The many faces of Foxie.

This afternoon, the CEO of Corporate Behemoth sent out an e-mail, thanking us all for our hard work. And explaining that Corporate Behemoth will be going through restructuring and "extensive position elimination." And wishing us all a good weekend.

And so, I did the stupidly stereotypical female thing: I went shoe shopping. I bought a pair of turquoise flats with big flowers on them.

And now I'm sitting on my couch, watching crap TV and drinking Crystal Light with vodka. Which is, frankly, disgusting.

The CEO's friendly little note wasn't a surprise. But it was just a fitting ending to a rather crappy week. And Foxie Doxie's facial expressions pretty much say it all.

Back in the saddle.

Ugh.

I haven't written in five days and it feels like my brain has atrophied. I am no longer capable of stringing words together in any sort of meaningful, remotely amusing way. I should probably just hang it up.

Or at least make up a good tale about my whereabouts. I was in Rome! Starring in a movie! About pizza!

Or not.

The truth? I had a headache that lasted three days. And then the two days after that? I was busy not having a headache.

But that headache? That brain explosion that actually made me (gasp) take a sick day? I think it was directly tied to your favorite vh1 star and mine, Bret Michaels. I had sympathy pains for his brain aneurysm. Or, as My Guy put it, "You and Bret? You're so on the same wavelength. Your periods would totally be at the same time."

Hmm. What could I possibly add to this post to add more value than that comment?

I wonder if he registered for hair gel.

Last night was Big Stoopid Gala.

I go to this event every year. The first year I attended, I stressed over every last detail of my ensemble. I had a dramatic floor-length gown and three different pairs of earrings to choose from. New shoes. New handbag. I schlepped my computer bag around for a week without the shoulder strap, just I didn't risk bruises on my shoulder. I went all out.

I went all out because I had just broken up with Ex-Ex. And I couldn't afford the new dress and shoes and all the rest of it, but I couldn't afford not to do it. We had both been on the committee for the event. Then, I just stopped getting notices about meetings, and I didn't get asked to do stuff anymore.

You can see where this is going.

Ex-Ex had told the event chairs that I had quit the committee. Which I hadn't.

So, after I stopped literally seeing red, I knew that I had to go to Big Stoopid Gala. And I had to look like a million bucks. And I couldn't flinch when I saw Ex-Ex and the woman he took up with either at the end of our relationship or immediately following it ... I'm trying to give him the benefit of the doubt on that one, but I'm not stupid.

Anyway. I went. I saw him do the tiniest of double takes. His ladyfriend looked like a linebacker in her spaghetti-strap dress. And I have never felt so lonely in my life.

I thought about all of the hours of preparation I put into that first go-round as I threw together my ensemble last night. I think I spent a total of 15 minutes getting ready, and nine of those minutes were spent changing my bra three times.

So, I had a few extra minutes before I had to be out the door. I checked Facebook. Because she is a fickle mistress and I can't quit her, no matter how hard I try.

And guess what that bitch had to tell me?

Ex-Ex is getting married. In less than a month.

Not to his linebacker ladyfriend, but to a woman he's been dating for a year and a half, maybe two.

I read these words and felt my face go numb.

And no, we aren't Facebook friends, but we have mutual friends ... all of whom seem so excited about the upcoming nuptials. And then I saw the Web site where friends and family commented about how thrilled they were for the marriage and celebration. Family, like the couple that I considered my in laws for seven years.

Ex-Ex and I were together for seven years. We talked about marriage. We looked at rings. We looked at rings three times. And I was stubborn and refused to see that it wasn't a healthy relationship, and instead focused on energies on "OMFG, why won't he propose already?"

So, yesterday, when my face went numb? I immediately thought of that scene from When Harry Met Sally when she finds out that her ex is getting married. He said he didn't want to get married ... but really, he just didn't want to marry me. Why didn't he want to marry me? What's wrong with me?

And no, I didn't cry, and no, I don't want him back, and yeah, I don't quite know how I feel about this all. We broke up five years ago. I didn't respond to the e-mails he sent me last summer. Without conscious intent, I have made it clear that I don't want a relationship of any kind with him. So, I suppose he should be excused for not telling me that he's getting married.

