Let's Revisit the Subject of Uranus, Shall We?

I bet the weather is so lovely on Uranus. A little windy, but nice and warm.

I can just imagine the gorgeous scenery. Those beautiful rolling hills that seem to go on forever. Yes, Uranus is probably a lovely place.

Don't get me wrong, as we thoroughly enjoyed our Honeymoon cruise around the Western Carribean, but I'm thinking Uranus would be the perfect place to spend a HoneyMoon.

Zube Girl Goes Postal, Erm, Gangsta...

Zube Girl: Dude, check out my black eye.

Everyone I Happen To Show It To: What black eye?

Girl: Right here. See?

EIHTSIT (Hee, that kind of looks like Eat Shit): Huh. It just looks like you have on purple eyeshadow. Kind of dark eyeshadow. But, that's it.

Girl: Bzzzz…Wrong answer. You're supposed to say, "Holy shit! Look at that shiner! You are one TOUGH TITTED BITCH!"

EIHTSIT: Ummm...Okay, fine.

Girl: And that's when I say, "That's right mofo! You should see the other guy! So, step off, 'cause this bitch is rough!"

EIHTSIT: You need medication. Really STRONG medication.

Girl: Maybe sometimes.

Things I Learned This Weekend:

-If your face launches an attack on your husband’s forehead in the middle of the night, he might be mad at you even though you were sleeping and didn’t mean it.

-After an evening of ‘Nocturnal Face to Forehead Death Match’, you might wake up with a black eye. And your husband might have a big bump on his noggin. And you both may, in fact, be grumpy as shit.

-You cannot, two days later, tell your husband the unprovoked ‘Attack of the Face’ was a preemptive strike for a dream you had the following night. I mean, you can tell him that, but his eyes will just roll right the fuck out of his head. The fact that the next evening you had a dream he was married to you, but having babies with some girl you barely knew in high school has nothing to do with prior skull to skull combat.

-Even though you are extremely angry at your ‘Dream Husband’ for being an Assholey, Baby-Making with Another Woman, Sack of Shit, it is not okay to be mean to him in real life.

B-O-L-O-G-N-A...

Zube Girl: My bologna has a first name...

Zube Boy: Honey...

Girl: It's O-S-C-A-R...

Boy: Hon...

Girl: My bologna has a second name, it's M-A-Y-E-R...

Boy: Babe...

Girl: Oh, I like to eat it everyday, and if you ask me why I'll say....

Boy: Honey!!!

Girl: 'CUZ OSCAR MAYER HAS A WAY WITH B-O-L-O-G-N-A!!!

Boy: *Stares*

Girl: Yes, dear.

Boy: Would you stop singing that song, please?

Girl: Okay.

The Hillbilly's, Erm, Zube's Hit the Trails...

Here we have Zube Boy at the wheel, Zube Girl navigating, and Zack, uh, standing there waiting for something exciting to happen.








Our entourage consisted of three vehicles total. We were in the rear. Heh.














It was a fairly shitty day, considering it's the month of freakin' JULY. But who needs sunshine when you've got fucking hail. Anyway...









There were some sketchy parts that freaked out Zube Girl's inner scaredy cat...











Zack gets annoyed with all the stopping. He's more of a 'Go Doggy Go' kind of dog. But, you know, sometimes you gotta pee!










"Honey, do you really think I can do it? I don't even know how to drive stick..."











"Sure you can...at least I hope you can, because there's no turning back now..."



Okay, I feel like a rock star, but unfortunately, it never looks as difficult in the pictures as it really is...Le sigh.

Whee! Happy Fourth of July! If you have a husband, I highly recommend doing something with him that quells the urge to smack him upside the head. In celebration of a holiday, of course...

Bathtime

In the event that Zube Boy is ever found frozen to death by ice cubes, and I'm to blame, I want to assure that my gentle readers understand why.

I was having a lovely conversation with my Mom yesterday, and Zube Boy was taking a bath. The cacophony coming from the bathroom made it difficult to have any semblance of a grown up conversation.

Mom: So, do you have any plans for the Fourth of July?

Zube Girl: Yeah. I'm going to hide in the house all weekend and wait for the 5 million tourists to go home.

Zube Boy: Hoooooooooooney!

Mom: What's that noise?

Girl: Oh, it's just my kid, erm, I mean, husband.

Boy: Hoooonnnnnnnnnneeeeeeeeeeeeeeey!

Mom: Do you want me to let you go?

Girl: No, no, no. It's fine. I'm on the phone!

Mom: I think we're going to go down the shore for the weekend...

Boy: Hoooooooooooooooney! Help!

Girl: For goddsfreakinsake.

Mom: Hon, I'll let you go. Call me tomorrow.

Girl: Okay, Mom. Love ya.

Mom: Love you too.

Boy: Honey, honey, honey!

Girl: Bye.

Mom: Bye.

Girl: WHAT!

Boy: Honey, I dropped a Cocoa Puff in the bathwater!

Girl: *silence*

Boy: What should I do?

Girl: Well, for starters, you could STOP EATING FOOD WHILE YOU'RE IN THE BATHTUB, and then you could hide in the bathroom and never, ever, ever come out. 'Cause when you do, I'm going to kick your ass.

Adventures in Sleuthing

I bet you all didn't know that once upon a time, I was a world renowned detective, did you? I was one stealth mother fucker. For real. As much as I loved the fast-paced world of sleuthing, there came a day when I decided detective work was not for me. Doing triple back-flips and kicking bad guys in the face requires a spriteness that at the tender age of 27, I had begun to lose. So, I quit.

Anywho, having been a detective, my 'Something's Up' radar is finely tuned. I know when something is fucking up, people. And there is definitely something up in my yard. The lawn people are acting strange, like they're hiding something from me. I decided, this fine Saturday morning, to don my black leather one-piece super sexy detectiving outfit and investigate.

I crawled across the porch, which, just to let you know, is difficult to do in a sexy manner, but I managed. I crouched behind the grill, camera ready, and waited. And waited and waited and waited. After what seemed like an eternity, something caught my well-trained eye, and I managed to get a snapshot.



Gerome the Gnome is kissing Percy the Frog's ass. Yes, I name my lawn ornaments. What of it? Anyway, apparently, Gerome is eyeing Percy's regal shady spot in the yard, and Percy himself is swinging a deal. Sneaky fucker. It would seem that Percy forgot I am the Queen of the Yard, and he has no say whatsoever in the placement of lawn people.

You know, in all honesty, I'm pretty sure my husband had something to do with the gnome kissing of frog ass. Doesn't he know that my imagination is vivid enough? Encountering scenes such as this is going to put me over the edge someday.

Poor Zack. Lucky Zoey.

And, I thought I had it bad with the bed sharing!

Now I Look Like a Perv! Thanks!

To the person in the UK who stumbled upon my blog by searching "peeing" and "stall" on technocrati, thanks a lot. After my initial, "Tee hee. People search for the darndest things," I decided to click on the search myself, and see what other blogs out there are talking about peeing and stalls.

Now, I'm in someone's flipping stats as though I had searched the same thing! Gah!

Quit It, Or I'll Have Me Some Cat For Breakfast!

Dear Zander,

For the past six years, I've been feeding you roundabout the same time every morning. 7:30ish. Sure, this pattern has been interrupted here and there by the occassional boozefest, when Zube Boy and I embibe a little much, and stay in bed forever and ever, amen, but typically, I'm up at 7:00 or 7:30AM, even on weekends, and that's fucking early.

I'm curious as to why you cry and scratch at the bedroom door every mother fucking morning at 5:00AM? Seriously. Remember the time you did that and Mommy was so bitter that she opened the bedroom door, picked up your flailing clawy ass and sent you sailing out the back door? Actually, I'm pretty sure you remember, because when I open the bedroom door now, you haul ass down the hallway. Only to resume scratching as soon as I clamber back into bed.

I've taken to sleeping with a pile of shoes next to me. I guess the loud banging sound they make against the bedroom door scares you to bits. Only, last night, I forgot to move the pile of shoes by the bedroom door next to the bed before I went to sleep. So, all I had left in my arsenol were numerous decorative pillows, and apparently, they don't frighten you in the least.

I don't know where in the hell you got the idea that breakfast is at 5:00AM. It most certainly wasn't ME giving you that impression. Me being the only fucking person who has been your BREAKFAST FEEDER for the past SIX YEARS! So, I'm asking you to please, just stop. Okay?

Love,

Mommy

PS- Just an FYI. Scratching the walls surrounding your litter box, contrary to your belief, does not successfully cover your stenchy poo. Never will.

Bowled Over

After a few adult beverages at the bowling alley, I embarked on my third trip to the restroom. As I went about my business, I read the walls of the stall, because that is a shitload of fun. One day, I'm going to get a pen and write 'For a Good Time, Read All the Shit on Bathroom Stalls'. I have dreams, people. I really do. Anyway, where was I?

Oh yeah.

Some Chick (from the stall next door): Hey.

Zube Girl: Ummmmmm...Hey?

Chick: What are you doing?

Girl: Peeing? What are you doing?

Chick: *silence*

Girl: Dude, do you like, need some toilet paper or something?

Chick: Oh my God. Can I call you back? Some girl is, like, answering me. Yeah, I'm in the bathroom. 'Kay. Bye.

