Need Work - Will Travel...Or rather...Need to Travel and Will Be Working...

California, HERE I COME!

Do you hear that? It's rather faint. I can't tell exactly what it is, er, cheering? Screaming? Old ladies dropping their miniature size poodles and running for cover?

Maybe. Fortunately for California, I think the state's large enough to diffuse a Zube infection. And I'll be working, so my antics will be kept to a minimum.

I'm driving there. I leave Saturday. Here's my route. Most importantly, I have a question: any of you fine folks live out that way who might be able to suggest the perfect place for an overnight stay? Hopefully with a really cool, laid back, hole-in-the-wall bar where, like, retired bikers hang out? Or something? I'd like to try to get to Nevada the first day. I know I promised no more alcohol, but I've decided follow my HCG to zero first, and since that hasn't happened, well, I'd like to have an adult beverage when I reach my overnight refuge. I prefer to steer clear of a night in Utah, what with the mess of having to be sponsored by a member of boozing establishments and all. I mean, I KNOW it's not too hard to get sponsored, especially being a single gal (meaning solo, Zube Boy hasn't run away frantically waving his hands in the air just yet) whooping it up on her own, but I really don't feel like messing with it. So, Nevada it is. If you have any ideas, please let me know.

Also, if ANYONE is interested in guest posting, please e-mail me. I know it's really fucking short notice, and my updates have been abysmal lately anyway, but I hate to leave my little on-screen home all empty and lonely for nine days. That's like a cobweb collecting amount of time, and fucking hate cleaning up when I don't have to. Anyone care to keep the windows open and the breezes flowing around these parts?

I'll probably be able to sneak in an entry or two, but there will only be like ten computers at this conference, and people always stand behind you huffing and puffing and shit if you take too long, and I HATE that. And lately, I'm not much in the mood for it either.

I really, truly can't wait for the drive. That's the part I'm looking forward to most. Just me and my brain and my car. I get to pee when I want and hold it when I want and listen to Rush Limbaugh just to get myself all fired up if I want. I can flip the channel to Christian radio if I feel like it. I always like to keep myself abreast to their goings-on. I can do all of the stuff I cannot do when Zube Boy and I take a long trip, because a pissy Zube Boy does not a good travel partner make.

I'm quite excited to get to hang out with my brain again. You know, get the kind of thinking done that only gets done when there is SHIT on the radio and you have no one to tell stupid jokes to. It'll be a reunion of sorts.

All Aboard!

This post is brought to you by a wickedly introspective passenger aboard the Why Me? train. She decided to hop aboard mostly for shits and giggles, and partly for old time's sake.

I HATE the Why Me? Train mostly. I avoid it. At least in recent years. I rode that bitch straight through from the tender age of 21 (WAHOO!) to the ripe young age of 25 (WHOA! Where the fuck did time go?), and while I was certainly navigating my way through life in some form, the view from the window was so blurry, flying by me at lightning speed, that I feel like I missed out on a lot of awesome scenery. The "Oh my GOD, it's New York City/the Rocky Mountains/a slew of TUMBLEWEEDS crossing the road!," so to speak, of my early twenties. The good shit. The stuff that happens while you're curled in a ball in the same pajamas you've been wearing for three days, in the same body that hasn't been showered in more, reading your way to SELF-HELP Land! I lost precious years, I feel like, and I don't want it to happen again.

I got off that train when it landed in a town called He Throws Hoagies at My Head!, which is a suburb of a highly populated city called My Boyfriend Is an Asshole!, and moved to Colorado. I vowed to travel the rest of my life differently, never boarding that fucking train again. I negotiated my own path, propelled only by my own two feet.

Recently, I got to thinking, what the hell is wrong with riding that train once in a while? Like, a month or a day or even an hour or so. Not long term, but for a little bit? Really? Why shouldn't I? I've earned it, I think. Hiking my happy ass over all sorts of terrain for five years has taken its toll. Especially when I'm standing at the bottom of a cliff, wondering how I'll ever manage to climb up it. My fucking legs are tired and I'm parched. Putting one foot in front of the other has gotten me this far, but now I'm watching my feet, making sure I don't fall, and that, well, is not conducive to rock-climbing, which requires looking up. I'm not ready to look up. Not yet.

Happy Villain responded to an e-mail I'd sent her proclaiming how okay I was. It reeked of optimism and, well, lies. I'm not okay. Not completely, anyway. She responded, "While I'm glad you consider yourself "fine," I also want you to know that I think it fucking sucks. You're sad, and that's awful, because you don't deserve this," and I want to say to her, "THANK YOU!" Really. From the bottom of my heart. Thank you. Thank you for saying what the battered and bruised cheerleader curled up all fetal-style in the darkest corner of my brain is whimpering through tears. THIS FUCKING SUCKS AND I DON'T DESERVE IT!

I REALLY DON'T FUCKING DESERVE IT!

WHY ME? WHY THE FUCK ME?

Why do I have to be one of the 1% (*cough* that statistic is bullshit *cough* because rape is not just some dude jumping out of the bushes *cough*) of women who get pregnant as a result of rape?

Why do I have to be the one whose body managed to maintain that pregnancy for eight weeks?

Why did it take an abortion to make that pregnancy end?

Only to have the pregnancies of an awesome and loving man fall out? Three times?

Why does life have to fuck with me? I've STRUGGLED and SOUL-SEARCHED to be carefree, happy, and relatively well-adjusted. It's been hard work.

Why do I have to do it yet again?

Why do I have to be the vase of flowers on the dinner table of a shitty amateur magician? One who doesn't quite have the tablecloth trick down yet? And is fond of Jack Daniels?

Why? WHY, WHY, WHY?

No one knows the answer. Not me. Not you. Not the deities. But can I question it? Can I pound my fist in the air and scream it? Can I? Please? Is it okay to wonder WHY ME? I'm sure it is. It has to be. Because otherwise I'm going to stow away on that godforsaken Why Me? train for much longer than if I'd just bought myself a damn ticket with an expiration date.

And then, in the midst of my Pity Party, complete with thready at the feet pajama bottoms that get stuck under the swively computer chair and countless hours of watching shitty-ass actors on Lifetime, My Belle calls and says, "Hoot and I talked and if Project - Make a Baby isn't going to happen in your uterus, it can happen in one of ours."

And she wasn't inferring that we'd find some crazy ass uterine swap thing that has yet to be discovered by scientists. She meant that Zube Boy's and my offspring, if my uterus simply isn't having it, has permission to live in one of their respective uteruses (uteri???) for nine months.

And I'm like, "Why me? Why am I SO fucking lucky? How could this be?"

And she said, "We want this for you. As much as you do. Wouldn't you do it for us?"

"Yes. I would. In a fucking heartbeat, I would."

So, while unluck runs amok, so does good stuff. And sometimes when you're unlucky, you find out just how lucky you really are. Only, you would never have known how awesome it is to hold the clean end of the stick if it weren't for the shitty end. At least I know where to hold on. At least I know now that there is a clean end. At least I've learned that flinging the shit while holding the clean end can be a little redeeming. Heh. Especially when it's aimed at asshats. Cockroaches in your hotel room MY ASS! Did you KNOW you dumb twit that cockroaches don't happen to LIVE at 9,600 feet! Take your lying refund-wanting ass elsewhere. And next time don't take a vacation you can't afford, eh.

Anyway. At least asking, "Why me?" isn't all bad.

I'll Be Popping Something

Z-Girl: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH! YOU SHIT!

Background noise: Ping-ping-roll-ping-ping-ping-ping-roll-roll-roll...

Z-Boy: Oops.

Z-Girl: Dammit. They're all over!

Z-Boy: I'm sorry.

Z-Girl: WHY do you have to tickle my pits WHENEVER my damn arms are even relatively CLOSE to being up?

Z-Boy: I don't know.

Z-Girl: Now there are popcorn kernels EVERYWHERE but in the popcorn maker!

Yo Yo Yo! An Update and Stuff...

I'm so sorry I left ya'll hanging. I didn't have bloodwork done until late afternoon on Monday, and then didn't get the results until late afternoon yesterday. My hormones are continuing to drop. Albeit, they're being painfully SLLLLLLLOOOOOOOOOOW about it. But, that compounded with the fact that things are starting to get ugly down there...well, it's over. Or will be soon, anyway.

Thank you ALL for hoping AND for encouraging me to hope when I felt kind of stupid about it. Seriously.

There are a bunch of things in the Zube's future, after discussing our miscarriage situation with the doctor, including but not esclusive to: Progesterone supplements, a baby aspirin a day, a thyroid test, chromosomal testing (maybe, that ones still lingering on our marital discussion table), and much, much more.

