El Baño

Z-Girl: Honey?

Z-Boy: *silence*

Z-Girl: Hey, what in the hell are you doing in there?

Z-Boy: Nothing.

Z-Girl: Are you negotiating the release of the brown hostages?

Z-Boy: No! Mind yer bizness...

Z-Girl: 'Cause you know I need to take a shower, and that would piss me right off trying to get clean in all that stink!

Z-Boy: Leave me alone...

Z-Girl: You've been in there for a while...

Z-Boy: God. Do you always have to be up my ass? I'm doing my hair. I want it to look perfect for the monster truck show.


And, since I'd obviously be an idiot to believe that, I think I'll shower later.

Some More Before and After

Just because I couldn't be more proud...


As you'll see, we weren't spending much time lounging around eating ice cream.


I'm not your average wife. I have my own mini-size work gloves. I get dirty. I hereby dub myself the Demolition Queen. Where's my fucking tiara?!


One year later. Astounding, eh? Considering that the task was completed on evenings and weekends.


What's with me and the shitty picture taking? I'm definitely more of a fixer-upper than a photographer. But you get the idea.

Yeah...That'll Teach 'Em...

In college I majored in Education of the Deaf and Hard of Hearing. Before I was able to participate in any practicums with hearing impaired kiddos, I was required to do some work as a teacher's aide in a regular classroom. Not that there is such a thing as a regular classroom, but you know what I mean. I was placed in a second grade class with the most bitch-ass teacher ever. For the duration, we'll refer to her as BAT. Don't get me wrong, BAT was nice to me, but the woman was so over teaching that it didn't do the kids in her class a damn bit of good to have her there.

She only served as an example of what kind of teacher I did not want to be. My dream of teaching was never realized because I eventually dropped out of college after four and a half years for several reasons, not the least of which being utter despair with life. But, anyway...

The class was in the inner city, and many of the kids were underprivelaged, to say the least. There was a little girl whose name I have sadly forgotten, and I could smack myself because she most certainly deserves to be remembered. I'll call her Hope, because I pray she never lost that characteristic.

It's a funny thing when you are the new teacher, especially in the younger grades. The kids just love you, and, well, with the bitch they dealt with on a daily basis, I was not surprised to find them hovering around me, giving me hugs, and telling me they loved me. Seriously. The little rugrats rock like that.

On my second day, Hope came skipping up to the front of the class, and handed the prior evening's homework to me, beaming all the while. BAT snatched it out of my hands, scowled over the crumpled up notepad paper, tossed it aside, and said, "Hope's Mom is homeless. We don't expect a whole lot out of her."

I've never seen a more crestfallen little cherub face. It was all I could do not to cry or to scream out, "Oh my God, you FUCKING BITCH," as that wouldn't necessarily be conducive to me graduating and being a teacher very unlike her. But, for fuck's sake. I mean, there were some mistakes, but little Hope had done her homework, quite possibly on a FUCKING STREET CORNER, and rather than constructively correct her work, you TOSS IT TO THE SIDE, and insinuate that because she doesn't have a home, she's not even WORTH TEACHING!!!

That experience opened my eyes to what the educational experience is for many folks. In Hope's case, I'm sure as shit that this was a case of insidious racism. I can only wish with all my might that Hope encountered teachers in her later years that encouraged her obvious willingness to study.

On my last day of the practicum, BAT gave me a card. In it she wrote, "Good luck with the deaf-mutes!" Which, you know what? I'm not even gonna go there. Suffice it to say that deaf-mute became offensive, oh, maybe twenty or thirty years prior.

I'm a Doodler...

Okay, so yesterday's post is kicking my ass! Whew. I'm trying to keep up y'all, so bear with me.

In case you were wondering:


I like to draw mushrooms. Oh yeah. Hey Becki, do you mind if I borrow a post-it-note from your desk? Cool, thanks.


Can y'all guess what I was trying to figger out here?



I take extensive notes at meetings.

Meme Schmeme...

Typically, I loathe memes but this one rocks all get out because I get to talk about YOU, and not me; which pleases the Zube Girl as she is so totally over herself right now.

Anywho, Sarcastic Kitty posted it, and I commented. Thusly, I've been memed. Which is cool because it has only validated my appreciation for yet another blogger (Rock on SK for your answer to a certain question, and in answer to yours, Zube Boy and I do indeed want children).

Well, on with the memers:

1. Comment on this post and I'll respond with a random thought I have about you.*
2. I'll tell you what song/movie reminds me of you.
3. I'll pick a flavor of jello to wrestle with you in.
4. I'll say something that only makes sense to you and me (Or so we think).
5. I'll tell you my first memory of you.
6. I'll tell you what animal you remind me of.
7. I'll ask you something that I've always wondered about you.
8. If I do this for you, you must post this on your journal.**

*I've changed the wording a bit, and if that makes me a bitch, so be it...
**I hereby declare that if you comment, and don't post this on your blog, I won't be mad. At all.

A preemptive thanks to all who participate!

For the sake of doing this properly, I'm moving my responses onto my actual post. So there.

Phil-
1. You are a wordsmith
2. The movie Singles...The main guy character.
3. Avocado.
4. Thanks for the answer. It drove me nuts.
5. Voting for you in BoB.
6. Tiger. No fucking idea why...
7. What brought you to the blog 'o Zube Girl?

Douglas-
1. You like boobs and butts.
2. "I like big butts and I cannot lie..." (Great, that song is so gonna be stuck in my head for the rest of the day.)
3. Banana
4. Uh, that thing the other day? Red.
5. Why, it was only moments ago...
6. Aardvark
7. Why IS the sky blue?

Courtney-

1. You lurve flip flops, just as much as I do.
2. "Touch of Gray" Grateful Dead
3. Strawberry
4. Mmmm...hot guys on ice. Can't fucking wait.
5. Kick ass, take no names, for some reason.
6. Peacock
7. How many pairs of flip flops do YOU have? ;-)

Mike-

1. Your compliment is suspect because I have the feeling you got here by hitting next blog and just wanted me to visit your site. If that's not true, and you actually return to see this, tell me to fuck right off.
2. Fred of the movie "Drop Dead Fred"
3. Grape
4. N/A
5. Traffic whore
6. Pigeon
7. Will you prove me wrong?

Tickles Tapeworm-

1. Heh. Love your username. Makes me giggle.
2. Brad Pitt in "12 Monkeys"
3. Lime
4. Your girlfriend rocks.
5. Tickles Tapeworm. Hee.
6. Monkey
7. Where did you get your username?

Carrie-

1. I love how you love to cuss like I do!
2. Rage Against the Machine's "Killing in the Name of"
3. Pineapple
4. Cunts can kiss my ass. Except the cool ones.
5. She said cunt. I think I love her.
6. Leopard
7. How much weed do you smoke on a typical day?

Storm-

1. You have pain in the ass cats, too.
2. Lightning Seeds song "Pure"
3. Cotton Candy. Yum.
4. With the orbs, I'm obsessed with them. I like to think they are various grandmothers and grandfathers. I gives me comfort.
5. That photo on your blog. You are one cute chica!
6. Whale. NOT meaning you are large by any means, but there is something gentle and secretive about whales that I just love.
7. You mentioned on your blog that you are a writer. What kind of writing do you do?

Kjersten- I didn't think I'd get through them either!!! Hopefully no one is insulted by my responses. I think I'm funny sometimes, and don't intend to hurt anyone's feelings!

1. You come from a large family.
2. "Lean on Me" by, um, is it Al Green?
3. Peach
4. It's hard sometimes, but it's what makes both you and I such kick ass people.
5. You have the SWEETEST smile ever. Seriously.
6. Horse
7. Where did Mezmerotonous come from?

Debi-

1. You have the same name as my Mom. Debi's are wonderful people.
2. "I'm Just a Girl" by...Gwen Stefani
3. Mandarin
4. What is up with just finding one??? I don't get it either.
5. You're a take charge kind of lady!
6. Fox
7. Are you a typical cancerian? I am.

TJ-

1. You coined the word 'Fook' and for that I am jealous.
2. "Me, Myself, and I" by De La Soul
3. Apple
4. TMI is too much fun.
5. Your life is and has been funny and sad. Just like mine.
6. Penguin
7. When your hair gets stuck, you know where, has it ever, umm, gotten tangled up with...hopefully you know what I mean. I have and it sucks.

Anduin-

1. Your husband scares you, too. Not in a bad way. Just in an annoying way.
2. "Magic Bus" by The Who
3. Blueberry
4. We enjoy quite a strange passtime!
5. That hilarious little kitty.
6. Seahorse
7. Are you a typical cancerian (sorry it's the same as Debi's but I'm an astrology buff)?

