They Say a Picture Is Worth...

1,000 words. I'd like to amend that. A picture is worth four words.

Where do I begin?


Firstly, I should probably remember I am not a twelve-year-old boy. That's one way to begin.

But on the other hand, the twelve-year-old boy one, what exactly is going on in this pre-tomato snack playtime session? Something tells me there is a Guiding Light in here somewhere. But since I've not slept for any substantial amount of time in months and never watched a full hour of The Soap Operas EVER, not even hung over as all get-out in my dedicated pursuit of passing my Partying major in college, I'm drawing a blank. If by blank I mean that my brain is being inundated by various and sundry sordid stories behind the photo. I'm just too spent to pick one.

The childrens and I were up at 3:30AM today. All three of us. Awesome, no? Yes.

Mostly, I think you guys are funnier than I am...and I'm sort of needing you to make me laugh, if you're so inclined.

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...

Come On...

The DHL guy stopped by some moments ago and saw my coworker and I in the back office(during the ski sesason we usually close the blinds so we don't get random skiers walking in looking for the front desk, but since the ski resort is mother-fucking closed, WOOT! we're letting in the light). Anyhow, seeing as how A (coworker) and I were sitting there, he decided to walk right in rather than passing us by on his way to the front desk...

DHL Guy: Hey, I saw you guys sitting here, so I hope you don't mind...

A: Eh, you just wanted to come in my back door.

He promptly turned around and walked out and met us at the front desk.

Has anyone seen my shit? I seem to have lost it.

Also, I'm going to be rocking a new look around here. I'm in dire need of a breath of fresh air, figuratively speaking.

I Like Bread Butts and I Cannot Lie...

Seriously. Bread butts are good. I make two sandwiches out of them. Only one butt per sandwich. But the butt has to be on top. Just the way it goes. And I can't eat a sandwich using both bread butts. Because too much of a good thing is Just. So. Wrong. At least in my world.

In other news, let's pretend I posted this yestereday. Because that was my intention. I was playing the "What was I doing a year ago, two years ago today?" and what I found got me thinking. It's like, I always, always wish, in all my years of writing diaries and blogs and such, that I could go back now and console or encourage my past selves when I reread what they've written.

my ghosts on a page. And they feel so real to me. So present. But they're not really. They're the past. Haunting me in the present. And by haunting, I don't mean they make me sad, exactly. I just wish that I could do something to ease their fears and sorrows. And I can't. Because there's no going back.

And no. In fact, I have not taken up smoking pot again. If I had, this entry would sound a little different:

Dude. I bet you guys can totally tell I'm stoned. You can, right? Oh my god. That guy walking his dog out there? I bet you he knows I'm holed up here at the computer all...stoned. EVERY-FUCKING-BODY KNOWS I'M STONED! OH MY GOD IS THAT THE COPS?!

Heh. Had to lay off the leafy greens for that very reason many moons ago.

I pass on grass, man. But don't worry. I'm not all anti-grass. I'd just pass it to you. To puff or pass. Are you smellin' what I'm not smoking?

In other, other news. Sometimes I like to announce in casual company that my baby hole itches. I like to watch and enjoy the uncomfortable squirming that ensues before I confess I had a c-section. An artificial baby hole, so to speak. One which is probably a little less embarrassing to admit is itching.

Happy Halloween to all and to all a good fright!

You So Wish...

I was your wingman. Admit it.

My coworker was wondering how he might improve his game with the ladies. I, being the fucking marketing genius I am, decided to help a brother out. Chicks dig business cards. And chicks dig Presidents. Well, at least some Presidents. If you ask this chick. This chick is a little discretionary in the Presidential love.

Ahem, anyway. I decided to make him some business cards. Because I'm nice like that. Check it out (identifying info changed to protect the innocent):


He's so gonna get some.

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.

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.

Peeing...It's Not Just For Boys to Put Out Campfires Anymore!

I found this little packet in with one of my ovulation predictor tests...


It sucks that you can't eat the little pop-rock thingies inside the packet. For a minute there I thought, "What a GREAT fucking idea! Not ONLY will I be able to pee on a stick and find out if I'm ovulating, but I'll be able to enjoy pop-rocks all the while. It's genius, no? Anyway, it would be kind of cool if they inserted a can of soda and some edible pop-rocks into the ovulation predictor test packaging. 'Cause then I could, like, find out if I'm ovulating AND disprove an urban legend. All at once. Just like that. Talk about multi-tasking.

Wanna see what Zube Boy does? Okay...





Do you SEE that mud?!?! Really, I should have taken a picture of Zube Boy, but sometimes husbands are kind of like pets with the being photogenic thing when there is no camera anywhere to be found. Suffice it to say that he entered the house (I recognized the eyes) through the laundry room and wasn't allowed to take a step further until he stripped down to his boxers and undershirt. Heh. COVERED IN MUD, I say.