But I think I should also be excused for being a bit ... taken aback. And unchatty in my not-new-nor-particularly-attractive ensemble at Big Stoopid Gala. Where he wasn't. Because he's off finalizing plans for his wedding. Which I'm glad doesn't involve me. But I'm still wondering if I should send a card to show what a Big Fucking Lady of Grace and Dignity I happen to be.

I love My Guy, and I love that I could tell him about my recent discovery and he was as befuddled as I was. He even said he thought it was weird that Ex-Ex didn't tell me, and wondered how he would react should his ex-wife ever remarry. All of that shows me that my partner is truly my friend, and an empathetic, caring man to boot.

Speaking of which, I tried to call my dad to put the nail in my mental freak-out coffin, but he wasn't home. So, I channeled him. I figured he would tell me, "What do you care about that mess for, anyway? I still think he's gay. And he's settling for her because he can't have you. You're so much better off."

And he's right.

But I'm still watching When Harry Met Sally for the gazillionth time. You know ... just because.

Taking care of bidness.

Today was Take Your Kid to Work Day.

Perhaps you've heard of it? Or heard the screams associated with it?

There's nothing like TYKTWD first thing in the morning. You have to love the nervous little kids, dressed up and so totally unsure about where they are going and what they are doing. All the kids at Corporate Behemoth get name tags at the security desk and these special little backpacks. It is adorable.

The adorableness continues during Stage One of TYKTWD. A coworker takes her second grader around to interview people. The child in question is wearing a new outfit and her glasses, because she thinks they make her look smart. It works. And her hard-hitting interview?

1. What are you working on?
2. What do you like about working here?
3. What's your favorite color?
4. What's your favorite snack food?
5. What did you want to be when you grew up?

Adorable. She will later make a PowerPoint based on her findings.

Then? Then, we move on to Stage Two of TYKTWD.

Perhaps you've heard of it? The parents start to look a bit haggard, and the kids start to talk louder. They're more comfortable with their surroundings and begin to take certain liberties. Like raiding the candy dish. And sneaking into your cube, whispering, "I've escaped! I'm hiding from my dad!"

Stage Two quickly devolves into Stage Three.

Stage Three is when two little monsters high on candy start loudly rearranging the magnets on your cube while their dad is on a conference call, oblivious, several cubes away. When the dad in question finally a) realizes his offspring are missing; and b) tears himself away from his call to find them rearranging desks, you hear the tell-tale sign that Take Your Kid to Work Day is quickly going to turn into Take Your Kid Home From Work Day.

"Dad! Let's play puppy! Now, I'm a puppy! Arf! Arf! Arf! Arf!"

"No! No, we don't play puppy at the office!"

"Arf! Look at me wag my tail! Arf!"

"Don't you want to watch me talk on the phone?"

"No! I'm a puppy! I want to run!"

"Nooooo ... "

And that's the end of Take Your Kid to Work Day.

Except ... one of my coworkers brought his 6-year-old, a sweet little girl who, once upon a time, was in the same preschool as The Ladybug. You know The Ladybug ... the daughter of The Ex-Boyfriend Formerly Known as Mr. Wonderful.

Sigh.

I had last seen my coworker's daughter during the Christmas pageant that, although held in the sanctuary of a church, had absolutely nothing to do with the birth of our lord and savior. Instead, it was focused solely on Santa. This little girl and The Ladybug were pals. That was two years ago.

And today? Today, my coworker's daughter looked so grown up. I almost commented on how big her feet were, but decided that was rude. Instead, I noted how tall she is getting.

Her dad looked at me quizzically. "Umm ... she's actually the smallest kid in her class by far."

And then I knew that The Ladybug, tall by nature, has probably grown so much in the last year and a half that I might not even recognize her. This, a little girl I thought I would see grow to adulthood.

Truth be told, I have made my peace with Ex-Wonderful. And God knows I'm relieved he's not judging my parenting skills anymore, and I am ecstatic that I no longer have to pretend it's OK when his evil bitch ex-wife looks through me.

But their daughter? Well, my heart still hurts a bit for her.

Ask me stuff. I'll make something up.

Although I'm not always super-awesome or even marginally awesome at responding to comments here, I love them. Looooove them. And I read each and every one. Thank you all for stopping by and leaving your two cents.