Cassiopeia-

1. You get your eyebrows waxed. Which reminds me, I'm starting to like like Bert.
2. "My Baby's Got Sauce" by G-Love
3. Kiwi
4. I'm just as nice as you when I'm getting gas (though, not when I have gas).
5. Heh. I hate body odor, too!
6. Dolphin
7. How did you come up with your username?

SK-

1. You are from Texas.
2. That song "You Make Me Feel Like a Natural Woman"
3. Orange
4. Never tried the ambesol.
5. Fucking hilarious!
6. Unicorn
7. So, did you read the ambesol thing somewhere, or did you guys just come up with it yourselves?

Erika-

1. You are a flight attendant.
2. "Don't Worry, Be Happy."
3. Mint
4. We don't have that kind of repair shop in my town!
5. Gin and Tonic. Hell yeah!
6. Koala Bear
7. How many different countries have you been to?

Bud-

Feel free to link! I'll give the meme thing a whirl.

1. You dig sex.
2. "Feel Like Makin' Love!"
3. Mint
4. Soon to come. Heh. The better I get to know ya, I mean.
5. Ooh. Smut. Hee.
6. Giraffe
7. However did you find the Zube Girl?

Al-

Of course I'm still playing!

1. You like coffee even more than I do. I'm duly impressed with that!
2. For some reason, the theme song of the Sopranos. Go figure. Speaking of which, is that guy in your profile pic Junior? It looks like him. I'll feel like an idiot if I'm wrong and it's some real mafioso dude.
3. Coffee, of course.
4. Did you wake up your kids laughing? I would've felt bad.
5. Mmm...Coffee...and a picture of Junior (I think). This guy rocks.
6. Eagle
7. How did you and your wife get together?

PaintingChef-

You didn't think you would escape the meme, did you??? You commented, so now it's your turn!

1. Your alter ego is Crazy Chlomid Wife.
2. "No Woman, No Cry" by Bob Marley
3. Blue Rasberry
4. I am so glad you sent that e-mail. It really sealed the deal with my love 'o PaintingChef.
5. Hee. She says fuck a lot. I love her.
6. Starfish
7. I always kind of wonder if Patrick reads your blog? Zube Boy reads mine once in a while, but not devoutly or anything.

Lunchtime Love Notes

Just in case animals ever start going to school and I need to pack lunches for them, I've composed a few little love notes I would tenderly tuck in their brown bags.

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

Dear Alexander,

For lunch today, I have given you a mouse. Please be sure to finish it and dispose of it at school because leaving that shit by the front door is just nasty, and makes Mommy shriek. And we both know how much Daddy hates when I do that. I know you get to feeling all proud of your prowess, but color me unimpressed with the gifts you give me.

Maybe you could, I don't know, paint me a picture in art class or something. Have a good day at school. Remember: Just Say No to Catnip!

Love,
Mommy

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

Dear Zackary,

I'm sorry I yelled at you to, "Get on the damn bus already," this morning. I know you were just upset because Zoey and Alexander got to ride the regular animal bus, and you have to go on the blue one. But, seriously, mornings are not my thang, and all I wanted was for you all to leave so I could have a cup of coffee in peace.

Oh yeah, hurry home after school. Your teacher told me that we need to buy you a helmet so you don't hurt yourself barreling down the hall.

Hope you enjoyed the remote control I packed for your lunch today. It's brand new, but I figured I'd give it to you before I got too attached to it.

Love,
Mommy

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

Dear Zoey,

What do you think of your lunch today? Yeah, I know you don't actually EAT spider plants but you sure as hell tear the shit out of them to the point where they are deader than even a Mommy with a green thumb can fix. Lest they die in vain, you better EAT ALL YOUR LUNCH. Dammit. Why do you do the things you do?

I've written a note to your teacher forbidding you to participate in gym class because if you were any faster and spriter, I might have to use my superhuman powers to turn you into a rock. And I'm not about the idle threats.

Love,
Mommy

Sisters and the Fucked Upedness of Things I've Said to Them...

When I was in my twenties it was my mission to make sure that my sisters didn't feel embarrassed or ashamed of their bodies. I've mentioned before, but I'll mention again, for those of you who may be new to this blog 'o mine, that their pseudonyms are Hoot and My Belle. They are respectively eight and ten years younger than me. So, when I was in my early twenties, well, you do the math.

The thing is, when I was growing up, I wasn't so open with my parents about stuff like first bras and sex and la dee la. In fact, I remember being mortified when my Mom came home with my very first bra. I turned red as a beet, grabbed the Strawbridge's bag, and ran into my room to figure out the contraption I really didn't need. I wanted to wear it anyway, because the boys at school had just recently discovered the sport of bra strap snapping, and my lack of the proper game equipment had become glaringly obvious.

We were a bit tight-lipped about body stuff. I figure it's because I was the oldest, and we were all trying to figure out the kid/parent relationship gig. It's not that way anymore, and nowadays I tell my Mom just about everything. There is something about sitting your Mom and Dad down, telling them you've been raped and are presently carrying the asshole's kid, that makes you realize there is no point in pussyfooting around anything anymore. You've already told them something earth shattering, and they didn't have a heart attack or crumple to the floor, so everything else seems fair game. They really will love you no matter what.

But, before the dawning of that realization, I often felt weird about sex and such. I never had anyone I could ask, "Hey, so if I like, touch myself sometimes, is that weird?" I decided to be the older sister I never had.

"Make sure you masturbate. It's way less complicated than dealing with boys, and you still get to have a good time."

Hee. They were soooo embarrassed, but you know what? I'm glad I said it. I believed for a few years that I was a freak doomed to rot in hell or go blind, and I wanted to spare them that agony. The agony of worrying about it. At least if we were doomed to rot in hell for a little self pleasure, we'd be there together.

"If you have a funny feeling about a boy, overreact. If he's not a bad guy, he'll understand. And if he is a bad guy, you'll be glad you overreacted."

I once had a funny feeling about a boy, but felt it would be too reactionary to say, "Take me home now." I still wish I'd listened to the little voice in my head screaming, "Get out!" No one had ever told me before that that voice rarely cries wolf.

I'll leave you with a poem I made them memorize when they were eleven and thirteen. We can still recite it from memory today, almost ten years later.

Daughter
By Nicole Blackman

One day I'll give birth to a tiny baby girl
and when she's born she'll scream and I'll make sure
she never stops.

I will kiss her before I lay her down
and will tell her a story so she knows
how it is and how it must be for her to survive.

I'll tell her about the power of water
the seduction of paper
the promise of gasoline
and the hope of blood.

I'll teach her to shave her eyebrows and
mark her skin.

I'll teach her that her body is
her greatest work of art.

I'll tell her to light things on fire
and keep them burning.

I'll teach her that the fire will not consume her,
that she must take it and use it.

I'll tell her to be tri-sexual, to try anything
to sleep with, fight with, pray with anyone,
just as long as she feels something.

I'll help her do her best work when it rains.
I'll tell her to reinvent herself every 28 days.
I'll teach her to develop all her selves,
the courageous ones,
the smart ones,
the dreaming ones
the fast ones.

I'll teach her that she has an army inside her
that can save her life.

I'll tell her to say Fuck like other people say The
and when people are shocked
to ask them why they so fear a small quartet
of letters.

I'll make sure she always carries a pen
so she can take down the evidence.
If she has no paper, I'll teach her to
write everything down on her tongue
write it on her thighs.

I'll help her to see that she will not find God
or salvation in a dark brick building
built by dead men.

I'll explain to her that it's better to regret the things
she has done than the things she hasn't.

I'll teach her to write her manifestos
on cocktail napkins.
I'll say she should make men lick her enterprise.

I'll teach her to talk hard.
I'll tell her that her skin is the
most beautiful dress she will ever wear.

I'll tell her that people must earn the right
to use her nickname,
that forced intimacy is san ugly thing.

I'll make her understand that she is worth more
with her clothes on.

I'll tell her that when the words finally flow too fast
and she has no use for a pen
that she must quit her job
run out of the house in her bathrobe,
leaving the door open.
I'll teach her to follow the words.

I'll tell her to stand up
and head for the door
after she makes love.
When he asks her to
stay she'll say
she's got to
go.

I'll tell her that when she first bleeds
when she is a woman,
to go up to the roof at midnight,
reach her hands up to the sky and scream.

I'll teach her to be whole, to be holy,
to be so much that she doesn't even
need me anymore.
I'll tell her to go quickly and never come back.
I will make her stronger than me.

I'll say to her never forget what they did to you
and never let them know you remember.

Never forget what they did to you
and never let them know you remember.

The older I get, I cringe a little thinking that I was kind of a fucked up big sister, but they've since told me that they felt like they could come to me with any problem. Big or small. So, I guess I did okay. Hell, I never applied for the job of Big Sis anyway. I flew by the seat of my pants, because that was about all I could do.