Yep. Story of my life.

I'm Green. And Not With Envy.

Dude, I totally have ESP. Like, I’m reading your mind right now. And you know what? You don’t believe me. May I point out the fact that if I'm not fucking telepathetic, how in the hell did I know that you didn’t believe me? Huh?

Anyway, you’re also pondering the green color of my blog, and how it reminds you a little bit of baby poo. And you’re like, yeah, you know, it was okay at first, but the more I look at it, it’s kind of an annoying color. I agree with you 100%, actually. Don’t feel bad for thinking that, or try pretending that I read your mind wrong. I know better. See this round thing above my shoulders with eyeballs in it? It's not just a hat rack. I know stuff about stuff.

So, with the puke green, I’m just over it. It’s so…so…’Ugly Ass Carpet Mom and Dad Thought Was Happenin’ Around the Same Time They Made Me Wear Those Plaid Bell Bottom Pants’ fucking ewwy green. But, I feel like I’m stuck with it. I know about as much about HTML as I do about, I don’t know, putting oil in my car.

And, that's not much. Ask Zube Boy. His motto is, “Honey, if you’re not going to change the oil, you might at least add some every now and again. But, it’s okay. I love you, and now I’m going to learn how to replace an engine.”

That's fucking right beyotch! You have clean man panties thanks to me, and I'll have a nicely lubed engine thanks to you. That's how relationships work, Mm-kay?

But, just so you all don’t think I'm all thinking my blog is beautiful, I'm not. My blog is fugly. I'm not sure what I should do about it.

Good Morning, Sunshine!

It sucks when you get into an argument and go to bed mad. Actually, the going to bed mad part isn't so bad. It's the waking up all nuzzling with the one you're mad at. That bites.

The worst part is that you have to at least wipe the sleep out of one of your eyes before you realize you're snuggling with a guy who insists on leaving his dirty ice cream dishes on the side of the bathtub. I mean, who the fuck eats ice cream in the bathtub?

I've found that the best way to deal with this is to push him away mid-hug and say, "Ewwww. I hate you. DUH!"

Then you have breakfast and talk about the weather.

After you put the dirty ice cream dish in the dishwasher, of course.

You Guys Would Never Guess...

I'm a liar. Yes. It's true. I'm so sorry.

There is no such thing as extra large condoms.

Some day, I shall start telling the truth.

Public Service Announcement!

I've stopped checking myself out in the mirror long enough to learn that Colorado's Planned Parenthood chapters will be giving out FREE Emergency Contraception on July 1st. Actually, I'll be speaking at a press conference about it on Wednesday, and should be writing that instead of writing in my blog, but, feh. I'm having trouble writing stuff I'm going to read out loud, and finding it easier to write stuff that's just gonna be read online by other people. Know what I mean?

Anyway, this is Planned Parenthood's response to Governor Bill Owen's vetoing of HB 1042, which would have required hospitals to provide pertinent medical information about emergency contraception to rape victims. Women who were, you know, raped. And maybe want to prevent a pregnancy as a result of that. You could say that this is near and dear to my heart.

In other news, I've added a '100 Things About Me' link under 'First and Foremost' if you're a crazy ass stalker and want to check it out.

Asstastic. Or Pantstastic. I'm Not Sure.

Howdy newbies! I see that someone has so kindly linked to my Asstastic post. I have to say, though it’s not one of my favorites, I am a bit surprised that it has been met with such disdain by another blogger.

Before you read the entry, I'd like to warn you that I have a fucked up and twisted sense of humor, and I’m addicted to the word ‘Fuck’ something fierce. I also want to let you in on a little secret. You will either like or dislike my blog. You are also free to not read it.

Lastly, this is not a fucking dissertation. I write the way I talk. I. Put. Periods. Wherever. The. Fuck. I. Feel. Like. It. If you can deal with that, stick around. Feel free to wander about. If not, there is a little x at the upper right hand corner of this web page. Click on it, and watch it work its magic. No skin off my back.

This update has been brought to you by the letter 'Z'

You guys, I am duly impressed with my ass today. For the record, I'm quite fond of it. I've never had much by the way of boobage, but my ass has thus far done fairly well at compensating.

I put on a pair of pants this morning, and checked myself out in the mirror as I'm wont to do. Somehow, it has managed to look flat, fat, and sort of, ummm, compartmentalized, or something like that, all at once. It's weird. And some of it seems to have migrated up above my waistline. It could be the pants, but pants are inanimate, so I'd be really surprised if they were capable of such a feat. I think it's getting, I don't know, longer or something...It's pretty incredible.

Anyway, I want to be sad, because my pride and joy has me feeling a bit, well, not so prideful and joyful. But, I'm wearing my rose-tinted glasses today, so I've decided to be impressed.

Love Hurts

Okay, people, I'm gonna be honest with you. Sometimes being married can give you a headache. Like this morning, while I was putting away clean dishes, and Zube Boy, seeing as my hands were full of glasses and the like, was overcome by a brilliant idea. He snuck up behind me, as I was hunched down over the dishwasher, and yanked my PJ bottoms to the floor.

I clutched my naked knees together and spewed profanities that would've made my poor Mom's ears bleed. In a fit of pantsless rage, I bolted upright, and slammed my tender melon on the corner of the cabinet.

Yeah. I love him so much it hurts. I've decided that while he's sleeping tonight, I'm going to cover him with ice cubes. I believe that this act will result in his freezing to death very slowly.

A Bunch of Threesomes...

Kyknoord has tagged me. No, sillies, get your minds out of the gutter! He and I are each contractually obligated to tag our significant others in that manner for the rest of our lives. It's a quiz. And check out his blog. He's hilarious and his wife makes chaos theorists cry. Good stuff.

Often, I find these quiz things confining, but I'm gonna give it a whirl. This one intrigued me, what with all the 'threes' involved. Huh?!? I never told you how much I love threes? Hmmm...

Three screen names that you have had: SluttyWifeLookingforLove, TooSexy4U, and zubegirl.

Three things you like about yourself: I'm not real hairy, I'm sexier covered in mud from four wheeling than I am all dressed up, and I make really good wings.

Three things you don't like about yourself: I'm just way too much of a babe. I get hand cramps writing my phone number on cocktail napkins. It's not easy, folks. 'Nuff said.

Three parts of your heritage: My great-grandfather was a bootlegger, my great uncle was a Monseñor of the Catholic church, and my Dad is smarter than your Dad. Nanny nanny boo boo.

Three things that scare you: Celery in my tuna, Brad Pitt's obsession with me, and making left turns onto busy streets.

Three of your everyday essentials: Coffee, toilet paper, and phone calls from Jersey folk.

Three things you are wearing right now: My fairy tattoo, my astrology glyph tattoo, and my flower tattoo.

Three of your favorite songs: I'm a Little Teapot, London Bridge is Falling Down, and Ring Around the Rosie.

Three things I want in a relationship: Complete and total submission to my every whim. That's all. Well, a little worshipping and toe sucking never hurts.

Two truths and a lie: I lie, I make my life sound way more exciting than it is, and I always tell the truth.

Three things you can't do without: AM 760 Boulder's Progressive Talk, the word 'Fuck', and the letter 'Z'.

Three places you want to go on vacation: East Gibip, Bumblefuck, and Istanbul...no...Constantinople. Nah, Istanbul. Or Constantinople. You know, that's nobody's business but the Turks.

Three things you just can't do: Lick my elbow, pour coffee without drizzling it all over the counter, and sand drywall.

Three kids' names: Cletis, Tipsy, and Rufus.

Three things you want to do before you die: Have kids, teach my kids to do chores, and totally screw up my kids. That is my dream.

Three Celeb crushes: John Stewart, George Clooney, and Winona Ryder, erm, I mean, Brad Pitt. Yeah. Every gal loves Brad Pitt. Even though he's fucking psycho.

Three people you want to know these things about: I'm a selfish fuck, so I've decided to remain tagged and not pass it on. I learned very early that I sucked all hell at 'Tag' as a kid, and convinced myself it was cool to be 'It'. Walking was not one of my stronger suits, and running even less so. If I didn't tag anyone else, the game kind of ended right there. Then we'd go inside and play with matchbox cars. I was much better suited for that. Ergo, I'm 'IT' forevah, suckas! Bwahahahahaha!

Suckers

One day, on my way to the ladies room, I passed my coworkers who were checking out a brand new Hoover vacuum the company had purchased.

I stopped for a second; said, “Oh, Hoover. They used to call me that in high school,” and then continued on my merry way to feign being a lady for a few minutes.

It’s fun being a liar sometimes. I hope people appreciate the fact that I sully my pristine reputation for the sake of a good laugh!

Even if the only person laughing is, uh, me.

Hey. Wait a minute...

Me So Horny...

Zube Boy is at the computer, and I'm watching TV.

Zube Boy: Honey?

Zube Girl: Yeah?

Boy: How do you spell horny?

Girl: H-O-R-N-Y.

Boy: Thanks.

Girl: Why'd ya wanna know that?

Boy: I'm writing a letter to my Mom.

Girl: Huh. Okay.

I was very relieved when a few minutes later, I heard him playing the song he'd just downloaded. "Me So Horny."