There are also some things that I've decided I'll do before we try again which includes, but, naturally, is not exclusive to: acupuncture, NO caffiene, exercise, no more Happy Hour at all, and la, la, la.

Zube Boy has suggested that we ask our friend Zig to be a sperm donor, if it's true that his and my chromosomes aren't working out. Heh. He was kidding. And Zig is NUTZ, yo! So we'd have a fucking crazy kid. And if it's true that your children are worse than you, well then, Zube Boy doesn't deserve that really. Or maybe he does. Who knows. The man's a mystery, I tell ya. Anyway, we're robably not gonna go the sperm donor route.

In OTHER news! I'm an auntie, remember? Miss I and The Englishman and little Alexandria Jade AKA Alex are all doing wonderfully. And? Miss I grills one hell of a steak. Since I can't cook steak FOR SHIT, we'll surely return again and again. Here are some photos:

Miss I, Alex and I (You can probably figger who is who, but in case you're wondering, I'm the one hogging the baby!):


Oh my, how embarrassing! She fell asleep right in the middle of a good joke! YOU GUYS! I thought you told me I was funny!!!


Zube Boy (AKA - The Godfatha) and Zube Girl and Alex. Zube Boy was one of only two men besides Dad to hold her. What is it with boys, eh? Babies, believe it or not, are FAR less fragile than we fear. Anywho...Zube Boy lost his wallet that night. He's convinced that little Alex is a klepto. She's surely got the innocent look down pat. Hee.

The Regurgitating Uterus and Where the Wild Hairs Are

Zube Boy peers over my shoulder while I'm doing a bit of googlin'...

Z-Boy: Brown spotting?

Z-Girl: Yeah, honey. I'm trying to figure out what the hell is going on down there. That's ALL I've had is brown spotting, and not much at that.

Z-Boy: Would it make you feel better to know that sometimes I have brown spotting in my undies, too?

Z-Girl: Yes.

Z-Boy: Okay, then. I do.

Z-Girl: Ew. ffffff-ffffffff*

I'm still hanging out, waiting for the damn fat lady to sing her ass off already. I have to have my blood drawn again tomorrow, and I'm like GAH!!! ENOUGH WITH THE NEEDLES! Hate them. Loathe them. But, I'm really curious to know what my counts are because I still FEEL pregnant. Like, don't come within an inch of my titties or you'll lose your damn head. Which is making this whole escapade worse, in a way. I keep thinking about the fact that I was a twin, and Mom lost one of us, so maybe that's what's going on here? But, my numbers still shouldn't have dropped like they did. I don't think. This dragging on of events is keeping my hope on life support, and, well, I had a VERY strong opinion regarding the Terri Shaivo debacle. It's time to pull the damn plug already.

Z-Girl: It's OVER! Okay. OVER. Not gonna happen.

Hope: But, the last TWO TIMES your symptoms disappeared before everything went awry. This time they haven't.

Z-Girl: I know, but could you please SHUT UP already! PLEASE! Could it just be tomorrow? I need to know what the flip is going on with my uterus. If it's going to regurgitate, I'd like for it to get on with it already.

Hope: There's still hope.

Z-Girl: Shut up. For real. It's not that I don't like you, Hope, but things are dire. And you're making it difficult for me to accept that.

Hope: You can still hope.

Z-Girl: Meh.

Hope: Hope-ity, hope, hope?

Z-Girl: GOD you're annoying.

Hope: You, too.

Z-Girl: I know.

Regardless of all this inner turmoil, Zube Boy and I are sprouting wild hairs in the oddest of places. Our respective asses. There has been talk of running off to Mexico. Preferably the Yucatan. Not permanently. No, no, no. We're far too responsible for that. But for three or four weeks. Just to get away and do some version of the 'Nanny-Nanny Boo-Boo' dance on Project- Make a Baby. What could be more fun than getting jiggy on a beach without peeing on ovulation predictor sticks first?

I'd like to enjoy the gift of the time we've been given. Just the two of us. Shit. Is this a bright side? Am I going soft on ya'll? No. I'm trying to deal with this crap on my terms. You know? Suffice it to say that if any of YOU told me that maybe this was a blessing? I'd kick your ass. And I'm sure you'd expect nothing less. Because you're geniuses like that.

Anywho, I'm okay and I'm not okay. All at the same damn time. It's like duplicitous is my middle name these days. One minute, I'll want to crawl in a hole and die, and the next I'll be thinking, "Why don't you just crawl up your uterus? That seems to do the trick." And I'll laugh. The laughter of a very sick individual. Which is comforting. Because at least it means I'm still in here, among all this chaos. Being a big old bitch. As usual. Heh.


*That's how sound when I'm trying to be annoyed, but laughing despite myself.

Fuck the Bright Side

That crazy ass sillhouette chick up there? The one I daydream about hanging out with over frothy adult beverages? I still wager that she makes a kick ass margarita. Well, I stared at her for a bit wondering if her girlie parts worked properly. After deciding that they did, I stabbed her repeatedly in the cooch with my little cursor arrow. It was cathartic. And she didn't even get mad at me because she's got my fucking back like that.

The weird thing about this whole Miscarriage Mess I'm experiencing these days is that some folks want to look at the bright side of it. And, well, I don't. Not yet. Forgive me if I can't seem to find solace in the fact that at least it's happening early or that now I know I can get pregnant. Well, actually, I have to laugh a little at my fertility. I guess Zube Boy CAN glance my way and I'm pregnant. Three times in seven months. It's just that the little buggers fall out. So, laughable maybe, because not much escapes my scathing humor. But, comforting? No. Not in the least.

This 'looking on the bright side of things' got me thinking about rape. When people say to me something to the effect of, "Well at least blah blah blah...It could be worse," it makes me want to say, "Would you say to a rape survivor, 'Well, at least you didn't get pregnant?' or, 'Well, at least you weren't kidnapped and raped repeatedly?' or, ad nauseum?" No. At least, you shouldn't say those things. Rape is fucking horrible no matter how you spin it. So is this miscarriage business.

I'm not saying that people don't say all the wrong things to rape survivors. They do. I know. The moral of the story is this: People don't like to see other people sad and they try sometimes to look on the bright side of things in the hopes that the person hurting will feel better. Which, well, their intentions are good, but you know what they say about good intentions and the road to hell and all. What people don't seem to realize is that sad is just one step on the journey towards healing. And if that step is taken away, or if the journeying person skips it because they feel undeserving of sadness? The journey will be incomplete. And I've been there, done that. The journey CAN eventually be completed. It's just much tougher when you have to go back to square one years after you thought you were on the verge of HEALED.

I was talking to Hoot the other day and I was explaining this to her. She said, and I've never felt prouder, "One of the millions of things I've learned from you is never to judge someone's sad experiences. Whatever is their most sad thing at the time is their most sad thing at the time. Just let them be sad about it." Aw.

And it's true. I remember approximately ten Februarys ago, sitting in my dorm room contemplating whether I wanted a future of custody battles with a rapist or one without the child of a rapist in it. I heard a knock at my door, and yelled, "Come in!" It was a girl from down the hall that I knew fairly well, but not well enough to tell her what was on my mind at the time. She started tearfully explaining how she was caught in a Love Triangle and didn't know which guy to choose. At first, I wanted to be kind of pissed because I had bigger and badder things on my mind. And then I was like, "What the hell good would it do to get pissed and spout of something like, 'Oh yeah, you don't even KNOW what indecision is!' That'd only make her feel guilty and why should she have? She was crying and stressed, and, well, that IS a pretty big decision." I don't know. I guess you could say I learned an important lesson that day.

What I'm trying to say, more to myself than to anyone else, and in a rather disorganized fashion, if you ask me, is that THIS is my most sad thing right now. And I'm NOT going to think about how much worse it could be. I don't need to. Because it's bad enough and if I think about it in terms of me being lucky, that'll only serve the purpose of making me feel guilty for feeling bad. And I shouldn't feel guilty about that. I know better now.

I felt guilty for feeling bad ten years ago. I thought I should be over it. Recovered. I was lucky. I was alive. I was young. I was cute and in college and had my whole damn life ahead of me. So, I pretended I was all good. I rocked my combat boots and baby barrettes and laughed and smiled and played along. Only underneath, I wasn't all good. And pretending to be all good fueled by guilt only put off the REAL healing about five years or so. Too damn long.

So, with three miscarriages under my belt, I'm going to mourn that for as long as feels right. Until I say enough with the mourning; I'm done. Until I want to look on the bright side. Because I will. When I'm ready. And not a day sooner.