Never Fart Outside When You Think You're Alone

Because odds are, you're not.

The other night, I was sitting outside, staring up at the sky, feeling that all was right with the world. Except for the fact that I had to fart something fierce. So, I looked around with my piercing x-ray eyes that have obviously lost their acuity since my days as a detective fighting evil.

I could see no one. So, I got her done. Let it rip. Cut the cheese. It was pretty nifty sounding; echoing throughout the neighborhood. I giggled a little because I felt so free and the stars looked so pretty and I REALLY felt as though all was perfect with the world.

Until, I saw the shadow of a figure and the undeniable lit end of a cigarette on my neighbors porch. Zube Boy calls these neighbors The Dudes. 'Cause they're dudes dude. Seriously, dude. They're always hanging out on the porch smoking cigarettes and peeling their vehicles up and down the street, duding it up. I should have known one of them would be out there dammit.

I mean, it's funny when Zube Boy pokes fun at The Dudes, but I've shot any bit of dignity and sneering down my nose at them to bits. Last night, Zube Boy said, "Dude, The Dudes are all fighting and shit." Instead of my usual turning-off-the-lights-and-running-to-the-window-cause-I'm-a-
nosy-as-shit-neighbor routine, I got all sheepish instead.

I replied, "Dude, whatever."

Cool Ass Word of the Week! (CAWOW!)

I am a bit of a language buff. Presently, I’ve got three of them under my belt. English (duh), Spanish, and American Sign Language. I’d like to add French to that list, but I have yet to actively pursue learning it. Someday. Perhaps when our house is done. HA! As if. I'll be all retired and shit and won't be interested in learning anything what with all the beer consumption going on.

Anyway, I also dig words in general. I’m a huge fan of expanding my vocabulary and am constantly looking up words that catch my interest. I’ve decided to start doing some homework I assign myself to give a little structure to the endeavor of learning and using new words. Each Sunday, if I can manage to stick to a routine, I’ll pick a new word, which I’ll post here. I’m open for suggestions, so feel free to toss some good ones out there.

The assignment will be to use that word throughout the week. On the following Sunday, before I post the next Cool Ass Word of the Week (hereafter called CAWOW!) I’ll let you know how and when I used it. Y’all can also join in on the fun of that, if you’re so inclined. I know you’re super-duper excited, so let’s start with this week’s word:

adj 1 : twee --> affectedly dainty or refined (adj.all)
Synonyms: dainty, mincing, niminy-piminy, prim, twee

similar: refined

I fucking love the word twee for some reason. But, twee is mine...Hee.

The trouble with this assignment will be using the CAWOW!s in a manner that doesn't sound too contrived, because I hate getting caught using fancy words on purpose. We shall see. I'll be sure to let you know if anyone rolls their eyes at my usage of a fancy word.

On the (Off)Road Again...

Big black gimp shoe and all, I can't seem to keep him from offroading! Actually, it's kind of nice to see him getting out and about. The injury had him laying on the couch for a bit, so it's awesome to see my Zube Boy all mobile and shit. We've only got about a month before cold weather descends upon us up here in the mountains, so he might as well get in all the offroading he can.


His crutches are hidden somewhere in the car. I tried to get him to show them off, but he wasn't having it!


I must say, Zube Boy looks pretty damn happy to be out o' the prison, erm, I mean, house!

I'm Going All Meta and Stuff..

I have been reviewed all of two times over at Blog Explosion. The first review was a while ago and I received a 94% score. Kisses to that person, and I hope you were being sincere, because that high of a score actually surprised me. The second I received this morning. It was rather scathing, and here 'tis:

Word to describe your blog: Personal
What user liked the most: Great Photos/Images
Review Type: Rating
Design/Style: 1 of 5
Recent/Regular Updates: 3 of 5
Loadtime: 1 of 5
Interesting Content: 1 of 5
Technical Errors: 3 of 5
Colors: 1 of 5
Grammar: 1 of 5
Too many plugins: 3 of 5
Layout: 1 of 5

Review total score: 34 of 100%

I have only two contentions with this review. Firstly, I find it difficult to believe that you liked the great photographs I've got going on here. Case in point, the photograph below has my finger in the upper right hand corner. That's how about 85% of the pictures I take turn out. If you were going for irony, though, it did give me a giggle.

Secondly, my score of 3 out of 5 in the category of regular updates seems a bit harsh, no? I perused my archives and found that I missed seven days since June 4 which was the day I returned from vacation. Sometimes I post more than once in a day. Now, I could be posting absolute shit for content, but this is not a subjective question really. I don't know how much more I'd have to post to warrant a 5 out of 5 in your eyes, but you can bet that I'm not going to go there. I'm already fretting my lack of a life having only missed seven days of sixty-some. But, it's okay, because I go outside and play a lot.

Anyway, I'd argue that my grammar deserves a little higher than 1 of 5 because I think I spel reel gud, but sometimes I take liberties with the English language that might be interpreted as bad grammar, so I'll give you that one.

Thing is, I can handle constructive criticism. In fact, I was once lambasted in a post by another blogger who was not too keen on something I'd written about my ass. At first I was a little torqued about it, but then I pulled my thumb out of mouth and my head out of my rear end and said, "Gee Zube Girl. Another blogger didn't appreciate a post about your ass. Imagine that!" *Insert self-deprecating eyeroll here*

But, he had the decency to link to me so I would know what was going on, and respond accordingly. He had balls, so to speak. And, I respect that.

In summation, it would have been nice if you'd have made some suggestions in the comment box for me to suck a little less, or at the very least let me know what kind of technical errors I have on my page. But, I do thank you for taking the time to review my blog.

I don't usually blog about blogging. I find the metaness of it irritating. But, I've officially dubbed today, "I Don't Care, I Do What I Want!" Day.

We Did It All By Ourselves...

The guest bathroom before remodel...


The guest bathroom after remodel...and still awaiting the installment of the rest of the wainscoting. Pretty nifty change, though, huh?


Who knew drinking beer and sweating bullets could make such a difference?

It's Sort of Making a Funny Noise

I believe something is wrong with my car. I can't seem to get the hood to close because there is a strange object in the way making random squawking noises that sometimes sound like, "WHERE'S MY DINNER, WOMAN?"

My couch has a similar malady. This one, though, doesn't squawk as much, but it does like to steal the remote and watch crazy ass shit about cranes, planes, and automobiles on the tube. And that crap just bores me silly.

I think my house is infested. Anyone got any remedies for such a problem?

You Want Out? I'll Show You the Door...

Alexander and Zoey are spoiled fucking brats. Seriously. And, I've got no one to blame but myself. They are both so damn vocal, and no matter how many times I tell them cats are to be seen and not heard, they fail to grasp the concept. They MEOW their asses off when they want in and out, which between the two of them is just about every 15 minutes. Alexander is fond of sitting outside the kitchen window, and staring at me, while serenading me with MRRRROOOOOWRRRRRR's. Having been a cat translator in the past, this means, "Hey. Human. Let me in. I want me some kibble. NOW!"

It drives me fucking nuts, and for that reason, I let him in. Well, actually once in a while, I'll stand at the sink, fill a glass with water, and throw it through the window screen laughing wildly as he nearly flies around the side of the house. Hee.

Being the permissive kitty Mom that I am, when they're winding themselves around my legs whining to be let out, in the name of actually being able to make dinner, I stomp self-righteously to the laundry room proclaiming, "I fucking hate you all," and open the back door. It would give me GREAT pleasure to assist their departure from the house with a swift kick in the ass. I get all tingly thinking about it. But you know what? They're too goddamn fast!

I end up losing my balance all cartoon style because whilst my foot is still gaining momentum they're halfway across the fucking yard already, and I end up kicking air. Or, on a really bad day, I kick the door which I've only opened a teeny bit in the hopes of actually pulling off foot to cat-ass contact. Ouch.

Nothing gets me pissier than kicking something that's not there, or even worse, something I did not intend to kick at all, so I head back inside, pick up the phone, and order myself some Chinese. For some reason, this gets me feeling smug.

Comic Relief

The night of Zube Boy's accident, we arrived at the emergency room, and he was immediately plopped into a wheelchair and wheeled through the ER doors. I sat in the waiting room with our friend, The Englishman, twiddling my thumbs when all of the sudden, something dawned on me.

Z-Girl: Umm, hey, Englishman. Do you think I'm allowed to like, be back there with him?

Englishman: Well, duh, you're married. What the hell are you doing out here in the waiting room.

Z-Girl: Huh. I guess you're right.

I approached the receptionist, and asked to be with my husband. She said, "Oh, that's your husband? Of course! Actually, would you fill out his paperwork while you're back there?" I replied, "Of course," and was shuffled back to where my injured man lay.

Z-Girl: Hi my honey!

