Guys and Girls. Boys and Girls. Girls and Boys. And Guys.

So, there’s this guy. Named Guy. I met him when I was 21. He lived out here in Breckenridge and I met him while he was in Jersey visiting his Mom. We hung out. We were in ‘like’ with each other and stuff. After our first meeting, I visited him in Breckenridge a few times and we’d hang out whenever he was in Jersey visiting his family. When I turned 24, I got all 'Fuck Jersey' and up and moved to Breckenridge. Presumably to date Guy, but mostly because I wanted to get the fuck out of Jersey. Our 'Not on Vacation'/'Real Life' romance did not last long. About a month. We broke up. It was cool. Well, I mean, there were not cool moments. Like, when I sort of plastered his car with maxi pads in a fit of anger one night. But I called him up a couple of days later and told him I had done it. And he said, “You’re crazy.” Then he chuckled. And I said, “I know! But you suck.” Then I chuckled.

Anyway, I started dating Zube Boy a little less than a year later.

A little less than a year ago, I was like, “Huh? Looks like we have new neighbors.” And indeed we did. New neighbors. Across the street. Neighbors. You might see where this is going because that big round thing up on your neck is not just a hat rack, after all. The neighbor was Guy. Guy and his gal. Not, in fact, named Gal.

So now, my ex-boyfriend lives across the street. With his girlfriend. We say hi. It's all good. Well, most of the time anyway.

Whenever Zube Boy and I get into a tiff, he'll prance around the house shouting, “Why don’t you go across the streeeeeet and visit with you LUUUUUUUUUUUVER!”

Or, we’ll be working on the deck and he’ll go, “Honey! Look! It’s your lover over there building a fence.”

The other day he asked me, “How many lucky guys do you know that can say their wife’s ex-boyfriend lives across the street from them?” Hm. No answer.

Yesterday, we had this discussion:

Z-Boy: So, your LUUUUUUVER was riding his bike down the street the other day.

Z-Girl: Mmmmhmmm.

Z-Boy: And he stopped in front of me while I was working on my jeep.

Z-Girl: Yeah.

Z-Boy: And he said, “So, how does it feel to know that I mushroom stamped your wife?”

Z-Girl: BWAHAHAHAHAHA! Shut up. You’re insane.

You know, I don't think we'll be moving anytime soon. Our current living situation provides FAR too humorous fodder.

An Introsepctive Arteest...Where the Fuck is My Beret...

I got to thinking yesterday. Like, a lot. I thought about this miscarriage business and how it relates to my state of mind these days. Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself a little because I have an appointment with a professional in the arena of state of minds about just that today. But still. I figured it couldn’t hurt to make my own attempt at working things through.

I’ve decided to think positive. Now and again, anyway.

Now, before ANYONE dare utter a word of “Oh, good, you should be doing that,” or worse, “It’s about damn time,” save your breath. Or don’t. Nobody ever said I had to like you anyway. But if you’re looking to be supportive in this, please avoid that kind of talk. I’m kind of sensitive about it right now and I wouldn’t appreciate anyone implying that what I’ve been feeling these past few months has been wrong in any way. And you could do that by accident. Remember, sensitive? Just a warning.

The truth is, I don’t think it was at all inappropriate to have taken a little skinny dip in the ever so chilly pit of despair. I think it was right. It was right because it’s what I did. And there’s no turning back. And it was kind of a shittastic amount of shit to deal with. Still is. But I'm considering shifting gears.

See, I’ve decided to try a hand at focusing on having a baby rather than bemoaning the fact that I've had three miscarriages. Because having a baby is the goal, really. I want to have a baby. I mean, having a baby best occurs after not having a miscarriage. But not having a miscarriage is not my MAIN goal. Though that’s the one that has consumed me most.

I’ve shifted my thoughts since, well, yesterday. Yeah. I know. Bear with me. This shift is in its infancy. Heh. That was a horrible pun. Even for me. Or maybe not.

The reason I’m sharing all of this with you is because that’s what a blog is for, no? And I wanted to show you a cartoon I drew. My first baby step toward being positive (again, with the bad pun, I'm on a roll).

Ah, hell. I've never been one to avoid going overboard.

Heh. Someday, I may shoot myself for that. Or probably not.

PS- This post was supposed to go up yesterday but Blogger wouldn't post my goddamn pictures for me until today. So I waited. I went to the therapist. It was awesome. I got in touch with some of my selves. I'm feeling a little crazy again. Whew! That's a relief. This is going to be an exciting journey.

