I'm at a Loss...

For words.

I've been afraid to tell you that. Or couldn't figure out how exactly to tell you. Words used to be my best friends, but now they're, well, letting me down. I can't find the right ones or the right ones can't find me. And that sort of sucks.

I'm not too sad or too happy or too busy. I'm just...hmmm...too trying not to be introspective. Have you ever felt like if you stopped and thought about things, you just might cry? For a really long time? Because it's all too much?

I didn't really want to say anything, because I hate to be anything but the 'little engine that could' but, I just...I'm off track. And I've got every engineer on my payroll working to get me on course again. It's just taking some time. Because that's how I roll.

I'm alive. And I'm okay. But I'm hibernating a tiny bit. Some call it self-preservation. I call it...indescribable. Or, the failure of words. Eether, Eyether.

I hope I haven't worried you, and I hope this post doesn't make you all, "OH, POOR ZUBE!" That's not what I'm looking for. At all. I just had to say...something. However unfunny, unprofound, and un-Zube like it is.

Uranus and Fist-Pumping Like It's My Job

-You know what? Sometimes, when I'm sitting at my desk avoiding thinking about the contracts I need to write, my mind wanders a little bit. And ya know what I think about? Uranus. Like, I wonder if Uranus has Butt-Biting Spiders with Ass-Swelling Venom, like my little area of the galaxy. See! It's always been about YOU. You and Uranus. Don't you feel special?

-I've decided to tell the next person I check into the hotel, "Now go to your room," when I'm finished with them.

-I am a dork. I know. But you can be my friend. Everyone needs a few dorky friends under their belt. Or, uh, I didn't really mean it like...nevermind. Just know that if you'd like to befriend a dork, it's nice to send a message first. Because even dorks don't go around accepting friends all willy-nilly and stuff.

-It's cool when you're at work and half the power goes out. Like, the half that's responsible for the phones and the fax and the copy machine. But the half that doesn't go out keeps you up to your eyeballs in internet and microwaveable burritos. I have to admit, I pumped my fist a little bit and hissed, "YESSSSSSSSSSSSSS!"

-Did I ever mention that I'm quite fond of pumping my fist? And hissing? No? Well now, don't you feel in the know?

Again With the Humping of Legs...Will It Ever End?

In a word? No. Not in a million years. Or at least not for as long as I'm on this planet, swilling beers. Or folic acid. Potayto, potahto. Kylei, you are TOO damned sweet. Fer real. Just in case inquiring minds want to know, Kylei nominated me as an inspirational blogger. One who says 'fuck' a lot. Heh heh. Kidding. About the 'fuck' part, at least. Anywho, you can find her nomination over yonder. The post she was referring to in the comments is right here. I kind of dig it, too, to be honest. There are some choice naughty words therein that I'm rather proud to have strung together.

Thing is, when ya'll give me props about the stuff I write here, it kind of, I don't know, makes me want to hump your leg. Which isn't all that unusual, sure, given my penchant for humping the legs of those I adore. But it's a compliment nonetheless. Most of the time I feel like just sum beetch with a screwed up uterus who can't manage to shut the hell up about it. Forever and ever, amen. But when I learn that these little rants and goofy dialogues actually mean something to people sometimes, at least maybe something good is coming out of it. As much as I'd like something good to come out of my CERVIX or a big incision in my tummy, hell, I'm not picky, I'll take just about anything good these days. Shit, I don't care if something good comes out of a damn beak (HELLO, STORKS! The hell? Where are you? Just wondering, 'cause the parenting skillz? I am willing to acquire them.)

At any rate, welcome to those of you venturing over here via Club Mom. WARNING: Sometimes I write about my husband's flatulance. And our ridiculous conversations. Mostly when I want to be a member of your club so badly, I can't bring myself to be all introspective about it.

Bubble-Butt

Zube Boy has this week off in order to tie up loose ends at the new house. The renters move in on Saturday and I know for a fact that he's trying to finish up the installation of the new bathtub. So I decide to call and annoy him.

Ring-ring!

Z-Boy: Hello.

Z-Girl: Hi, honey.

Z-Boy: Oh, hi.

Z-Girl: Are you at the new house?

Z-Boy: Yup.

Z-Girl: Are you playing in the bathtub?

