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...