Mmmmmmkay!

If you haven't yet, you may want to read yesterday's post before this one.

Ding-ding-ding! Aaaaaand, the winner is...TJ. It's Zooby. Rhymes with Booby. And Dooby. Though, I did figure most of y'all would pronounce it like 'Tube'. Let's just say, if you were calling my house and asked for 'Zube' (rhymes with tube) I would say, "Oh, she died a penniless lonely bitch." Telemarketers. Damn them.

But, you may pronounce it however you like! Just don't call and try to sell me shit.

Which leads me to Anduin Andorian's question:

Where did you get the name Zube from?

It's my maiden name. Actually, most of my friends and Z-Boy call me Zube (Zooby) or some variation thereof. Zoobles, Zoobs, Z. I hated it growing up because I was always last in line, and it rhymed with booby. Which I didn't have much in the way of. Despite the fact that I could write a book with all of the rhymes my clever punkass classmates came up with, once high school hit and the kids started calling me Zube, I grew to love it.

Zube Boy is so named in my blog because I figger if I go by his last name in real life, he can fucking take mine on the internets. Damn patriarchal bullshit that I bought into. Anyway...

Courtney's question:

How many pairs of flip flops do you have?

Well, well, well. Funny you should ask because Z-Boy and I get in fights about this. Come the month of May, I buy myself an assload of flip flops in, like, fifty different colors because I usually throw them away when they get dirty. Which takes about, oh, a week maybe. As we have learned, Z-Boy is none too fond of the plan I devised for cleaning them so I've thrown in the towel on that battle.

I braved my closet, which is a feat in and of itself. The grand total is seven and a half, but I believe that's actually eight. I only delved into the top 12 layers of shit in my closet and I'll have to call in an archeologist to get through the rest. Or at least borrow a front end loader and a crew of about twelve burly men with hard hats.

Heh. And now...

I saved Blog Ho's question for last:

Did you get nice things?

I'll show you what I got for my birthday...



That's what the inside of someone's foot looks like. Whose foot, you ask? Well, I'll show you that, too...



But, I'm out of time for now, so I'll save that story for another post. Oh, and we can safely assume that I did not, in fact, get knocked up on my birthday! We're all okay now, though.

20 Questions...

Or 1, or 3, or 12. Don't matter to me.

Since I'm being nice to my brain on my birthday, giving it a rest and whatnot, I'm going to make you do all the work. Now, don't run away screaming. It'll be easy and painless. I promise.

Firstly, I'm going to ask you a question. How, my dear readers, do you all pronounce 'Zube' in your heads? I realize that I never told anyone how it is pronounced, and I'm curious to know what you've come up with. I have a theory about it, too, so humor me, pretty please!

Secondly, you get to ask me a question. I am the knower of all things Zube, so whatever you are just dying to know, or couldn't care less about but would like to ask anyway, I'll answer to the best of my ability. I promise not to lie. (You have no way of knowing, though, if that promise was a lie or not, do you?)

I will say that if ANYONE asks me if I wore Zube Boy's holey socks to work today, I'm going to plead the fifth. Fucking laundry.

Pffbt...Who Wants to Be in Their 20's Anyway?

Tomorrow I’ll be one decade closer to bopping youngins’ over the head with my flowery handbag while berating them for not knowing anything about the Good Ole Days. Well, I could actually do that today, but I think it’s reasonable to wait until I’m about sixty. Sixty seems a more appropriate age for that stuff, and besides, I’ve got to save some fun for later. Maybe by the time I'm sixty I'll even grow to like handbags.

So, the Big 3-0. I’m having lots of feelings about it which I’ll dump on you, ‘cause you all fucking rock with the listening thing. Thanks.

I feel like it’s time to put away my crayons and be a big girl. But, you know what? I’m not gonna. I think I’m going to start writing my checks in crayon and putting smiley faces in the zeros. That’ll show ‘em.

I really, really, really had hoped I’d have my first kid before thirty. I changed that several months ago to at least being pregnant by the time I was thirty. But, it’s not happening. Meh. We’re still on the Not Trying Not to Conceive, But Not Really Trying to Conceive path, so I’ll just go with it.

30. Huh. I’m going to embrace it. Half of my 20’s sucked hardcore anyway. I think I’ve got a lovely decade looming ahead of me.

On that note, here is what my birthday has me wishing for:

-To get knocked up. Hmm. Maybe after my birthday party! That could be fun…

-A new look for my blog. OH WAIT! I’ve got that thanks to Daria with Web Divas. Did I ever mention that she kicks righteous ass? No? Well, she does.

-A kiss from my honey.

-A fucking screen house for my pop-up that my husband will erect while I point imperiously and give direction. That last part, the part about pointing imperiously and giving direction…That would be the reason I’m not getting a screen house for my birthday.

-You know, life is pretty good right now. I’m not going to push it.

The Moon

Z-Girl: Look at how big the moon looks!

Z-Boy: I'll show you a big moon...

Z-Girl: Heh.

Z-Boy: One with a big brown star in it...

Z-Girl: Ewww. Enough with the brown star. You had me at 'big moon'.

A Scary Hairy Thingy

I left this little note for a good friend of mine...

My Dear Friend Whose Cats I Checked on While You Were Away,

I hope you had a wonderful time in Florida! The kitties seem to be fine, excepting one little dilemma poor Sonny experienced whilst you were gone. I wanted to leave you a note so you would understand if he seemed a little traumatized, and just in case you happened upon any evidence that I might have missed.

When I got to the house today to feed the felines, I noticed something dangling from Sonny’s bum. Upon closer inspection, I realized it was a piece of poo hanging from a long human hair that apparently he had decided to ingest. I think it was mine, ‘cause it was long and blond, so I'm sorry for shedding in your house. Anyway, to his dismay, it failed to entirely exit the anal canal, and had decided to hold a little terd there with it.

The odd dingleberry must’ve been fairly annoying, because Sonny looked frazzled when I arrived. In an attempt to dislodge the offending hair-held poo, I think he tried dragging his ass across the carpet. Obviously, this served no other purpose than to smear the carpet with, well, you know. Anyway, you’ll be happy to know that I pulled the hair out of his ass (god, I’ve always wanted to write a sentence such as that one) and cleaned up some spots on the carpet. I think I got them all.

It was a little above and beyond, but please don’t feel bad. I tried to stifle my hysterical laughter, since Sonny seemed embarrassed enough already, and the sheer hilarity of the scenario overrode the cleaning up part of the deal.

Well, I’ll see you at work tomorrow!

Zube Girl

Things That Blow

Z-Boy: Honey, mwah?!

Z-Girl: No.

Z-Boy: But, mwah?!

Z-Girl: No. Stop blowing kisses at me.

Z-Boy: Why, my honey?

Z-Girl: Because I don't blow kisses when I'm pissed off.

Z-Boy: What do you blow?

Z-Girl: Chunks.

Z-Boy: Damn. I was hoping it was something else.

Z-Girl: Watch your step, ass monkey. You're on thin ice as it is.

Drinking in the Face of Death

I remember my Dad telling me the story of how his Dad almost killed him. We were all crowded in a restaurant, drinking some adult beverages, telling wild stories about family. We’re all a little crazy. We can’t help it; it’s in our genes.

Dad was visiting his sister in North Carolina, and after a long day of job hunting, hopped in the shower. Once finished, he opened the bathroom door only to find he was staring down the barrel of a gun. Behind that gun was his Dad, who promptly muttered something to the effect of, “Well, son of a bitch, I forgot you were staying here.” Nevermind the fact that what burglar in their right mind would stop mid-theft and take a shower, Poppop was beginning to forget a lot of things at that time,including the difference between my sisters and me.

He died a little over two years ago. Had a heart attack mowing his lawn. It was for the best that it happened so quickly and unexpectedly, really, because I can’t imagine that guy sick and hospitalized. He valued his independence more than anything else.

Being 2000 miles away, I wasn’t able to attend his funeral services. Actually, I would have been able to afford it if I’d skipped paying some bills, but I was not allowed to attend. I called my Dad, and began to tell him that I’d found a last minute flight for only $700. His reply is etched in my memory so clearly, it’s as though it happened just yesterday:

“Zube Girl, you know your grandfather would chew your ass if you paid $700 to go to his damn funeral. Grab yourself $20, go to the bar, tell funny stories about him, do shots in his honor, and I promise you he is more likely to be there with you than he is to be at some stupid funeral. Even his own.”

