What? WHAT?

I ran to the grocery on my way home tonight. The guy behind me in the express line looked at my basket and then gave me a withering look.

He was a 50-something guy with not one, but two bags of brown sugar.

And I was a 30-something woman who was buying these three items:

• Honey Maid Graham Crackers
• Betty Crocker Triple Chocolate Frosting
• Tampax

Dammit.

Don't you hate it when you realize stereotypes are stereotypes for a reason?

Shit.

My Guy: Lover, wordsmith.

My Guy, after Lil' Frankfurter, he of the mystery digestive ailment where the product looked like poo but was actually vomit, attempted to lick my sweet fiance's leg:

Stop it! Stop kissing me with your barfy mouth!

Yes, I do have a future as a wedding planner.

My Guy and I are getting married in less than two months. And I'm pretty sure I haven't turned into Bridezilla - yet.

Tonight, we spent about five minutes trying to figure out why we missed 30 Rock last week. What in the world were we doing that we missed Liz breaking up with Matt Damon? What could possibly be that important?

Oh, right. We were buying wedding bands.

Late. Because eight weeks might not be enough when you have a freakishly small finger and have to have your ring not sized, but custom-made.

Oh well. If it isn't done in time, the lady promised they'd give us a loaner ring.

And yesterday, when I went to the post office to buy stamps for the invitations?

Well, I figured I'd buy the LOVE stamps. But funny thing - you can't really buy LOVE stamps on Valentine's Day - they were sold out. Color me surprised.

Now, I don't know about your post office, but my post office is staffed entirely by Tired Black Ladies Who Have Had Enough. They are generally intimidating as they look over their glasses at you, like they just know that you've got both liquids AND perishables in that box, and don't even try to pretend otherwise, missy.

But yesterday? TBLWHHE #1 suggested I go for the wedding band stamps in lieu of the LOVE stamps. There was no one else in the post office, so she wasn't quite as tired and over it as usual.

Wedding ring stamps? Could I be so stereotypical?

Yeah, whatever. They're stamps. Big deal.

Except ... TBLWHHE #1 didn't have enough stamps - she needed Tired Black Lady Who Has Had Enough #2 to come off break to get more out of the safe, and TBLWHHE #2 wasn't done with her break yet, thank you.

Now, pretty much everything you read about wedding planning says not to sweat the small stuff. So I tried it yesterday.

"Well, maybe I could go halvsies with the rescue animal stamps."

TBLWHHE #1 looked at me over her glasses. "Are you kidding me?"

"Umm, well, I like animals ..."

At this point, TBLWHHE #1 lost her shit, and called out to TBLWHHE #2. "Girl, are you kidding me? She wants shelter animals on her wedding invitations. Wedding invitations!"

At this point, TBLWHHE #2 had to come off her break early to join in. "What? Are you serious?"

TBLWHHE #1 was serious as a heart attack. "Uh-hmm."

At this point, I could feel myself turning beet red. But at least I was laughing as TBLWHHE #2 came back from the safe with the wedding ring stamps. "Honey, you put shelter animals on your wedding invites, ain't nobody gonna open 'em." Then, she turned to her co-worker. "Shelter animals? On wedding invitations? Woo-wee!"

I thanked the ladies for keeping me on the right track. And then I sat in my car and wondered how a bride could be so inept.

Later, though, I was reminded yet again that I am marrying totally the right man. I regaled My Guy with the tale of the stamps. His reaction?

"They're fucking stamps! Nobody gives a shit!"

Which I thought was hilarious and grounding and wonderful. Maybe when this is all over, we can start our own wedding planning business and call it Nobody Gives a Shit Weddings. Because as long as you're hitched, the food doesn't suck, and the drinks are free? Nobody gives a shit.

AmIright?

Down but not out.

Hoo-wee. It's been a rough week.

I totally forgot both a hair appointment and an appointment with the periodontist. Now, most people would like to forget an appointment with the periodontist, but I actually really like the nice lady with the thick Chinese accent who is my hygienist. She left a very sad message on my voicemail this morning. "Cha Cha? It's Wabecca. You ha a dentwal kweening towday. If you need tow rescheduwall, caw ..."

She sounded so hurt, and I truly like her. It broke my heart. But I thought it was tomorrow!

