noodleroux

Book it. Book it real good!

2012-01-30T19:53:00.002-06:00

My Guy is always making fun of my love of biographies. This is all ha ha whatever, except ... I realized that most of my recent reads are, indeed, biographies. So, let's discuss.

The Garner Files by James Garner
I love me some James Garner. Maverick, or Rockford, or whatever else? Love it. And I loved this book. Jim - and yeah, I feel like I can call him Jim - is from Oklahoma, became an actor because he was sick of laying carpet, and doesn't give 2 shits what you think about him. Also? He did so much for actors' rights, and was known for being way nicer to the crew than he ever was to the "important" people. Just a nice guy.

My only qualm about this book was that Jim didn't read the audio book. However, he can't even drive anymore - he's arthritic because he did all his own stunts. James Garner = Bad Ass.

American Rose: A Nation Laid Bare: The Life and Times of Gypsy Rose Lee by Karen Abbott
I didn't know much about Gypsy Rose Lee until I read this book. I've never even seen the musical Gypsy ... which, as a former theatre geek, is pretty shameful. But this book is really interesting. Gypsy and her sister, actress June Havoc, were raised in vaudeville as a baby act - like, "oh, look at the little kids singing and dancing!" Throw in the stage mother from hell, a series of shady stepfathers, and some financial instability, and you end up with 2 adult women who have trouble connecting with other people. And each other. And they have no idea how old they truly are because their mom was always lying about their ages to keep them semi-plausible as a baby act.

If you're feeling bad about your own mama, read this book. You will appreciate your mama for sure. This is also a great look at the old days of vaudeville - so interesting!

A Girl Named Zippy and She Got Up Off The Couch by Haven Kimmel
Yes, Cyndi B., I did read these - thanks for the recommendation! You know all those memoirs about craptastic childhoods? A Girl Named Zippy is not that. It's about a happy childhood, where a girl felt shame for a kindergarten report card that said she talked too much and didn't follow directions. And then her parents said, "Good for you." And it was fine.

The second book focuses on Zippy's mom, who did, indeed, get off the couch. And go to college. And graduate school. And lost 100 pounds in the process. If you want to read about true bravery, this is the book.

This is a Call: The Life and Times of Dave Grohl by Paul Brannigan
Oh, don't you for a second believe that I wasn't first on the library's hold list for the new bio of My Celebrity Boyfriend Dave Grohl. I mean, I was sort of surprised that Dave didn't FedEx me a personalized copy, but I know he's busy. And besides - this isn't an officially authorized biography, even though the author had Dave's sort-of cooperation.

This book is interesting if you're interested in music. The author is clearly a music journalist, so the book traces Dave's journey from the D.C. punk scene to the L.A. punk scene to Seattle's grunge scene ... just lots of scenes. I learned some stuff. But I was annoyed about the lack of detail around some basic biographical stuff. Like, for me? Getting married was a big deal. And this book was sort of like, "Music music music ... by this time, Dave was engaged to this person not mentioned before ... music music music." So, it didn't give me a lot of stalking information. But it's also interesting to see how a musician who was basically told that he was kaput done reinvented himself and his art, and how he listened to his heart when it said he wasn't done creating.

If You Ask Me (And Of Course You Won't) by Betty White
I would be unAmerican if I didn't love Betty White. And I do. This was an entertaining book of essays about just random stuff. It felt sort of like some literary agent gave Betty a list of topics and told her just to riff on them. It was a fun listen - the author narrates the audio book - but I couldn't really tell you anything I learned or anything that stuck with me. Just ... go Betty!

Happy Accidents by Jane Lynch
I'm sort of sick of Glee. But this was an interesting book. Jane's super honest about being an alcoholic, sort of messed in the head, and happily prone to the weird accidents that led to her most interesting castings. Like, she ran into Christopher Guest in a coffee shop, and he remembered her from a Frosted Flakes commercial, and that's how she ended up in Best in Show. That's cool.

I'm currently sitting next to My Guy, and pointed out that I've finished 7 biographies in the last few months. Our conversation went like this:

My Guy: You read a lot. I'm always surprised at how much you like biographies.

Me: Do you have a quote you'd like to add to the blog post? Like, your official stance on my biography reading?

My Guy: For as many biographies as she reads, her boobs are still quite nice.

Me: OK!

My Guy: Don't post that! Don't!

But see, that's what biographies are all about. Real life, friends. Real life.

Support my biography habit. Got any suggestions?

If the woman wants to talk about poo, you can't stop her.

2012-01-29T18:40:00.004-06:00

My Guy and I had lunch with his mom and his grandma yesterday. We ate in the dining room of grandma's retirement village. The portions were tiny, the food bland, and the conversation ... unappetizing.

Grandma: So, there's been a lot of diarrhea going around lately.

(Side note: a) Grandma is 91 and has no filter; and b) Can we all just agree that this is the greatest opening line of all time?)

MIL: Oh?

Grandma: Yeah. Lots of people have a stomach bug.

My Guy, trying to redirect the conversation: Well, right before Christmas, I had a horrible stomach bug. I've never been that sick.

Grandma, eagerly: Did you have diarrhea?

My Guy: Uh, no.

Grandma, disappointed but not deterred: Well, whenever your mother had a stomach bug, she always got diarrhea, too. Always had it coming out both ends! None of my other girls were like that, but your mom always got diarrhea.

MIL: Mom!

And ... scene!

Lucky.

2012-01-26T20:59:00.005-06:00

It was yet another lovely day of men of a handy nature traipsing in and out of our house. I worked from home, and got to listen to the dogs complain about the carpenter and the plumber and the general contractor, all of whom had the nerve to come into our home and work on beautifying our master bath. The nerve!

I hadn't met the carpenter before, but basically ran outside when he was unloading to ask if he'd move his truck when he was done. No problem. He was nice as can be. We got to talking ... about his work, and dogs, and living in the city. I felt a kindred spirit. Then I found out why.

Super Nice Carpenter Guy? Is from my grandma's hometown - a tiny, tiny hamlet in western Kansas. He knew my great aunt and uncle.

I couldn't get over it. He couldn't get over it. I wanted to make him a cake!

Now, not to be too sappy about it, but ... we both agreed that the folks in the city are generally very nice. But there's something about being from a small town. It's just different. I asked him if he found himself being drawn to people who are from small towns, and his response made me laugh. "No, well ... umm ... well ... shoot! I never really thought about it, but, well, yeah!"

The whole thing just made my day. And I just know that somewhere, my grandparents were looking down, laughing. Delighted.

Speaking of small towns, I generally don't give a rat's ass about the NFL. However ... a boy from my hometown is a rookie playing for the Giants. A local boy is playing in the Super Bowl! Facebook is on fire with pictures of signs and helmets and jerseys all over town. People are out-of-their-minds excited and proud. It's a big, big deal. He's a nice kid (hi, I sound soooo old - he outweighs me by, like, a gajillion pounds of pure muscle). Everybody knows his family. And it's just nice to see a local boy do good.

Small towns? Yeah. They're just different.

In which I promise to be a cheap date.

2012-01-24T20:24:00.003-06:00

Remember that SNL gameshow called "Is It Date Rape?" And Chris Farley was a frat boy who reasoned that an expensive dinner date meant it wasn’t date rape. He was all, "Surf and turf? That's like 40 bucks!"

Politically correct? Oh, hell no. Funny? Yes sirree.

So, the good news is that today, I significantly reduced the chances of my husband thinking he bought himself some nookie by taking me out for dinner. I discovered that I'm allergic to lobster.

Yeah. That special treat lunch to celebrate surviving the last week of completely hellish emergency problem-fixing at Corporate Behemoth? That lunch where I ordered the lobster mac and cheese?

Yeah. Not such a treat. The positive? I didn't blow up like a red, puffy, allergentastic blowfish in the office. The negative? I, umm … had to go home. To drink ginger ale and, umm … do other stuff in the privacy of my home. More negative? Umm … the dudes came over to work on remodeling the bathroom. But the extra positive? They were kind enough to pretend not to notice that I wasn’t wearing a bra when I answered the door.

So, if I’m never going to order lobster ever, ever again, and I don’t eat a lot of red meat, I think it’s safe to say that I’m never, ever going to order surf and turf.

My Guy? You’re welcome.

Serenity now, dammit!

2012-01-17T18:35:00.002-06:00

There's a very large, rather Chris Farley-esque man who is destroying my house right now. Actually, he's tearing out the stair treads and putting in new ones. In a few weeks, after the bathroom is remodeled, other, surely swarthy men will stain the steps when they stain the new floors that are going in on Thursday.

Everything is covered in sawdust. Or drywall dust, from the electrician who ripped out the gajillion little can lights in our living room and replaced them with 4 big can lights. Now, the room won't resemble an airport runway. But for now?

The dust. Ohmygod.

I'm huddled in the basement with 4 dogs, having just finished a marathon of Corporate Behemoth freak-out response. Yes, my team will stay on the job and get these "emergency" items addressed, even when everybody else has gone home. No problem! And since this is a pet project of a senior leader, I totally appreciate that it trumps any other plans I might have had.

My house is filthy and I have a black, black heart. And my husband is crabby, too.

For some reason, our contractor only talks to me. My Guy will speak, and the contractor will look to me to validate what My Guy said. It's so weird - it's like reverse sexism. I'm uncomfortable in the new role of speaking for the team, and My Guy is pissed as hell at being, well, the woman.

We're feeling a bit unsettled. But there are brighter days ahead, right?

Shit my husband says.

2012-01-15T20:40:00.003-06:00

In response to me trying to lick his face ... after he licked mine:

Stop it! I'm going to tell your mom. And she's going to say, "Finally, my children have brought something positive into my life. And that's you, My Guy!"

(Mom? This is your cue to e-mail me and tell me that I actually brought something positive to your life ... something besides my humble spouse.)

Friendly-like.

2012-01-09T21:52:00.002-06:00

Who do you friend on Facebook? Or connect with on LinkedIn?

I find myself looking at the suggested connections in those apps and thinking, "Oh yeah, I totally know that person. But do they remember me? Will I look too needy if I friend them? I never post anything and my picture is, like, 3 years old. I should wait and get my social media shit together and then connect with all these people. You know, when I'm all together and have something interesting to say and might pretend to be fabulous. Like that guy I used to work with who is batshit crazy but whose photo is of himself mountain climbing. Surely I could come up with something remotely noteworthy like that."

And then I don't connect.

I'm not one to collect friends simply so I can say I have a lot of connections. But I also realize that the time to really think about this is not a Monday night when I worked until 7 and came home and immediately put on my pajamas and ate a gajillion peanut M&Ms because it had been That Kind of Day. And with that sort of, well, awesomeness, who would want to connect with me anyway? I'm not sharing the M&Ms.

But seriously. What's your Facebook / LinkedIn modus operandi?

I am a terrible person and I started young.

2012-01-08T21:31:00.003-06:00

My parents have these pet names for each other: Willard and Gladys. And at Christmas, they'll invariably address gifts to each other with these names.

My brother Poochie first noticed this when he was maybe 4 years old. That means I was 9. We were carefully examining all of the gifts under the Christmas tree when he came across a gift from Willard to Gladys.

"Cha Cha, what does this say?"

"It says 'To Gladys, from Willard.'"

He thought carefully. "Who are they?"

I thought carefully. I recognized opportunity, and I grasped it like a man dying of thirst might knock a bottle of water out of the hands of an elderly lady: swiftly, and without remorse.

"Those are our real parents."

Poochie was alarmed. I continued, "They live in a Winnebago, and at Christmas, they're coming to pick us up and we have to go live with them."

Always one to be concerned with logistics, Poochie asked, "How will they get their Winnebago up our driveway?"

I considered this carefully. "I dunno," I answered nonchalantely. "But since they drive it everywhere, I'm pretty sure it won't be a problem."

That line of defense down, Poochie started to get panicked. "Are you sure they're our real parents?"

"Oh, sure. I'm surprised you didn't know."

About that time, Poochie freaked the fuck out. He screamed, "Moooooooom!" and ran out of the room.

Later, I got the "CHA CHA! What. Ever. Possessed. You. To. Do. That. To. Your. Brother?"

I don't know. I didn't know then, and I don't really know now. Except that it was funny, and it's still funny. And sometimes? It's fun to be wicked.

An open letter to whomever wallpapered our bathroom.

2012-01-05T21:33:00.002-06:00

Dear Wallpaper Man or Maven -

I don't know whether to punch you in the mouth or shake your hand.

You know how sometimes wallpaper comes off in big strips, and sometimes it comes off in teensy, tiny little shards?

Yeah.

The wallpaper you put up lo those 20 years ago falls into the latter category. That shit is stuck to the wall like white on rice. And my meager attempts to scrape it off resulted not in big sheets of sweet, sweet relief, but in teeny razors of emotional pain. Itsy bits of blue metallic paisley paper that pollute my life and stand between me and a remodeled bathroom.

I respect your wallpaper hanging prowess. But don't you ever, ever come near my home ever again.

Peace out -

Cha Cha

Yeah, we're nice. Now eff off.

2012-01-02T16:49:00.004-06:00

Tomorrow is the day that my peoples have been praying for: The Iowa Caucuses.

Not that denizens of the Hawkeye state are chopping at the bit to stand in a corner on behalf of their least-hated Republican presidential candidate. I mean, some are. But mostly? Mostly, they want the phone calls to stop.

Over Christmas, my parents' phone was ringing off the hook. Not with family and loved ones ... because last time I checked, we're not related to anybody named Newt or Mitt. No - it's pollsters and people calling on behalf of candidates and ohmigod, don't even get me started about Michele Bachmann making appearances around the state during the Iowa / Minnesota game this fall. You wanna out yourself as a nitwit? That's a good way to do it.

Somebody posted this on Ye Olde Facebook, and it made me cackle. Language is NSFW, but you're reading this blog, so, well, you know what you're in for.

Stuff I liked in 2011.

2011-12-30T19:42:00.004-06:00

You know I love a good year-end list. So, here are a few of my favorites from 2011. Keep in mind that this isn't necessarily stuff that's new ... it was just new-to-me this year.

Best show you're probably not watching
Up All Night. You know, that one with Christina Applegate, Maya Rudolph, and Will Arnett? It's funny. Like, they made a tribute video to a dead coworker and all they had was his W-4 ... so the tribute video was just zooming in on his W-4.

Favorite movie that transported me back to childhood
The Muppets. I found myself smiling like a freak for the duration of this movie - I totally felt like a 7-year-old again. Plus, I about jumped out of my skin when My Boyfriend Dave Grohl made a surprise cameo.

Favorite new album
Wasting Light by Foo Fighters. I know, I know - I'm a sucka for anything by My Boyfriend Dave Grohl. But seriously? This album is uh-MAZ-ing. And it's one of those albums where your favorite song changes because they are all so good. This here is good ol' fashioned, rock-your-face-off rock and roll, bitches.

New surprise artist that I dig
So, I'm only about 5 years behind here, but I discovered Lady Gaga this year. Typically, I view pop musicians with great disdain, because they are rarely serious musicians. But Gaga? Girl can sing! And how she sings is interesting, and catchy. Nevermind the fact that when My Guy and I first saw her on SNL this year, we were both like, "WTF was that?" But then we bought the album and fell in love. And this summer, he was all, "You know I only bought more Gaga for you. In no way was that for me, because I am a straight man and of course prefer much more manly music."

Best book I'm the last person on Earth to read
The Help. Hell yeah. Loved it. Still haven't seen the movie, but loved, loved, loved the audio book. It had several different actresses reading the different narrators. Very effective.

Best book I actually read for Wine Club. I mean Book Club.
The Happiness Project. Not really a self-help book, but a fun read that also prompts self reflection.

Best serious-like novel that will make your shrink sing and dance with analytic joy
The Condition. I typically shy away from serious novels, but the characters in this one were just amazing - so fully fleshed-out and authentic. Highly recommended.

