A Wussy and Some Pussies

Dear Mom,

Could you get a fucking hobby that doesn't involve dressing me up like a jackass, taking pictures and posting them on the internet? It's bad enough that I'm terrified of my water bowl. You're turning me into a wussy. As if de-balls-ing me weren't enough?

I hate you.

Sincerely,
Zack





Dear Zack,

You're a sucker. Mom gives us treats and we don't do shit.

Sincerely,
The Cats

And Then There Was One...

I had a very bizarre conversation with my Mom when I was about 13. There were four of us kids at the time. Mom and Dad had decided that four was enough, and I was determined to change their minds. I taught my sisters to chant, "Have another baby, have another baby..." and pleaded with my Mom to give the babymaking thing another go.

I was primarily ignored, I'd imagine for only a week or so, because I know my tolerance for that shit would be pretty low. One day in the kitchen Mom kind of lost it with my baby brother/sister wanting ass.

Mom: We are NOT having another baby!

Z-Girl: Why not! You have to.

Mom: I do NOT have to, and besides, we can't. Remember when Dad came home and said he hurt himself playing softball? Well, he didn't. He had a vasectomy.

Having the possibility dashed instantly brought tears to my eyes, and the yelling ceased. Plus, I'm sure I was a little embarrassed because while I wanted another sibling, I didn't want to think about the body parts and activities that CREATED those siblings. I was 13 for chrissakes!

Mom: What is it with you wanting us to have another kid? There are four of you already, and that's plenty.

Z-Girl: But there's somebody missing, and I don't know who it is.

Mom's face instantly fell and her waterworks turned on, too (gee, it's like we're related or something).

Mom: I can't believe you just said that.

Tearfully she went on to explain that I was a twin, and she'd miscarried the other at three months.

Thereafter I gave up on having another sibling, but seriously, wasn't that a weird ass thing for a thirteen year old to say? I can remember being SO sure that someone else was meant to be in our family and if I didn't rally the troops, they weren't going to make it.

And, what the hell 13-year-old wants another kid brother or sister to pester the hell out of them when they've already got three? Did I just like being an older sister, or is there some truth to that wacko in-utero memory crap? I don't know. I do remember disconcerting Mom with it quite a bit, and I felt pretty shitty about that because I've always hated making people cry.

It wasn't really brought up again until recently when Mom and I've commiserated, what with me having two miscarriages now. Though, each time it's happened to me, we have this teeny tiny hope that maybe there's something still there because that's how I came about. The doctors told her she'd lost her baby and sent her home. A month later, they were like, "Uh, you're still pregnant." She said it was difficult being so sad and so happy at the same time. But, I guess I'd take the combination over just sad anyday.

Confessions

I have a confession to make. I'm 30 years old, and I'm afraid of the dark. How in the hell am I supposed to be a Mom with that little secret? You know, one day, my yet to be conceived children will be crying about the boogyman, and I'll be like, "Yeah, I know! That's why Daddy sleeps next to the closet because that's where boogymen live and Mommy wraps her blanket around her head..."

"...because boogymen like to touch you on the head, I think. But, until you get to share your bed with someone who'll sleep on the closet side, I suggest you employ the blanket method." My kids are gonna be screwed up. Heh.

When Zube Boy and I got together, one of the biggest compromises I made was giving up my night-light. He can't sleep with ANY light whatsoever. And he doesn't believe that light keeps ghosts and such away. So usually, I end up trying to fall asleep before him while he's still watching tv.

Sometimes the dark doesn't bother me at all, but other times, I'll lie awake with my mouth and nose sticking out of my comfortor (I have my own because when Zube Boy and I try to share, all my wrapping invariably leads to cover stealing) thinking about that fucking Grudge boy, or hearing noises I'm sure are the responsibility of other-worldly beings. I've been doing that since I was a kid. I just never grew out of it.

Actually, I think it's less that I never grew out of it, and more of I adopted it as my little way of avoiding lying in bed and worrying about things that are real. A Boogyman is most likely not going to rip off my covers and touch my precious head, but there is a very real possibility that I haven't always been a great person. And I'd kind of rather not think about that.

Hopes and Dreams...Shot to Smithereens.

Z-Boy: Honey?

Z-Girl: Mm-hmm.

Z-Boy: I'm putting together my ad for the personals and I'm wondering, do girls really like when you say that "long walks on the beach" crap.

Z-Girl: Yeah, sure.

Z-Boy: Okay.

Z-Girl: You should put something in there, too, about how you like having dildos shoved up your ass.

Z-Boy: But I don't.

Z-Girl: Yeah, but girls dig that shit.