And the hair appointment? Well, I would make a hair appointment even if I were on my deathbed. But this week? I totally spaced it. And my sweet, crazy stylist left me a message asking if I was hurt, because I never, ever miss.

Again? Broke my heart. I'm so sorry! I'm sorry my brain is mush!

I think the applesauce-like consistency of my brain matter is a testament to how very, very worried I was about Antoine the TBD Breast Lump. And how my subconscious is still spending a whole lotta energy working it all out.

Plus, if we're honest? I ran around doing all sorts of stuff like vacuuming and moving heavy stuff on Monday, so Tuesday I was in so much pain and so tired that I could hardly function. Pacing myself? Taking it easy? Whaa?

The truth is that I'm just mad as hell. I'm mad that I had to deal with Antoine in the first place. I'm mad that I'm still sore. I'm mad that our new house seems to be Casa de Canine Bodily Fluids. And I'm mad that when I finally broke down sobbing last night over the gross unfairness of fibrocystic breast disease and the proliferation of doggie diarrhea that we are so unsettled and such white trash that I had to blow my nose on toilet paper.

All of those things were cause for equal disdain. Yeah, I know. Maybe I need to chill a little bit. But I'm working through it.

I'm trying to redirect my energies to more positive, encouraging thoughts. Like coercing, umm, I mean, convincing the good people of Mattel to take advantage of the social media juggernaut noodleroux by giving me Krystle and Alexis Barbies.

Think of all of the adventures the ladies of Dynasty will have! I'm pretty sure we could hook Foxie Doxie up with some sort of harness and they could ride him like a horse. Mattel, isn't that enough of an enticement?

The Golden Dream Barbies came out of their Suitcase of 80s Awesomeness to depict some of the fun that could be had if only Krystle and Alexis came to live with us.

Here they are celebrating the good news about Antoine the TBD Breast Lump.

They went to the discotheque and got their groove - and their circa-1980 pantsuits - on.

There's something very Linda Evans about these Barbies, don't you think? The Golden Dreams and the Carringtons are kindred spirits! Think of all the fun they could have together!

And? Well, I didn't want to play this card, but one of the reasons I'd really like Krystle and Alexis to join our clan is to mentor the Golden Dream Barbies.

As you can see, the Golden Dreams didn't survive the 80s with quite the grace and style as the Carringtons.

This is what happened when My Guy attempted to help me depict the Golden Dreams working on the computer.

It's not that kind of Web site! Pull yourself together!

So, Mattel? It's not just me. Think of it as outreach to the aged Barbies, the Barbies who have years of dedicated service but the tired-ass wardrobe to prove it. These Barbies don't need a hand out - they need a hand up. A Barbie sister who has it all together - a Barbie sister like Krystle or Alexis. But preferably both.

Think about it, Mattel.

Fiber what?

It's a time of great gratitude here at noodleroux.

No, Mattel hasn't contacted me yet about the Krystle and Alexis Barbies. In fact, when I mentioned it to My Guy, he said, "You want them to send you a Lexus? What?"

So, I'll keep on that.

But the real gratitude?

Antoine the TBD Breast Lump is a fibroadenoma. Read: benign. Read: no further treatment. Read: holycrapthankyouthankyouthankyou.

A fibroadenoma is a basically a lump of normal breast cells that just decided to live together a little too close. Like a commune. But not like, say, Branch Davidians. More like your hippie uncle who's really into organic farming.

The lumpectomy I had 12 years ago was for a fibroadenoma. But let's talk about medical advances. Now, 12 years later, I just had a fibroadenoma vacuumed out. Sure, my boob is all bruised and looks like a tiny melon baller took a notch out of it. But I didn't have to go under, and I won't have an inch-and-a-half-long scar.

Whew.

Funny thing? It's not just "Whew! Let's move on." Processing good news takes time and energy to process, just like processing not-so-good news.

I'm exhausted. Thankful, but exhausted.

An open letter to the good people of Mattel.

So, I spent several days shuffling around my house, muttering about how much my boobs hurt. Because OMG, they totally did. Also? I went down a bra size. But only on one side. How convenient.

But in the midst of my mumbling and moaning and aimless surfing, I discovered my new heart's desire.

Yes. Mattel is making Krystle and Alexis Barbies.

You know, Krystle and Alexis, from Dynasty?

I know!

