An open letter to the kids who went to prom in Des Moines on Saturday.

Dear friends,

I had no idea that getting your prom photos taken outside of the Iowa statehouse was a thing.

But it totally makes sense. With its gold dome, the capitol is pretty stunning. I tend to feel sorry for all other state capitols, as they are clearly deficient. As my brother pointed out, this is especially true for Nebraska. He referred to their skyscraper capitol as "The Penis of the Plains."

Heh.

But anyway. You all looked so lovely in all your prom finery. I realize I'm now an old biddy, because I look at you and think you look to be about 12, and I have old-lady thoughts like, "I'm so glad long dresses are back in style. Nobody needs to see vagina at prom."

But you looked great.

Now, I feel like perhaps I should apologize for what happened on the steps of the statehouse, but then again? Maybe I should just explain.

My incredible family feted me with a surprise early birthday celebration. These amazing people planned many fun surprises, and we had a wonderful time together. Saturday afternoon, we spent 3 hours and $36 playing arcade games and drinking beer. We had no idea my dad was such a pinball whiz, but it's true. You learn new things about the people you love all the time.

I should probably also mention that at this bar/arcade, my mom and I were hit on by 2 very nice gentlemen. They tried to buy her shots and bought me a beer. You're in high school and don't need to drink and probably get hit on 24/7 because you're young, hot, and hormonal, but this was a big deal to us. See, I'm turning 40 next week. And my mom has been married for 46 years. Having these guys hit on us was kind of the highlight of our years.

We were feeling giddy.

And so, when we were walking back to the car, post-arcade? It just made sense that I would run up the steps of the statehouse, a la "Rocky."

At first, we thought all the matching white tuxes meant there was a wedding. But then, we realized that it was prom, and photos were the name of the game. So, we improvised, and decided that instead of running up the steps to the statehouse, I'd just run up the steps leading up to the steps of the statehouse. There are a lot of steps.

I played "Gonna Fly Now" on my phone and ran up the steps while my family cheered and my mom captured the magic on video. I ended jogging at the top, arms raised in triumph.

No, I'm not having a seizure. I'm triumphing over adversity.

Except that the camera didn't work. We had to reenact the magic. No problem. I played "Gonna Fly Now" and ran up the next section of stairs. We got more into it, and my family pretended to be the kids in "Rocky II" who run up the steps with him. We were fucking champions.

But the camera didn't work again. So, we re-re-enacted the moment, looking more ridiculous than ever but having a great time. Pretending to be Rocky without actually getting punched is pretty sweet. I highly recommend it. You're gonna eat lightening and you're gonna crap thunder!

YEEEEEAAAAAAAH! Yo, Adrian!

So, my friends? That's why you have a ragtag group of random people running and jumping around in the background of your prom photos. Years from now, when you're showing your prom photos to your kids and grand kids, you can tell them that while getting dressed up and fancy is fun? Acting silly and looking stupid is where the real joy is.

Also? You're gonna regret those white tuxes.

Love,
Becky

An open letter to my parents and all my elementary school teachers.

Hi all - 

I'm not really a stripper.

Today, my coworkers and I went to lunch. We were celebrating a birthday, and we ended up at a downtown restaurant / bar.

Now, this restaurant / bar is next door to a fabulous strip club. Actually, I don't know if it's really fabulous - I haven't been inside. But the glass entry shows an escalator. Because yes, this strip club is so fancy that it has an escalator. Or maybe it's not really fancy, but it certainly looks nicer than the club a few blocks away that has the "TOTALLY NUDE" flashing sign.

Ours is a downtown in transition.

The strip club and the bar / restaurant share a parking lot. As I wedged into the lot with several large trucks, I realized that the strip club was packed. Dudes were spending their lunch hours at the boobie buffet, if you know what I mean.

As crossed the parking lot, I noticed a few guys purposely not making eye contact. Hmm. If you're ashamed of what you have for lunch, maybe it's time to switch up your diet.

Later, my coworkers and I enjoyed a lunch of food, not body parts. One of my cohorts glanced out the window and said, "Oh, look. There's a Google Earth car."

Hmm. Recording street-level views for all the internet to see. Nice.

Capturing my car in the parking lot of a strip club. Recording it for posterity.

I related this to My Guy later. His response? "I'm gonna find that on Google Earth and send it to everyone I know!"