Z-Boy: Yup. I'm blowing bubbles.

Z-Girl: With your mouth or your butt?

Z-Boy: Both. I'm having a little competition.

Z-Girl: Heh. Heheheheheheh.

After a few snorts and slobbering a little bit, I hung up. Seriously? Where does he come up with this shit? I have no idea.

PS- Dude. I can't. Believe. I. Spelled. Turd. WRONG! Thank you to junebee and Rich for pointing that out. Of all people, one would think I would know the proper spelling of 'TURD' what with my pottymouth and all. Sheesh. I'm ashamed.

***********************UPDATE************************

Ring-ring!

Z-Boy: Hello.

Z-Girl: Hi, honey. Where are you?

Z-Boy: Walmart.

Z-Girl: Oh. So, I have a question for you.

Z-Boy: What?

Z-Girl: I was wondering who the winner of your little competition was.

Z-Boy: What?

Z-Girl: Your butt or your mouth, DUH! Your little Bubble Blowing Competition?

Z-Boy: Oh, yeah. There is no winner yet.

Z-Girl: What do you mean? You're at Walmart. I figured it was over.

Z-Boy: No, it's ongoing.

Z-Girl: What, like a marathon or the Tour de France or whatever?

Z-Boy: Yeah.

Z-Girl: So you get to take breaks and stuff?

Z-Boy: Jesus Christ, of course honey! You have to take breaks. Otherwise I'd, I don't know, start bleeding or something.

Z-Girl: Oh, okay. Keep me posted.

Z-Boy: Will do.

Z-Girl: Bye.

Z-Boy: Bye.

You Can't Polish a Terd...

The title of this post has absolutely nothing to do with the post itself. It's just, like, one of my most favorite sayings is all.

The house we just bought is right down the street from the house we live in. Which is fortunate for us because we've been doing a lot of back and forth. I drove over to the new house where Zube Boy was replacing the bath tub so I could get the broom for our house because when you have two houses, one of them is sure to be neglected at some time or another and I needed something to foist out the fur that is COVERING our floor. Seriously.

Z-Girl: Honey, do you know where the broom is?

Z-Boy: Why? Do you need to fly somewhere?

Z-Girl: *exasperated sigh* Honey, I’m SERIOUS! I have to sweep the other house. Where is it?

Z-Boy: I don’t know.

Z-Girl: *frantically searching* AH! Here it is! Bye!

Z-Boy: Have a nice flight!

Z-Girl: Shut up.

You Know What's Stupid?

Pulling a little metal fragment out of your foot and throwing it back on the floor. In front of you.

You know what else is stupid? The fucking weather. But not me. Oh no. I'm not stupid. In fact, I have found the SOLUTION to drought. No, really. I have. I'm like a one woman scientist/spy/model/wet-hair-putter-on-the-shower-waller fucking ARMY. I am. See, the weather up here in los montañas has been pretty shitty. Well, it's actually been really fucking beautiful out, but apparently the trees are parched and they need some rain all up in their asses. Or roots. Which is kind of a bad situation when there are trees every-damn-where. Surrounding big ass million dollar second homes with numbskull rich-bitch owners who refuse cut down the trees in the line of fire, quite literally, to their homes because they don't want to ruin the AMBIANCE of their 'little cabin in the woods'. Bitch please. With ten god damn bathrooms and an indoor sauna? I think not. I'll show you a little cabin in the woods. Where you can take a nice undisturbed shit in the little outhouse about thirty feet away. It's the kind of place where people actually used to LIVE but now we only go there for a brief foray and romp in the forest so we can return to our REAL house and take a damn shower already.

Although, true to the nature of a little cabin in the woods, you do only visit YOUR abode briefly. Once at Christmas. And then maybe once in the summer. Because SUMMER? It EXISTS in the mountains? My GOD! HOW COOL! There really IS a Breckenridge in the summertime when the ski resort isn't open! As is evidenced by the ASSLOAD of cars that turned my typical five minute commute home yesterday into a half an hour one. Yes! Summer in the mountains. Wow. Well, just a quick gaperish kind of question for you. How much less do the mountains WEIGH in the summer without the snow? Actually, I'm not joking about that question. Zube Boy was asked that. By a teacher. Who wanted to tell her students. He, after a moment of silence, told her that the scale had been out of order since he started working there. Jesus H. Where's my I Digress MUCH wand? I'd like a cape, too, while you're at it...