PS- You guys rock. That is all.

Regrouping...

That's what I'm doing. I've worried some of you, and I didn't mean to. It's just that I started blogging because I thought I was funny, and then it turned out that the joke was on me. Heh. Life's a bitch like that sometimes.

In the past few days I've been abysmally sad. And sobbing. And maybe a tiny bit bitchy. Fortunately, Zube Boy is running for Saint of the Year. Because otherwise I'd probably be buried deep in our .1 acre backyard. Sans ceremony.

Today at work, somebody said, "I miss your laugh..."

Me, too. Me, fucking, too.

Counting Down

Ring-Ring

Z-Girl: Hi honey.

Z-Boy: Hey. Where are you?

Z-Girl: Home.

Z-Boy: What happened?

Z-Girl: My counts went down and they should've doubled.

Z-Boy: I'm sorry.

Z-Girl: Eh, it's okay.

Z-Boy: So, did they say what we do next?

Z-Girl: Well, I scheduled an appointment for a fertility consult next Monday...

Z-Boy: Okay.

Z-Girl: ...And it's with the same doctor who saw me before, and he's probably going to say that we need to get our chromosomes tested. I'm afraid that's going to be REALLY FUCKING EXPENSIVE.

Z-Boy: Why do you think that?

Z-Girl: Because when he talked about it before he warned me that it'd be expensive.

Z-Boy: Oh.

Z-Girl: And you know if a doctor is telling you it'll be expensive, well, it's probably REAL expensive.

Z-Boy: Yeah.

Z-Girl: But, you know, I think our chromosomes should get along and shit. I really do. I mean, well, actually, let me think about this...Maybe, on second thought...

Z-Boy: Heh.

Z-Girl: Mine are probably all WOO-HOO careening down my fallopian tube all rock and roll style...

Z-Boy: I bet they're nuts...

Z-Girl: And yours are all mellow and practical looking at mine like they're freaks or something...

Z-Boy: Heh.

Z-Girl: And then they get together and stare at each other all, uh, what the fuck kind of human are we supposed to make of this mess???

Z-Boy: Okay honey. Take it easy...

Z-Girl: Yeah, I think I might've gotten a little carried away there for a minute. Well, I'll see you after work.

Z-Boy: Okay. I love you.

Z-Girl: I love you, too.

Z-Boy: Bye.

Z-Girl: Bye.

Anywho, now you know the dirt. Thank you ALL for the prayers and vibes and thoughts. Sincerely. Reading your comments made ME feel loved, and that means a hell of a lot right now.

I hope the above conversation doesn't have you all thinking that I don't care about the turn of events here. I do. I really, really do. In fact, when I STOP caring about ANYTHING, I'll probably be dead. Because I seem to care too much about a lot of different shit. It's just that, really, what the hell else are you gonna say? I mean, shit, I actually giggled for a few minutes, and since I've been either sobbing or on the verge of tears all damn weekend, the laughter was a welcome respite. And, if I ever stop laughing? I'll probably be dead, too.

I care and I laugh. That's me.

Oh, and I cry, too. And I think I might just go do some of that now.

Thank you again for being the rocking readers and commenters that you are. I may take a hiatus from blogging. Feel free to e-mail me if you like. I'm never one to shy away from exploring dark shit, but most of the dark shit I explore is WAY, WAY back in the Dark Ages of Zubedom, and I've pretty much got my feelings on it sorted out. This, however, is very fresh, and I feel like some things are best left to culture in a petri dish for a bit before being tossed under the microscope for all to see. You know?

Who knows how I'll feel about it tomorrow, though. I may not want to take a hiatus. I may want to whip out the damn microscope and share the culturing. Really, I'll do whatever I damn well please. I don't want to commit either way. I guess I've got some commitment issues going on. Much like my offspring, it would seem.

Here We Go Again. Actually, Again Again. Or Maybe Not.

So, how much do ya'll think the above gear might weigh? Care to venture a guess? Eh. I know. It's kind of tough to know for sure, and I wouldn't have had a CLUE how much it weighed until I went to the doctor yesterday. Now, I'm certain. The above garments, I hereby swear, weigh 18 pounds. They must. I mean, check out the clunky shoes. They're at least five pounds each.

That's the story I told Zube Boy, anyway. See, the scale at the doctor's office said 148. And I do declare that that is just plain WRONG! I KNOW for a fact that I weigh 130. Granted, that's five pounds heavier than what my license says, but the way I see it, if they don't ask me when I renew my license, if I've gained weight, I don't have to offer that information up. I think the Motor Vehicles people should be doing the investigatin' and shit. Besides, maybe I LOOK like I weigh 125, which is really the salient point of having your weight listed on your license, right? Right? I thought so.

NO WONDER I'm exhausted after work. Who the hell wouldn't be after traipsing around the office all day wearing 18 pounds of clothing?

You may be wondering why I went to the doctor in the first place. Or you may not be. I'm going to tell you anyway, because it's important and stuff and may explain a lot. Like my blog hiatus.

As much as I'd like to explain, all I can really muster is to say Here We Go Again. Well, maybe.

Do not read further if you're squeamish...

We've got weirdness going on down in the nether regions, which doesn't fare well since I got a positive pregnancy test a week ago.

I came home from work yesterday morning to rush to an appointment.

Z-Girl: Hi honey.

Z-Boy: What are you doing home?

Z-Girl: I have to go to the doctor. I don't think Stinky is sticking.

Z-Boy: Oh no.

Have I ever told you how wonderful he is? Yes? Well, it bears repeating. My husband is too awesome for words, really. He's said nothing but the perfect things and I'm not going to share them with you because I love being the special person who gets to know how truly thoughtful and caring he is. Neener!

I've been, shall we say, gassy, lately. Hence nicknaming the offspring-to-be (or not-to-be) Stinky. If that's silly, fuck it. We only get to be pregnant for, like, a week anyway, so whatever. I'll take all the liberties I feel like in that damn week.

I can say a lot without having to say much at all. Here are some words and phrases that have been pounding in my head since yesterday's appointment...

...Spotting can be normal...brown...old blood...red blood would be bad...it's not red...cramps can be normal...ectopic...blood test...HCG should double by Sunday if everything is okay...things may be wrong...but they could be okay...IF you have a third one, that's the magic number where we start taking things really seriously...la la la...

Sticking my fingers in my ears and singing Mary Had a Little Lamb at the top of my lungs isn't making those words go away. I can't stop obsessing. I just want to know.

I've stopped bleeding. And it really wasn't much at all.

I've stopped cramping. But they were VERY crampy and very scary.

My cervix is still closed and not tender. Which is good, I've been told.

I threw up this morning. It would be nice if THAT would go away if I'm not going to remain knocked up much longer.

The tatas, they are still hurting. That's how I knew for sure that something was wrong the last two times. Even before they went REALLY wrong. The tata pain abated. Not this time, though.

So, I'd like to be hopeful, but I'm finding it tough. I've looked in every corner of my mind for a little hope and found only a few glimmers. I'll work with those. If ya'll have hope to spare, please send it this way. I'm like a Hope Whore right now. I've used up my stash and now I'm eyeballing other people's.

As always, thank you. I'll know for certain Monday. Or sooner if things go wrong.

Hopefully, you won't hear from me until Monday.

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.

Something Smells Funny

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

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

And She's Off...And Running...Is It April Yet?

DAYUM, I'm busy! Babies born, honey's birthday's had, marital un-bliss, and sweaty, drunk college kids. Don't mind me. I'm just farting around March and neglecting my blog.

Little Alexandria Jade was born and she's 5lbs 13 oz of beautiousness. Love her. And Miss I and The Englishman are just going to ROCK at the Mommy and Daddy thing! I know it. And I am going to be the best fucking Aunt Zube EVER!

Speaking of birthdays, Zube Boy's was yesterday. We went to our favorite bar and ordered our favorite meal (cheesesteaks that are, like, REAL cheesesteaks, but in Colorado...and I'm from Jersey, I know a real cheesesteak when I see one). After cheesesteaks, we went out for ice cream at Coldstone. Zube Boy made fun of me because I wanted the Cocoa Banana Cabana, and was all embarrassed ordering it. I asked him if he would order it for me, but he pulled out his "It's My Birthday So I Don't Have to Order My Wife's Embarrassing Ice Cream Named Dessert" card. You know. Similar to the Get Out of Jail FREE!" card. Yeah. Anyway, we had a ton of fun.

