Publishers Clearing House ain't got nothin' on me.

My heart has been a little bit broken lately.

I've been working like a crazy mad woman. And it's catching up with me.

Last night, I got home a little before 6, which was really early for me. I watched two hours of Friends reruns, all the while wishing I could just go to bed. Finally, I talked to my mom and she said, "You're a night owl, and I have spent so much of my life trying to get you to go to bed. But nothing would make me happier than if you went to bed right now."

I cried. And then I went to bed. I slept 10 hours last night. And it was glorious.

But today, the work was still there, and it's coming in faster than I can send it back out. And I'm really good at my job, too. But, alas, I am human.

And because I'm human, I'm also having flashbacks to this time last year. Last year, when I was also crazy crazy stressed at work. And I was trying desperately to ignore the fact that my relationship with The Ex-Boyfriend Formerly Known as Mr. Wonderful was going to hell.

I'm remembering all this stuff that I buried. Like how Ex-Wonderful capped off a week-long July vacation by announcing to me less than an hour from home that he just didn't have his act together enough for us to get engaged by the end of the year. Or how he made me cry in front of the bathroom remodeling guy because 1 / 4 of my front car tire was on his new concrete drive that wasn't supposed to be driven on for another 12 hours. Or any number of other signs that sweet eight-pound, six-ounce baby Jesus, this was so not the man for me.

Really? It's been a stressful year.

But it's also been a really sweet year. Like tonight.

I worked from home today and was so busy working that I never changed out of my rather ripe dog-walking clothes from this morning. And my hair made me look vaguely homeless. But I went over to my friend Kate's house for dinner anyway. And she didn't act like I looked like crap, even though I know I did.

Kate made homemade pizza - like, homemade crust and everything. Did you know that you can do that? Yeah, me neither. We laughed and ate and gossiped and laughed some more. Then we stalked college friends and frenemies on Facebook, which took about two hours. Finally, I left because it's a school night ... but it was a little late to be running to the grocery, which I needed to do without question because I was totally and completely out of toilet paper.

Kate sent me home with a party favor: not one, but two rolls of toilet paper.

I feel wealthy beyond belief. And my heartbreak isn't so fresh.

Head lice update!

This morning, I received this e-mail from my darling mama.

Subject: About your blog

Yes, I do remember the incident of the head lice and thought you would appreciate a little update. I saw Inez yesterday and she had just talked to Maxine (who lives in the nursing home across from where Marcy lived on 12th). Maxine told Inez about a new resident ... had trouble remembering the name at first. Maxine said she was really quite ... well, she was very ... Maxine (gentle lady that she is) finally settled on saying that this new resident needed to learn patience and to tone things down a bit. Oh, and her name was Mrs. Hoar.

Just a little smile for your Wednesday.

Love you -
Mom

BWAH HA HA HA!

I wonder if they do lice checks at the home.

I hope I'm not tempting fate.

At the end of the day, we received an e-mail from Corporate Behemoth's associate communications department. They just wanted to let us know that someone in my building has swine flu.

And then? The e-mail went on to talk - in detail - about the importance of proper mouth-covering and handwashing. Did you know you should throw away a Kleenex after you use it?

I know. I had no idea either.

Now, after receiving this e-mail, I suddenly felt puny. But then I realized that I would be waaaay more worried about a colleague having, oh, head lice. Because the flu? The hospital will take care of you. But head lice? You are on your own. And you're a social outcast.

I have crazy, crazy thick hair. And in second grade, it was down to my waist. This coincided with a giant lice outbreak at my elementary school. Our entire class had to line up alphabetically so that the school nurse could pick through our hair with these chopstick things.

Our school nurse was not a particularly kind woman. In fact, she was pretty gruff. Really, really gruff. And loud. And her name was Mrs. Hoar.

For real.

So, Mrs. Hoar chopsticked through everybody's hair and then proclaimed them lice-free to the rest of the class.

Then, she got to me. I really could have gone as Cousin It for Halloween. I had a lot of hair.

Mrs. Hoar chopsticked and chopsticked through my hair, hurting me as she raked my tender little scalp. Finally, she proclaimed:

"Well, honey, you have so much hair, I can't tell if you have 'em or not."

And then? Then, my classmates parted like the Red Sea. And no one would sit next to me. And I felt like a total leper.

Not that I'm still carrying that pain around with me 27 years later or anything.

And for the record, and for you, Mrs. Hoar, wherever you are? I NEVER HAD LICE.

