Alannis Forgot a Few Verses Is All I'm Saying

The other day a teenage girl came to the front desk because her family was departing our beloved resort and she wanted to partake in the consumption of some yogurt on the long drive to the airport and hoped we might have a plastic spoon. We don't have plastic spoons behind the front desk as a rule, but we do have a little kitchen in the back that is kept well-stocked by tourists throughout the winter with tons of random shit not worthy of an airplane ride. I told her I'd go check.

Lo and behond, there was a box I did spy with mine own eyes of plasticware up on a shelf. I grabbed it and peeked inside. Sadly, plastic spoons must be popular, whereas plastic forks and knives are not. The box was overflowing with exactly what she did not need. I wasn't sure how adventurous she was with her yogurt eating endeavors so I brought her a plastic fork and a plastic knife and, as I handed them to her, said, "There were no spoons, I'm sorry, but here is a fork and a knife in case they might come in handy." I should have stopped there, after she said the requisite, "Thank you," but I carried on.

"It's a little ironic, don't you think?"

She laughed at me in that ironic way that teenagers laugh at 'old people' and left me to snicker on, all by my lonesome.

It was ironic, though. And I think Alannis might have written that song with exactly our situation in mind.

Anywho, dabbling in irony as I am, I thought I'd share this photo with you...

That used to be a wine rack.

PS- I love hats. I mean, that probably wouldn't pass the truthiness test. I love hats MY KIDS WEAR. I, personally, hate hats.

Also ironic? I have a perfect replica of the Big Dipper on my chin. And wrinkles.

And one more, for good measure. Zee is FINALLY wasting away in nap(Mommy-gets-a-break)ville, and Bee just woke up.

Awesome.

Shit and Get Off the Pot...And When You Do, Come Down to the Front Desk Your Damn Self, Shall We Say, to Clear the Air...

A lot of times at the hotel, parents are too damn lazy to peel their asses off the couch to come down to the front desk and ask a question. Instead they send their personal assitant/s. Er, child/ren.

It's kind of a pain in the ass to explain to an eight-year-old how to hook up to the wireless internet. And it becomes a very intricate game of 'telephone' when said children return to their parents to explain the process.

Though, as they say, every cloud has a silver lining.

Kid: Hi!

Zube: Hi, what can I do for you?

Kid: Well, my Mommy wanted me to come down here and tell you that the toilet is clogged. But she didn't want me to tell you she did it.

Zube: *Stifling a smile* We'll send someone over to help you out with that.

Kid: Thanks! *whispering* But she did do it!

Zube: I gathered.

Lesson to lazy ass parents: If you're guilty of plugging up the shitter, don't expect your kid to cover for you (and also, again with the lazy ass, there is a PLUNGER in your bathroom right next to the toilet...the one YOU clogged). I do, however, appreciate your shameless offer to be the highlight of my otherwise fairly mundane day.

Random Bits

Today I saw seven skiers, skis askew over their shoulders, walking paintstakingly in their ski boots out the lobby doors on their way to the chairlift. They were all in line. Upon seeing them, I instinctively started to sing, "Hi-ho, hi-ho..." I don't think they thought I was as funny as I did.

Last week a coworker and I were trying to nickname the seven people in the office. We were short one nickname, so I called my Mom.

Ring-Ring

Mom: Hello.

Z-Girl: Okay, so Doc, Dopey, Grumpy, Sleepy, Happy, and Sneezy. Who am I missing?

Mom: Umm, let me think, Doc, Happy, um, Bashful!

Z-Girl: Thanks.

You know, I could look these things up on the internet, but it's just not the same. Oh, I'm Doc, by the way. What can I say, I got first pick.

I'm feeling just awful for poor little Zee. She's got a raw tushie. Not that that's the kind of thing you prolly want to know, but hell, who asked you? Diaper rash sucks. And what kills me, is she's been absolutely cheery throughout the hole (Umm, not entirely an inappropriate typo) thing. I mean, I know how crotchety I get when my bung-hole is a little itchy and her whole ass is on fire and she's still smiling. What a trooper. I think she enjoys the 'Naked Time' I've implemented with the express interest of airing out her bottom. Come to think of it, who doesn't enjoy 'Naked Time'? Eh well, we're working on this diaper rash deal as best we can. Anyone have any suggestions? I was going to assk (Haha! Okay, these typos are killing me.) the Mommas, but I'm sure that anyone out there is capable of tossing out an amusing cure for what ails my poor little Zee. And that, my friends, I Am asking you. Whether you wanted to hear about this debacle or not.

