What's on My Mind...

Dear Mom,

Yeah, yeah. You need a vacation and all. I know. But really? Couldn't you go somewhere where the cell phone reception doesn't suck all hell? Because as much as I feign annoyance when YOU worry because you haven't talked to me in a day, it's, well, the feeling is mutual. My 7am Colorado time, 9am Jersey time phone call to you is sorely missed. How the hell am I supposed to know if my vocal chords work first thing in the morning if I don't have you to call and confirm?

Anyway, hurry back.

Love,
Zube Girl

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Dear Vermont,

Um, I think some more cell phone towers are in order. Just sayin'.

Regards,
Zube Girl

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Dear Carpet Salesperson Lady,

Firstly, fuck you.

Secondly, Farrah Fawcett wants her hair-do back.

Thirdly, I don't know what possessed you to lock us into an order without a call of warning that the carpet we picked was SPECIAL ORDER and would sit and wait in cue until enough people had ordered it to warrant the factory pulling the shit of the shelves for a cutting. I was no great shakes as a door salesperson, or maybe I was, but if a customer wanted a door, and I discovered upon ordering it that it would take weeks longer than they anticipated to arrive, I would have called them and asked them if they preferred another door or wanted to wait a while for the particular door they picked. We didn't have our heart set on that carpet. It was something to cover the fucking floor with. And, when I ordered it, you even commented that it would be here WELL before any baby arrived. Yet, somehow, that may not happen. I hate you. But I won't tell you that until the carpet gets in and I HOUND your fucking ass to get your installers over here posthaste. After the carpet is installed, I will bitch you out. And badmouth you around town. That's how advertising works. Both good and bad.

Fourthly, I am totally onto you. Coke-head. I know your little secret, Ms. Sniffles.

Sincerely,
Zube Girl

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Dear Rings,

I will see you in a few months. The "Let's See If I Can Still Take Them Off" game was getting a bit too sketch for my taste.

Love,
Zube Girl

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Dear Birthing Class Lady,

Overall, considering that Zube Boy and I had no interest in attending birthing classes due to the fact that women have been doing this shit for thousands of years without education on the matter, spending our Saturday with you wasn't so bad. We got to meet that really neat couple who is due a week before us and ALSO doesn't know what they are having, so it was kind of worth it.

Anyway, we really could have done without the closing Relaxation Exercise. Talk about the 10 most UNrelaxing minutes of my life.

See, first of all, the relaxation tape with the lady with the most NON-soothing voice I've ever heard? Skipped. Totally NOT relaxing. Though, her heart was in it. She deserves some sort of mention for all of her eager encouragement to relax every part of our body from our toes to our head.

But, the thing is, when I'm in a pitch dark room, with four other couples, seated and reclined between the legs of my mate, and someone, on tape, or in person I would imagine, instructs me to focus on my buttocks and release the tension there-in, well, said someone has managed to transform me from a relaxed blob into a snorting, convulsing, trying not to laugh, mess. And, when my husband? Has to tell ME to settle down in hushed tones? And other people start giggling? And so I start giggling HARDER? It makes the whole relaxation trip from the buttocks up to the top of the head utterly pointless. Because I'm so not there.

Ditch the tape. Other than that, I kind of appreciated the lifesize illustrations of just how squished up my innards are by the Turtle. I think it helped the mister to be a little more understanding of my heartburn, nausea, starving but can't eat a full meal whining, seeing as how my stomach is flat as as a pancake up under my also very flattened diaphram. And that is much appreciated.

Yours Truly,
Zube Girl

I Don't Know Everything, But I Know How Not to Be a Dick...

Because sometimes I think it's important to let yourself be defended...It helps negate the "One Girl Versus the World" Feeling...And you guys, at least those of you I know about, aren't on vacation. So, I don't mind making you work.

