucking car might refuse to start and you'll have to drive your husband's car to work, only by the time you give up on trying to woo your own car into starting, and get your husband's started, you are already late and there isn't a half hour to let the car sit and warm up.

It will also mean that because you wasted a half an hour trying to get your car started and you are now late, you must rush around to get ready to leave, and will, invariably, forget your work keys.

I'm all pissy today. And fucking cold. I'm sorry I keep talking about the coldness. Sort of. It's just everpresent in my world today.

Onto other things...I like to save all of my blog musings to post at once because nothing fucking irritates me more than reading a blog about nothing but blogging. Well, unless that's the point of the thing, such as with these bitches over here. That's some funny shit.

I gave up on the Rent My Blog thing over at Blog Explosion. I dig the concept, however I was turned down for nearly every bid I made and though the nice little DENIED e-mail they sent me said not to take it personally, well, I kind of did. The only cool cat who took me on was TJ over at Zazzafooky, 'cause she rocks socks.

We Three Bitches, my little side project with Bonanza Jellybean and PaintingChef is going AWESOMELY. Check it out. We're rolling right along and have questions to get us through almost the end of December. So, if you've got some shit you're pondering, throw it our way.

We've also kind of adopted another blog called Ask the Soldiers. Head on over there and show those guys some love because no matter the politics of the thing and how you personally feel about the war, there are many brave men and women who are far away from home for the Holidays and then some and they deserve our support.

I got a mention over at this here blog which is awesome because they liked my post about abortion, AND it's called the fucking TamponBlog. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! HA. I love it.


Lastly, every two weeks or so, I'm on the fucking EDGE of my SEAT! Reason being, a couple of months ago, Zube Boy was looking over my shoulder while I was snickering at a verdict doled out over at the Blog Thunderdome. He convinced me to enter by telling me I had a good blog and getting my head all big. So, I fucking did. If I lose, the punishment is no blogging for two months, and because I'm not a whiney fucking sack of baby poo, I will adhere to that punishment should it be served, because I'll have knowingly entered into such a deal. I just wish that it would be MY FUCKING TURN ALREADY because the waiting is killing me.

Anyway, check it out because it's fucking DRAMA at its best sometimes, and you just may have to defend my honor there someday so I'd like for you to get comfy.

Zube out.

I'm Seeing White...

There are some new people I've been seeing 'round these parts, and always attempting to be polite, I'd like to say HOWDY, even though I don't know who you are (Washington, Texas, Arizona and then some). Feel free to say hello. I promise we don't bite here. (And by WE, I mean my readers and I don't bite...Some of my various personalities just may...I'm not making any fucking promises.)


Add 7 to that shitty number up there and that is our predicted HIGH for tomorrow. And, need I remind you that when you add a positive numeral to a negative numeral you actually subtract? Yeah. I didn't have to blow the basic math teacher to get a B. Now, Algebra...

Heh. Just kidding.

Seriously! I'm just kidding...


Z-Girl: So, honey, I was thinking that an icicle would make the perfect murder weapon. Just get a hairdryer and melt that shit when you're done. No fingerprints. No murder weapon. You're golden.

Z-Boy: Why would you be thinking about that?

Z-Girl: No reason.


Check out our new TV. And yes. That is Fox News. I know I'm a liberal, but I take turns watching all of the news channels. Evens me out. Or feeds my addiction to being annoyed. Whatever.

Anyway, some dumbass sold this three-year-old 55" TV to us for $200 because the picture was too red. He thought it was broken. Zube Boy just had to adjust the color. That's it. Perfect picture and everything. Zube Boy thought he was going to have to rip the guts out and fix it; maybe buy a part or two. And it STILL would have been worth $200. Thank goddess for idiots.


See those white stripes? That's where my honey rides his snowmobile around all day waiting for chairlifts to break down so he can work his fucking electrician magic. This is the view from our street. Sometimes I like to wave to him while he's working. He never knows, though, until he gets home and I tell him. Unappreciative bastard.

Pssssssst...if ANY of my readers are interested in a ski trip like, RIGHT FUCKING NOW (or within the next couple of weeks) you should really, really e-mail me because we are throwing some AMAZING specials out there to move some leftover shit we've got. And I swear, I don't mean to go all salespersony on your ass, but these lodging deals are amazing.

Hoverers Piss Me Right Off

Pardon my slackage. I've been busy making turkey and pulling up my pajama bottoms thanks to that ass monkey husband of mine who likes to depants me while I'm cooking.

I was sitting on the toilet today and I got to thinking. I sit on all toilets. Bar toilets. Airport toilets. Almost any and all toilets. Let's just say that if I won't sit on it, it's pretty goddamned nasty and I'm not even going to risk the hover. I guess you could say I'm a sitter.

I do check the toilet seat before I sit to make sure that some hoverer hasn't pissed all over the seat. Seriously. I have a public service announcement for all hoverers. When your ASS is inches above the loo, certain laws of nature, whatever the hell they're called, make it impossible NOT TO PISS all over the fucking toilet seat. This, in turn, causes MORE fucking hovering and hoverers because no one wants to sit on your bad aim. And speaking of bad aim, have you ever seen a girl pee HER name in the snow? NO. We're just not built that way. That's why we SIT!