Best book I didn't want to read and then actually made me cold while sitting by the pool
Into Thin Air. My Guy read it while we were on vacation in Florida, then insisted that I take a look. I have zero interest in mountaineering, but this was fascinating. Also? I'm still terrified by the thought of seeing people freezing to death and leaving them there just so you can reach the summit. I would not call this a feel-good tale. Cautionary? Yes. Feel-good? Fuck no.

My Guy's favorite book, because he reads a ton
Into Thin Air. My husband had this to say about this bestseller: "It's a freakin' great book, man. It was real good. I like the words. Can I go back to watching the game now?"

Someone does not take being interviewed for this blog very seriously. That, and I think he's out of practice when it comes to book reports.

So, what did you enjoy this year? What should I check out as I devour more media in 2012?

Cha Cha, this is your year!

2011-12-29T20:46:00.004-06:00

Over Mexican food tonight, My Guy and I had a little 2011 recap.

We (partially) rehabbed our house.
We moved.
We got married.
We sold a house.
We became landlords on a third house.
I survived The Boobtacular, a stress fracture, and the shingles.
He survived me whining about The Boobtacular, a stress fracture, and the shingles.

All in all, 2012 has its work cut out for it if it's going to be crazier than 2011. Just sayin'.

Here are some personal favorites from 2011.

Best realization about my authentic, true self
I am good at The Bed. Not good in bed, necessarily (oh, OK, who are we kidding?), but good at sleeping. And lounging. And making the bed properly - yes, with hospital corners. If there were Sleep Olympics, I would totally be in there, representing the U.S. And Bob Costas would talk about how on my first night home from the hospital as a newborn, my parents thought I was dead because I slept through the night. Training for the Sleep Olympics already! So, this realization is helping me come to terms with the fact that it's OK if I prefer to sleep 9 hours a night and stay in bed til 10 on the weekends. It's OK.

Best realization about my authentic, true spouse
I asked My Guy why he didn't ever make the bed. He looked me in the eye, and without a hint of malice said, "I won't ever make the bed. It's just not important to me."

At first I was horrified. And then I had to respect that level of self-awareness and the wherewithal to make that statement - especially in the face of such a bed-centric partner. There are things that aren't important to him, and they can be important to me. And it's all just OK.

Best realization we've made as a couple
Cha Cha gets angry when she does the dishes any time after 8 p.m. Keep Cha Cha out of the kitchen at all costs or she will just be pissed off.

Best purchase as a married couple
A new dishwasher. The day it was installed, My Guy texted me a photo of our new favorite appliance with the tag, "Married saved!"

Best thing about being married
Taunting my spouse with some variation of "You have to (fill in the blank) because you're married to me and Jesus decreed you (fill in the blank)!" Typically, this takes the form of either "you have to love me even though I'm a twit," "you have to have sex with me," or "you have to be seen in public with me." Huzzah!

Best thing about our blended family of 4 dogs
It's not the endless hairballs, nor the vet bills, nor the deafening noise when all 4 snore simultaneously. It's the wiggle booty. All those tails wagging often make me exclaim, "We are rich! Rich with puppy!"

And now, at the end of December, I've finally broken the 10 posts in a month mark for the first time all year. Thanks for sticking around. My blog friends are the best thing about blogging.

Home sweet home.

2011-12-28T20:46:00.002-06:00

Today is our houseiversary. One year ago today, My Guy and I took on our 1938 stone cottage.

Sounds quaint, right? Except that it was a repo. That had been owned by a druggie who trashed it before losing it to the bank.

Now, we live in a historic district. But our history with this house includes finding a petrified bowl of rice and beans in a bathroom drawer. And causing water damage by assuming the water line to the where a fridge once stood was, you know, actually turned off by the former owner. Ha ha ha!

We've cleaned like we've never cleaned before. We've painted pretty much every surface. And yet, I still feel the need to apologize to our neighbors for the state of our house, like we're causing home values to go down. Some of our shrubs are dead. We still don't have use of the second floor.

But I stinkin' love this house.

It's going to be our home for a very long time. I see the potential here, and I'm thankful that this house feels like our home. Even the stuff that I thought would drive me crazy - like the broken granite counter top - feels pretty OK. This house is teaching me that life doesn't have to be perfect to be ... perfect.

And to all, a good night. With no more barfing.

2011-12-25T11:31:00.003-06:00

We made it to Iowa - healthy-ish and safe. It's a Christmas miracle!

In celebration, I offer you a holiday tradition, with a new twist this year. Enjoy, my friends!

All I want for Christmas is not to barf.

2011-12-23T21:09:00.002-06:00

My Guy woke up in the middle of the night with what is either food poisoning or the flu. He's been down for the count all day. Like, "I don't feel well enough to sit up" down for the count.

It's December 23.

We're supposed to go to Iowa tomorrow.

I don't want to sleep in our bed because I sure as hell don't want to get sick.

I don't want to miss Christmas with my family.

I don't want my husband to be sick.

I want my husband to take a shower. For the love of all that is holy.

I don't ask much.

From our house to yours.

2011-12-20T17:57:00.002-06:00

This year, I'm proud to continue my tradition of not sending out Christmas cards.

I know, I know. But this is a hectic time at Corporate Behemoth and the idea of one more thing to do makes me crazy.

I've noticed that fewer folks send them out. I blame Facebook. Or maybe I'm just not getting cards anymore because I don't send cards.

But don't worry - just because I don't send cards doesn't mean that I don't criticize cards.

I'm just gonna get right down to it. My Aunt Talbot has sent cards for the last three years that feature a picture of her house on the front. No people, just a house.

It's a big house. A big, fancy house that could easily pass for a sorority house. The first year, it was just, you know, the house. The second year, it was the house with a light dusting of snow - obviously taken before that dust burned off with the sun of the day. But this year? This year, it's a pic from last Christmas, where the house is covered in snow, swathed in Christmas greenery and lit from within by every light in the place. This year's photo also features a photo credit.

I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to be impressed, or at least warmed in a Norman Rockwell sort of way. But mostly, I'm just annoyed. Seriously, lady. Show me your adorable and numerous grandkids. I'm not impressed by your big ol' house. So quit trying.

I guess it's not quite as egregious as the cards that used to come from my mom's stepsister. She'd always misspell my mom's name on a letter that told of skiing in Aspen and flying to Gstaad as her husband received some hoity-toity cardiologist award.

Gstaad. I'm not even exaggerating.

At least I can be certain that my noncard isn't misspelling people's names or coming off as too showy.

Know your limits. And when to go home and have a drink.

2011-12-19T20:47:00.004-06:00

There are a lot of Indian guys who work in my area at Corporate Behemoth. Most of them are contractors who come over from India for a year or 18 months, then go back home. These are smart guys who know a minimum of 3 languages and then immerse themselves in this weird culture away from their families. I have a lot of respect for them.

That said, there are some cultural differences that are funny, annoying, or supremely horrific.

Horrific? The thinly veiled contempt for women.

Annoying? The tendency to send an e-mail, then come over to my desk to announce you've sent me an e-mail. Or, the tendency to skip sending me an e-mail, but instead come over to my desk and expect me to drop everything and edit something for them on the fly. Because, after all, I am only a woman.

But the funny?

Oh, sister.

There's this one guy who is so young and clean-cut and adorable. He makes me feel old because instead of wanting to get on him, I have an overwhelming desire to make him a sandwich.

I guess this is what middle age feels like.

Anyway, today? Today, Young and Clean-Cut mentioned that he and some of his cohorts are planning a road trip for the long Christmas weekend. They are generally really excited to see everything they can in America - so, they've seen more of the country than many natives. Their Christmas destination? Mount Rushmore.

Oh, Young and Clean-Cut. You're gonna need more than a sandwich.

A bunch of folks were trying to convince Young and Clean-Cut and his posse that there are other, more suitable destinations for the end of December. His initial response was, "But, the Internet says it's sunny right now!"

The guys were being redirected to maybe San Antonio or maybe New Orleans. But then, Fannypack Bruce stepped in.

Maybe you know Fannypack Bruce. He's the older guy who does testing but asks 27 questions an hour. He keeps two Igloo coolers on his desk and wears a fannypack 24-7. And the fannypack strap has a phone clipped to it. You know, to complete the look.

Fannypack Bruce always has something to add. In detail. And today? His addition was a long diatribe about "a swell KOA near Mount Rushmore."

Camping? Most of these guys don't own winter coats but consider anything colder than 50 degrees arctic conditions. Focus, Fannypack Bruce! Stay on message!

That was about the time I left. I can only do so much.

The sun ain't gonna shine anymore.

2011-12-13T20:57:00.003-06:00

Life as I know it is over. Oh-ver.

When I was in third grade, my dad gave me a clock radio for Christmas. It has two alarms, buttons I know by feel, and SIMULATED WOOD GRAIN.

The best part? It has a label on the top that says "SIMULATED WOOD GRAIN." You know, lest someone mistake it for real wood and try to use it as kindling.

We've been together for, umm, 28 years.

And now? My clock radio is ailing.

A few months ago, the clock gained about 20 minutes a day. I unplugged it, said a little prayer, and plugged it back in. All better.

But this weekend? This weekend, it was keeping double time. As in, it gained 12 hours a day.

As someone who likes to be places sort of on time and who is also in no way a morning person, this is a problem.

I did the ol' unplug / prayer combo again, and so far, it seems to be working. However, I can't deny it: my simulated wood grain pal is in hospice care. Our time is growing thin.

I am devastated. Did I mention that I can program this sucka by feel? And that we've been together longer than most marriages?

I was willing to be brave and look for a new clock radio. Except ... they are all horrible. I'm willing to forgo SIMULATED WOOD GRAIN, but I need a radio because a straight-up alarm freaks me out. I need a digital display because I'm blind. And I need buttons that I can aspire to operate by feel. I do not need to dock the iPod that I don't have. And I don't need to project the time onto the wall in giganto size.

So, there are some OK alarm clocks out there. But none of them are Just Right. None of them are my alarm clock. I'm embarrassed to admit that I'm truly sad about this. I guess you don't just break up with someone after 28 years without some sort of angst.

Do you have an alarm clock you love? What's it like? I'm taking suggestions.

And yes, I realize this is totally a first-world problem.

Calling Dr. Atkins. And Cesar Milan.

2011-12-11T20:35:00.002-06:00

So, My guy is back from his work trip - and not a moment too soon.

I don't mean to be all old-school patriarchal and "Just wait until your father gets home!" But duuuuuuude.

I stayed up late one night making My Guy a birthday cake. He wanted a caramel cake with canned caramel frosting. I could do so much better, but if the birthday boy wants boxed cake with canned frosting, that's what he's gonna get.

The next day when he got home, he sent me a few really random texts:

"I'm so sorry."

"Like 3 inches of cake left."

I thought he got home and ate the cake. But no. The labradoodles had catapulted onto the kitchen counter and scored the birthday cake. The 2-layer birthday cake that was at the very way-back of the counter.

All gone.

It had been a really, really long day, but I stopped at the store on my way home. They had another caramel cake mix, but not caramel frosting. I guessed German chocolate frosting was as close as I could get, and I ran to the express lane.

There was one lady in front of me. She wrote a check.

By the time I got home, I threw the cake mix at My Guy. "It's not the cake you want, but I did just beat an old lady to death with this box."

We went out for dinner and delayed the cake redux.

The next day, the labradoodles got into the bread drawer. They ate an entire loaf of 8-grain bread, 3 hamburger buns, half a bag of pretzels, and half a bag of Tostitos.

There was vomit. And wrapping. Everywhere.

So, we've got some dogs that need to cut out the carbs. And the assholery.

Yeah, it's a word.

The 1 upside? We didn't have a star on our Christmas tree. Now, there's a lovely Tostitos bag shard adorning the top of the tree.

We have the only house on the block that doesn't have Christmas lights. If our neighbors only knew the level of classiness inside ...

My earth-shattering pronouncement about the state of television today. Also? You kids, get off of my lawn!

2011-12-05T21:29:00.006-06:00

I have purposely avoided the Kardashian fray. Even before Kim's over-the-top wedding and subsequent 15-second marriage, I've just found that family ... icky.

But now? Now, I think I've figured it out.

See, I sort of half-watched an episode of "Kim and Whats-Her-Name Take New York." Or "Khloe Visits Kim and Whats-Her-Name in New York." Or "Some Other Sister Whose Name Starts With a K Does Stuff in New York." Whatever.

But I watched it with the sound off, which was actually a really interesting sociological experiment.

You know what I saw?

I some some body language that completely spilled the beans.

These people are not nice. They don't listen to each other and they don't give a rat's ass about the other person's wants. There was absolutely nothing authentic about any of it. And really? Kim, we don't believe that you wake up with a full face of make-up, including falsies.

Sorry. And Kim & Ko.? Shame on you for adding to the cacophony telling impressionable young women to aspire to all things superficial. I'm pretty sure thick eyelashes and a ball-player husband don't ensure happiness. So, can you guys please just do the world a favor and go away?

In a striking contrast, I ran across a great article today about someone who devoted their life to using television to spread grace. Not promoting themselves - promoting grace and acceptance.

For a shock to the system, might I suggest this lovely article about The Greatest Person Ever, on TV or Not on TV, Mr. Fred Rogers? It's long-ish, but so worth it. It's a great way to purge that Kardashian aftertaste from your system and to focus on what we should really all aspire to - not bootyliciousness, or having a big effing wedding, but being a decent human being.

I've turned into a softie.

2011-12-04T19:41:00.004-06:00

My Guy left yesterday for a convention. He has to go every year, and every year, it's over his birthday. Ick. He'll be gone until Thursday.

I was really sad to see him go. I was surprised at how sad I was.

Let's be honest: My Guy is a kind, funny, wonderful man. But sometimes he makes me crazy. Like how our bathroom mirror is in a constant state of greasy smudgetasticness because he wipes condensation off with his dirty t-shirts. Because boys are dumb.

So, I should be excited to have almost a week of clean bathroom mirrors and time to do whatever I want.

However ...

While I was tooling around Target yesterday, I realized I was in no rush to get home ... and no one was waiting for me. And then I remembered that it used to be like this all the time.

I lived alone, and I was alone a lot. That sort of solitude helps you figure yourself out. But it's also really, well, lonely.

I miss my husband. Which, I guess, means that I've overcome one of my fears about getting married: being dependent upon someone else.

Don't get me wrong: I am managing to function in My Guy's absence. So, like, when Lady Doodle decided that the alpha was gone and so she'd make a play for the position, and growled and barked and was mean to the other dogs, prompting Foxie Doxie to conveniently and oh-so-logically stake his claim by peeing on my bed a 12:45 this morning? I was able to deal with it. And by "deal," I of course mean "go completely ballistic."

But really? Things are just easier when the entire pack is together. That means Mr. Wiping-the-Mirror-With-T-Shirt Guy, too.

Plus? I just miss my friend.

Why yes, my husband is clean-shaven.

2011-12-01T21:46:00.005-06:00

When I was little, I was scared of facial hair. Maybe I watched too many westerns. I was convinced that any man with a beard or mustache was A Bad Guy.

Bret Maverick?

Totally A Good Guy.

Creedence Clearwater Revival?

Haunted my dreams.

I still don't like their music. There. I admitted it.

Let's blame my parents, their TV habits, their record collection, and their ability to remember theme song lyrics. I can sing the Maverick theme song. But I still hate CCR's music.

Images courtesy of Google.

A few words about speedbumps. And snot.

2011-11-30T22:00:00.003-06:00

I had a horrible cold all holiday weekend. But Monday? Monday, I got my sorry ass out of bed, put on a bra, and announced that it was a new day! And I went into work.

Corporate Behemoth is in an 18-story tower with a 5-level parking garage underneath. From the garage entrance to the very bottom level, it's a mile of driving. Since I am not what you'd call "an early bird" or "punctual in any way," I typically park on 1 of the 2 lowest levels.