The kids thank you as well. They show their appreciation via this gratuitous doxie shot.
So, we decided to play another exciting round of Comment Round-Up today. Gather 'round!

First up? Not a question, but a comment from Cyndi B.:

Cha Cha...I always know that when I'm feeling crappy, you'll post something that gives me a giggle. Thanks and have a great weekend!

Aww ... thanks! One woman's exhausted ramblings are another woman's entertainment.

Screaming for Chocolate asked:

...can you change your comment thing to allow other than google accounts? Please? ;)

You got it.

On my book report about Street Gang, Gertrude commented:

Do you have Sesame Street: Unpaved? It's a really interesting behind-the-scenes look at the show - and makes a nice coffee table book too!
Dude. I totally have that book and love it! One year, my friend Sherrie and I gave each other that book for Christmas - and it wasn't planned. We just both have excellent taste. While Street Gang is more about the stories behind the show, Unpaved is about the actual show, full of pictures and songs you forgot you knew. Love them both.

Lovely Iowa girl A piece of news lamented:

I miss the photo of you holding the dog. Will that ever be reinstated or must the mourning begin? Did I miss the announcement? Is it just my browser?

Oh, it's not your browser. I just figured that after a year, people were probably sick of looking at my ass. But I guess not. So, ask and you shall receive!

Hope505 asked another pressing question:

Hey btw question of the week: do you pronounce your blog nude-la-roo or noodlerooo? or something else..!? I have always wondered. ...

Oh, pronunciation is always tricky. Sometimes I get nervous that I am mispronouncing basic words. Or that I'm using a family-only pronunciation. Like, for the longest time, Poochie pronounced "ambulance" as "ann-ee-blintz." To this day, I have to concentrate any time I have to use that word.

What were we talking about again?

Oh, right. Noodleroux. It's "noodle-roooooo." What started out as a nickname for Foxie Doxie has morphed into this powerhouse media conglomerate. Who woulda thunk?

My invisible friend asked:

Why did you post that crazy post about your boobs and fried chicken? Have you ever heard of "oversharing?"

Yes, I've heard of "oversharing." See also: my crazy Facebook friend / high school classmate Sandra (who, coincidentally, recently posted that she's getting divorced for the fourth time. I've never even been married - how will I ever catch up?).

I posted the crazy post about my boobs and fried chicken to raise a little dinero for Susan G. Komen for the Cure - just leave a comment at the post and BlogHer will donate a $1! But mostly, I posted it because maybe it will help somebody. Maybe it will help me make sense of the whole deal. And maybe I just like talking about my rack, OK?

Next question?

Commitment.

This weekend, it finally happened.

Yes. Puppypalooza.

My Guy's two labradoodles - Big Lab and Bigger Lab - met Foxie Doxie and Lil' Frankfurter.

Let's review the starting line-up:
Big Lab: 70 pounds
Bigger Lab: 100 pounds
Foxie Doxie: 12 pounds
Lil' Frank: 7 pounds

Lil' Frank would like me to point out that while he's the size of a ferret, those seven pounds are pure muscle.

So, I took the doxies over to My Guy's house. His dogs were in the back yard. There was sniffing through the fence. Then? Then, I unleashed Doxie Madness upon Labradoodle Nation.

There was general sniffing. Lil' Frank was terrified of Bigger Lab and scuttled around, trying to avoid him. And then?Then, Foxie Doxie took a dump. Lil' Frank - despite the slow-motion movements and screams of "Noooooo ..." by yours truly and My Guy - ate it in one disgusting gulp.

I guess I'm going to have to revisit my updated version of Twisted Sister's "We're not gonna take it." Perhaps you've heard of my version? It's called "We're not gonna eat poop."

So, My Guy and I made mental notes not to let Lil' Frank kiss us. And then we all played tennis ball. The end.OK, not quite. Foxie secured the perimeter nonstop, which is another way of saying that in usual Foxie style, he ignored the other dogs since no one happened to be on leashes. Instead, he just trotted along the fence.