I was sayin'? Ah yes. Fire. And danger. There's a little Smokey the Bear sign we see upon entering town that keeps us abreast to the current Fire Danger level. Right now he's sportin' a VERY HIGH warning.

But not for long. Oh no. You know why? Because we have brought on torrential rains since, uh, Friday I think. And it didn't even require dancing naked on Main Street wearing only a big red clown nose. All we had to do was SCRAPE and PRIME our house! Easy peasy. Now? We're stuck with an even SHITTIER looking paint job than what we started out with. Chipped gray with streaks of bright white. Yum. I bet the neighbors love us. They'll love us even more when they find out we rented it out to three dudes. Heh. But that's a whole 'nother post.

Peace out. I'm gonna go dance naked on Main Street with a clown nose to make the torrential afternoon rains go the hell away. Or maybe I'll just watch a parade. And have a beer. Happy Fourth.

When Pigs Fly...Or Knock on the Damn Door at All Hours of the Night...

Sometimes, the best way to sum things up is to scream, "Mother-fucking FUCK!" really damn loud.

I think it would be a good idea, at this point, to have my hand surgically replaced with a paintbrush. That would be SO useful to me as we're painting the new house. Inside and out. Ourselves. Actually not ENTIRELY by ourselves. Zube Boy's most awesome Dad is helping us. I'll show you before and after photos when it's all done.

I'm burning my candle at both ends, ladies and gentlemen. And the wick? She is getting short.

The other night, Zube Boy and I were awakened at 1:30AM from a much-needed post painting pass out by a BANG-BANG-BANGING on the door across the street. Where The Dudes live. After a half hour of the nonsense, I poised myself up on the bed and shouted out the window, "WHY DON'T YOU JUST FUCKING GO IN ALREADY!" assuming that it was a drunk friend who wanted to crash on their couch. I assumed wrongly. After my little outburst, I laid back down only to see a VERY BRIGHT flash light shining in our window and up on the ceiling. In a hushed tone, Zube Boy chided, "Honey, those were COPS, you idiot!"

"Oh shit."

I propped myself up on the windowsill again and saw one of Breckenridge's finest staring right back at me. He didn't say anything at first, prolly 'cause he was so ASTOUNDED by my resemblance to the Swamp Thing that he forgot for a moment he woke my swampish ass up at 1:30AM. I stammered, "S-s-sir. I am SO sorry! Really. I thought it was just one of their drunk friends trying to find a place to crash or something."

He laughed. And I was relieved. I'd imagine they don't like to make a habit of bringing Swamp Thing Lookalikes down to the station, so he let me off easy. Cops are kind of guarded about their donuts and I think I heard something about Swamp Things eating, like, a gazillion donuts a day. Or, whatever.

He actually apologized to me for waking us up and asked if we knew whether or not the owner of the black jeep cherokee lived in the house across the street. I said I thought it was a friend of theirs. Apparently the jeep was suspect in a hit and run. And I was no help at all. But they stopped knocking after that. And I was kind of mad at myself because The Dudes and their dog that they like to put outside at midnight and 6:00AM who barks incessantly have been pissing me off to no end and I'd kind of liked to have seen one of their cohorts handcuffed and shit.

Oh well. I learned my lesson. From now on I'm going to stash donuts by the bed at night and I'll offer them some if I'm ever lucky enough to have them staking out the neighbors again.

And. As soon as the police left? While I was staring out my front window in my black as night living room? The Dudes lights started coming on. Fucking assholes. That guy was clearly trying to avoid having to take a breathilizer. I'm certain of it.

Oh How I Wish...

...I worked at the hardware store.

Z-Boy: I have to pick up some plumbing stuff for the new house.

Z-Girl: Okay. I'll go, uh, look at the hammocks I wish I had somewhere to put...or something...

***A few minutes later and Zube Boy is checking out some black plumbing pipes***

Z-Girl: Honey, is that where the poo is gonna go?

Z-Boy: No honey. That's where the curlies will go.

Z-Girl: What?!