Sorry 'Bout That

My Dearest Husband,

I wanted to let you know that after exhaustive research and careful contemplation, I've decided to opt out of the whole Mushroom Stamp thing. See, when you presented the idea, professing that it was an act of love performed between two people who loved each other, I almost fell for, I mean, considered it. Fortunately I didn't agree to it at the time it was mentioned. The fact that you wouldn't divulge what exactly giving me a Mushroom Stamp would entail, gave me pause to heartily accept your offer. I'd like to thank my good friend, Mr. Google, for educating me on this very thing.

Sorry to decline, but I'm remiss to have a penis-shaped bruise on my forehead, what with working in sales and everything. Particularly dealing with aspiring brides and grooms and all. I'm loathe to shed marriage in any other light than wonderful and sporting a penis-shaped bruise anywhere on my person prolly isn't going to convince anyone that marriage is anything other than, well, a dick move. And hell, I like my job. I might even enjoy it. Sorry to decline your gift. But not as sorry as you, I'm sure, knowing how much you'd like to bestow it upon me. Heh. You're lucky you're funny. You have no idea.

Also, just so you know, I got a little overzealous with the laundry yesterday. Allow me to explain. Your work jacket? Was very, very, very, VERY FUCKING MUDDY. I decided to do the wifely thing and wash it. Because I'm good like that. And wash it I did. It's nearly sparkling now. Squeaky clean. And so is, well, your cell phone. Which was in the pocket. Of your work jacket. Which, did I mention, is squeaky clean? Sparkly even? Right. Moving along.

I'd venture to guess that you aren't as sorry as me with regards to the squeaky clean and also not working so much cell phone. Given your aversion to answering your cell phone whenever I have the urge to call it. Which is often. I think I'm sorrier about your phone than you will be. Which means that I'm sorry. Very, very sorry. It will suck not to be able to ring you up while you're working and ask what exactly IS free enterprise, anyway, honey? Your feelings on the not working cell phone matter will likely differ.

One last thing before I go. Last night? When you planted your ass firmly on my leg and farted on it while I was sleeping? That woke me up. As a result? You will be sorry. I have a whole mess of ice cubes stored away in the freezer with your name on them. I think freezing to death would be a horrible way to go. But that's what you get. My thighs jiggle enough these days without your exceedingly powerful flatulence reverberating against it.

Sleep tight! Asshole. Very, very tight.

Love,
Your Ever-Adoring Wife

My Name is Mud

Or, not really, but I fucking LOVE that song. And mud was an everpresent substance in my weekend. You can call me Digger. Because that's what the hell I've been doing for the past two days. I'm a dirty, dirty girl. One who is going to have a heck of a deck party in a couple of weeks. Because my deck? Is going to be bigger than your deck. 'K? But don't get all jealous. You're invited.


See, most of the time, I wasn't really using the mac-daddy hole maker. That was Zube Boy's job. I'm kind of glad, too, because digging within inches of cable and telephone wires with a bad ass machine is not exactly my forte. I had the distinct privelage of using a shovel. And it was a rainy weekend. Whee! Rain is most certainly not conducive to being a tidy hole digger. As is evidenced by the condition of my footwear.


Oh, how I wish I could say that I got this dirty four-wheeling.


I might've even fallen on my ass in the mud. I'm so work dizzy, that I can't recall, for sure. You be the judge.


My father-in-law ROCKS SOCKS! And busts his ass. We are forever indebted to him, and he can come and visit us from Chicago ANY TIME! He commented to me that we'd better watch out for the grave-diggers union. They might be looking for us. He couldn't be more right. I suppose Zube Boy is supervising. He's good at that.


I was downloading a bunch of pictures and noticed a bit of a trend. Here is one of the rental property we just bought. We painted the outside. And I use the term "we" loosely, here.


Again with the working father-in-law. And the not so much working Zube Boy. As a matter of fact, is he yawning?

Hired help:


For Hire: Muscly type dudes with a penchant for swinging a shovel. In lieu of pay, a hefty amount PBRs will be provided throughout the project. As well as handy-dandy spots to place your beer.

Adventures in Outer, Er, Uh, Rather, Inner Space

In other words, I have an appointment with a psychologist in two weeks. Because bursting into tears at work a few times a day is not something I care to put on my resume. It's probably not normal, even. Once in a while, every one woman army needs to call in for a little back-up.