Recipe for physical fitness.

Just a little something I cooked up today. Be forewarned: this recipe takes a ton of prep work, so please read the entire recipe before jumping in.

1. Realize you're getting a bit roundish. Be dissatisfied with this development.


2. Listen to one of your coworkers talk about Jillian Michael's 30-Day Shred, a 20-minute workout that promises to get participants all toned and buff and hot and stuff. Think you can manage 20 minutes a day. Look up the DVD on Amazon, realize it only costs $6.97, and place your order.


3. Wait several days. Eat many graham crackers with chocolate frosting while waiting for Amazon's standard shipping. Wish you had shelled out for the faster shipping, then realize you are cheap and would never in a million years do that. Eat more graham crackers.


4. Rejoice when package from Amazon arrives. Open the mailer. Do not open the plastic covering the DVD.


5. Place shrink-wrapped DVD on your dining room table. Look at it occasionally when you eat. Do this for a week.


6. In the midst of this week, take a call from your Corporate Behemoth-sponsored health coach. Tell her that you've ordered your first-ever workout DVD. Let her congratulate you and heap piles of praise on you. Neglect to mention that during the actual phone call, you are preparing graham crackers with chocolate frosting.


7. Wake up this morning with determination. Walk the dogs, thinking the entire time about how you're going to go home and jump into your fabulous new workout routine.


8. Arrive home. Get dogs settled. Spend 20 minutes opening the stickered and shrink-wrapped DVD.


9. Note that the DVD states you'll need a yoga mat and handweights. Figure you can live without the handweights because the workout is probably going to kill you anyway. Imagine yourself as Amy Poehler weightlifting air in SNL's recent 80's workout video spoof.


10. Fetch your yoga mat from under your bed. Realize it is slightly discolored. Realize that Lil' Frankfurter, who likes to lounge on said yoga mat under the bed, has peed on it. Hark back to when you moved out of your shithole apartment and found that Foxie Doxie had peed under the bed multiple times and you never knew it until you took the bed apart. Be amazed that you got your full deposit back.


11. Take yoga mat into bathroom and wash it in tub with some dishwashing soap. Realize that the urine has permanently stained and even corroded the yoga mat. Realize also that you routinely place your face on the mat in different yoga poses. Be amazed that in the course of two weeks, not one but two of your personal items have been relegated to the garage for outdoor and home-improvement use.


12. Think about going to Target to pick up a new yoga mat. Sit on couch to think about it.


13. Realize two hours later that you fell prey to the most luxurious of all Sunday vices, the couch nap. Decide Target is too busy Sunday midday.


14. Research yoga mats online. Discover Amazon hocks used yoga mats. Consider the amount of sweat that has poured onto your own yoga mat. Lose all faith in mankind.


15. Eat peanut butter toast. Watch reality TV.

Stuff I actually said today.

While welcoming a four-legged friend back into the house:
"Yay! We have both kinds of potty: tinkle and poopie!"

While hearing about a coworker's visit to a museum about the Salem witch trials:
"Well, who doesn't love a good diorama about being burned at the stake?"

While presenting to about 50 coworkers about the importance of editorial consistency:
"You can get away with anything as long as you're consistent. It's like your cousin who always comes to Thanksgiving dinner without a shirt. After a few years, your grandma just expects it and is then just glad that he's wearing pants. It's consistent. What? That's just my family? Oh."

Something to believe in.

I'm back.

I'm not on Poison's tour bus. I wasn't given the opportunity to follow Green Girl's kind advice and wear protection. I also didn't have the opportunity to ask Def Leppard if they remembered Andi's firm boobies, which she flashed at various roadies to get backstage back in the day.

Sorry, ladies.

However, I will say that the concert? Really super fun, despite the fact that the people sitting next to Guy With Two Dogs evidently hadn't bathed since, like, Rock of Ages-era Def Leppard. pre-our-drummer-lost-his-arm-in-a-car-accident-back-when-leg-warmers-were-still-cool Def Leppard.

But I'm getting off track.

The show? Outstanding. With both bands, I found myself being surprised, realizing, "Oh, yeah! I know this song!" And yeah, I knew every song, with the exception of the one song Def Leppard played off their new album. Because that's how I roll.

And My Rock of Love, Mr. Bret Michaels? Is a showman of the Neil Diamond / Barry Manilow School of Kick-Ass Awesomeness. He was high-energy and gave his audience what they wanted. And what they wanted was to be transported back to 1988.