Z-Boy: It's for the tub, not the toilet.

Z-Girl: Oh, okay.

This conversation would be inconsequential if it weren't for the hardware store employee rounding the corner and looking at us all funny-like at the very end.

Zoey is BACK!!! Thank you ALL for wondering and wishing and cajoling her home. I can't even begin to tell you how devastated I was when she disappeared. I don't HAVE babies, you see, so she IS one of the only babies I know. That was the longest she's ever been gone. And I'm so glad she's home. I never thought I'd strain my lips kissing a cat. I'm kind of a loser. Heh.

My Head Hurts...

If any of you are vying for the crown of Worst Blogger in the Blogverse, you'll have to pry that tiara from my cold dead fingers.

It's mine, bitches.

Would you like to see our walk-in closet?


Yes. That's a toilet.

The master bedroom is tore up. We've hired a friend to fix it. The master bath is now, uh, our closet.

We close on our second house on Wednesday. Did I mention that I feel like a total money-grubbing asshole buying a second house? Like I'm fucking up the local real estate Sitiation? Well, I do. The bleeding heart? Maybe sometimes I do have it. Though I profess not to be that kind of liberal.

Anyway, closing costs are $6,000. Ramen, anyone?

We've put an ad in the paper to rent it out. The most promising response we've gotten so far has been, "Are you negotiable on the rent?"

I've been working like a bitch. 'Mud Season' is officially over and now we're entering upon 'Wedding/Family Reunion" Season. I'm swamped.

Last but not least, my little Zoey is missing. That's the first time I've admitted that to myself. I kind of don't want to believe that she's been gone for longer than three days.

With all of this happenin', I'm trying to avoid the spontaneous combustion dealymabob. Bear with me. Or don't. Your choice. This blog-bustion has been a long time coming. I'm over being sad and dwelling and shit, but I don't have anything amusing to report. In fact, all I have to report is some relatively overwhelming shit.

I've had a hard enough time keeping up with We 3 Bitches. See, I don't want Bonanza and P-Chef to think I'm all sucky bitch, so The Adventures of Zube Girl is playing second fiddle.

I really miss blogging, but I certainly miss my sanity more.

I've Submitted My Letter to the Editor

On Friday, June 30th, Planned Parenthood clinics across the state will be giving out free Emergency Contraception (EC) as they did on July 1st of last year. This is in response to Governor Owens vetoing House Bill 1212 – Colorado's Prescriptive Authority Bill. This bill would have enabled Colorado pharmacists to prescribe and dispense EC to women without a doctor’s prescription.

I urge my fellow Summit County residents to participate in this event. Some of you may think you have no need for Emergency Contraception. When I heard about the event last year, I thought it was a great idea, but didn’t think I’d actually participate. I’m married and planning a family. Why would I need Emergency Contraception?

The truth is I should know better. As some of you may remember from a previous article in the Summit Daily, I am all too familiar with the scenario EC could prevent. Ten years ago, I was a twenty-year-old college student. My car was broken down, and I accepted a ride from a friend of a friend to the grocery store. At the end of that evening, I was a survivor of rape. A month later, I discovered I was pregnant. Ultimately, I terminated the pregnancy. Had I had access to Emergency Contraception, I might not have become pregnant at all.

I encourage you to remember that emergencies happen to us, and people we love, without the benefit of foresight. Though young women are at higher risk of being victimized, rapists don’t necessarily discriminate based on age and marital status. You can bet that I’m going to make the effort to get to a Planned Parenthood on the 30th. We just never know when and how an unwanted pregnancy might occur. I know I didn’t.

I Want. To Touch. The Hiney.

Z-Boy: Honey, shoosh, this is my favorite commercial.

Z-Girl: I don’t know what it is with you and tampon commercials.

Z-Boy: They just, I don’t know, make me wish I got a period.

Z-Girl: Why?

Z-Boy: Because it looks so fun. Those chicks are always going to parties and running in fields and riding bikes and doing yoga.

Z-Girl: Heh.

