Whatever...

I'm tired. I'm tired, I'm tired, and I'm tired.

I know the Thunderdome verdict is up, and I won, and they sure as HELL didn't go easy on me. But honestly? I laughed while I read it. And that's the whole point of the thing. I'm actually a bit relieved that Malfouka, Dave, and Adam delivered some humor where Nyte and I failed. Not ONE iota of the verdict surprised me. Well, I was a bit surprised to have won. EVERY other blog that received the most popular votes lost. I had no reason to believe my blog would be any different. I actually nodded in agreement with much of what was said about my blog because it was TRUE. And...the way I look at it, if I'm going to spend a good portion of my time laughing at other people, I damn well better be capable of laughing at myself. And I am.

I knew, knew, they'd rag on my '100 Things.' If I cared, I never would have signed up. I'll only say that at least it's not Meme Central here. I think I might've MAYBE answered five memes in the 10 months I've been blogging and passed the tag along, like, once. Huh. Maybe twice. I can't remember.

Actually, almost sadly, I wasn't even tagged for the '100 Things.' I did it myself way back in the beginning because, believe it or not, I enjoyed reading the '100 Things' of other people. It's just interesting to know what folks highlight when they only have a limit of 100. Also, it was cathartic for me. And, if anyone reads it, I think it's a bit of a warning. Maybe instead of '100 Things' I should call it '100 Clues as to the Shit You Will Find Ruminated About at This Here Blog.' Seems a little more honest.

All of that aside, I'm hiding. I'm having what I like to call a 'Whatever Day.' Whatever if I'm five days late and four tests later, there's no fucking reason for it. And Whatever if it seems like everyone I know is pregnant or nursing. And Whatever if I'm never going to be a Mom because my reproductive system is a punk ass bitch. And Whatever if I have tears streaming down my face because I'm tough and fuck those tears and it'll happen and...Whatever if it's 1PM on a bright, sunny Saturday and I'm in my flannel PJs playing Sims 2. Such a great word. Whatever. And all I have to do is 'Woo-Hoo' a couple of times on Sims 2 and BAM. Baby. Much easier.

Sometimes, at 1PM on a Saturday when your husband is at work and not around to make you laugh, there is no better view than this:


Really, I'm not a Fashion Queen. I just wear slippers that say so while I'm Playing video games.

Cute Archives and the Hour of Truth

Sometimes I feel bad for my archives. I'll be reading something I wrote in August or July, and I'll get all sad for it, because it's maybe pretty funny and kind of cute. I'll gingerly stroke my computer moniter and coo, "You are such a cute little post...Too bad you're buried in my archives..." And since I'm remiss to repost shit I wrote back when maybe three people were reading, it'll stay back there. With some of the other shit I couldn't be HAPPIER is buried deep in the recesses of my archives. Gah!

Anyway, I'm sort of on the edge of my seat because the Thunderdome verdict should be up any day now. I'd like to say that no matter the outcome, Nyte has been nothing but a gracious opponent. Even though we've probably had the LAMEST and most BORING drama-free battle in Thunderdome history. But fuck it. She's nice. I dig her. I'll apologize because I know I love me some fucking drama over there, and we didn't deliver. Meh. Whatever.

Fucking Bipedals...Oh Yeah, and Again With That Abortion Thing

Zack: You know, I'd just like to say something before I go hiding in Dad's shop. It was those DAMN CATS that made me sleep on the couch. They were all coaxing me and shit, saying how you and Dad weren't going to be home for a while and how I should just sleep on the couch like they do. It's almost like they knew you were going to come home from work early.

And I said, "But NO, you guys! I weigh 95lbs, and you only weigh, like 10lbs! Big Ass Dogs aren't supposed to be on the couch!"

But, they wouldn't let up, Mom! I swear. Fucking pussies. I mean, look at 'em!


It's like they planned it. To see me all in trouble. I hate 'em.


Anyway, I'll be over here until you're ready to kiss my ass and say you're sorry for yelling at me. You freakin' bipedals have no idea how hard it is to be a damn canine in a house full of felines. Didn't you ever watch Lady and the Tramp, for chrissakes??? Kitties are fucking mean!

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

Aside from being amused by Zack's lecture, I'm kind of sad right now. I'm sad because there are people out there who think I'm a murderer. A fucking murderer. I mean, they didn't say it all straight-forward like; "Zube Girl, YOU are a MURDERER!" To the contrary, they're kind of underhanded about it. They try to poke holes in my story. They project, in a factual tone, about how I'm some moo-cow woman who had herself an abortion at the hands of some fucktard who wanted to make a lot of money. They don't say this about ME. No. They say it about WOMEN WHO HAVE ABORTIONS...Which happens to include, well, me...