I was a bit taken aback, though, when Bret started talking about his support of the armed forces. People jumped to their feet like God's own football team was in the house. It was like dedicating a song to members of the military gave Bret mystical powers, or carte blanche.

My dad is a veteran. I understand that we have to support the individuals, even if we aren't necessarily on board with the overall military action. But really? Bret managed to pimp his dating reality show while thanking fans for supporting the band and the military. I think he's just shrewd.

But yeah, if / when Rock of Love comes back for a fourth season, I'll watch. Because he is funny. And drunk strippers competing for the pseudo-affections of a weave-sporting rocker are funny. And I feel so very, very balanced and normal in comparison.

Potpourri.

Potpourri for $200
My parents were here this weekend. Listen to me when I tell you that you have not lived until you've worn a skirt in a car with air-conditioned seats.

I'm just sayin'.

Potpourri for $400
Creepy Stalker Guy texted me again tonight: Cha Cha, do you still go to Happy Hippie Church? Creepy Stalker Guy

So, lemme get this straight. You can't get me to reply to any of your messages about dating, or about help dating other people, or about the fact that I'm not replying to any of your messages. So you think you'll ask me about church in the hopes that I'll feel guilty not responding to questions about God?

Like I said, God told me I could do better. Back the fuck off.

Potpourri for $600
Last night, as I left my house to meet Guy I've Been E-mailing, I realized that I would rather be headed out to Target than to a first date. But Guy I've Been E-mailing was really funny and we had a great time.

However, he told me that he has his kids next weekend and invited me over to watch Spongebob with the tribe as our second date.

Dude. Although you said you get along well with your ex-wife, I still immediately thought back to the good times of Ex-Wonderful's ex-wife pretending I was invisible. Second date? Too soon for the kidlets. Again, just sayin'.

Potpourri for $800
I have been buried in mind-numbing, blinding editing. And so, today I decided to entertain myself by choosing possible heavy metal band names out of the headlines on cnn.com. All of these are bits and pieces of real headlines from today. Which one do you think is the best band name? I want the debut album to be called "Pick it 'til it bleeds."

Scorched Kitty
Bludgeoned to Death
Rich and Single
Karachi Kills
Witness to an Execution
Get Testy
Why Your Feet Hurt

And, of course, the hands-down winner: Life-Sized Astronaut Made of Cheese

Potpourri for $1000
I don't like to brag, but I have to be honest.

Tomorrow? I'm going to see Cheap Trick, Def Leppard and ... Poison. Poison, featuring Bret Michaels.

Now, I'm going with Guy With Two Dogs. And he totally understands that he could very well have to find his own way home, as there's a very real possibility that Bret will announce to the crowd that he knows he made a huge mistake choosing his Rock of Love, right? And he'll call me out - because he'll see me, even though I'll be sitting in the nosebleed section - and he'll announce to the entire arena - nay, the entire world - that I am his true Rock of Love. Because chicks who wear Lucite heels are overrated.

So, if I don't blog tomorrow, you'll know why. But don't worry - I'll update as soon as I can. I'm sure the tour bus has wifi.

Dating roundup.

Today, I scared the bejesus out of Guy I've Been E-mailing. We have a date on Sunday night. But today, as I was walking into the office building of my therapist? Well, a really familiar-looking fellow was walking out.

I smiled and said, "Guy?"

He stopped and looked at me, totally taken aback and wondering where he knew my face.

I laughed. "I'm Cha Cha."

He laughed and was all, "Ohmigod - hi! What are you doing here?"

I kept the explanation short. "I have an appointment." Which, as we all know, is code for "I see a counselor twice a week and I'm on antidepressants and no, I don't have any baggage, what are you talking about?"

He laughed and said he didn't want to make me late, and he'd see me in a few days.

So, I received an e-mail from him tonight, apologizing for being at a loss for words. But he said he was very much looking forward to meeting for a beer on Sunday. So, I guess I'm not a total ogre. But the whole exchange did make me feel vaguely like I'm hanging out in a van outside his house. You know - like Creepy Stalker Guy.

Creepy Stalker Guy who is still texting me.

Last Friday, right after lunch, I received this one-two punch:

ARGH!

Hmm. My stalker is a pirate. Nice. This creates a whole new universe of possibilities for my Lifetime Made-for-TV movie.