In other news, I was meeting with someone who wanted to sell me some advertizin’ and shit at work the other day and my mind started to wander a little. I confess. It happens. Anyway, sometimes during those meetings I’ll start imagining really odd things I could do to mess with their salespersony asses. Like, when they ask me if I have any questions, what would they do if I said, “Yes, as a matter of fact. I'd like to know if I can touch your hiney?” Or, I wonder how they’d react if I leaned over and kissed their cheek right in the middle of their shpeel. Is ‘shpeel’ even a real word? It’s not recognized by MS Word. And MS Word’s not giving me any other suggestions. Oh well.

The only bad thing about this 'mind-wandering' thing I get is that I'll be all smirking despite myself and I probably look a little loony.

Hope you’re having a fantabulous day.

Back in the Day...

My yearbook photo (note the NOT so high bangs...or at least they were not so high as I wished they would be...THANK GODDESS!):


My yearbook blurb (I don't think I've changed all that much, to be honest):


Random photo yearbook page that happens to star yours truly twice:



Can you find me? I'll give you a couple of hints:

1. I'm, erm, I mean, I WAS flexible.

2. You won't be able to recognize me by my ski slope nose. Or at least not by the tip of it.

It's a Groovy Kind of Love

Dude, my elbow is fucking GROOVY!


Jealous much? How groovy is YOUR elbow, huh?

And also, the worst picture of me EVAH! And see that bottle of vino behind me? I didn't even HAVE any. I have no excuse.



Lastly, it's kind of ASTOUNDING how many people search for Ass Adventures and find themselves here.

He Said, She Said

or...

A Memoir of A(nother) Year in the Marriage of One Zube Boy and One Zube Girl

or...

The Verbal Olympics of Second Year Veteran Marrieds

or...

Random Snippets Involving Cookie Crisp, Chipmates, and Heaps of Other Stuff

He Said (50 Times): You're going to blog about this, aren't you?

She Said (5 Times): I don't really GET what makes Cookie Crisp SO much better than store brand stuff!

He Said (105 Times): Woman, you're gonna drive me to drinking.

She Said (3 Times): Honey, I'm knocked up.

He Said (365 Times): Honey, where's my hat?

She Said (3 Times): Meh, I'm not knocked up anymore.

He Said (3 Times): I'm sorry. We'll try again.

She Said (1 Time): So, I know you're driving to Mississippi to buy a truck and all and this is kind of a bad time, but I can't wait to talk to you when you get back because I need to make a decision now. See, there's this rally and Planned Parenthood called me because I forwarded them a letter to the editor I wrote about Gov. Owens and Emergency Contraception for rape victims in the ER and they've asked me if I wanted to SPEAK at the rally. And, um, it's OKAY, honey, if you don't want me to, really. But, I don't know, I kind of think it would help me.

He Said (1 Time): You do what will help YOU. Don't worry about me.

She Said (A Gazillion Times): You rock so hard.

He Said (350 Times): Zoobs, where's my work pants?

She Said (530 Times): Right here.

She Said (150 Times): In the dryer.

She said (50 Times): Oops. In the washer still.

He Said (90 Times): CHRIST! Is that Brad peeking in the window again? I'm really sick of kicking his ass all the time. Why do you have to be so hot, Zube? These celebrity stalkers are getting kind of annoying.

She Said (1 Time): How ironic that all this gay marriage ban shit is happening on our two year wedding anniversary. Kind of taints my celebratory attitude.

He Said (1 Time): I just don't get what people are so riled up about. Who cares?

She Said (1 Time): Because DONTCHYA KNOW, honey, that if two dudes were able to marry each other it would THREATEN our marriage.

He Said (1 Time): That's the least of our worries.

She Said (1 Time): Heh.

He Said (1 Time): Unless you suddenly start making me cookies all the time.

She Said (Probably on more than one occasion): BWAHAHAHAHAHA!

He Said (1 Time): Honey, it's really nice being married to you. Happy Aniversary.

She Said (1 Time): Damn. I'm gonna cry. That was fucking sweet. It's nice being married to you, too. If you could just lay off on yanking my pajama pants down when I'm unloading the dishwasher, I'd say our marriage was damn near utopia.

Prepost...And postpre...And Stopper...And Toppers...And, Okay, That's Enough With the What Word Can You Make With These Letters...

A couple of posts back I was wondering what made Pre-Three-Miscarriages Zube Girl different from Post-Three-Miscarriages Zube Girl. I think I've found something that speaks to at least part of the vast openness between that great divide.