This post was brought to you by Capitol Z

PS - Just fair warning...If you're considering 'dropping in' on someone who works in the ski industry in MARCH to discuss your future event, think again. Howz about you try calling and making an appointment. And it just might not be possible for another week or so. Certainly, it would impress you to know that the person you're wanting to meet with is MORE CONCERNED with the events she has currently taking place than ones that are in the future. Wouldn't you expect people to give your the same courtesy when she is busy attending to your event?

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.

From Solid to Liquid...In .2 Miles Flat

I was driving home from the post office the other day. The trip was enjoyable, if only for a moment, given the lack of gapers driving five miles an hour with the ever recognizable 'I Don't Know Where the Hell Skier Parking Is So I'll Just Give the Crazy Lady with the Flailing Arms Behind Me Fair Warning That I May Turn Sometime in the Next Five Miles' blinker on. Anyway, this lack of gapers was quite conducive to some Behind-the-Wheel Introspection. I started to think about this miscarriage thing. It's changed me somehow. I don't really know in what way, but I know that I'm different. I was trying to pinpoint just WHAT differentiates pre-miscarriage Zube Girl from post-miscarriage Zube Girl.

I said out loud, "I think it's hardened me," while making a pissy, speedy right turn onto Wellington to take the back way home, because whenever gapers have gone back home, CONSTRUCTION is EVERY-DAMN-WHERE. Fucking construction.

Then I started to cry. And I mean BAWL.

Yeah. So much for that hardening theory.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, PEACE OUT, homies!

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

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

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

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

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

Z-Girl: Oh. Sorry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do You See What I See?

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


Despite its artistic quality, the housekeepers were not amused.

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

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

Z-Boy: They already did.

Z-Girl: Did what?

Z-Boy: Write a song about you.

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

Z-Boy: Somehow they just knew.

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

Z-Boy: Girls.

Shit and, uh, Other Nonsense

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Go Grow a Dick, Asshole.

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

Ring-Ring!

Z-Girl: Guest services.

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

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

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

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

Señor Cockholio: This is AWFUL!

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

Señor Cockholio: I can't believe this.

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

Click

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

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

It's All About the Queendom

During the winter, Zube Boy and I have opposite schedules. I'm mostly busy during the week getting ready for and booking ski groups, and some weekends when really big groups arrive, and he's mostly busy during weekends dealing with the ski groups I book, and many, many other people, too. It kind of sucks because it means the winter months don't leave much time for us to hang out, but we more than make up for it in the summer when our days off once again coincide and we go camping and four-wheeling and dining together to the point where we're batshit crazy with one another and looking forward to the winter.

Anyway, this means that most Saturdays and Sundays, when I'm not working, I'm left to my own devices. Sometimes, it's actually pretty fun. I like to prance around the house and pretend I'm the Queen! And the animals are my Royal Subjects. Please, do not misread ROYAL subjects to be anything near LOYAL subjects because each and every one them would drop me like a flaming brown bag of feces if someone else were to throw ground beef their way. That's what makes them ROYAL. It's all about the diet.

I thought that some of you might be curious about how a Queen spends her time, so I've decided to share with you.

A Day in the Life of a Queen...

6:45AM - Get out of bed and make coffee for the King. Even though the King should be making his own damn coffee, the Queen really wants some, too, and she takes the time to add cinnamon. Besides, it's nice to send the King off properly because he does such a great job of polishing her crown. All hail the King! In case you are wondering, the reason the Queen does not sleep in is because she knows that in order to appreciate having the palace all to her herself, she must be awake. DUH!

7:00AM - Having sent the King to work and brushed her teeth, she decides to practice her Karate Kid-esque stance and kick. A good Queen knows that at any point in time one of her Royal Subjects may just need a swift ass kicking. And practice makes perfect.

7:05AM - She notices that her Karate Kid-esque kicks are causing quite the fur-storm. Not because her kicks have come into contact with a canine or feline, mind you. The tumbleweeds exist because the royal cleaning crew has been nowhere to be found for the past week. Fur-like tumbleweeds annoy a Queen to no end because royalty thrives in a pristine environment. So the Queen decides, though vacuuming is beneath her, that she will vacuum anyway because breathing cat-hair fortified oxygen is even MORE beneath her.

7:30AM - Resume practicing Karate Kid-esque kicks.

7:45AM - Prance to the bathroom. And leave the door open. Because nothing pleases a Queen more than to sit on her throne, all home alone, with the bathroom door wide open.

7:46AM - Throw soap and wadded up balls of toilet paper at the Royal Subjects, whom apparently have NO regard for a pissing Queen's need for privacy. Fucking Royal Subjects.

7:47AM - Realize that practicing Karate Kid-esque kicks serves NO purpose whatsoever when kicks generally need to be executed while sitting on the throne.