Thing is, Dad was right, and just hearing him say that made me smile remembering the crazy old bastard I was so sad about losing. On the day of the funeral, I grabbed a $20 and headed to my favorite local bar. The one saving grace of living in a town with 3,000 or so other transplants is that everyone is so willing to stand in as family in the event of a memorial at a bar. Most folks ventured out here on their own, and they all know it could just as easily be them mourning the death of a loved one over the watering hole. It was actually not the first time I’d done shots for a grandfather, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.

And, I wouldn't have it any other way. You know, I'm pretty sure he was there, too. I think I heard him say, "For godsfreakin' sake, these fucking wings itch. Hey, Zube Girl, what are you, a pansy ass? What's with the lemon and sugar with yer vodka? Girly girl. Love ya."

Or, maybe I was just drunk. Who knows? Who cares? Not me.

Kismet

So, I’m pinching an idea from Zazzafooky’s blog, and I hope she doesn’t mind. TJ is awesomeness. Check her out. She posted the story of how she and her husband met and married, and it has me waxing nostalgic about when Zube Boy and I first crossed paths. And, since I love reading stories such as this, I’m posting my own.

It was December of 2000, and I was living with three other roommates. One of the guys I lived with, we’ll call him Wag, had just moved to Colorado and had spent the first month living at Zube Boy’s house getting himself established. He moved into my place after that month, because I had a bedroom to offer, and not just a couch.

Wag had a couple of friends visiting from Denver for the weekend, and on Sunday morning, his friends realized that their car wasn’t working. Wag had learned while living with Zube Boy, that he was a genius of a car mechanic, and decided to ring him up to see if he’d be willing to help out. This is how the conversation went, from what I’ve managed to piece together.

Wag: Hey, what’s up?

Z-Boy: Nothin’.

Wag: Uh, I was wondering if you’d be able to stop by here and check out my friend’s car. They’re about to head back to Denver and it won’t start.

Z-Boy: What’s in it for me?

Wag: Hmmm…Well, we’ve got a little beer in the keg left over from last night and I’ve got a good-lookin' roommate you should check out.

Z-Boy: Eh. Okay.

Zube Boy came over, fixed the car, and had a beer while I giggled and sashayed about, working my sexy flannel pajamas. Because what single, childless 25-year-old in her right mind isn’t flouncing around in pajamas at noon on Sunday?

We hit it off pretty instantly. We were both sarcastic chuckling fools. That’s one of the first things I remember loving about him. Most men guffaw. Zube Boy chuckles. It’s excellent.

But, that’s not necessarily all she wrote. I visited Jersey for Christmas the two weeks following our first encounter, and returned with my little sister in tow who visited me for another week after that.

On January 6, 2001 my friend, Mel, and I were preening in the mirror, about to paint the town red, when my phone rang. It was Zube Boy. He sounded sooooooo nervous and cute. I had been told by Wag that he was extremely shy, and Wag was having a hell of a time getting him to call me and ask me out. I didn't call him because, ironically enough, I'd written off men for an indefinite amount of time two months prior to having met him. On this evening, he invited me to the Big Air snowboarding competition. Unfortunately, I already had plans. I told him I would call him the next day, to which he replied, "Okay," but I’m sure he thought, “Yeah, right.”

Anyway, I did call, not the next day, but two days later. Yeah, I played by 'The Rules' at first, and didn't want him to think I was desperate. Our first date was at my place. My roommates kindly hid upstairs while I made dinner for this quiet mystery of a man. We were supposed to watch a movie, but actually ended up arguing politics. I eventually got fed up with his Republican ass and said, “Oh my god, would you just shut up?!” That’s when I kissed him. We got caught making out on the couch by my roommate.

And THAT, my friends, is all she wrote. We moved into our own place two months later and married three years after that.

Believe It Or Not...

Zube Boy is an atheist, and I guess you'd call me an agnostic. He believes that when we die, we die and that's that. No afterlife. No spirit world. I believe in something, but I don't think it's possible to know exactly what in the hell it is. I'm just sure there is an afterlife, and I try to be a good person so I won't go to a room filled with spiders forever and ever, amen, after I die. 'Cause that's possible. Anything's possible according to me.

Thing is, I think it's better to be an agnostic. Now, hear me out. If Zube Boy is right, and we just die and that's it, he doesn't get to rub it in. We'll just be all dead and shit. "The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out" kind of dead. He doesn't get to say, "Ha! You stupid agnostic fool! I win!"

On the other hand, if I'm right, you can bet your ass that I'm going to be dancing circles around the dumbass singing, "I was ri-ight! Hah! I won our last earthly fight sucka! Hey, is that a spider on your shoulder?" Hee.

Mud Butt

Z-Boy: Zack's got a really bad case of mud butt.

Z-Girl: Whaddya mean?

Z-Boy: Whaddya mean, whaddo I mean?

Z-Girl: I mean, does he have a bad case of diarrhea, or what? What the hell is mud butt.

Z-Boy: Oh. I mean, he has mud on his butt. Check it out.

Z-Girl: Oh. We've got to give him a bath.

Z-Boy: Yeah.

But, It's an Emergenceeeee...WAH!!!

(555) 555-5555

Ring-Ring

Zube Girl: Come on, Mom…

Ring-Ring

Girl: Please be home…

Ring-Ring

Girl: Please…

Hello…You have reached…

Girl- Dammit...I’ll try her cell phone.

(123) 456-7890

Ring-Ring

Girl: She’s gotta answer her cell...

Ring-Ring

Girl: What in the hell is she doing?

Ring-Ring

Girl: Grr…

Hi! This is Mom's cell phone…

Girl: Well, what in the hell am I supposed to do now?


An hour later…

Ring-Ring

Girl: Hello?

Mom: Hey, were you trying to call me?

Girl: Yes!

Mom: What’s up?

Girl: Well, I was in the grocery store which was crowded as all get out, and I didn’t know where to find corn starch. I figured that’s the kind of thing Moms know.

Mom: Why didn't you ask one of the people who work there?

Girl: Did you hear me say 'crowded as all get out'? And besides, you know how much I hate asking people questions.

Mom: Except for me.

Girl: Aw, you love it Mom.

Mom: Yeah, I know. Did you find it?

Girl: Yup. Baking aisle.

Mom: You know gravy is better when you make it with corn starch instead of flour?

Girl: Huh, I didn’t know that.

Mom: Okay, well, sorry I didn't answer.

Girl: S'allright. Love ya.

Mom: Love you, too.

Girl: Bye.

Mom: Bye.

Zack, Zack, He's a Pooping Maniac! Or Not...

Zube Girl: Okay, Zack. I need you to fess up. Did you poop in Psycho Twat's yard?
Zack: Who me?

Girl: Yes, you.

Zack: Well, you see, I don't really remember where I poop. I mean, come on, you should understand given the fact that one of your nicknames for me is Peabrain. Anyway, I've done a little sleuthing, and snapped this photo...

Zack: As you can see, sometimes my buddies come over and I can't be responsible for knowing where they poop. We're just dogs, Mom. Geez. Nature calls and we answer. That's about the extent of thinking that goes into it.

Girl: Yeah, I know. I sure am glad you got that photo though. Wanna biscuit?

Zack: Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. Oh my god. You're the best Mom a dog could ever ask for...Ooh, would you rub my belly, too? I promise, I'll never, never, never poop over there.

Girl: Whatever, Peabrain. You'll forget that promise in, like, two seconds.

Zack: Okay, okay. But with the biscuit. Get on that, lady. I'm hungry.

***********************************************************
PS- I want to thank EVERYONE for their advice on the nose-punching incident. If you'll hang in there, I promise the Zube's will be back to their usual crazy antics!

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.

Click here to read the rest of the story...

Love and Leg Humping

If I wasn’t already spoken for, I would marry:

Daria- She is the diva-est of Web Divas. Seriously. I’m going to be rocking a new look here in my little corner of the blogosphere, and you might say I’m so excited that peeing myself is entirely possible. I’m quite impressed with what she has done with “Well, I kind of like orange. And green, too. Yeah.” If anyone is looking for a blog makeover, pick Daria. She has ESP when it comes to what you're looking for. And, she’s from Jersey. That’s right bitches. You know my Jersey love knows no bounds.

My Dentist- If I were a dog, I would hump his leg, like, 24/7. That’s how much he means to me. I seriously HATE going to the dentist. Hate, people. But, this guy is the most wonderfullest of all the dentists in the world. He is so gentle and reassuring. He even summons a handholder for me when he’s got a big scary needle all ready to puncture my precious gums. Love.