There's been a problem with speeding in the garage, so, in their infinite wisdom, Facilities put in speedbumps. A whole lotta speedbumps. But they went all out and put in these speedbumps that were not really speedbumps at all, but parking stops.

Like, this is a normal speedbump: o
And this is the flavor of speedbump they put in: ^

So, people were driving around the speedbumps and hitting parked cars, and low-riders where getting damaged. And people came to a complete stop before traversing the speedbumps. It was bad.

But now we have some normal-ish speedbumps that are more o than ^. But the people? They still drive like morons! They do not appreciate the new flavor of speedbump!

And so Monday, when I was wearing a bra for the first time in 3 days and trying to pretend that my body composition wasn't still 87% mucus? I did not have the time nor the inclination to get behind somebody who was shy about crossing speedbumps. I needed to be behind a speed demon, not The White Explorer.

Can we all just agree that if you drive an Explorer, it's not necessary for you to come to a complete stop before before inching over a speedbump?

Complete. Stop. Seriously.

Some people just can't handle power tools or 4-wheel drive. Lady in The White Explorer? I'm talking to you. I drive an 8-year-old Honda with messed up rotors and I drive it like I'm outrunning a tribe of angry natives who have never seen an outsider compared to you in your 876,234-horsepower vehicle.

Plus, if we're being honest?

I really, really, really needed to blow my nose. And you were so slow that I ended up with a mucus situation. As in, I wiped my nose on an old Wendy's napkin that had been in my glove box for 3 years. You know, those emergency napkins that are partially degraded because they're so old? The ones you keep only for true emergencies? The ones I had plenty of time to rummage around and find while you were coming to a complete stop at yet another speedbump? After I'd memorized your license plate and put a voodoo curse on you?

Yeah.

But I'm feeling much better now.

Thankful it's only once a year.

2011-11-25T10:30:00.002-06:00

Remember when my father-in-law reprimanded me because My Guy wrote the wrong house number on a note he sent him?

Yeah.

This is what went down on Thanksgiving.

FIL: So, did your parents ever make it to Superfarawaysuburb?

Me: Umm ... what?

FIL: Did your parents ever make it to Superfarawaysuburb - to your house?

Me: Our house is in Tinysuburbwood.

FIL: Oh, right. Tinysuburbway. Anyway, did your parents ever see your house?

Me: It's Tinysuburbwood.

FIL: Well, I call it Superfarawaysuburb.

Me: I think the post office would disagree with you.

FIL: Well. Did your parents ever see your house?

Me: Umm ... yeah.

FIL: Well! Next time they come down, call me! I could drive up and meet them for lunch! I didn't get to talk to them much at the wedding.

Me: That's because they avoided you because they think you're batshit crazy.

OK, maybe that last comment was my internal dialogue.

I ain't hatin' on no fruit.

2011-11-23T14:36:00.000-06:00

But here’s yet another reason why I love my husband.

Me: I have to meet with this crotchety VP who hates some copy that I didn’t even write. I have to meet with him and act all gracious and shit and fix something that I didn’t even break in the first place. And this guy is infamous for being a real jerk. He’s “the idea guy” and so he can get away with being a total ass. He cusses people out and makes people cry all the time – everybody knows it, and he gets away with it! Also? I was waiting for the elevators the other day, and I heard this horrible slurping from someone behind me. It was like an alien vivisection or something – totally gooey and noisy and gross. And it was this VP, devouring a pear!

My Guy: Who the fuck eats pears?

Allow me to brag.

2011-11-20T19:15:00.004-06:00

My brother Poochie is brilliant.

This week, he successfully defended his master's thesis and his GIS certificate. I edited his thesis, and if you ask me? His research is going to revolutionize railroad planning and logistics.

This is also a nice way of saying that I didn't understand a good part of it.

Lest you think that Poochie is a flash in the academic pan? Let me tell you about the revolutionary theory that really put him on the smart-guy map. It's called The George Strait Test.

The gist? No man can punch George Strait in the face. It just can't be done - George is too nice! Everybody loves George! Therefore, no man can punch George in the face.

Even if you're not a country music fan, you gotta admit - Poochie's on to something.

Image courtesy of georgestrait.com.

Don't hate me because I'm beautiful.

2011-11-18T20:45:00.003-06:00

So, My Guy and I bought a house this time last year ... a 4-bedroom, 2-bath, 2-story house.

The house was a foreclosure. We got a hella deal. We work on the house every weekend. We still don't have use of the second story. That means we only have 1 bathroom.

Now, kudos to me for mentioning this when the county assessor guy stopped by a few weeks ago. Guess whose tax bill dropped by $700?

But not-so-awesome is the fact that our 1 bathroom has not-so-hot lighting. And the mirror is really high, so I have to stand on my tip-toes to get a good look at my sorry face.

I've never thought much about it ... until the other day when I was in my car. I had something in my eye, so I pulled the visor down and took advantage of the lighted mirror. What I saw was terrifying.

I had eyebrows everywhere. I looked like a yeti.

So, that night, I girded my loins and got out my tweezers. But when I looked at my face in the bathroom mirror, I saw none of the offending yeti brows.

You know what had to be done.

I put the tweezers in my car. But with the sun glaring into my car, I still couldn't quite discern all the rebel brows. Now, you could argue that if I can't see them, they aren't exactly visible. But it's the principle of the thing.

I had no choice but to tweeze my brows in my car, someplace dark with no glare. Someplace like ... the parking garage at Corporate Behemoth.

Yes. I tweezed my eyebrows in my car in the garage at work. While I was gettin' it done, I thought about how wrong it would be to be known as the woman who tweezes in the garage. But frankly? I don't give a shit.

This is perhaps a statement both on the condition of my brows and my burned-out brain.

Tell it like it is.

2011-11-16T22:27:00.000-06:00

Nobody asks my advice. And I have a lot of good advice to give. If I’m feeling this way at 36, just imagine what it will be like when I’m 86. Oh, Lord help us all.

So, it occurred to me the other day that I should have taken many, many things in my dating life as signs. Signs that OMG, this is totally not the man for me. For example:

Ex-Ex thought nothing about using the afghan that his grandma knitted as a moving blanket, wrapping it around a washing machine as he and a pal maneuvered that machine up four flights of stairs, destroying said afghan in the process.

I didn’t heed that sign. And I didn’t pay attention a few weeks later when I caught him using my grandma’s tablecloth as a rag while replumbing the bathroom sink. Sure, I grabbed the tablecloth and asked him WTF he was doing. But I didn’t see it as a sign of narcissism or stupidity.

Pay. Attention. Ladies. This shit is important.

Also? I don’t know what sort of vendetta Ex-Ex had against linens derived from grandmas. He needs counseling. Obviously.

Now, I did pay attention in college, when a suitor asked me to either call him or walk over to his fraternity house to wake him up so we could go to the movies. Even my young brain knew that this was a bad sign and most likely a ploy to get me into the vicinity of his bed. If you wanna go to the movies with me, you should also be able to set your alarm.

I asked another guy to the movies instead. We saw Tommy Boy and it was fine. It was fine even though that suitor wore the ugliest sweaters ever on each of our 3 dates. But I guess I get props for knowing that ugly sweaters were fixable. Expecting to be babysat was not.

My Guy does stuff that makes me crazy. I could write a year’s worth of blogs about his kitchen cleanliness or lack thereof. However … I’m a list-maker. And the other day, it was Monday, and I just needed a different flavor of list.

Things I like about My Guy
Gives excellent hugs
Very funny
Kind and supportive of my crazy ideas
Super smart but not in an asshole sort of way
Always has the right tool
Reads and learns stuff and is always an interesting conversationalist
Gives me sips of his beer even when I should probably just get my own
Is silly
Puts up with the 27 dogs
Makes delicious food
Loves blue … because such allegiance to 1 color is admirable
Is both pro-pancake and pro-cake
Acts like I’m pretty even when I’m not and I appreciate that very much
Teaches me stuff all the time, like how to throw a spiral or how to calm the fuck down
Plans carefully but also takes stuff in stride
Keeps secrets
Tells jokes
Has the best laugh EVER

Again, pay attention. This is the important stuff.

W.W.E.P.D.?

2011-11-15T09:41:00.003-06:00

I try to have good manners. Impeccable manners, really. But sometimes? Sometimes, I am at a loss. I just don't know the proper etiquette.

Case in point: I breezed into the ladies' room at Corporate Behemoth the other day. I was wearing dress shoes that clanked on the tile floor, and I was walking fast. I was on a mission. You know, that lady-plumbing-maintenance sort of monthly mission.

So, I breezed into the ladies room, and there were 2 women huddled together near the sinks. As I walked past and got into a stall, I realized that they were praying. One woman was teary, and the other was praying with her.

That is awesome. We should all be so lucky to have friend / coworkers who will comfort us in the ladies' room.

But then I got into my stall, and I dug my ladyparts plumbing maintenance supplies out of my purse. And then I stopped.

They were still praying. How could I possibly pee during a prayer? It would be like saying, "I piss on your higher power!" And I am not about that at all.

So I stood in the stall. And started to feel like I was intruding. And being really creepy for just standing in a stall, listening to these women pray. I couldn't really leave - I had business to attend to. But this was the longest prayer ever in the history of Corporate Behemoth ladies' room prayers! And all that standing in the stall made me realize that I totally had to pee. I was so close, and yet so far from my salvation!

Finally, the prayer was over and I did my business and everybody lived happily ever after. But did I do the right thing? I want to ask what Emily Post would have done ... but I'm pretty sure she is so elegant and correct that such lowly concerns as peeing and monthly ladyparts maintenance are not her concern at all.

Think about it. Can you picture Emily Post farting?

Didn't think so.

Mute no more.

2011-11-06T13:33:00.004-06:00

Hi friends. It's been a while. I've missed you!

I am so humbled and thankful for blog friends who've asked where I've been or just kept checking to see when I'm going to get off my ass and write something already. Thank you.

The long and the short of it? All is well. There's just been stuff going down that I didn't feel like I could write about.

Case in point?

I was required to participate in a moandatory - oops, I mean mandatory - corporate flash mob.

Yes. My team at Corporate Behemoth was required to perform like Solid Gold dancers at an all-hands meeting. In front of a couple thousand coworkers.

It was a big secret, and we had to attend 7 hours of rehearsals for a 1-minute dance. Ever showed up for a meeting in the middle of the day all sweaty and gross and unable to offer an explanation, other than "I'm gross?" I have! Because secret rehearsals were in the midst of the regular work day.

Now, I will admit that the flash mob acted as a team-building activity, because we were working together to avoid public humiliation. I actually ended up kind of enjoying the dancing. And it was nice to be praised for being a good dancer, even though as a high school sophomore, I didn't make the show choir. So, my old vocal teacher can suck it.

Buuut ... it was mandatory. During a super-busy time of year. And I don't know about your workplace, but a quick glance around mine shows some really obese people. And a guy with a severe spine problem. And contractors who are expected to work just as hard as the full-time employees but who aren't included in stuff like, oh, say, mandatory corporate flash mobs. This activity did not take into account the interests and needs of these individuals.

And it made me mad. And being praised for being one of the best dancers and having folks request to stand behind me in the formation so they could follow my lead was sort of like pouring salt in the wound. Yay - you're super good at selling your soul! At 1 rehearsal, I actually thought, "Oh. I wonder if this is what it feels like to be stripper." But with name badges instead of body glitter.

And have I mentioned that the performance of this little flash mob was a week after I had to confront a very sexist coworker? A coworker to whom I actually yelled, "I'm not your secretary!"

Yeah. So, droppin' it like it's hot was just what my career and my minor case of burnout needed. Yee-haw!

But it went OK and now it's over, and now we can move on to other things.

So ... what have you been up to?

Fun with household appliances.

2011-09-14T20:17:00.003-05:00

So, the other day, when I was all, "reading trashy books is so much more virtuous than watching trashy teevee?"

Yeah. Umm ... I've been watching a lot of trashy teevee.

My Guy and I lived without TV for 6 months. It was a time of self discovery. It also coincided with the 6 months we lived without a dishwasher. Needless to say ... the beginning of our marriage was rough. Really rough.

But we bought a dishwasher. And the day it was installed, My Guy texted me a photo of the shiny new appliance with the caption, "Marriage saved!"

And it was so.

And since we agreed we couldn't possibly live without cable during football season, we got cable. So much has changed in the 6 months we didn't have cable - I feel so behind the times! Did you know there's an entire show about people who get, like, $500 worth of groceries for $5 because they spend 40 hours a week clipping coupons?

Not to be all mean about it, but ... considering that those groceries include 89 bags of croutons, and it works out to "earning" $12.50 per hour of coupon clipping? I'm not so sure the extreme couponing is worth it.

I've also discovered That Metal Show. It's 3 music geeks arguing over the merits of various heavy metal albums and interviewing hard rock musicians. The stories are great, and I can relate to wanting a forum to talk about random music trivia.

Side note: Did you know Toni Tennille from The Captain & Tennille performed on Pink Floyd's The Wall?

Anyway.

I'm taking requests - what other shows should we add to our DVR? The trashier, the better. Obviously.

All the news that's fit to print.

2011-09-13T20:44:00.003-05:00

I should have something witty to talk about.

I could write about hosting Poochie's university railroading club at our house last weekend, and how My Guy confided that he had no idea how to properly host and relate to a bunch of train enthusiasts. "You're a computer programmer," I said. "Are you telling me you don't speak Nerd?"

"I do!" he clarified. "But theirs is a different dialect!"

So, I could write about that. Or I could bitch and mooooaaaaan about the fact that Miss Universe spent a whole 60 seconds displaying not all the national heritage costumes, but only the top 10. Like there's any other reason to watch the pageant. Shame, SHAME on you, Miss Universe!

Side note: you can see fantastic national heritage costume recaps at Tom and Lorenzo. They're fabulous and opinionated.

Or I could write about my mighty triumph at Corporate Behemoth, wherein I convinced a senior VP that no, we don't need more videos (thereby creating a shit-ton of work for yours truly), but rather, we need to leverage the other content we already have.

You can call me a savvy content strategist if you like.

However?

I don't feel savvy. I don't feel like strategizing anything. I don't feel entertaining or even remotely interesting. I feel ... depleted.

I guess unbalance in your day-to-day life doesn't go away just because you go on vacation and come up with a long-term plan. You still need those little baby steps to improve your quality of life along the way.

Also? I think we can all agree that vacationing with your in laws is not a vacation at all. It is a tour of duty.

Now, I'm going to retire to bed with my Grover Cleveland biography. And before you're all, "Pshaw ... Grover Cleveland - whatevs," let me just tell you this: Ol' Grover (known as Big Steve to his friends) looked after his BFF's widow and daughter, treating the daughter almost as his own child. Until ... her married her. The daughter. Not the widow. He married his BFF's kid.

Reading trashy things about dead people: It feels more virtuous than watching trash teevee.

I am an equestrienne.

2011-09-07T20:52:00.003-05:00

I just got back from a 5-day Colorado vacation extravaganza with My Guy's family. As you might expect, my brain is swimming.

Let's just put it this way - I have a new life motto: You can't change people. But you can write about them.

But I need to ease into that, lest my brain explode, ka-pow style. So, let's start with the basics: I rode a horse. For the very first time ever.

Now, my grandparents were the sort that clambered upon 1 horse with 7 siblings to head to school, sans adult supervision, starting at the age of 5. Somehow, the fact that I made it to the age of 36 without ever riding a horse feels like I have failed my ancestors.

But I tried to make up for it. A group of us family vacationing fools went for a trail ride in Rocky Mountain National Park. The ride was 2 hours and involved tourism horses. You know, the horses that have been doing this same damned trail all summer and are just over it? You know, those rides that require absolutely no skill on the part of the human passenger?

Yeah.