And Lil' Frank? Well, he played ball with Big Lab and Bigger Lab. It was just like watching a little kid try to play with big kids, except minus the frustration. Lil' Frank never got the ball, but he didn't seem to care. He just ran alongside his labradoodle companions and managed not to get stomped. We tried a two-ball system, where one ball was for the big kids and a second ball was thrown a moment later for Lil' Frank, and it worked for a while. But mostly, he was interested in being a part of the pack.As for My Guy and me? Well, we've been seeing each other for almost a year, so it was about damn time the kids met. We decided it was a wild success - nobody got bit, nobody got rabies, and everybody got really, really tired.

Also? We could, conceivably, in like 40 years, live together. Like The Brady Bunch. But furrier.

Corporate wardrobe roundup.

It's been unseasonably warm the last 10 days, and you know what that means.

Yes. Unfortunate fashion choices abound at Corporate Behemoth.

I can forgive the white pants even though it's early April. But I can't help but cast a critical eye on the sandals.

Strappy sandals? OK. But thongs? Really? Not appropriate in a corporate environment.

Also? I'm a horrible person, but ... if you have really gnarly feet? Don't wear sandals to work. Seriously. Because even in the coldest, darkest depths of next winter, I will look at you and think, "Eww."

Speaking of fashion emergencies ... my coworkers and I visited a call center today. It was "Leisurewear Day," which is evidently corporatespeak for "Pajama Day." We saw a lot of overweight people in pajama pants. But one of the supervisors told us that even "Leisurewear Day" required some guidelines.

"Basically, if you can see down it, up it, or through it, don't wear it!" he announced.

So true. And not just on Leisurewear Day. Every day.

Which brings me to the boobs.

If you haven't already, visit my racktacular post and leave a comment to raise money for Susan G. Komen for the Cure.

But what does this have to do with Corporate Behemoth?

See, there's this woman who works on my floor. She's maybe in her late twenties. I'm thinking she might have had a baby in the last few years. And she ... well, she could use a new bra.

Seriously. They shouldn't be grazing your belt when you're under 30.

And I don't mean to be mean or hypercritical, but I think, "Ohmygod! I can help you! Go to Katie at Nordstrom and she will fit you properly and then you'll know what size you need and then you can buy bras anywhere! You'll have a new outlook on life and will look 20 pounds lighter! Your current bras make you look haggard! And nobody likes haggard boobs!"

But I don't know this woman at all. And I think I would probably get fired if I followed my gut instinct and just grabbed her knockers and propped them up as I passed her in the hall. I wouldn't mean it creepy-like - just more of a "Now, isn't that better?" I'd be a goodwill ambassador for proper bra fittage.

No?

Yeah, I'd probably get fired, good intentions or not.

At least My Guy supports me. His comment? "People need to know about lift and separate!"

Suck it, Marjorie.

Like any human with a beating heart, I'm so glad to see Betty White get the mad props she so rightly deserves. It's great to see her at the pinnacle of her popularity - and her wicked sense of humor - at 88 years old. I trust you have your DVR set for her Saturday Night Live hosting gig in May. I know I do.

However, with all the love lavished on The Golden Girls, it's easy to forget another seminal girl-power sitcom of the 80s. Of course I'm talking about Designing Women.

I loved this show. Loved it. Watched it every Monday night. And I was truly sad to hear of Dixie Carter's passing.

In her honor, and just because it's so, so good, here's my favorite Dixie Carter moment.



And let's be honest. I have, at times, borrowed Julia Sugarbaker's delivery style. I learned a lot about being a strong woman from her. And one day, I, too, hope to have the occasion to announce, "And that, Marjorie, just so you will know, and your children will someday know, is the night. The lights. Went out. In Georgia!"

Because a girl can dream. Kind of like how I dream about one day being interviewed about lava. And I will look thoughtfully at the camera and say, "Lava? That's some hot shit."

What do you dream of saying?

--

Don't forget to check out my boobtacular diatribe about fried chicken. Leave a comment and raise money for Susan G. Komen for the Cure!

KFC chicken racktacular.

There are two things I love in this world: fried chicken and talking about my rack.

Now, I can finally combine my two loves into one blog post.

You know you want to learn more. Go here. Trust me.

Social media tutorial.

My brilliant friend A. and I were having lunch yesterday, chatting about all things media and marketing. Because she is brilliant and works in marketing. And I pretend I know what I'm talking about.