Pre-Three-Miscarriages Zube Girl had the luxury of worrying about her ability to be a parent. Whether she would suck or whether she would rock. She'd like to think she'd rock even though her future kid might be all, "JESUS H. MOM! I stayed up late STUDYING and that's why my eyes are all red, HELLO!?!?! I don't know what you're so worried about anyway. I work an after school job, get good grades, and buy my own _______________ (insert fancy pants name here), so back off!" Which, heh, stayed up late STUDYING! Whatever, kid. *snort* But see, I know that for all my concern, I'd raise a decent self-sufficient human being, if not for any other reason than, well, for ALL MY CONCERN ABOUT RAISING A DECENT, SELF-SUFFICIENT HUMAN BEING. Even if the kid smokes pot? S/He'll still be a good one. I think, anyway.

On the other hand, Post-Three-Miscarriages Zube Girl worries that she'll never even BE a parent, so she doesn't want to jinx it by fretting about whether or not her sixteen-year-old will slam the bedroom door because she's just told them s/he can buy her/his OWN Land Rover. See, at the ripe old age of thirty I understand now that fighting with your parents as a teenager? Is kind of important. So long as we're talking about a functional family. And I'm aiming my arrow towards functional. That's my goal. But, taking my family as an example, 'A Little Weird' doesn't fall far from BULLSEYE! And I'll be happy with just short of perfect. Actually, 'perfect' is a little annoying.

Which reminds me, I've been meaning to tell any future embryos of mine that even though I've sworn to myself that you WILL purchase your own first car, and you WILL NOT have all the fancy clothes you want no matter how much money we have, and you WILL share a room at some point in your life with a sibling because I did, with my brother and then my sister and then both sisters, and then my brother got all sad because he had his own room and I got to share my room with TWO people, so Mom let My Belle stay in his room for a few weeks upon Bro's insistence, and he said, uh, nevermind, she cries at night, and...um...nevermind...

Anyway, I think it was good for my character, sharing a room. It prepared me for life and sharing and caring and all that good stuff, and...WOOOOOOOOAAAH! I'm getting a little ahead of myself here. Note to Self: Yo, Zoobs, let's get pregnant and STAY pregnant for at least 35 weeks, which I think is a safely viable gestational age (I haven't researched pregnancy much past the first trimester...It's all about self-preservation, people. Really, 'tis, and I can't be concerning myself with 'trimester' pregnancies when I fail to achieve even a 'unimester' one) before worrying about SIBLINGS! Jeebus. Sorry, every once in a while I have to remind myself that the dreams which live inside my head are not always the same ones that manifest in real life. Allrighty then...

...Where was I? Ah yes...I was going to make all kinds of promises to my potential children-to-be that might convince them that while I MIGHT be sort of a Bitch Mom, I'll be AWESOME. Really. You will SERIOUSLY love me. You can be WHATEVER you want!

You can...

-Have purple hair (so long as that doesn't interfere with the high school job thing...there's always tattoo parlors out there looking for high school help...I think?)

-Be Gay (Damn kid, I'll love ya more, because you'll fucking need it what with all the gay-hating going on around these, ahem, united states of ours.)

-Not want to go to college (because I didn't. I went anyway because that's what everybody else thought I should do. But I know that being all smart and shit doesn't necessarily mean that you're college material. This is one thing your Dad and I will wholehartedly agree on. We'll never pressure you to do what doesn't feel right. You'll be smart. I know that. And you'll do what's right with it. I'm sure.)

-Tell me ANYTHING. And I mean ANYTHING (*wishing right now that I had the ability to Double-Capitalize*). I promise not to go all MATERNAL when you really, really fucking need me. Life happens to people. This I know. And if something horrible happens to you? Even if you maybe had a tiny bit, or a BIG bit to do with it? I SWEAR I'll step back and breathe...only to return with a big hug and a hearty, "I'm sorry life had to happen to you THAT way, but here's how we deal with it." I'll avoid trying to fix it because fixing it never really works anyway. At least when we're talking about life and not plumbing or a bad starter.