The Waitor at Ruby Tuesday That Carded Me- I wanted to kiss him. And then, as if I weren’t already developing a major crush on him, he said, “No way,” after looking at my birth date. It required every ounce of willpower I had not to sprawl out on the table and scream, “Ravish me!”

Suffice it to say that there are many, many people in the world who couldn’t be luckier. That I’m already married, that is.

Did Someone Put a Nostalgia Pill in My Coffee?

Sometimes I get a little sad when I think about the fact that I’ll probably never live in New Jersey again. When Zube Boy and I vowed to stay together forever, we were also relinquishing the possibility that we'd ever move back to our respective home states. Neither of us wants to live where the other grew up.

Still, I miss my Jersey peeps. I really, really do. My best friend, Gia Pet, is the rockingest Jersey Girl ever. She knew and loved me when my self esteem was a little fish terd on the ocean floor. She was the one who never tired of lovingly explaining that just because my boyfriend threw the remote past my head, didn’t mean he was doing me any favors. Only Dickheads throw anything in their girlfriend’s general direction.

I always listened intently, but it wasn’t until I heard that advice from my inner Zube Girl, that I actually did something about it. And Gia Pet was totally cool with waiting for that eventuality.

We were like, “The Bitchtastic Duo – Yanking Bar Stools Out From Under Unsuspecting Assholes Everywhere.” Actually, she did the yanking, and I did the laughing. Then we both did the leaving, ‘cause apparently bouncers think stunts of that nature are none too funny. Even if the lad on the floor grabbed your ass.

Now I only get to hang out with her once every couple of years, and it involves boarding planes and lots of money.

But, with marriage comes compromise.

At my work, I'm exposed to numerous couples who are in the process of planning a wedding. I often wonder, when they're all wrapped up in whether or not the napkins will match the buttons on the bridesmaids dresses, if they've really considered the things they might be giving up. Things other than, you know, sex with other people.

While you do have to make sacrifices, there are many, many things that you gain. I can't even describe the awesome feeling of having a best friend who loves you even when you leave your dirty socks on the coffee table and it pisses them off. While I miss the people who got me through my Fish Terd Esteem Era, I've found someone who loves me because of the way that era turned me out. It's quite lovely.

Raise the Roof

If the roof caves in on his head, I will not say "I told you sometimes walls are there for a reason."

I've been breathing in and out, repeating this phrase over and over again. I picture it scrolling through my mind's eye.

The problem with remodeling your house with no expert assistance is that there is no one but yourself to blame when things go terribly wrong. Our brilliant idea is to knock down a wall in between two smaller bedrooms to make it into a large master bedroom.

Yesterday Zube Boy got a wild hair up his ass and decided to start knocking the wall down. Nevermind the fact that we are still sleeping in there because, ahem, we have another unfinished room we were going to move into while we were working on the master bedroom. I chalk this up to boys' penchant for tearing shit up, as opposed to fixing the shit that's already tore up, but that's just my li'l ole opinion.

I had expected that, at the very least, we'd invite some measuring tape bearing, pensive-face guy who would furrow his brow and let us know that, yay or nay, it will be safe to remove that wall.

Zube Boy thinks I'm overreacting. I think he's suffering from delusions which have him believing that since he is an electrician, this automatically makes him a walltrician. Which, well, NO! Just because you know shit about WIRES does not mean you know shit about WALLS.

Madon. I'm on the edge of my seat today.

I've edited to add my rendition of the wall. From this picture you can see that I suck at Paint Shop Pro, and couldn't even figure out how to make Zube Boy's head an actual circle, but there you have it.

There was a possibility (see how it's directly under the peak of the roof) that it might be load bearing because it is the only wall directly underneath the peak.

Anyway, gladly, I was wrong. The wall came out, and at least for now, the roof seems to be staying in place. I have sufficiently recovered from my hissy fit and am sad that I wasted my Bitchy Wife free pass for the week on this.

So Sweet

I'm not feeling very creative today, so I'm just going to post a love note I put in our local paper on Valentine's Day. I'm like a legend at my husband's work now. People I don't even know will meet me and say, "Oh my god, are you the one who wrote the poem? I loved it!" Hee. Enjoy.

Zube Boy,

On a warm day in June
You made me your wife
To love and cherish
For the rest of your life

It’s been nine months
And I think it is time
To sell all your stuff
My sweet Valentine

Pete warned you about it
So don’t look forlorn
Your tubing bender and welder
Just don’t match our décor

The 84 CJ and 52 Dodge
Will soon reside in someone else’s garage

Your hobbies are messy
And make everything smell oily
But don’t worry, Honey,
I’ll replace your jigsaw with a doily

I’ve been so busy at work
And haven’t done it
But being married means your wife
Gets to sell all your…

Just kidding! I love you and all the junk you came with!

Zube Girl

So, You Want a Business Update, Do Ya?

I go to these business meetings with members of our Chamber of Commerce. They're a bit mundane. Each month, we go around the room and each person tries to find interesting ways to say 'business sucks' or 'business rocks' until everyone has had their turn.

One month, I'd like to spice things up. I picture it going something like this:

Chamber Member: And Zube Girl, how are things on your end?

Zube Girl: Well, I've had this weird itching sensation on my anus, the dog has been eating rocks and throwing them up on our bed, and Zube Boy has had a terrible case of Nocturnal Stink Ass, so I guess you could say it's business as usual!

I figure if I couple that reply with one of my most winning smiles, I'll throw 'em off long enough to run out of the room unnoticed. They'll be left in a quagmire wondering, "Did that really happen?" And, their conclusion will be, "No, it just couldn't have. Someone must have spiked the water and we're all hallucinating."

They'll hurriedly compose themselves and carry on with impressive displays of flow charts and pie graphs, throwing in phrases such as 'industry standards' and 'economy' for good measure. All will be right with the world again.

Meanwhile, I'll be singing "Paradise City" at the top of my lungs and doing shots of tequila at the bar next door.

So Many Hats to Wear, So Little Time

I am a group sales manager at a ski resort hotel. When I'm not at work being told my job isn't brain surgery by pompous rich assho...erm, skiers, or getting yelled at by pious church group leaders who apparently go to church every Sunday and already know they are going to Heaven, so don't have to be nice anymore, there are many other hats I wear.

I am:

A Namer- I name everything. My car? Cecilia. My fushia plant? Lola. The spider I stomped on, collected in toilet tissue, and ceremoniously flushed down the toilet last night? Harry. Poor Harry. Yes, I'd say I have a naming addiction. Or maybe fetish is a better word. I don't know. I said I was a Namer, not a Figurer Outer of What That Naming Proclivity Would Be Called!

A Conspiracy Theorist- I've got conspiracies galore. Like, why my neighbor is only home during the day and out all night? Because he's a MURDERER, duh! That one couldn't be more obvious. Night job, my ass.

A Knower of Where All Things Are...Or At Least, All of My Husband's Things- I have all the answers to questions such as, "Where are my keys?" and "Where in the hell might a find a clean pair of boxers?" and "Where is that thing I got in the mail a month ago?" The last one took a little while, but once I ascertained what that 'thing' was, I found it without hesitation. Oddly enough, I couldn't find my own birth certificate before our trip to Puerto Rico. No, that took hours of searching.

A Lazy Sack of Poo- Which is why I'm done writing this now. I want to lounge on the couch, sip on cinnamon coffee, and be fanned by my scantily clad, nubile young attendants. Whee!

Fleeing Feline, Foiled Again

Zander: I mean it. I'm leaving. I'm sick of being a Zube and all of the Mickey Mouse bullshit that entails. Now, go get me the keys, Mom.

Zube Girl: Awwwwwwww. You look so cute! Let me take a picture. Say cheese.


Zander: Listen woman. This is not a photo op. I'm out of here. I am a refined cat, and I deserve to be with a wealthy family rolling in catnip on the finest carpet and dining on salmon fillets prepared by my own personal chef. Not living in a double wide, slumming it with a bunch of commoners. Now get me the keys!


ZG: Firstly, it's a rancher, not a double wide, and secondly, that truck is without an engine, so keys won't do you a damn bit of good.

Zander: Why am I not surprised?

Let's Revisit the Subject of Uranus, Shall We?

I bet the weather is so lovely on Uranus. A little windy, but nice and warm.

I can just imagine the gorgeous scenery. Those beautiful rolling hills that seem to go on forever. Yes, Uranus is probably a lovely place.

Don't get me wrong, as we thoroughly enjoyed our Honeymoon cruise around the Western Carribean, but I'm thinking Uranus would be the perfect place to spend a HoneyMoon.