Inner Turmoil

Dear Dorky Self,

There are so many selves trying to live within this Zube Girl, and I think we do a fine job of getting along most of the time. It seems, though, that you and I are most often at odds. I manage well with Intelligent Self, Political Self, and Clean Freak Self. It is you, though, that seems to squelch my ultra-coolness. It's really not fair.

For example, yesterday, Clusterfuck Self was out and about at the grocery store. Clusterfuck Self is annoying, and makes being cool difficult, but not impossible. So, Clusterfuck Self had Zube Girl at odds with another shopper. They were walking towards one another, and Zube Girl was having quite a time of stepping in the way of the other shopper. To the left, and to the right. Eventually, Zube Girl and the shopper stopped.

Enter stage right, you. Let me emphasize that you should allow me to do the talking in situations such as this, when coolness is at risk. I was about to have Zube Girl say something like, "No, you go ahead," and then beam one of her charming smiles, until you butted in with, "Wanna dance?" As if the person whose path Zube Girl's repeatedly stepped in is gonna think dancing even comes close to adequately defining the clusterfuck that just occurred! I mean, really.

I'm betting they don't wanna dance. They wanna shop, and they want Zube Girl the fuck out of their way. So, Dorky Self, please step back when things get a bit messy. I don't complain when you happen to be around in the morning, and have Zube Girl all thinking that she should wear that pink cookie monster t-shirt. Let me make it a bit easier for her almost 30-year-old ass to at least SOUND cool even though she's wearing such a display of abysmal taste.

I'll be petitioning Zube Girl for a stronghold on dialogue, but I'm sure it'll take a while with all of the appealing of god damn Political Self. But, until then I ask that you be seen and not heard. And seen, you know, as rarely as possible.

Really, We're all in this together,

Cool Self

It's All About 30

In 30 days I'm going to be 30.

Zube Boy handled turning 30 with so much finesse a few months back. Well, and a lot of whiskey. So the next day wasn't so finesseful.

Still, though, I'm getting all wonky about it, and it's a whole month away.

Really, I think it will be a great age. Right?

Spatulas and Little Spoons...Living in Harmony

Dear Zube Boy,

I want to congratulate you on your stellar performance emptying the dishwasher. I'm so proud of you. It was really nice not to have to do it myself. That said, I had no idea you could be so creative.

Sometimes making dinner can be such a chore, but thanks to you, hon, it was kind of like a game last night. Scavenger Hunt. It took me forever to realize that the fucking skillet was on the tupperware shelf in the bottom cabinet on the left. Not, in fact, on the top shelf of the bottom cabinet on the right with All. The. Other. Pots. and. Pans. Whee!

So, thanks. A lot.

Love,

Zube Girl

PS- Just so you know, the big spoons and spatulas do not go in the silverware drawer. They go in the 'Big Spoon and Spatula' drawer just to the right. I know, it's tough because they kind of are silverware. But, the 'Regular Silverware' drawer is pretty full and it's a real bitch when you can't even open it because the god damn spatula is all jammed up in that shit.

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

Dear Zube Girl,

Who are you kidding? You didn't make dinner last night. Or did you mean you had trouble getting a knife out of the silverware drawer to perforate the plastic over that TV dinner? Okay, I get that.

I still can't figure out what the hell you needed the skillet for. Ah well.

Love,

Zube Boy

PS- I can think of a better place to put the spatula, but unfortunately, I think you've already got a stick up there.

If You Can Clean Butt Plugs That Way...

As I'm lounging in the bedroom twirling my hair, reading a book, I hear squawking in my husband's general direction.

Zube Boy: Honey!

Zube Girl: Hmmm...

Boy: HONEY!

Girl: Yeah?

Boy: HONEY!!! Come here!!!

Girl: *I throw down my book and storm into the kitchen* What in the fuck is all this yelling about?

Boy: What is this?

Girl: What's what?

Boy: This? This thing right here!

Girl: It's a flip flop? What of it?

Boy: Why?

Girl: It was dirty.

Boy: But, but...why?

Girl: I figured...

Boy: In there! You thought you would put it in THERE!

Girl: Yeah! They came out rather squeaky clean, dontchya think?

Boy: IN THERE! With my coffee mug!?!?

Girl: Well, I read...

Boy: Woman...

Girl: Yes?

Boy: You're gonna drive me to drinking.

Girl: Thanks for emptying the dishwasher. You never do that.

Slippery When Wet

Have you ever, while in the process of putting on your mascara, felt the onset of a fart? A fart of a questionable nature. You decide to throw caution to the wind (*snicker*) and give it a go. It requires a tremendous amount of concentration to avoid the regrettable shart.

Slowly. Slowly. Slower still.

Whoo

Aaaah. All goes well, but you can't help laughing at the look on your face. And you laugh so hard, you fuck up your mascara.

No? That never happened to you? Heh. Me niether.

A Secret

I don't give two shits about Star Wars. I just don't care. Is that so bad?

Can You Handle This?

If I had it my way, love handles would be sexy, and instead of going to the gym when you realized you had them, you would go out for ice cream with your girlfriends to celebrate the acquisition of them.

And Jesus Said, "Stop Following Me!"

I'm going to let you all in on a little family correspondence.

Dear Zack,

I came to realize something very disturbing, and I wanted to touch base with you about it. The other day, I was outside calling and calling you. Screaming "Zack!" very loudly at the ass crack of seven in the morning, 'cause I had to go to work, and couldn't leave you roaming around outside for eight hours unnattended.

After a few unsuccessful rounds of "Zack, come here," I threw up my arms in exasperation and yelled, "Jesus Christ, where are you?" And, you know what? You came bounding around the corner. I didn't think much of it until I was heading to work.

I thought about all the times Zube Boy and I have said the following:

"Jesus Christ, you got into the garbage again!"

"Jesus Christ, get off the couch!"

"Jesus Christ, get off the bed!"

"Jesus Christ, inside or outside! Make up your mind!"

I'm afraid you might think you are Jesus Christ, and, well, don't get me wrong...You're a great dog, but walk on water, you do not, my friend. I'm just saying.

Love,

Mom

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

Dear Mom,

Who is this Zack character? Anyway, I'm assuming the letter you wrote was for me, because you left it on my dog bed.

Do you think I'm an idiot? For Christ's sake, no pun intended, I'm not stupid, Mom. Give me a break. You didn't even yell, "Jesus Christ, where are you?" the other day, but that's besides the point.

Now, don't get your panties in a twist because of what I'm about to tell you, but I think you're just getting old. I mean, you are almost thirty, and that's like, I don't know, 5,000 in dog years.

Get off my back, lady. Sheesh.

Love,

God Dammit

PS- Holy Shit and I were wondering about something. Is Little Shit his sister? I said yes, because they have the same last name. He says no way in hell, but I think that's just because he likes kissing on her. Anway, we'd appreciate if you could clear this up for us.

When in Rome...Erm...I Mean Mexico

Many moons ago, I visited the family of a foreign exchange student who lived with our family my senior year of high school. Vanessa rocked and my tender and sheltered high school nerdy self was awed by her tequila drinking capabilities.

Every once in a while on this trip, I played the stupid American (or just plain was a stupid American, you be the judge).

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

Vanessa's Mom asked me how I enjoyed laying out in the sun:

I meant to say: Muy Bien! Voy a estar morena!

Translation*: Very well! I am going to be brown!

I said: Muy Bien! Voy a estar mojada!

Translation: Very well! I am going to be purple!

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

A very nice gentleman I didn't know held the door for me.

I meant to say: "Gracias cabellero!"

Translates: Thank you gentleman!

I said: "Gracias caballo!"

Translates: Thank you horse!

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

The waitor handed me a Spanish menu, and I did my best to read it, and memorize my answer so I didn't have to point. It was like a fun little challenge. I should've pointed.

I meant to say: "Quiero el pollo, por favor."

Translates: I want the chicken, please.

I said: "Quiero el bollo, por favor."

Translates: I want the pussy, please.

Heh. The waitor very kindly walked away, and returned with an English menu, and Vaness and all of her gal pals were laughing and crying so much so that it was difficult for them to tell me what I'd just said.

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

*Bear with me folks. These are loose translations, as my Spanish could use some brushing up.

Song of the Day

I really hate it when

"The 'S' is for super..."

you get a song

"...the 'U' is for unique..."

stuck in

"...the 'P' is for perfection..."

your head

"...and you know that we are freaks!"

and you can't

"The 'E' is for exotic..."

get it

"...and the 'R' is for Raps..."

the fuck out!

"...so tell those nosy people just to stay the hell back!"

Help me!

"Supersonic!"

I'm all bobbing my head and shit, too. It's tremendously annoying. And, just where in the hell did that song come from anyway? I mean, other than, like, 1989...

Nooooook...Leeeeee...Arrrrrrrr...

For the love of little red apples. That's how it's fucking pronounced. Not nookular.

Whew. I feel better now. I've gotta stop listening to Air America.

Nah. I think it's quite good to be all pissed off about something.

Here, Kitty, Kitty...

Zube Boy e-mailed me this photo. Do you think he's trying to tell me something?

*gasp*

Zander! Zoey!. Kitties?! Where are you guys?

So Cool

If it were up to me, everything that belonged in the refrigerator would go in the cabinets, and everything that belonged in the cabinets would go in the refrigerator.