7:50AM - Practice kicking the Royal Subjects' asses while sitting on the throne.

8:00AM - Close the bathroom door. After crawling on hands and knees hissing at the Royal Subjects until they retreat, all the while laughing heartily in their own feline way at a Queen on her knees in the bathroom hissing.

8:10AM - Take a shower. Pull out loose hairs from upon her royal head and stick them to the shower wall. Because really? Some Queens are kind of gross. Much to the dismay of their kingly partners.

8:20AM - Wrap herself in the biggest towel EVAH! Send a little verbal thanks out into the ether to the King's Aunt and Uncle for giving the best towels in the world as a wedding gift.

8:30AM - After putting on make-up and sticking her hair up in a bun, unbrushed...again...wrap herself tighter in big ass towel and squish boobs together. Imagine what a drop dead gorgeous Queen she would be with bigger boobs.

8:31AM - Wink and smile coyly into the mirror.

8:40AM - Put on royal flannel pajamas. After, of course, generously distributing lotion on herself. Particularly in areas where dryness is an issue. No Queen needs a chapped ass.

8:45AM - Sit down at the royal computer and empart her queenly knowledge upon the world. Giggle endlessly at the thought of herself as a Queen Bitch. Imagine what her bitchy friends are doing this wonderful weekend. Wonder what would happen if folks no longer e-mailed wethreebitches at yahoo dot com to beseach the words of wisdom she and her Queen Bitch friends have to empart.

9:45AM - Hop in her royal carriage, after putting on sweatpants and a sweatshirt, to go to 7-11 and buy a little teeny $5 bag of kitty food because if there is one thing a Queen WILL NOT do, it is go to the grocery store on a holiday weekend to hang out with a bunch of freakin' gapers.

10:00AM - Vow to return to the palace as quickly as humanly possible because DAMN that chick at the register sure as HELL has no idea that she's dealing with a Queen here.

10:15AM - Feed the Royal Subjects.

10:30AM - Give the royal computer another go. Share an exhausting day in the life of a Queen. Or rather, a half a day. Because, as a Queen, some things are best left a mystery. Or a secret.

Rock-a-Bye Drunk College Fuckers. Heh.

WHEE! I did it! As of yesterday, all 200 college students were all checked in and snuggled safely in their beds, or, uh, running around the property piss drunk and butt-ass naked, to the chagrin of other guests, but anyway. My part's done. I book 'em and get 'em in. Then they're the front desk's problem. Until the damage report comes in. Then they're my problem again. But that's five days away. In the meantime, I'm going to breathe.

Sometimes, after saying shit over and over and over and over again, my tongue gets tied.

Z-Girl: Do you know where Ski Slope Condos is?

College Kid: Nope.

Z-Girl: *pointing to a map* Okay, you'll make a left at this stop, a left at this light, a left here onto Blah Blah Avenue, and you'll see the condoms, uh, miniums, um, I mean, condomsminiums...Damn. The condominiums will be on your right.

College Kid: Hahahahahaha!

Z-Girl: Shut up! It's been a long day for me! Now go to your room. Hee.

Is This Love? Or am I Dream...Having a Nightmare?

I realized that I've never shared an artistic rendition of Zube Boy with you. I decided to draw a picture of us emptying the dishwasher. Well, one of us at least.


In other news, I have my head so far up my ass these days that it's nearly made its way up through my digestive tract, and will likely soon be erupting out of my mouth. Whatever the fuck that means. I'll tell you what it means for you, though. I'm still sucking with responding to your comments AND checking your blogs. I'm sorry. Life first, I guess.

I'm moving hundreds of people in and out of the hotel at a shocking rate. I always forget during the summer when I'm all chillin' like a villian at work just how insanely busy the winters really are. Notice I started this blog in March. And didn't post very much at that. Hence the tight relationship my head and my ass seem to be rocking.

Well, DUH!

Ring-Ring

Z-Girl: Blah Blah Management, this is Zube Girl.

Dumbass: Hi. I was wondering, is the ski resort open today?

Z-Girl: Um, yes?

Dumbass: Are you sure? It snowed all last night, and it's still snowing this morning.

Z-Girl: Uh, the ski resort is pretty well equipped to deal with snow.

Dumbass: Okay, thanks!

Z-Girl: Right. No problem.

Right Across the Street Means Right Across the Street You Fucking Moron!

Or, to put it nicely...

Guest: Where is the chairlift?

Z-Girl: Right across the street.

Guest: Across the street?

Z-Girl: Yup. Right across the street.

Guest: Where exactly is the street?