Just had an awful lunch date at Grand Street Cafe. Now going to Martini Corner for a drink. Will you join me?

Now, Grand Street Cafe is the establishment where Alice had a dead bird drop into her lap about two years ago. I haven't been back since, but I sort of wish a dead bird would drop in and ruin Creepy Stalker Guy's meal.

Tonight, he sent this text: I am never going to hear from u again, am I? At least say something.

Wow - he is a bright one, isn't he? You've been texting me since the first week in May and I haven't responded - you think maybe I'm not going to? Are you really going to give up that easily?

Actually, my initial reaction was that maybe I should say, "No, we aren't friends. You haven't acted like a friend. Don't contact me." But then I thought, no, leave it alone. He's getting the picture. Don't create any undo hope - or anger.

So. There's that. And then there's Mr. I Want You to Want Me, who asked me via text at 9:00 last night if I'd go out for dinner tonight.

I thought it over. I'd have fun. But he was obviously contacting me because he realized he didn't have anything else going on. And isn't a third date worth a phone call, not a text with less than 24 hours' notice?

I declined. I decided I'm worth more than that.

And really? I'm just having a lot of fun with Mr. Guy With Two Dogs. The rest of this? It's all gravy. Cha Cha-learning-how-to-date-casually gravy.

Conversations with my family.

Welcome to an exciting new feature here at Noodleroux. I think the title’s pretty self-explanatory.

The set-up: Cha Cha and Poochie are scraping paint off Cha Cha’s garage and talking about Poochie’s girlfriend.

Poochie: She’s really into organic food and all-natural everything. And I’m totally cool with that, but she has to understand that it’s new to me. That’s just not how our family is.

Cha Cha: Well, I don’t eat a lot of meat. And I buy recycled toilet paper.

Poochie: CHA CHA! That’s disgusting!

Cha Cha: Whaa?

Poochie: Seriously. That’s so gross. I can’t believe you buy that stuff. I mean, c’mon – sure, it’s organic, but how they pull it out of the sewers? And then dry it on those long tables?

Cha Cha: Yeah, but those tables are in the sun. So, it’s, like, solar-powered sanitization.

Poochie: Sure, but you know they totally use child labor because kids have little hands to reach down sewer pipes and their olfactory systems aren’t fully developed.

Cha Cha: Is that true?

Poochie: I don’t know. But then, think of all the labor required to roll the toilet paper onto rolls after it’s dried in the sun. Recycled toilet paper is frail enough that that has to be done by hand, too. You’re causing those poor little kids to hand-roll used toilet paper in the hot sun!

Cha Cha: Hmm. I never thought about it like that.

Poochie: They probably don't even get sunscreen. You need to think these things through.

Cha Cha: You’re right. I’m sorry.

... beat ...

Cha Cha: What do you want for lunch?

Poochie: Barbeque.

Status check.

Best indication that I might be working too much
One of the floor-to-ceiling windows near my cube is shattered and covered with a huge piece of plywood. It's been that way since last week.

I noticed it at about 5:45 this evening.

Best indication Guy With Two Dogs might be my soulmate
He makes AWESOME no-bake cookies and then forces me to take some home.

Best indication New Guy I've Been E-mailing might be my soulmate
He suggested that we meet at Dairy Queen.

Best indication that I should quit Corporate Behemoth and become a rock star
I scored a perfect 100% - at the hard skill level - singing Journey's "Any Way You Want It" in Rock Band.

Seriously, people. That's a really hard song. You basically have to have a flip-top head to hold those high notes at the end. I'm like Steve Perry, minus the mullet.

Hot air.

So, what would you do if you discovered that your dog may have peed on your hairdryer?

Welcome to my world.

Lil' Frankfurter still isn't totally housetrained. However, when he does have accidents - well, what I'm calling "accidents," what he's calling "just another bathroom choice" - they are either near the door or in the bathroom.

Right. So, we're getting closer.

Last night he pottied in the bathroom. There was a spot in the middle of the floor, and a puddle between the wall and ... my hairdryer. Because I left my hairdryer on the floor. Because I am a moron.

Now, Lil' Frank has many skillz. If you're looking for a dog to destroy toys or nudge a ball under the bathroom vanity, he is your man. However, I have not seen him display sharpshooting urination skillz. His ability to pee between the hairdryer and the wall without straying from his target is unproven.

There was no obvious urine on the hairdryer. I smelled it, and it smelled like it had been sitting on the floor next to a puddle of pee. Ok, that's to be expected.