But I'm keeping my cool because I'm very nearly SADISTIC with keeping my cool and shit. It's the only way I'll get everyone else anywhere. And when it comes to abortion, it's not all about me. It's about my daughters. And yours. And how I can maybe, hopefully, PLEASE ensure that women have access to safe and legal abortions.

PRETTY PLEASE...

Anyway, I got to thinking, while I appreciate the nomination for Most Humorous Blog over at Best of Blogs, I don't really care if I'm a finalist or not. See, I don't think I'm always funny. Maybe sometimes, but not enough to get an award for the shit. Believe it or not, I've felt pressure to be humorous recently. Not that I've payed any mind to that pressure, but it made me realize that no matter what anyone comes here expecting, I'll post whatever I damn well please. Funny or not. It's pretty kick-ass to have been nominated, and thank you Kyknoord and Spiderwalk; I totally want to hump your leg. Lucky for you, I don't know where you live. Because I would. Totally. Hump your leg.

But, rather than win some award, I prefer folks think I might be the girl in the cubicle next to them who cracks jokes all of the time and survived fucked up things in her life...with her sense of humor intact. Because that girl deserves some fucking credit. Whether she's me or some other chick.

Dancing With Dogs...But NOT With Celebrities...

You know, I was thinking today about Eminem. Last night I was fucking rocking out to his cd which Zube Boy, being the wonderful husband he is, bought me for Christmas. Zube Boy was a little embarrassed because I was dancing right in front of the window and he was afraid the The Dudes might see me, but fuck it, right? I mean, you only live once. I'll dance in front of any damn window I please. ESPECIALLY to Eminem. Zack didn't seem to care. He was dancing right along with me. See, dogs don't give a shit about stupid little things like making an ass of themselves. Sometimes I think people should strive to be a little more like dogs.

Anyway, I feel kind of bad for Eminem. He's all famous and stuff, which means that we don't really run in the same circles. So he'll probably never have the opportuinity to bear witness to my coolness. Poor guy. He doesn't even know what he's missing out on. It's probably better that way because I can tell by the lyrics of some of his songs that he gets a little sad once in a while. And if he knew what he was missing by not being my friend, it might, well, send him over the edge I think.

If You Wouldn't Mind Getting a Cavity, Feel Free to Continue Reading

Dear Zube Boy,

Today marks five years that we've been together. I know, Ha Ha, it feels like ten. You're too funny. Hee. But really? I want to thank you. For everything. For all of the laughs and all of the hugs and all of the flowers and all of the support. For proving to me that there are wonderful, wonderful men out there. And that I could actually be lucky enough to fall in love with one. One who would love me back.

Thank you for turning my tears of sorrow into tears of laughter. Thank you for being strong when I'm, well, not so much. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to know that it is possible to love someone more each and every day. Thank you for going to rallies with me and rallying for me. Thank you for asking me, "Are you okay?" and saying, "You'll do fine," when I'm nervous as hell about speaking in front of a large group of people. Even when you are just as nervous, if not more, about being in front of a large group of people.


Thank you for being brave enough to stand by me; the only man among a sea of women. Thank you for being so concerned with what will help me, that you forget to think about how it will put you in the limelight. And I know how much you hate the limelight. You are so understated, it's inspiring. Thank you for being what other men should aspire to be.

Thank you for laughing with me at the dumbass who, after eating Thanksgiving dinner at our house, told a friend that we had a very negative relationship. I hope he enjoyed the arsenic laced turkey, too.

Thank you for eating the tomato stuffed with cous-cous and ranch dressing I made you five years ago today. Even though, now I know, that you hate tomatoes.

I know we joke about the fact that I could have been honey-less, usually when you want me to make you cookies or something and I need a little encouragement. But, all joking aside, when that jeep flipped over, the world stopped. I didn't see anyone else. I didn't hear anyone else. I didn't even notice that I was navigating my way up an 70 degree incline of slippery dirt in flip flops. I think I flew. Or angels carried me. Or something. I only remember hearing, "Oh fuck, they flipped. The jeep. It flipped," and then being there at your side. I don't think I took a breath, until I heard you speak. I don't think I've ever wanted to hug someone forever. Until then.

