Fuck It, Fight It, It's All the Same...

I like to cuss. I'm certain that if you've even ever been here only once, this confession should come as no surprise. I wouldn't even call it a confession. More a statement of fact. And if this is your first time here, well then now you fucking know. And you'd have noticed soon enough without the warning. I talk like a truck driver and perhaps even moreso now in the presence of adults in real life and here on the internets (Hey you! The twelve-year-old who thinks I'm a MILF! Go do your homework! What are you, Brad's cousin or something?) because I have to reign in the F-Bombs around the childrens. And there is just something so goddamn cathartic about swearing for me.

That said, there is one swear that I use with the utmost discretion. I reserve it for only the most deserving of recipients. That is the word cunt. It isn't that the word bothers me especially. Honestly? I'm always afraid that when I use it someone will say I'm not a real feminist and so I make especially sure that when I'm calling someone a cunt, it is worth any hassle I will get. I've got to tell you, I haven't received my card in the mail just yet, but I'm a member of the Feminist Club just the same. And I don't even pretend not to be. Like, "Oh, OF COURSE I think women should be equal, but I'm not a FEMINIST! Ew! They're, like, hairy and ugly and stuff!" I'll say it loud and proud. I'm a feminist.

And yet, I cannot rectify the fact that I'm a feminist with the fact that nothing gives me more pleasure than calling someone I don't like a fucking cunt. I suppose I could equate it to calling someone a prick. But that'd be a lie. It just isn't the same.

Still, though? At the risk of ruining my feminist street cred and all? My former coworker is a FUCKING CUNT! And that is ultimately why I quit my job. I hadn't wanted to say anything while I was still working because, though none of my former coworkers read my blog, it would be easy peasy for them to find if they put in a little effort. And, well, let me call a spade a spade, Cunt was looking for every opportunity to throw me under the bus since she had already succeeded in getting my coworker fired and seemed bored with her lack of a victim. Now that I'm gone and I've come to realize that I don't give a rat's ass about burning bridges (why should I worry about burning bridges when employers don't have to worry about the same?) I'll spill it.

In the end, this was a good thing. I had been finding my job not leg-humpworthy for years. And I think my ex-boss is losing her damn mind what with nearly humping Cunt's leg on a thrice daily basis.

What is really cool, though, is that knowing I was leaving eventually, and knowing that I decided when I'd leave, and knowing that they could all fucking kiss my ass because I knew shit they didn't know and they needed me to stay and I could leave whenever I fucking wanted, well, it gave me power. I'm power-trippin' yo. Hence the unabashed use of run-on sentences. I found my voice. I spoke up for myself in a way I hadn't for the eight years I'd been there.

I don't have the intestinal fortitude to go into the details of Cunt's cuntiness, but I thought I'd share an e-mail I sent to my boss with you. Mostly because I read it and smile and thought you might, too. And it sort of sums things up so you'd get the general idea of what happened. Because some of you have so kindly asked.

Without further ado...Here it is...An e-mail to my ex-boss...

Boss,

Here’s the thing. I totally get that you need to back up Cunt at this point. She’ll be staying and I’m not. It behooves you to sing her praises. It would be silly to do anything else from a business standpoint. It even makes sense that, in order to buoy Cunt, I be painted as incompetent. That’s fine, too. She needs the boost, not me because I’ll be gone.

That said, working with The Two Cunts (the sacchariny sweet one when you and Delores are around and the condescending, snotty one when you are not) is disconcerting to say the least, offensive to say the most. I am staying past April 7th for your and Delores' sake, despite Cunt. But while you backing her up makes good business sense for you, me tolerating condescension from her and being treated as though I’m incompetent does not make good personal sense for me.

Last night I almost decided to rescind my offer to stay past my originally planned resignation date of April 7th. I’ve decided against that because I don’t want to do that to you or to Delores. But, once April 7th comes, I am prepared to leave if I find working with Cunt too stressful. I’d likely be willing to come in and train Delores hourly if it comes to that.

I also want to add, I was a little thrown by your response to my e-mail offering to leave notes about the groups that had absolutely no acknowledgement of the project I was taking on. I mean, I don’t need anyone to do an interpretive dance to “Wind Beneath My Wings” or anything. Heck, I don’t even need a thank you. But it would have been nice if it had mentioned, after singing Cunt’s accolades, “That’d be cool, Zube.” These aren’t notes My Predecessor gave me, nor would I have expected her to. It is stuff I figured out on my own over the past eight years.

Anyway, I’d hate for our relationship to spiral downwards in the upcoming weeks. Seriously. That’s what I fear most. But I also don’t want to willingly play the part of sacrificial lamb for the next six weeks.

Zube

Suffice it to say, my ass was not harrassed outwardly and I worked the remaining weeks I'd been asked to stay.