Then, husbands would not get annoyed when a jar of unopened spaghetti sauce was placed in the refrigerator. Because it would belong there.

And we would have these fucking HUGE refrigerators.

Yeah. That would be awesome.

We All Scream For Ice Cream

Zube Boy: Did you go grocery shopping?

Zube Girl: No. All that shit magically appeared in the fridge. It's fucking amazing.

Boy: I can't believe you didn't get ice cream.

Girl: But, we already have ice cream.

Boy: Honey, nothing is like new ice cream.

Girl: Pffffbt.

Boy: It's like new poon tang. Even if it's the generic brand, it's still new to you. What you don't want is some old freezer burnt shit. Heh.

Girl: Would you like a bowl of old used-up ice cream or not?

Boy: Fine. Thanks, honey.

Girl: It's in the freezer.

This Mug's For You

Zube Girl: Hi!

Zube Boy: Oh, hi honey.

Girl: I'm at Ready, Paint, Fire! hanging out with the ladies. I'll be home in a little while.

Boy: Are you making me a corny mug?

Girl: *stares at the corny mug she is in the process of making for him*

Boy: Honey?

Girl: You suck donkey dick.

Boy: Heh.

Girl: You ruined the surprise!

Boy: I'll still be surprised when I see it.

Girl: Yes, I'm going to make a lovely mug, and then bash you right the fuck over the head with it.

Boy: I love you!

Girl: I can't even change it now! I already put your name on it...

Boy: Me love you long time.

Girl: Hate. Hate, honey.

Boy: Awwww.

Girl: I'll see you when I get home. If I ever come home that is.

Boy: I'm anxiously awaiting you're arrival.

Girl: Wear a helmet.

Boy: As usual.

Girl: Bye.

Boy: Bye.

Supersize Me

I just thought of a really great way to piss off your husband, you know, if you happen to be into that sort of thing.

So, you go to the grocery store and say sweetly while batting your eyelashes, "Honey, why don't we go buy some condoms?" Your husband then gets very excited and says, "Cool, can we buy some whipped cream, too?" To which you reply, "Of course darling."

You head over to the pharmacy section after the dessert aisle, and unfortunately the condoms are behind the counter because kids steal them since abstinence education is apparently only succeeding in making kids even more embarassed about sex. What was I saying? Oh yeah. So, you're not too concerned because this plays perfectly into your plan. Your husband says to the person behind the counter, "Could I have a box of condoms please." She hands him some regular condoms. A box of 10 to be exact.

You peer over his shoulder at the box, and say, "Oh, wait a minute. Do you have any extra large ones?" The lady gives you a wry little smile, grabs a box of extra large condoms, and begins to hand them to your beaming husband, who is proudly passing the regular sized condoms back to her.

You start waving your arms like a madwoman and say, "No, no, no! The regular ones are for him, the extra large ones are for my dildo which he shoved up his ass last night. I don't need fecal matter up in there, you know what I mean?" And then you wink and skip away merrily. For some reason, the skipping part is important. I'm not sure why.

And you leave your husband crying like a little baby. You know the dildo story is not true. He knows it's not true. But, there's no explaining that to the lady behind the counter, who is peeing her pants laughing.

Yeah. I bet that situation would really piss a husband off. That's my guess anyway.

Meals on Wheels

Zube Boy and I are considering a business venture, inspired by his hot pink speedo. That was all he brought with him to Puerto Rico. When we were at the airport checking in, the tour group leaders asked him where all of his luggage was, and he told them he had his speedo and a bow tie in his pocket. That was all he needed. I mean, he is President of the Speedo Club after all.

So, we got into a discussion on the plane. We're looking for investors if anyone is so inclined to take the risk. Feel free to e-mail us at speedoslooksohotespeciallyondudesoverforty@yahoo.com.

Anyway, we want to open up a specialty sausage shop/restaurant thingy called Speedos and Sausage. We would only hire men, if that's legal. I certainly hope it's legal, 'cause if we had to hire women, that would fuck up everything. These men would be really hot. I would do the hiring, because Zube Boy has no taste in men. It's really not fair. I always point out hot chicks to him, and he's all drooling. When he tries to point out hot dudes, I'm like, eww. "Honey, pocket protectors are so not hot."

But, I digress. So, these hot guys in speedos would be the waitors and we would only serve the finest sausage in all the world. We were considering selling hot dogs and other varieties of, I don't know, phallic shaped delicacies, but we're still not sure.

Now, I bet you all think that everything is roses and cute little kitties in our relationship, but believe it or not, we do fight. One source of contention is whethere or not the waitors will serve while on roller blades. I think we can have it no other way, but Zube Boy is worried about lawsuits. Like, what if one of the waitors fell, scraped his buttocks, and poked himself in the eye with a sausage. I'm pretty sure we could dissuage him from suing us by telling him, "Stop crying you little pussy." Zube Boy is not so sure.

Oh well. I told him that I really try to see things from his point of view, but I can't manage to get my head that far up my ass. That shut him up. For now anyway.

Whatever, Ass

Zube Boy and I had a wonderful time in Puerto Rico. There are so many conversations I'm just dying to tell you about. Here's one which occurred while we were sitting on the beach.

Zube Boy: Honey, can we sit over there.

Zube Girl: No. I want to sit under this coconut tree because it's nice and shady.

Boy: But, it's dangerous. What if a coconut falls on your head. I don't want you to get hurt. It's safer over there.

Girl: No, I don't care. Besides, you're more in the direct line of coconut fire anyway. I'm already a lobster as a result of yesterday. Over there is in the sun. Overdone lobster is even worse than the current shellfish look I'm rocking.

Boy: Puhleeeeeaze can we sit over there.

Girl: NO! Why do you want to sit over there any...Oh. I see. Could it be that hot chick in the thong bikini that's causing this sudden desire to move?

Boy: Maybe.

Girl: She has a fine ass.

Boy: So, can we move.

Girl: I bet I'd look a lot like that in a thong bathing suit.

Boy: Yeah. She would kind of remind me of you if someone painted her ass white and put dents on it.

Girl: Give me a beer.

Boy: Can...

Girl: No.

Boy: Bu...

Girl: No! You've got a perfectly sweet white denty ass right here. Now shut up. I'm almost finished with this book.

Boy: You're no fun. I'm going to the casino.

Girl: Maybe you'll win big enough so that we can afford some tanning sessions and botox for my ass dimples.

Performance Anxiety

I've had a revelation, induced by the consumption of Budweiser.

Blogging is a lot like sex.

Now, hear me out. Or rather, read me out my fellow mofo's. When you're writing in a journal or somesuch, it doesn't really matter how shitty the content is, because, ideally, you're the only one reading it.

Like, when you masturbate. Hey, if you're happy, well, you're happy! If you're getting yourself off, then nothin' else matters, does it? See what I mean?

No? What are you dense? Okay. Let me break it down for you.

I was reading the blog of the fantabulous Blog Ho and he consistently puts forth some great blog shit. I would freak the fuck out if I had like 50 comments on just one of my entries. Really. I would feel like I had to write a great blog entry All. The. Time. I don't know if I could handle the pressure. I'm just not as cool as the 'Ho'.

I'd be pretty damn flattered at first. Like a 'That's Right Bitches, I Fucking ROCK' kind of flattered. But, then I'd get all flustered thinking I had to ROCK consistently. When sometimes I actually prefer to SWAY. In the manner of Axl Rose singing 'Patience'. You know?

It's like being an okay lover for the most part. But, once in a while, you do a really great job of it, and your lovee is panting, "Holy shit. You are a great lover!" The recipient of the great loving is gonna expect that shit every damn day. But sometimes, you just wanna get laid, roll over and go to sleep.

I think I kind of like being 'Just a Lay' most of the time, with a surprise 'Great Fuck' here and there. You just never know what you're gonna get! Isn't that exciting?

No? Then go away.

Today's blog lesson is twofold. Blog Ho is a great mind fuck (hee, that's truly a compliment!) and I should not let Budweiser do the talking for me.

That is all.

I Love Rock and Roll

One day I was walking down my street kicking a rock, thinking about whether I liked cheese or onion and garlic perogies better. I would kick the rock and watch it roll across the ground. Then, peering down the road at my rolling rock, I saw it land right in between two shiny black shoes. Attached to the pants and body of a man.

President George Bush. I rolled my eyes, and groaned. What in the hell did I do to deserve this encounter?

George Bush: Hi, I'm the President.

Zube Girl: Der.

Bush: So, what's up?

Girl: I'm just kicking a fucking rock minding my own business.

Bush: Gee, why the hostility.

Girl: 'Cause you suck, dude.

Bush: Wh-wh-whatever do you mean?

Girl: I mean that I think you're a pompous asshole who is leading our country to ruin, and making everyone around the world hate us when you had the perfect opportunity after 9-11 to, I don't know, rally up the world behind us. And, do you think I would be in the Oval Office if I told everyone that God spoke directly to me and told me how to run the country? No. I'd be in a loony bin.

Bush: But...

Girl: No, no but's. Now would you kindly give me my rock back?

Bush: Here you go. Well, have fun kicking your rock, loser.

Girl: Have fun depleting women's rights, dumbass.

Nah. Never happened. Unfortunately.

Frequent, Erm, Freaky Flyers

I truly feel sorry for the people who are seated on a plane in the vicinity of Zube Boy and I. I really do.