I know I get all fiercely independent, and I think that's one of the things you admire about me, but all of my, 'I am Zube, hear me ROAR' lunacy aside, you mean the world to me. And I don't know that I'd be meowing, much less ROARING, if I didn't have you there, cheering me on. Or egging me on. Depending on how you look at it.

Thank you for giving me quite possibly the best years of my life so far. And thank you for the years ahead. I know they'll be just as awesome.

Okay, I have to cut this shit out. I've got a lump in my throat, and wet shit in my eyes, and I'm feeling the sudden urge to sing Wind Beneath My Wings. See what you do to me?

Anyway, you rock. I adore the ever-living shit out of you. I only hope that I've been half as much to you as you have been to me.

Love,

Zube Girl

PS- If you would quit leaving dirty cereal bowls on the side of the bathtub, it'd be possible for you to give me the most PERFECT years of my life. But, I'll settle for best. Oh yeah. It would also help if you'd stop taking fucked up pictures of me.

First Day With My New Feet

The Scene: We're laying in bed, just about to go to sleep.

Z-Girl: Honey?

Z-Boy: Yeah.

Z-Girl: Remember that time when we went on a double date with Miss I* and the Englishman?

Z-Boy: Yeah.

Z-Girl: Remember how Miss I and I were walking together and you and the Englishman were walking behind us?

Z-Boy: Yeah.

Z-Girl: Remember how I sort of tumbled all slow motion style and landed flat on my face?

Z-Boy: Yeah.

Z-Girl: And, do you also remember how you and the Englishman sort of split to walk around me, as if you didn't even know who I was and Miss I was left to help me up?

Z-Boy: Yeah.

Z-Girl: Why did you walk right past me?

Z-Boy: I was going to get help.

Z-Girl: Mmmhmm. Sure you were.

*Miss I (short for Mission Impossible, 'cause this chick is on a mission) and the Englishman are our best married couple friends.

Rock-a-Bye Drunk College Fuckers. Heh.

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

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

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

College Kid: Nope.

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

College Kid: Hahahahahaha!

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

Pissy Pom-Poms, and Yeah, I Was a Cheerleader...Stop Laughing!

Dear Jesse*,

So, like, remember that time after, I think it was a pep rally or something, when you were all freaking out and shit and yelling, "What the fuck?!?!" because all of the sudden your pom-poms smelled like piss? I know it was almost sixteen years ago, but I wanted to say I'm sorry. See, it wasn't really a bizarre accident. I switched our pom-poms while you weren't looking because I'd just gotten a new kitten who, well, you can guess.

Anyway, I was thinking about this for some reason the other day, and decided I should feel bad. It's just that I kind of thought you were a fucking bitch, so I didn't really mind pawning the pissy pom-poms off on you. And? You were such a dramatic person, I figured it would be fun for all to watch you throw a hissy fit. And it kind of was. Plus, you're fucking loopty loop bangs made me and my flat, staticky hair having in the fucking 80's ass jealous as all hell.

I do wonder how you ever got that smell out. I know I tried for-fucking-ever to do it. Well, yeah...Sorry.

Sincerely,

Zube

*Names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Urinus Punctuationus

Dear Pee Fart,

Come on you punk ass motherfucker! I mean, seriously! No warning? Nothing? You just snuck out right in the middle of an innocent goddamn piss.

By the time I clenched my asshole shut, you'd escaped and the girls at the sink were all giggling and shit. I hate you. As if you care.

Sincerely,

Zube Girl

PS- I notice you like to frequent public restrooms. Or maybe I just don't notice you at home. You are one cunning fart, I'll tell you that. Fucker.

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

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


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

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

I Hope You Don't Mind If I Piss You Off

A few posts back I wrote about how there are so many women out there who are the strength behind my voice. They're the reason I won't shut up about having been sexually assaulted; because as long as we're cloaked in silence about it, nothing will ever fucking change. That inspired some of you to share with me. Again. And I can't tell you how honored I am that you'd do that. Seriously.

I'd like to say right now that if there is ANYONE out there who just wants to FUCKING TELL IT, I'm all ears (and eyes). Nothing feels better than getting that shit out. Believe me, I know. I'm nearly on the verge of okay because I've told it over and over and over again. It helps. It really, really does. So, please. Don't be scared. I won't breath a word of it, unless you're cool with that. Which leads me to..

One writer, whom we'll call "Fabulous Gal," or FG for short, e-mailed me her story. It so touched me that I asked her if I could post it. With her permission, here it is...