And I have an extra hairdryer, so I can just start using that one. But ... what about the hairdryer that may or may not have been peed on? Do I throw it away, adding to the disaster that is our landfill situation? Do I wipe it down and save it for non-hair-related situations that might require ionic drying power? Or do I wipe it down and give it to Goodwill, subjecting some poor, unwitting person to possible urine-tainted hairstyling?

It's a $12 hairdryer from Target. It's not a big loss. It's just a logistical quandary. And the one guy who knows what really happened?

Well, he's not talking.

Everybody's working for the weekend.

Today, I finished a super great excellent wonderful book: The Collection. It's a novel about a seamstress working for Chanel in 1919. There's intrigue and where-is-my-life-going confusion and clothes and parties ... but all told from the point of view of a woman who doesn't buy into it all. She's in love with the art of her craft. She is a seamstress.

In the novel, the main character works freakish hours, even sleeping in the workroom at times. And that, my friends, is something I can relate to at the moment. I worked from home today and just put my computer away about 20 minutes ago - a few minutes after 9. I didn't even get as much done as I had hoped, but I gave a valiant effort.

Like the seamstress, I'm in love with my craft. I love editing. I love the patterns the words make, and the cadence of well-constructed text. I take pride in my ability to see when one of my editors has used a zero instead of a capital O. I believe perfection is possible.

But like the Chanel portrayed in The Collection, I have moments of ... well, blind rage. In the novel, Chanel runs her mouth off and pretty much makes everyone around her upset at one point or another. At Corporate Behemoth, I strive to be supportive and help my editors learn. I keep the rage inside.

But, umm? At about 8:30 tonight, into my 12th hour of editing today? At my third look in 24 hours of the same document from an editor who just isn't quite getting it? I became deliriously happy at the thought of channeling my inner Chanel.

So, courtesy of the lovely author Gioia Diliberto, here are some of Chanel's quotes from The Collection. And, courtesy of my own sick and twisted mind, here are the corresponding things I would say if I had no filter, was really, really drunk all the time and didn't mind having no friends.

Chanel, blowing off a dancer friend: You don't know what you're talking about. You've being doing too many headstands.
Cha Cha, blowing off editorial suggestions from non-editors who may or may not speak English as a second language: You don't know what you're talking about. You've been writing too much html.

Chanel, chastising an employee for her side millinery business: Since you like hats so much, you can stay with them until you die!
Cha Cha, chastising an employee for her repeated use of passive voice: You've been fired.

Chanel, plain old being mean: You're an imbecile ... I can't believe I hired someone so stupid.
Cha Cha: Actually, this one works for both of us. I can't really improve on this. After all, Chanel had style.

Chanel, screaming at a seamstress: What kind of work do you call this? ... At your age, I would have got this skirt right with my eyes closed!
Cha Cha, screaming at an editor: What kind of work do you call this? I haven't taken grammar since eighth grade and even I recognize that "days is" just might be grammatically incorrect! Do you really need to review it a fourth time to catch that? Seriously? And while you're at it, put a space between those sentences. Strangely enough, that's considered standard in written English. Or so I've been told. But don't mind me - and I know you don't, since you skip about every third direction I provide.

Ahh. And that would be my inner monologue, the one that never, ever, ever passes my lips or runs through my fingertips ... until now. Don't tell.

I feel so much better. And like any good afterglow, I think I need a cigarette.

Don't mind me.

About 99.97% of the photos featuring Foxie Doxie feature not a dog, but a brown, possibly furry blur.

Foxie? Not a sedentary sort of dog.

This used to really annoy me - mostly because I felt like I totally had favorites. I had a gazillion photos of the Geriatric Poodle and maybe 2 of Foxie Doxie.

But now that I have joined the modern world and own a digital camera, my photographic outlook has changed. Because of the sheer volume of photos that I take of Foxie and Lil' Frankfurter, I think some of the blurry ones are just marvelous.

Now, this is real hot dog action.

Lil' Frank has the ball ... he's at the 40! He's at the 30! Twenty! Ten ...

Sometimes? I'm too slow and I miss all the action. I have a lot of photos of the floor or the yard.

But other times I end up with something like a graceful watercolor. I just love this photo, so in the tradition of overbearing mothers everywhere, I must implore you: Look at my baby!

Ok, I'm done now. Return to your regularly scheduled programming.

How I spent my Fourth of July vacation.