My horse's name was Bravo. He was not pleased being the second horse. He wanted to be the first horse and so spent 2 whole hours attempting to pass the horse in front of him. Each time I corrected him with my meager horsewoman skills, he "accidentally" brushed me up against something. Like a boulder.

My common refrain during the ride: "Dude. Give me a break."

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

My Guy and I compared notes and had many similar experiences during our first riding experiences. I was not alone. In fact, maybe my experience was even ... universal!

And so, I determined The 8 Stages of New Equestrianism:

1. Apprehension.
OK, I've never been on a horse. I was never one of those little girls who fantasize about ponies. I never even had a My Little Pony. But this will be a great life experience! And this horse is really pretty.

2. Terror.
This horse is pretty, but it didn't seem pleased when I stroked his nose. And he's really, really tall and the guide had to hoist my ass up to get me on the horse and now I'm sitting here and the horse is supposed to be standing still but he's moving. He's moving under my crotchal region and ohmigod I don't think I remember what I'm supposed to do with the reigns and WEAREALLGOINGTODIE!

3. Resignation.
Oh. The horse knows what to do. I just have to sit here and make peace with the fact that there's a moving animal under my crotchal region. Look how cute the guide girl is in front of us. She is so darling. Maybe I could be an outdoorsy girl.

4. Hallucination.
I'm on a horse! Outside! On a trail! In nature! Maybe I have missed my calling. Maybe I'm meant to be an outdoorsy girl, an outdoorsy girl on a horse. Maybe I'll start taking riding lessons. Maybe we'll start taking vacations where we ride horses.

5. Realization.
Fuck that shit. My knees hurt.

6. Impatience.
This is the longest 2 hours of my life. I'm covered in dust and have no feeling below my waist. The trail has a crappy view and my horse is flatulent and keeps trying to cut in line. The guide actually fwapped him in the head because he kept trying to pass her. I guess he's bored, too. I'm pretty sick of looking at the guide's back. At least she isn't farting as much as my horse.

7. Relief.
I see the barn. The end is in sight! And I almost don't even care that it takes me 3 minutes to dismount Bravo the Asshole Flatulent Horse because I'm numb and my knee is totally torqued and I can barely stand on my own. I will gladly take my place along the fence with my other wounded compatriots.

8. Sanity.
That was an interesting life experience. Let us never speak of it again.

Social media confounds me.

2011-08-30T17:47:00.002-05:00

Or maybe I understand social media and people confound me. That's more likely.

Remember the Mean Girl who dissed me, pointedly asking my friend - but not me - to accompany her to a gathering where "all the cute and fun girls" would be?

She just asked to join my network on LinkedIn.

You won't talk to me but you want me to help you find a job? Seriously?

I also received a LinkedIn invite from a rather shy but crazy-smart analytics guy at Corporate Behemoth. He's so nice but so quiet. But so good at his job. Will I social network with you, Shy Guy? Hell yeah! I will help you find whatever job your heart desires.

But Mean Girl? Go to hell.

In other social media news, I've discovered the joys of diagnosing high school classmates with random psychological disorders based on their Facebook posts.

Case in point? One of my classmates posted about the craptasticness of her local public schools. Like, posted a lot. To the point she announced that she would be home-schooling her daughter.

OK, that's cool. Do what is best for your family.

But! But then my classmate saw Matt Damon speak about the necessity paying public school teachers better. She responded in the most effective way possible: via Facebook. And so, she posted this gem for all the world to see:

I wanted to jump through the TV screen and strangle Matt Damon for talking about giving teachers 10 year. What a load of crap!

It took me a long, long time to figure out what she was talking about: tenure.

I'm thinking borderline personality disorder with a side of anger-management issues. Thoughts?

Miss Congeniality lives here.

2011-08-28T19:09:00.006-05:00

We are back from the beach.

Sigh. It was great.

We walked on the beach every morning. This was relaxing and exfoliated the crap out of my feet. It also meant that even though I had a bloody mary every late morning and some sort of fried fish every night, I only gained a pound.

I read four books while lounging in the shade by the pool:

There was a bar on the main drag in Clearwater that had a sign that read "Tuesday ladys nite / Weds Karaoke / $3 flu shots."

I think everybody could get a flu shot, not just "the ladys."

I renewed my love for and utter devotion to fish tacos.

We got back last night to find that Puppy Love Lisa had overfed the doxies all week. They are visibly larger. Last night, Lil' Frankfurter yakked in the bed at about 4 a.m. I caught it with my hand. Because I'm an excellent mama.

But now we're back to a house where somebody's limited potty-training skillz took a hit from a change in schedule. And there's no room service. And we have to go back to work tomorrow ... but only for 3 days. Then, we're off on a family vaca with My Guy's siblings.

I have been in a horrendous mood all day.

Lil' Frank has peed all over the house, none of which My Guy has noticed. So, I've been cleaning up pee all day. And doing laundry all day. And trying to get a jump start on my overflowing inbox at Corporate Behemoth. And dear Lord, what does a girl have to do to get some help around here?

This seems like the dark underbelly of vacation: the reentry sucks.

*Thanks Patti!

Book reporting it up.

2011-08-16T06:45:00.003-05:00

Thanks for all of the book recommendations. Ordering books has been a nice respite from the canine oozing wounds / doggie diarrhea around my house as of late. And oh, yes, I'm blogging at 6:30 a.m. because Lil' Frankfurter jumped off the bed at 5:45 and I just *knew* something was afoot. Let's just say he tried but didn't make it all the way to the door before dropping trou.

So, because turnaround is fair play (talking books here, not pooping on the floor), here's what I've read or, more likely, listened to lately.

Role Models by John Waters
I thought this would be a book where somebody famous (yeah, it's that John Waters) interviews other famous people. But not so much. While Waters does talk about his run-ins with awesomeness like Johnny Mathis, he also tracks down folks like an overweight pothead lesbian stripper who was infamous in Baltimore in the 60s. I love the idea of finding role models in unexpected places, but I will admit I got a bit bored at the end of the book with the graphic descriptions of gay porn. I'm guessing not every reader would find that dull.

Bossypants by Tina Fey
Oooh, shocker! I loved this book! I tried to read it in bed, but my laughter kept waking My Guy up. Now, he's reading it, and laughing like a hyena. It makes me happy.

The one thing that wasn't so much a shock but more of a surprise was Fey's no-BS approach to the whole women-in-comedy / feminism thing. She's pretty much like, "Yeah, it's stupid but it's still an issue, so get over it and quit whining and just do what you're gonna do but for god's sake, don't cry at work." Which, since I've felt like crying at work lately, is a bit of tough love.

Say Her Name by Francisco Goldman
Goldman's young wife was killed in a freak accident, and this is his rumination on grief and loss. Not exactly a pick-me-up, but authentic. However, I must admit that if you're looking for first-person grief lit, I much prefer Joan Didion's Year of Magical Thinking. However, Say Her Name is more from an analytical standpoint, and is honest about, oh, fucking women who remind you of your late wife. And calling it "fucking."

Lies Chelsea Handler Told Me by a bunch of people who know Chelsea Handler
My one-word review: Ehh.

In a nutshell, Chelsea Handler is evidently a bit of a nutjob who loves to play very involved practical jokes and to mess with the heads of her family, friends, and coworkers. Working for her would stress me out - I'd always be afraid that she was going to send some e-mail from my computer to the CEO of Corporate Behemoth, telling him that I have hemorrhoids or something.

The interesting string that connects all of the tales in this book is that despite the embarrassment, shame, and general inconvenience that Chelsea's hijinks cause, every writer loves her and swears she's loyal, generous and kind. Hmm.

In addition, I'm still working my way through Janet Evanovich's Stephanie Plum series. However, I'm a bit off ... last one I got from the library, I had this exchange at check-out:

Librarian: Have you read other books in this series?

Me: Yeah.

Librarian: Oh, so you want me to remove the last disk from this audio book?

Me: Huh?

Librarian: Well, you know how it ends, right?

Now, I like this exchange because I like my librarians with a little bit o' sass. However, it means that my worst nightmares are true: Librarians are judging me based on the crap I check out! Which brings me to another book I recently read:

This Book Is Overdue: How Librarians and Cybrarians Can Save Us All by Marilyn Johnson
This mostly entertaining but sometimes mind-numbing book talks about modern library science - it ain't just about moving the card catalog to computer, baby. Different sections of the book cover topics ranging from librarian bloggers to librarians fighting the government to protect the privacy of our library records. Also? I had no idea that people poop in libraries. Like, in the stacks. Librarians don't get paid enough. Seriously.

And that's my book report. I'd like my Pizza Hut personal pan pizza now. Thanks.

A mean mom. And broke, too.

2011-08-14T20:57:00.004-05:00

Lil' Frankfurter typically smells like fish. This is mostly due to his nasty-ass teeth.

So, being the unreasonable mama I am, I took him to have his teeth cleaned on Thursday.

This is what he looks like now.Yes. They had to pull one of his front teeth.

I'm trying to convince him that he looks like he was in a bar fight and is therefore a total bad ass. I don't think he's buying it. At least he wasn't Thursday night.

He kept listing to the side. He wouldn't just give up and go to sleep, because admitting defeat is for wusses. Instead, he kept leaning at about a 45-degree angle.Yes, it was adorable.

Cut to Friday night. I refused to give up and go to sleep, and so was barely with-it when I finally got up off the couch. As I stepped over Big Doodle, I noticed that the usual fatty tumor thing on his side was replaced by this bloody monstrosity that looks like Jupiter.Yeah. Except where the storm is? There's a hole with gunk coming out of it.

We were back at the vet Saturday morning. Poor guy is doped up and scheduled for surgery on Thursday. But meanwhile? Meanwhile, I can hardly look at Jupiter, but I'm enthralled by it. It's so completely and utterly disgusting. We're calling our dog "Massive Side Wound Doodle." He has an open wound and is leaving blood all over our baseboards, because he keeps laying against them, applying pressure to Jupiter and causing it to goo all over.

So, just another weekend in paradise. You know.

Paper + sand = awesome.

2011-08-10T20:38:00.002-05:00

I just realized that I have perfectly symmetrical chest and back zits. Disgusting in the front! Disgusting in the back!

Did I mention that we're getting ready to go to the beach?

In 10 days, My Guy and I will be enjoying the sands of lovely Florida. I am already trying to decide if I should start out with a mojito or break out all my calorie-busting moves and start with a margarita. Did you know that the hotel lounge chairs have these little flags on them, and when you want a waiter, you just put the little flag up? And your waiter walks over and takes your order and brings you the tropical drink of your choice and you never have to get up off your probably sunburned ass?

Yes, it is my idea of heaven.

But I do need some help. I need books! Got any recommendations for good beach reads?

Where's Oprah when you need her?

2011-07-27T20:27:00.003-05:00

I haven't been writing about the shingles because dear God in heaven, I am sick of hearing myself talk about how I have a headache or I can't sleep or blah blah blah.

I'm not contagious. The rash is gone, replaced by pain. I'm back at work. I'm exhausted.

And things at work are amped up. We need stuff and we need it now and we're all freaking out. Basically, I was met at the door with several coworkers saying, "Hope you're feeling better. I need you to do this project for me right now."

OK, then.

So, the stress is at a higher level than when I got stress-related shingles. Gotcha.

I'm not quite doing my regular "pretend it never happened and go back to life as usual" schtick. There's a voice whispering in my brain, telling me to get this shit straightened out or next time it won't be shingles. It will be worse, whatever that means.

My Guy was scared of me when I got home from work tonight. "You slammed the crap out of the door," he said. "Why don't you have some wine?"

I'm back on Weight Watchers. Wine is, like, 7 points.

"I give you permission to not track a glass of wine," he said.

"Am I that big of a stressed-out bitch?"

He hugged me and opened the fridge. "Look - here's an open bottle!"

Is a day at Corporate Behemoth followed by a run to the grocery really that stressful? Am I a wuss if I don't want to do this anymore, whatever "this" is?

Why I will never watch Hoarders again.

2011-07-26T20:51:00.006-05:00

I used to like that show, I really did. The lack of accountability occasionally made me crazy, but for the most part, it was a satisfying viewing experience.

No more. That guilty pleasure was snatched away from me.

See, my father-in-law reprimanded me for the fact that My Guy wrote the wrong house number on a letter he sent his dad.

Reprimanded me!

I told him I don't keep My Guy's address book and he needed to take it up with his son.

He kept talking. To me. About the address.

I looked out the window.

He informed me that he didn't receive his Father's Day Lowe's gift card in the mail because My Guy probably mailed it to the wrong address.

I looked out the window some more.

My sister-in-law asked her dad if he'd opened all of his mail. He had not. He produced two tubs full of unopened mail.

Two tubs!

While my sister-in-law looked for the envelope from Lowe's, my father-in-law regaled me with tales about how he is too tired after working in the garden every day to open his mail. His sister spent an entire day opening a years' worth of his mail for him a few months ago.

I looked out the window even more and attempted not to levitate with frustration. Finally, I couldn't take it. I turned my head, scanning the 3 family members digging through the mail, across the dusty living room with the piles of stuff, to look my father-in-law in the eye. "Since we're looking through the mail now, can we throw some if it out? Some of the old grocery store ads, maybe?

My father-in-law gave me what I'm sure he considered a winning smile. "I would, but I'm too lazy."

Separated at birth. Obviously.

2011-07-25T13:00:00.002-05:00

Me: I will only go to Branson if we can see Dolly Parton.

My Guy: She’s not usually there.

Me: Well, nevermind then.

My Guy, thinking, but smartly not verbally expressing: You are insane.

Me: Have you ever seen 9 to 5?
My Guy: I don’t think so.

Me: It’s a fantastic movie! She’s so funny!

My Guy: Is that the one where she dresses like a man?

Me, thinking but also verbally expressing: What? No! You’re insane!

My Guy: Oh, right. That’s Yentl.
Me, dead on floor from laughter-induced heart attack: Noooooo!

My Guy: Oh, right.

Me: Bwah ha ha!

My Guy: I’m your husband! You’re so lucky! Jesus decrees that you love me even though I get my 80s movies confused!

Me: How could you confuse Dolly Parton and Barbra Streisand?

My Guy: I DON’T KNOW!

Me: Well, you’re obviously straight.

And … scene!

Images courtesy of Google Images. Which rocks.

Forget flashcards. Shingles are way more educational.

2011-07-14T17:13:00.003-05:00

The world is ending. I took another sick day today. Surely this is a sign of the apocalypse.

So, here's what I am trying to figure out: What is it that I'm supposed to learn from having shingles?

Possible answers:

a) Nothing. Shit goes down and that's just how it is. Quit trying to analyze the universe. You should have realized this when your efforts to psychoanalyze your in-laws for fun and profit didn't work. Just leave it be.

b) Your body just *might* be reacting to an accumulation of stress and big goings on this year. This *might* be a sign that you need to respect the changes and respect the stress and *possibly* make a few tweaks in your lifestyle and how you deal with and view stress.

c) Everything is bad! Much like the story of Job, this is just the latest in a series of holy tests from above! You are being smitten and must change everything right now! Quit your job, go vegan and organic, make your own clothes, and stop drinking purple Kool-Aid RIGHT NOW.

So, yeah. Possible answers. Am I missing any? What do you think?

I just feel like if I rearrange the furniture or make some little tweak that everything will be OK. I'll stop getting these weird maladies and miraculously the stabbing, I'ma-gonna-kill-somebody pain of the shingles will magically cease.

My self-medicating has now grown to include making gazpacho (not so healing, but it sounded good at the time), showering (really? everybody wins), and Internet shopping (I have high hopes for the medicinal value of this one).

Boden and Garnet Hill are both having huge end-of-season sales. Shopping for clothes made me feel like I really will leave my house again and will require non-pajama clothes to do it in. So, really? I was shopping for the future. For America. For you and me. If I don't shop, the terrorists (and the shingles) win.