Z-Boy: Hi honey.

Z-Girl: Does it hurt?

Z-Boy: Yeah. It hurts a lot.

Z-Girl: I'm sorry. Well, in other news, I really feel like your wife. They gave me your paperwork to fill out.

Z-Boy: *groaning in pain*

Z-Girl: Let's see what we have here. Hmmm...DNR? Honey, doesn't that mean Do Not Resucitate?

Z-Boy: Heh.

Z-Girl: Okay then, DNR...Check. Hmmm...Have you ever felt threathened by your spouse?

Z-Boy: Well...

Z-Girl: Shush. That would be a no. No...Check.

Z-Boy: But sometimes, honey...

Z-Girl: I don't wanna hear it. If you so much as insinuate that I threaten you, I'll slap you silly.

Z-Boy: Hee.

Z-Girl: I love you, honey.

Z-Boy: I love you, too.

As we were heading home from the ER...

Z-Boy: Honey...

Z-Girl: Yup.

Z-Boy: Thank you for making me laugh in there.

Z-Girl: Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever. Hee. That was kind of awesome. You know what?

Z-Boy: What?

Z-Girl: I really didn't check DNR.

Z-Boy: Well, I fucking hope not!

PS- Please forgive gratuitous use of the word 'honey'. He was all injured and shit.

Little Shits and Love...and Worry...

Once upon a time, I was little. I bet my Mom wished I'd never grow up. When I look at this picture of myself, I'm compelled to imagine my own not yet conceived children. Damn potential little shits, all strutting their stuff with a fair bit of respect for their Mom, but not enough to live by her word for the rest of their lives. Little pieces of my heart outside of my own chest cavity, experimenting with dangerous substances and falling in and (hopefully) out of love with assholes.

I'm just dying to have kids, but I'm frightened by the prospect of my kids not being kids anymore. I know that eventually, any babies I have will fucking hate me when they're teenagers, because damn straight, I'll know when they're high. Can't slip that shit by me. But, it will only be because I fucking love them that I'll be the pain in the ass Mom who is always up their ass wanting to know their friends' parents' phone numbers. Same as my very own pain in the ass Mom and Dad.

I don't know how the hell they did it. And, while I'm on the subject of Moms and Dads, I'd like to thank mine for forbidding me to hang out with those Riverside boys. I was pissed off, and even snuck out to cruise around with them one night, only to sneak back home and thank my lucky stars I was forbidden to hang out with that lot of assholes.

I worry that someday someone will throw a hoagie or a TV remote at my precious grown up baby's head, or tell them that they're crazy, only to have them believe that they are. I'm sure they will be; at least a little bit, because the apple doesn't fall far from the kooky tree.

But still. I'm a bit frightened about the whole offspring gig. I just know that they're going to break my heart a little bit.

Feeling Hoarse? Go Suck a Zube.

I've been on a mission, and am sad to say that it has not been accomplished. I'd heard about these throat lozenges called Zubes and managed to find a website that sells them. Success, you might say, but no.

The original packaging had the slogan, "Feeling Hoarse? Go Suck a Zube." The idea of finding a photo of the old package just tickles me because, well, I mean come on! Go suck a Zube! How fucking funny is that? Hee. Anyway, the website states, "For relief from sore throat, cough and cold symptoms, suck Zubes medicated lozenges." That makes me giggle a little bit, but it's nothing knee slapping or anything.

If any of you all EVER come across a picture of Zubes lozenges with the old packaging, you have to PROMISE that you'll pass a photo along to me. In return for your kindness I will, ummm, relieve your sore throat! Hah! Perfect.

Thank you.

Updated April 22, 2010

Found it!

Bump and Grind

Sometimes, a wife is caught off guard by amorous feelings from her husband at bedtime, and before the evening's festivities can continue she must say, "Thust a thecond honey," and pull out her precious tooth grinding preventer.

There is no way to do this and be sexy about it. But, he's still sleeping next to me and even reminds me to put in my 'squeaker' before we go to bed. I guess that the squeaking sound it makes is better than the sound of me grinding my teeth. Either that, or he loves me so much he doesn't want me to have to get another root canal!

I suppose that's just another one of those things that is marriage.

And, for real, if you grind your teeth at night; this little guard I bought at the grocery store kicks ass. It's waaaaaaay less expensive than the ones you get from the dentist. I think it was $30 bucks or something. And no one even paid me anything to tell you that.

From Behind

Ring-Ring

Nate: Hello.

Z-Girl: Hey, are you behind me?

Nate: Only in your wildest dreams.

Z-Girl: Heh. No, seriously. There's this guy behind me in a red truck with sunglasses that look like yours, and he's following me really close, so I thought maybe it was you.

Nate: Nope, I'm at work digging a hole.

Z-Girl: Okay, well then that fucker needs to quit riding my ass. Later.

Nate: Bye.

Out of Tune, or Touch...Something Like That

Zack and I were hangin' out today. Sharing the living room, as families tend to do. Suddenly, he went into fervent Lick and Gnaw Hineyhole mode. This is when I broke into song. It's one of my favorites, and I call it the "Hiney Licker" song.

It goes something like this, though the lyrics vary from time to time:

Hineylicker, hineylicker, hiney, hiney, hineylicker...

Is my little hineylicker hungry for something other than hiney...

Hiney, hiney, hiney licker...

And so on...

This time, though, I proceeded to sing and let the dog out at the same time. Two teenagers happened to be walking by, and witnessed my acapella performance.

I am so not cool anymore.

Big Foot Is My Man

Z-Boy: Honey?

Z-Girl: Yeah?

Z-Boy: The doctor said you should give me massages throughout the day to help me get better.

Z-Girl: Hmmmm...

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

Z-Boy: Honey?

Z-Girl: Uh huh?

Z-Boy: The doctor told me that my only hope for recovery would be if my wife would make me cookies.

Z-Girl: Ahhhh...

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

Man, oh man, oh man. This whole sickness and health thing is hard fucking work! And, the disrobing of the foot turned my stomach. Fucking ewwwwwwww and owwwwww, which I guess would be pronounced something like eowwwwww! They believe he's torn some tendons that, you know, hold his bones together. I've got some photos that don't even do it justice. Just know that where his foot looks yellow? Yeah. That is no malfunction of the camera.





We're probably looking at surgery, but we'll find out for sure on Monday when the doctor looks at the MRI. This is gonna be one long fucking haul.

Why I Speak Up...

I’ve had something on my mind lately, and I've been remiss to post it because, well, I don’t know really. Sometimes I feel like folks come here to get a good laugh, and when I throw in a serious post I worry that I'll fuck up the ambiance or whatever the hell I’ve got going on here.

Thing is, my twisted sense of humor arose as a coping mechanism. If I hadn’t been able to say, “Ah, fuck it. I’ll stick around and see what else could possibly go wrong,” I might’ve ingested that bottle of pills oh so many years ago. But I didn’t. Okay, so it also had a little to do with envisioning my family at my funeral and realizing it would tear them apart, but I digress...

I’ve been active with Planned Parenthood lately, in particular supporting the cause of mandating hospitals to inform rape victims of the availability of Emergency Contraception. I’ve spoken at a rally, a press conference that was aired on the news, and to a few reporters here and there about my experience of being raped, impregnated by the rapist, and having an abortion ten years ago. I think it is incredibly important to share my story for several reasons, but here are just a couple.

Firstly, I want any other woman who might be in the throes of a similar experience to know that they are going to be okay. Really, really, really. That’s most important to me. Maybe a little crazy, but okay. I'm a little crazy and a little okay, and it's cool. It's cool, too, to cry a lot or a little. Just do what feels right. That's about all you can do. You are not alone, though it may feel that way.

Which leads me to...

Secondly, rape survivors are left largely on their own to deal with the repercussions of their assault. It’s fucking sad and shouldn't be that way. I remember spending much of my energy worrying what people would think of me if I told them. It’s not like breaking your leg. When you break your leg, you ring up your family, friends, and work and say, “Hey, I broke my fucking leg,” and people send you flowers and cards and you get days or weeks off of work.

When you're raped, at least in my experience, it doesn't go down like that. Especially if it's not 'Stranger Jumping Out of the Bushes' rape. I went to class the next day, and work after that. Everyone thought it best if I carried on as usual. So I did, wanting to make them feel better. I proved that I could still tie my shoes, and take notes about algorithms. Truthfully, though, it would’ve been nice if I could have taken some time to recuperate from a broken spirit. Just because you can't see it or slap a cast on it, doesn't mean it can't be broken or injured, ya know?

Rape is something many survivors suffer in silence because it involves sex, which people feel icky talking about it. But, people need to talk about it to make the stigma go away, and since I feel pretty damn okay most days, I do. I’ve got to honor my funny bone by giving appropriate recognition to just where it came from. Being tough as nails, and knowing that each time I laugh, it proves that the mother fucker who raped me couldn’t take that away. Not forever, anyway.