Basically, I sat on my ass. For two days.

And then, on the third day? I got the home decorating / home improvement / I-am-insane bug.

It wasn't entirely surprising. Last weekend, I cleaned out my closet. And, like, organized my clothes. It looked like this.

That thud you hear is the sound of my mom's unconscious body hitting the floor. I have traditionally not been an organized closet sort of gal.

Also, I'd like to just state for the record that I've worn the same shoe size since fifth grade, my mom and I wear the same size, I always always buy on sale, and included in the pictured collection are treasures such as the shoes my grandma wore to my parents' wedding.

Anyway.

But on the third day of the holiday weekend? I decided I should paint my closet! Because "dirty" isn't a wall color that's terribly fashionable nowadays.

So, I used some paint on hand. Believe it or not, I painted my kitchen - yes, my kitschy kitchen - this shade of pink Fiestaware when I first bought my house. I loved it. And I think it's a lovely background to my armoire.

And the light in the closet?

Yes, that is athletic tape holding it to the ceiling. It was there when I bought the house. Don't judge me.

Well, Mr. Guy With Two Dogs replaced it in exchange for sloppy joes. Now - behold the glory!

The closet wasn't the only bit of craziness. I also got a wild hare about painting the inside of my front door.

See? The white was nice.
But the pop of color? Well, it's better.

Kindly avert your eyes away from the dead leaves on the plant. Sure, I'm a design superstar? But I'm human.

Funny thing about all these quirky little projects. They reflect stuff that I've dreamed of doing for a while, but always figured that they were just the sort of thing you'd have to undo to stage a house for sale. And for about a year, I figured that day was just around the corner, seeing as how The Ex-Boyfriend Formerly Known as Mr. Wonderful and I were on the verge of getting engaged.

Only now do I realize how much of my life I put on hold for that. I didn't paint my closet because I figured I would be moving soon anyway? Seriously?

On one hand, that's really sad. But on the other, it's honest. And by painting my closet the color of Pepto, in some ways I acknowledged that this is my house. It can be whatever I want it to be. And I'm not going anywhere anytime soon, and that's just fine.

Welcome to Monday.

It's been a long day. Everybody seems to have a bit of the long-weekend hangover. I know that I was ready to go to bed at 7 tonight. And yet? Yet, it's after 10 and I'm not really sure what I've been doing.

Well, two things, actually.

1. I watched helplessly as Lil' Frankfurter took a dump in my living room. And yes, I did just let it sit there for about 20 minutes.

But why, Cha Cha?

I was busy. I was reading Entertainment Weekly and eating a cupcake with chocolate frosting. Obviously, puppy poo did not fit into this equation. And I was tired.

2. I spoke with my mom about lots of things, including Creepy Stalker Guy. We decided that I should continue to monitor the situation without responding. But then? Then we determined my road to fame and fortune.

It all started out with an off-hand (and, let's be honest, not entirely true ... but not entirely false) comment about Creepy Stalker Guy getting hit by a bus. But, I don't know any bus drivers. So, I'm going to have to start taking public transportation, get to know some bus drivers, and pick an easily influenced driver to seduce. Then, I'm going to have to do some stalking of my own to figure out Creepy Stalker Guy's routine so that my bus driver can run him down and make it look like an accident. And then my driver will probably be investigated for the accident, and maybe under pressure he'll rat me out, and then I'll be all, "I don't even ride the bus. I have a Honda." And there will be a big uproar that will become a rallying cry for the value of public transportation and it will then become a Lifetime Made for TV Movie: Catch the Bus: The Cha Cha Story, starring Kellie Martin as yours truly and Steve Buscemi as Creepy Stalker Guy. And maybe in a total casting coup, Tori Spelling and her husband, Dean Whats-His-Name would play my dating gurus Alice and Jake - which would be a nice tie-in to Tori's creepy dating Lifetime classic, Mother May I Sleep With Danger.

So, I guess I have been really busy tonight.

Are you effing kidding me?

I received this voicemail tonight.

Cha Cha. Creepy Stalker Guy. You have such a pleasant voice on voicemail - not that you have an unpleasant voice in person. I didn't mean that. But you said if I ever called, you'd answer (1). Umm. So I'm calling. I know you didn't answer, but I'm hoping you'll call me back.

I need match.com advice. It's awful. It's horrible. I got an e-mail from somebody I was supposed to meet and it's meaner than the one that you sent me, that's pretty mean - and crappy (2). It's like the crappiest one ever. I don't know what to do with her.