Let's see, what else. Oh yeah, Zube Boy and I are having marital negotiations right now. We're kind of fighting. But don't worry, it's funny. Well, at least it's funny if you're not me. After five years of pretty much sleeping on specific sides of the bed, I want to change. But Zube Boy's not digging it. He calls bullshit on my, "But MY side is the GHOSTY side of the bed!" whining. I'm working on him though. Seriously. One night I accidentally fell asleep on his side and I got THE BEST SLEEP EVAH! I didn't even have to wrap my head up all burrito-like in the comforter and I didn't wake up ONCE in the middle of the night worrying about ghosts touching my nose. So, I concluded that my side of the bed is haunted. Logically, since Zube Boy doesn't believe in ghosts, AND he loves me, the conclusion I came to was that he should sleep on my side from now on. I'm not getting very far.

So, it's March. Or rather, it's SPRING BREAK 2006!!! Which means that I am swamped yet again by various church groups and college groups and a commute to and from work that somehow manages to extend from six minutes to twenty. Just know that if you are fond of visiting the Zube, she will be sure to disappoint this month. But, not to worry. She'll be back in April with a vengeance. Work is going to be insane for the next few weeks, and I'm going to be doing my best to keep up with that. Which means I'll likely be doing my worst at keeping up with my blog.

Well, PEACE OUT, homies!

Canine Flatulympics

You know Mom and Dad, it's not very nice to laugh at another's misfortune. Is it MY fault that sometimes air comes out of my butt while I'm sleeping and it freaks me out and wakes me up and makes me run away from my bed? I really don't get the air leaking out of my butt thing. It's weird. AND to top it all off it smells kind of funny. And then you guys make me feel all stupid and hold your noses and shoo me away. I mean, it's not like I'm doing it on purpose. You should really be nice. Okay?


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

I feel MUCH better now. Thank you all! And Miss I even asked her doctor about cold-havin' folks coming to the hospital and the doctor said babies have incredible immune systems, so I WILL be going to the hospital OHMYGOD, TOMORROW! Whee!

And, I'm not even sick anymore, save a coupla sniffles.

Clearly, I've Lost It...

My nose is all stuffy.
My eyes are all puffy.

The snot, it is seeping.
The eyes, they are weeping.

The nose is a blowin'
This bitch is a woe'in,
Dammit, where've all my tissues been goin'?
Oh yeah, in addition, I think my issues are showin'!

Fuck. Poetry is FAR too confining for the mood I'm in right now. I'm PISSED. And I have a cold. I am one pissy, snotty, weepy, cold-havin' mother fucker. And also, I'm feeling a little sorry for myself on top of that. Great combo, eh? Anyway...

In a futile attempt to make myself giggle, I'd like to share some photos with you.

I call this one Six Cats Shitting on a Couch...


It's sort of the beginning of a series. Or, would two photos be a series? Maybe a sery? Heh. Whatever. I'm not really sure what to call the subsequent photo, but I'm leaning towards Don't Believe Me? Check the Shit Out!


Okay, it made ME giggle, and that's what's important here, right?

Hey! Wanna buy a duck?

A what?

A duck!

Does it quack?

Of course it quacks! It's a fucking duck!

Hee. Life always feels a little more liveable when you can quote a drinking game. My luck, though, that'll be a game that was only ever played in my dorm room, so none of you will have any idea what I'm talking about.

Ginamonster sent me a little gift the other day from her online shop and now I kind of want to hump her leg. Allow me to introduce you to the newest Soap Stars here at General Mental Ward...




I'm looking for NAMES! I'm all about naming things, and rubber duckies are no exception. So, offer up some names if you're so inclined. The only one I've come up with so far is 'Hell in a Handbasket' for, well, obvious reasons. But, 'Hell in a Handbasket' is far too long a name, AND the basket (c/o Bonanza's Christmas gifty soap, by the way) is actually more of a FINGERbasket than a HANDbasket.

There'll be a soap opera happenin' here soon with the duckies. It will involve a honeymoon rafting cruise and an affair of some sort; I haven't quite meshed out the details. But I'm working on it.

One more thing before I go. Did you know that if you have a cold, and you happen to know and be around pregnant people, you should stay away from them? I know this. Actually, common courtesy compels me to keep my distance from EVERYONE when I have a cold. But, I've been reminded a few times to stay away from this or that pregnant lady because it's EXPECIALLY important, what with the little babies in their bellies and all.

I'd appreciate the advice if I maybe had a hobby of licking people on the mouth and spewing snot on their faces unless otherwise advised. But REALLY? The warning is unnecessary because I'm WELL FUCKING AWARE that me and my germs need to stick to ourselves. Oddly enough, the pregnant people aren't reminding me of this. Other people are. And I KNOW they mean well and I should take it as such but, HELLO! I know! I didn't just crawl out of hole yesterday, okay? Thanks.

Anyway, all of the talk about pregnant ladies and about how I should stay away from them got me thinking that I could've been 8 or 5 months pregnant today...But, uh, I'm not. As if that weren't bad enough, now I'm like a fucking leper who has to stay away from the blessedly pregnant people. It kind of sucks, you guys.

Miss I's kiddo is due by C-section on Friday, and I'm SO scared that my cold will prevent me from going. That little girl is going to be practically my niece. And I might not even be able to visit her.

The asshole in my brain is saying, "NANA-NANA-BOO-BOO! Not even can you NOT have your own babies, but the dieties will see to it that you can't even be around other people's!" HAHA!

Gah DAMMIT! I'm crying again.

So. Not. In. A. Good. Place.

A Fly on the Wall

Z-Boy: Honey?

Z-Girl: Yeah.

Z-Boy: Do you think I have an anger management problem?

Z-Girl: Well...

Z-Boy: JESUS-GOD, DO YOU EVER SHUT THE FUCK UP???

Z-Girl: Heh.

*crickets chirping*

Z-Boy: So?

Z-Girl: So what?

Z-Boy: Do I?

Z-Girl: Maybe.

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

Z-Boy: Honey, guess what?

Z-Girl: What?

Z-Boy: The other day I was home and you were working and I watched Forrest Gump.

Z-Girl: That's nice.

Z-Boy: And that part came on where Forrest says, "Stupid is as stupid does," and it made me think of my hon...um...brother.

Z-Girl: Your brother, eh?

Z-Boy: Yeah.

Z-Girl: That's not what it sounded like you were going to say.

Z-Boy: I was confused for a minute honey.

Z-Girl: Sure you were.

Tag You, Tag Me...And I Bet You WISH You Were as Slackerific as I!

About a million years ago, one of my bestest blog buddies, Junebee, tagged me with a meme. I was so busy accusing dinosaurs of shrinking my pants back then that I've just gotten around to her meme now. And, in case you were wondering, the dinosaurs? They are not pant-shrinkers. In fact, they're SO pissed off about their own pants being shrunk, and having to run around naked and shit, that they've created their own investigative team to determine who the crooks are.

But you know what? It's like a million years later, and the poor naked dinosaurs will never know that it was the gnomes who were shrinking their pants. Oh well. Sucks to be them.

Anywho, the rules: Remove the blog in the top spot from the following list and bump everyone up one place. Then add your blog to the bottom slot, like so:

Eddy (This blog doesn't even EXIST anymore, that's how long I take to do these damn things!
Yaniboy
Xanadu
Herding Cats
Zube Girl

Then you get to select five people to pass the love on to so they can do this meme,
like so:

Suicidal Eggs
Pussy Lickers
Just Say YES!
United Queens of Blogmania
I've Gotta Hole for YOU, Punk!


What were you doing 10 years ago?
Probably smoking pot and swearing to myself that I'd NEVER forget what I was doing that monumental moment. Or some shit like that. But really? I forget. I know I was a little messed up exactly ten years ago.

What were you doing 1 year ago?
Going crazy. Just about. Wondering how I was ever going to perform the job I was promoted to if I was still chipping in to help out with the job I was promoted from. Oh yeah, I might've been pulling Zube Boy's toes and bitching that he could've at least washed his feet first. And I bet only three of them cracked.

Five snacks you enjoy:
1. Triscuits and cottage cheese
2. Peanuts
3. Sweet Tarts
4. Boulder chips
5. Microwaveable burritos and sour cream

Five songs to which you know all the lyrics:
1. “Every Rose Has Its Thorn” (Poison)
2. “Just Wait” (Blues Traveler)
3. “Cleanin' Out My Closet” (Eminem)
4. “Hurt” (Nine Inch Nails and Johnny Cash)
5. “You Don't Know How It Feels” (Tom Petty)

Five things you would do if you were a millionaire:
1. Buy assloads of Emergency Contraception and drive around the country doling it out and educating women about it.
2. Pay off my bills.
3. Donate half of it to various organizations supporting Choice, Separation of Church and State, the Homeless, the under-privelaged, and so on.
4. Finish our house and buy another one with a yard big enough to enable my Spy Roll practice sessions.
5. Fly you all here and have a big ass party complete with daycare for the Mommies and Daddies.