But now, thank the dieties, I'm done. And on that note...

Wherein I Appall Even My Most Feverish of Admirers...

Ahem, Brad, might I suggest that at this point you step away from the keyboard and mozy on over to the nursery to snuggle your two beautiful babies right now? I mean, it's terribly annoying to be repeatedly calling 911 after you've fallen out of a tree YET AGAIN peeping through my window at my flannel pajama clad babeness, but it's sorta like how that guy Cliff, on Singles, had barbecues no one attended because of the noisy planes near his house, but when he moved he missed the noisy planes bunches and, well, it's like that with me and you. I'd miss you stalking me. And I promise, if you read this, you will totally and absolutely NOT be infatuated with me anymore. And while Z-Boy would be pleased to not have to deal with me screeching, "YOU AGAIN!?!?" on a semi-regular basis, well, I think he'd kinda miss beating you up, too. Adrenaline rush and all.

Anyway...

Dear Universe,

If you're going to be all fucked up and unfair and assault me with a Mount Everest sized pimple on my cheek that would send Heather Chandler running to the kitchen for a drain cleaner fueled wake-up drink at the ripe old age of thirty-three whilst also bestowing me with random black hairs I must pluck out of my chin every other week or so (I mean, the chin hair seems a little premature, no? As long as I'm still dealing with pimples?) would you at least find a morsel of kindness in your shriveled up, cold, black heart and not place the pimple in such a spot that it blocks my view in the mirror of the aforementioned black hair I'm trying to pluck?

Seriously, asshole.

Sincerely,
Zube

Playing Footsies...With Brad...Well, Brad's Face, Anyway

Sometime when I wear slippers or socks it hinders my stealth ninja-like movements. So at night I always struggle with the decision to wear, or not to wear, footware. You see, when you're totally desirable like me you never know just who is going to be lurking around the corner (Yes, Brad, I'm looking at you) awaiting a swift Zube-style kung-fu-ing. With a little chop suey-ing thrown in for good measure. You never know when a bottle of soy sauce is going to come in handy. Stings the eyes.

Anyway, there is nothing more embarrassing (and perhaps life-threatening) than attempting to execute a seamless kick in the jaw than slipping and falling on your ass in the process.

The thing is, though, I hate having bare feet in the house. A city street? Sure. My living room? Nah. What with all of the animal fur getting stuck in between my toes and stuff. So I usually opt to wear socks or slippers despite the risk.

Which is cool in it's own right because I can then do the Moonwalk with finesse. And ease. I'm being so descriptive here I bet you can actually almost picture it.

Also, I'm pretending I missed the comments where you all asked to see me breakdance. You see, I'm afraid I forgot to mention I don't do it WELL. But, now that I've divulged that fact, you probably want to see me do it even more. Hmm...

Don't Hate Me Because I Have a Vivid Imagination

If I happened to be at a cocktail party with a bunch of celebrities and Brad was there and he asked me out to dinner, it’d go something like this. I think.

Brad: Zube, please, please, please, PLEASE just go to dinner with me!!!

Z-Girl: Brad, you are just so pathetic when you beg.

Brad: PLEASE!

Z-Girl: Fine. You know, I really need to talk to you about stalking me and shit. It’s kind of annoying. Like the other night…

Brad: Okay. I’ll pick you up at 8:00.

Z-Girl: Oh no, doll. I don’t think so. 8:00 is like a DATE kind of hour. You can pick me up at 6:00. That’s a friendly hour.

Brad: If that’s what you want.

Z-Girl: Actually, I think it’d be better yet if I met you. Much more platonic, you know? Where shall we meet?

Brad: Well, there’s this really cool sushi bar in…

Z-Girl: BZZZZZZZ! Wrong answer. No. I only eat sushi in the privacy of my own home because I’m too uncoordinated to feed myself with two sticks and I won’t eat with my fingers in public. Not to mention that the fast pace and the whole ordering from those dudes right there and watching them make it and not knowing what in the hell to get…No. Far too traumatic for my tastes.

Brad: You’re fucking nuts.

Z-Girl: ME! NUTS!? Well, maybe a little. But you know you love it. And besides, whose the freakin' stalker here?! You're off your rocker Brad. You know what? Fuck this dinner thing. I don’t think Zube Boy would like it too much anyway. And besides, you don't want to get Angelina all pissed off with her being pregnant and hormonal.

Brad: Oh well. I tried. I guess I’ll see you tonight. Could you at least leave the blinds open?

Z-Girl: Seriously, no. But, could you try not to trip over the hose this time? Scared the crap out of me. I fell over while I was putting on my underwear.

Brad: Mmmm. I know.

Z-Girl: Brad, you are hopeless.