Z-Boy: Shut up. You're just trying to fuck it up for me. You're always crushing my dreams of meeting Mrs. Right.

Z-Girl: Well, you wouldn't let me invite Eminem, James Gandolfini, and Dennis Rodman to our wedding. Let's just say we're even in the crushing dreams department.

Z-Boy: Fine.

Don't Eat the Yellow Snow...Or Build an Igloo with It

If I were an eskimo, I wouldn't be the one who lived in a yellow igloo. I mean, don't get me wrong, sometimes it's cool to be different, but every once in a while, there are times when it's okay to be a follower because everyone has good reason to be doing things a certain way.

I asked Zack for a second opinion.


Zack say: He who live in yellow igloo is dumb as shit. But, can I come over, 'cause I gotta go!

Wow. Zack's almost as smart as that Confucius guy. Only I think he has a superior sense of style.

Hoverers Piss Me Right Off

Pardon my slackage. I've been busy making turkey and pulling up my pajama bottoms thanks to that ass monkey husband of mine who likes to depants me while I'm cooking.

I was sitting on the toilet today and I got to thinking. I sit on all toilets. Bar toilets. Airport toilets. Almost any and all toilets. Let's just say that if I won't sit on it, it's pretty goddamned nasty and I'm not even going to risk the hover. I guess you could say I'm a sitter.

I do check the toilet seat before I sit to make sure that some hoverer hasn't pissed all over the seat. Seriously. I have a public service announcement for all hoverers. When your ASS is inches above the loo, certain laws of nature, whatever the hell they're called, make it impossible NOT TO PISS all over the fucking toilet seat. This, in turn, causes MORE fucking hovering and hoverers because no one wants to sit on your bad aim. And speaking of bad aim, have you ever seen a girl pee HER name in the snow? NO. We're just not built that way. That's why we SIT!

I think there should be two women's rooms. One for HOVERERS and one for SITTERS. Or, we could send the hoverers over to the men's room. That way I can sit my happy ass down without having to worry about a damn thang, like pee on the seat.

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

A conversation with Zube Boy. If you can call it a conversation.

Z-Girl: Honey, do you ever fart and most of it comes out, but you're sitting down and a little fart bubble gets stuck, and kind of moves up and comes out the top of your butt crack?

Z-Boy: *Blinks*

Z-Girl: Well?

Z-Boy: *Blinks*

Z-Girl: I hate you.

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

Look what I did find in mine own little yard:


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

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

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

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

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

Folic Acid and Damn, I Love Him

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Z-Girl: Why?

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

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

A few hours later at home...

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

Z-Boy: Really.

Z-Girl: Yup.

Z-Boy: *silence*

Z-Girl: Well.

Z-Boy: Well what?

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

Z-Boy: Oh. Okay. Why?

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

Z-Boy: You're a dork.

Wanna Make a Truck?

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

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

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


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

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

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

Can You Fucking HEAR ME NOW, PISSFACE?!?!?!

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We Three Bitches

I'm so excited I just might pee myself.

Bonanza Jellybean, PaintingChef and I are happy to introduce you to our new site, We Three Bitches.

Please check it out, and shower Bonanza with compliments because it looks GORGEOUS and she did all the work.

So um, go visit it. Yup. That's all I have to say. This is a whore post.

Allow me to pimp our blog just once more.

Okay, done.

PS- Today at work I wanted SOOOO badly to turn to my two male officemates and say, "You guys, I have to poop really bad," and then proceed going about my work. But I couldn't bring myself to do it. Though, I did imagine it so I sat there giggling to myself the whole afternoon.

Some Math and Shit

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

8:47AM

12:11PM

2:23PM

3:14PM

When Harry Met Hoot...Because Harry Is Totally a Spider Name...

Hey y'all. A while back upon my return from Jersey I'd told you that I was going to have my sister Hoot write a guest entry about an encounter with a critter of the eight legged variety. Or is it ten legs? I'm not sure. But I guess when you've got one on your head, you don't particularly care how many fucking legs it's got. Anyway, here 'tis:

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

Hi everybody, this is Zube Girl's sister Hoot; don't ask where the name came from*. Anyway I am doing a guest entry for her about a wonderful experience of mine. Here it goes…let me just set the scene. I am in my last semester at college sitting in an investments class with a really nice professor, who is unbelievably boring. Since it’s my last semester, I just don't feel like doing anything any longer so I'm in class zoning out thinking about why the hell I decided not to skip class today when I felt a fly land on my forehead. Well what I thought was a fly.