Z-Girl: If you step out those two doors right there, you'll see a street and the chairlift will be right across it.

Guest: So the street is right out there?

Z-Girl: Yup.

Guest: Will we be able to see it?

Z-Girl: Yes, as soon as you step out the front doors.

Guest: What if we can't find it?

Z-Girl: You will. It's right outside those doors.

Guest: *looking skeptical (or stupid, depending on who you ask)*

Z-Girl: Here, I'll show you.

Guest: Okay.

I walk them out the front doors and point across the street. To the place where there is, lo and behold, a fucking chairlift.

Guest: Oh wow. It is right there.

Z-Girl: Just like I said. RIGHT ACROSS THE STREET.

Guest: Thanks!

Z-Girl: You're welcome.

Would There Be Pigs at Such an Establishment? Oh Yeah, and Brain Death.

Do you guys have any idea what a vacation to a Piss Farm might entail? Or, what the hell a Piss Farm would even be all about?

I'm just wondering because while cruising behind some tourist sporting and USING his fucking video camera while driving at a whopping 12 miles an hour, that's where I loudly announced out my car window that he should be vacationing.

Anyway, I've been horrible with responding to your comments, which makes me feel like a self absorbed bitch. I have no excuses other than to plead brain-death due to dealing with lying fuckers at my wondermous hotel who swear they never received fresh towels even though their fresh towel deliverer happens to be my good buddy.

Speaking of brain-death, I have a little story that is probably totally fucking innappropriate, but I'm too tired to care. When I found out I was pregnant the REALLY BAD TIME, the first family member I called was my cousin, who also happened to be one of my best friends.

The next day she called me to check in, and explained how the night before she was crying to her friend, "My cousin Zube Girl was raped and is pregnant." Apparently, her words were muffled and difficult to understand through sobs.

Her friend gasped and said, "Oh my God, she's BRAIN DEAD!"

My cousin yelled back, "No you idiot, she's PREGNANT, not BRAIN DEAD! PREGNANT!"

When she relayed this conversation to me, I couldn't help but laugh. And then, neither could my cousin. Soon we were cackling away like a couple of hyenas panting, "Heh. She thought you were brain dead...But I'm NOT brain dead, I'm pregnant...HA!...I could see how she might've heard that though..." And so on. Twisted humor. My life's story.

Oh, and speaking of humor, I'm all giddy and honoured and shit because Kyknoord nominated me for the Best of Blog's, Most Humorous category. Wow. I don't even really know what to say.

Though, I probably killed my nomination by crossing the, "Uh, even though YOU might've laughed, that shit was NOT funny," line. Meh. Whatever. It's just another testament to the fact that humor probably saved my life. Laughing is always better than eating pills by the fistful. I promise.

I think this might rank up there with being as humorous as the movie Heathers. Which I thought was pretty funny. In a dark sort of way.

I'm a Plunger...

You guys, I think my fucking feet are going to fall off. Seriously. The church groups up in this here hotel are running me ragged. And I'm loving every minute of it. But still.

You know what kicks ass? When young men call the front desk to say that their toilet is clogged and they don't want to plunge it, and the maintenence guys are busting their asses shoveling snow so you don't want to bother them, and you decide to take care of that shit your damn self. It really makes the story if you're a chick. And you're dressed all cute. Just so you know. Anyway, you knock on their door, head to the bathroom, roll up your sleeves and unclog the bitch while all of the virile young men watch. With the most ashamed look on their mugs. Heh. Love it.

And I'm telling you, there is nothing like hot Episcopalian youth ministers who say fuck and drink beer. My faith in some of God's Fan Club has been restored a little. I'm still having trouble resisting the leg-humping urge.

I Swear to God...

Episcopalians are the fucking bomb. I shit you not.

The Scene: I've just finished checking a church group into the hotel. They're about to head off and my coworker makes a wisecrack about my perfection and wonderfullness.

Z-Girl: You guys are all set. I'll deal with the smart-alec over here.

Group Leader: Oh yeah, well I've got to deal with a bunch of smart ASSES.

Z-Girl: Tee hee. You guys cuss?!

Group Leader: Oh yeah. Shit, damn, fuck. I'm Episcopalian. Jesus loves me God dammit. Where's the nearest liquor store?

Z-Girl: I think I love you. You're lucky I'm married, or I'd hump your leg.

I Feel Pretty

Z-Boy: Here honey.

Z-Girl: What the hell is this?

Z-Boy: $2.00.

Z-Girl: What, pray tell, am I going to buy with $2.00?

Z-Boy: I don't know. Get yourself something pretty.

Z-Girl: $2.00 isn't going to get me anything pretty.