On the flight to Jersey, Zube Boy was seated next to the aisle, I was in the middle, and a seemingly nice gentleman was next to me in the window seat.

I was hacking and coughing because I had a cold. I fucking hate that. All I could do the whole time was worry that the guy next to me was cursing the suckfest germinator he had the grand misfortune of being seated next to.

I was also diagnosed with an ear infection the day before we left. So, flying sucked. You know, cabin pressure, popping ears, la la. During take off, I put my hands on my ears and bent forward a little, making the 'owwww' face, 'cause it was like, ow, and it helped me pop my ears.

Zube Boy quipped, "Oh honey, are the voices yelling again," causing the poor guy seated to my left to kind of scooch over a bit. About as much as one can scooch over in their seat on an airplane.

"Yep. They're saying I should kill you."

I Miss Pedro

Down in Peurto Rico, Zube Boy and I adopted a little bird. He was hella ugly, which made him all the more cute, if that makes sense.

He arrived on our balcony on our first day, and kind of stood there cocking his head to the side, as if waiting for something. I grabbed a box of Rice Krispies and tossed a few onto the balcony.

Pedro thoroughly enjoyed them. He came back once a day for the next three days, and we always obliged him with some more cereal.

I was kind of sad when he skipped a couple of days.

Then, on our last day there, Zube Boy shouted at me while I was on the pot, "Honey, guess whose here to say goodbye!"

I hurriedly finished the task at hand and hopped off the throne. There, on our balcony, was Pedro. I poured the last few bits of cereal into my hand and gave them to Pedro.

I wanted to bring him home. Zube Boy said he would probably fit in my suitcase, right next to my black shoes. I decided that wasn't such a great idea. So, we left him there.

Tag. I'm It!

Peg, over at Haiku Venue, who happens to kick some righteous ass, has tagged me. So, here goes.

Have you ever?

Snuck out of the house?
Until my parents moved me to the second floor of the house, yes.
Gotten lost in your city?
No. Can't even do it on purpose.
Seen a shooting star?
Yes. Tons. That's one thing that rules about living in the Rockies.
Been to any other countries besides Canada?
Yes.
Had a serious surgery?
No.
Gone out in public in your pajamas?
Of course. College anyone?
Kissed a stranger?
Um. Of course. College anyone?
Hugged a stranger?
Yeah, sure.
Been in a fist fight?
No. I was restrained by Bro and my cousin.
Been arrested?
Once.
Laughed and had milk/coke come out of your nose?
Yup.
Pushed all the buttons on an elevator?
Nope.
Swore at your parents?
Never. Around them? Whole 'nother fucking story.
Been in love?
Only for the past four and a half years.
Been close to love?
Yes.
Been to a casino?
Yesterday. Don't remind me.
Been skydiving?
Nope.
Skinny?
Huh? I don't get this one.
Skipped school?
Once. There happened to be an assembly that day. I won an award for a paper I wrote and was to be presented with it at said assembly. My absence was glaringly obvious. My Mom was just discussing this a couple of days ago at a 'remember when' session.
Been a therapist?
Hell yes. I highly recommend paying someone to listen to your shit.
Done the splits?
Yep. I was a cheerleader.
Played spin the bottle?
Yeppers.
Gotten stitches?
Four times.
Drank a whole gallon of milk in one hour?
No. Water to pass a pee test? Yes. I applied for a job two weeks after my 23rd birthday. It required a piss test, and I had taken two puffs off of a joint on my birthday. I overdid it a little with the water. I'm surprised they didn't make me redo it, because I literally peed water.
Bitten someone?
No.
Been to Niagara Falls?
No.
Gotten the chicken pox?
Yes.
Kissed a member of the opposite sex?
Every damn day!
Crashed into a friend's car?
No.
Been to Japan?
No.
Ridden in a taxi?
Yes.
Been dumped?
Ugh. Yes. I still have the resulting sad ass poetry in a journal somewhere.
Shoplifted?
No. Scammed money from a restaurant I worked at once, but felt so guilty that I gave it back the next day. It did help me make rent, though.
Been fired?
Not yet.
Had a crush on someone of the same sex?
Hmmm...
Had feelings for someone who didn't have them back?
Yep. It sucks.
Gone on a blind date?
Yes. He wore spandex shorts and had a mullet. It was the mid 90s. Never did the blind date thing again.
Lied to a friend?
No. Not told the truth? Yes.
Had a crush on a teacher?
Substitute? Yes. Mr. Tobias was a nerdy hot guy. Loved him.
Celebrated Mardi-Gras in New Orleans?
Nope.
Been to Europe?
Sadly, no.
Slept with a co-worker?
Yes. We were dating.
Been married?
Currently am.
Gotten divorced?
Nope.
Had children?
Not yet.
Seen someone die?
No.
Had a close friend die?
No.
Been to Africa?
No, but would love to.
Driven over 400 miles in one day?
Many times.
Been to US?
Yessiree.
Been to Mexico?
Sì.
Been to India?
Nope.
Been on a plane?
Just today. And yesterday.
Seen the Rocky Horror Picture Show?
Great Scott! Of course!
Thrown up in a bar?
No. On the door of a McDonald's that wouldn't let me in to use the bathroom 'cause they'd just closed? After I'd been at the bar? Yes.
Purposely set a part of myself on fire?
No. Been on fire? Yes.
Eaten sushi?
Yes. Love it.
Been skiing/snowboarding?
Yep.
Met someone in person from the internet?
Yep.
Lost a child?
Can't even fucking imagine what that would be like.
Gone to college/university?
Do I have to be able to remember it?
Graduated college/university?
The not remembering was a problem as far as graduating.
Fired a gun?
Once. Didn't like it.
Purposely hurt yourself?
When I was a teenager, I used to bite my arm. Hmmm...I'm too tired to go back and change my answer to did you ever bite anyone.
Taken painkillers?
Yes. For fun and pain.
Been intimate with someone of the same gender?
Nope.

Here's where I become a whiney lame-ass. I have no idea who to tag. If you'd like to be tagged, please let me know! I feel presumptuous doing it! Yeah, I suck.

We're Baaaack!

Oh Lord. What a trip! We're fucking exhausted. We finally arrived back to good old Colorado today, greeted by nothing other than &%!#$ snow. I left a trail behind me on our traveling path today. A cell phone in Jersey. A purse at a restaurant in Colorado on our way home.

And for all of those reasons, I do not quite feel up to telling you any of the stories I had anxiously anticipated sharing while in Puerto Rico. I can't say I miss muggy 90 degree weather, but I can't say that I'm happy to return to snow either.

I'm gonna mope a little and make myself a cocktail with some of the alcohol we bought at the airport's duty free shop.

I missed ya'll. I'll be back tomorrow.

I'm Out!

Puerto Rico, watch out. The Zube's are on their way!

I promise to return to my blog on June 5th, which is incidentally our one year wedding anniversary!

Peace out bitches!

Sock It to Me

You know what really sucks? No, no. Not that. I know it sucks when you pee a little while your laughing. Or, I mean, I've heard that sucks, too. But, do you know something else that really sucks? No. Well, let me tell you.

Let's say you've just gotten home from a hard day of work and you plop your stinky, big, lumpy* ass that looks like a baboon with an infection* on the couch and let out a big sigh. You decide the evening will be made perfect once you remove your boots.

You proceed to take them off one at a time. After wiggling your toes and realizing your socks are a little damp, you figure you'll just FREE YOUR FEET! 'Cuz feet love that shit.

Anyway, as you remove the last sock, for some godforsaken reason, your cerebral cortex decides it wants you to bring the sock to your nose and take a big whiff before you toss it back into your shoe. Yes, my friends. You smell your stinky dirty work sock. To make matters worse, opening your eyes midsniff, you happen to lock eyes with your husband.

I mean, seriously, what the FUCK can you SAY when your husband catches you smelling the socks you've been wearing for nine hours. It doesn't help that whenever you try to speak for the remainder of the evening, he cuts you off and says, "Shut up sock sniffer!"

But, I'm just sayin' that would really suck. You know. I'm sure it's happened to someone.

*Guess who helped me type today's entry? I'm married to a punk. But, he's making me a hot dog right now, so I'll keep him.

Nostalgia For What Never Was

So, I’ve composed a conversation I imagine Zube Boy and I would have if we had met in high school. It goes something like this:

Zube Girl: Hi!

Zube Boy: What?

ZG: What’s your name?

ZB: *stares*

ZG: Umm, hello, I like asked you a question.

ZB: Whatever.

ZG: So, like, is black like your favorite color?

ZB: Yeah. Is that cheerleading uniform your favorite outfit?

ZG: Hee hee. Give me a, yes sirree!

ZB: *eyerolling*

ZG: So.

ZB: So, why are you talking to me?

ZG: Oh my God, like, I’m just trying to be nice.

ZB: Okaaay.

ZG: *eyerolling*

ZB: What are you so happy about?

ZG: Why are you so grumpy?

ZB: Pffbt. Cheerleading bimbo.

ZG: Hmmph. Grumpy Goth dude.

Then, we’d each turn to our respective crowd. The Cheerleaders and the Goths.

ZG: *doing the cuckoo ear thing* Dude, that guy is psycho! Oh my God.