But help a girl out. What the eff am I supposed to be learning from all of this?

Self medicating.

2011-07-13T14:07:00.005-05:00

I'm miserable. The shingles? They sucketh.

I'm finding comfort in some small things.

If I lie on my right side with the side of my face part-way leaning against a pillow, the throbbing in my torso subsides. Good to know.

And My Guy has been making lots of purple Kool-Aid, which, for whatever reason, tastes really, really good. I can't bring myself to call it grape, even though My Guy assures me that it's made from the finest grape powder. It's purple. My Guy says this is the Iowa in me, coming out loud and proud.

And if I lie on my right side with my head just so and drink purple Kool-Aid while watching Maury? Well, right now? That's about as good as it gets.

The Maury quote of the day comes courtesy of a woman who found out that the father of her three children had lied about everything - including his first name. Backstage, this is what she had to say to him.

When we get home? You get your bags and you get out. Get your bags, cuz that's all you're taking with you. I'll give you some lunch meat, but that's it.

I really, really hope she gave it to him by throwing slices of unwrapped lunch meat at him as he walked out the door. Maybe bologna, or maybe pimento loaf, because it's especially gross.

This mental image just makes me feel better.

When I say “shingles,” I’m not talking about your roof.

2011-07-11T22:22:00.000-05:00

I have joked that since I got married, I can officially commence letting myself go.

I thought I was joking. Maybe I wasn’t.

First? I had a stress fracture in my foot. Then? Allergic reaction to gunk on stitches. Now?

Oh, Lord. I have shingles.

Seriously.

Yes, I have the chicken pox virus-induced magic that is shingles. Me, and a whole bunch of elderly people.

Perhaps this is a sign that I am worn down, since it typically strikes folks with compromised immune systems. Like cancer or AIDS patients, or the elderly. Or, you know, otherwise healthy 36-year-old women who recently had a stress fracture and some gross rashes.

To the uninitiated, shingles is a rash that’s crazily only on one side of your body. And, it’s in a line. And it itches like poison ivy but, because shingles is a crazy bitch, also hurts. Hurts like you are being stabbed with multiple pencils.

Today, I actually wondered if I could just cut the rash off of my body, because that surely wouldn’t be this crappy.

But the crappiest part of all? I can’t be around pregnant people until this shit goes away. Which, even with drugs and such, could be weeks.

There are 2 women at work who are pregnant.

I can’t go to work.

I called my boss, practically delirious. “I don’t know what to do! I’m so gross! And I would die if something happened because I was all around the pregnant ladies! I’m so gross!”

Like having chicken pox at age 4 made me gross and not just, you know, like the rest of the adult population.

So, I’m working from home until, like, further notice.

Alone.

I practically attacked My Guy when he got home from work today, and it’s only been 1 day. “How are you doing? How was work? What did you have for lunch?” Between that and my recent rash of oozing rashes? I am totally Dream Spouse.

Ick.

There are just some times when you are out of sorts, you know? And now would definitely be one of those times.

The fine art of the written word, Part 2. Now with less cussing and fewer bitches!

2011-07-07T17:11:00.003-05:00

Thanks for rallying ‘round the little mental breakdown in my last post. I so appreciate the kind words, and the offers of offing the editor who doesn’t know what a hyperlink is.

Today is a good day. I got a nice e-mail from a coworker. I got a raise – because people appreciate proper tone, style guide implementation and hyperlinks, dammit. And I got the most awesome e-mail from my most awesome dad:

Subject: Cute and fun girls

Just read your blog. You are a cute and fun girl.

Dad

Thank God for kind, fun, brilliant parents who have a high tolerance for dropping the f-bomb.

The fine art of the written word. Also? Cussing. And some bitches.

2011-07-06T21:56:00.005-05:00

I might be a bit hypersentive to criticism at the moment.

Over the last few months, I've started blogging for Corporate Behemoth. Not about dogs and getting married and dog poo and living with a boy and dog pee, but about Corporate Behemoth-type stuff. It's been an adjustment.

At first, the marketing lady was all, "You're Cha Cha. You're senior editorial manager. Do whatever you want. Thanks for blogging!" And that was cool.

And then the marketing lady left, and the new marketing lady was all, "You're Cha Cha. You're senior editorial manager. Have your blog reviewed and approved by these 17 people before you post. Thanks for blogging!" And that's ... different.

Considering that most of what I write here is completely made up as I go along and (surprise, I know) gets very little forethought? This whole Corporate Behemoth blogging plan is a bit of a shock.

But I'm down. I'm a team player. I work really, really hard not to drop the f-bomb in my corporate posts. And I've been successful.

So far.

One of the 96 people who have to approve my blog is a contractor who writes press releases.

I'm sure she's really good at what she does and is a lovely person.

But first, she edited my stuff for tone. Dude. It was my directive to write in my personal voice. As long as I don't drop the f-bomb, get off my back.

Then? Then, she quite helpfully removed all the "underlines" in my post.

I had to explain to her that they weren't underlines ... they were hyperlinks. As are commonly found on the Internet.

Sigh.

In other news, I was at a party this weekend, talking to two of my very best friends in the whole world. And a mutual acquaintance came up to our little group, and addressed only one of us.

"You HAVE to come out with us after the party!" the evil woman said to my one friend - and only to my one friend. Completely ignoring me and friend numero dos. "All of the cute and fun girls will be there!"

So, I guess I'm not a cute and fun girl. I'm a woman, and a writer. And we're better. We're smarter. And funnier. And we can insult you with words you don't understand and you won't even know it.

But let me put this in words you will understand: Don't fuck with my tone, and don't fuck with my hyperlinks. I have shit to say and I'm going to say it the way I need to say it. So back the fuck off.

Also? I would be delighted to tell you where you may place your cute-and-fun-girl afterparty.

Fun with words.

2011-07-04T18:31:00.004-05:00

tinklepotty walkabout (n.)

Origin: American Midwest c. 2010; combination of words meaning "urination" and "nomadic excursion;" attributed to the family of urination-location visionary Lil' Frankfurter
1. activity undertaken by miniature dachshund Lil' Frankfurter at approximately 8:45 every evening; characterized by jumping off the couch and nonchalantly wandering the house in search of a place to urinate; often immediately followed by his human mother herding him away from fabrics and furniture and toward the outdoors, the traditional location for dog urination

2. squeal-like exclamation made by Lil' Frankfurter's mother while rushing him to the door to facilitate urination outside

In case you were wondering.

2011-06-27T21:07:00.002-05:00

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?

2011-06-26T17:35:00.004-05:00

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.

2011-06-22T21:08:00.003-05:00

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 Aunt'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 auntie is happy but, for a myriad of reasons, the family wishes 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.

2011-06-20T22:10:00.002-05:00

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.

2011-06-16T16:50:00.000-05:00

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 ...

2011-06-14T21:31:00.003-05:00

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.

2011-06-13T19:50:00.003-05:00

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.

2011-06-10T21:01:00.004-05:00

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.

2011-06-09T17:24:00.000-05:00

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.

What's happenin', hot stuff?

2011-05-16T19:34:00.002-05:00

Not blogging. That's what's happening.

I think I crammed a few month's worth of conversations and general social interactions into one weekend: our wedding. Since then, I've been pretty hermit-like. And while I'm sure there are whispers that newlyweds sequester themselves away for sexytime? I'm here to tell you that it's because they are damned well tired of talking.

Also? They are starting to feel sheepish about not having started writing thank-you notes. Or even ordering said notes. Ugh.

But today? Today, I have an excuse for not writing thank yous. Today is my birthday. Today, I am 36 years old.

Yep. I guess I can no longer claim to be in my early 30s. But I did get carded last week, so that's totally a bonus.

This is sort of a crappy birthday - I will be honest. My Guy, Poochie and I painted the exterior of our house this weekend. It was cold. I wore three t-shirts, a sweatshirt and a parka. Oh, and pants. I was wearing pants, too. But it was shit-ass cold. And in the middle of it? Well, God has a funny sense of humor. Somebody rented My Guy's house - totally out of the blue. A total blessing! But the funny part? The renters want to move in on Friday. And My Guy is in lovely Sandusky, Ohio, all this week.

Ha ha ha.

So in the midst of painting? The three of us dropped our drop cloths, rented a truck, and packed up and moved the rest of My Guy's stuff out of his house.

Why yes, he had had several months to pack up that stuff and move it out.

Ahem.

I'm exhausted, but at least I didn't have to catch a plane to Cleveland at 7 a.m. Instead, I just have to sit around and sulk about my pooooooor birthday all alone in my dirty-as-sin house.

Which, if we're being honest? Since I'm still sort of hiding from the world? Isn't that bad.

But I did have a moment of introspection in a stall of the ladies' room today at Corporate Behemoth. The year I was 35? I got engaged, bought a house, moved, had boobie problems, sold a house, got married, and assumed parenting of two additional dogs.

What in the world could 36 possibly hold to beat that?

And if you mention a baby, I will beat you with a stick.

Sound it out. It spells just the way it sounds, honey.

2011-04-28T16:20:00.002-05:00

My parents took a road trip. To Arkansas.

My dad is a huge railroading fan, and so they went into a model railroad shop.

The shop was having a sale.

Photo courtesy of my mama. I'm impressed she could stop laughing long enough to hold the camera steady.

The royal wedding: a primer.

2011-04-26T22:42:00.004-05:00

Kate? You and I have a lot in common, both being April brides and all. Honestly? I’m really glad that it’s been more than two weeks since my wedding. It’s only fair that the hubbub around my day has worn off a bit so that you can have your own day in the sun. I hope you don’t think this is presumptuous, but I thought I’d share what I learned during my wedding. You know, so you can make the most of your big day.

Wear flats. Seriously. I wore these Borns and my feet felt happy all night.
Take a nap. I snoozed for about an hour before I started getting my hair and make-up done. It was cool. Otherwise? My parents and I would just have been sitting around looking at each other and being nervous. While I slept, my dad watched Indiana Jones and The Raiders of the Lost Ark. Everybody wins.

Try to talk to everyone. They got dressed up and got babysitters and bought a gift for you.

Try to thank everyone, especially the waitstaff and DJ and all those other folks that often get overlooked but are critical to a successful wedding. One of the best hugs I got all night was from the woman who waited on us during dinner. I wanted to put her in my pocket and take her home.

Make peace with the crazy. I don’t mean to make assumptions about your family or the royal clan, buuuuuut … let’s say you’re me. And a fair number of your extended family has outed themselves as batshit crazy in the last, oh, 10 years. These people will be at your wedding. And batshit crazy generally doesn’t take a holiday, even for important events like weddings. Leave it be. Smile graciously in the face of the batshit crazy, and know that you will have lots to laugh about later with your groom.

Be prepared for the bridal suite. No, I’m not talking about sexytime. I’m talking about snacks and slippers and utensils. Because you will be starving. And even if you’ve been wearing flats, you’ll be delighted to be reunited with your slippers.

Admit defeat early. Know that you cannot host a freakin’ brunch the day after the wedding. Luckily, many wise women advised me that I was smoking crack if I attempted such a thing, and they were right. The day after the wedding, My Guy and I lounged about in the hotel room, eating wedding cake and watching Major League on cable TV. It was perfect. And I had zero desire to see anyone or talk to anyone or smile at anyone except my new husband.

Have fun. When everybody says it goes so fast? Dude. They are so, so right. So be in the moment. And make it fun. We made our grand entrance to Neil Diamond’s “America.” And one of my favorite moments was hearing the low intro build and build … and then hearing my brother cackle in recognition and approval. Was it perfect by magazine standards? Hell no. Was it perfect for us?

Well, my auntie drew an X on my ring finger with a ballpoint pen so that My Guy would know which finger the ring went on.

My Guy flubbed his vows, and so tagged on that he promised to trip over words during important public speeches.

I held my dad’s hand so tightly that he’s just now regaining feeling.

Our sweet officiant got emotional and lost his place in the ceremony.

We were absolutely overwhelmed by the love and support and joy of the people who came out to support us.
So, yes. Yes, it was perfect for us.
Kate? May you also be so lucky.

Deer caught in headlights.

2011-04-24T21:35:00.001-05:00

Don't tell me you don't see the resemblance.

Photographic evidence to follow, I promise!

2011-04-22T18:47:00.004-05:00

You know that scene from A Christmas Story when Ralphie's dad goes to the basement to battle the furnace? And you hear a bunch of profanity, and the voiceover says, "Some men work in oils or clay. My old man's medium was profanity?"

So, that sort of describes my dad, too. My brother and I were exposed to colorful vocabulary from a young age. This probably explains why BFF remembers me as being the very first person she ever knew to drop the f-bomb. Seventh grade, baby.

All of this just provides background for why I cussed walking down the aisle at my wedding.

So, I was dressed. And my dad drove me to the venue, and we sat in the car from a few blocks away so we could watch people going in and gauge when was a good time to make our grand entrance.

We parked the car. We got out of the car. And then we stood in the entryway.

The staff at the venue was all lined up, smiling at us. I had my arm draped in the crook of my dad's arm, and my hand holding his. I guess really, really holding his. Like, cutting off the circulation. He asked if he wanted to hold my hand like that while we walked down the aisle.

I heard the beginning of The Beach Boys' "God Only Knows," the official Seating of the Mamas song, and I felt a strange, emotional twinge. I told my dad that yes, I did want to hold his hand.

I felt calm about marrying My Guy, but I also had this weird anxiety.

Then the processional started. Of course, it was "Don't Stop Believin'."

We started walking.

My Guy and I got married in the round, so all the guests were in a U-shape, facing me as I walked in. The first person I saw was BFF, who promptly put her hand over her mouth and got teary. Then I saw My Guy. Then I realized that allllll these people were loooooooking at meeeee.

I turned to my dad. "Oh, SHIT!"

But we kept walking. And I started crying.

At one point, I started to move my bouquet to hide my face, but then decided that no, that was a bad idea. I was crying for the whole world to see. Maybe my makeup was running. Maybe my fake eyelashes were now stuck to my chin. I had no way of knowing, and nowhere to hide. It was like that dream where you realize you're naked. Except I was wearing a 20-pound wedding dress.

But then we got married and it turns out that my makeup didn't run at all and instead of looking like a giant goob, I just looked like a bride who was happy and in love.

And about the cussing? My dad's comment after the fact was the best.

"Well, you ARE MY daughter."

And then?

2011-04-17T21:31:00.003-05:00

And ... we got married!

And there's so much to write about that I don't even know where to begin. Here's the Cliff Notes version:

I cussed while walking down the aisle. Yes, I'm classy like that.
The ceremony was absolutely incredible.
Lots of people traveled a long, long way to be with us.
Some stuff was funny.
Some family was insane.
We've been hiding from the world for a week.
We moved all of the furniture out of my house and have been unpacking our new house.
I wouldn't necessarily recommend moving as a honeymoon activity, but it works.

I'll post stories and details. But for now? Here's one of my favorite photos, with a caption courtesy of My Guy.
Cha Cha 5 minutes after the wedding. Letting herself go in record time.*

*For the record? My Guy brought my beloved slippers to the hotel. He obviously knows my idea of luxury.

The final countdown!

2011-04-07T22:17:00.003-05:00

T-minus 44 hours!

The parents are here. The last-minute details are being addressed. And holy crap, we're getting married on Saturday.

Yippee!

We aren't having any attendants - I figured it was a gift I could give my friends. However, I think there will be one rogue attendant.

Most people think of this when they hear the term "flower frog."

But I think at our wedding, the term will conjure something more like this.

!Viva la Krampus!

Non-Krampus image courtesy of replacements.com, which is an awesome site if you love some vintage tableware. Seriously.

Maybe we should get a doggie door.

2011-04-05T09:47:00.003-05:00

Doxie.

Doxie looking outside through the torn screen door in his parents' falling-down house.

Doxie showing some ingenuity.

Free doxie!

Time passes.