I know I commented before, after I read your 'my story' page. But after reading what you wrote today, I felt alot better about sharing my story. I hope you don't mind; i've never written about it on my blog and frankly, I don't know if I ever could. But I think it would feel better to get it out here, because you're right - carrying it alone is an absolutely humongous bundle of shit.

I was raped 5 years ago, next week. I had gone to a nightclub with my girlfriends, and some random guy offered to buy me a drink. He had laced it with rohypnol. Within 45 minutes I was a walking, talking blank. The lights were on, but no one was home.

He wound up carrying me out of the club a couple hours later, thrown over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He dug my wallet out of my purse and drove me to my apartment and raped me in my own bed. Many hours later I woke to find vomit from one end of my apartment to the other.My bathtub was filled with puke. It's utterly amazing that I didn't choke on my vomit and die in my sleep.

I went to the ER the next morning, where a rape kit was done by our local sexual assault crisis agency. The rape kit thing will haunt me for the rest of my life - all I could think of when I layed on that table having pubic hairs pulled out, fingernails scraped, and then the removal of what was on the inside- was that this is what they do to dead women in a morgue. But I was alive and there.

Photographs were taken of the bruises all over my body - there was one on my back the size of a grapefruit. They held a ruler up to it before snapping the photos- to show how large it was. 7 inches.

The guy apparently dragged me up the carpeted stairs to my bedroom because the entire front of my legs, top to bottom, were covered with rugburn. The end result - the investigation was botched and my assailant got away. The rape kit was sent to a pathology lab out of state only to be declared lost, a month later. Oh, and the photos mysteriously 'didn't come out' and then the negatives were allegedly destroyed. The police department said oops.. sans apology.. and dropped the case; citing that without any forensic evidence/proof I was drugged, I had no case.

I was too fucking scared to go back to my apartment so I stayed with an ex who took care of me for weeks while I remained in a catatonic state.. unable to tend to my kids. I don't know what snapped me out of it, but I eventually did and found the apartment where I am now.. isolated, yet safe.

I hadn't given much thought to all of this in a few years.. until I started reading your blog. It's hard to. It's hard enough to wake up and breathe every day and raise kids alone and survive college. I've barely been allowed to feel anything, or get through this in my own head.

My friends always said, that scumbag must have been 'hooked up', and indeed.. I just recently learned that he was.

Three nights ago I was watching the news and I saw a man - an investigator for a local police department - giving a press conference. His face scared me out of my skin - he looked exactly like the man that raped me. His name flashed at the bottom of the screen... Same last name. It had to be his brother. Or cousin, who the fuck knows. But this area is small, it was not a common last name - and I just KNOW. They've got to be related.

Now I'm feeling more rattled, more pissed off, more fucked over than I did years ago. I wish there was something I could do to prove this happened to me. Just for the sake of my own sanity - and just for others to know so they could protect themselves.

FG

Would y'all do me a favor and drown this girl in some love? Please? What a fucking courageous person. She deserves nothing less than all the props in the world, especially right now. Those anniversaries are fucking hard. For real.

To have done the right thing only to get doubly fucked over in the end...there are no words.

Thank you. You all rock with the props thing. Pass 'em on.

Didn't mean to get you all pissed off on a holiday, but nothing'll change if we don't get all angry and shit,no matter what day of the year it is.

I hope you have a wonderful New Year. May the World be a better place this year because of people like FG and you.

Dear FG,

You are nothing short of amazing. Your kids are lucky to have a Mom like you. And that fucker'll rot in hell. Don't you worry about that. Karma's a bitch.

Love,

Zube

Well, DUH!

Ring-Ring

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

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

Z-Girl: Um, yes?

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

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

Dumbass: Okay, thanks!

Z-Girl: Right. No problem.

These Boots Were Made For...Hey. Did You Ever Notice How I Take Really Shitty Pictures?

I am VERY attached...to my boots.

My boots, however, are not so attached...to themselves.


Fuck. I just might cry.

Do you think this is beyond the wondermous powers of super glue? Wait. Don't answer that.

Marriage and Routines...of the Dancing Variety

Z-Boy: Jesus Christ honey, what are you doing?

Z-Girl: Dancing.

Z-Boy: Is that what that's called?

Z-Girl: You're just jealous.

Z-Boy: Are you almost done?

Z-Girl: Ow.

Z-Boy: What?

Z-Girl: I think I pulled a butt muscle.

Z-Boy: That's kind of what it looked like for a while there.

Z-Girl: Shut up.

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

Or, to put it nicely...

Guest: Where is the chairlift?

Z-Girl: Right across the street.

