In case you were wondering.

The rumors true. I am bringing sexy back.

While my stress-fracture-induced limp is mostly gone, I've added a new weapon to my arsenal. It involves oozing.

See, I had two moles removed on Friday. Because even though I stay away from the sun and wear SPF 20,000, I still have questionable skin issues. These questionable skin issues left me with stitches on my arm and leg.

Yesterday, the wound on my arm started to really hurt. And I was up for three freakin' hours in the middle of the night, unable to sleep due to the heat and pain from my arm.

Oh, and the oozing blisters. Did I mention those?

I went back to the dermatologist and got in for a wound check with a different doc than the one I usually see. This new doc had a picture of some sort of maharishi-looking dude on the wall of his exam room and had this horrific Muzak piped in. Now, I know pretty much every song ever. But even I couldn't identify this music. It was sort of like Glen Campbell, if Glen Campbell a) weren't cool; and b) were a dying egret.

I spent 90 seconds with the doc. I'm having an allergic reaction to ointment. The blisters are fantastic.

I feel disgusting and defective. Also, depressed. And itchy.

However, today is the greatest day of Lil' Frankfurter's life. I fell asleep while watching The Price Is Right, and he cuddled with me all the way through Maury. I do believe in the healing power of dachshund love.

Also? I believe there's nothing like Jerry Springer to put things in perspective. Today, a very southern mama admonished her physically violent daughter. "Don't you swat my hand away! You know I was a wrestler and I will take you out!"

Who's the damned fool now?

My Guy was married before. I've never met his ex, and it sounds like she just wasn't ready to be married. She was young. She didn't know herself.

Lookit me, all Mother Teresa and shit.

So, I'm sorry that she crushed My Guy's soul, but I also don't lose sight of the fact that I'm the big winner here. And sooooo emotionally healthy.

Ahem.

So, when My Guy and I merged households (coming soon to a Hoarders episode near you), I came into some wedding gifts that weren't from our wedding. They were from his first wedding.

Hmm. Since this means we don't have to write thank-you notes for them, I'm cool with it.

So, yesterday, I had to take a salad to a party. And I was running late. But I figured I could be the belle of the potluck ball by taking my salad not in my hoboesque Tupperware, but in a fancy wooden salad bowl. It was part of the not-my-wedding bounty.

As I prepped the salad - running late, of course - My Guy passed through the kitchen. "Wow - if you're using that bowl, that's the first time it's ever been used. My ex hated it, even though she registered for it."

My inner Mother Teresa gave way to my typical snark. Why, it would be a cryin' shame to have such a lovely wooden salad bowl and hate it! And not even use it once? Well, that girl was a fool. A damned fool.

I finished the salad and began covering it with self-satisfaction and Saran Wrap. And that's when I noticed. That the bowl. Was leaking.

My homemade salad dressing was pooling on the counter, running off the edge and drooling down the cabinets. It was coming to a final rest on the floor, in front of a thrilled Lil' Frankfurter, who was lapping it up and probably getting instant diabetes.

I stepped away from the kitchen.

I stood in the doorway to the family room.

"Just FYI," I told my husband. "If I smoked, I would totally light up right now."

It just seemed like the best course of action. Giving myself emphysema was far better than admitting that maybe there was a reason why My Guy's ex left him the salad bowl.

I'm trying to figure out a way to give it to my exes.

Why I don't work at Hallmark.

I've been writing thank-you notes for wedding gifts. As one lady working the bridal registry at a big-box retailer pointed out to me, "You have to write thank yous after your wedding or nobody will give you baby gifts!"

Ugh.

I'm a writer. And I am a huge fan of the hand-written thank-you note. So, this should be easy for me. However, it's getting really old. I've written about 40 notes. I have 21 to go ... not that I'm counting. And My Guy? He's written 4.

I refuse to write the cards to his family. Just on general principle.

Writing so many thank yous has me getting a bit slap happy. While there are certain people who will appreciate receiving a note with a touch of delirium in it, most of these cards need to be fairly straight.

I've started fantasizing about what I'd really like to say.

Oh, yeah.

Dear My Friend's Lunatic Boyfriend,

We had a nice wedding even though you were there. However, we will never understand why you refused to leave your gift at the gift table and instead insisted on interrupting My Guy moments before the ceremony to hand him the gift personally. Considering the gift was a photo of us standing in a parking lot? We are not impressed.

I'm glad my friend is happy but, for a myriad of reasons, the girls kind of wish you'd drop dead.

Love,
Cha Cha

Whoo! That felt good!

Dear Cheap-Ass Coworker,

It's totally a cute idea to give cake pans and a cake mix together as a gift. And your handmade card had a cake on it, too. Cute! But considering that the cake mix is for two cake rounds and you only gave us one round cake pan that was not at all expensive? Now, I just think you suck.

Love,
Cha Cha

Totally on a roll ...

Dear My Guy's Aunt and Uncle,

You gave us paper mache orbs that have sayings on them like "Peace" and "Harmony." I'm so glad you were able to take advantage of that clearance sale at Kirklands. My Guy and I refer to your gift as "Jesus Bocce Ball."