Zube Girl Goes Postal, Erm, Gangsta...

Zube Girl: Dude, check out my black eye.

Everyone I Happen To Show It To: What black eye?

Girl: Right here. See?

EIHTSIT (Hee, that kind of looks like Eat Shit): Huh. It just looks like you have on purple eyeshadow. Kind of dark eyeshadow. But, that's it.

Girl: Bzzzz…Wrong answer. You're supposed to say, "Holy shit! Look at that shiner! You are one TOUGH TITTED BITCH!"

EIHTSIT: Ummm...Okay, fine.

Girl: And that's when I say, "That's right mofo! You should see the other guy! So, step off, 'cause this bitch is rough!"

EIHTSIT: You need medication. Really STRONG medication.

Girl: Maybe sometimes.

Things I Learned This Weekend:

-If your face launches an attack on your husband’s forehead in the middle of the night, he might be mad at you even though you were sleeping and didn’t mean it.

-After an evening of ‘Nocturnal Face to Forehead Death Match’, you might wake up with a black eye. And your husband might have a big bump on his noggin. And you both may, in fact, be grumpy as shit.

-You cannot, two days later, tell your husband the unprovoked ‘Attack of the Face’ was a preemptive strike for a dream you had the following night. I mean, you can tell him that, but his eyes will just roll right the fuck out of his head. The fact that the next evening you had a dream he was married to you, but having babies with some girl you barely knew in high school has nothing to do with prior skull to skull combat.

-Even though you are extremely angry at your ‘Dream Husband’ for being an Assholey, Baby-Making with Another Woman, Sack of Shit, it is not okay to be mean to him in real life.

B-O-L-O-G-N-A...

Zube Girl: My bologna has a first name...

Zube Boy: Honey...

Girl: It's O-S-C-A-R...

Boy: Hon...

Girl: My bologna has a second name, it's M-A-Y-E-R...

Boy: Babe...

Girl: Oh, I like to eat it everyday, and if you ask me why I'll say....

Boy: Honey!!!

Girl: 'CUZ OSCAR MAYER HAS A WAY WITH B-O-L-O-G-N-A!!!

Boy: *Stares*

Girl: Yes, dear.

Boy: Would you stop singing that song, please?

Girl: Okay.

The Hillbilly's, Erm, Zube's Hit the Trails...

Here we have Zube Boy at the wheel, Zube Girl navigating, and Zack, uh, standing there waiting for something exciting to happen.








Our entourage consisted of three vehicles total. We were in the rear. Heh.














It was a fairly shitty day, considering it's the month of freakin' JULY. But who needs sunshine when you've got fucking hail. Anyway...









There were some sketchy parts that freaked out Zube Girl's inner scaredy cat...











Zack gets annoyed with all the stopping. He's more of a 'Go Doggy Go' kind of dog. But, you know, sometimes you gotta pee!










"Honey, do you really think I can do it? I don't even know how to drive stick..."











"Sure you can...at least I hope you can, because there's no turning back now..."



Okay, I feel like a rock star, but unfortunately, it never looks as difficult in the pictures as it really is...Le sigh.

Whee! Happy Fourth of July! If you have a husband, I highly recommend doing something with him that quells the urge to smack him upside the head. In celebration of a holiday, of course...

Bathtime

In the event that Zube Boy is ever found frozen to death by ice cubes, and I'm to blame, I want to assure that my gentle readers understand why.

I was having a lovely conversation with my Mom yesterday, and Zube Boy was taking a bath. The cacophony coming from the bathroom made it difficult to have any semblance of a grown up conversation.

Mom: So, do you have any plans for the Fourth of July?

Zube Girl: Yeah. I'm going to hide in the house all weekend and wait for the 5 million tourists to go home.

Zube Boy: Hoooooooooooney!

Mom: What's that noise?

Girl: Oh, it's just my kid, erm, I mean, husband.

Boy: Hoooonnnnnnnnnneeeeeeeeeeeeeeey!

Mom: Do you want me to let you go?

Girl: No, no, no. It's fine. I'm on the phone!

Mom: I think we're going to go down the shore for the weekend...

Boy: Hoooooooooooooooney! Help!

Girl: For goddsfreakinsake.

Mom: Hon, I'll let you go. Call me tomorrow.

Girl: Okay, Mom. Love ya.

Mom: Love you too.

Boy: Honey, honey, honey!

Girl: Bye.

Mom: Bye.

Girl: WHAT!

Boy: Honey, I dropped a Cocoa Puff in the bathwater!

Girl: *silence*

Boy: What should I do?

Girl: Well, for starters, you could STOP EATING FOOD WHILE YOU'RE IN THE BATHTUB, and then you could hide in the bathroom and never, ever, ever come out. 'Cause when you do, I'm going to kick your ass.

Adventures in Sleuthing

I bet you all didn't know that once upon a time, I was a world renowned detective, did you? I was one stealth mother fucker. For real. As much as I loved the fast-paced world of sleuthing, there came a day when I decided detective work was not for me. Doing triple back-flips and kicking bad guys in the face requires a spriteness that at the tender age of 27, I had begun to lose. So, I quit.

Anywho, having been a detective, my 'Something's Up' radar is finely tuned. I know when something is fucking up, people. And there is definitely something up in my yard. The lawn people are acting strange, like they're hiding something from me. I decided, this fine Saturday morning, to don my black leather one-piece super sexy detectiving outfit and investigate.

I crawled across the porch, which, just to let you know, is difficult to do in a sexy manner, but I managed. I crouched behind the grill, camera ready, and waited. And waited and waited and waited. After what seemed like an eternity, something caught my well-trained eye, and I managed to get a snapshot.



Gerome the Gnome is kissing Percy the Frog's ass. Yes, I name my lawn ornaments. What of it? Anyway, apparently, Gerome is eyeing Percy's regal shady spot in the yard, and Percy himself is swinging a deal. Sneaky fucker. It would seem that Percy forgot I am the Queen of the Yard, and he has no say whatsoever in the placement of lawn people.

You know, in all honesty, I'm pretty sure my husband had something to do with the gnome kissing of frog ass. Doesn't he know that my imagination is vivid enough? Encountering scenes such as this is going to put me over the edge someday.

Poor Zack. Lucky Zoey.

And, I thought I had it bad with the bed sharing!

Now I Look Like a Perv! Thanks!

To the person in the UK who stumbled upon my blog by searching "peeing" and "stall" on technocrati, thanks a lot. After my initial, "Tee hee. People search for the darndest things," I decided to click on the search myself, and see what other blogs out there are talking about peeing and stalls.

Now, I'm in someone's flipping stats as though I had searched the same thing! Gah!

Quit It, Or I'll Have Me Some Cat For Breakfast!

Dear Zander,

For the past six years, I've been feeding you roundabout the same time every morning. 7:30ish. Sure, this pattern has been interrupted here and there by the occassional boozefest, when Zube Boy and I embibe a little much, and stay in bed forever and ever, amen, but typically, I'm up at 7:00 or 7:30AM, even on weekends, and that's fucking early.

I'm curious as to why you cry and scratch at the bedroom door every mother fucking morning at 5:00AM? Seriously. Remember the time you did that and Mommy was so bitter that she opened the bedroom door, picked up your flailing clawy ass and sent you sailing out the back door? Actually, I'm pretty sure you remember, because when I open the bedroom door now, you haul ass down the hallway. Only to resume scratching as soon as I clamber back into bed.

I've taken to sleeping with a pile of shoes next to me. I guess the loud banging sound they make against the bedroom door scares you to bits. Only, last night, I forgot to move the pile of shoes by the bedroom door next to the bed before I went to sleep. So, all I had left in my arsenol were numerous decorative pillows, and apparently, they don't frighten you in the least.

I don't know where in the hell you got the idea that breakfast is at 5:00AM. It most certainly wasn't ME giving you that impression. Me being the only fucking person who has been your BREAKFAST FEEDER for the past SIX YEARS! So, I'm asking you to please, just stop. Okay?

Love,

Mommy

PS- Just an FYI. Scratching the walls surrounding your litter box, contrary to your belief, does not successfully cover your stenchy poo. Never will.

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.

I'm Green. And Not With Envy.

Dude, I totally have ESP. Like, I’m reading your mind right now. And you know what? You don’t believe me. May I point out the fact that if I'm not fucking telepathetic, how in the hell did I know that you didn’t believe me? Huh?