I talked to my potential counseler over the phone and she sounds wondermous. She's a doula who has worked with Planned Parenthood at abortion clinics as a counseler and specializes in grief over loss of a pregnancy. She has dealt with women in every aspect of childbearing. We were meant for each other. I have a renewed faith in eeny-meeny-miny-mo-ing your way to a counseler in the phone book. Or fate. Who knows? I think it might even be a little of both.

I am so utterly relieved to have admitted to myself that I'm in a little over my head with the sorrow and stuff, I can't even tell you. And I have to thank PaintingChef for Google-talking my ass into what it really needed to do. Friends rule. Sometimes I need to be told by someone else to take care of myself. That's always been a problem for me.

The thing is, you guys, I REALLY, REALLY hope this counseler chick helps me find my voice. Because I am SO hating having lost it. Truly I am.

In the meantime, smooches to you all! I'll keep you updated and maybe someday soon this blog of mine will get interesting.

I'm at a Loss...

For words.

I've been afraid to tell you that. Or couldn't figure out how exactly to tell you. Words used to be my best friends, but now they're, well, letting me down. I can't find the right ones or the right ones can't find me. And that sort of sucks.

I'm not too sad or too happy or too busy. I'm just...hmmm...too trying not to be introspective. Have you ever felt like if you stopped and thought about things, you just might cry? For a really long time? Because it's all too much?

I didn't really want to say anything, because I hate to be anything but the 'little engine that could' but, I just...I'm off track. And I've got every engineer on my payroll working to get me on course again. It's just taking some time. Because that's how I roll.

I'm alive. And I'm okay. But I'm hibernating a tiny bit. Some call it self-preservation. I call it...indescribable. Or, the failure of words. Eether, Eyether.

I hope I haven't worried you, and I hope this post doesn't make you all, "OH, POOR ZUBE!" That's not what I'm looking for. At all. I just had to say...something. However unfunny, unprofound, and un-Zube like it is.

Uranus and Fist-Pumping Like It's My Job

-You know what? Sometimes, when I'm sitting at my desk avoiding thinking about the contracts I need to write, my mind wanders a little bit. And ya know what I think about? Uranus. Like, I wonder if Uranus has Butt-Biting Spiders with Ass-Swelling Venom, like my little area of the galaxy. See! It's always been about YOU. You and Uranus. Don't you feel special?

-I've decided to tell the next person I check into the hotel, "Now go to your room," when I'm finished with them.

-I am a dork. I know. But you can be my friend. Everyone needs a few dorky friends under their belt. Or, uh, I didn't really mean it like...nevermind. Just know that if you'd like to befriend a dork, it's nice to send a message first. Because even dorks don't go around accepting friends all willy-nilly and stuff.

-It's cool when you're at work and half the power goes out. Like, the half that's responsible for the phones and the fax and the copy machine. But the half that doesn't go out keeps you up to your eyeballs in internet and microwaveable burritos. I have to admit, I pumped my fist a little bit and hissed, "YESSSSSSSSSSSSSS!"

-Did I ever mention that I'm quite fond of pumping my fist? And hissing? No? Well now, don't you feel in the know?

Again With the Humping of Legs...Will It Ever End?

In a word? No. Not in a million years. Or at least not for as long as I'm on this planet, swilling beers. Or folic acid. Potayto, potahto. Kylei, you are TOO damned sweet. Fer real. Just in case inquiring minds want to know, Kylei nominated me as an inspirational blogger. One who says 'fuck' a lot. Heh heh. Kidding. About the 'fuck' part, at least. Anywho, you can find her nomination over yonder. The post she was referring to in the comments is right here. I kind of dig it, too, to be honest. There are some choice naughty words therein that I'm rather proud to have strung together.

Thing is, when ya'll give me props about the stuff I write here, it kind of, I don't know, makes me want to hump your leg. Which isn't all that unusual, sure, given my penchant for humping the legs of those I adore. But it's a compliment nonetheless. Most of the time I feel like just sum beetch with a screwed up uterus who can't manage to shut the hell up about it. Forever and ever, amen. But when I learn that these little rants and goofy dialogues actually mean something to people sometimes, at least maybe something good is coming out of it. As much as I'd like something good to come out of my CERVIX or a big incision in my tummy, hell, I'm not picky, I'll take just about anything good these days. Shit, I don't care if something good comes out of a damn beak (HELLO, STORKS! The hell? Where are you? Just wondering, 'cause the parenting skillz? I am willing to acquire them.)