Doxie remembers he hates outside.

Doxie who can't jump on the bed finds the inner strength and fortitude to hop up to the door ...

... and through the torn screen. Success!

Images courtesy of Ione the iPhone, which I held while hiding in my kitchen to catch the hot doxie action.

At least I’m not talking about my boobs. For once.

2011-03-31T17:24:00.004-05:00

Oh, Summer’s Eve! You’ve done it again!

I have been known to go from the workplace directly to an establishment that serves alcoholic beverages. I enjoy me some happy hour. But never have I thought, “I’d love to enjoy a drink after work – if only there were a way to conveniently freshen up my delicate ladyparts!” And if I’m putting my women’s studies minor to good use, I will also point out that the vajayjay is a maintenance-free operation, and the patriarchy is to blame for any shame around nature’s original self-cleaning oven and its accoutrements. This ad campaign pisses me off – like I’m supposed to constantly be wondering if my ladyparts are in acceptable condition for various social situations. Is there a similar product for men? Because dude, I think we all know that that business can get funky. And women don’t get jock itch.

Just sayin’.

Since this ad appeared on Pandora, there’s an offer for “V Radio.” Which, actually? Is pretty funny. But my vajayjay doesn’t listen to the radio. It’s totally more of a podcast girl.

Know when to hold 'em. Know when to fold 'em.

2011-03-30T21:03:00.002-05:00

In the last few days, My Guy and I have been finalizing the music for our wedding. The best part? The groom's dance with his mama.

My Guy asked his mom what song she'd like to dance to. She thought on it. And then she decided: "You Light up my Life" by Debby Boone.

Whatever makes Mama happy. That's fine.

Except that My Guy didn't really know the song, so he YouTubed it and looked up the lyrics.

"You light up my days and fill my nights with song."

Umm?

My Guy called his mom back, and she answered the phone by proclaiming, "We can't dance to that song! I looked up the lyrics!"

But she had a back-up: "Sunrise, Sunset" from Fiddler on the Roof.

Whatever makes Mama happy. That's fine.

Except that My Guy didn't really know that song either, so he YouTubed it and looked up the lyrics.

And then he felt like slitting his wrists.

Now, he's trying to convince his mom that a little Kenny Rogers is more appropriate and less suicide-inducing. He's pushing "Through the Years."

Personally? I'm holding out for "The Gambler." But whatever makes Mama happy.

In which I laugh hysterically.

2011-03-29T09:35:00.002-05:00

Like a rabid hyena.

So ... my future father-in-law is randomly inviting people to the rehearsal dinner. The rehearsal dinner that he's not hosting and is in no way involved, except as a guest. A probable guest, as we had received no confirmation that he was actually attending.

Bwah ha! Ha ha ha!

My Guy set him straight and told me, "I'm starting to think my family is mentally deficient."

Har har har! Bwah ha ha ha ha!

I am so ready for this wedding business to be over.

That's the news for now.

2011-03-27T21:48:00.003-05:00

I have not been blogging. Instead, I'm getting married in less than two weeks. Two weeks from today, I will be a married woman, and may commence Letting Myself Go. Woo-hoo!

I initially pictured blogging leading up to the big day as a way to commemorate all the little details and record for posterity the joy of being engaged. Instead? I've been not blogging as a way to take one thing off my to-do list in hopes of salvaging what little sanity I have left.

I think I'm over the hump, though. My mom came to visit this weekend and we talked through the ever-troublesome guest book table, picture display, post-reception clean-up, and, of course, the RSVPs. I believe there's a light at the end of the nuptial tunnel. I feel so much better. And, better yet? We got our new bed delivered. When My Guy rolls over 27 times in the night, I no longer get flung across the room. Words cannot describe what this has done for my outlook.

Now that I'm well-rested, I can see the humor in my future father-in-law e-mailing less than two weeks before the wedding, asking what he's supposed to wear and complaining that the hotel wouldn't give him the promotional rate even though he had heart surgery three weeks ago ... surgery we didn't know about and might not have actually occurred. And My Guy's cousins who RSVPed with their kids, who weren't invited? Yeah, they're sort of funny now, too. Sort of. I guess I have a little perspective. Here's what I know so far:

Once you've booked your vendors and bought your dress? Looking at bridal magazines and wedding porn Web sites does nothing but stress you out. Stop. It.

One of the key duties of parenthood - second only to potty training - is to teach your offspring to RSVP. Entire tribes of our families didn't RSVP - telling me that the ability to RSVP starts at home. Mamas? Heed my warning. Teach 'em young, lest you incur the wrath of a future bride, who will send you a cheerful e-mail enquiring about wedding attendance, but really? She will have voodoo dolls of you and your kin.

The bridal freak-out is not rational. Case in point? I had a minor mental breakdown in the frame section of Joann: Experience the Creativity! yesterday. Standing in a 20-person line to get some fabric cut didn't faze me. But having to choose a picture frame in which to display adorable photos of myself and My Guy through the years? Overwhelming! People will judge me and our wedding and my ability to be an even marginally acceptable wife if I choose inappropriate frames! And I knew I was being crazy. I did. But it happened anyway.

And ... that's about it. So far. Hopefully, I'll learn more stuff in the next 13 days. I'll keep you posted.

Hllelujah.

2011-03-21T21:25:00.003-05:00

You know on Grey's Anatomy when a doctor loses a patient and they're all pissed off and distraught?

That's me today.

I let a big stoopid typo slip. And it was pointed out by a client. And makes Corporate Behemoth looks dumbdumbdumbdumbdumb. And makes my ears burn with shame.

And I know that nobody died and I've caught a gazillion typos and of course one would slip by because I am, after all, only human - editor or not. But I don't need this fallibility pointed out, OK? Because I am keeping the Corporate Behemoth / wedding planning / moving / owning three houses train on the tracks the very best I can, OK?

But in other news?

We got an offer on my house. After a mere eight months, my house is under contract.

I don't know whether to laugh or throw up.

Do they cover this in business school?

2011-03-11T16:57:00.003-06:00

In the interest of full disclosure, I made $26 from this blog last year. So, what I'm about to say might qualify as biting the hand that doesn't feed me.

However.

This ad ran on my blog a few days ago.

This is for a necessary product that many woman use. OK, fine.

But this marketing tactic?

I'm not an expert on business travel, but I do travel maybe four times a year on behalf of Corporate Behemoth. Sometimes, this travel is so that I can give a big stinkin' presentation. Sometimes it's stressful.

But never, ever in my life have I thought, "I just got off a plane and only have a few minutes before my big presentation! I've got to towel off my hoo-ha!"

Maybe that's why I'm only a middle manager.

It's the final countdown!

2011-03-09T22:17:00.003-06:00

My Guy and I are getting married one month from today. Hurray!

I believe he is most excited because it means a hopeful end to my complete and total bitchitude. I ain't gonna lie - I don't think I'm a terribly fun person to live with at the moment. Not that I'm totally off my rocker ... but it's like having a maybe kinda sorta cold. You're just not quite right.

However, I think it's important to learn from each other. So, here's what I've learned.

1. People are crazy.

1a. As part of this crazy, people are completely ill-equipped to deal with the demands of the RSVP responsibility. They are also blind to the concept of only the people whose names are on the envelope are the people who are invited. I could write a month's worth of posts on this particular topic and how it has made me want to cause physical harm to various folks. But I will just keep it to this one paragraph lest I have an aneurysm.

1b. As part of this crazy, people also forget that as the bride and groom, you are on a need-to-know basis and are suffering information overload. We don't need to know the full medical report on a family friend and her tumor. Right now? Right now, we just need to know whether she's coming or not. No report with mention of mucus, any ladyparts, or medical billing is necessary.

1c. As part of this crazy, people also forget the opposite side of the need-to-know-basis coin. That side is called If You're the Parent of the Bride or Groom and You a) Need a Hysterectomy and b) Schedule That Hysterectomy for Three Days After the Wedding, You Should Tell Us, and Not Via E-mail at the Bottom of a Long Message About RSVPs, Like Getting Your Ladyparts Removed is an Afterthought.

I know this is tricky, especially with the rule in 1b about ladyparts. This is an exception to the ladyparts rule. Future MIL? I'm lookin' at you.

1d. As part of this crazy, people also start sending you gifts. My Guy and I? We didn't do shit, man. But we're getting dishes! And today we opened the most gorgeous Le Creuset tea kettle. I almost wet myself.

Tea has never tasted so good. It makes me look a tad more kindly to data points 1a - 1c.

Image courtesy of Amazon. Perhaps you've heard of it.

We're not equal. I'm much smarter.

2011-03-04T20:52:00.004-06:00

I told a lie today.

But it was for a good cause, I swear!

I was walking down the hallway at Corporate Behemoth. And who should be walking toward me but Creepy Rajeev!

I think we all know Creepy Rajeev - he's the coworker who loves alllll the ladies, whether they love him or not. And in most cases? They don't. They don't love his cologne. And they don't love the way he turns even the most innocuous workplace small talk into an exchange that makes you worry about VD.

Also? The ladies generally don't care for his omnipresent turtleneck / sport coat combo. Just sayin'.

So, today, I walked toward Creepy Rajeev and there was no hiding. We were in a hallway. So, I bit the bullet.

"Hi, Rajeev."

"Well. Hello, Cha Cha."

And it was at this point that Creepy Rajeev stuck out his hand - but not really stuck it out. More like offered his hand, but kept it close to his body, as if to force me closer. Creepy Rajeev can't talk to a lady without palpating her in some way.

This is where my lie came in.

"Uh, no. I'm sick."

Yes. I'm tempting karma and fate by pretending I couldn't shake his hand because I have a cold.

I guess it wasn't that much of a lie, though. Because I am sick. I'm sick of being molested by my creepy coworker.

I went through a phase where I was just daring Creepy Rajeev to be just creepy enough where I could go to HR. Now? I'm mostly avoiding him. Like, dodging into the ladies' room if I see him coming.

I must admit that I'm almost impressed with Creepy Rajeev's tactics. I few months ago, I was leaving the Corporate Behemoth parking garage and I was in a big fat hurry. And I got behind this SUV that was driving So. Freakin'. Slow.

I was annoyed. And then I realized that the SUV was driving slow because the driver was driving alongside a woman who was walking to her car. The driver had his window rolled down and was talking to the pedestrian. And the driver was Creepy Rajeev.

OK, funny.

The lady got into her car. Creepy Rajeev drove on ... until he came upon another woman walking to her car. Rinse and repeat.

He didn't accost any men walking to their cars. Only women.

And when we ended up side-by-side in adjacent lanes at a light? I could feel Creepy Rajeev looking at me. He could have pulled up, but he kept his SUV even with my car. And I suddenly remembered something very important that I needed to find in my purse.

I have trouble watching Mad Men because the way the women are treated in the office is so incredibly troubling. But I think it's safe to say that complete equality in the workplace - at least my workplace - still doesn't exist.

Why I started taking Ativan again.

2011-03-02T21:49:00.002-06:00

We're five weeks out and the wedding planning has shifted into high gear. This is the easy answer to why I haven't been writing lately. The perhaps more honest, definitely uglier reason is that I only have stressed out, borderline-Bridezilla things to write.

The good: I had the final fitting for my dress. It is amazing. I also had a run-through for my hair, and it, too, is amazing.

The bad: I am still coming to terms with the fact that maybe I shouldn't attempt to host a day-after brunch for out-of-town family since we're still living in a hobo camp with no real furniture. Or if I do, I need to accept that it will mean seating people in the garage, and cleaning out the garage might be more than I can handle right now.

The ugly: The RSVPs.

Oh, sistah.

My Guy's aunt can't come because one of her grandsons has a guitar solo in a junior high band concert the night of the wedding. She's really torn up about it, but the junior high concert won out.

But the first RSVP my mom opened? Was from that aunt's son. It was an RSVP for himself, his wife, and their three children. Three children whose names were not on the envelope because they aren't invited because at $50 a head, we're not inviting kids. And correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think you can perform at a junior high band concert and attend a wedding simultaneously.

I told My Guy he needed to address the situation. He looked at me and said he couldn't think about it right now, but maybe we should have been clearer on the invitations. This suggestion had me dousing our house in gasoline, lighting a cigarette, tossing the match, and then walking away all slow like, just like in the movies.

Umm, also? I think I might have said that only white trash don't know that the names listed on the envelope are the only people invited. Which might mean that I inadvertently referred to his kin as white trash.

Sigh.

Help me. Tell me something besides "call the fuck down." Tell me it's worth it, tell me what got you through this insanity. Don't tell me to elope. Because much like rewording the invites*? That ship has sailed.

* Also? What sort of invitation wording would that be, anyway? "We request the honor of your presence - but just you, not your damned kids - as we vow our undying love to each other - but just to each other, definitely not to your damned kids."

What? WHAT?

2011-02-23T21:28:00.002-06:00

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.

2011-02-18T09:44:00.002-06:00

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.

2011-02-15T22:53:00.002-06:00

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 is 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.

2011-02-10T22:12:00.005-06:00

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 Korean 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?

2011-02-08T19:51:00.002-06:00

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.

2011-02-06T19:55:00.005-06:00

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!

2011-02-02T21:34:00.006-06:00

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.

Run and tell that!

2011-01-31T22:20:00.000-06:00

It’s official. My Guy and I moved into our new house this weekend.

Well, more like we started camping at our new house. Since we’re keeping both of our other houses staged, our new house has a bed, a futon, and a ratty old loveseat that the labradoodles use as a chew toy. In addition, there’s a dead squirrel in our front yard.

We are totally Those Neighbors.

But we’re in, and the kitchen is almost fully equipped. There are towels and toilet paper in the bathroom – even if we rigged up a curtain with clothespins and a beach towel. Stay classy, noodleroux.

I’ve been wildly vascillating between a total freakout of the “holy shit, we’ll never get everything done / clean / moved / not crappy” variety and a Zen feeling that we will look back on this time fondly. Also? The move and frantic packing and cleaning have helped divert my attention and provide a calm that only comes with exhaustion.

A few days after the first of the year, in the midst of the new house cleaning and painting, during the most stressful time of the year at Corporate Behemoth, I ran into something. Or, to be more exact, my forearm rammed into a huge lump in my breast. I had a cyst the size of a golf ball. While I am given to exaggeration, I am completely serious here. Golf. Ball.

I had a mammogram. And an ultrasound. And oh, by the way, did I know I had an even bigger cyst right next to the golf ball? A cyst that’s three inches long? Or what about that weird, unidentified mass in the other boob? Had I felt that?

I’m moving. I’m getting married. I don’t have time to deal with these boobie traps.

I had the golf ball aspirated last week, and it refilled. On Wednesday, I’m having both of the cysts – which My Guy and I have named El Cysto and El Nino – aspirated with the help of an ultrasound. And the mystery mass? His name is Kevin, but he prefers to go by Antoine. Like this guy.

Antoine will get a core biopsy, where they take like three chunks out of him, then leave in a piece of titanium so they can track him via mammogram. I wanted to know if this would make airport metal detectors go off, but sadly, the word on the street is a big fat no.

I’ve been really, really angry. This is wholly unfair. I take good care of my body. I’m getting married – I shouldn’t have to explain to the lady doing my dress alterations that the bust might change. I have already filled my shit quota.

And I’ve been scared. I’ve had cysts aspirated before, and it’s truly No Big Deal. It’s sort of like watching a video game, actually – you watch the cyst on the ultrasound and you can see the needle going in. But Antoine, The Mystery Mass? While the specialist thinks he’s either a collapsed cyst or a fibroadenoma, my overactive imagination has taken me to some dark places, where Antoine is armed and dangerous, and not an Internet sensation at all.

But right now? Right now, I’m just looking forward to my left boob not being all cystacular and misshapen from its unwelcome occupants. And I’m glad to be in our house, even if we are camping. We’re about to get three feet of snow, and things could be a lot worse.