Anyway, you’re also pondering the green color of my blog, and how it reminds you a little bit of baby poo. And you’re like, yeah, you know, it was okay at first, but the more I look at it, it’s kind of an annoying color. I agree with you 100%, actually. Don’t feel bad for thinking that, or try pretending that I read your mind wrong. I know better. See this round thing above my shoulders with eyeballs in it? It's not just a hat rack. I know stuff about stuff.

So, with the puke green, I’m just over it. It’s so…so…’Ugly Ass Carpet Mom and Dad Thought Was Happenin’ Around the Same Time They Made Me Wear Those Plaid Bell Bottom Pants’ fucking ewwy green. But, I feel like I’m stuck with it. I know about as much about HTML as I do about, I don’t know, putting oil in my car.

And, that's not much. Ask Zube Boy. His motto is, “Honey, if you’re not going to change the oil, you might at least add some every now and again. But, it’s okay. I love you, and now I’m going to learn how to replace an engine.”

That's fucking right beyotch! You have clean man panties thanks to me, and I'll have a nicely lubed engine thanks to you. That's how relationships work, Mm-kay?

But, just so you all don’t think I'm all thinking my blog is beautiful, I'm not. My blog is fugly. I'm not sure what I should do about it.

Good Morning, Sunshine!

It sucks when you get into an argument and go to bed mad. Actually, the going to bed mad part isn't so bad. It's the waking up all nuzzling with the one you're mad at. That bites.

The worst part is that you have to at least wipe the sleep out of one of your eyes before you realize you're snuggling with a guy who insists on leaving his dirty ice cream dishes on the side of the bathtub. I mean, who the fuck eats ice cream in the bathtub?

I've found that the best way to deal with this is to push him away mid-hug and say, "Ewwww. I hate you. DUH!"

Then you have breakfast and talk about the weather.

After you put the dirty ice cream dish in the dishwasher, of course.

You Guys Would Never Guess...

I'm a liar. Yes. It's true. I'm so sorry.

There is no such thing as extra large condoms.

Some day, I shall start telling the truth.

Public Service Announcement!

I've stopped checking myself out in the mirror long enough to learn that Colorado's Planned Parenthood chapters will be giving out FREE Emergency Contraception on July 1st. Actually, I'll be speaking at a press conference about it on Wednesday, and should be writing that instead of writing in my blog, but, feh. I'm having trouble writing stuff I'm going to read out loud, and finding it easier to write stuff that's just gonna be read online by other people. Know what I mean?

Anyway, this is Planned Parenthood's response to Governor Bill Owen's vetoing of HB 1042, which would have required hospitals to provide pertinent medical information about emergency contraception to rape victims. Women who were, you know, raped. And maybe want to prevent a pregnancy as a result of that. You could say that this is near and dear to my heart.

In other news, I've added a '100 Things About Me' link under 'First and Foremost' if you're a crazy ass stalker and want to check it out.

Asstastic. Or Pantstastic. I'm Not Sure.

Howdy newbies! I see that someone has so kindly linked to my Asstastic post. I have to say, though it’s not one of my favorites, I am a bit surprised that it has been met with such disdain by another blogger.

Before you read the entry, I'd like to warn you that I have a fucked up and twisted sense of humor, and I’m addicted to the word ‘Fuck’ something fierce. I also want to let you in on a little secret. You will either like or dislike my blog. You are also free to not read it.

Lastly, this is not a fucking dissertation. I write the way I talk. I. Put. Periods. Wherever. The. Fuck. I. Feel. Like. It. If you can deal with that, stick around. Feel free to wander about. If not, there is a little x at the upper right hand corner of this web page. Click on it, and watch it work its magic. No skin off my back.

This update has been brought to you by the letter 'Z'

You guys, I am duly impressed with my ass today. For the record, I'm quite fond of it. I've never had much by the way of boobage, but my ass has thus far done fairly well at compensating.

I put on a pair of pants this morning, and checked myself out in the mirror as I'm wont to do. Somehow, it has managed to look flat, fat, and sort of, ummm, compartmentalized, or something like that, all at once. It's weird. And some of it seems to have migrated up above my waistline. It could be the pants, but pants are inanimate, so I'd be really surprised if they were capable of such a feat. I think it's getting, I don't know, longer or something...It's pretty incredible.

Anyway, I want to be sad, because my pride and joy has me feeling a bit, well, not so prideful and joyful. But, I'm wearing my rose-tinted glasses today, so I've decided to be impressed.

Love Hurts

Okay, people, I'm gonna be honest with you. Sometimes being married can give you a headache. Like this morning, while I was putting away clean dishes, and Zube Boy, seeing as my hands were full of glasses and the like, was overcome by a brilliant idea. He snuck up behind me, as I was hunched down over the dishwasher, and yanked my PJ bottoms to the floor.

I clutched my naked knees together and spewed profanities that would've made my poor Mom's ears bleed. In a fit of pantsless rage, I bolted upright, and slammed my tender melon on the corner of the cabinet.

Yeah. I love him so much it hurts. I've decided that while he's sleeping tonight, I'm going to cover him with ice cubes. I believe that this act will result in his freezing to death very slowly.

A Bunch of Threesomes...

Kyknoord has tagged me. No, sillies, get your minds out of the gutter! He and I are each contractually obligated to tag our significant others in that manner for the rest of our lives. It's a quiz. And check out his blog. He's hilarious and his wife makes chaos theorists cry. Good stuff.

Often, I find these quiz things confining, but I'm gonna give it a whirl. This one intrigued me, what with all the 'threes' involved. Huh?!? I never told you how much I love threes? Hmmm...

Three screen names that you have had: SluttyWifeLookingforLove, TooSexy4U, and zubegirl.

Three things you like about yourself: I'm not real hairy, I'm sexier covered in mud from four wheeling than I am all dressed up, and I make really good wings.

Three things you don't like about yourself: I'm just way too much of a babe. I get hand cramps writing my phone number on cocktail napkins. It's not easy, folks. 'Nuff said.

Three parts of your heritage: My great-grandfather was a bootlegger, my great uncle was a Monseñor of the Catholic church, and my Dad is smarter than your Dad. Nanny nanny boo boo.

Three things that scare you: Celery in my tuna, Brad Pitt's obsession with me, and making left turns onto busy streets.

Three of your everyday essentials: Coffee, toilet paper, and phone calls from Jersey folk.

Three things you are wearing right now: My fairy tattoo, my astrology glyph tattoo, and my flower tattoo.

Three of your favorite songs: I'm a Little Teapot, London Bridge is Falling Down, and Ring Around the Rosie.

Three things I want in a relationship: Complete and total submission to my every whim. That's all. Well, a little worshipping and toe sucking never hurts.

Two truths and a lie: I lie, I make my life sound way more exciting than it is, and I always tell the truth.

Three things you can't do without: AM 760 Boulder's Progressive Talk, the word 'Fuck', and the letter 'Z'.

Three places you want to go on vacation: East Gibip, Bumblefuck, and Istanbul...no...Constantinople. Nah, Istanbul. Or Constantinople. You know, that's nobody's business but the Turks.

Three things you just can't do: Lick my elbow, pour coffee without drizzling it all over the counter, and sand drywall.

Three kids' names: Cletis, Tipsy, and Rufus.

Three things you want to do before you die: Have kids, teach my kids to do chores, and totally screw up my kids. That is my dream.

Three Celeb crushes: John Stewart, George Clooney, and Winona Ryder, erm, I mean, Brad Pitt. Yeah. Every gal loves Brad Pitt. Even though he's fucking psycho.

Three people you want to know these things about: I'm a selfish fuck, so I've decided to remain tagged and not pass it on. I learned very early that I sucked all hell at 'Tag' as a kid, and convinced myself it was cool to be 'It'. Walking was not one of my stronger suits, and running even less so. If I didn't tag anyone else, the game kind of ended right there. Then we'd go inside and play with matchbox cars. I was much better suited for that. Ergo, I'm 'IT' forevah, suckas! Bwahahahahaha!

Suckers

One day, on my way to the ladies room, I passed my coworkers who were checking out a brand new Hoover vacuum the company had purchased.

I stopped for a second; said, “Oh, Hoover. They used to call me that in high school,” and then continued on my merry way to feign being a lady for a few minutes.

It’s fun being a liar sometimes. I hope people appreciate the fact that I sully my pristine reputation for the sake of a good laugh!

Even if the only person laughing is, uh, me.

Hey. Wait a minute...

Me So Horny...

Zube Boy is at the computer, and I'm watching TV.

Zube Boy: Honey?

Zube Girl: Yeah?

Boy: How do you spell horny?

Girl: H-O-R-N-Y.

Boy: Thanks.

Girl: Why'd ya wanna know that?