ZB: *acting cool, like he doesn’t realize he was just in the presence of greatness* What an irritating bimbo.

To say the least, I am oh so glad we did not meet in high school. ‘Cause we woulda not been BFF. Know what I mean?

Peeling Out

Zube Girl: Hi Honey.

Zube Boy: Oh hi.

ZG: You're never gonna guess what happened to me this morning.

ZB: Do tell.

ZG: Well, I was on my way to work thinking about how much I love you-

ZB: Pfffbt!

ZG: Shoosh. So, I was on my way to work, and I ran over a banana.

ZB: Oh God.

ZG: I really felt pretty awful about it.

ZB: Are you okay?

ZG: Yeah, I guess so. I mean, a banana just layin' in the middle of the street has gotta have some sort of a death wish, you know?

ZB: Yeah, but still. It's not like it could've changed it's mind and gotten out of the way or anything.

ZG: Whatever. I'm not gonna feel guilty about it. Hell, it would've gotten eaten eventually if I hadn't run it over.

ZB: I guess so.

ZG: But, that's not really why I called.

ZB: Sweet Jesus! There's more?

ZG: Hello. Yes! So, the Senate came to a compromise.

ZB: I know. Are you happy.

ZG: Well, yeah. I mean at least they can still fillibuster Superme Court nominees.

ZB: I know honey.

ZG: Actually, I'm almost too happy. Watching CSPAN for 10 hours yesterday got me really scared.

ZB: I don't know how you can watch that shit. It's so boring.

ZG: It feels more like real news somehow. Although I did click over to Fox every once in a while just to get myself all riled up.

ZB: Heh.

ZG: I've got to get back to work.

ZB: Me too.

ZG: Love ya.

ZB: Ditto.

ZG: Okay, Patrick Swayze.

ZB: Buh bye.

ZG: Bye.

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.

I Feel Like Poo...

My fucking throat is killing me. I think I have a fever, but haven't checked yet. My body is sore. My nose is running perpetually. Bleh.

All this, and we're going to Puerto Rico in four days. Shit. So that means that I have to get better. It's imperative. Not to mention that I have a load of shit to do at work before I can skip out of town for a week and a half, and calling out today just throws a big 'ole fucking monkey wrench in my plans of getting so much done there today. I also have to avoid my husband so I don't get him sick. Usually, I would relish a valid avoidance, but unfortunately, when I get sick, I get all clingy and whiney and actually want him around.

Zube Boy: Honey.

Zube Girl: Uuuuuhhhhhhhn. *Cough*

ZB: Do you still feel shitty?

ZG: Mmmm hmmmm. *Sniff*

ZB: I'm sorry sillypants.

ZG: It sucks hundies.

ZB: Do you want some tea with honey?

ZG: Yes, please.

*Brings me tea*

ZB: Here. Does your throat hurt?

ZG: Yeah. It's fucking killing me.

ZB: I hear blow jobs can cure that.

ZG: Whatever. Have fun at work.

ZB: No kissy for you, so I'll have to blow you one. *Mwah*

ZG: *Mwah*

ZB: Feel better.

Fuck This Test

Stupid People and Meetings

You know, it's so fucking annoying when you have Mr. Self Important at a meeting who just looooooooooooves to hear himself talk. It makes me want to say, "Would you just SHUT the FUCK UP already!!! What in the hell does your dinner yesterday have to do with this month's revenue, jackhole?" Okay, I'm exaggerating, but it was off topic business talk which would not make sense to you all unless I went into great detail. Which I don't care to do. 'Cause the meeting yesterday was enough, you know?

It's especially difficult when it's gorgeous outside and you know that as soon as the meeting is over you are DONE WORKING and sitting in a damn office all day and can enjoy the beauty of the outdoors. And the whiteness you've got going on is scaaaaary! So some sun sounds super! (Hee. I love alliteration!)

I think I'm regressing as I approach 30. I totally had little balled up pieces of paper on the table in front of me, and if someone else had not been sitting in front of me, I would have totally threw paper at the back of that guy's head. I was reminded of a little song Zube Boy sings to me to the tune of "Whip It."

"When you feel the need to speak, you must zip it. Zip it good..."

Mom had sent me this funny little e-mail.

Are you lonely???
Don't like working on your own?
Hate making decisions?

Then call a MEETING!!

You can...
SEE people
DRAW flowcharts
FEEL important
FORM subcommittees
IMPRESS your colleagues
MAKE meaningless recommendations

All on COMPANY TIME!!!

MEETINGS...
THE PRACTICAL ALTERNATIVE TO WORK

It's so, so true...

Down and Out.

Our poor pooch, Zack, is depressed. He's got an odd way of expressing it, too. In the past week, he's chewed shoes, chewed cell phones, and knocked chairs off the couch that we put there so he won't sleep on the couch (because he has a very cozy $60 bed to get his hair all over). These are things he hasn't done since he was a puppy (like three years ago).

I can be a pretty dense human and couldn't figure out what was going on. Until I realized that, DUH, our roommate of two years just moved out. That qualifies as traumatic when you just don't get it.

I've tried 'splaining it to him, but my words just seem to go in one ear and out the other. I really fucking wish I spoke Dog and could let him know that the roomie's gone, but maybe in a year or so we'll have a bambino who'll just love Zack to death!

Actually, maybe he doesn't want to hear that because a bambino will surely steal some of the attention of his adoring humans. Sigh. Poor dog.

The cats are fine. Not that I'm surprised by that. Cats don't give a fawk. Zube Boy is convinced that they think we're talking furniture and as long as they can curl up and lay on us, whatever.

I just wish I could make him feel better. It would be good for him, my shoes, and me.

Grrrrrrr....

You've got to be fucking kidding me. Zube Boy and I should just give up now because having cohabited for three years before our nuptials, we're doomed for divorce anyway!

This pervasive religion in government is making me want to claw my eyes out with a fork lately.

The thing is, I would never in a million years deny another person the right to practice their religion and believe in their God. It's all good with me, so long as they respect my right to believe in my Whatever.

Religous freedom isn't good enough for these folks, though. I don't think they'll be happy until I've either choked to death on the God they're shoving down my throat, or learned to just swallow Him. Hold the ketchup. That's never gonna happen people.

I do find it kind of ironic that zealous right-wingers have taken it upon themselves to prosyletize about cohabitors, all the while giving Dr. Fuckwit Hager, a rapist, a slap on the back for all of his 'good work'. Pffbbbbbt. Hypocritic much?

Waaah!

Okay, so all of the sudden, all of the shit about me and my links and la la la have sunk to the bottom of the page.

Help? Anyone have a clue as to why that would happen?

I know. Boo-fucking-Hoo. But still.

I really do need to get out more!

Edited to Add- I should be a fucking detective! Apparently, if you have a reeeeeeeeeelly long title, that makes your profile and stuff go to the bottom. Who'd've thunk it. In short, to keep your profile at the top, you must limit your title length to what you can see in the title box. Nothing more. Wheee!

What a Nice Sunn..un..un..Ah..Aahh..ACHOO!

I sneeze when I look right at the sun or a bright light. In fact, when I've got one of those pesky little sneezes that won't come out, I run to the nearest lamp or window, stare directly into the light or sun, and out it comes. I love sneezing. It's weird. Not that sneezing is weird, but how much I love it is a bit off. I've often heard it likened to an orgasm. Rather, orgasms are likened to sneezes, but chicken and egg. Whatever. They feel good afterwards, and you're still employed if you sneeze at work. An orgasm. Not so much. Aaaaaanyway...

Zube Boy and I have gotten into fights about this while I'm running around the house turning on lamps trying to coax out an Achoo. As if we don't have enough to fight about. He insists that it's all in my head. The fact that "Well, it works whether or not it's all in my head," wasn't a good enough defense for me because this was one fight I wanted to win.

It occurred to me that maybe not everyone sneezes when they look at the sun, so I called up My Belle and Hoot and asked them if they do. After giggling for a minute because with no other polite phone-greeting, I said, "Okay, so do you sneeze when you look at the sun?" they replied, "Yeah, actually." Hmmm...

I investigated a little bit, and found this website. Verrrrrry interesting stuff. My Belle did a little research of her own and asked all of our family members. Since the trait is thought to be hereditary, we asked Mom. Mom had no idea what the hell we were talking about, so that would be a no. Bro was like, "Ooooookay. As if it's not bad enough for me to have three sisters, now you're all crazy." That would also be a no.

My Belle was left to ask Dad. Kind of funny, cause you know, Dad already thinks we're a bit off our rockers, but hell, he raised us. If the info on the website was correct, we had to inherit the sun-sneezing gene from someone. In Dad's e-mail reply to My Belle's query he said, "I really don't know where you girls come up with this stuff, but yes. I do, in fact, sneeze when I look at the sun."

Hah! I can't tell you how happy we were to learn this. It is NOT in fact ALL IN MY HEAD. Well. It actually is all in my head. But, biologically. Not psychotically.

Other Cast and Crew...

Edited to let anyone reading this know that I've removed photos of my family members. I had wanted to introduce them, but decided to take their pictures down. I can out myself all I want, but I didn't think it was fair to expose them to public ridicule for being related to me. And, one day upon checking out my Statcounter, I realized that someone was freakishly stalking this post. And my sisters are fucking babes. 'Nuff said.