The topic of social media came up. Evidently, she has a coworker who thinks you can just tell people not to tell other people that you've posted something on a social media site. And that's an effective way to hide the thing that you posted ... on a social media site.

Sounds a lot like our beagle who thought that when she hid her head under the couch that she was invisible.

And it made me think of - what else? - a little Facebook debacle.

Anybody remember my high school classmate Sandra? She's the one who might have done time for embezzlement but didn't want to pay $18 to attend our reunion.

Not judging. Just providing background.

Sandra posts on Facebook several times a day. She posts her horoscope and psychic reading and lover of the day and her thoughts on being denied visitation with her grandkids.

Grandkids. Plural.

Anyway. Sandra really outdid herself a few days ago. Her Facebook status read, "I'm so sick of people knowing all of my business!"

Umm? You do realize how this Facebook thing works, right?

But today? Today, she posted, "I'm a freak between the sheets!"

And that's how you keep people from knowing all your business.

Things that are awesome.

I have a birthday coming up next month. I turn 35.

Admittedly, I've felt a little weird about 35. You can't pretend that an age that ends with a five is still in the early realm of a decade. Thirty-five means I'm solidly in my mid-thirties. Solidly in my thirties ... and still not having much of a clue. I'm not quite sure where I thought I'd be by 35, but I'm pretty sure this isn't it. Now, I kind of like where I am ... but I'm still getting used to the idea of not having a plan and figuring out as I go along.

Existential crisis for one, please!

Last night, My Guy and I went out for Chinese food. The restaurant was busy, and we were seated next to a table of four couples, all in their late 70s to early 80s. The girls sat at one end of the table, and the boys at the other. The boys were talking about sports, and the girls were gossiping and laughing.

It just made me happy. It made me miss my grandparents. And it made me realize that it doesn't matter what your chronological age might be - when you're with your friends, you're still about 20.

And then the harried waitress took our order. When I ordered a glass of wine, she asked for my ID. This alone delighted me, and I chalked it up to my baby-faced boy toy, who is four and a half years younger than I am.

But alas, no! The waitress looked at my ID. And started giggling and apologizing. "I'm so sorry! You look so young! I'm so sorry! Your skin - so young!"

Like I said: AWESOME.

Hard-hitting Easter news coverage.

Oh, so much to report!

My sweet mama worked with the Easter Bunny so that Poochie and I had Easter baskets a week early. Evidently, the Easter Bunny understood my only-yellow-Post-Its lament. Behold the colorful array of adhesive notes!

Note, too, the design with the dachshund looking into a pool. They say, "Once that wiener hits the pool it's gonna shrink up to nothin'." Ha!

I wasn't the only one celebrating Easter. The holiday means resurrection, eggs ... and singing frogs.

Before Easter, Krampus went to church to help set the altar - like any good Episcopal amphibian would.

He practiced singing in the choir.

And then he picked up some new shoes to complement his Easter ensemble.
But all of that running (hopping?) made for one exhausted Krampus. The holidays are stressful, and a smart frog is a frog who takes care of himself.

Yes, that's Krampus on a massage table. Of course. Ahh.

And really? How awesome is my mom? Seriously.

Glitz, glamour, and home ownership.

Yesterday, I decided to rake a few leaves. It was my first foray into spring lawn maintenance, and I was on a home ownership high. Basking in hot water from my new water heater is totally to blame.

So, I cleaned up my flower beds and raked along the fence line. I uncovered a giant toad, which made me laugh until I realized that I might also uncover a snake. Not so funny.

And then? Then, I turned to the oft-forgotten landscaping alongside my garage. You know that landscaping - the prickly bushes surrounded by cheap, broken edging? The area with the giant clumps of grass and multiple volunteer trees popping through the crappy old mulch? That landscaping?

Right.

Now, just let me say that this was all the doing of the previous homeowner. Crappy plastic edging that is supposed to look like wood but really looks like crappy plastic is not my taste. And for the last three and a half years, I've wanted to pull it out, clean out the bed, and get things right. And yesterday was just the sort of day when a tiny bit of leaf removal snowballs into a major project.

I pulled up the edging. I dug up weeds and grass and crappy mulch. I dug and dug and dug up volunteer trees - which, really? Shouldn't be called volunteer trees. They should be called thug trees. They are not welcome and aren't good for property values.