Boy: I'm writing a letter to my Mom.

Girl: Huh. Okay.

I was very relieved when a few minutes later, I heard him playing the song he'd just downloaded. "Me So Horny."

Inner Turmoil

Dear Dorky Self,

There are so many selves trying to live within this Zube Girl, and I think we do a fine job of getting along most of the time. It seems, though, that you and I are most often at odds. I manage well with Intelligent Self, Political Self, and Clean Freak Self. It is you, though, that seems to squelch my ultra-coolness. It's really not fair.

For example, yesterday, Clusterfuck Self was out and about at the grocery store. Clusterfuck Self is annoying, and makes being cool difficult, but not impossible. So, Clusterfuck Self had Zube Girl at odds with another shopper. They were walking towards one another, and Zube Girl was having quite a time of stepping in the way of the other shopper. To the left, and to the right. Eventually, Zube Girl and the shopper stopped.

Enter stage right, you. Let me emphasize that you should allow me to do the talking in situations such as this, when coolness is at risk. I was about to have Zube Girl say something like, "No, you go ahead," and then beam one of her charming smiles, until you butted in with, "Wanna dance?" As if the person whose path Zube Girl's repeatedly stepped in is gonna think dancing even comes close to adequately defining the clusterfuck that just occurred! I mean, really.

I'm betting they don't wanna dance. They wanna shop, and they want Zube Girl the fuck out of their way. So, Dorky Self, please step back when things get a bit messy. I don't complain when you happen to be around in the morning, and have Zube Girl all thinking that she should wear that pink cookie monster t-shirt. Let me make it a bit easier for her almost 30-year-old ass to at least SOUND cool even though she's wearing such a display of abysmal taste.

I'll be petitioning Zube Girl for a stronghold on dialogue, but I'm sure it'll take a while with all of the appealing of god damn Political Self. But, until then I ask that you be seen and not heard. And seen, you know, as rarely as possible.

Really, We're all in this together,

Cool Self

It's All About 30

In 30 days I'm going to be 30.

Zube Boy handled turning 30 with so much finesse a few months back. Well, and a lot of whiskey. So the next day wasn't so finesseful.

Still, though, I'm getting all wonky about it, and it's a whole month away.

Really, I think it will be a great age. Right?

Spatulas and Little Spoons...Living in Harmony

Dear Zube Boy,

I want to congratulate you on your stellar performance emptying the dishwasher. I'm so proud of you. It was really nice not to have to do it myself. That said, I had no idea you could be so creative.

Sometimes making dinner can be such a chore, but thanks to you, hon, it was kind of like a game last night. Scavenger Hunt. It took me forever to realize that the fucking skillet was on the tupperware shelf in the bottom cabinet on the left. Not, in fact, on the top shelf of the bottom cabinet on the right with All. The. Other. Pots. and. Pans. Whee!

So, thanks. A lot.

Love,

Zube Girl

PS- Just so you know, the big spoons and spatulas do not go in the silverware drawer. They go in the 'Big Spoon and Spatula' drawer just to the right. I know, it's tough because they kind of are silverware. But, the 'Regular Silverware' drawer is pretty full and it's a real bitch when you can't even open it because the god damn spatula is all jammed up in that shit.

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

Dear Zube Girl,

Who are you kidding? You didn't make dinner last night. Or did you mean you had trouble getting a knife out of the silverware drawer to perforate the plastic over that TV dinner? Okay, I get that.

I still can't figure out what the hell you needed the skillet for. Ah well.

Love,

Zube Boy

PS- I can think of a better place to put the spatula, but unfortunately, I think you've already got a stick up there.

If You Can Clean Butt Plugs That Way...

As I'm lounging in the bedroom twirling my hair, reading a book, I hear squawking in my husband's general direction.

Zube Boy: Honey!

Zube Girl: Hmmm...

Boy: HONEY!

Girl: Yeah?

Boy: HONEY!!! Come here!!!

Girl: *I throw down my book and storm into the kitchen* What in the fuck is all this yelling about?

Boy: What is this?

Girl: What's what?

Boy: This? This thing right here!

Girl: It's a flip flop? What of it?

Boy: Why?

Girl: It was dirty.

Boy: But, but...why?

Girl: I figured...

Boy: In there! You thought you would put it in THERE!

Girl: Yeah! They came out rather squeaky clean, dontchya think?

Boy: IN THERE! With my coffee mug!?!?

Girl: Well, I read...

Boy: Woman...

Girl: Yes?

Boy: You're gonna drive me to drinking.

Girl: Thanks for emptying the dishwasher. You never do that.

Slippery When Wet

Have you ever, while in the process of putting on your mascara, felt the onset of a fart? A fart of a questionable nature. You decide to throw caution to the wind (*snicker*) and give it a go. It requires a tremendous amount of concentration to avoid the regrettable shart.

Slowly. Slowly. Slower still.

Whoo

Aaaah. All goes well, but you can't help laughing at the look on your face. And you laugh so hard, you fuck up your mascara.

No? That never happened to you? Heh. Me niether.

A Secret

I don't give two shits about Star Wars. I just don't care. Is that so bad?

Can You Handle This?

If I had it my way, love handles would be sexy, and instead of going to the gym when you realized you had them, you would go out for ice cream with your girlfriends to celebrate the acquisition of them.

And Jesus Said, "Stop Following Me!"

I'm going to let you all in on a little family correspondence.

Dear Zack,

I came to realize something very disturbing, and I wanted to touch base with you about it. The other day, I was outside calling and calling you. Screaming "Zack!" very loudly at the ass crack of seven in the morning, 'cause I had to go to work, and couldn't leave you roaming around outside for eight hours unnattended.

After a few unsuccessful rounds of "Zack, come here," I threw up my arms in exasperation and yelled, "Jesus Christ, where are you?" And, you know what? You came bounding around the corner. I didn't think much of it until I was heading to work.

I thought about all the times Zube Boy and I have said the following:

"Jesus Christ, you got into the garbage again!"

"Jesus Christ, get off the couch!"

"Jesus Christ, get off the bed!"

"Jesus Christ, inside or outside! Make up your mind!"

I'm afraid you might think you are Jesus Christ, and, well, don't get me wrong...You're a great dog, but walk on water, you do not, my friend. I'm just saying.

Love,

Mom

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

Dear Mom,

Who is this Zack character? Anyway, I'm assuming the letter you wrote was for me, because you left it on my dog bed.

Do you think I'm an idiot? For Christ's sake, no pun intended, I'm not stupid, Mom. Give me a break. You didn't even yell, "Jesus Christ, where are you?" the other day, but that's besides the point.

Now, don't get your panties in a twist because of what I'm about to tell you, but I think you're just getting old. I mean, you are almost thirty, and that's like, I don't know, 5,000 in dog years.

Get off my back, lady. Sheesh.

Love,

God Dammit

PS- Holy Shit and I were wondering about something. Is Little Shit his sister? I said yes, because they have the same last name. He says no way in hell, but I think that's just because he likes kissing on her. Anway, we'd appreciate if you could clear this up for us.

When in Rome...Erm...I Mean Mexico

Many moons ago, I visited the family of a foreign exchange student who lived with our family my senior year of high school. Vanessa rocked and my tender and sheltered high school nerdy self was awed by her tequila drinking capabilities.

Every once in a while on this trip, I played the stupid American (or just plain was a stupid American, you be the judge).

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

Vanessa's Mom asked me how I enjoyed laying out in the sun:

I meant to say: Muy Bien! Voy a estar morena!

Translation*: Very well! I am going to be brown!

I said: Muy Bien! Voy a estar mojada!

Translation: Very well! I am going to be purple!

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

A very nice gentleman I didn't know held the door for me.

I meant to say: "Gracias cabellero!"

Translates: Thank you gentleman!

I said: "Gracias caballo!"

Translates: Thank you horse!

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

The waitor handed me a Spanish menu, and I did my best to read it, and memorize my answer so I didn't have to point. It was like a fun little challenge. I should've pointed.

I meant to say: "Quiero el pollo, por favor."

Translates: I want the chicken, please.

I said: "Quiero el bollo, por favor."

Translates: I want the pussy, please.

Heh. The waitor very kindly walked away, and returned with an English menu, and Vaness and all of her gal pals were laughing and crying so much so that it was difficult for them to tell me what I'd just said.

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

*Bear with me folks. These are loose translations, as my Spanish could use some brushing up.