At any rate, welcome to those of you venturing over here via Club Mom. WARNING: Sometimes I write about my husband's flatulance. And our ridiculous conversations. Mostly when I want to be a member of your club so badly, I can't bring myself to be all introspective about it.

Bubble-Butt

Zube Boy has this week off in order to tie up loose ends at the new house. The renters move in on Saturday and I know for a fact that he's trying to finish up the installation of the new bathtub. So I decide to call and annoy him.

Ring-ring!

Z-Boy: Hello.

Z-Girl: Hi, honey.

Z-Boy: Oh, hi.

Z-Girl: Are you at the new house?

Z-Boy: Yup.

Z-Girl: Are you playing in the bathtub?

Z-Boy: Yup. I'm blowing bubbles.

Z-Girl: With your mouth or your butt?

Z-Boy: Both. I'm having a little competition.

Z-Girl: Heh. Heheheheheheh.

After a few snorts and slobbering a little bit, I hung up. Seriously? Where does he come up with this shit? I have no idea.

PS- Dude. I can't. Believe. I. Spelled. Turd. WRONG! Thank you to junebee and Rich for pointing that out. Of all people, one would think I would know the proper spelling of 'TURD' what with my pottymouth and all. Sheesh. I'm ashamed.

***********************UPDATE************************

Ring-ring!

Z-Boy: Hello.

Z-Girl: Hi, honey. Where are you?

Z-Boy: Walmart.

Z-Girl: Oh. So, I have a question for you.

Z-Boy: What?

Z-Girl: I was wondering who the winner of your little competition was.

Z-Boy: What?

Z-Girl: Your butt or your mouth, DUH! Your little Bubble Blowing Competition?

Z-Boy: Oh, yeah. There is no winner yet.

Z-Girl: What do you mean? You're at Walmart. I figured it was over.

Z-Boy: No, it's ongoing.

Z-Girl: What, like a marathon or the Tour de France or whatever?

Z-Boy: Yeah.

Z-Girl: So you get to take breaks and stuff?

Z-Boy: Jesus Christ, of course honey! You have to take breaks. Otherwise I'd, I don't know, start bleeding or something.

Z-Girl: Oh, okay. Keep me posted.

Z-Boy: Will do.

Z-Girl: Bye.

Z-Boy: Bye.

You Can't Polish a Terd...

The title of this post has absolutely nothing to do with the post itself. It's just, like, one of my most favorite sayings is all.

The house we just bought is right down the street from the house we live in. Which is fortunate for us because we've been doing a lot of back and forth. I drove over to the new house where Zube Boy was replacing the bath tub so I could get the broom for our house because when you have two houses, one of them is sure to be neglected at some time or another and I needed something to foist out the fur that is COVERING our floor. Seriously.

Z-Girl: Honey, do you know where the broom is?

Z-Boy: Why? Do you need to fly somewhere?

Z-Girl: *exasperated sigh* Honey, I’m SERIOUS! I have to sweep the other house. Where is it?

Z-Boy: I don’t know.

Z-Girl: *frantically searching* AH! Here it is! Bye!

Z-Boy: Have a nice flight!

Z-Girl: Shut up.

You Know What's Stupid?

Pulling a little metal fragment out of your foot and throwing it back on the floor. In front of you.

You know what else is stupid? The fucking weather. But not me. Oh no. I'm not stupid. In fact, I have found the SOLUTION to drought. No, really. I have. I'm like a one woman scientist/spy/model/wet-hair-putter-on-the-shower-waller fucking ARMY. I am. See, the weather up here in los montañas has been pretty shitty. Well, it's actually been really fucking beautiful out, but apparently the trees are parched and they need some rain all up in their asses. Or roots. Which is kind of a bad situation when there are trees every-damn-where. Surrounding big ass million dollar second homes with numbskull rich-bitch owners who refuse cut down the trees in the line of fire, quite literally, to their homes because they don't want to ruin the AMBIANCE of their 'little cabin in the woods'. Bitch please. With ten god damn bathrooms and an indoor sauna? I think not. I'll show you a little cabin in the woods. Where you can take a nice undisturbed shit in the little outhouse about thirty feet away. It's the kind of place where people actually used to LIVE but now we only go there for a brief foray and romp in the forest so we can return to our REAL house and take a damn shower already.