Love,
Cha Cha

Whew. Like a refreshing sorbet, that totally just cleansed my palate.

Livin' the dream.

Many of you have asked for a doggie update. Just how is my own personal Brady Bunch-style blended family getting along?

If you asked me this yesterday, I would have said that everybody is great. Big Doodle and Lady Doodle are all mellow-like. Foxie Doxie is busy securing the perimeter of our new backyard. And Lil' Frankfurter? Well, he's still the devil. But he's cute.

So, you know, we're working through it all. Everybody is getting along.

But ask me today how the pups are doing? And I will tell you this:

I have a stress fracture in my foot. This means that I have only four - yes, four - pairs of shoes that don't cause excruciating pain. Of my extensive shoe collection, I have FOUR pairs of shoes that I can wear. And only three of those pairs are suitable for Corporate Behemoth.

Four pairs of shoes. Got it?

So, this morning, when I was getting ready for work, I noticed something shiny on the floor in front of my closet. And inside my closet.

Dog pee.

I figured Lil' Frank had peed. But no such luck.

Lady Doodle - she of the ginormous bladder - peed in my closet.

Now, we're afraid she might have a UTI, and we're taking her to the vet. I am a compassionate person.

However. She peed in my closet. Oceans of pee. And those four pairs of shoes that I can currently wear? One and a half of those pairs are now in the garage, awaiting some sort of dog urine stink purification ceremony. This ceremony might involve being pitched in the trash. But whatever.

My Guy was obviously handling me with kid gloves. "Babe," he said, "we can totally buy you new shoes. You need shoes."

This is a kind offer. But it's the principle of the thing. You just don't go peeing in a girl's closet, especially not on a Monday morning. Seriously.

Facebook is crazy and so am I, episode 5287.

This week, one of my FB friends has been posting like crazee. The perpetrator? My first love, the college boy who broke my heart into a gazillion pieces.

The posts in question? Photos of his newborn daughter. Comments gushing about how he didn’t think it was possible, but in the first 4 hours of her life, she got even more beautiful. Photos of them snuggling. He was lit up like a Christmas tree.

It was really sweet. My heart was glad for him.

And then it occurred to me: he had sex with someone else!

My Guy’s response?

“Yeah, but he was thinking about you the whole time.”

Bwah ha ha!

When I thought the world was ending when that college boy broke up with me 17 years ago? I had no idea just how worth it the wait for My Guy would be.

A grouchy bride by any other name ...

So. I did not change my name when I got married. No new last name. No hyphen. Still the same old Cha Cha.

My last name is super, super common, so it wasn't about keeping the name alive. It was more about keeping me alive. Everything is changing ... my name didn't need to.

My Guy? Not super thrilled. But supportive. I can dig that.

My parents? A bit befuddled. They asked me a few weeks after the wedding if I'd really kept my name. When I answered yes? Complete and total silence.

Umm ... thanks?

But for the most part? It's been no big deal. The worst of it?

Let's say you're a huge big-box retailer who makes a pretty penny on bridal registries. You were already on my list because you sent me an e-mail at 4 p.m. the day of my wedding, telling me to hurry up and buy stuff from my registry that wasn't purchased for us. The day of the wedding!

But I digress.

So, let's say you throw a gigantic Fulfill Your Registry You Crazy Bridal Bitches Event. And the store is closed and only brides and their bored husbands can get in.

As a very generous gift to my husband, I attended this insanity alone. I checked in so I could trade in my nasty, dog-molested comforter. The guy at the door smiled at me. "What's your married name?"

So I told him. And then I ... umm ... got what is for me a little snotty, but for normal humans is probably still insanely polite. "I didn't change my name."

He couldn't find me. The other lady walked over. She couldn't find me, either. They asked My Guy's name. They looked for him ... and found him.

They'd filed my registration - for which I had RSVPed, with my name - under my husband's name.

Bed Bath and Beyond? While I'm thrilled you replaced the comforter that my dogs destroyed? I sort of hate your guts for being so fucking stupid. It's 2011. I am not the first woman who kept her name. And if I personally RSVP for your stupid event? The name I give you is probably the name I'm going to give you again when I show up. Just a heads-up.

You make millions of dollars every year from weddings, which are an etiquette minefield. You might consider brushing up on your Emily Post.

Some things? Just not meant to be.

My Guy and I were slumming it for a good long while. Really slumming it. You know what I mean.

Yes. We were using his Bachelor Linens.

I think we can all agree that any bedding - sheets, blankets, what have you - purchased and used by an unmarried man are a bit ... lacking. Lacking in everything except dog hair.

We have a queen-sized bed, and all of my not-as-slummy bedding is for a full-sized bed. So, we used the pilled sheets and blankets of My Guy's single past. And, of course, the comforter with a giant hole, courtesy of his dogs. All of this bedding was blue - but varying shades of not-going-together blue. Bachelor blue.

The great thing about getting married is that people give you stuff. And you get to tell them what you'd like. As you might imagine, what we really liked was bedding.