We had an awesome Memorial Day weekend. Check out our campsite:



Here we are sittin' by the fire...(there were no grandmas to be found...not my grandma and not your grandma...in case you were wondering):


That homemade wine was fucking DELICIOUS! Wow.

Word to the wise: Remember to fill your tank before driving your pop-up camper pulling jeep up steep four wheel drive trails, because driving down that shit in neutral with your gas gauge reading '0 MILES TO EMPTY' is SCARY AS HELL at best. But, um, I made it. Thankfully.

Oh yeah, I took a picture of my ass to give to Rocky Jay because it would seem he's running low on ass shots. And since I'm such a great fucking sport, and I think there is an underrepresentation of girls with regular old asses in the world, here 'tis:



The End. Hee.

Pop Quiz

But don't worry. It's multiple choice.

You’re sitting at your desk and the boss’s eight-year-old kiddo gallops up carrying a Styrofoam ball. A painted ball with a ring around it. She excitedly holds it up and says, “Hey, Zube Girl, LOOK! It’s Uranus!” Do you:

a) Spit Gatorade all over your computer monitor.

b) Catch your breath and say, “Oh, honey, Uranus is very cute!”

c) Run into your boss’s office cackling wildly about how her daughter just made your morning.

d) All of the above.

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!!!

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.

Where the Cum Gets Dumped, and Then Some

-Yesterday, I was reading this post by Chickie and decided to have some fun of my own throwing screaming and terrified eggs into the garbage disposal.


Thank you Chickie. It was fun.

-During a few summers while I was in college, I worked on a paint crew. It was a fucking blast and we were all raunchy and shit and got into rubber band fights and I would go home with red welts all over my legs. But, so would the other guy. I loved it. Anyway, one day we were, well, painting, I'd imagine, and trying to figure out the worst insult possible for a girl we didn't like. Cum dumpster was what we came up with. I love it. And it doesn't even have the word fuck in it. But it's just so wrong.

-Yesterday I stormed around the house hissing and screaming, "What is WRONG with you people?!?!?! I mean CATS! Shut up!"

-Sometimes, I'll just be sitting here at the computer and I'll glance around at all of the felines. Like right now. And all three of them are giving me the old stink eye. In moments like this, I feel the teeniest bit crazy.

-I had a panic attack several years ago. I was driving home from work during rush hour and all of the sudden I started hearing video game music in my head and I felt like all of the the other cars were trying to hit me, and that I should hit them back. I stopped at the next exit until the attack passed. Somehow I made it there without ramming into any other cars.

-I don't have a fucking clue what a Podcast is. The only pods I know of are in my closet where I'm cultivating gnome-eating pod-people to protect my home and the size of my pants.

-Somebody said to me once, "Did you know gullible isn't in the dictionary?" I said, "Wow. That's weird. I wonder why not." They said, "Fucking-A, Zube, you ARE fucking gullible." I said, "Fuck you."

MWA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!!!

Look what I did find in mine own little yard:


It would appear that one of the Clan 'O Pant Shrinkers has perished in the snow. I'll have to chip him out of the ice and see if he still has his Shrinking Ray Gun. I could use that shit, like when Zube Boy is going on and on about how his pants are getting bigger because I don't cook dinner. I bet I could shrink him up real good. Then I'd throw crumbs at his scrawny ass.

It'd be like that movie, but more like, "Honey, I Shrunk, My Honey!" And I'll do one of those little fist pumps and prance around the kitchen hissing, "YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSS! I rule the world!"

Woah. I think I just got a little carried away there.

Today is going to be AWESOME! Just look how it started out.

If you didn't read yesterday's post you are probably TOTALLY lost. Heh.

Folic Acid and Damn, I Love Him

Apparently, I'm fine having coffee for two hours and planning a friend's baby shower, but walking by this:


yesterday made me cry. Not the ibuprofen, and not even the women's vitamins really. But the fucking folic acid supplement. Because they mean MAKING BABIES. And then losing them and shit. The doctor said we could start trying again in December. And the thing is, I'm scared out of my wits. Eh well.

On another note, do you think Snickers are an appropriate Thanksgiving dessert? I'm hosting dinner at my house, and I LOVE making turkey and potatoes and all of that other crap, but I'm so not a baker. I could even put them in a pie tray or something.

Don't forget to hump Kyknoord's leg today! He's THAT cool. Just click on the little thumbnail over there------------------->

Last night Zube Boy and I were at the bar, and I had a moment. You know, one of those moments where nothing special is going on, but you're just so overcome with love you almost lose your breath. They're indescribable, otherwise I'd probably go on and on about it right now. Lucky you. Heh.

Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you, ALL of my pants have SHRUNK! It's kind of fucked up. I have a theory, but Zube Boy thinks I'm crazy. I think there is a clan of little gnomes that have set up camp in the tire pile behind our house and when we're gone they sneak in with their Shrinking Ray Guns and go through my drawers. Little fuckers. And to think I used to like gnomes.