I have noticed that my serious posts go largely uncommented on. And you know what? That’s okay. Seriously you guys. One of the hardest parts about going public for me has been the response from other women who’ve told me how brave I am and relayed their stories. I usually say, “First of all, I’m no braver than you and second of all, it happened to me, and I still don’t know what to say to you except that it sucks and I’m sorry.” I feel like if I'm standing up in front of 200 people telling my story, I should know the perfect response, but I don't.

I'm only human. As are you all. Well, except for the one or two aliens that might read this, which makes me hope that I'm not a case study for earthling normalcy. If so, we're all fucked. But, to the humans, it's okay to be human, and not know what to say.

So, it's off my chest now. Thank you. I feel better. Hopefully, you are no worse for the wear, which would be the best case scenario for both of us.

Not Just Your Average Brown-Noser

I was working in a restaurant when I first moved to Colorado and having waitressed for six years prior I managed to impress the managers and assimilate fairly quickly. On a Saturday night my third week there, I arrived at work to find that I'd been given the best section. Whee!

This was wonderful for me, because I'd finally found myself an apartment and needed some moolah. The restaurant filled up fairly quickly, and I was busy, well, waitressing. Which is fucking hard work people. Tip your servers.

Anyway, I happened to be cruising by the hostess stand where some of the employees who'd been there longer than me were whining to the server manager. This is what I heard:

Them: But why does she get that section!

Server Manager: Because she's good. Now get back to work.

Them: But, she's only been here for three weeks. WAAAAAAAH! Why'd you give her the best section.

Not having time to stand around listening, because I was fucking busy working, I picked up a serving tray, careened by the hostess stand and said, "Because I suck a mean dick."

The server manager was left stuttering, "No, but, no," and my whiney coworkers were speechless. I cackled evilly all the way to the kitchen to pick up some ketcup for table 11 and salads for table 12.

Heh. We all became fast friends after that. I guess a good sense of humah overrides the pissing match that is working in a restaurant.

It's About Love. Moooooooore Or Less.

Dear Bessie,

I opened an e-mail today and was greeted by your precious little, erm, big mug blowing me a kiss. Nevermind all of the crap you said about refinancing and interest rates, I can only presume from the kiss blowing that you are in love with me. And, you know, I can't really blame you. I'm quite a catch if you ask me.

The problem is, I'm married. Well, actually it's not a problem for me, but it does pose a bit of a dilemma for you. I guess some might find it sad that my premarital sexual forays lacked any girl on girl cow action, but I'm okay with it.

As fun as it would be to prance around the pasture with you, I think we should maybe just be friends. Don't get me wrong, you're real pretty and I bet you're super sweet, but I'm just not that into cows. In that way. You know what I mean? And besides, I'm a carnivore, which probably wouldn't sit well with you.

Anywho, thanks for the love note and maybe next time you send a love letter to some other lucky gal, you may want to say what you mean instead of going on about that refinancing bullshit. I almost didn't notice you were trying to tell me you loved me.

Your Friend,
Zube Girl

You Learn Something New Every Day

I rather enjoy sharing with you all the things I learn, so I’m going for another round of it.

-While taking a shower, I noticed an odd looking design steamed onto the shower curtain. I said to myself, “Huh. That kind of looks like Pokemon.” Then, I said, “Wow. I didn’t know I knew what Pokemon was.” I learned that I do indeed know at least what Pokemon looks like.

-I learned that I can haul ass uphill, if I believe someone I love might be injured or dead.

-I learned that after your husband has feared imminent death, he might wanna hold your hand a lot. He might also say, “Honey, all I could think was that I was going to die on your birthday and you would have to remember that for the rest of your life. I hated that I might do that to you.” And you will want to melt. Because you can’t believe that while your husband was rolling over in a jeep, all he could think about was you. This love thang is some crazy shit. For real.

-I learned that cocktail weenies are actually pretty good.

-I learned that your hair can grow from long to way longer without you hardly even noticing if you stick it up in a bun as soon as you get out of the shower every day.

-I learned that cutting my hair is an emotionally charged subject for me. I have not, however, learned why yet. I just can't seem to let it go for some reason.

-I learned that I will probably always giggle when a tampon commercial comes on and Zube Boy says, "Honey, shoosh. I like this commercial!" Tee hee.

Bitches, Hos, and Hose(s)...

At the store...

Z-Girl: Honey, do you need anything?

Z-Boy: No, I'm okay.

Z-Girl: Are you sure? I got a pretty nice tip today from that wedding party. Get something.

Z-Boy: Well...

Z-Girl: What do you want, honey? Get it.

Z-Boy: Could I get a hose? I really kind of want a hose.

Z-Girl: Yeah, sure.

Z-Boy: Sweet.


Later that evening...

Z-Girl: What are you doing?

Z-Boy: I'm going to use my hose...

Z-Girl: Heh heh.

Z-Boy: Shut up!

Z-Girl: Go clean something with your hose, hose-nose.

Z-Boy: I got the hose for us, you know.

Z-Girl: Really?

Z-Boy: Yeah. Now we can hold hands and garden together.

Z-Girl: And don't forget sing 'Koombaya'.

Z-Boy: Exactly.

Mmmmmmkay!

If you haven't yet, you may want to read yesterday's post before this one.

Ding-ding-ding! Aaaaaand, the winner is...TJ. It's Zooby. Rhymes with Booby. And Dooby. Though, I did figure most of y'all would pronounce it like 'Tube'. Let's just say, if you were calling my house and asked for 'Zube' (rhymes with tube) I would say, "Oh, she died a penniless lonely bitch." Telemarketers. Damn them.

But, you may pronounce it however you like! Just don't call and try to sell me shit.

Which leads me to Anduin Andorian's question:

Where did you get the name Zube from?

It's my maiden name. Actually, most of my friends and Z-Boy call me Zube (Zooby) or some variation thereof. Zoobles, Zoobs, Z. I hated it growing up because I was always last in line, and it rhymed with booby. Which I didn't have much in the way of. Despite the fact that I could write a book with all of the rhymes my clever punkass classmates came up with, once high school hit and the kids started calling me Zube, I grew to love it.

Zube Boy is so named in my blog because I figger if I go by his last name in real life, he can fucking take mine on the internets. Damn patriarchal bullshit that I bought into. Anyway...

Courtney's question:

How many pairs of flip flops do you have?

Well, well, well. Funny you should ask because Z-Boy and I get in fights about this. Come the month of May, I buy myself an assload of flip flops in, like, fifty different colors because I usually throw them away when they get dirty. Which takes about, oh, a week maybe. As we have learned, Z-Boy is none too fond of the plan I devised for cleaning them so I've thrown in the towel on that battle.

I braved my closet, which is a feat in and of itself. The grand total is seven and a half, but I believe that's actually eight. I only delved into the top 12 layers of shit in my closet and I'll have to call in an archeologist to get through the rest. Or at least borrow a front end loader and a crew of about twelve burly men with hard hats.

Heh. And now...

I saved Blog Ho's question for last:

Did you get nice things?

I'll show you what I got for my birthday...



That's what the inside of someone's foot looks like. Whose foot, you ask? Well, I'll show you that, too...



But, I'm out of time for now, so I'll save that story for another post. Oh, and we can safely assume that I did not, in fact, get knocked up on my birthday! We're all okay now, though.

20 Questions...

Or 1, or 3, or 12. Don't matter to me.

Since I'm being nice to my brain on my birthday, giving it a rest and whatnot, I'm going to make you do all the work. Now, don't run away screaming. It'll be easy and painless. I promise.

Firstly, I'm going to ask you a question. How, my dear readers, do you all pronounce 'Zube' in your heads? I realize that I never told anyone how it is pronounced, and I'm curious to know what you've come up with. I have a theory about it, too, so humor me, pretty please!

Secondly, you get to ask me a question. I am the knower of all things Zube, so whatever you are just dying to know, or couldn't care less about but would like to ask anyway, I'll answer to the best of my ability. I promise not to lie. (You have no way of knowing, though, if that promise was a lie or not, do you?)

I will say that if ANYONE asks me if I wore Zube Boy's holey socks to work today, I'm going to plead the fifth. Fucking laundry.

Pffbt...Who Wants to Be in Their 20's Anyway?

Tomorrow I’ll be one decade closer to bopping youngins’ over the head with my flowery handbag while berating them for not knowing anything about the Good Ole Days. Well, I could actually do that today, but I think it’s reasonable to wait until I’m about sixty. Sixty seems a more appropriate age for that stuff, and besides, I’ve got to save some fun for later. Maybe by the time I'm sixty I'll even grow to like handbags.