Song of the Day

I really hate it when

"The 'S' is for super..."

you get a song

"...the 'U' is for unique..."

stuck in

"...the 'P' is for perfection..."

your head

"...and you know that we are freaks!"

and you can't

"The 'E' is for exotic..."

get it

"...and the 'R' is for Raps..."

the fuck out!

"...so tell those nosy people just to stay the hell back!"

Help me!

"Supersonic!"

I'm all bobbing my head and shit, too. It's tremendously annoying. And, just where in the hell did that song come from anyway? I mean, other than, like, 1989...

Nooooook...Leeeeee...Arrrrrrrr...

For the love of little red apples. That's how it's fucking pronounced. Not nookular.

Whew. I feel better now. I've gotta stop listening to Air America.

Nah. I think it's quite good to be all pissed off about something.

Here, Kitty, Kitty...

Zube Boy e-mailed me this photo. Do you think he's trying to tell me something?

*gasp*

Zander! Zoey!. Kitties?! Where are you guys?

So Cool

If it were up to me, everything that belonged in the refrigerator would go in the cabinets, and everything that belonged in the cabinets would go in the refrigerator.

Then, husbands would not get annoyed when a jar of unopened spaghetti sauce was placed in the refrigerator. Because it would belong there.

And we would have these fucking HUGE refrigerators.

Yeah. That would be awesome.

We All Scream For Ice Cream

Zube Boy: Did you go grocery shopping?

Zube Girl: No. All that shit magically appeared in the fridge. It's fucking amazing.

Boy: I can't believe you didn't get ice cream.

Girl: But, we already have ice cream.

Boy: Honey, nothing is like new ice cream.

Girl: Pffffbt.

Boy: It's like new poon tang. Even if it's the generic brand, it's still new to you. What you don't want is some old freezer burnt shit. Heh.

Girl: Would you like a bowl of old used-up ice cream or not?

Boy: Fine. Thanks, honey.

Girl: It's in the freezer.

This Mug's For You

Zube Girl: Hi!

Zube Boy: Oh, hi honey.

Girl: I'm at Ready, Paint, Fire! hanging out with the ladies. I'll be home in a little while.

Boy: Are you making me a corny mug?

Girl: *stares at the corny mug she is in the process of making for him*

Boy: Honey?

Girl: You suck donkey dick.

Boy: Heh.

Girl: You ruined the surprise!

Boy: I'll still be surprised when I see it.

Girl: Yes, I'm going to make a lovely mug, and then bash you right the fuck over the head with it.

Boy: I love you!

Girl: I can't even change it now! I already put your name on it...

Boy: Me love you long time.

Girl: Hate. Hate, honey.

Boy: Awwww.

Girl: I'll see you when I get home. If I ever come home that is.

Boy: I'm anxiously awaiting you're arrival.

Girl: Wear a helmet.

Boy: As usual.

Girl: Bye.

Boy: Bye.

Supersize Me

I just thought of a really great way to piss off your husband, you know, if you happen to be into that sort of thing.

So, you go to the grocery store and say sweetly while batting your eyelashes, "Honey, why don't we go buy some condoms?" Your husband then gets very excited and says, "Cool, can we buy some whipped cream, too?" To which you reply, "Of course darling."

You head over to the pharmacy section after the dessert aisle, and unfortunately the condoms are behind the counter because kids steal them since abstinence education is apparently only succeeding in making kids even more embarassed about sex. What was I saying? Oh yeah. So, you're not too concerned because this plays perfectly into your plan. Your husband says to the person behind the counter, "Could I have a box of condoms please." She hands him some regular condoms. A box of 10 to be exact.

You peer over his shoulder at the box, and say, "Oh, wait a minute. Do you have any extra large ones?" The lady gives you a wry little smile, grabs a box of extra large condoms, and begins to hand them to your beaming husband, who is proudly passing the regular sized condoms back to her.

You start waving your arms like a madwoman and say, "No, no, no! The regular ones are for him, the extra large ones are for my dildo which he shoved up his ass last night. I don't need fecal matter up in there, you know what I mean?" And then you wink and skip away merrily. For some reason, the skipping part is important. I'm not sure why.

And you leave your husband crying like a little baby. You know the dildo story is not true. He knows it's not true. But, there's no explaining that to the lady behind the counter, who is peeing her pants laughing.

Yeah. I bet that situation would really piss a husband off. That's my guess anyway.

Meals on Wheels

Zube Boy and I are considering a business venture, inspired by his hot pink speedo. That was all he brought with him to Puerto Rico. When we were at the airport checking in, the tour group leaders asked him where all of his luggage was, and he told them he had his speedo and a bow tie in his pocket. That was all he needed. I mean, he is President of the Speedo Club after all.

So, we got into a discussion on the plane. We're looking for investors if anyone is so inclined to take the risk. Feel free to e-mail us at speedoslooksohotespeciallyondudesoverforty@yahoo.com.

Anyway, we want to open up a specialty sausage shop/restaurant thingy called Speedos and Sausage. We would only hire men, if that's legal. I certainly hope it's legal, 'cause if we had to hire women, that would fuck up everything. These men would be really hot. I would do the hiring, because Zube Boy has no taste in men. It's really not fair. I always point out hot chicks to him, and he's all drooling. When he tries to point out hot dudes, I'm like, eww. "Honey, pocket protectors are so not hot."

But, I digress. So, these hot guys in speedos would be the waitors and we would only serve the finest sausage in all the world. We were considering selling hot dogs and other varieties of, I don't know, phallic shaped delicacies, but we're still not sure.

Now, I bet you all think that everything is roses and cute little kitties in our relationship, but believe it or not, we do fight. One source of contention is whethere or not the waitors will serve while on roller blades. I think we can have it no other way, but Zube Boy is worried about lawsuits. Like, what if one of the waitors fell, scraped his buttocks, and poked himself in the eye with a sausage. I'm pretty sure we could dissuage him from suing us by telling him, "Stop crying you little pussy." Zube Boy is not so sure.

Oh well. I told him that I really try to see things from his point of view, but I can't manage to get my head that far up my ass. That shut him up. For now anyway.

Whatever, Ass

Zube Boy and I had a wonderful time in Puerto Rico. There are so many conversations I'm just dying to tell you about. Here's one which occurred while we were sitting on the beach.

Zube Boy: Honey, can we sit over there.

Zube Girl: No. I want to sit under this coconut tree because it's nice and shady.

Boy: But, it's dangerous. What if a coconut falls on your head. I don't want you to get hurt. It's safer over there.

Girl: No, I don't care. Besides, you're more in the direct line of coconut fire anyway. I'm already a lobster as a result of yesterday. Over there is in the sun. Overdone lobster is even worse than the current shellfish look I'm rocking.

Boy: Puhleeeeeaze can we sit over there.

Girl: NO! Why do you want to sit over there any...Oh. I see. Could it be that hot chick in the thong bikini that's causing this sudden desire to move?

Boy: Maybe.

Girl: She has a fine ass.

Boy: So, can we move.

Girl: I bet I'd look a lot like that in a thong bathing suit.

Boy: Yeah. She would kind of remind me of you if someone painted her ass white and put dents on it.

Girl: Give me a beer.

Boy: Can...

Girl: No.

Boy: Bu...

Girl: No! You've got a perfectly sweet white denty ass right here. Now shut up. I'm almost finished with this book.

Boy: You're no fun. I'm going to the casino.

Girl: Maybe you'll win big enough so that we can afford some tanning sessions and botox for my ass dimples.

Performance Anxiety

I've had a revelation, induced by the consumption of Budweiser.

Blogging is a lot like sex.

Now, hear me out. Or rather, read me out my fellow mofo's. When you're writing in a journal or somesuch, it doesn't really matter how shitty the content is, because, ideally, you're the only one reading it.

Like, when you masturbate. Hey, if you're happy, well, you're happy! If you're getting yourself off, then nothin' else matters, does it? See what I mean?

No? What are you dense? Okay. Let me break it down for you.

I was reading the blog of the fantabulous Blog Ho and he consistently puts forth some great blog shit. I would freak the fuck out if I had like 50 comments on just one of my entries. Really. I would feel like I had to write a great blog entry All. The. Time. I don't know if I could handle the pressure. I'm just not as cool as the 'Ho'.

I'd be pretty damn flattered at first. Like a 'That's Right Bitches, I Fucking ROCK' kind of flattered. But, then I'd get all flustered thinking I had to ROCK consistently. When sometimes I actually prefer to SWAY. In the manner of Axl Rose singing 'Patience'. You know?