Guest: Across the street?

Z-Girl: Yup. Right across the street.

Guest: Where exactly is the street?

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

Guest: So the street is right out there?

Z-Girl: Yup.

Guest: Will we be able to see it?

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

Guest: What if we can't find it?

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

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

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

Guest: Okay.

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

Guest: Oh wow. It is right there.

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

Guest: Thanks!

Z-Girl: You're welcome.

Huh? What? Nyquil? And Shit That's Important...To Me Anyway

-This morning I went to work and not three minutes after arriving, my boss said, "Oh my God! What are you doing here? Go home. You're painful to look at!" Surprisingly, I couldn't have been happier to hear her say that. It's days like this that make me want to dry hump my couch. Or just lay on it. And watch Montel. Yeah. I'm all sick and shit. Still. Nyquil is the best thing ever.

-I was interviewed by Brian, a super nice journalist from Glamour magazine, back in October while I was vacationing in Jersey. He was writing an article about women's reproductive health and wanted to talk to someone who would have benefited from the availability of Emergency Contraception to prevent a pregnancy after rape. Before I agreed to an interview, I called Zube Boy to see if he'd be all cool with that. He said, "Of course, I've always wanted to be married to a Glamour Girl." I said, "Yeah, um, honey, it's not like they're going to do a photo shoot or anything. At the most, I'll get in, like, one quote." His response: "I know, but do it anyway. If it'll help other people, it'll help you, and that's all I care about." Have I ever mentioned how much he rocks with the support thing? Well, he does.

The article is supposed to be in the February issue. I'm kind of nervous because shortly after going public as a rape survivor, I learned that you never know exactly which quotes are going to be pulled from a twenty five minute conversation. I fret that they'll publish one thing I said, out of context, and it'll make me sound stupid. I don't know why I'm so worried about it. I mean, it's not like I'm being interviewed by Focus on the Family or some other crazy ass religous group who'd take great pleasure in contorting my words. Regardless, I won't really feel comfortable until I read the article. Anyone know when the February edition might come out? I'm not exactly an avid reader of Glamour, but I can't wait to get my hands on this issue.

-The ten year anniversary of the night I was raped is coming up on January 21st. TEN FUCKING YEARS! And here I am, still writing about it. Sometimes, on a really insecure day, I wonder if people who read my blog are thinking, "Goddamn, when will she fucking get over it already?"

Thing is, not that I'm over it, or ever will be, but I'm okay with it. I share because I want others to know that they can, and likely should, share, too. That's the only way to get it out. It's the reason I feel pretty damn okay most of the time. Every time I tell it, it's like I'm throwing a little piece of the shittiness away. People give me props for being strong, and while I appreciate that, I'd like to extend the accolades to folks who are going it alone. That's a bundle of shit to carry all by yourself. I know because I did it for awhile.

To anyone who has ever commented on my blog or e-mailed me to share your story, THANK YOU. My voice is emboldened by yours. I could never, ever do this all by myself. I hope you don't have to either.

-I love comedians who can't help but laugh at themselves. Not the ones who laugh just to emphasize the fact that what they're saying is supposed to be funny. The ones that are so fucking funny they can't help it and start giggling in the middle of their act.

-Zube Boy had a hard time getting out of bed this morning. I wanted to help him so I farted. Really loud. He got to work early. After calling me fucking disgusting, of course.

You Know the Drill

I think that if Zube Boy ever comes home and catches me chasing the cats out of the bathroom with his drill, I'll probably be out of the running for Wife of the Year. Not that he'd be worried about the cats' welfare or anything like that. More because you just don't mess with a man's drill. That's, like, rule #5621 in the marriage handbook. Don't fuck with his tools.

Actually, I don't think I'll have to worry about him nominating me for Wife of the Year. A Wife of the Year is probably well versed in the function of all the dials on the washing machine. Not just Cold and Regular Wash. And she probably separates colors, too.

My favorite Christmas picture:


Though it's possible it might give me nightmares. I usually feel safer with Zack sleeping next to my side of the bed. I think he's an excellent Boogey Man attack dog and he protects the top of my head from being touched by beings from another dimension. I just hope he doesn't turn his Kujo-ass on me!

Note to self: Zack doesn't like so much when you tie Christmas bows around his mouth all muzzle style.