So, the Big 3-0. I’m having lots of feelings about it which I’ll dump on you, ‘cause you all fucking rock with the listening thing. Thanks.

I feel like it’s time to put away my crayons and be a big girl. But, you know what? I’m not gonna. I think I’m going to start writing my checks in crayon and putting smiley faces in the zeros. That’ll show ‘em.

I really, really, really had hoped I’d have my first kid before thirty. I changed that several months ago to at least being pregnant by the time I was thirty. But, it’s not happening. Meh. We’re still on the Not Trying Not to Conceive, But Not Really Trying to Conceive path, so I’ll just go with it.

30. Huh. I’m going to embrace it. Half of my 20’s sucked hardcore anyway. I think I’ve got a lovely decade looming ahead of me.

On that note, here is what my birthday has me wishing for:

-To get knocked up. Hmm. Maybe after my birthday party! That could be fun…

-A new look for my blog. OH WAIT! I’ve got that thanks to Daria with Web Divas. Did I ever mention that she kicks righteous ass? No? Well, she does.

-A kiss from my honey.

-A fucking screen house for my pop-up that my husband will erect while I point imperiously and give direction. That last part, the part about pointing imperiously and giving direction…That would be the reason I’m not getting a screen house for my birthday.

-You know, life is pretty good right now. I’m not going to push it.

The Moon

Z-Girl: Look at how big the moon looks!

Z-Boy: I'll show you a big moon...

Z-Girl: Heh.

Z-Boy: One with a big brown star in it...

Z-Girl: Ewww. Enough with the brown star. You had me at 'big moon'.

A Scary Hairy Thingy

I left this little note for a good friend of mine...

My Dear Friend Whose Cats I Checked on While You Were Away,

I hope you had a wonderful time in Florida! The kitties seem to be fine, excepting one little dilemma poor Sonny experienced whilst you were gone. I wanted to leave you a note so you would understand if he seemed a little traumatized, and just in case you happened upon any evidence that I might have missed.

When I got to the house today to feed the felines, I noticed something dangling from Sonny’s bum. Upon closer inspection, I realized it was a piece of poo hanging from a long human hair that apparently he had decided to ingest. I think it was mine, ‘cause it was long and blond, so I'm sorry for shedding in your house. Anyway, to his dismay, it failed to entirely exit the anal canal, and had decided to hold a little terd there with it.

The odd dingleberry must’ve been fairly annoying, because Sonny looked frazzled when I arrived. In an attempt to dislodge the offending hair-held poo, I think he tried dragging his ass across the carpet. Obviously, this served no other purpose than to smear the carpet with, well, you know. Anyway, you’ll be happy to know that I pulled the hair out of his ass (god, I’ve always wanted to write a sentence such as that one) and cleaned up some spots on the carpet. I think I got them all.

It was a little above and beyond, but please don’t feel bad. I tried to stifle my hysterical laughter, since Sonny seemed embarrassed enough already, and the sheer hilarity of the scenario overrode the cleaning up part of the deal.

Well, I’ll see you at work tomorrow!

Zube Girl

Things That Blow

Z-Boy: Honey, mwah?!

Z-Girl: No.

Z-Boy: But, mwah?!

Z-Girl: No. Stop blowing kisses at me.

Z-Boy: Why, my honey?

Z-Girl: Because I don't blow kisses when I'm pissed off.

Z-Boy: What do you blow?

Z-Girl: Chunks.

Z-Boy: Damn. I was hoping it was something else.

Z-Girl: Watch your step, ass monkey. You're on thin ice as it is.

Drinking in the Face of Death

I remember my Dad telling me the story of how his Dad almost killed him. We were all crowded in a restaurant, drinking some adult beverages, telling wild stories about family. We’re all a little crazy. We can’t help it; it’s in our genes.

Dad was visiting his sister in North Carolina, and after a long day of job hunting, hopped in the shower. Once finished, he opened the bathroom door only to find he was staring down the barrel of a gun. Behind that gun was his Dad, who promptly muttered something to the effect of, “Well, son of a bitch, I forgot you were staying here.” Nevermind the fact that what burglar in their right mind would stop mid-theft and take a shower, Poppop was beginning to forget a lot of things at that time,including the difference between my sisters and me.

He died a little over two years ago. Had a heart attack mowing his lawn. It was for the best that it happened so quickly and unexpectedly, really, because I can’t imagine that guy sick and hospitalized. He valued his independence more than anything else.

Being 2000 miles away, I wasn’t able to attend his funeral services. Actually, I would have been able to afford it if I’d skipped paying some bills, but I was not allowed to attend. I called my Dad, and began to tell him that I’d found a last minute flight for only $700. His reply is etched in my memory so clearly, it’s as though it happened just yesterday:

“Zube Girl, you know your grandfather would chew your ass if you paid $700 to go to his damn funeral. Grab yourself $20, go to the bar, tell funny stories about him, do shots in his honor, and I promise you he is more likely to be there with you than he is to be at some stupid funeral. Even his own.”

Thing is, Dad was right, and just hearing him say that made me smile remembering the crazy old bastard I was so sad about losing. On the day of the funeral, I grabbed a $20 and headed to my favorite local bar. The one saving grace of living in a town with 3,000 or so other transplants is that everyone is so willing to stand in as family in the event of a memorial at a bar. Most folks ventured out here on their own, and they all know it could just as easily be them mourning the death of a loved one over the watering hole. It was actually not the first time I’d done shots for a grandfather, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.

And, I wouldn't have it any other way. You know, I'm pretty sure he was there, too. I think I heard him say, "For godsfreakin' sake, these fucking wings itch. Hey, Zube Girl, what are you, a pansy ass? What's with the lemon and sugar with yer vodka? Girly girl. Love ya."

Or, maybe I was just drunk. Who knows? Who cares? Not me.

Kismet

So, I’m pinching an idea from Zazzafooky’s blog, and I hope she doesn’t mind. TJ is awesomeness. Check her out. She posted the story of how she and her husband met and married, and it has me waxing nostalgic about when Zube Boy and I first crossed paths. And, since I love reading stories such as this, I’m posting my own.

It was December of 2000, and I was living with three other roommates. One of the guys I lived with, we’ll call him Wag, had just moved to Colorado and had spent the first month living at Zube Boy’s house getting himself established. He moved into my place after that month, because I had a bedroom to offer, and not just a couch.

Wag had a couple of friends visiting from Denver for the weekend, and on Sunday morning, his friends realized that their car wasn’t working. Wag had learned while living with Zube Boy, that he was a genius of a car mechanic, and decided to ring him up to see if he’d be willing to help out. This is how the conversation went, from what I’ve managed to piece together.

Wag: Hey, what’s up?

Z-Boy: Nothin’.

Wag: Uh, I was wondering if you’d be able to stop by here and check out my friend’s car. They’re about to head back to Denver and it won’t start.

Z-Boy: What’s in it for me?

Wag: Hmmm…Well, we’ve got a little beer in the keg left over from last night and I’ve got a good-lookin' roommate you should check out.

Z-Boy: Eh. Okay.

Zube Boy came over, fixed the car, and had a beer while I giggled and sashayed about, working my sexy flannel pajamas. Because what single, childless 25-year-old in her right mind isn’t flouncing around in pajamas at noon on Sunday?

We hit it off pretty instantly. We were both sarcastic chuckling fools. That’s one of the first things I remember loving about him. Most men guffaw. Zube Boy chuckles. It’s excellent.

But, that’s not necessarily all she wrote. I visited Jersey for Christmas the two weeks following our first encounter, and returned with my little sister in tow who visited me for another week after that.

On January 6, 2001 my friend, Mel, and I were preening in the mirror, about to paint the town red, when my phone rang. It was Zube Boy. He sounded sooooooo nervous and cute. I had been told by Wag that he was extremely shy, and Wag was having a hell of a time getting him to call me and ask me out. I didn't call him because, ironically enough, I'd written off men for an indefinite amount of time two months prior to having met him. On this evening, he invited me to the Big Air snowboarding competition. Unfortunately, I already had plans. I told him I would call him the next day, to which he replied, "Okay," but I’m sure he thought, “Yeah, right.”

Anyway, I did call, not the next day, but two days later. Yeah, I played by 'The Rules' at first, and didn't want him to think I was desperate. Our first date was at my place. My roommates kindly hid upstairs while I made dinner for this quiet mystery of a man. We were supposed to watch a movie, but actually ended up arguing politics. I eventually got fed up with his Republican ass and said, “Oh my god, would you just shut up?!” That’s when I kissed him. We got caught making out on the couch by my roommate.

And THAT, my friends, is all she wrote. We moved into our own place two months later and married three years after that.

Believe It Or Not...