Then he'd start singing that song that goes something like, "Hopelessly in LOOOOOOVE with you," and I'd stand there looking all tragically embarrassed. Just at that moment when I'm looking all cute and vulnerable, Eminem would glance my way, and we'd lock eyes.

And that'd be it. I'd be stuck with yet another celebrity stalker.

You know, if I ever get an invitation to a celebrity cocktail party and I ask you if I should accept or not, would ya'll remind me that it just wouldn't be worth the trouble? Thanks.

A Metaphor...

I've found blogging to be kind of like riding waves. I've drawn some pictures for you, as I know how much you appreciate my artistic renditions. Please keep in mind that I drew these a while ago, when I SUCKED at Paint Shop Pro. As we all know, I am a phenomenal Paint Shop Pro-er these days.





It seems that I go through phases where I have ten post ideas vying to make the final cut from my brain to my fingertips. I can't keep up with the stories in my head. Yet other times, I have the creativity of a pothead on Special K. And that's not much. Don't ask me how I know.

Just so's you know, I'm chilling on the beach drinking Corona right now, gearing up to wade back out into the ocean. Not REALLY, unfortunately. But figuratively. Bear with me.

In other news, I think it's kind of cute how Brad is trying to make me jealous with this whole Angelina bit. I just hope he doesn't break Angelina's heart. I really like her. In fact, she is on my top five same sex celebrity list.

Because I'm a Fucking Supah Stah!

Just a heads up. The pigeon feather threat…It was idle. If you are just DYING to interrogate me, and don’t want to post the meme, that’s okay. I really don’t have time to stalk people, much less go around searching for pigeon feathers, what with a husband, three cats and a dog, and Brad Pitt up my ass all the time. So, bring it on people.

I would like to request that ya’ll keep in mind that each comment multiplied by three is the number of questions I have to answer, so let’s not get crazy. The last time I posted a meme with no reciprocal responsibility of meme-postage, I was inundated. Which was cool then because it was a pretty easy one, but this one could get ugly. I mean, 26 X 3 is 78 interview questions, and that’s a fucking lot. That’s a number that kind of scares me.

So I don’t leave my first three interviewers hanging, here’s the first round. I’ll update if I get more.

Rick Stilwell of Caffeinated Adventures asked:

1. What is your favorite movie of all time - the one that will make you drop everything to watch whenever it's on TNT?
Heathers. Love, love, love it. I think Christian Slater is the best thing since sliced bread, and I totally dig Winona Ryder. Oh, wait. Second runner up would be Alice in Wonderland. I feel like Alice quite often. In fact, she may be the subject of my next tattoo, if I can convince Zube Boy to let me get one. Well, he wouldn't NOT let me do anything, but I need to know that he'll still find me the babe he does today if I do it.

2. Where are your keys right now, and why?
In my purse, because if they weren’t, I’d NEVER find them. I hate when I come home in a rush and set them somewhere, because I feel so LOST without them. Even if I don’t need to drive anywhere for days. Who me? A control freak? Maybe a little.

3. If you could ask God anything, and He answered you back - what would that mean to you?
It would mean that I am right, and there is *something* bigger than myself out there in the ether loving me. I actually do feel answered by that *something* quite often; not necessarily by words but by feelings.

Woah. Rick, you’ve tricked me! I’ve let out my sappy Zube. The hopeful one. The one who knows she's not alone even when she feels she is. But, that’s okay. She likes to come out and play, too.


Christine of Blood and Tears asked:

1. What was the most expensive single item of clothing you have ever bought for yourself?
Hmmm…This is tough, because I’m SO not a clothes shopper. Which is a little sad, because I’ve made it such a priority to put my money into our house, that sometimes I think my living room looks better than I do.

But, a few years ago, I spent $90 on the most awesome pair of boots. I was so sad when I had to retire them. *sniff* I’ve tried to find another similar pair, but I’m even less inclined to spend that much money on a pair of shoes than I was back then.

2. If you could have a conversation with ANYONE, living or dead, who would it be? And Why?
Harriet Tubman. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve had the same answer to that question. She just sounds like an amazing fucking person, and one helluva strong woman despite all of the huge obstacles she was up against. And, not only was she strong for herself, but for other people. That astounds and inspires me.

You know, I would’ve had a different answer for a couple of years in my early twenties. Jerry Garcia. I still think he’s cool as shit, but I’ve stopped smoking pot since those days, and the urge to meet him isn’t quite so strong.

3. What color are the sheets that are on your bed right now?

Black. And they need to be washed. Shit.


Phil of Echoes in a Nomad’s Head asked:

1. What is the longest period of time you've worn one pair of underwear without washing it?
I would have to say, two days. MAYBE two and a half, but that’s a stretch because I’m kind of anal about that shit. But, you know, sometimes you go camping and decide to stay for an extra night or two without enough supplies. What can I say?