It's Not a Small World, After All

I wish the world were a little smaller. It would be awesome to be able to head on over to Zube Boy's folks' Christmas party, then to my Mom's, and on to my Dad's all in a day. But, since Colorado, Illinois, Jersey, and North Carolina probably aren't going to morph into one in the forseeable future, and Zube Boy and I happen to have jobs that mean we're more often doling out fresh towels and fixing chairlifts to ensure other people's enjoyment of the Holiday Season, we'll be having our own little Christmas with our adopted Colorado family tomorrow.

That is if the germs in my throat will ease up on the bonfire they've got goin' on down in there. Damn, they can party.

Merry Christmas to all you Christmas celebrators, and happy day to the rest of you. May you find joy in the little things. For example, a horizontal icicle. I'm quite tickled to have found one.


I know it's just a freak display of nature, but I'm kind of worried, too, that my wind chime is plotting to kill me. It would be ironic if I were killed by my own ingenious method. By a fucking wind chime, no less.

Oh yeah. One thing I DON'T miss about back home Holiday traditions? Christmas morning back in Jersey always meant we ate pea soup for lunch. EW. Nasty. Not even the Barbie Dreamhouse made that shit easier to swallow.

'Tis the Season...For Some Competition

It is time. My turn. I'm up. Shit. This here blog is now in battle at The Blog Thunderdome. Feel free to mozy on over there and put in a good word for me. Or not. You're free to vote for whomever you like. Fucker. And, if you're so inclined, wish my competition, Life. My Take, good luck 'cause I'm a sucker for good sportsmanship.

If I lose, I am banned from blogging for two months. If I win, um, well, I win. The stakes are high but please keep in mind, I SUBMITTED my blog to this. I wasn't randomly chosen by mean Blogtanics to be sacrificed on the Sucky Blog altar or anything. I entered of my own volition, ergo, I will not be throwing any sort of temper tantrum should I lose. I'd appreciate the same from you. In the words of Dave, the great Thunderdome organizer, "...two lady types are battling so we don't have to worry about lame-ass, whining men for a change." Amen to that. It pains me to see boys piss and moan. Truly. And it's been going on in some of the battles. It's one of those situations that's kind of embarrassing to watch. You know? Anyway, I won't do it.

Besides, a two month break might be nice. Um, not that I'm saying I WANT to lose or anything, but just that I'd be okay with it because I'm annoyingly optimistic that way. Just the other day I was thinking about the fact that I've been blogging for ten months, which is longer than any of my relationships prior to Zube Boy lasted. And, might I add, he enjoys reminding me of this when we argue. Generally, he says, "No WONDER no one could stand to be with you for more than seven months." Heh. He's been saying that shit for five years though, so I'm none too concerned. I prefer to think that those relationships didn't last long NOT because I'm a bitch, but because I got tired of being the target board for hoagies and television sets. But, whatever. Splitting hairs. Wait. What the hell am I talking about? This has nothing to do with anything. Moving right along...

I stand here now, trembling on the brink of banishment. Knowing that I suck, but hoping that I don't suck all hell and that the judges might find some redeeming qualities in my writing. Let the battle begin.

Edited to Add: By all means no one HAS to vote. I hope this post didn't seem to imply such. It's all in good fun. Also, if ya do vote, leave a reason perty please. 'Cause it'll make things more interesting and otherwise just filling out the poll will make this seem like a popularity contest. Which it isn't. Doesn't matter one iota who gets more poll votes, as the judges have gone against popular opinion time and again.

Oh How I Love Thee...The Word Ass

It is not unusual for me to use the word 'ass' after an adjective to give said adjective a little more OOMPH. For example, some stupid ass people and their big ass SUV's think they're invincible on snowy ass roads and drive up my ass because I'm a cautious driver and am not going fast enough for their tastes. Even though I drive a big ass SUV, too, I am aware that this means if I slide, I'll certainly slide a long ass distance what with the heavy ass crap in the body of my vehicle.

Anyway, this OOMPHing practice doesn't lend itself very well to some phrases, particularly in the written word, as I've discovered blogging.

Sentences on Zube Girl's cutting room floor...

I have long ass hair.

She has big ass lips.

I have a big ass hole in my ear...*

In other news, I've been thinking a lot about my pants. And how they're shrinking. Aside from the invasion of gnomes with shrinking ray guns, which I believe to be taken care of, I've got another theory. I'm pretty sure that our house has been overrun with Butt Biting Spiders. And these spiders have a very powerful ass-swelling venom. So, it's quite possible that I have a swollen ass.

It's just a thought. I should call an exterminator and ask them if they've ever heard of such a creature.

*the rest of that sentence goes like this...because my hoop earring got stuck on my book bag when I was in high school and ripped it.