So, anyway, I'm just a guy looking for guidance. That's it. It's that simple. Umm. And I thought perhaps you could help me and offer some guidance. So, that's the reason I'm calling. If you would like, please give me a call back - 555-1212 - and I look forward to talking to you and just picking your brain, if you don't mind. I'd appreciate that. So. I hope you had a great holiday weekend and like I said I look forward to hearing back from you (3). Bye.

1. I said I'd call him back, yes - but this was before he offered to pay me to go out with him and showed such an utter lack of respect for me and my wishes. Oh, and this was before two months - TWO MONTHS - of annoying texts and e-mails that I haven't responded to.

2. My "mean" e-mail was in response to one he sent me before we met - an e-mail in which he berated me for taking five days to respond to his e-mail. This should have been a red, red flag to me, but, alas.

3. Hold your breath, buddy. Hold your breath.

Happy birthday, America!

To celebrate the fourth, I went to a barbecue at the home of my friend L. There were just four of us, chowing on burgers, drinking lemonade with a little something something in it, and listening to various stories about L.'s relatives blowing shit up.

Now, I grew up in Iowa. Fireworks were (are?) illegal in the great Hawkeye State. There were always folks who drove to Missouri to stock up on bottle rockets and grain alcohol (couldn't get that, either). But I did not come from an illegal fireworks sort of people. Therefore, fireworks make me nervous. I like organized shows, but would never think to buy fireworks to set off myself and hopefully not set my neighbor's house on fire.

In my fair city, it's illegal to shoot off fireworks. So, of course, everyone up and down L.'s street was setting off all variety of explosives. I enjoyed watching the little kid across the street dance and do cartwheels every time he set off a firework. He was so ecstatic that he literally could not hold still. Right on.

L. and our other two friends proceeded to work their way through two big boxes of fireworks in the street while I sat on the porch, feeling rather ... middle-aged. They deemed the bottle rockets boring unless tied together in bunches of three - and even then, they were a bit of a disappointment. The smokebomb thingy? Lame. As these three women discussed the specifics about how they were going to set off a 1/3 stick of dynamite, I realized that I was amongst a bunch of lesbian pyros. I was straight in more ways than one.

Down the street, a colorful cacophony of fireworks went off, and L. proclaimed, "You see? Those are those balls! Balls are the best! Next year, we need to just spend a couple hundred bucks on balls!"

"Totally. It's all about the balls," one of the other pyros agreed. "They are so great!"

The third woman conceded. "Yeah, I'll give you that. Who knew that balls were so important?"

At this point, I raised my hand.

Today's lesson.

First, God created Woman. And it was good.

But then Woman realized she needed companionship. So God created dogs. The dogs and Woman walked every day and cuddled together at night. And it was good.

But then the dogs started killing stuff in the yard and cornering possums. And Woman realized that she could use some assistance with varmint removal. Also, Woman's back was really dry, and she needed someone with opposable thumbs to put lotion on her scaly skin.

Woman needed a man. But not really needed. Just sorta, recreationally needed.

So God brought her Mr. Interwebnets. And while that was fun for a bit, Mr. Interwebnets got all Jesusy, and when Woman told him to hit the road, he e-mailed her an article about finding safe people and using the Bible as a dating guide.

This annoyed even God. So God brought Woman comic relief in the form of Mr. I Want You To Want Me.

Mr. I Want You To Want Me e-mailed and texted Woman every day. Funny, light messages, links to silly videos. And it was good.

Except that Mr. I Want You To Want Me never asked Woman to do anything. He would send a series of messages asking about her plans, noting that he didn't have any himself ... and then would leave it at that. This, after two dates. Two good dates.

This angered God. And because He is a vengeful God, He bestowed upon Woman the realization that Mr. I Want You To Want Me is a twit. And it was good.

But dark forces, much like the possum, entered Woman's world. Creepy Stalker Guy sent her a text that read, "Will you go out with me tomorrow night so that I don't have to go on another match.com first date?"

Woman wanted to hurl. But instead, she vowed that good would triumph over evil.

For further study:
What should Woman do about Creepy Stalker Guy?
Should Woman tell Mr. I Want You To Want Me to move along? Or would God want her to continue to enjoy the electronic comic relief?

Extra credit:
Why are Woman's dogs so gasy? How does evil work through the gastric systems of dachshunds?