Don't Hate Me Because I'm SOOOO Good-Looking

Coworker: Man, I can't wait until tomorrow.

Z-Girl: Why?

Coworker: 'Cause I just get better looking every day.

Z-Girl: Hahahahahaha. That's awesome. I am so trying that when I get home.

A few hours later at home...

Z-Girl: Honey, I can't wait until tomorrow.

Z-Boy: Really.

Z-Girl: Yup.

Z-Boy: *silence*

Z-Girl: Well.

Z-Boy: Well what?

Z-Girl: Well, aren't you going to ask me why?

Z-Boy: Oh. Okay. Why?

Z-Girl: Because I get better looking every day!

Z-Boy: You're a dork.

Wanna Make a Truck?

I have a new renter. Please visit him because he's awesome as hell and he, who goes by the name of Kyknoord, Storm, and Junebee have been with me since damn near the beginning of this blogging thing I started. And in saying that, I only mean 'my blog' that I started. I don't want to get all Al Gore on your ass and leave you with the impression that I invented the blog. No, no, no. I feel like I should make a Bush joke, to be fair. But 'blogs' isn't nearly as funny as 'internets' so I'll leave it alone.

Anyway, you can get to his site by clicking on the adorable and perfect little thumbnail right underneath that fucked uppedly positioned button I attempted to make in a fleeting moment of, "Nah, I can't possibly suck that bad," thinking. But, alas, I do suck. At least at HTML. And snowboarding.

I'm bored. Does anyone want to go for a bike ride with me?


Or, we could build a car. Actually, we could build 2 1/4 cars with nine tires. Or half of an eighteen wheeler. That would be one fucked up ride now wouldn't it? We could even put a couple of the big ass tires on the bike and make it FAN-FUCKING-AWESOME! Sure, it sounds like a weird thing to do on a Saturday afternoon, but we'll buy a twelve-pack, rip into it, and it won't sound so bad. A couple of Buds always make things seem less bizarre.

Zube Boy is going to KILL me when he sees this post. I've been wanting to show you our tire collection for-fucking-ever, but he wouldn't let me. See, I'm all about embracing the white trash bitch within myself. He's, well, not so much. But, I figure they're mostly covered in snow now, and will be for probably another six months, so it's okay.

Anyway, give me a hollar if you're up for it.

Some Math and Shit

Zube Girl + Work - Server(Internet) / 2 Hours = Ridiculous Art

8:47AM

12:11PM

2:23PM

3:14PM

And Again With the Vacuums

This sign is not only useful for vacuums that are misbehaving, but also for coworkers.

I think the vacuums are the most disgruntled employees at my company. Maybe it is because we keep putting mean signs on their backs.

I Spy With Mine Own Eye

I kind of wish we had a bigger yard. For lots of reasons, not the least of which being that if we had a bigger yard, I think I could really be a spy. I guess that's the sort of sacrifice you make when you live in a pretty beautiful place where the only reasonably affordable houses are on .1 acre.

Anway, in the event that we ever move up the real estate food chain, I would like a nice big back yard where I can practice my spy rolls. As it is, I've got to practice them in the living room. Sometimes I hit my head on the coffee table or land on a cat, and with obstacles such as that, I'm never going to get good at them.

I mean, I know that when I'm a real spy, I'm going to have obstacles in the way. For example, when I leap from the rooftop of one building to another, deftly avoiding the flock of pigeons flying by, I'll need to make sure I spy roll around the big metal vent thingy that the bad guys always hide behind, but right now it's all about technique. I need to get my technique down before I go challenging myself with obstacles, you know?

I think that being a spy is, like, the sexiest job EVER! Except, when you go to cocktail parties and shit, it's not like you can say, "Oh, I'm a spy," when someone asks you what you do for a living. That would kind of suck. The whole point of being a spy is that it's a secret.

Maybe being a spy wouldn't be such a glamorous job after all. But fuck it. I just want to wear the sexy leather uniform spy chicks always have on. In which case, I'll need a boob job, too.

A boob job and a bigger yard. Le sigh. I have big dreams, you guys.

What Goes Around, Comes Around. Heh.

Dear Ass,

Stop eating my underwear.

Love,
Zube Girl

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

Dear Zube Girl,

Stop wearing thongs.

Love,
Ass

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

Dear Thongs,

Stop crawling up my ass.

Love,
Zube Girl

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

Dear Zube Girl,

Ease up on the Cheetos, babe.

Love,
Thongs

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

Dear Ass and Thongs,

Fuck you both.

Love,
Zube Girl

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

Dear Cheetos,

I love you.

Love,
Zube Girl

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

Dear Zube Girl,

I still love you!

Love,
Gramma Panties