But if you would send me good vibes on Wednesday? I’d really appreciate it.

Forever in blue jeans.

2011-01-24T17:30:00.004-06:00

Poochie and I received a harried e-mail from our mama today.

Subject line: Today should be a national holiday!

I can't figure out why the banks and schools aren't closed --- isn't it a national holiday?????????? It's Neil Diamond's 70th birthday. Go figure.

xxoo Mom

Well, I am, I said! It is Our Jewish Dad's birthday!

And Neil's lookin' good.

To celebrate, I give you a truly kick-ass song with Neil's kick-ass delivery:

And, for those of you who love a little Neil from back in the day?

Well, just try to tell me that this doesn't get you all shivery. They sang in high school glee club together - isn't that crazy?

So, spill it. What's your favorite Neil song?

House porn.

2011-01-20T22:52:00.008-06:00

Wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles ... we are starting to see a light at the end of the home rehabbing tunnel. The floors were refinished this week, and the grand reveal is tomorrow. And in eight days? We're moving.

Well, we're gonna start camping at the new house. While keeping our other two houses staged. So, we're gonna camp with four dogs, some clothes, one bed, and one futon. And I'm ready.

But in the meantime ... let's take a look at the way we were, shall we?

We decided that these walls looked like that grated carrot salad that grandmas make. You know - the one with the raisins?

Yuck.

Now? It's a lovely sage-y grey color.

And the office? It used to look like it had been fingerpainted with feces. Because that's a good look.

I guess it was so bad that we didn't take a picture of it. So, use your imagination. Fingerpainted poo. Seriously.

Now? Grey and soothing. No poo!

This might be my favorite picture of the entire renovation. Sure, it looks like a picture of a dirty bathtub ...

... but OHMYGOD! Whose legs are those? Who did you kill?

Yeah, those were my legs. And check out my Christmas gifts - yes, I asked Santa to bring me kneepads.

And yes, I am every man's dream girl.

Mixing my poop and Star Wars metaphors. Skillfully, of course.

2011-01-17T20:40:00.002-06:00

Remember a few weeks ago when Lady Doodle had explosive diarrhea in my laundry room?

Of course you do. Because it was awesome!

Well, that was truly The Day of Poo. Because that night, I received this e-mail:

Cha Cha,
Hi there! How are you? I actually had 2 dreams about you in the past week (don't remember much about the content though) and thought I would say hi and see how you are doing. Please don't feel obligated to respond but feel free to do so if you wish. I hope you and your family are great and that you are happy! Take care, The Ex-Boyfriend Formerly Known as Mr. Wonderful

I sighed. I reflected on how my house smelled like shit. I read the e-mail to My Guy. And then I reflected on My Guy's brilliance when his only response was, "Well, guess who broke up with his girlfriend?"

Heh.

Alice and Jake thought I should reply with "Whenever I have dreams about you, they don't end well for you. Just sayin'." But we also discussed how maybe it would be the bigger thing to do to respond and let him know I'm getting hitched. The mature thing.

I waited a week, because that's how long it takes me to get all mature-like. And then I sent this:

Howdy -

Sorry for the delayed response - things are a little hectic here. Just bought a new house, so am busy cleaning, painting, and getting ready to move. I'm getting married this spring, so there's the little business of getting ready for that, too. Lots going on, but we enjoyed a brief but quiet Christmas in Iowa. Everyone is happy and healthy, and my brother got married this fall. Good times.

I hope you and your family are well and enjoyed a happy holiday.

Cha Cha

Which then garnered an almost immediate response:

Cha Cha,
Great news! How exciting! I'm very glad to hear you are doing great. Exciting news for your brother too!

All is good here too. Ladybug is doing great and really enjoying school and her friends there. She's playing soccer and I'm her coach and that's a blast for both of us. My time with her is 50/50 now which is wonderful. Work is going ok as we work through another merger.

I'm really glad you are doing great and congratulations to you and your family. I wish you the very best! Take care, Ex-Wonderful

Really?

My Cliff Notes version of this would read, "That's great! Everything's great! I'm great here, too! In no way did I e-mail you to test the waters! There's nothing to see here! Have a great day!"

It makes me think of my favorite scene from Star Wars, when Chewy, Han and Luke bust into the jail to get Leia, and Han ends up talking to the other security guys on the intercom. "Umm ... situation normal! Minor weapons malfunction. Everything's fine here ... uh ... How are you?"

In the midst of the cleaning and dog poo and painting and all of it? This was barely a blip on the radar, other than adding to the poo build-up. Which is pretty amazing, all things considered. But it's hard to spend much time thinking about Jabba the Hutt when you're about to marry Han Solo.

Just sayin'.

Hop along.

2011-01-12T22:38:00.005-06:00

The Good.

The new house is starting to come together. We've decided to postpone rehabbing the second floor, which means we can afford to refinish the floors on the main floor. Which we are getting for cheap from a reputable source. !Viva la hardwoods!

The Bad.

Every single surface in the new house requires extensive cleaning, two coats of Kilz, and three coats of paint.

My hands are devoid of skin and smell like PineSol. My dreams of being a hand model are completely dashed.

Everybody's getting a little crotchety, especially the dogs.

The Ugly.

We're all trying to maintain a sense of home in the upheaval, even with the labradoodles at my house and realizing that random stuff - like cooking spray and paper towels - are at Not The House You're Currently At.

Yes, I know that ended with a preposition. And I don't care.

We're all trying to keep it together, but Foxie Doxie expressed his frustrations in a poignant way last night.

He peed on the bed.

I believe in Dogspeak, this means, "This is my bed, bitches! Mine!"

So, yeah. It ain't pretty. But we keep on keepin' on.

The Glorious.

While civil unrest rules at Casa de Cha Cha? Krampus the Christmas Frog is living it up.

He celebrated the Iowa Hawkeye bowl win.

And he's been chillin' with some new friends.

I also understand that he and his posse survived a shih tzu attack. Don't worry - Krampus lives to ribbit another day!

All images courtesy of my mama. Who is awesome. Obviously.

I used to be a blogger.

2011-01-07T18:12:00.004-06:00

I don't even know where to begin.

So, we got our house. And we knew it was dirty, right? But I had no idea that it would take me three days to clean the kitchen.

Not kidding. Three days.

Or that the lime-green paint in the bathroom was some weird paint so that when I painted over it and pulled up the painter's tape? My paint pulled up with the tape.

And I had no idea that Lady Doodle would have massive diarrhea in my house. Or after her recovery, Lil' Frankfurter would pick up the torch with vomiting and diarrhea. And I certainly didn't anticipate that I would also puke my guts out, either from the power of suggestion or from an ulcer.

Yeah, I barfed. Wouldn't three houses and four poopy dogs make you sick to your stomach?

The great thing about my partnership with My Guy is that we take turns FREAKING THE FUCK OUT. This has been my week. And I've really done a bang-up job, if I do say so myself.

I woke up yesterday thinking, "No, no thank you. I don't care to move or get married or take care of two new dogs or interact with any human - including My Guy - ever again. I don't wish anybody ill, I'm just ... done. I'm all set. Thanks for asking."

But then I peeled myself out of bed and poured more anti-nausea meds down Lil' Frank's throat. I almost forgot that the pup was so upset at the vet that he'd literally shat on my person.

And then I went to Corporate Behemoth. And I guess I still have multiple houses and a fiance and a wedding date and four dogs. And it's OK.

In other news? Remember when Banjo asked, "Where was Krampus in all of this?"

Oh, Krampus the Christmas Frog. Of course he made an appearance during the holidays. Several appearances, actually.

This was my favorite.

Hey - a frog's gotta do what a frog's gotta do.

And yes, everything is about poop.

The dream of home ownership.

2010-12-29T21:12:00.003-06:00

I knew I had somewhat, err, aggressive visions for cleaning and painting our new house. In my mental utopia, we'd do a quick clean and then begin painting and transforming the house from a dump into something suitable for the Vanderbilts.

I didn't imagine that I would spend all of last night and all of today cleaning the bathroom.

Yes. One bathroom. Twenty-four hours.

I've gone through an entire canister of antibacterial wipes. A big canister - 70 wipes.

Again: One bathroom.

And I've bleached and scoured and scrubbed and cursed the guy who literally a) didn't aim; and b) never cleaned. So, I've cleaned up shit all day.

I took a break and ran to my house to let the four pups outside. Remember when I said I was impressed that Lady Doodle hadn't had an accident in the house?

Umm, yeah. About that. Poor girl had explosive diarrhea in my laundry room.

I stood in the garage and could smell something foul. When I opened the door to the laundry room, I was frozen. Two dogs. Poo everywhere. The dogs had to walk through the poo-ridden room to get outside. I had to walk through the poo-ridden room to get to the cleaning supplies. And somewhere in the distance, Lil' Frank was in his kennel, barking his head off.

Welcome home.

I spent an hour scraping poo off the sisel rug, then lugging the rug outside, then draping it over my deck railing, then hooking up the hose, then spraying the rug. Then? The rug fell off the deck with a splash into a mud puddle.

I drug the wet and poopy rug back onto the deck and hoisted it back onto the railing - getting myself somewhat wet and poopy in the process. All of the dogs were really interested in this new decorating scheme. I ran into the house to get some Resolve, and I realized that there was poop in the kitchen. Someone had tracked it in ... and that someone was me. I'd stepped in doo-doo in the yard and had it all over my shoe. And of course, when I sprayed my shoe off, I managed to get my shoe, sock, and pants soaking wet.

Then? Then, it was time to wipe Lady Doodle's posterior with baby wipes. She wasn't happy about it, but her litter mate Big Doodle was really interested. So interested that he licked my head as I leaned down to get a visual on her butt.

And? My house smells like shit.

And I've literally been cleaning shit all day.

Why God invented rubber gloves.

2010-12-28T22:08:00.005-06:00

After getting home from a snowy and festive Christmas in Iowa, My Guy and I consolidated canine households. All four dogs are currently staying at my house. The labradoodles are surprisingly mellow, although they keep sliding around on the wood floors.

There is one slight issue, however. Lady Doodle has a bit of a nervous digestive system. She has, umm, diarrhea. But! Because she's such a smart and good dog? She hasn't had any accidents in the house.

She has, however, had the worst gas imaginable. Like, the entire house smells like farts. Toxic dog farts.

I've sprayed organic oils throughout the house. Candles are burning. But, if we're honest? My house smells like shit.

So, it was only reasonable that this afternoon, the poo stink was so bad that I walked around looking for the doo. And then I realized that somebody had tracked clumps of dirt onto the couch. And then I realized that those clumps weren't dirt.

Ahem.

Foxie Doxie had stepped squarely in a big ol' pile in the yard, then tracked it throughout the house.

We had an emergency bath. I washed three pillow covers and scoured the couch. I washed the floor. I cleaned the kitchen since the emergency bath was in the kitchen sink. And then I threw myself into the car and ran out ... to close on our new house!

Yes. My guy signed our lives away today. And they gave us keys! To our house!

We took pictures of every room.

We decided we're morons because just now - on my third trip to the house, My Guy's fourth - we realized the former usage of the shelf unit in the basement.
Hmm. How useful that each shelf has its own lights!

And then My Guy was all street-smart. "Uh, maybe it was used for ... growing."

So, yeah. We have a pot farm in our basement. Great!

Once we got over that, My Guy commenced replacing the 27 broken lightbulbs around the house, and I commenced cleaning one of the bathrooms.

You know how there's dirty, and then there's willful destruction?

So, yeah. If I'm wiping random brown and yellow stains from walls, window sills, and basically every surface? And if I was at it for more than two hours and still didn't get done? That's willful destruction. And if you're a grown damned man, like the man who lived in the house before it was owned by the bank? You should be able to aim. Just sayin'.

So, basically, I have been dealing with shit all day. Huzzah!

But I did get teary-eyed when we walked into our house for the first time. Our house.

Yes, it warranted a filthy bathroom mirror self portrait. Life is good.

In which I represent my old hag peoples.

2010-12-20T21:32:00.003-06:00

I don't know if you know this, but Christmas is four days away.

I know!

This means that I'm finally really in the mood for Christmas music. My fancy cable offers many holiday music channels, including my favorite, Holiday Traditions. Perry Como? Bing Crosby? Twelve different renditions of "Baby, It's Cold Outside?" Yes, please!

One of the holiday channels is called Holiday Remix. Its description? "Today's hottest DJ's give tired tracks a new spin. Featuring some of the biggest acts on the turntables, this is the coolest Holiday mix tape around."

Where to begin?

First of all, I, personally, know that "DJ's" should be plural, not possessive. And I know that "Holiday" is not a proper noun. So, as long as we have that out of the way.

But "tired tracks?"

Dude. Nat King Cole might be dead, but he ain't tired.

I know I sound like I'm 35 going on 70 and wear puff-painted sweatshirts and Easy Spirit sneakers. But Christmas music is serious business. The only Christmas song from the last 30 years that I like is Mariah Carey's "All I Want For Christmas." And it took me about 15 years to come around to that one.

I like to embody "careful consideration."

Now, before you go thinking I'm a close-minded ol' biddy, give me a minute. If you're totally jonesing for a new take on a classic, there's but one that has earned a Cha Cha Seal of Approval this holiday season.

I submit for your consideration ... Carol of the Bells. By The Muppets.

Do you have any new favorites that I should consider considering for The List of Cha Cha's Officially Sanctioned Holiday Music? Much like the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, there's a waiting period. But it's so worth it.

Somebody's chestnuts roasted.

2010-12-19T20:57:00.003-06:00

I'd like to apologize for an important omission in my recent post about the feces and dead mice in our rental house.

My sweet mama was kind enough to fill in the gaps in my memory.

To: Cha Cha
From: Cha Cha's Mama
Subject: Clarification

Dear Cha Cha -

While the whole mice issue did have me teetering on the brink, discovery of the [live] garter snake in the basement prompted me to announce that they'd better make sure the plumbing was functioning cuz we were moving the next day. And we did.

xxoo Mom

Because the mice weren't bad enough? There was a snake?

Wow. Merry Christmas, one and all.

I'll be home for Christmas.

2010-12-17T21:59:00.001-06:00

This has been sort of an odd holiday season. I didn’t put up my tree, since it just seemed like something else I’ll have to pack and move soon. The only decorating I did was draping the pink and turquoise funky Christmas quilt my mom made me over the back of the couch.

And the shopping? Well, it’s been minimal. In less than two weeks, My Guy and I will own a grand total of three houses. The new house is our gift to each other. And most other folks? Well, the gifts are mostly from our hearts, not from our wallets. Which makes me feel a teensy bit guilty.

All in all, it just seems to be a holiday season in flux. But it makes me think of one of my favorite Christmases ever.

When I was 3, my parents built the home they still occupy. All spring and summer were filled with wonderful adventures. When the cement guys had sand down as a base for the concrete garage floor? I walked across it with my sandals, leaving ice cream cone imprints. Yes, I’ve always had an eye for décor. And all of the cabinets for the new house? Well, they came in the most wonderful boxes. I had multiple houses, and my tricycle had a garage. Don’t even get me started on my Shangri-La in what would become the kitchen sink cabinet.

My folks sold their old house, and the closing was before the new house was ready. So, we moved into a rental, and all of our stuff moved into storage. I remember that the rental house had brown shag carpet, and I remember that was the Halloween I dressed as an artist. My mom’s memories differ a bit.

According to my sweet mama, the house had been empty, and so it was overrun with mice. She and I would sit on the couch and watch the mice run across the floor, and I was not allowed to play on the floor. One day, my dad came home and asked innocently, “Honey? Why is your snow boot in the front yard?” And my mom answered, “There was a mouse in it. And don’t even bother bringing it back in, because I’m never wearing it ever again.”

You get the picture.

There were traps. And mice were captured. But we’re talking a lot of freakin’ mice. And my mom wanted nothing to do with the mice removal. So, my dad devised an easy system – he flushed the dead mice. All of them.