Just because invariably, these folks are gonna appear in my blog, I'd like to introduce them to ya! They are my family and they rock the free world. And, yes, I'm biased! :)

Photo Removed

This be my Pop and his lovely wife! He rocks in every sense of the word. He lives in good old North Carolina where someday I'd like to visit him! Damn big country we live in! He sneezes when he looks at the sun.

Photo Removed

This is Mom and her man, John. I talk to my Mom like, oh, at least twice a day! I figure, if I've gotta live far away from home, at least I can talk to the fam whenevah I want! Mom, however, does not sneeze when she looks at the sun.

Photo Removed

My brother and his lovely wife, K. Bro is the coolest guy on earth. So, in case you were ever wondering who the coolest guy on earth is, now you know. Bro, like Mom, does not sneeze when he looks at the sun either.

Photo Removed

My sister, Hoot. She's a fucking riot. Love this girl. Love, I tell ya. We like to shoot the breeze about love, politics, and ridiculousness. I'm jealous of her boobs. She does sneeze when she looks at the sun.

Photo Removed

My Belle is the baby sis to us all. She hardly ever laughs at me when I do crazy things like call her and ask her if she sneezes when she looks at the sun (which she does, in case you were wondering). In fact, she then goes on to investigate such matters because we read on the internet that if you do sneeze when you look at the sun, it means one of your parents must 'cause it's hereditary.

Here We Go!

I have improooooooved it, no? 

I made my lips nice and fluffy. 'Cause I've always wanted fluffy lips. Anyway.

I Can't Believe...

I'm actually going to show this to you. Heh.


Yuck 

Mug Shot? Might As Well Be...

I fucked up.

I needed to renew my license. Married 11 months ago, just now getting around to changing my name, cause, you know, I felt squicky about it. Still do, but that's another matter.

I had a free afternoon, and just wanted to get the whole deal over with. But first, I had to have a little argument in my head.

Zube Girl: I need to take a shower first and do my hair.

ZG: Dude, that never works. No matter how nice I try to look for driver's license photos, I've always looked incredibly asstastic. Why bother?

ZG: Yeah, but I should at least make a good faith effort.

ZG: Nope. Waste of time. I'll just go now, because it's already 2:00, and who knows how long I'll have to wait in line.

ZG: Well, I guess I do always look ugly no matter how I fluff and preen, so, yeah. Where's my keys?

ZG: Over on the counter, where you just set them, dumbass.

ZG: Oh. Duh!

HUGE MISTAKE PEOPLE! Please, learn from me. I thought, you know, how much uglier could I possibly look? Let me just warn you that, that's a question to which you DO NOT want to know the answer.

I never thought in a million years that I could look so...wow...I don't even know. I'm at a loss for words. Really.

Did you ever see the look on someone's face after they've unwittingly eaten a, ummm, a...worm, let's say? They appear kind of scared because that's just, ICK. A worm. Eww. At the same time, they're sort of, surprised, and maybe even a little bit delighted because it actually tastes kind of...yummy?

Me neither. But, after getting my license, I think I can imagine.

And. My. Hair. Oh goddess, what have I done. I have long hair, which is silly because I never. Ever. Ever. Wear it down. It's always in a bun, unless I'm trying to look nice for my driver's license picture or the company Christmas party.

Anyway, so I've got it in a bun. You know those little sticky outy hairs you get? The short ones in the front? Well, I've got two tufts of them sticking out. One by my ear on the left side. One on the top, just a little bit to the right.

It appears as though I don't have hair. Just a really dark head. With fluffs. Like a mane of sorts. Only, a sad, pathetic kind of mane. Jeebus.

Kind of like an "I am lion, hear me meow, and then watch me roll over and die" mane.

I've got to find some way to post that photo for you all. Seriously.

Lucky for me, it's valid until 2015. How fucking cool is that?

The moral is: You can, indeed, look uglier than you'd ever imagined.

Oh, the Love...

Zube Girl: Hi honey.

Zube Boy: Hi honey.

ZG: How's work?

ZB: Good.

ZG: I'm scared.

ZB: About getting your fillings?

ZG: Yeah.

ZB: Don't worry honey. They're just going to hit your teeth with hammers until you scream. Then it'll be over.

ZG: Okay. I'll call you when I'm done to let you know how it goes.

ZB: Only if you live to tell.

ZG: Love ya.

ZB: Yeah. (muffled) I love you, too.

ZG: Hee. I love making you say 'I love you' while you're at work. Tell the guys I said hi.

ZB: Okay. Buh bye.

ZG: Bye

What Is This?

6 5 4 5 6 6 6

5 5 5 6 8 8

6 5 4 5 6 6 6

6 5 5 6 5 4

Hint: Before the advent of caller ID, this was an important sequence of numbers.

Tell me!

Adventures in Urinating...

My lovely sister, My Belle, and I had a fabulous phone conversation the other day.

My Belle: (Who also happens to be a Zube Girl, but it's not her freakin' blog, so neener): Hey, what's up?

Zube Girl: Nothing. How 'bout you?

MB: Yeah, so I just got a job working for an insurance agency.

ZG: Sweet.

MB: How was Moab?

ZG: It rocked. Though the trail scared me shitless at parts.

MB: Cool.

ZG: Dude, they had the nastiest toilets there. It was like a port-a-potty, but it was outside in this fence thing.

MB: Really?

ZG: Yeah, and there was this chain for your door. Heh. That'll keep 'em back.

MB: Keep who back? The throngs of people just wanting to see you takin' a pee.

ZG: Shut up. Anyway, it sucked because you don't flush the stuff, you just do your thing on top of everyone else's thing and walk away.

MB: Ewww.

ZG: And I had the pleasure of going in right after someone had taken a massive shit.

MB: You looked! That's nasty!

ZG: I did not look. Whatever. I could smell the stench.

MB: Shut up. You looked.

ZG: So what. So would you.

MB: No I wouldn't.

ZG: Yeah, you would, too. But, seriously, it was so nice not having to worry 'bout peeing on my feet!

MB: Ugh. Dontchya hate that!!!

ZG: I so wish I was a guy.

MB: Me too! Like, when you're camping, and you're trying to hide behind a car door or something, or at least be so far from camp that you're sure no one can see or hear you.

ZG: Hate that.

MB: How awkward is that?

ZG: Especially when you start peeing, and um, you've been drinking lots of, erm, water (Hi Mom!). You know, everybody drinks lots of water when they're camping.

MB: Exactly. Heh.

ZG: And you're peeing the 'Forever Pee' and the perfect spot of dirt to pee on has become a puddle and you're still not done. So, the pee starts splashing up on your ass!

MB: Ooooh man! Just sucks.

ZG: And, you've got your pants around your ankles and you're kind of walking backwards a little bit until, inevitably, you step in the puddle.

MB: Hello?! Don't forget that you always lose your balance.

ZG: God. What would it be like to pee standing up?

MB: Dude. That would be awesome.

ZG: Hey, well, I'd better go. I've got work to do.

MB: Okay. Love ya.

ZG: Love ya, miss ya.

MB: Bye.

ZG: Bye

Birdie...

I went out to my car to get something, and as I was walking back inside, I heard "Chirp chirp." Not all that unusual, I know. But, the "chirps" coincided with my footsteps.

I slowed. The chirps slowed. I quickened. The chirps quickened.

It was kind of scary. So, I ran inside and closed the door.

Feeling High...So High...

Zube Boy: How are you doing, honey.

Zube Girl: (Whimpers)

Skelton: How high* d'ya think we are?

ZB: (Proceeding to drive closer up to the edge) Probably 1,500 or 2,000 feet. Look at that power line tower. It seems more like a pine needle. Honey? You should look, it's a really pretty view.

ZG: Oh my God. Oh my God. Please don't do that.

ZB: Do what?

ZG: (Breathing heavy) Drive so close to the edge when I'm on the passenger side! Stay close to the left.

S: Damn, you really do get scared, don't you.

ZB: Yeah, but she better not do that to our kids. Getting them all scared of heights, too. Yelling at them when they climb all high...

ZG: Can we discuss this at another time.

S: Dude, you guys are gonna be awesome parents. In a fucked up kind of way.

ZB: (Pulling so far over to the left that the jeep starts to tilt my way. Toward the cliff.)

ZG: (Leaning all of my body weight toward the superunderstanding driver, cause, you know, my 125 pounds are gonna keep the jeep from rolling down 1,500 Ft.) Seriously. I hate you.

ZB: (Begins driving normally) Hey, Zubes, your leg is shaking. Geez. Are you okay?

ZG: (Laughing and crying at the same time) I told you, honey. I'M FUCKING SCARED! OKAY. Seriously, I'm not kidding. Right now my brain is like, "Hey, body, so we're gonna fall 1,500 feet any second now. Whaddya think 'bout that?" And my body's reacting like, "Well, fuck, we might as well jump and get this shit over with." That's what it's like living in my head when you're on a cliff. My hands are the only part of me doing the right thing now, and hanging on for dear life. Okay. So, be nice.

S: Dude, she's really scared. Be nice.

ZG: Thank you, Skelton.

ZB: Honey, I'm sorry. I didn't know it was like that. You'll be okay.