It's like being an okay lover for the most part. But, once in a while, you do a really great job of it, and your lovee is panting, "Holy shit. You are a great lover!" The recipient of the great loving is gonna expect that shit every damn day. But sometimes, you just wanna get laid, roll over and go to sleep.

I think I kind of like being 'Just a Lay' most of the time, with a surprise 'Great Fuck' here and there. You just never know what you're gonna get! Isn't that exciting?

No? Then go away.

Today's blog lesson is twofold. Blog Ho is a great mind fuck (hee, that's truly a compliment!) and I should not let Budweiser do the talking for me.

That is all.

I Love Rock and Roll

One day I was walking down my street kicking a rock, thinking about whether I liked cheese or onion and garlic perogies better. I would kick the rock and watch it roll across the ground. Then, peering down the road at my rolling rock, I saw it land right in between two shiny black shoes. Attached to the pants and body of a man.

President George Bush. I rolled my eyes, and groaned. What in the hell did I do to deserve this encounter?

George Bush: Hi, I'm the President.

Zube Girl: Der.

Bush: So, what's up?

Girl: I'm just kicking a fucking rock minding my own business.

Bush: Gee, why the hostility.

Girl: 'Cause you suck, dude.

Bush: Wh-wh-whatever do you mean?

Girl: I mean that I think you're a pompous asshole who is leading our country to ruin, and making everyone around the world hate us when you had the perfect opportunity after 9-11 to, I don't know, rally up the world behind us. And, do you think I would be in the Oval Office if I told everyone that God spoke directly to me and told me how to run the country? No. I'd be in a loony bin.

Bush: But...

Girl: No, no but's. Now would you kindly give me my rock back?

Bush: Here you go. Well, have fun kicking your rock, loser.

Girl: Have fun depleting women's rights, dumbass.

Nah. Never happened. Unfortunately.

Frequent, Erm, Freaky Flyers

I truly feel sorry for the people who are seated on a plane in the vicinity of Zube Boy and I. I really do.

On the flight to Jersey, Zube Boy was seated next to the aisle, I was in the middle, and a seemingly nice gentleman was next to me in the window seat.

I was hacking and coughing because I had a cold. I fucking hate that. All I could do the whole time was worry that the guy next to me was cursing the suckfest germinator he had the grand misfortune of being seated next to.

I was also diagnosed with an ear infection the day before we left. So, flying sucked. You know, cabin pressure, popping ears, la la. During take off, I put my hands on my ears and bent forward a little, making the 'owwww' face, 'cause it was like, ow, and it helped me pop my ears.

Zube Boy quipped, "Oh honey, are the voices yelling again," causing the poor guy seated to my left to kind of scooch over a bit. About as much as one can scooch over in their seat on an airplane.

"Yep. They're saying I should kill you."

I Miss Pedro

Down in Peurto Rico, Zube Boy and I adopted a little bird. He was hella ugly, which made him all the more cute, if that makes sense.

He arrived on our balcony on our first day, and kind of stood there cocking his head to the side, as if waiting for something. I grabbed a box of Rice Krispies and tossed a few onto the balcony.

Pedro thoroughly enjoyed them. He came back once a day for the next three days, and we always obliged him with some more cereal.

I was kind of sad when he skipped a couple of days.

Then, on our last day there, Zube Boy shouted at me while I was on the pot, "Honey, guess whose here to say goodbye!"

I hurriedly finished the task at hand and hopped off the throne. There, on our balcony, was Pedro. I poured the last few bits of cereal into my hand and gave them to Pedro.

I wanted to bring him home. Zube Boy said he would probably fit in my suitcase, right next to my black shoes. I decided that wasn't such a great idea. So, we left him there.

Tag. I'm It!

Peg, over at Haiku Venue, who happens to kick some righteous ass, has tagged me. So, here goes.

Have you ever?

Snuck out of the house?
Until my parents moved me to the second floor of the house, yes.
Gotten lost in your city?
No. Can't even do it on purpose.
Seen a shooting star?
Yes. Tons. That's one thing that rules about living in the Rockies.
Been to any other countries besides Canada?
Yes.
Had a serious surgery?
No.
Gone out in public in your pajamas?
Of course. College anyone?
Kissed a stranger?
Um. Of course. College anyone?
Hugged a stranger?
Yeah, sure.
Been in a fist fight?
No. I was restrained by Bro and my cousin.
Been arrested?
Once.
Laughed and had milk/coke come out of your nose?
Yup.
Pushed all the buttons on an elevator?
Nope.
Swore at your parents?
Never. Around them? Whole 'nother fucking story.
Been in love?
Only for the past four and a half years.
Been close to love?
Yes.
Been to a casino?
Yesterday. Don't remind me.
Been skydiving?
Nope.
Skinny?
Huh? I don't get this one.
Skipped school?
Once. There happened to be an assembly that day. I won an award for a paper I wrote and was to be presented with it at said assembly. My absence was glaringly obvious. My Mom was just discussing this a couple of days ago at a 'remember when' session.
Been a therapist?
Hell yes. I highly recommend paying someone to listen to your shit.
Done the splits?
Yep. I was a cheerleader.
Played spin the bottle?
Yeppers.
Gotten stitches?
Four times.
Drank a whole gallon of milk in one hour?
No. Water to pass a pee test? Yes. I applied for a job two weeks after my 23rd birthday. It required a piss test, and I had taken two puffs off of a joint on my birthday. I overdid it a little with the water. I'm surprised they didn't make me redo it, because I literally peed water.
Bitten someone?
No.
Been to Niagara Falls?
No.
Gotten the chicken pox?
Yes.
Kissed a member of the opposite sex?
Every damn day!
Crashed into a friend's car?
No.
Been to Japan?
No.
Ridden in a taxi?
Yes.
Been dumped?
Ugh. Yes. I still have the resulting sad ass poetry in a journal somewhere.
Shoplifted?
No. Scammed money from a restaurant I worked at once, but felt so guilty that I gave it back the next day. It did help me make rent, though.
Been fired?
Not yet.
Had a crush on someone of the same sex?
Hmmm...
Had feelings for someone who didn't have them back?
Yep. It sucks.
Gone on a blind date?
Yes. He wore spandex shorts and had a mullet. It was the mid 90s. Never did the blind date thing again.
Lied to a friend?
No. Not told the truth? Yes.
Had a crush on a teacher?
Substitute? Yes. Mr. Tobias was a nerdy hot guy. Loved him.
Celebrated Mardi-Gras in New Orleans?
Nope.
Been to Europe?
Sadly, no.
Slept with a co-worker?
Yes. We were dating.
Been married?
Currently am.
Gotten divorced?
Nope.
Had children?
Not yet.
Seen someone die?
No.
Had a close friend die?
No.
Been to Africa?
No, but would love to.
Driven over 400 miles in one day?
Many times.
Been to US?
Yessiree.
Been to Mexico?
Sì.
Been to India?
Nope.
Been on a plane?
Just today. And yesterday.
Seen the Rocky Horror Picture Show?
Great Scott! Of course!
Thrown up in a bar?
No. On the door of a McDonald's that wouldn't let me in to use the bathroom 'cause they'd just closed? After I'd been at the bar? Yes.
Purposely set a part of myself on fire?
No. Been on fire? Yes.
Eaten sushi?
Yes. Love it.
Been skiing/snowboarding?
Yep.
Met someone in person from the internet?
Yep.
Lost a child?
Can't even fucking imagine what that would be like.
Gone to college/university?
Do I have to be able to remember it?
Graduated college/university?
The not remembering was a problem as far as graduating.
Fired a gun?
Once. Didn't like it.
Purposely hurt yourself?
When I was a teenager, I used to bite my arm. Hmmm...I'm too tired to go back and change my answer to did you ever bite anyone.
Taken painkillers?
Yes. For fun and pain.
Been intimate with someone of the same gender?
Nope.

Here's where I become a whiney lame-ass. I have no idea who to tag. If you'd like to be tagged, please let me know! I feel presumptuous doing it! Yeah, I suck.

We're Baaaack!

Oh Lord. What a trip! We're fucking exhausted. We finally arrived back to good old Colorado today, greeted by nothing other than &%!#$ snow. I left a trail behind me on our traveling path today. A cell phone in Jersey. A purse at a restaurant in Colorado on our way home.

And for all of those reasons, I do not quite feel up to telling you any of the stories I had anxiously anticipated sharing while in Puerto Rico. I can't say I miss muggy 90 degree weather, but I can't say that I'm happy to return to snow either.

I'm gonna mope a little and make myself a cocktail with some of the alcohol we bought at the airport's duty free shop.

I missed ya'll. I'll be back tomorrow.