Zube Boy is an atheist, and I guess you'd call me an agnostic. He believes that when we die, we die and that's that. No afterlife. No spirit world. I believe in something, but I don't think it's possible to know exactly what in the hell it is. I'm just sure there is an afterlife, and I try to be a good person so I won't go to a room filled with spiders forever and ever, amen, after I die. 'Cause that's possible. Anything's possible according to me.

Thing is, I think it's better to be an agnostic. Now, hear me out. If Zube Boy is right, and we just die and that's it, he doesn't get to rub it in. We'll just be all dead and shit. "The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out" kind of dead. He doesn't get to say, "Ha! You stupid agnostic fool! I win!"

On the other hand, if I'm right, you can bet your ass that I'm going to be dancing circles around the dumbass singing, "I was ri-ight! Hah! I won our last earthly fight sucka! Hey, is that a spider on your shoulder?" Hee.

Mud Butt

Z-Boy: Zack's got a really bad case of mud butt.

Z-Girl: Whaddya mean?

Z-Boy: Whaddya mean, whaddo I mean?

Z-Girl: I mean, does he have a bad case of diarrhea, or what? What the hell is mud butt.

Z-Boy: Oh. I mean, he has mud on his butt. Check it out.

Z-Girl: Oh. We've got to give him a bath.

Z-Boy: Yeah.

But, It's an Emergenceeeee...WAH!!!

(555) 555-5555

Ring-Ring

Zube Girl: Come on, Mom…

Ring-Ring

Girl: Please be home…

Ring-Ring

Girl: Please…

Hello…You have reached…

Girl- Dammit...I’ll try her cell phone.

(123) 456-7890

Ring-Ring

Girl: She’s gotta answer her cell...

Ring-Ring

Girl: What in the hell is she doing?

Ring-Ring

Girl: Grr…

Hi! This is Mom's cell phone…

Girl: Well, what in the hell am I supposed to do now?


An hour later…

Ring-Ring

Girl: Hello?

Mom: Hey, were you trying to call me?

Girl: Yes!

Mom: What’s up?

Girl: Well, I was in the grocery store which was crowded as all get out, and I didn’t know where to find corn starch. I figured that’s the kind of thing Moms know.

Mom: Why didn't you ask one of the people who work there?

Girl: Did you hear me say 'crowded as all get out'? And besides, you know how much I hate asking people questions.

Mom: Except for me.

Girl: Aw, you love it Mom.

Mom: Yeah, I know. Did you find it?

Girl: Yup. Baking aisle.

Mom: You know gravy is better when you make it with corn starch instead of flour?

Girl: Huh, I didn’t know that.

Mom: Okay, well, sorry I didn't answer.

Girl: S'allright. Love ya.

Mom: Love you, too.

Girl: Bye.

Mom: Bye.

Zack, Zack, He's a Pooping Maniac! Or Not...

Zube Girl: Okay, Zack. I need you to fess up. Did you poop in Psycho Twat's yard?
Zack: Who me?

Girl: Yes, you.

Zack: Well, you see, I don't really remember where I poop. I mean, come on, you should understand given the fact that one of your nicknames for me is Peabrain. Anyway, I've done a little sleuthing, and snapped this photo...

Zack: As you can see, sometimes my buddies come over and I can't be responsible for knowing where they poop. We're just dogs, Mom. Geez. Nature calls and we answer. That's about the extent of thinking that goes into it.

Girl: Yeah, I know. I sure am glad you got that photo though. Wanna biscuit?

Zack: Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. Oh my god. You're the best Mom a dog could ever ask for...Ooh, would you rub my belly, too? I promise, I'll never, never, never poop over there.

Girl: Whatever, Peabrain. You'll forget that promise in, like, two seconds.

Zack: Okay, okay. But with the biscuit. Get on that, lady. I'm hungry.

***********************************************************
PS- I want to thank EVERYONE for their advice on the nose-punching incident. If you'll hang in there, I promise the Zube's will be back to their usual crazy antics!

The Poo-Flinger: Parte Dos

If you haven't already, you'll want to read the post below, or this won't make sense.

So, there was blood everyfuckingwhere...Zube Boy, thankfully, walked away and said, "Call 911."

Which I did. I was in a panic. Psycho Twat had retreated to his house and I wasn't concerned about another confrontation, but I was so shook up to witness Zube Boy getting walloped in the face by a grown man. And ugh. The blood.

The county sheriff's department must've been beside themselves with joy having something other than your run of the mill DUI to police. Two cars showed up, and a fire truck with an EMT crew to ascertain whether or not Zube Boy's nose was broken. It wasn't.

Here's the thing. We're struggling with whether or not to actually follow through with the pressing of the charges. I mean, we've got to live next to this guy and things were already bad, but maybe if we drop the charges, he’ll realize what a huge favor we did him. It was a third degree assault charge, and the fine is upwards of $1,000.

We were going to say forget it last night, but the police officer said to just leave it be for now. Psycho Twat's court date is set for September 14th and he is required to leave us alone between now and then, otherwise it would be intimidation, which is a felony. We can drop the charges any time before that date.

I’m trying to be super fair in my head about this. I mean, it’s gotta suck being the only guy in the neighborhood who doesn’t have a dog. But, that’s just the way things are in this neighborhood. We happen to live in the one section of town where homes can be purchased for under $300,000. I mean, I know we’re not entirely innocent in this scenario, but palming someone in the nose is just out of hand.

We've got two months to figure it out. I'm just not sure what to do.

The Poo-Flinger: Parte Uno

Zube Boy got punched in the nose last night by our fuckwit psycho neighbor.

The Long Story

I arrived home from work to an unpleasant scene. Zube Boy and our neighbor, whom I’ll refer to as Psycho Twat for the duration, were exchanging words. Psycho Twat is just not right, and we’ve not gotten along with him for one and a half of the two years we’ve lived next to him.

Honestly, we kind of kissed his ass when we first moved in having been warned by the people we bought the house from that he’s an asshole. We invited him to parties, and Zube Boy offered to shovel the snow on his walkway when he broke his leg. Which is a huge task considering that, for just about six months out of the year, it’s snowing round these parts.

Eventually, things started to feel strained. Psycho Twat stopped saying hi. We went about our business and basically ignored him. Every once in a while, we’d exchange unfriendly words about our friends stopping by and having a car tire over his property line. Let me explain that houses are just about on top of one another in our little community. It’s difficult to describe, but basically each rancher *cough* double-wide *cough* is on approximately .1 acre. It’s your rough and tumble blue collar community, and most folks manage to suck it up and get along.

Excepting our neighbor who seems to believe that he owns a million dollar home in a upstanding community. Or rather, that his Dad gave him a million dollar home…

Anyway, Zube Boy was on the ground arms deep in the guts of his jeep when he heard…

Thwump

Thwump

He crawled out to see what all the thwumping was about. Psycho Twat had a shovel in his hands and was using it to fling dog shit at our house. Now, I will admit here that said shit may have been Zack’s. It is possible. It is also possible that the shit being thrown had previously resided in the intestines of any one of the twenty other dogs that run around our neighborhood unabated. Zack poos in our backyard. He seems content to park his happy little ass in the confines of our yard. But, perhaps he wanted to try something new and exciting in the world of pooping. Who knows?

Whether it was Zack’s or not, we would have been more than happy to clean it up. We’re all about keeping the peace, and have shoveled his yard before without being asked. No one else in the neighborhood does this, even though just about everyone has a free-roaming dog. But, we were not given that opportunity, as Psycho Twat skipped over the friendly neighborly request bit, and went straight to the act of throwing feces at our house. Mature way for a guy in his late 30’s to act.

Anyway, Zube Boy looked at Psycho Twat who said, “What? What?”

Boy: Ummm, you’re throwing shit at my house.

Twat: Yeah, because your fucking dog just left a big fucking steamer in my yard!

Boy: Okay. He's been laying here next to me all day, but...

This is when I arrive home from work. This entry is already long as shit, so I’ll just say that things escalated for about 10 minutes. There was a slight pause when Psycho Twat got in Zube Boy’s face and I stepped in between them, shook my finger in his face and said, “You back the fuck away from him.” Both gentlemen seemed a bit taken aback by my feisty involvement.

Eventually, the argument turned to the subject of property lines. I can’t even tell you how ridiculous it was to see a grown man screaming and crying about six inches of land, and whether it was his or not. Much to Psycho Twat’s chagrin Zube Boy walked in the house and promptly emerged with the property map we received when we bought the house.

I started to walk away and turned around to see Psycho Twat leap across our property and palm Zube Boy in the nose.

Click here to read the rest of the story...