I think there should be two women's rooms. One for HOVERERS and one for SITTERS. Or, we could send the hoverers over to the men's room. That way I can sit my happy ass down without having to worry about a damn thang, like pee on the seat.

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A conversation with Zube Boy. If you can call it a conversation.

Z-Girl: Honey, do you ever fart and most of it comes out, but you're sitting down and a little fart bubble gets stuck, and kind of moves up and comes out the top of your butt crack?

Z-Boy: *Blinks*

Z-Girl: Well?

Z-Boy: *Blinks*

Z-Girl: I hate you.

Did You Know That Idiots Ski, Too?

I work at a ski lodge. I LOVE my job, I really, really do. And though I might be known to utter the word 'gaper' under my breath while driving behind the yahoo whose navigating icy roads whilst videotaping the mountains, I'm, for the most part, nice to tourists. They pay my paycheck even in a roundabout way if they don't stay at my hotel and make my town a nice place to live with all of the tax money they bring in.

What's that? Oh, a gaper? What's a gaper you say? A gaper is a tourist round these parts. I don't know exactly where the moniker was derived from but it's rumored that they are called such because they gape at the mountains or at the locals skiing like maniacs. Something like that.

Despite my self-professed appreciation of tourists, they can be dumb as shit. Which I suppose a larger part of the population is, so I'm not too surprised. Here's what I mean...

The Scene: I'm at the front desk and Dizzy Broad is attempting to go to her room with her skis just after checking in.

Z-Girl: Um, excuse me. Ma'am. Hi. We have free ski lockers in the garage, let me get you a lock for one. Skis aren't supposed to be brought to your room.

Dizzy Broad: Well, that's stupid. I want them in my room.

Z-Girl: I'm sorry, you can't do that.

Dizzy Broad: Why?

Z-Girl: They scratch up the hallways and ruin the carpets.

Dizzy Broad: Well, I'll be careful.

Z-Girl: It's not really an option to be careful. See that sign right next to the elevator that says, "No skis allowed in units. Please see the front desk for a free ski locker." If you want to bring your skis to your room, EVERYONE will want to bring their skis to their room.

Dizzy Broad: *whining* But they'll get COOOOOOOOOOOLD.

Z-Girl: *actually rendered speechless*

I never said another word. The reason being, I was afraid if I parted my lips even in the slightest, "You fucking idiot, I hope you have really LONG extension cords to plug into your precious wussy skis to keep them warm while you ski tomorrow because the SNOW you are skiing on is going to make your skis COLD as SHIT!" would escape.

Yeah, she got an idiot pass. And, might I add, you're not supposed to keep skis at room temperature because then when you ski, the first few minutes kind of suck because snow collects on your skis. But, fuck her. I hope she had the equivalent of two supine mammoth snowmen on her fucking feet. HA!

****************************************************

The Scene: A mother is towing her three young children into the hotel lobby.

Frazzled Mom: Will you kids hurry up?! I have GOT to get out of this altitude.

That's right, the hotel is pressurized. We're technologically advanced like that.

****************************************************

The Scene: It's early fall with not much snow on the ground yet. I'm in the grocery store parking lot, and a very confused couple approaches me.

Mr. Confused: Excuse me, but do you live here?

Z-Girl: Yep.

Mrs. Confused: Well, we have a really stupid question.

Z-Girl: Fire away.

Mr. Confused: Okay, see that big spot of snow over there? We can't figure out why it's only snowed in one spot.

Z-Girl: *stifling her laughter* Well, that's man-made snow since we invariably don't get enough of the natural stuff in the beginning of the season. They make it on that one run because that's the first run we open up.

Mrs. Confused: Ohhhhhh. Another question. Was that the stupidest question anyone has ever asked you?

Z-Girl: Nope. And you prefaced it by saying it was probably stupid. That saved you.

Mr. Confused: Whew, thanks.

Z-Girl: No problem.

****************************************************

But you know, there's something to be said for the fact that I'm happier when I have something to bitch about. So thanks, I guess, to idiots everywhere.

Chappage and a Book Recommendation

It really chaps my ass how kitchen sinks all slope toward the drain so that when you set your glass in there because you don’t feel like emptying the clean dishes out of the dishwasher right fucking now it invariably slides down the sink and falls into the drain hole. I hate that shit. And then you just leave it there because there’s no point in fighting the slope, and when the dishes sort of start to pile up you run water and it won’t drain and shit because it's being blocked by the glass. I mean, I understand why the sink’s got to kind of slope, but couldn’t it just be a teeny tiny degree of slopage so that my lazy ass doesn’t have to empty the dishwasher when it doesn’t feel like it? Heh. I wish my ass could empty the dishwasher. That’d be fun, and I might be inclined to do it more readily. If only it weren't so, well, sore right now. Which leads me to...

You know what else chaps my ass? Winter weather. And I don’t mean that metaphorically. I mean, I really get a chapped ass quite often in the wintertime. If I weren’t so lazy I’d invent some ‘Big Ass Chapstick’ to remedy the problem. Or maybe I could create some kind of stool made out of chapstick that you sit on naked, eating grapes and reading The Time Traveler’s Wife. That’s a great fucking book by the way. I highly recommend it.

But, instead I’ll just shift in my work chair and whine about my butt hurting, because pissing and moaning is one of my most favorite hobbies.