Z-Boy: Well, maybe you could buy yourself some make up or something.

Z-Girl: Piss off.

I realize I haven't answered your comments from yesterday. I apologize. I have eight ski groups arriving in the next four days, so I'm fucking swamped. Things'll settle in the middle of next week. I'm not whining about it. In fact, I dig being busy as shit because it makes the day go quicker. Plus, my boss kicks righteous ass, and even though I'm salary which usually means you can work all you want for the same amount of money, she lets me accrue comp time. So maybe Zube Boy and I will get to take a nice long weekend jaunt in January or something. If he's still lucky enough to be married to my ass. Anyway...

Today's entry was going to be a photo of my desk, which looks like gnomes have set up camp and built themselves elaborate paper houses on it. And then there was a tornado in Gnome Town. All the gnomes flew up in the air and are probably dead. Which, well, good. Fuck 'em. Evil little bitches.

But now I'm left with all this paper and shit everywhere.

Unfortunately, though, my camera won't upload photos onto my work computer, so you won't be able to see it.

Edited to Add:

So as not to leave you picture-less today, I've drawn up a little something for my other half, and I'd like to share it with you. Do you think he'll like it?


It's sort of Picassoesque in its absractness, don't you think?

Did You Know That Idiots Ski, Too?

I work at a ski lodge. I LOVE my job, I really, really do. And though I might be known to utter the word 'gaper' under my breath while driving behind the yahoo whose navigating icy roads whilst videotaping the mountains, I'm, for the most part, nice to tourists. They pay my paycheck even in a roundabout way if they don't stay at my hotel and make my town a nice place to live with all of the tax money they bring in.

What's that? Oh, a gaper? What's a gaper you say? A gaper is a tourist round these parts. I don't know exactly where the moniker was derived from but it's rumored that they are called such because they gape at the mountains or at the locals skiing like maniacs. Something like that.

Despite my self-professed appreciation of tourists, they can be dumb as shit. Which I suppose a larger part of the population is, so I'm not too surprised. Here's what I mean...

The Scene: I'm at the front desk and Dizzy Broad is attempting to go to her room with her skis just after checking in.

Z-Girl: Um, excuse me. Ma'am. Hi. We have free ski lockers in the garage, let me get you a lock for one. Skis aren't supposed to be brought to your room.

Dizzy Broad: Well, that's stupid. I want them in my room.

Z-Girl: I'm sorry, you can't do that.

Dizzy Broad: Why?

Z-Girl: They scratch up the hallways and ruin the carpets.

Dizzy Broad: Well, I'll be careful.

Z-Girl: It's not really an option to be careful. See that sign right next to the elevator that says, "No skis allowed in units. Please see the front desk for a free ski locker." If you want to bring your skis to your room, EVERYONE will want to bring their skis to their room.

Dizzy Broad: *whining* But they'll get COOOOOOOOOOOLD.

Z-Girl: *actually rendered speechless*

I never said another word. The reason being, I was afraid if I parted my lips even in the slightest, "You fucking idiot, I hope you have really LONG extension cords to plug into your precious wussy skis to keep them warm while you ski tomorrow because the SNOW you are skiing on is going to make your skis COLD as SHIT!" would escape.

Yeah, she got an idiot pass. And, might I add, you're not supposed to keep skis at room temperature because then when you ski, the first few minutes kind of suck because snow collects on your skis. But, fuck her. I hope she had the equivalent of two supine mammoth snowmen on her fucking feet. HA!

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The Scene: A mother is towing her three young children into the hotel lobby.

Frazzled Mom: Will you kids hurry up?! I have GOT to get out of this altitude.

That's right, the hotel is pressurized. We're technologically advanced like that.

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The Scene: It's early fall with not much snow on the ground yet. I'm in the grocery store parking lot, and a very confused couple approaches me.

Mr. Confused: Excuse me, but do you live here?

Z-Girl: Yep.

Mrs. Confused: Well, we have a really stupid question.

Z-Girl: Fire away.

Mr. Confused: Okay, see that big spot of snow over there? We can't figure out why it's only snowed in one spot.

Z-Girl: *stifling her laughter* Well, that's man-made snow since we invariably don't get enough of the natural stuff in the beginning of the season. They make it on that one run because that's the first run we open up.

Mrs. Confused: Ohhhhhh. Another question. Was that the stupidest question anyone has ever asked you?

Z-Girl: Nope. And you prefaced it by saying it was probably stupid. That saved you.

Mr. Confused: Whew, thanks.

Z-Girl: No problem.

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But you know, there's something to be said for the fact that I'm happier when I have something to bitch about. So thanks, I guess, to idiots everywhere.