We were thrilled when we received a down comforter, a sheet set, and a duvet cover for our wedding. I carefully washed the duvet and the sheets, and was so thrilled to pull the bed together. We slept like royalty!

For three whole nights!

And on the fourth night? Foxie Doxie peed in the middle of the bed. It was evidently important for him to mark his territory. We were, after all, still getting used to being a 4-dog household.

Funny thing about a down comforter: when you rinse it free of urine in your bathtub at 11 p.m. when you're really super tired? It turns pink. And you wonder if you're hallucinating. But the next morning, when you remove the comforter from your shower rod and drape it over the back of your couch because you don't know what else to do with it? It's still pink.

So, we could get the comforter cleaned. But we didn't have the opportunity.

No. Because the day we left the comforter draped over the back of the couch? The labradoodles decided it was a dog bed. They slept on the comforter, and dragged it around the house, and finally ripped a giant hole in it.

The house was filled with goose down.

And yes, we just can't have nice things.

I gathered down in Ziploc baggies, figuring I'd restuff the comforter. My baggies of down were tinged grey, thanks to black dog hair - a painful reminder.

So, the wounded comforter sat, safety-pinned together, in a locked, dog-proof room. Finally, this weekend, I got out my iron-on patches and my baggies of down and dog hair, and patched the formerly fine linen. But a funny thing happened when I was getting ready to force the comforter back into its plastic packaging for summer storage.

The packaging said "15-year warranty."

I think you share my "no fucking way" response.

Except.

Except I called Bed Bath and Beyond at 10:30 on a Saturday night. And the nice lady agreed that of course, they would replace the comforter. Really? Really!

So yesterday? At the madhouse Fulfill Your Registry You Crazy Bridal Bitches Event? They replaced the comforter!

Huzzah!

But ... it's summer, right? So, I also bought a lightweight coverlet that's not so warm. A lovely coverlet in a pale champagne color.

It was on the bed less than an hour before I found blood on it.

Foxie Doxie had a bloody lip.

Which I did not give him.

Ahem.

Like a birthday, but better.

I have been delightfully, thankfully downgraded today.

Remember when I was Super Champion of the Universe and Queen of Growing Huge Breast Cysts?

Uh-huh. No more! Instead of being a gold-medal winner, I'm now the pleased owner of a lowly participant ribbon in the boob cyst Olympics. I might even be picked last if somebody was putting together a team for competitive cyst growing.

It's boobtacular!

At any rate, today was my scheduled recheck. Two ultrasounds, coming right up.

I tried to act like it wasn't any big deal. But really? Really, I was terrified. And pissed as all hell. I've been short-tempered most of the week, but I think we all know that I wasn't really mad about the dishes or that bad driver. I was angry about this interruption to my life, this evil little reminder that holy crap, I just might be mortal. This is sooooo unfair!

My Guy took the afternoon off to take me to The Breast Center. And, per usual, we were totally the youngest people there by, like, a gajillion years. People treat you extra special kindly when it seems like you might be A Really Sad Case.

But I'm not really sad. I'm really thankful. Because my fibroadenoma hasn't come back. And the formerly huge cysts are now teeny tiny. The tech remembered me, and called me "honey," and remembered how she'd had to grab a special wand to get an accurate image of the three-inch cyst before it was aspirated. And today? She celebrated with me, and assured me that 2:30 wasn't too early to get a drink, and told me that the restaurant across the street serves great margaritas.

Once My Guy and I got back to the car, I wasn't sure whether to cry or throw up. So we got ice cream instead.

Umm ... hi.

I’ve been looking for signs that it’s time to start writing again. Evidently, I am not the sharpest crayon in the box – the average signs didn’t faze me.

First? I broke my foot.

OK, sort of. I have a stress fracture that makes me gimp around and moan about how much my foot hurts. Also, I have been directed to sit on my ass and put ice on my foot. This makes me moan about how my entire body is atrophying and I’m getting fat. I’m depressed.

And yes, My Guy is one lucky, lucky fellow.

You might think that sitting around doing nothing would propel me to sit around and do something – something like blogging. You would be mistaken.

Tuesday? I sort of forgot to brush my teeth. Luckily, I realized my mistake before leaving the house. However, I then managed to get toothpaste all up in my hair.

I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror and thought, “I would totally blog about this if I were blogging.” But then I went about my day, actively not blogging.

And yesterday, when My Guy got up at 5 a.m., and he managed to go back to sleep but I didn’t? And then I played outside with the dogs for a while, and then I realized that I should water the plants in the front yard?

I took a calculated risk and decided that given the time of day, I’d be safe in my front yard in my super fancy sleepwear – a t-shirt and pajama pants.

I did not count on the hose exploding, soaking me and my very pale-colored pants. Nor did I count on my next-door neighbor watering the same time I was.

As I attempted to hide my braless, pantyless, possibly transparent fashion misstep, I thought, “Dude. I should totally blog about this.”

But I didn’t.

Until now. I’m getting back on the horse. I’ll bore you with tales of stuff that’s happened in the last 6 weeks. And I’m taking requests – what do you want to read about? Help a sister out – I need to get back in the blogging swing.