Your assignment today is to respond to this comment which can be found on this post:

For someone with no guilt, you sure threw into a tirade about how not guilty you feel really quick. I didn't think you felt guilty, but now I'm starting to wonder.

I am sorry for your losses. Because I recognize that what you lost were human beings with worth. You just lost something that you wanted. You call them 'pregnancies' and not babies. You aborted one 'pregnancy' and lost others. I know you didn't lose or abort 'pregnancies', but babies. That's just a euphemism.

I am not sorry for the focus of your "pity party post". The "Why me? I had to go through the trouble of killing my first kid and now that I want kids, I can't have any." How sad and selfish is that? You only want kids on your terms. It's all about you. Maybe you'll have some empathy for the infertile couples that would have gratefully adopted your baby that you instead aborted.

Maybe your killing your first baby has nothing to do with you losing the subsequent ones, but I don't pity you.

I am sorry for your losses. I wish your children would have lived. ALL of them.

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Posted by Anonymous to The Adventures of Zube Girl at 4/06/2006 02:29:12 PM

And don't you worry, I haven't lost my edge or anything. I'm simply about to embark on a vacation nap with the man I WANT to have children with and presently have NO interest in confronting ANONYMOUS dipshits.

Your turn. Even, and I know you're out there, Pro-Life folks who read me and understand me. I've never, ever, ever, ever insulted you. EVER! I've been careful to insult only the most assholey people. And there are assholey people everywhere. Among the Pro-Choice camp, too, I'm sure. So, can we build a bridge or something that makes us both appear a little more human? Please? Thanks.

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.

Just a Few Reasons I Should Not Call Her

Former Friend (snottily): You know, the leather store is having a sale. We could stop by there so you could buy a real wallet.

What I said: Nah. I like this one.

What I should have said: I happen to like my duct tape wallet which was made for me by the twelve year old son of a friend who happens to beam with pride whenever he sees me pull it out of my purse, so fuck off with your condescension.

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Former Friend (speaking in motherese to her precious little cherub): Zube Girl is never going to have any friends for you, is she?

What I said: Nothing

What I should have said: Why would you say something that cruel? You know I can’t wait to have kids.

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Former Friend: So and so bought a car…blah blah blah…really expensive…blah dee dee…she can’t afford her rent now…yadda yadda yadda.

What I said: That’s a shame. She could have bought something a little more reasonable.

Former Friend: Well, not everyone has a rich husband who can buy them a fancy car.

What I said: Whatever.

What I should have said: RICH?!?! Are you fucking kidding me??? I’ve driven a 1994 Jeep Cherokee with a fucked up engine and over 200,000 miles on it for the past five years. The only reason we bought this stupid 2000 Grand Cherokee is because Zube Boy’s 1995 Grand Cherokee was stolen, and we needed another car. And rich, we are not. I mean, we’re not scrounging the trash bin outside of Daylight Donuts for breakfast or anything because we both work our asses off, but I would not say we are in any way rich. Bitch.

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I'm over feeling guilty about neglecting this friendship to the point where it is unsalvagable. Actually, I'm not over the guilt. That's why I'm attempting to remind myself why I let it sour in the first place.

The Poo-Flinger: Parte Dos

If you haven't already, you'll want to read the post below, or this won't make sense.

So, there was blood everyfuckingwhere...Zube Boy, thankfully, walked away and said, "Call 911."

Which I did. I was in a panic. Psycho Twat had retreated to his house and I wasn't concerned about another confrontation, but I was so shook up to witness Zube Boy getting walloped in the face by a grown man. And ugh. The blood.

The county sheriff's department must've been beside themselves with joy having something other than your run of the mill DUI to police. Two cars showed up, and a fire truck with an EMT crew to ascertain whether or not Zube Boy's nose was broken. It wasn't.

Here's the thing. We're struggling with whether or not to actually follow through with the pressing of the charges. I mean, we've got to live next to this guy and things were already bad, but maybe if we drop the charges, he’ll realize what a huge favor we did him. It was a third degree assault charge, and the fine is upwards of $1,000.