Now, it's spring and the weather is beautiful, and this weekend was ideal for working outside. But let's go back to one very important detail: the bushes in this bit 'o landscaping have thorns.

So, not only am I practically unable to walk from all of this work, but I'm also scratched all to hell. Yes, I was wearing long sleeves and long pants. Yes, I have a deep sliver in my foot that I can't get out. Yes, my arms look like I was attacked by a rabid cat.

So, the whole time I was trying to hold back these thorny bushes while digging up weeds and staking landscaping cloth, I was also composing a letter. At first, it was just to the crazy lady who lived in my house before me. She's the one who used giant wall anchors to hold up the hook that held her Swiffer. I've felt animosity for her before, but this time, I feel that this is really more of a global issue. So, this is an open letter to the homeowners of America.

Dear Homeowners,

Do not, under any circumstances, plant bushes, shrubs, or foliage of any sort that has thorns, stickers, or any pokey kind of appendage. Sure, the plants might look nice. They might even be on sale. But unless you are immortal and / or in a seriously sick and sad immovable funk, someone else will live in your house after you do. And if you have bushes or shrubs with thorns or stickers? That person will hate you. And karma's a bitch.

Love,
Cha Cha

So, bad attitude, destroyed flesh, and stiff muscles aside, I managed to complete the landscaping. And with the exception of My Guy's assistance in loading the edging into and out of my car, I did it all by myself.

New pavers as trim? Check. Fresh new mulch? Check. Exhausted yet hideously inflated ego? Check.
I felt a great sense of accomplishment until I rounded the corner after cleaning up the last of my mess.

And I found this.
And these.
Foxie Doxie is not a digger. But it's almost like karma is preventing me from getting too big for my home ownership britches. I'm so tired, though, that I just left the hole. I left it, and went inside and almost made myself sick eating Starburst jellybeans. Happy Easter!

Good Friday indeed.

I was scanning some old blog posts recently and came across a little something mentioning that my hot water heater was on its last legs.

This post was dated Oct. 7, 2008.

And I've been living with that hot water heater for the last year and a half. Baths supplemented with water boiled on the stove? Yep. Knowing that my showers are done when the water runs out? Check. Resisting conditioning my hair for fear that the hot water would be gone when it was time to rinse?

Sadly, yes.

I had the ability to get a new water heater. I know how to drive to Home Depot. I can find someone to install the beast, and can even play dumb and pretend I don't know I'm supposed to get a permit.

It just wasn't ever high on my list of Fun Stuff to Do. In fact, it was pretty high on my list of Crappy Shit You Spend Time and Money On Because You're an Adult.

Also on this list? Dehumidifiers, gutters, and shaving.

But then! My Guy must have gotten sick and tired of my occasional, unobtrusive, completely not bitchy or complainy comments about the water heater. And he offered to just make it happen.

Which he did.

Goodbye, you old hag.
Hello, you sexy, 40-gallon beast.
I've already taken a shower. I must say, I laughed through most of it because the water was actually hot. And doing dishes tonight? Well, I had to pull my hand out of the sink because the water pretty much seared my flesh. It was fantastic! I see a weekend of hot baths, tea not made with the teapot, but just hot water out the tap, and freakishly long showers.

And how awesome is My Guy? I'm making him sloppy joes in gratitude, but it barely scratches the surface.

Your skin is like velvet.

Yesterday, I came home to find another annoying flier taped to my door. Instead of lawn care, this one was for Avon. From my Neighborhood Avon Lady.

Except, upon further inspection, I discovered that my Neighborhood Avon Lady is named Brad.

It never occurred to me that men could be Avon Ladies. And I bet they don't even call them Avon Ladies anymore. And Mary Kay Ladies? Probably Mary Kay Consultants now. It all makes me feel hopelessly behind the times - and guilty. I am sexist and I didn't even realize it. I am part of the problem!

However, let's be honest - if Brad is the doting sort of Avon Lady, he could pretty much sell anything. A well-timed "Honey, you look di-VINE" could make all the difference.

But that also got me thinking about other jobs where, if you saw a man, you'd sort of freak. Can we beat The Office's recent male lactation consultant? I guess only male wet nurses would be more outrageous. What do you think?