Although, true to the nature of a little cabin in the woods, you do only visit YOUR abode briefly. Once at Christmas. And then maybe once in the summer. Because SUMMER? It EXISTS in the mountains? My GOD! HOW COOL! There really IS a Breckenridge in the summertime when the ski resort isn't open! As is evidenced by the ASSLOAD of cars that turned my typical five minute commute home yesterday into a half an hour one. Yes! Summer in the mountains. Wow. Well, just a quick gaperish kind of question for you. How much less do the mountains WEIGH in the summer without the snow? Actually, I'm not joking about that question. Zube Boy was asked that. By a teacher. Who wanted to tell her students. He, after a moment of silence, told her that the scale had been out of order since he started working there. Jesus H. Where's my I Digress MUCH wand? I'd like a cape, too, while you're at it...

I was sayin'? Ah yes. Fire. And danger. There's a little Smokey the Bear sign we see upon entering town that keeps us abreast to the current Fire Danger level. Right now he's sportin' a VERY HIGH warning.

But not for long. Oh no. You know why? Because we have brought on torrential rains since, uh, Friday I think. And it didn't even require dancing naked on Main Street wearing only a big red clown nose. All we had to do was SCRAPE and PRIME our house! Easy peasy. Now? We're stuck with an even SHITTIER looking paint job than what we started out with. Chipped gray with streaks of bright white. Yum. I bet the neighbors love us. They'll love us even more when they find out we rented it out to three dudes. Heh. But that's a whole 'nother post.

Peace out. I'm gonna go dance naked on Main Street with a clown nose to make the torrential afternoon rains go the hell away. Or maybe I'll just watch a parade. And have a beer. Happy Fourth.

When Pigs Fly...Or Knock on the Damn Door at All Hours of the Night...

Sometimes, the best way to sum things up is to scream, "Mother-fucking FUCK!" really damn loud.

I think it would be a good idea, at this point, to have my hand surgically replaced with a paintbrush. That would be SO useful to me as we're painting the new house. Inside and out. Ourselves. Actually not ENTIRELY by ourselves. Zube Boy's most awesome Dad is helping us. I'll show you before and after photos when it's all done.

I'm burning my candle at both ends, ladies and gentlemen. And the wick? She is getting short.

The other night, Zube Boy and I were awakened at 1:30AM from a much-needed post painting pass out by a BANG-BANG-BANGING on the door across the street. Where The Dudes live. After a half hour of the nonsense, I poised myself up on the bed and shouted out the window, "WHY DON'T YOU JUST FUCKING GO IN ALREADY!" assuming that it was a drunk friend who wanted to crash on their couch. I assumed wrongly. After my little outburst, I laid back down only to see a VERY BRIGHT flash light shining in our window and up on the ceiling. In a hushed tone, Zube Boy chided, "Honey, those were COPS, you idiot!"

"Oh shit."

I propped myself up on the windowsill again and saw one of Breckenridge's finest staring right back at me. He didn't say anything at first, prolly 'cause he was so ASTOUNDED by my resemblance to the Swamp Thing that he forgot for a moment he woke my swampish ass up at 1:30AM. I stammered, "S-s-sir. I am SO sorry! Really. I thought it was just one of their drunk friends trying to find a place to crash or something."

He laughed. And I was relieved. I'd imagine they don't like to make a habit of bringing Swamp Thing Lookalikes down to the station, so he let me off easy. Cops are kind of guarded about their donuts and I think I heard something about Swamp Things eating, like, a gazillion donuts a day. Or, whatever.

He actually apologized to me for waking us up and asked if we knew whether or not the owner of the black jeep cherokee lived in the house across the street. I said I thought it was a friend of theirs. Apparently the jeep was suspect in a hit and run. And I was no help at all. But they stopped knocking after that. And I was kind of mad at myself because The Dudes and their dog that they like to put outside at midnight and 6:00AM who barks incessantly have been pissing me off to no end and I'd kind of liked to have seen one of their cohorts handcuffed and shit.

Oh well. I learned my lesson. From now on I'm going to stash donuts by the bed at night and I'll offer them some if I'm ever lucky enough to have them staking out the neighbors again.

And. As soon as the police left? While I was staring out my front window in my black as night living room? The Dudes lights started coming on. Fucking assholes. That guy was clearly trying to avoid having to take a breathilizer. I'm certain of it.

Oh How I Wish...

...I worked at the hardware store.

Z-Boy: I have to pick up some plumbing stuff for the new house.

Z-Girl: Okay. I'll go, uh, look at the hammocks I wish I had somewhere to put...or something...

***A few minutes later and Zube Boy is checking out some black plumbing pipes***

Z-Girl: Honey, is that where the poo is gonna go?