So nonchalantly I swiped it off and to my surprise it was a huge spider, about the size of a silver dollar, and it landed right on my lap. Now to some of you this may not be a big deal just swipe it off and go on daydreaming. But for me the arachnophobia kicked in and I freaked out. I pushed it off my lap and to the floor where I could not see it any longer. So of course it felt like bugs were all over my entire body. With arms flailing everywhere I jumped out of my seat and ran to the bathroom.

After being pretty sure that spiders were not crawling all over my body I psyched myself up to go back into class. I sat on the edge of my seat looking everywhere because I was sure that the spider was out to get me and wanted to torture me for the rest of the class. I decided that my initial thoughts of not going to class had been correct, so I left.

After leaving and calling Zube Girl crying about how a spider landed on my head I realized I had left my umbrella in class and could not possibly go back in during the middle of class and get it and walk out again. When class was over I decided to go back and explain my encounter with the torturous spider to my professor, so he didn't think I was a total psycho. Upon telling him about the encounter he proceeded to laugh at me and ask me if I was ok. I told him that the color would arrive back in my face soon and the shaking would eventually stop. Does he leave it alone that I am a wacko that is deathly afraid of spiders? No. Next class he proceeds to tell everyone I had to change seats because I couldn't sit in the spider seat anymore. It just freaked me out to sit there again. He warned everyone that if I stand up screaming that it is just a spider and not to mind me.

Yes it is embarrassing. Now before sitting down in class I look up at the ceiling and the wall next to me to see if there are any creepy crawlers around.

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

*I'll let you in on a little secret. Hoot is blessed with an asset I am not. Bitch. She lived with Zube Boy and our roommate and I one summer. One evening, Hoot was wearing a shirt that was pretty, well, hot, and the roommate dubbed her Hooterific. It stuck. Oh yeah, she's also kind of a hoot to be around so I picked it as her Zube Girl blog pseudonym.

Edited to Add: A HUGE thank you to Phil for putting a spider on Hoot's picture because that just makes this post SO much funnier.

Did You Know That Idiots Ski, Too?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dizzy Broad: Why?

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

Dizzy Broad: Well, I'll be careful.

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

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

Z-Girl: *actually rendered speechless*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Z-Girl: Yep.

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

Z-Girl: Fire away.

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

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

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

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

Mr. Confused: Whew, thanks.

Z-Girl: No problem.

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

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

GQ

Dear Blogger Word Verification,

Thanks. If it weren't for you I would never have known that I can't tell the difference between 'g' and 'q' when they're not tucked nicely in a recongnizable word.

Sincerely,
Zube Girl

CAWOW!

I realized today that it's about time I cleaned up after my birthday party since, well, my birthday was in July. I had an excuse that evening and perhaps the next day because my honey was all injured and shit. But four months and the change of a season later is a little ridiculous.



CAWOW! time again. Just like last week, I took this photo, and then blindly pointed to a word in the dictionary.

tran·scen·den·tal (trăn'sĕn-dĕn'tl) - adj.

1. Concerned with the a priori or intuitive basis of knowledge as independent of experience.
2. Asserting a fundamental irrationality or supernatural element in experience.
2. Surpassing all others; superior.
3. Beyond common thought or experience; mystical or supernatural.

My homework: Use transcendental in a sentence describing the above photo.

Despite Zube Girl's assertion that to live in a clean environment will lead to a more tanscendental life experience, her lack of housekeeping prowess proves she really couldn't care less.

Your turn! Can you use this week's word to describe the above photo? This was so much fun last week, I've decided to do the CAWOW! this way from now on.

Oh yeah, need advice? Well you're in luck because we need advisees.

And So It Begins...

The ski resort opened yesterday. Only, I couldn’t care less, and opening day of the ski resort marks the beginning of me being inundated with incredulous looks and disbelieving queries of, “What do you MEAN you live at a ski resort, but don’t ski or snowboard?!?!”

Since inquiring minds seem to want to know why I’m not a ski bunny, I’ve composed a list. Sort of a top ten, if you will, of the reasons why I do not hit the slopes.

10. Did I just say that I don't hit the slopes? That's a fallacy. I do hit the slopes. Most often with my ass or my face. Matter of fact, I seem to hit the slopes with anything BUT my snowboard. I don’t need to be hitting shit, unless, well, I’m married to it.

9. Now that I’m an adult I don't like doing things I suck at. I’m thirty and I rule at everything I do. Fuck the things I don’t do. Somebody else can rule those.

8. I look SO much cuter in my gear sitting at the bar sipping on gin and juice than I do face down in the snow. And you know what's weird? Even if I end up face down, I always seem to manage to have copious amounts of snow up my butt crack. I think it's the pre-faceplant rolls that cause this, though I can't be bothered to figure it out for certain.