While I'm being all random and whatnot, I'd like to thank those of you who've stuck by me throughout my weird blog abandoness. You LURKERS, too! I'm having trouble posting things because all I can think about is the fact that I bled for a month, then manhandled my boobs for the past week and a half (which OHMYGOD MAYBE I'M PREGNANT BECAUSE THEY'RE SORE!) (But they're more probably only sore because I've been manhandling them ), and I want to be pregnant/have a baby so bad it, uh, kind of hurts. And there are many other gals out there that rock the infertility blog thing so much better than I ever could. Anyway, I've been sporadic at best because I'm concerned about beating ya'll over the brow with my woes. Which makes for a VERY random, VERY sucky (in my opinion) blog, and I can't believe you've hung in there.

So, thanks.

Bunnies, Bloody Lips, and Mourners

I had the sudden impulse today to liken blogging to bunnies. Of all things. And, you know, the comparison isn't all that far off what with the rapid and rampant population boom of blogs on the internet. They're like damn rabbits. But, more importantly, I was perusing some more or less FAMOUS bloggers, and found myself in total awe. They've been doing this shit for YEARS! They're like the Energizer Bunnies of the blogverse. And lately I've kind of felt like, oh, I don't know...A Duracell Turtle. Or something. I bet you're smelling what I'm stepping in because you're a bright bunch. No dim bulbs in this crowd.

I have this NASTY compulsion to pick my lips when they're dry. All it takes is one little errant piece of epidermis on my lip and an afternoon of bloody lips awaits me. Today, I got this really weird bordering on PROUD feeling about a chunk of skin I pulled off. I sat at my desk sort of staring at it, like, huh? That's a piece of my lip. Then a coworker walked in and I promptly threw it away. I'm fucking gross sometimes.

Yesterday, I was stopped at a green light. Why the hell, you ask, would I STOP at a green light? Well, I do believe that is the PROPER thing to do when you see a hearse pass, no? With all of the mourners and their hazard lights and high beams on bringing up the rear? Methinks you allow the funeral procession to pass through? Not that I'm some kind of guru of propriety or anything, but no one behind me honked, which I took to mean that my assumption was correct and that my meager upbringing combined with my father's LOOK OF DEATH when it came to ill-mannered children, particularly those of half his genetic make-up, didn't result in too much of an asshole.

When the hearse passed, I did the sign of the cross. And then I cried. It happens every damn time. So weird.

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

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

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

Then I started to cry. And I mean BAWL.

Yeah. So much for that hardening theory.

Peeing...It's Not Just For Boys to Put Out Campfires Anymore!

I found this little packet in with one of my ovulation predictor tests...


It sucks that you can't eat the little pop-rock thingies inside the packet. For a minute there I thought, "What a GREAT fucking idea! Not ONLY will I be able to pee on a stick and find out if I'm ovulating, but I'll be able to enjoy pop-rocks all the while. It's genius, no? Anyway, it would be kind of cool if they inserted a can of soda and some edible pop-rocks into the ovulation predictor test packaging. 'Cause then I could, like, find out if I'm ovulating AND disprove an urban legend. All at once. Just like that. Talk about multi-tasking.

Wanna see what Zube Boy does? Okay...





Do you SEE that mud?!?! Really, I should have taken a picture of Zube Boy, but sometimes husbands are kind of like pets with the being photogenic thing when there is no camera anywhere to be found. Suffice it to say that he entered the house (I recognized the eyes) through the laundry room and wasn't allowed to take a step further until he stripped down to his boxers and undershirt. Heh. COVERED IN MUD, I say.

We had an awesome Memorial Day weekend. Check out our campsite:



Here we are sittin' by the fire...(there were no grandmas to be found...not my grandma and not your grandma...in case you were wondering):


That homemade wine was fucking DELICIOUS! Wow.

Word to the wise: Remember to fill your tank before driving your pop-up camper pulling jeep up steep four wheel drive trails, because driving down that shit in neutral with your gas gauge reading '0 MILES TO EMPTY' is SCARY AS HELL at best. But, um, I made it. Thankfully.

Oh yeah, I took a picture of my ass to give to Rocky Jay because it would seem he's running low on ass shots. And since I'm such a great fucking sport, and I think there is an underrepresentation of girls with regular old asses in the world, here 'tis:



The End. Hee.