Z-Boy: No honey. That's where the curlies will go.

Z-Girl: What?!

Z-Boy: It's for the tub, not the toilet.

Z-Girl: Oh, okay.

This conversation would be inconsequential if it weren't for the hardware store employee rounding the corner and looking at us all funny-like at the very end.

Zoey is BACK!!! Thank you ALL for wondering and wishing and cajoling her home. I can't even begin to tell you how devastated I was when she disappeared. I don't HAVE babies, you see, so she IS one of the only babies I know. That was the longest she's ever been gone. And I'm so glad she's home. I never thought I'd strain my lips kissing a cat. I'm kind of a loser. Heh.

My Head Hurts...

If any of you are vying for the crown of Worst Blogger in the Blogverse, you'll have to pry that tiara from my cold dead fingers.

It's mine, bitches.

Would you like to see our walk-in closet?


Yes. That's a toilet.

The master bedroom is tore up. We've hired a friend to fix it. The master bath is now, uh, our closet.

We close on our second house on Wednesday. Did I mention that I feel like a total money-grubbing asshole buying a second house? Like I'm fucking up the local real estate Sitiation? Well, I do. The bleeding heart? Maybe sometimes I do have it. Though I profess not to be that kind of liberal.

Anyway, closing costs are $6,000. Ramen, anyone?

We've put an ad in the paper to rent it out. The most promising response we've gotten so far has been, "Are you negotiable on the rent?"

I've been working like a bitch. 'Mud Season' is officially over and now we're entering upon 'Wedding/Family Reunion" Season. I'm swamped.

Last but not least, my little Zoey is missing. That's the first time I've admitted that to myself. I kind of don't want to believe that she's been gone for longer than three days.

With all of this happenin', I'm trying to avoid the spontaneous combustion dealymabob. Bear with me. Or don't. Your choice. This blog-bustion has been a long time coming. I'm over being sad and dwelling and shit, but I don't have anything amusing to report. In fact, all I have to report is some relatively overwhelming shit.

I've had a hard enough time keeping up with We 3 Bitches. See, I don't want Bonanza and P-Chef to think I'm all sucky bitch, so The Adventures of Zube Girl is playing second fiddle.

I really miss blogging, but I certainly miss my sanity more.

I've Submitted My Letter to the Editor

On Friday, June 30th, Planned Parenthood clinics across the state will be giving out free Emergency Contraception (EC) as they did on July 1st of last year. This is in response to Governor Owens vetoing House Bill 1212 – Colorado's Prescriptive Authority Bill. This bill would have enabled Colorado pharmacists to prescribe and dispense EC to women without a doctor’s prescription.

I urge my fellow Summit County residents to participate in this event. Some of you may think you have no need for Emergency Contraception. When I heard about the event last year, I thought it was a great idea, but didn’t think I’d actually participate. I’m married and planning a family. Why would I need Emergency Contraception?

The truth is I should know better. As some of you may remember from a previous article in the Summit Daily, I am all too familiar with the scenario EC could prevent. Ten years ago, I was a twenty-year-old college student. My car was broken down, and I accepted a ride from a friend of a friend to the grocery store. At the end of that evening, I was a survivor of rape. A month later, I discovered I was pregnant. Ultimately, I terminated the pregnancy. Had I had access to Emergency Contraception, I might not have become pregnant at all.

I encourage you to remember that emergencies happen to us, and people we love, without the benefit of foresight. Though young women are at higher risk of being victimized, rapists don’t necessarily discriminate based on age and marital status. You can bet that I’m going to make the effort to get to a Planned Parenthood on the 30th. We just never know when and how an unwanted pregnancy might occur. I know I didn’t.

I Want. To Touch. The Hiney.

Z-Boy: Honey, shoosh, this is my favorite commercial.

Z-Girl: I don’t know what it is with you and tampon commercials.

Z-Boy: They just, I don’t know, make me wish I got a period.

Z-Girl: Why?

Z-Boy: Because it looks so fun. Those chicks are always going to parties and running in fields and riding bikes and doing yoga.

Z-Girl: Heh.

In other news, I was meeting with someone who wanted to sell me some advertizin’ and shit at work the other day and my mind started to wander a little. I confess. It happens. Anyway, sometimes during those meetings I’ll start imagining really odd things I could do to mess with their salespersony asses. Like, when they ask me if I have any questions, what would they do if I said, “Yes, as a matter of fact. I'd like to know if I can touch your hiney?” Or, I wonder how they’d react if I leaned over and kissed their cheek right in the middle of their shpeel. Is ‘shpeel’ even a real word? It’s not recognized by MS Word. And MS Word’s not giving me any other suggestions. Oh well.