2. Who is your favorite porn star of all time and why?

Okay, I am SO not a prude, and I think porns are funnier than hell. I used to hang out with a group of guys several years ago, and they would kind of forget once in a while that I lacked a, ahem, certain appendage. So, we would be in the video store checking out the dirty movies and I’d have to pipe in every once in a while with, “Yo. Guys. Girl on girl action is okay, but could we get at least one with some dudes?” Hee. What the fuck is it with guys all hanging out together watching porn. I’ll never understand that.

That said, I don't know the names of ANY porn stars. Damn.

3. If you HAD to live for one day as an item in your bathroom, what would it be and why?
A mirror on the door. In front of the toilet. Not to be too demanding or anything, but I want to see the funny faces people make when they pinch a loaf, AND THEN the funny faces they make when they catch their funny pooing faces in me. The mirror. Yes.

Kjersten of Mezmerotonous asked:

1. What was your favorite class in college?
Philosophy. Though I failed it. Or wait. I think I actually scraped by with a D. But, after the class was over, I read the entire text and was like, "Huh. Philosophy is kind of cool." I did that with a lot of my classes. I'm not a big fan of structured learning.

2. What was your first job? (babysitting and lawn mowing type jobs don't count)
So, my paper route from ages 11 to 14 aside, my first job would be when I was sixteen. I worked at a farmer's market selling flowers, fruits, and vegetables. I dated the son of the owners, a farm-hand, for a few months. He turned out to be a lying wack job like none other. Apparently he married a girl who looks a lot like me. He was a little, um, obsessed shall we say. I broke up with him, and just never returned.

3. What is your most favorite book of all time?
This is hard as shit, because I LOVE reading and LOVE books. I'd have to say, A Wrinkle in Time. I still try kything every once in a while.

Courtney of Five Second Dance Party asked:

1. What movie/tv star do you wish would just curl up and die already?
Paris Hilton. For real. She's famous for being fucking...rich? That pisses me off.

2. Is there any food that you can't tolerate? What is it? And not because of allergies-just because you hate it.
Stuffing. Ever since I was young I have HATED stuffing. I actually dry heave when I try to eat it. I don't like the texture, the way it looks, the taste. EW.

What was the most awkward situation you've ever found yourself in?
You know, I would have to say the couple of days before my wedding. Everyone around me was happy, and all I could do was cry and throw up. I was terrified that people would realize once the party started just how little I spent on it, blood, sweat and tears notwithstanding. I hired a DJ and a caterer. I made my own invitations, grew my own nails and had my sister do a french manicure, ordered flowers online and made my own bouquets, boutineers, and centerpieces, had friends bartend, had his Dad marry us, and on and on and on. In the few days preceding, I worried incessantly that everyone there would realize I didn't have money coming out of my ass, and had spent less than $5,000, which, if you've never had a wedding, is a fairly small amount for 104 guests.

In the end, it was a blast. And I got nothing but compliments. I was even told I should be a wedding planner. I was like, "Fuck that noise." Planning one was enough. Ergo, I'll be married forever. Promise.

Brad is Crazy, Y'all.

I heard a rumor that Brad Pitt visits a friend of his in our ski town. Sometimes when I'm at the bar playing pool I think how suave I'd be if he happened to walk in. I'd wait a few minutes for the crowd around him to dissipate. Then I'd saunter up while suggestively holding my pool stick. I'd order a cosmopolitan, and wave towards Brad when the bartender brought it over, all oh he's got this one...

ZG: Hey, so I hear you're my biggest fan.

Brad: Well, I wasn't until you just said that.

ZG: Yeah, I know. That was like, a really cool thing to say, wasn't it?

Brad: You are totally hot.

ZG: I know.

Brad: And cool.

ZG: So I hear.

Brad: Wanna hang out?

ZG: Oh no. I already have a husband.

That would be the beginning of the end, so to speak. He would be so enthralled with me that he would start showing up wherever Zube Boy and I were having dinner, and peeking in my windows while I was getting dressed for work. It would be a bit of a thrill in the beginning to be 'Celebrity Stalked' but then it would just get old.

Zube Girl: Honey.

Zube Boy: What?

ZG: Brad is at the window watching me put on my pajamas again.

ZB: Goddamnit! This is getting really old. How many fucking times do I have to beat up Brad Pitt before he realizes you're my hot wife? Geez.

You know, that would be kind of annoying.

I think that instead of being all coy and sexy if I ever see Brad, I'll wield my pool stick like a lampoon, glare at him, and say, "Dude, you're fucking nuts! Stay the hell away from me you crazy stalker!"

'Cause I just don't have time for stalkers. Even celebrity ones. I mean, I'm happily married, Brad. Get over it. 'Kay? And I don't even fucking like cosmopolitans anyway. I'm just not ready for Hollywood.