Five Bad habits
1. Avoiding hurting people's feelings at all costs
2. Saying 'Fuck'
3. Eating popcorn
4. Being too honest
5. Ignoring confrontation

Five things you would never wear again:
1. Two-tone jeans
2. Braces
3. Leg warmers
4. Flannel shirts
5. Anything flourescent

Five Favorite Toys:
1. Zube Boy's '84 CJ
2. Zube Boy's '52 Dodge M37
3. Scrabble
4. Roomba
5. Sims 2

Not only did I leave ONE meme flailing in The Land of Neglect, I abandoned TWO. Here is the other from Black Eyed Grrl.

The rules: The tagged victim lists 8 different points of their perfect lover/partner, mentioning the sex of said partner. Tag 8 victims to join this game & leave a comment on a post letting them know they’ve been tagged. If tagged before, no need to contribute.

1. Is sensitive but tough. A tall order, I know, but the current love meets both requirements. He rules like that.
2. Is appreciative of his partner's intelligence even though they might be of opposing political affiliations.
3. Is kind and thoughtful.
4. Is a big fan of generic cereal. Oh wait. Mine happens to be an 'IS' List, not a 'WISH' List. Scratch that.
5. Is funny as hell.
6. Works hard.
7. Compliments my cooking.
8. Hugs me when I cry.

Thank you for the tag, gals! Hope you all had a rockin' weekend. May your pants fit you!

Today I Am...

Do you ever, when you have a free minute to breathe and relax and escape from the craziness you're convinced surrounds you, sit and think about who you are and who you were and how they were always one in the same person, yet a little different, too? Do you ever fall silent and let memories come and go as they please? Have you ever wondered, "JESUS FUCKING H! Am I stoned or what?" Heh. Me, too.

Anyway, I'm sitting here in my sensible off-white ribbed turtleneck, corduroy brown jacket, and noticeably non-ripped, non-frayed at the bottom jeans in the house I share with my wondermous husband and four crazy ass animals, and kind of giggling to myself about the many incarnations of Zube that landed me here, in this chair, surrounded by all these four-legged nutcases, today. I feel really grounded and really, um, conscious of myself right now. In a good way.

Lots of times I feel fractured from the past Zubes. I try to assimilate and accept them, but it usually takes effort. Today, or at least this minute, I am me and all the me's I've been before wrapped into one. And it's easy.

Today I am...

...The girl who wore ice blue lipstick and rainbow kiddy barrettes and combat boots in her early twenties.

...The sister who, after leaving a party with her brother at 2:00AM and discovering that a house fire had spread to an entire block of her town, rushed home, woke up her Mom, and the three of them frantically brewed coffee, gathered snacks, and packed it all in the car and headed over to the Red Cross, only to be told, "We've got everything under control. Go home." Non-plussed, they drove around the perimeter of the area and offered the snacks and coffee and juice drinks to the firemen and women, whom exlaimed, "Thank you SO much! The Red Cross hasn't been able to get to us in over an hour."

...The student who sat on the stoop outside her dorm and smoked cigarettes like a fiend hoping that her panic attack would pass because she only had an hour before her first student teaching class and wanted to make a good impression.

...The adult who always has and always will speed up and aim center when driving towards a puddle, laughing hysterically.

...The teenager who cried on her Senior trip while going through the haunted house at Disney World because her supposed friends were making fun of her again. Though she was very relieved to be on a really dark ride so that no one would see her crying.

...The daughter whose father finally pulled her aside and said, "It's okay to look me in the eye. I love you even when you make mistakes and I don't want you to feel like you're walking on eggshells all the time. People screw up," after she'd finally confessed to having gotten a DUI.

...The ex-girlfriend who stuck maxi pads all over her ex-boyfriend's car because he told her he'd rather do cocaine than hang out with her.

...The employee who worked as an aide to a Democratic politician during the Monica Lewinsky debacle.

..The girl who got VERY annoyed when people asked her, "So, what do you REALLY do for that politician, anyway?"

Today I am me. Who are you today?

Sometimes I Get Wheely, Wheely Annoyed...Heh...That Was Maybe the Lamest Title Ever...

The other day, we were having snow removed from the back parking lot at work. As always, there was a vehicle there without a parking pass. We had every right to have it towed, but we always make an attempt to find the errant parker by calling some of the condos in the vicinity. See, no matter whether it is our right to tow them, invariably the towee gets twelve shades of bitter and goes on a rampage about how unfair we are and how we enjoy towing people and pissing them off, ad nauseum. That's never fun. Pissed off people aren't fun. Why people insist we relish in ruining their day is beyond me.

Anywho, I was calling various condos and asking if they might happen to possess a blue Durango which might happen to be parked in the back driveway and might happen to not have a parking pass on it. Most folks simply said no. One lady in particular irritated the daylights out of me.

Z-Girl: Hi! I was wondering, do you happen to have a blue Durango parked in the back driveway without a tag?

Lady: *disgustedly* Uck! NO! WE have a HUMMER!

Z-Girl: Oh. Sorry.

And I meant it. There are Hummers EVERY-FUCKING-WHERE around here. They make me bonkers. To say that I despise them would be an understatement of epic proportions. I mean, why get an $80,000 vehicle that LOOKS like it should be offroading but is too fucking nice and EXPENSIVE to actually get dirty and fuck up? It's silliness.

So, Lady, I'm sorry your hubby had to buy a car named after something he wishes he was getting more of.

The other day, this guy grabbed a luggage cart from next to the elevator, looked over at me, and asked, "Excuse me, but do these fit on the elevator?"

I replied, "No, you have to use the stairs." Heh. It took him a minute, but eventually he laughed. Because really, what would be the point of having luggage carts with wheels to schlep your belongings to your room if they didn't fit on the elevator?

Need advice? We Three Bitches need advisees. E-mail us at wethreebitches [at] yahoo [dot] com. Perty please. No question is beyond our infinite knowledge. Obviously.

Oh, in case you were wondering, I'm not going to go anon. I guess if I get found by the one person I don't want to find me, I'll make the best of it. 'Cause I'm kind of a survivor like that. At least that's what I keep telling myself.

Sink or Swim or Just Float Around

This white water rafting guide came into my work the other day with a little promotional blow-up raft filled with candy. I BEGGED and PLEADED to be the lucky owner of the mini-raft, and I won, but probably only because the bosses eight-year-old daughter wasn't around. I feel a little bad about that. Oh well.

Here, have a look at the raft:


Ain't it adorable? Are you thinking what I'm thinking? Good! Then you must be some kind of a fucking genius, too.

On the way home from work, I stopped by the grocery store and bought one essential item...


Once home, I shoo-ed Zube Boy out of the kitchen and went about getting my surprise in order. It only took a few minutes.


Tee hee! It works! YAY!

Z-Girl: HONEY!!!

Z-Boy: WHAT?!

Z-Girl: BATHTIME!!!

If Only He Had a Rubber Ducky

I think I know what Zube Boy was talking to himself about in the bathtub yesterday. How would I know, you might ask? Because I fucking know EVERYTHING! Hello! Haven't you people learned?

Oh yeah, I drew a picture, too. It only seemed right. After all, he doesn't hesitiate to draw VERY unflattering images of his beautiful wife.

Z-Boy: BUBBLES!!! Bubbles, bubbles, bubbles!

Z-Boy: Whee!

Z-Boy: Dude, these ChipMates SUCK!

Z-Boy: Hell yeah, they do. That's because THE WIFE SUCKS!

Z-Boy: HAHAHAHAHA!

Z-Boy: You know what ChipMates really are, don't you?

Z-Boy: What?

Z-Boy: They're what's swept off of the Cookie Crisp factory floor.

Z-Boy: WHAT?!?!?!

Z-Boy: For real. I know stuff about stuff.

Z-Boy: That's nasty.

Z-Boy: Yep. Uh-oh. I hear the wife stomping down the hallway.

Z-Boy: The wife that won't buy me name brand cereal?

Z-Boy: Yup. That's the wife I'm talking about.

Z-Boy: Damn her. Always storming in on my Zube Boy time.

This is what was going on before the conversation in the post below. I just know it.