The only bad thing about this 'mind-wandering' thing I get is that I'll be all smirking despite myself and I probably look a little loony.

Hope you’re having a fantabulous day.

Back in the Day...

My yearbook photo (note the NOT so high bangs...or at least they were not so high as I wished they would be...THANK GODDESS!):


My yearbook blurb (I don't think I've changed all that much, to be honest):


Random photo yearbook page that happens to star yours truly twice:



Can you find me? I'll give you a couple of hints:

1. I'm, erm, I mean, I WAS flexible.

2. You won't be able to recognize me by my ski slope nose. Or at least not by the tip of it.

It's a Groovy Kind of Love

Dude, my elbow is fucking GROOVY!


Jealous much? How groovy is YOUR elbow, huh?

And also, the worst picture of me EVAH! And see that bottle of vino behind me? I didn't even HAVE any. I have no excuse.



Lastly, it's kind of ASTOUNDING how many people search for Ass Adventures and find themselves here.

He Said, She Said

or...

A Memoir of A(nother) Year in the Marriage of One Zube Boy and One Zube Girl

or...

The Verbal Olympics of Second Year Veteran Marrieds

or...

Random Snippets Involving Cookie Crisp, Chipmates, and Heaps of Other Stuff

He Said (50 Times): You're going to blog about this, aren't you?

She Said (5 Times): I don't really GET what makes Cookie Crisp SO much better than store brand stuff!

He Said (105 Times): Woman, you're gonna drive me to drinking.

She Said (3 Times): Honey, I'm knocked up.

He Said (365 Times): Honey, where's my hat?

She Said (3 Times): Meh, I'm not knocked up anymore.

He Said (3 Times): I'm sorry. We'll try again.

She Said (1 Time): So, I know you're driving to Mississippi to buy a truck and all and this is kind of a bad time, but I can't wait to talk to you when you get back because I need to make a decision now. See, there's this rally and Planned Parenthood called me because I forwarded them a letter to the editor I wrote about Gov. Owens and Emergency Contraception for rape victims in the ER and they've asked me if I wanted to SPEAK at the rally. And, um, it's OKAY, honey, if you don't want me to, really. But, I don't know, I kind of think it would help me.

He Said (1 Time): You do what will help YOU. Don't worry about me.

She Said (A Gazillion Times): You rock so hard.

He Said (350 Times): Zoobs, where's my work pants?

She Said (530 Times): Right here.

She Said (150 Times): In the dryer.

She said (50 Times): Oops. In the washer still.

He Said (90 Times): CHRIST! Is that Brad peeking in the window again? I'm really sick of kicking his ass all the time. Why do you have to be so hot, Zube? These celebrity stalkers are getting kind of annoying.

She Said (1 Time): How ironic that all this gay marriage ban shit is happening on our two year wedding anniversary. Kind of taints my celebratory attitude.

He Said (1 Time): I just don't get what people are so riled up about. Who cares?

She Said (1 Time): Because DONTCHYA KNOW, honey, that if two dudes were able to marry each other it would THREATEN our marriage.

He Said (1 Time): That's the least of our worries.

She Said (1 Time): Heh.

He Said (1 Time): Unless you suddenly start making me cookies all the time.

She Said (Probably on more than one occasion): BWAHAHAHAHAHA!

He Said (1 Time): Honey, it's really nice being married to you. Happy Aniversary.

She Said (1 Time): Damn. I'm gonna cry. That was fucking sweet. It's nice being married to you, too. If you could just lay off on yanking my pajama pants down when I'm unloading the dishwasher, I'd say our marriage was damn near utopia.

Prepost...And postpre...And Stopper...And Toppers...And, Okay, That's Enough With the What Word Can You Make With These Letters...

A couple of posts back I was wondering what made Pre-Three-Miscarriages Zube Girl different from Post-Three-Miscarriages Zube Girl. I think I've found something that speaks to at least part of the vast openness between that great divide.