Working (It)

We've got a crew of folks working at the lodge. They're rebuilding decks on the townhomes. It's kind of nice, actually. I mean, sure it's noisy and all, but it has its perks.

My coworker, whom I'll refer to as G-Unit for the sake of protecting the innocent, is my officemate. He's a dry humor kind of guy, and I love me some dry humor, particularly while working. Today we were tap-tap-tapping away at our computers to the tune of saws and hammers. Suddenly, he spun his chair around and peered out the window at the deck builders.

G-Unit: Zube, so, should I open up the window and yell all serious-like, "YO! Could you keep it down with the saw and hammers out there? We're trying to get some work done!"

Z-Girl: Dude, go for it. While you're at it, could you tell them they need to take their shirts off and bend over more?

Hee hee. Anyway. It's typically pretty boring to stare out my window at work, but not these days:

Things That Are Shapely...Like How Some Things Are IN Shape and Some Things Are OUT of Shape...

Cervix holes? They are pissy little fuckers. Or at least mine is. Like when a catheter with a deflated balloon at the end of it is insterted up there? Well, honestly, I don't know what it's like to have something insTerted, but to have it INSERTED? Sucks a little. My cervix hole no likey that so much. I mean, the procedure wasn't TREMENDOUSLY painful. Just toe-curling, fist-clenching, gasping and then holding your breath, kind of painful. Tolerable. And then? When they inject fluid into the catheter to expand the little balloon up in there and send a sonogram wand up alongside it so they can see my uterus and what its shape and its lining look like? And to make sure there aren’t, like, cobwebs and spiders and matchbox cars up in there? Oh, for the love of GOD, PLEASE, unless you see a little welcome sign with a fire at the hearth and a rocking chair on the porch, because that's the kind of shit that needs to be seen in REAL TIME, just take a damn picture with the sonogram already and show me my insides LATER when all the junk you've got UP there is OUT, because my uterus? Is TOTALLY spasming and REALLY BAD CRAMPS X 10 makes it difficult to care about the appearance of my picture perfect girly bits!

And, also? If any of you gals ever consider having a little rendezvous with a balloonified catheter and a sonogram wand? You should bring a girlfriend like Becki because then you can talk about making swan hats and gowns out of the napkin skirts and finger puppets with the little sonogram wand condoms and finger painting on the walls with iodine and it will be FUNNY! To be fair, Zube Boy is pretty damn funny too with the turning on of the little gyn lamp and shining it on the magazine he's reading and his declarations of, "Well, honey, I'm not a doctor but I'll have a look." But sonogram wand condom finger puppets? Hee. Which reminds me...what the FUCK is up with having to wait a damn half hour ALWAYS and FOREVER in the doctor's office? I'd rather be in the waiting room, ya know? Actually, I take that back. Because the three ladies with their big huge baby-filled bellies commiserating about their pregnancies? Kind of made me sad. Iodine fingerpainting is the way to go.

Anyway, my uterus is in great shape. I mean, it IS a great shape. The way it's supposed to be. Like, it's not a star or a hexagon or anything. And the lining looks fine. Another clean bill of health for me. Which is cool because as much as I'd like to find a REASON for all these miscarriages, a badly shaped uterus might not be rectifiable. And I'd rather have a rectifiable problem. Or no problem at all. Just really bad fucking luck. Three times in a row.

Speaking of shapes, while my innards are all adorable and just what the doctor wanted to see, my outtards are, um, maybe not. At least that's what I think it means when your Spanish-speaking coworker, Pedro, returns from Mexico after a year and starts working with you again and says, "Zube, mas gordita, eh?" Which means, in a nutshell, hey girl, you're more chubby. Or it could mean a little more fat, but I'm partial to chubby for some reason. When he said it, I laughed, because he wasn't being malicious about it, and it's DAMN TRUE! He was just making an observation. A very true one. Why get mad? But when I reiterated the tale to my male co-workers, they were MORTIFIED. But, I'm kind of wondering if it's a cultural thing? Like, is it okay in Mexico to point out that someone has gained a little weight? Is it not as taboo to mention as it is here in our weight obsessed culture? I don't know. I thought it was interesting, though.

Well, it's time to get my great-shaped uterus having, mas gordita ass the hell off the computer. Peace out.