Now, I wasn't a huge fan of the show ... I was, like, 7. But let's be honest: my Barbies dreamt of nothing but emulating the look of Dynasty. Barbie changed her clothes at least four times a day. And who's to say evening gowns aren't appropriate at midday? Not my Barbies, that's for sure.

Mattel? Let me level with you. If you send me these Barbies, I will feature them in this here super popular blog that's read by at least three people - four people if you count my mom.

Krystle and Alexis won't ruin their gowns by reenacting their famous pond wrestling match. No. At noodleroux, Krystle and Alexis will star in photo essays showcasing their many adventures - and their fabulous looks.

They'll explore my new backyard in my 1981 Pink Barbie Corvette. I even still have the seat belts, so no worries about safety. Nothing but the best for Krystle and Alexis.

The girls will also tackle tough home improvement projects, like decorating a dream house and replacing a bathroom fan that only turns off for about four minutes every day. Can't picture Alexis wielding a wrench? Just wait. And no, she won't muss her hair. She's Alexis Colby, dammit!

But lest you think that heiresses are homebodies, just wait. Ever wonder if the Carrington women buy skim or 2%? Let's go to the grocery and find out!

Now, I know, Mattel. You're probably wondering what qualifies me to properly care for and - let's be honest - handle strong-willed Krystle and Alexis. And that's a fair question. But I will tell you this: my favorite Barbie ever was Golden Dream Barbie.

She looks like she should have been on Dynasty, no? Or maybe Solid Gold. But totally Dynasty.

I loved Golden Dream Barbie so much that when my brother played with her when I was at school, and he left her out, and our cocker spaniel got a hold of her and chewed her foot off? I got another Golden Dream Barbie - but I just couldn't abandon my first Golden Dream. So I talked my mom into switching the heads with another Barbie. And then I had twin Golden Dream Barbies, with double the understated 80s glam.

They were my own Krystle and Alexis. Big-haired, resilient and fabulous.

So, Mattel? Consider it. Think about all of the good times the real Krystle and Alexis can have here at noodleroux. Make my dreams come true!

Fabulous images courtesy of barbiecollector.com. Less-than-fabulous image courtesy of flicker because I can't find my Barbies in my current partially-moved-and-taking-painkillers state.

Champion of the world!

Thank you all for your kind words and positive thoughts. They made such a difference!

Today, My Guy drove me, El Cysto, El Nino, and Antoine the TBD Breast Lump through a foot of snow to go get our aspiration and biopsy on.

Now, not to brag, but ...
If growing cysts were an Olympic sport? I would totally be a gold medalist. And the peoples would carry me on their shoulders through the streets, causing my cyst-laden boobies to bounce painfully.

Between El Cysto and El Nino, the doctor removed 75 cc's of liquid.

That's a third of a cup of liquid that was stretching my skin and generally just being a bitch. And the cysts kept refilling while they were being aspirated. Like, the doctor, the tech, and I were all laughing because it was so absurd. And if I didn't laugh, I would cry hysterically. If the cysts just never stop refilling, my initial idea to just live with them doesn't seem to be doctor-approved. I would have to have the cysts surgically removed.

Dude. I'm fucking getting married. Fat fucking chance.

And then Antoine? He's still of unknown origin. They poked around and finally vacuumed him out.

Seriously. For a moment, I thought that I should have totally been like Dalton in Roadhouse and been all, "Pain don't hurt" and do it myself with the trusty 30-year-old Electrolux. Surely there's an attachment for this, right?

But I was already there, so I just let the doc do it. Then, they inserted a piece of titanium into Antoine's former home, so they can track it via mammogram. Then the tech wiped all the blood and goo off of my chest, wrapped me in an ace bandage, and sent me home.

I made My Guy stop on the way home so I could get a cheeseburger and fries. For someone who hardly ever eats meat, I have an alarming track record of requiring burgers when faced with health challenges.

So I got a week's worth of sodium from one convenient meal, went home, and went to bed. One of the doxies smells like fish, and the labradoodles are tracking snow everywhere. I have to wear the bandage for 24 hours, and I'm supplementing my much-needed Tylenol with much-needed red wine. But mostly? Mostly, I'm relieved, and exhausted. And really tired.

But it's the exhaustion of a champion.

Mark Spitz and his bitchin' 'stache courtesy of si.com.