Pre-Three-Miscarriages Zube Girl had the luxury of worrying about her ability to be a parent. Whether she would suck or whether she would rock. She'd like to think she'd rock even though her future kid might be all, "JESUS H. MOM! I stayed up late STUDYING and that's why my eyes are all red, HELLO!?!?! I don't know what you're so worried about anyway. I work an after school job, get good grades, and buy my own _______________ (insert fancy pants name here), so back off!" Which, heh, stayed up late STUDYING! Whatever, kid. *snort* But see, I know that for all my concern, I'd raise a decent self-sufficient human being, if not for any other reason than, well, for ALL MY CONCERN ABOUT RAISING A DECENT, SELF-SUFFICIENT HUMAN BEING. Even if the kid smokes pot? S/He'll still be a good one. I think, anyway.

On the other hand, Post-Three-Miscarriages Zube Girl worries that she'll never even BE a parent, so she doesn't want to jinx it by fretting about whether or not her sixteen-year-old will slam the bedroom door because she's just told them s/he can buy her/his OWN Land Rover. See, at the ripe old age of thirty I understand now that fighting with your parents as a teenager? Is kind of important. So long as we're talking about a functional family. And I'm aiming my arrow towards functional. That's my goal. But, taking my family as an example, 'A Little Weird' doesn't fall far from BULLSEYE! And I'll be happy with just short of perfect. Actually, 'perfect' is a little annoying.

Which reminds me, I've been meaning to tell any future embryos of mine that even though I've sworn to myself that you WILL purchase your own first car, and you WILL NOT have all the fancy clothes you want no matter how much money we have, and you WILL share a room at some point in your life with a sibling because I did, with my brother and then my sister and then both sisters, and then my brother got all sad because he had his own room and I got to share my room with TWO people, so Mom let My Belle stay in his room for a few weeks upon Bro's insistence, and he said, uh, nevermind, she cries at night, and...um...nevermind...

Anyway, I think it was good for my character, sharing a room. It prepared me for life and sharing and caring and all that good stuff, and...WOOOOOOOOAAAH! I'm getting a little ahead of myself here. Note to Self: Yo, Zoobs, let's get pregnant and STAY pregnant for at least 35 weeks, which I think is a safely viable gestational age (I haven't researched pregnancy much past the first trimester...It's all about self-preservation, people. Really, 'tis, and I can't be concerning myself with 'trimester' pregnancies when I fail to achieve even a 'unimester' one) before worrying about SIBLINGS! Jeebus. Sorry, every once in a while I have to remind myself that the dreams which live inside my head are not always the same ones that manifest in real life. Allrighty then...

...Where was I? Ah yes...I was going to make all kinds of promises to my potential children-to-be that might convince them that while I MIGHT be sort of a Bitch Mom, I'll be AWESOME. Really. You will SERIOUSLY love me. You can be WHATEVER you want!

You can...

-Have purple hair (so long as that doesn't interfere with the high school job thing...there's always tattoo parlors out there looking for high school help...I think?)

-Be Gay (Damn kid, I'll love ya more, because you'll fucking need it what with all the gay-hating going on around these, ahem, united states of ours.)

-Not want to go to college (because I didn't. I went anyway because that's what everybody else thought I should do. But I know that being all smart and shit doesn't necessarily mean that you're college material. This is one thing your Dad and I will wholehartedly agree on. We'll never pressure you to do what doesn't feel right. You'll be smart. I know that. And you'll do what's right with it. I'm sure.)

-Tell me ANYTHING. And I mean ANYTHING (*wishing right now that I had the ability to Double-Capitalize*). I promise not to go all MATERNAL when you really, really fucking need me. Life happens to people. This I know. And if something horrible happens to you? Even if you maybe had a tiny bit, or a BIG bit to do with it? I SWEAR I'll step back and breathe...only to return with a big hug and a hearty, "I'm sorry life had to happen to you THAT way, but here's how we deal with it." I'll avoid trying to fix it because fixing it never really works anyway. At least when we're talking about life and not plumbing or a bad starter.

While I'm being all random and whatnot, I'd like to thank those of you who've stuck by me throughout my weird blog abandoness. You LURKERS, too! I'm having trouble posting things because all I can think about is the fact that I bled for a month, then manhandled my boobs for the past week and a half (which OHMYGOD MAYBE I'M PREGNANT BECAUSE THEY'RE SORE!) (But they're more probably only sore because I've been manhandling them ), and I want to be pregnant/have a baby so bad it, uh, kind of hurts. And there are many other gals out there that rock the infertility blog thing so much better than I ever could. Anyway, I've been sporadic at best because I'm concerned about beating ya'll over the brow with my woes. Which makes for a VERY random, VERY sucky (in my opinion) blog, and I can't believe you've hung in there.

So, thanks.