We were going to say forget it last night, but the police officer said to just leave it be for now. Psycho Twat's court date is set for September 14th and he is required to leave us alone between now and then, otherwise it would be intimidation, which is a felony. We can drop the charges any time before that date.

I’m trying to be super fair in my head about this. I mean, it’s gotta suck being the only guy in the neighborhood who doesn’t have a dog. But, that’s just the way things are in this neighborhood. We happen to live in the one section of town where homes can be purchased for under $300,000. I mean, I know we’re not entirely innocent in this scenario, but palming someone in the nose is just out of hand.

We've got two months to figure it out. I'm just not sure what to do.

The Poo-Flinger: Parte Uno

Zube Boy got punched in the nose last night by our fuckwit psycho neighbor.

The Long Story

I arrived home from work to an unpleasant scene. Zube Boy and our neighbor, whom I’ll refer to as Psycho Twat for the duration, were exchanging words. Psycho Twat is just not right, and we’ve not gotten along with him for one and a half of the two years we’ve lived next to him.

Honestly, we kind of kissed his ass when we first moved in having been warned by the people we bought the house from that he’s an asshole. We invited him to parties, and Zube Boy offered to shovel the snow on his walkway when he broke his leg. Which is a huge task considering that, for just about six months out of the year, it’s snowing round these parts.

Eventually, things started to feel strained. Psycho Twat stopped saying hi. We went about our business and basically ignored him. Every once in a while, we’d exchange unfriendly words about our friends stopping by and having a car tire over his property line. Let me explain that houses are just about on top of one another in our little community. It’s difficult to describe, but basically each rancher *cough* double-wide *cough* is on approximately .1 acre. It’s your rough and tumble blue collar community, and most folks manage to suck it up and get along.

Excepting our neighbor who seems to believe that he owns a million dollar home in a upstanding community. Or rather, that his Dad gave him a million dollar home…

Anyway, Zube Boy was on the ground arms deep in the guts of his jeep when he heard…

Thwump

Thwump

He crawled out to see what all the thwumping was about. Psycho Twat had a shovel in his hands and was using it to fling dog shit at our house. Now, I will admit here that said shit may have been Zack’s. It is possible. It is also possible that the shit being thrown had previously resided in the intestines of any one of the twenty other dogs that run around our neighborhood unabated. Zack poos in our backyard. He seems content to park his happy little ass in the confines of our yard. But, perhaps he wanted to try something new and exciting in the world of pooping. Who knows?

Whether it was Zack’s or not, we would have been more than happy to clean it up. We’re all about keeping the peace, and have shoveled his yard before without being asked. No one else in the neighborhood does this, even though just about everyone has a free-roaming dog. But, we were not given that opportunity, as Psycho Twat skipped over the friendly neighborly request bit, and went straight to the act of throwing feces at our house. Mature way for a guy in his late 30’s to act.

Anyway, Zube Boy looked at Psycho Twat who said, “What? What?”

Boy: Ummm, you’re throwing shit at my house.

Twat: Yeah, because your fucking dog just left a big fucking steamer in my yard!

Boy: Okay. He's been laying here next to me all day, but...

This is when I arrive home from work. This entry is already long as shit, so I’ll just say that things escalated for about 10 minutes. There was a slight pause when Psycho Twat got in Zube Boy’s face and I stepped in between them, shook my finger in his face and said, “You back the fuck away from him.” Both gentlemen seemed a bit taken aback by my feisty involvement.

Eventually, the argument turned to the subject of property lines. I can’t even tell you how ridiculous it was to see a grown man screaming and crying about six inches of land, and whether it was his or not. Much to Psycho Twat’s chagrin Zube Boy walked in the house and promptly emerged with the property map we received when we bought the house.

I started to walk away and turned around to see Psycho Twat leap across our property and palm Zube Boy in the nose.

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