Interrupting the Bathtub Bandit

With a cat licking his brains out in one ear and a crackling and popping woodstove in the other, it's hard to hear what your husband is saying from the bathtub. Especially with the bathroom door closed. Though, I was sure I heard the familiar muffled sound of his voice. So, I peel my lazy Law & Order SVU watching ass off of the couch and walk over to the bathroom door.

Z-Girl: *impatiently* What?

Z-Boy: What?

Z-Girl: Were you calling me?

Z-Boy: No.

Z-Girl: I heard you talking.

Z-Boy: I was talking to myself.

Z-Girl: Oh. Heh. Well, I'm sorry if I interrupted.

Z-Boy: Eh. That's okay. It was kind of a boring conversation anyway.

Z-Girl: Honey.

Z-Boy: What?

Z-Girl: You're awesome.

Second Thoughts

Never in a million years did I think when I started this silly online journal last March that it would be what it is today. It's just, well, bigger than I imagined it would be. A search for my maiden name turns me up on the first page of Google. The links and comments here are getting numerous, and I try to keep up with them and reciprocate blog visits but it's tough because the Marital Ass Spread I've been rocking these days does well enough on its own, without the encouragement of spending hours on end in front of the computer. I'd like to thank those of you who visit, and I'm sorry about sucking with the whole reciprocity thing. I try. I really do.

And while I'm thankful that y'all give me props and read my musings and link to me, there's a little voice in the back of my head, chirping, "Maybe this has gotten a little out of hand." I try to tell that voice to shut up, but it doesn't seem to be the negative voice that tells me I suck every once in a while. The mean voice that NEEDS to be told to shut up. It's a kind and caring voice that maybe has a point.

The thing is, this blog of mine has led to some awesome serendipitous encounters. I've been found by incredible people from my past, and I couldn't be happier about that. When I started The Adventures of Zube Girl, I opted not to be all incognito about my identity. In the back of my mind, I wanted to enable people who knew me when I was all screwed up to be able to find me now and know that, while I'm still kind of screwed up, it's not all bad like before.

Back in September, I received an e-mail from Dave. Dave, who had the grand misfortune of being my boyfriend back when I was raped. Dave, who told me he would support me no matter what I decided to do with the resulting pregnancy. Dave, who didn't drop me like a fucking hot potato even though I was pregnant by another guy. Dave, who bought me flowers and stayed with me the night after the abortion while I was cramping and bleeding and crying. Dave, who is seriously? One of the most beautiful people I've ever met.

After finding my blog, he sent me an e-mail saying, among other things, "Looking back now I have to tell you that you were so strong in the face of such a bad circumstance. I wish I could have done more for you." And my gut reaction was OH MY GOD, NO! I wasn't strong. I mean, I didn't kill myself. I guess that showed some strength. But, I chose instead to obsess over the thought of killing myself. How I would do it, and how awesome it would be to fade into a deep forever sleep with an empty pill bottle in my hand and my family and friends standing around me saying, "It's okay. Go to sleep. We know that life is just too hard for you." I actually used to daydream about it while I was supposed to be painting window trim at my summer job.

I wasn't strong. I sucked. At least a little bit back then. And on top of all that, I had the audacity to blow Dave off. See, he cared about me, and I didn't want to deal with that. Getting wasted and feeling sorry for yourself takes up a lot of time and energy, ya know? And the more people who care, well, the more explaining you have to do. So I stopped calling Dave. And we had been dating for a while. Long enough to warrant a break-up explanation. But with the explaining thing? I wasn't having it. I just stopped calling. That was pretty shitty, if you ask me.

When he e-mailed me in September, I asked him if I could write a post on my blog about his wonderfulness and he said yes. After being totally cool and humble about it. That was his way. And I REALLY wanted to thank him. But I couldn't do it. I tried maybe a million and one times to write about it, but I just couldn't find the words. I mean, how do you say THANK YOU for being Not-an-Asshole when I wanted to believe that ALL men were assholes? How do you say THANK YOU for being the kindest 20-year-old guy EVER and holding me when I cried about an abortion we didn't decide I'd have together? Because it wasn't your fault I was pregnant? How do you say THANK YOU for not getting mad that I accepted a ride to the grocery store with another guy I only kind of knew through a friend? How do you say THANK YOU for believing me when other people thought I was making it up to hide an indiscretion? How do you say THANK YOU for writing me ten years after the fact and telling me I was STRONG when really, YOU were strong for me, and I pushed you away because of it?

There are just no words. Except THANK YOU, DAVE. Thank you, especially, for finding me again and giving me the opportunity to tell you how wonderful you were, and how you got me through some of the roughest months of my life, and how I will be forever grateful to you for that.

And then there is Kenyatta. He e-mailed me after being forwarded this post by someone random. Kenyatta and I met back in college when we were both RA's. Kenyatta was there for me when I was depressed even *before* the rape. Ever since I was a kid, I've been a little sad. It's weird. Actually, after the rape, my whole outlook changed. Sort of. My brain went, "Oh shit! Things can be AWFUL! Hmmm...I'm not gonna dwell on the small stuff anymore." Being raped sort of made me a happier person. In the long, long run, anyway. Like now. Ten years later. How fucked up is that?

I've always had friends like Kenyatta who've been there to build me up. And that makes me feel bad in a way. Because what have I done for them? I just don't see myself putting as much into friendships as I get out of them. But still, they're there for me. Why? Because they're amazing and I'm fucking lucky.

Some of you may recall that I dated a guy I call AssFace. He threw a television set at me once and that led me to kicking him out. It was the final straw. And Kenyatta was there. Even though I hadn't talked to him in a while. Just so you know, AssFaces don't really like when their girlfriends have friends. Especially friends of the male persuasion. So I pushed Kenyatta away because I was hell-bent on self destructing or something like it. Thankfully, I realized what a dumb-ass victim I was being and rid myself of AssFace. And I called Kenyatta. And he cruised down from NYC to make sure I was safe. Because he fucking rocks like that.

I don't know how to thank him either. Words would be a good start, I guess. And I'm so full of them sometimes. When it's not so important. Yet when words are crucial, I fail to find the right ones.

All I've got is THANK YOU KENYATTA. You are more awesome than you know.

Now, happy as I am that these people have been reintroduced to my life, I'm a little nervous. There are people I don't really want to find me. Or, okay, maybe just one person. The guy that raped me.

It seems a stretch that he'd find me given that I doubt he even remembers my name, but mere months ago I'd have thought it a stretch for someone I didn't know to forward a blog entry of my dog dressed in a scarf and hat to a good friend from college I hadn't talked to in years. I'm beginning to have second thoughts about being so openly Zube. I don't want to miss out on people like Dave and Kenyatta, but the randomness of life is freaking me out a little.

Let's pretend for a minute that the guy who raped me, in a moment of clarity, remembered my name and Google searched me. Imagine I didn't have a blog. He'd find a few articles where I'm mentioned for some of the work I've done with Planned Parenthood. That I don't mind so much. So what if he can find me being strong? Big whoop, right?

But I have a blog. And if you search my name, it is easily found. And if a link to my blog is forwarded to you, my name is very easily remembered. What if he found my blog? Do I really want him to know that in moments of weakness I Google search his sorry ass to play some sort of power-trippy self-torture game with myself? Do I want him to know that I remember the exact day we last saw each other ten years ago?

Would it make me a wuss to begin anew and anon? I don't know. I don't really want to, but I guess you could say I'm considering it. Would I rather call The Adventures of a Gnome Exterminator or The Adventures of a Stick Figure Arteest my home? Would it be worth it? I do draw a mean stick figure and I kick some righteous gnome ass, but, I'm Zube. And I'm kind of stuck on that. I don't know that I'd want to be anything else. But I also don't know that I'd want to be Zube who was fucked up forever-and-ever-amen because someone who once invaded her body, then invaded her mind. Because she thought she was invincible...

He Just Cracks Me Up...

Hey, listen. If you guys learn just one thing from me, please let it be this: never, ever, EVER, EVER, EVER respond to your husband's, "Nice wedgie," comment by saying, "Draw a picture. It'll last longer."


I think the knee rolls in the back are just a wee bit of an exaggeration, though.

Getting Punished With Your Pants Down

-Okay, so I totally stole this from Risible Girl who, by the way, rocks socks. Check her out. Anyway, if you're even remotely interested in gazing at my navel with me, feel free to participate. I'll gaze at your navel with you if you're so inclined to set up a Jahari dealymabob of your own. We could get together and compare lint and shit over coffee. We should probably make sure to use coffee mugs with lids, like travel mugs or something. 'Cause light lint might fly. Just a thought.