It is well known among our off-roading comrades that I'm a'scared of heights. I try to quell it and overcome it every chance I get and Cliffhanger Trail* in Moab was just another one of those opportunities.

There were three of us in Zube Boy's jeep. Zube Boy, Skelton, and myself. There were four cars total in our clan. We were returning from the top. Coming from that direction, and being able to see the precarious trail you'd driven up on made it, for some reason, all the more scary.

In addition, it put me in the jeep on the same side as the cliff.

Anyway, I survived. Honestly, it was an absolute BLAST!!! The top was breathtaking*. Charlotte held my hand as I made baby steps closer to the edge to do a little ooohing and ahhing of my own.

Really, the people in my life are so cool. They like to call me a scaredy cat, but then over the CB they'll chatter about nothing when the scary spots come up to take my mind off of it. And, each time we safely navigate our way through high spots, I'm hoping my mind will learn to shut the fuck up, a little. 'Til it's got no more bad things to say about being all high.

Anyway, our stinky, dirty, fabulous friends. That's what this weekend was all about.

Well, that, and peeing in a toilet surrounded only by a wooden fence, no roof, with just a chain you pulled across for a door. And, it didn't flush. But, hey, there was TP. And I didn't have to worry about peeing on my feet. So, big thanks to the Utah state park peoples. My feet love you.



*None of the photo links are of our entourage. Someday, oh someday, we'll get the right video card to be able to download the images from our video camera onto our computer.

Just One More Thing...

Before I go! So, I just started using StatCounter (which is hella cool).

On the bottom of every page I'm on, they have a little ad to upgrade. Goes like this...

Increase The Size Of Your Log!

Alrighty then.

Okay, I swear I'm leaving now!

Whee...

I'm going to Moab!

I'm out for the weekend ya'll!

Are Ya Hungry?

In honor of Cinco de Mayo, I'll tell you a story about my 'Waitressing in a Mexican Restaurant' days.

There was this guy who bartended at On the Border* when I was a waitress there, oh, I don't wanna remember how many years ago. His name was Bill, and he was fucking hilarious. Bill and I actually worked down the street at Casa Lupita, which closed a month before On the Border opened up. With our full repertoire of tequila and chimichanga knowledge, a number of us conveniently made On the Border our new home way from home.

Anywho, those of us who'd worked with Bill previously had the pleasure of knowing he was a sarcastic fuck, and acted accordingly.

So, it'd be Saturday at around 9:00 or so, and we'd all be getting tired and hungry and whiney. It's tough serving food to people from 3:00PM to 10:00PM when you yourself are not allowed to eat. At some point, Bill would be hiding behind the server bar chowing down on some enchiladas in between making a Borderita and a jack and coke because he had the privilege of being able to hide from the managers.

An innocent server, whom we'll call Rob (basically, fill in the blank), would high tail it to the server bar to grab his drinks, and spot Bill eating. I was witness to this conversation so many times.

Rob: Hey, is that my house marg?

Bill: Yup.

Rob: Thanks.

Bill: Hey.

Rob: What?

Bill: Are ya hungry?

Rob: Yeah, actually, I'm starving. (Eyeballing Bill's enchiladas) (Heh)

Bill: Then, why don't you go eat a dick.

Rob: Fuck you.

Damn. I miss Bill.

*I was gonna do one of those little linky things to the restaurant's website, but their website does that thing where once you click on it, you can't hit the 'back' button to return to the previous page, so fuck 'em.

Adventures in Highlighting...

Or

Ten Ways Your Husband Lets You Know He Loves You...

10. He highlights your hair for you. This is actually a fool proof way to make sure it turns out well, because you know he wouldn't want to be seen with some dizzy broad with crappy highlights.

9. His first and last names start with an M. Therefore, he has refined his signature down to on sloppy M. This means that since he was a young adult, he has been perfecting this simple signature because he really wants you to buy new shoes with his credit card.

8. He only laughs a little bit because you bought the book "Taking Charge of Your Fertility" and you think that maybe, just maybe, you're getting to be on the same page.

7. He tells you that he will have kids if, and only if, he can raise them thinking that cats are really called 'monkeys' cause you only get one shot at fucking them up, so you might as well do a good job of it.

6. You get your wisdom teeth out and he goes to the store to get you some Neopolitan Ice Cream. Then he scoops some out for you, but only after asking if you prefer more chocolate, strawberry, or vanilla.

5. He pretends to hate your cats, but when they cuddle with him, you can see him cuddling back.

4. He thinks they should make a TV sitcom about you because on your way to Home Depot, while on a major highway, you wonder aloud, "I wonder what road that is," and it turns out that 'that road' is just the other side of the highway that was divided for a little bit to go around some big rock formations. He just says, "Woah." And you turn red.

3. You mention in May, under your breath, while he's turned around, that you'd like a video camera someday, and he actually remembers and gets you one for Christmas. And, he doesn't even seem to mind that you only got him Scooby Doo Bandaids, a toothbrush, and some long underwear.

2. He's a Republican, and you're a Democrat, and he tells you that one of the things he loves about you most is your passion for politics. It's a little easier to stomach the fact that you're married to a Republican if he's a Bush hatin' Pro-Choice kind of Republican.

1. He tells you he's proud of you for doing something pretty scary.

There's a Mushroom in My Pocket...

Where I used to keep my wisdom teeth. I thought mushroom soup would be safe to eat, but no.

I think there might be a kernel of rice in there, too. I just wanted to eat something that I actually had to chew a little bit. But after two bites, I started to feel a little like a chipmunk stocking up for a snack later in my flavor saver pockets.

It's freaking me out a little.

No matter how often I gargle salt water, I just can't seem to get the stuff out. Then I'm like, well, maybe I'm just imagining it. But hours after eating rice, I'll gargle, and a piece of rice will fall out.

It's making me not want to eat anything but my banana babyfood. Maybe I will lose a little weight before we go to Puerto Rico, and I have to put on a bathing suit. Perhaps with all the money I save not buying food, I'll be able to afford to go tanning, too. Yeah. Because the equation of the day: My Bathing Suit Clad Bod = Whiteness. Scary whiteness.

But, other than a little soreness, I guess I'm okay. It's just totally weird having big holes where your teeth once lived!

If You Were a Fly on My Wall...

"Can't I just make the coffee before I feed you? Zander, get off my foot. Zoey, fuck. Wrapping yourself around my leg is going to get you killed, not fed."

"Geez, my morning hair is...w..wa..wait a fucking minute. Zoey! Get off my head!!!"

"Yeah. Meeeeeeeeeooow right back atcha Zander."

"Okay, Zack. Quit whining. Outside ya go."

"Zoey, get off the counter."

"I said get off the fucking counter!"

"Zander. ZANDER! Wanna treat? Wait, don't walk away from me! Ass. Fine see if I ever give you a treat again."

"Zack. ZACK! Wanna treat? Oh, you wanna come back inside first. Well, aren't we demanding."

"ZOEY! OFF the table. Yes, you! Ksssssssss!!! Don't just look at me! I'm already hissing at you like an idiot. Don't make me get up and push you off the counter! I mean table. For now."

"No honey, I'm not making dinner. It's fucking 8:30 in the morning and the animals are staging a coup because they don't want me to have coffee for some godforsaken reason."

"Zoey. Off the table does not mean get ON the fucking counter again!!! Off. Now!"

"Woah. Zander Dude. What's up with the puffy tail, and the sideways attack stance, buddy? It's only a crumpled up receipt from 7-11."

"Zoey. OFF."

"Zack, you were just outside. Grrrr...Fine, but you're staying out there forever."

"Ummm, I don't think so Zander. I just offered you a treat and your holiness dissed me. I'm the boss around here, dammit!"

"Zack, for crying out loud. I just let you OUT! Why are you scratching at the door already? Did you hear me say treat?"

"Okay, Zack..Zo..I mean ZANDER. Here's your fucking treat. Yeah, I hit you in the head with it 'cause you're annoying the hell out of me. Wh..where are you going? If you rub your butt on my pillow, I'll...ZOEY! Off!"

"Thanks for offering to help, honey, but as a matter of fact, I just folded the last shirt."

"No kidding, my love. Zoey is on the counter. You've got vocal chords. Nevermind. ZOEY!!!"

"Kssssssss..."

"Hi Zack. You know, bud, I'm glad you're comfy, but, ummmm, you're sitting on my foot. Yeah. And you weigh 95lbs lard ass, so get off. OFF. Thank you."

"Ummm...Zander, Zack was not making room for you, dear. My. Foot. Is. A. NO. SIT. FUCKING. ZONE!"

"Honey, get off my foot. I mean, wait, what did you just say? No...I don't know what's for dinner yet."

"ZOEY. Get off the goddamned counter!!!"

"Actually, babe, I just did the last dish, but, ummm, thanks for offering."

"Ew. Zack, if you're gonna lick your butt, could ya, like, do it somewhere else."

"You too, Zander."

"Okay, that goes for licking each other's butts, too. Mmmmkay? No fucking butt licking in the living room. Got it? Jesus Christ."

"Ooooooooooffffffffff!"

"What the fuck? Honey, what the hell...Hey, no licking my butt...Oh. Ha. Ha. Ha. You're reeeeal funny. But, you know, you can kiss it."

"ZOEY!!!!!!!!"