7. Unless we're talking about shoes, I don't do well with activities that put something in between my feet and the ground and make me move faster than a snail's pace. Actually, even shoes are arguable. Well, I used to roller skate when I was like sixteen. But really, that was more of a cover to sneak out with boys Mom and Dad didn't like and drink Schlitz, so that doesn't count.

6. Zube Boy tried to teach me when we first started dating and he was so fucking SWEET and PATIENT. It was cool. Five years of being together has made the sweetness and patience fade. There are plenty of naturally occuring incidents that make him say, "Jesus H, honey! Quit yer freakin' whining!" I don't need to create more.

5. All of my friends are AWESOME skiers and snowboarders. This means that when I go with them, they usually lap me about three times before I make it bruised and battered to the bottom of the run. Or worse, they insist on keeping me company and end up doing circles around me and sighing a lot.

4. Tourists. They're every-fucking-where during the winter, but their primary hangout is at the ski area. I deal with them ALL. DAY. AT. WORK. Even I need a break from insanity once in a while.

3. Hot chocolate is JUST as yummy after a day of lounging in my warm and cozy house as it is after a day of riding. I'm sure of it. And, unless you forgot to put on your slippers over your socks and fall flat on your ass playing with the dog on the hardwood floors, you're not nearly as sore. Fucking hardwood floors.

2. It's so much easier to pee when all you have to pull down are your flannel pajama bottoms. Who wants to pull down wet undies, wet long underwear, more wet long underwear, wet sweatpants, and freezer burnt snow pants to pee, only to have to pull the wet undies, wet long underwear, more wet long underwear, wet sweatpants, and freezer burnt snow pants back up? Not me.

And the number one reason why I don't ski or ride...

1. I'm hot AND sexy. Hot and sexy people shouldn't fuck it up by making asses out of themselves. Did I also mention that I'm DRIPPING with sarcasm. No? Well, I am, lest you all think I'm a conceited twit.


Pssst...Make sure you check out the entry below. It's fucking important. Seriously.

Coming Soon to a Blog Near You...

Some fucked up funny shit, that’s what’s coming soon. Yours truly is honored to be teaming up with two of her bestest internet buds, PaintingChef and Bonanza Jellybean, to start an advice blog because we enjoy telling people what to do. Well, at least I do. We’re dubbing ourselves the Unholy Trinity because it made us all cackle evilly and ergo was deemed appropriate. It’s still in the works, and we’ve got to get the site together, and when we do, you’ll be the first to know. While discussing the minutiae of starting up an advice blog, we decided of utmost importance would be people who need some fucking advice. We’re quick like that with figgering shit out. Anyway, that is where you all come in.

Are you confused about shit? Got a question, be it blog related, relationship related or are you simply wondering how to get that stain out of your blue dress (ahem, where were we in 1998, erm, actually I’m not sure I want to know, or could even remember)? Then you must e-mail us at wethreebitches@yahoo.com. We'll do our best to advise thee and promise to deliver the advice with plenty of snark.

I will tell you one thing, though, so you don’t have to bother asking. Underwear that your cousin Dee gives you at your bridal shower is SO not intended to be worn for eight hours at work. If you look in your panty drawer, see bridal shower gift undies, and entertain the thought of putting off the laundry one more day, reconsider. It’s not worth it. Seriously. I mean, unless you're okay with having little jewels up your ass for eight hours. But I can tell you firsthand, the shit's not fun.

Oh yeah, remember to pay a visit to my little thumbnail friend over there in the sidebar. Ted rules. Come on. You know you want to click on it. It's right over thar----------------------------------->

The Rent's All Paid and Shit, Now Make Him Feel at Home...

I'd like you all to take notice of the little thumbnail right over there in my sidebar under my 100 Things. Yes, that one. Please click on that thumbnail and check out Ted of Irreverant Codex, because to die of laughter would be a great way to go. I've decided to participate in this Rent My Blog gig over at Blog Explosion for the hell of it. I received a few bids, all of which were actually great blogs, but I knew that it was Ted's blog that NEEDED to reside here in the sidebar of Zube Girl when I read his About section: He says it like he sees it, love him, hate him want to punch him, he couldn't be arsed to care. You could say, he had me at arsed.

Anyway, I'd really like for y'all to help me out so he'll think I'm cool and shit because I always, always, ALWAYS wanted to be the cool kid and NOW is my chance, so drop by and visit him please, please, please. You'll be glad you did and then I won't be a suck-ass blog-lord by wasting his credits. For real. You'll dig him. Promise. Heh. Arsed.

In the meantime, I'm developing a variation of Rent My Blog called Rent My Ass wherein I paint your blog thumbnail on my rear end and wear assless chaps for a week. I'll let you know when I have the bidding process worked out.