The new house was coming along, and I got to play on the carpet there, even though carpet time was strictly forbidden in the rental. We were going to move in to the new house around the first of the year. Well, until The Incident.

Evidently, flushing mice is not a plumbing maintenance best practice.

The sewer backed up into the basement of the rental house. Raw sewage and hundreds – nay, thousands – of bloated mice corpses covered the floor.

If she wouldn’t wear a snow boot that had contained a live mouse, you can bet my mama wasn’t going to stay in a house with our own version of The River Styx in the basement.

We moved into our new house two days before Christmas. I don’t remember any furniture, but I remember we had a tree. And lots of snow.

I remember sitting in my mom’s lap on the floor of our new living room, admiring the tree and looking out the window onto our new yard. And I felt so content.

That Christmas, Santa brought me a coloring book, a box of 64 Crayolas, a baby doll, and a boat.

Well, I thought it was a boat. It was a red plastic sled. In the photos, I look so completely satisfied in my orange footie pajamas – almost smug. All was right with my world, even if we didn’t have furniture or front steps or a kitchen counter.

I’m trying to take that memory with me into this season, and into the adventure of imperfect home ownership that My Guy and I are about to enjoy. Because later? All of the imperfections will seem perfect.

Case in point? After Christmas, my dad took the Christmas tree and just threw it off the front porch, where the steps should have been. And left it there until April, proudly announcing that The Clampetts had moved into the neighborhood.

Our love is true.

2010-12-14T09:39:00.002-06:00

What the very ticklish My Guy said to me as I was oh-so-innocently counting his ribs with my index finger:

You are the devil! You would've turned in Anne Frank!

Gettin' ready to get all married.

2010-12-12T21:10:00.004-06:00

My wedding dress came in. Six weeks early. Crazy, huh?

So, Saturday morning, my friend A. and I trekked to the bridal salon, where I put on The Dress. Since I ordered it in August, I'd started to have ... not second thoughts, but doubts. Was it really the right dress? Did I really look OK in it?

Well, rest assured - all is well. I look good.

My veil was in, too, so I tried on the whole ensemble, and we played a bit with jewelry. I feel confident that I'm going to look like me, but me on a really, really good hair day.

My entire look will be pretty, umm, classic, even with my own funky touches. Of course, I'm basing this "classic" judgment on my most recent addiction: Married to Rock.

Yeah, they're married to rock stars. Yeah, one of 'em just had a fancy wedding, where she entered the ceremony via a giant tulle-swathed swing from the roof of a nearby building. And yeah, her bridesmaids did wear large, Hello Kitty pendant necklaces.

Like I said? My wedding will be soooo booooooring.

But Married to Rock? Well, I've been a little disappointed in Bret Michaels: Life as I Know It. His kids are just too messed up for me to fully lose myself in the show. But Married to Rock? It's nothing but sweet, sweet collagen lips and pretty decent - if disproportionate - boob jobs. And I don't feel a need to find any of the families portrayed a good child psychologist.

Thanks to Married to Rock, I've learned about rocker post-tour depression, and the special burdens of being a rock wife. I've also learned that a proactive way to keep groupies at bay is to FedEx your husband a life-sized doll in your likeness.

Well, it would have worked had FedEx not lost the doll. But it's still a valuable pointer that I'll carry with me in my marriage.

Image courtesy of eonline.com

Cha Cha goes to the movies. Or sits on the couch.

2010-12-08T22:49:00.004-06:00

When I was in junior high and high school, I babysat the crap out of my hometown.

Seriously. I don't mean to brag, but I was in high demand. I babysat a lot. I like kids, kids seem to like me, and I was careful clean the kitchen before the parents got home.

One particular Saturday night, after my young charges had gone to bed and I'd tidied the kitchen, I made a gruesome discovery. My otherwise hip and awesome employers ... didn't have cable.

Seriously.

But I found myself entertained by an old movie on public television. If you've never seen it, rush out right now and rent, buy or steal Marty, starring Ernest Borgnine.

Marty is a lovely little movie - and I hadn't seen it since until it was on TCM this week. Watching it again was like slowly savoring creme brulee.

But here's the deal: it's a movie about lonely people, people who are scared of not being needed, people who are on the verge of giving up. There are old women who are unsure of their role when their children don't need them anymore. And there's an old maid and a lonely bachelor who are both on the cusp of accepting their fates as duds.

As a teenager, I could appreciate feeling left behind. But as a woman who is about to be married for the first time at 35?

Well, when the woman daringly tells her potential suitor that she's 29 - outing herself as a spinster - and half expects the man to reject her immediately?

I could taste her apprehension.

I have been that woman.

I have toyed with the idea that I was deficient, an ill fit, destined to be alone - but not wanting any of that solitude. I've been bitter, but managed to pull myself back from that abyss a few times. I chose to pursue my happiness even though I was terrified - and for that, I'm eternally grateful.

The great thing about Marty? It's all about good, decent people and the decision to pursue or settle in.

The best of times, the worst of times.

2010-12-05T21:10:00.004-06:00

It's been a quiet Sunday. I haven't left the house, and didn't feel the need to put on a bra. The doxies are wearing sweaters for the first time this season, and the extra warmth is making them sleepy. Sweaters! They're like blankets that you take with you!

I've worked. I've read. I've done laundry.

And now? Now, I'm freaking out just a tiny bit.

My Facebook wall is alive with the question: Cha Cha! What will you do Dec. 28? Who will you root for - your life-long loves, the Iowa Hawkeyes, or your beloved alma mater, the Mizzou Tigers?

Ohhh, crap.

Yes. My two teams are playing in the Insight Bowl.

Well, I know I'll wear black and gold. But other than that?

The first time I cried over sports was when Chuck Long lost the closest Heisman race in history to Bo Jackson. I was in fifth grade, and not sure what to make of my anger and hurt. Evidently, I channeled it into a healthy grudge: I still hate Bo Jackson.

The first time I attended I football game at Missouri, I laughed at the crappy stadium. I was a college sophomore and just learning the joys of a pleasant buzz at sporting events. It was like riding a bike without the training wheels for the first time.

I grew up in Iowa. But I blossomed at Missouri.

Maybe I won't watch the game. That's the day My Guy and I close on our house, and we will probably be cleaning, cleaning, cleaning. Or, if I do watch the game, maybe I'll watch it with my hands over my eyes, like how I watch horror flicks. Because that's how I've watched many Iowa games this season - lots of times, they played like doo-doo.

Or maybe I'll multitask, doing stuff around the house while the game is on. Because that's how I watched many Mizzou games this season. Let's face it - many of their games were like watching paint dry. Not hatin', just sayin'.

At any rate? As if the nervous anticipation of Christmas wasn't enough, we're closing on our house three days after Jesus' birthday. And now, I can firmly plan my fangirl mental breakdown for the same day. How convenient.

My mutant uterus, part 2.

2010-11-28T13:17:00.002-06:00

So, I evidently made my future mother-in-law cry.

Starting married life out on the right foot? CHECK!

During day three of the Thanksgiving family celebration marathon, MIL, her sister and her niece asked me if I'd gotten cornered by Grandma. CHECK!

They laughed and apologized. MIL's sister said that Grandma runs her mouth about stuff that isn't any of her business, and how she has lost any filter she might have ever had. She talks about sex and has told her daughters about how she wanted kids but wanted nothing to do with the how-kids-come-to-be part. She's discussed this in detail. Evidently, you can say whatever you want when you're 90.

Which made us all laugh. And then started the kids conversation in earnest.

MIL said she never wanted anything but to have children and be a mother.

MIL's sister and MIL's niece both said that while they love their children more than anything, they never felt like their lives would be incomplete without children.

Which led me to say, "Well, I feel the same way. But if we don't have kids, you can give me a piece of your mind when you're 90."

MIL's sister and MIL's niece both laughed. And MIL turned her back to me.

Come to find out, she cried - yes, cried - to My Guy later about how she didn't understand why I didn't want children, and she knew he did, and how could this happen?

Ahem.

My Guy once thought he wanted kids. And he has since changed his mind somewhat - the jury is out. (Trust me, we've talked about this.) And he would like to think his mother expects that he could stand up for himself.

I don't know if I want kids or not. My Guy and I will figure it out. I would like to think that my future MIL respects me as an individual and not as a uterus going to waste. I would like to think that she would respect any decision I make.

This is such a stereotypical situation - it's embarrassing. But I'm a little bit crushed. I like my future MIL, even if we aren't always on the same page. I fear that I outed myself as totally different from her, and now she won't like me. Ever. And I fear that this is just the first in a long line of conclusions that she will jump to about me and my diseased brain and wrong way of doing things.

But I'm also not going to bust out a bunch of babies just to make her happy.

I love her son. We are partners. And we will figure it out together.

Just have some respect, m'kay?

Let's talk about my uterus, shall we?

2010-11-26T10:14:00.003-06:00

I spent Thanksgiving with My Guy and his family. He is one of five children. There were 17 of his family members there. And me. It was a touch overwhelming. Fun, but lots different than the typical me, my parents, and Poochie.

And? I fell into The Trap.

A sat down to talk to My Guy's grandma. She's sassy and I like her. My Guy has alluded to her difficult tendencies, but I hadn't see this first-hand.

We talked about the new house. Which led to:

Grandma: So, what are you going to do with all those bedrooms?

Me: Well, we'll figure it out.

Grandma: Are you going to have children?

Me: Well, we'll figure it out.

Grandma: You know, My Guy has always wanted children.

Me: (oh, shiiiiit.) Well, we're not really sure.

Grandma: Oh really. Why?

Me: (fuuuuuuuck.) Did you know that I'm five years older than My Guy?

Grandma: Really? No, I didn't know that. Are you worried you're too old to have babies?

Me: (well, that lame-ass plan backfired.) Umm?

Grandma: There are lots of ladies who have babies into their 40s. Their FIRST babies.

Me: (giving up.) Uh-huh.

Grandma: You have lots of time!

Me: (kill me now.) Can we get married first?

Grandma: Well, I'd hope so.

And ... scene!

When I recounted this to My Guy hours later, he was apologetic. "I'm so sorry! Was there anybody there to save you?"

"Uh, no."

"That sucks. My cousin is usually really good about that. Grandma probably isn't happy that we'll be living together before the wedding."

"Really?"

"Whatever. I don't care."

"Do you think your grandma thinks I'm a virgin?"

"Uh - I don't know. I don't care."

"Maybe I should have told her that I don't want to have children because I'm terrified of intercourse."

"Yes! You should have asked her about it! 'Do we actually have to touch? What if he just has really good aim?'"

"Love it. 'You had four children. How does it work?' That was totally a missed opportunity."

And then we cackled like the evil people we are. And I was thankful.

A moment of appreciation.

2010-11-23T21:52:00.004-06:00

In the immortal words of your hero and mine, Bret Michaels, "It's not if life is going to knock you down. It's when and how. And it's definitely how you roll with it."

Mmm. Every rose has its thorn, indeed.

But here's the thing, in this season of thanksgiving: I have been knocked down. And I have rolled with it. And now? Now, I look around and realize I'm reaping the rewards.

When all my friends were having babies, I was having a mental breakdown, leaving a bad relationship and moving into a shithole apartment. And it sucked. But it made me stronger.

And I had another crappy relationship. And it sucked. But it made me realize what I need, and how I deserve to be treated.

And now? Now, I am engaged to a kind, funny, smart, generous man who makes me laugh like a hyena. He is my best friend. I wouldn't fully appreciate this relationship if it weren't for its not-so-awesome predecessors.

And my former real estate woes? Karma, baby. We're buying our dream home on our dream street. And yes, it does contain my dream bathroom.Which will not stay this color for long. And yeah, we might clean it. But that is the original sink and the original tile. Huzzah!

I feel like my current theme songs are Christina Aguilera's "Fighter" and "I must have done something good" from The Sound of Music. And not just because of the bathroom. For all of it.

I'm not gloating. I'm just acknowledging. And giving thanks.

How can we be lovers if we can't be friends?

2010-11-22T20:55:00.006-06:00

Today, we had the inspection on our house. It was built in 1929, has been empty for a few weeks, and was a foreclosure. Oh, and the former occupant trashed it before moving out.

A lot could have been wrong.

But the real estate gods were smiling upon us! The foundation is solid. The roof has several years of life left. Yes, there's some wood rot, and yes, the dishwasher leaks and needs a new seal. But other than that?

Well, other than that, we were faced with the trash filling the house. So, while the inspectors inspected, My Guy, Awesome Realtor Guy and I filled trashbags with stuff left behind by the last owner.

We found a half-full bowl of mostly fossilized rice and beans. In a drawer. In the master bathroom.

And gay porn. With pictures on the DVD case. Educational pictures.

And, of course, we found a Michael Bolton "Soul Provider" CD. Which we were actually really excited about. Because we are giant nerds.

We don't close until after Christmas, but today gave us an opportunity to at least get the trash out of the house, and sort through our own personal flea market in the garage.

Yes, that's a shopping cart full of hubcaps. I saved the shopping cart. The hubcaps? They went in the dumpster pile.

We also realized that the paint colors we've already picked out - because good LORD, we feel like we need to be doing SOMETHING - will be perfect.

One of the bedrooms is black stripped. For now.

Currently, most of the main living space is this lovely color of pumpkin vomit.

And this potted plant obviously sold the house. We took one look at this prime example of fauna and knew this was the home for us.

There's so much cleaning and painting and painting and cleaning to be done, but right now, we're just hanging out. But this is totally meant to be our house. And we're pretty fucking pumped.

Images courtesy of Ione the iPhone, because my camera suddenly went from having a full battery last night to having no battery this morning. Sorry for the awesome photo quality.

The agony of defeat. And the thrill of victory!

2010-11-17T22:18:00.004-06:00

Remember the tiny and ancient house that My Guy and I loved?

We saw it again. With a contractor. We made an offer.

And we didn't get it. The listing agent wrote an offer with some other buyers. An offer that was $20K less than our offer. And the sellers took that offer. We don't think she ever even presented our offer.

This all went down on Saturday. Combine these real estate woes with a completely hideous Iowa football loss, and you understand why I took to my bed for a three-hour nap. I simply couldn't face the world. All I want is to live with my fiance. Is that such a crazy dream?

Sunday, our Super Realtor - still pissed as hell about how things went down on tiny and ancient house - gave us a few addresses to consider. One of which had been on the market before and we'd loved, although we'd never actually been inside. Now, it had been taken by the bank and wasn't officially back on the market. There wasn't even a sign in the yard.

Sunday, My Guy and I poked around the yard. I liked the patio. My Guy liked the lush, cushy grass that felt like it had a carpet pad underneath. We told the Super Realtor we'd look at the house after work on Monday.

Except, Monday? Super Realtor called me at noon, saying he'd heard that some other folks were considering making an offer. So, half an hour later, My Guy, Super Realtor and I converged on The House. And discovered that it truly was The House. On The Street. And contains Cha Cha's Dream Bathroom.

We saw the house at 12:45. By 7, we had a signed contract.

Holy shit! We're buying a house! Which we both love! And holy shit! We will own three houses! That's bad!

The House has been trashed. There's garbage strewn throughout, and Coke has been sprayed all over ceilings and walls. The granite in the kitchen is shattered. While most of the house has hardwoods, the places with carpet need to be stripped.

I have never been so excited to clean in my life!

We take possession right after Christmas, pending inspections next week. Right now, it's hard to think about anything but paint colors and furniture placement.

And yes, we're getting uber aggressive on our houses. Because two people with three houses? That ratio is all sorts of messed up.

But I feel such a sense of relief and joy knowing that yes, yes we are going to live together. And this will be where we do it. And this is where we will make our home together and live our married life together - where we will wipe muddy paws and feed our friends and enjoy just hanging out with each other in our home.

I never imagined that having three houses would be a relief. But it is.