-I'm TOO excited because I'm going to North Lake Tahoe, California the first week of April. I'll get to do conferency things and hear and read the words 'ski industry' approximately 2,000 times. WHEE! The coolest part is that I've never been west of Utah before. I'm a west coast virgin, soon to be defiled. I'm looking forward to it. I bet there are lots of people in California to make fun of, too. At least I hope so.

-When I was in high school, this kid pulled down my gym shorts while I was in the midst of lifting weights. I was MORTIFIED because I had on those silky undies with the scrunched up skinny sides that no matter how big of an ass you've got to fill the suckers out they still manage to poof beyond the filler. They were black with big pink roses on them. I remember them well. So does everyone else in my gym class, probably.

I was hugely embarrassed, and with weights in my hand it took painful seconds to resume a position optimal for the pulling up of the gym shorts.

The gym teacher was not amused. She had an ICY COLD STARE that could silence a 6' 3" senior linebacker. And she was like, 4' 10". She pulled out her handy dandy icy eyeballs, and the laughter ceased. So did the weight lifting. She had ten minutes of class left to exact her punishment. And that punishment was fucking beautiful. Almost worth getting my pants pulled down for. Mr. Pants Puller Downer had to jog three laps around the gym with HIS pants around his ankles while the rest of the class sat in the bleachers.

I think the punishment fit the crime. These days, she'd probably get fired. Which is sad, I think.

Oh What a Wicked Cracka We Weave

Last night...

Z-Boy: Whachya eatin’ honey?

Z-Girl: Cheese and crackers.

Z-Boy: Hm. And, what kind of crackers are they?

Z-Girl: Triscuits.

Z-Boy: Triscuits. Interesting.

Z-Girl: *realizing where this is going*

Z-Boy: So, I’m kind of surprised to see that you’re eating Triscuits and not Woven Wheats.

Z-Girl: Heh.

Z-Boy: Interesting, indeed.

Z-Girl: Honey?

Z-Boy: What?

Z-Girl: YOU! Are ridiculous. *I* get name brand crackers because *I* went shopping.

Z-Boy: Yep. I see how it is. Husbands get generic cereal and wives get name-brand crackers.

Z-Girl: That's right, punk.

Waht Teh Fcuk?

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

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

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

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

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

Do Butterflies Pass Gas, Too? They Must...

When I was, like, 24 or something, I was visiting my Mom's house. My Belle, the littlest, ten years my junior, sister was playing on the computer. She was doing this thing called Instant Messaging. It all sounded very weird to me, and I peered over her shoulder to see mad windows with various conversations going on all over the screen. I proceeded to ask her, "Who's this?" about each one.

I happened to know one of her girlfiends, so she asked me if I wanted to try it under her username and say hi. I excitedly agreed. Only, I'm kind of a shitty big sister, and clicked on the conversation she had been having with someone she deemed 'a cute boy at school' and typed...

"Hey, so do you think butterflies fart?"

Needless to say, she was mortified. But, she's adorable, and I'm sure that she did some damage control and rectified the situation by telling the cute boy that her big sister is a whack-job.

The kid's response was hilarious, though. He said, "Um, what?"

I'm just imagining how strange he must've thought it was. Apparently he and my sister weren't GREAT friends or anything. They just kind of knew each other. It's funnier to me to imagine the look on his face after receiving the query than it was seeing the look on My Belle's face as she tackled me to the floor. Though, the look on her face was pretty funny, too.

Love and Jeeps and Loving Jeeps...But Hating Crutches

I put a poem and photo in the local paper's Valentine's Day Love Notes section for my honey. I thought I'd share it with you.

Mike,

It’s our second Valentine’s Day
As husband and wife.
For the most part I’ve been
Fairly happy with life.

I’ve been thinking a little
About how we’ll endure
Without one of us killing the other
And stashing the body under the crawl space door.

I know you’d love
If I made you more cookies
And you’d probably be happy
If we made more, uh, nookie.

I promise to honor these wishes my dear.
I’ve got one request that I’d like you to hear.
For cookies and nookie don’t come for free.
All good things that come, they come for a fee.

So, when jeeps happen to flip over
Could you try not to be in them?
Or at least while they flip
Could you keep your foot in ‘em?

‘Cause ‘in sickness and health’ is a great promise in theory
And offroading is fun but the injuries grow weary.
As long as crutches remain a thing in your past
I think we can make this marriage of ours last.

Love,
Zube

Damn.

Does life ever shock the hell out of you? Yeah, me too. A most awesome friend from college e-mailed me today. I've got so much more to say about it, as always, but all of the words are getting clogged at my fingertips because they're rushing the stage. That's what happens sometimes when you have a problem shutting your cake-hole. I'm afflicted with the cake-hole flapping syndrome. Though, I don't flap the cake-hole to piss off other people. I do it because I'm fond of oversharing.

Anyway, Kenyatta, I'm so glad you stumbled across my blog. I've got to thank you for the numerous times you helped me pick up the pieces of my life. I don't know that I was ever a good enough friend to deserve it. But, you were there anyway.

More to come. I promise. Or threaten.

Do You See What I See?

Sometimes guests at the lodge have the decency to leave at least a visually appealing disaster in their wake...


Despite its artistic quality, the housekeepers were not amused.

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

Z-Girl: Honey, I think if the Beastie Boys ever met me, they would totally write a song about me.

Z-Boy: They already did.

Z-Girl: Did what?

Z-Boy: Write a song about you.

Z-Girl: Whatever. They've never met me.

Z-Boy: Somehow they just knew.

Z-Girl: Oh yeah? What's it called?

Z-Boy: Girls.

Being Born, Baby Stuff, and Throwing Balls

I'm watching born again church on tv right now. I don't really know why. Well, I guess it's because I'm not sure where the remote is and I don't feel like looking for it or changing the channel. So, I decided to walk past the tv to the computer and write a blog entry instead.

Anyway, the godly background noise is reminding me of a guy I used to work with when I was waitressing. He was born again. Well, sometimes. He would get unborn every once in a while and party down and screw lots of girls. Then he would get a wild hair up his ass, or rather, a pious hair, and he'd repent and be born again. I guess maybe he liked the being born part. 'Cause he'd do it again and again and again. It was the part after being born that he didn't do so well with.

Anyway, I was scheduled a closing shift one night, and there was a party I wanted to go to. I was frantically searching for a waitor or waitress who would close for me so that I might finish work at 11PM instead of Midnight. I happened across Born Again Dude. Who was, at that moment, recently born. Again. Or maybe it was AGAIN-again.

Z-Girl: Hey, BAD, do you wanna close for me?

BAD: *looking pensive*

Z-Girl: *impatiently* Well, do you?

BAD: I'm thinking.

Z-Girl: What is there to think about? Either you want to close for me or you don't.

BAD: I'm asking myself what would Jesus do?

Heh. And he was serious. Not a jokey air about him. I threw up my hands and yelled, "JESUS CHRIST...uh...would...uh...close for me. Yes he would."

He closed for me. I really do think that that's what Jesus would've done. He'd cover other people's shifts so they could go to parties. He was a really cool guy like that, you know?

I had a busy day yesterday. I went to Miss I's and we put together her baby bassinet. We actually thought it would be a lot harder than it was. Despite the fact that all we had to do was pop some bars into place, there was a lot of, "What the hell is this thing?" and, "Um, these latch things don't seem to be there for a reason." But, we got it done. Voila!


Isn't Miss I the cutest pregnant lady EVAH? She's feeling pudgy. Um, honey, you're KNOCKED UP! And cute as hell. I think she's ready to meet the kiddo outside of her uterus. I am, too.

After Project Baby Bassinet we went shopping for a breast-feeding bra. On the way to the store, we saw this jeep:


Can you read it? It says, "AM I SPEEDING? PLEASE CALL MY DAD," but the phone # was a fake. Damn. Still a funny bumper sticker. And the kid driving the jeep thought we were flirting with him. Which led to a discussion about being sexy from the neck up.

Then we dined and chatted. It was lovely.

Later in the afternoon I went bowling with some friends. I got a 105 and a 134. Give it up. I'm like a pro at that shit.

And SERIOUSLY? You guys think I'm kooky? Pfbt. I got nothin' on my friend Randy here.

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It's good to know that helium is just as funny when you're 30 as it is when you're 10. I feel a little better about this growing up gig.

Artsy Fartsy Guy Over Here...

The Queen was at work. The King was at home.

Ring-Ring!

Z-Boy: Hello.

Z-Girl: Hi honey!

Z-Boy: Oh hi.

Z-Girl: What are you doing?

Z-Boy: I'm just sitting around making sculptures of you.