Love and Leg Humping

If I wasn’t already spoken for, I would marry:

Daria- She is the diva-est of Web Divas. Seriously. I’m going to be rocking a new look here in my little corner of the blogosphere, and you might say I’m so excited that peeing myself is entirely possible. I’m quite impressed with what she has done with “Well, I kind of like orange. And green, too. Yeah.” If anyone is looking for a blog makeover, pick Daria. She has ESP when it comes to what you're looking for. And, she’s from Jersey. That’s right bitches. You know my Jersey love knows no bounds.

My Dentist- If I were a dog, I would hump his leg, like, 24/7. That’s how much he means to me. I seriously HATE going to the dentist. Hate, people. But, this guy is the most wonderfullest of all the dentists in the world. He is so gentle and reassuring. He even summons a handholder for me when he’s got a big scary needle all ready to puncture my precious gums. Love.

The Waitor at Ruby Tuesday That Carded Me- I wanted to kiss him. And then, as if I weren’t already developing a major crush on him, he said, “No way,” after looking at my birth date. It required every ounce of willpower I had not to sprawl out on the table and scream, “Ravish me!”

Suffice it to say that there are many, many people in the world who couldn’t be luckier. That I’m already married, that is.

Did Someone Put a Nostalgia Pill in My Coffee?

Sometimes I get a little sad when I think about the fact that I’ll probably never live in New Jersey again. When Zube Boy and I vowed to stay together forever, we were also relinquishing the possibility that we'd ever move back to our respective home states. Neither of us wants to live where the other grew up.

Still, I miss my Jersey peeps. I really, really do. My best friend, Gia Pet, is the rockingest Jersey Girl ever. She knew and loved me when my self esteem was a little fish terd on the ocean floor. She was the one who never tired of lovingly explaining that just because my boyfriend threw the remote past my head, didn’t mean he was doing me any favors. Only Dickheads throw anything in their girlfriend’s general direction.

I always listened intently, but it wasn’t until I heard that advice from my inner Zube Girl, that I actually did something about it. And Gia Pet was totally cool with waiting for that eventuality.

We were like, “The Bitchtastic Duo – Yanking Bar Stools Out From Under Unsuspecting Assholes Everywhere.” Actually, she did the yanking, and I did the laughing. Then we both did the leaving, ‘cause apparently bouncers think stunts of that nature are none too funny. Even if the lad on the floor grabbed your ass.

Now I only get to hang out with her once every couple of years, and it involves boarding planes and lots of money.

But, with marriage comes compromise.

At my work, I'm exposed to numerous couples who are in the process of planning a wedding. I often wonder, when they're all wrapped up in whether or not the napkins will match the buttons on the bridesmaids dresses, if they've really considered the things they might be giving up. Things other than, you know, sex with other people.

While you do have to make sacrifices, there are many, many things that you gain. I can't even describe the awesome feeling of having a best friend who loves you even when you leave your dirty socks on the coffee table and it pisses them off. While I miss the people who got me through my Fish Terd Esteem Era, I've found someone who loves me because of the way that era turned me out. It's quite lovely.

Raise the Roof

If the roof caves in on his head, I will not say "I told you sometimes walls are there for a reason."

I've been breathing in and out, repeating this phrase over and over again. I picture it scrolling through my mind's eye.

The problem with remodeling your house with no expert assistance is that there is no one but yourself to blame when things go terribly wrong. Our brilliant idea is to knock down a wall in between two smaller bedrooms to make it into a large master bedroom.

Yesterday Zube Boy got a wild hair up his ass and decided to start knocking the wall down. Nevermind the fact that we are still sleeping in there because, ahem, we have another unfinished room we were going to move into while we were working on the master bedroom. I chalk this up to boys' penchant for tearing shit up, as opposed to fixing the shit that's already tore up, but that's just my li'l ole opinion.

I had expected that, at the very least, we'd invite some measuring tape bearing, pensive-face guy who would furrow his brow and let us know that, yay or nay, it will be safe to remove that wall.

Zube Boy thinks I'm overreacting. I think he's suffering from delusions which have him believing that since he is an electrician, this automatically makes him a walltrician. Which, well, NO! Just because you know shit about WIRES does not mean you know shit about WALLS.

Madon. I'm on the edge of my seat today.

I've edited to add my rendition of the wall. From this picture you can see that I suck at Paint Shop Pro, and couldn't even figure out how to make Zube Boy's head an actual circle, but there you have it.

There was a possibility (see how it's directly under the peak of the roof) that it might be load bearing because it is the only wall directly underneath the peak.

Anyway, gladly, I was wrong. The wall came out, and at least for now, the roof seems to be staying in place. I have sufficiently recovered from my hissy fit and am sad that I wasted my Bitchy Wife free pass for the week on this.

So Sweet

I'm not feeling very creative today, so I'm just going to post a love note I put in our local paper on Valentine's Day. I'm like a legend at my husband's work now. People I don't even know will meet me and say, "Oh my god, are you the one who wrote the poem? I loved it!" Hee. Enjoy.

Zube Boy,

On a warm day in June
You made me your wife
To love and cherish
For the rest of your life

It’s been nine months
And I think it is time
To sell all your stuff
My sweet Valentine

Pete warned you about it
So don’t look forlorn
Your tubing bender and welder
Just don’t match our décor

The 84 CJ and 52 Dodge
Will soon reside in someone else’s garage

Your hobbies are messy
And make everything smell oily
But don’t worry, Honey,
I’ll replace your jigsaw with a doily

I’ve been so busy at work
And haven’t done it
But being married means your wife
Gets to sell all your…

Just kidding! I love you and all the junk you came with!

Zube Girl

So, You Want a Business Update, Do Ya?

I go to these business meetings with members of our Chamber of Commerce. They're a bit mundane. Each month, we go around the room and each person tries to find interesting ways to say 'business sucks' or 'business rocks' until everyone has had their turn.

One month, I'd like to spice things up. I picture it going something like this:

Chamber Member: And Zube Girl, how are things on your end?

Zube Girl: Well, I've had this weird itching sensation on my anus, the dog has been eating rocks and throwing them up on our bed, and Zube Boy has had a terrible case of Nocturnal Stink Ass, so I guess you could say it's business as usual!

I figure if I couple that reply with one of my most winning smiles, I'll throw 'em off long enough to run out of the room unnoticed. They'll be left in a quagmire wondering, "Did that really happen?" And, their conclusion will be, "No, it just couldn't have. Someone must have spiked the water and we're all hallucinating."

They'll hurriedly compose themselves and carry on with impressive displays of flow charts and pie graphs, throwing in phrases such as 'industry standards' and 'economy' for good measure. All will be right with the world again.

Meanwhile, I'll be singing "Paradise City" at the top of my lungs and doing shots of tequila at the bar next door.

So Many Hats to Wear, So Little Time

I am a group sales manager at a ski resort hotel. When I'm not at work being told my job isn't brain surgery by pompous rich assho...erm, skiers, or getting yelled at by pious church group leaders who apparently go to church every Sunday and already know they are going to Heaven, so don't have to be nice anymore, there are many other hats I wear.

I am:

A Namer- I name everything. My car? Cecilia. My fushia plant? Lola. The spider I stomped on, collected in toilet tissue, and ceremoniously flushed down the toilet last night? Harry. Poor Harry. Yes, I'd say I have a naming addiction. Or maybe fetish is a better word. I don't know. I said I was a Namer, not a Figurer Outer of What That Naming Proclivity Would Be Called!

A Conspiracy Theorist- I've got conspiracies galore. Like, why my neighbor is only home during the day and out all night? Because he's a MURDERER, duh! That one couldn't be more obvious. Night job, my ass.

A Knower of Where All Things Are...Or At Least, All of My Husband's Things- I have all the answers to questions such as, "Where are my keys?" and "Where in the hell might a find a clean pair of boxers?" and "Where is that thing I got in the mail a month ago?" The last one took a little while, but once I ascertained what that 'thing' was, I found it without hesitation. Oddly enough, I couldn't find my own birth certificate before our trip to Puerto Rico. No, that took hours of searching.

A Lazy Sack of Poo- Which is why I'm done writing this now. I want to lounge on the couch, sip on cinnamon coffee, and be fanned by my scantily clad, nubile young attendants. Whee!

Fleeing Feline, Foiled Again

Zander: I mean it. I'm leaving. I'm sick of being a Zube and all of the Mickey Mouse bullshit that entails. Now, go get me the keys, Mom.

Zube Girl: Awwwwwwww. You look so cute! Let me take a picture. Say cheese.


Zander: Listen woman. This is not a photo op. I'm out of here. I am a refined cat, and I deserve to be with a wealthy family rolling in catnip on the finest carpet and dining on salmon fillets prepared by my own personal chef. Not living in a double wide, slumming it with a bunch of commoners. Now get me the keys!


ZG: Firstly, it's a rancher, not a double wide, and secondly, that truck is without an engine, so keys won't do you a damn bit of good.

Zander: Why am I not surprised?