Z-Girl: Aw...Anyway WOH-WOH-WOH-WOH-WOH-WOH-WOH*...

Z-Boy: Okay.

Z-Girl: Well, I'd better get back to work. Bye!

Z-Boy: Bye.

Later that evening...

Z-Girl: Honey, that was really sweet that you were making sculptures of me today!

Z-Boy: Yeah, I know.

Z-Girl: What were you making them out of? Macaroni? Clay?

Z-Boy: *snickering*

Z-Girl: What?

Z-Boy: Honey, do you really want to know what I was doing when you called?

Z-Girl: What?

Z-Boy: Pooping.

I don't think I breathed for, like, 10 minutes.

*I swear when I talk sometimes that I sound to Zube Boy like the adults on Charlie Brown. For real.

Rolling, Rolling, Rolling

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

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

Shit Sells...I Mean Smells...

So, Zazzafooky and Amy gave me the bright idea after yesterday's post to make t-shirts. Damn them. Heh.

I went to Cafe Press and opened up a shop. I Cafe Press-ed my happy little ass off, uploading my cartoons and giggling maniacally. I was ALL fucking excited about the money I'd earn for Planned Parenthood because OHMYGOD maybe people will actually BUY the shit I make. Heh. Again.

I forgot one minor detail in my excitement of being an entrepenuer. I suck. DUH! How could I forget that? I mean, I've sucked forever and ever amen. So what made me think my shop would be any different?

I have one product that I'm satisfied with. I promise to donate the $2.00 I earn buying myself a t-shirt to Planned Parenthood.

And, when I get all rich and famous and stuff, I am TOTALLY going to hire a designer. Until then, uh, you don't have to feel obligated to buy my crap.

Big Ideas

If I were a giant, I think I'd want to be three stories tall at the most. I mean, anything more than that just seems obscene, you know? And, I'd probably want to live in New York City. That would be the best fucking place to live if you're a giant. Seriously. I wouldn't have to hurt my back bending over all the time to talk to people. I could just hang out by their windows.

I'd have a t-shirt made special for me with the slogan "I'll only be your friend if you live or work on the third floor." Actually, I think I might have a t-shirt like that made anyway. Because I think it would be funny when people read it and got that "What the Fuck?" look on their face. Heh.

Really, though, I'd rather be super tiny and live in a dollhouse than be a giant.

Either way, I still wouldn't wear a bullet-proof vest if I had one.

Shit and, uh, Other Nonsense

-Someone popped a squat in the stairwell at work and let loose their bowels. And I'm not talking about a dignified solid shit. I'm talking ass spray. All over the metal heater thing and the floor, covering about a square foot of area. People are fucking disgusting.

-Zack's runner (leash thingy that lets him prance about the yard semi-impeded but unattended) goes from our back porch around the back of the house. The snow has gotten so high that he's been refusing to ascend it. So. He's started doing his business right on the porch. Lazy ass dog. This morning I didn't bother putting him on the runner. If all of the neighbors dogs get to poop in our yard, he can poop in theirs.

-I've been talking to my uterus lately. I think she's scared. I get my most soothing voice going, and say, "It's okay, honey. I know that when we had a visitor a long time ago it was a bad thing, but this time it's okay. You don't have to kick the visitors out, all right?" I hope this open communication works.

-Nope, I'm not knocked up. I'm just talking to my uterus, 'kay? I mean, what else am I supposed to do to make her feel better? Surprise her with a day at the spa for a massage and a mud bath? I think not. Heh. That would make for an interesting phone call, though.

-I think I'm going to try snowboarding again this year. I guess I'm a glutton for punishment.

-I have to go to court today as a witness in a custody battle. I'm REALLY fucking nervous. I've never done anything like this.

-Oh yeah, I had a dream last night that Zube Boy and I bought a digger (one of those yellow one-seater construction things that digs holes) from some crazy dentist guy. Anyway, I got dropped off to pick it up and, well, I don't really know how to drive stick so I was having a little trouble, and the crazy dentist guy was chasing me with a needle. I was running late for court because I couldn't get the damn thing to move. The chase was pretty funny, like that scene in Seinfeld where George is being chased by all the old people on the mobile chair things? I was all lurching in my digger and the dentist was all old running real slow after me with the needle drawn. Heh.

Anyway, after I finished telling Zube Boy about my dream he said, "Huh, that's weird. I had a dream we had a digger, too, and I was driving it around the ski area." HOW FUCKING CUTE IS THAT?! We both dreamt we got a digger. Awww.

I Hurt Myself, Uh, One Day

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Truthfully, I fucking love scars. They make me feel tough. And the best part about this scar was that when I still had stitches, I attended Ladies' Run, which is a huge biker rally in the next town over, and I got to strut around with eleven black stitches between my eyes. I kept saying, "Yeah, really, you should see the other guy!" Heh. Somehow, what with their hearty guffaws, I don't think I fooled a damn person.


For some reason, unbeknownst to me, Photo Shop wouldn't let me draw a line to my scar. I don't know if you all can see it, but it GLARES at me. Just pretend you can, okay? The picture doesn't do it justice. It's a RAD scar.

Oh yeah, and, um, HI! I wanted to play with video. What of it? I like to pretend I'm all techy smart and stuff.

Home Alone: A Queen's Inner Dialogue

I REALLY, REALLY want to link to a song. Does anyone know how I can do that? I have it on my computer...

Carry on.

Maybe one of the cats has toxoplasmosis and that's why I keep having miscarriages.

I could take them to the vet and have 'em checked out.

Where in the HELL is the cat carrier? The last time I used it was when I brought Zinnia home from the shelter.

I think it's in the shed.


On second thought, fuck it. If I had toxoplasmosis, I'd have built up antibodies to it by now.

I'll take the animals to the vet in May.

I wonder if snow kind of acts like an insulator. It's been warmer in here lately.


Huh. That sounds logical to me.

Who asked you?

Uh, you?

Shut up, you're me.

Heh. I just told myself to shut up.

I'm going to do the dishes.

Dude, your favorite window is rapidly losing its appeal.


Meh. Oh well. The plants and clippings still look pretty enough to distract me from the dish-washing at hand.

Yeah. But still, I wonder if the snow wouldn't be so high if it weren't for all those tires and shit out there.

You know what?

What?

The Queen needs a nap.

Yes she does.

Swollen Ass Prevention Tactics

I was thinking this morning that you guys probably wonder what I look like when I'm kicking Butt Biting Spiders' asses, so I thought I'd oblige you with a diagram. My eyes look kind of fucked up, but hell, how awesome do YOU look at 4:30AM? Hmmm, hotshot?


I couldn't sleep last night. Well, actually, I COULD sleep, just not past the hour of 4:00AM. Which, is sort of good because now I KNOW that Elimidate is on at 4:30AM. I might just have to get up at the ass crack of the middle of the night from now on.

Go Grow a Dick, Asshole.

*This is what I thought*
This is what I said.

Ring-Ring!

Z-Girl: Guest services.

Señor Cockholio: WHY has the housekeeper not been here yet?

Z-Girl: Um, hello! *I hate when people don't even fucking say hello.* I'll have to check with housekeeping, but I know that the housekeepers are cleaning new arrival rooms right now and then after they'll be doing midweeks.

Señor Cockholio: Well, this is JUST WRONG! Why couldn't they clean while we were skiing? We've been gone all day. I don't want to be here while the room is being cleaned! We wanted to return from skiing to a nice clean room. This is horrible!

Z-Girl: Sir, really though, we had no way of knowing that you wanted your room cleaned before you returned from skiing. If you had called us and let us know you would return from skiing at 2:30 and you would like your room cleaned before then, we may have been able to accomadate you. Did you KNOW you'd be back at 2:30? Most people don't return from the slopes until 4:30. *You fucking wussy!*

Señor Cockholio: This is AWFUL!

Z-Girl: I'm sorry. *Haha! I must be right 'cause you got NOTHIN' bitch!*

Señor Cockholio: I can't believe this.

Z-Girl: Sorry. *Dude, get a fucking grip!*

Click

God, I fucking HATE IT when our psychic calls out. I mean, how else are we just SUPPOSED TO KNOW what people want, you know?

And when I tell you, this man's voice was QUIVERING with ANGER. He didn't use foul language, unfortunately, because then I could have hung up on him, but he was LIVID. Freaked me out. I actually had to take a walk to cool off after our conversation. It sounded like he was going to reach through the phone and throttle me. I kind of love that shit, though. Because I get all DISGUSTINGLY SWEET. Heh. Pisses 'em off even more.