But really? Google Earth is providing proof to suspicious spouses everywhere! I found the current Google Earth view of the parking lot in question. While the license plates are blurred, the car makes and models are very clear. And ... there's a guy in a blue and white shirt walking across the parking lot. I wonder if he knows he's forever captured in this state.

Wouldn't it suck to be caught on Google Earth walking out of a strip club?

But, I'm off track. The point of this open letter is to let you know, before Google Earth updates its images, that I'm not currently working as an adult entertainer. I may cuss a lot, but I'm still basically a good girl.

Love,
B

An open letter to my husband on our third anniversary.

My love,

Two nights ago, I walked into the family room to find you watching my least favorite sport ever, baseball (strike 1). You had thrown your socks across the room (strike 2). And you weren't wearing any pants.

Strike 3, obviously.

You immediately acknowledged your pantless state, confiding that you found pants to be too restrictive during intense sports-watching times. And the socks? Well, you felt a fool for wearing dress socks with no pants. They had to go.

You were wearing undies of a non-tighty-whitey nature, and I noted no discernible stains. My only option was to laugh and laugh and laugh.

Then, you read me the restaurant health inspection violations from the paper.

If I had to venture a guess, I'd say that acceptance, laughter, and shared interests are key to our marriage. Sure, I don't give 2 shits about baseball, but who doesn't love a good restaurant health violation?

You surprise and delight me. I still can't believe my good fortune. I think we should stay married.

Much like Paula Abdul, I'm forever your girl.

Love,
BB

An open letter to my new Facebook friend.

Oh, hey, pal! We went to elementary school together. You got in huge trouble for stealing your mom’s jewelry and giving it to your second-grade girlfriend. Are you still grounded?

You moved away, and we always wondered what happened with you. That’s why it was nice to get your friend request on Facebook. It looks like you’ve only had a Facebook account for 4 days, but you’re certainly making up for lost time. 119 friends already? Nice.

Listen, I know you’re new to the ways of The Facebook, so I feel the need to cut you some slack. However, you’re making me feel marginally homicidal.

It is just not cool to post song lyrics as your status update every 2 hours. It’s just not.

I keep waiting for you to settle into your new account, and maybe watch and learn as you see how others are using Facebook. If you do, you’ll notice that folks generally don’t post 10 times a day. They also don’t post cryptic song lyrics repeatedly.

It’s this hope that has so far prevented me from hiding you from my feed. But now, I’m kind of waiting for someone to call you out. I’m now kind of excited every time I see a new post from you. Maybe this will be the post to which someone comments to SHUT THE FUCK UP. Maybe this time you’ll learn the error of your ways and, oh, I don’t know, post something relevant instead of obscure lyrics from German thrash metal.

Maybe. But probably not.

Glad you’re not dead. Hope you are well. Shut up.

Love,
Cha Cha

P.S. Clearly, I'm just as dreadful as you remember.

An open letter to 12-year-old girls everywhere, wherein I disclose what I learned from not wearing deodorant for 6 weeks.

Dear friends,

When I was a tween, I became paranoid.

I became the girl who wouldn't leave the house unless I looked just right. I spent hours worrying over my appearance, and was convinced that every single time I was out in public, I was being judged for every small detail of my look.

I'm ashamed to admit that I regularly made my poor mom wait for me to wash my hair before we could leave the house. I was convinced that I would see someone I knew at Kmart, and my precarious preteen social standing would be destroyed due to the unruly state of my perm. Or the fact that I had blackheads. Or if I wasn't wearing cute socks.

I refused to go to the greenhouse to pick up marigolds on a 90-degree day without first washing and drying my hair. I also wore a "cool" outfit because, well, you just never know.

I was miserable at a basketball game because I got ice cream on my pink cable-knit sweater.  I was certain that everyone in the arena was aware of my food faux pas and looked down on me with harsh derision. People weren't watching the game - they were staring at the stain on my sleeve!

This stress made everything so much harder.

My friends, I have news: Nobody gives a shit.

Yeah, I'm using the word "shit" when speaking to 12-year-olds. Because I really, really mean what I'm saying. Also, I want you to think I'm cool.

But seriously.

Everybody else is so worried about themselves that they don't have time to worry about you.

OK, I got a rash in my freakin' armpit like 6 weeks ago. I went to the doctor and got a bunch of different types of cream, and blah blah blah, the rash is just now going away.

You can't wear deodorant when you have an armpit rash. You also can't shave your pit.

So, as the weather is heating up and it's really starting to be sweaty season, I have had 1 normal armpit, and 1 hairy, stinky armpit.

My inner 12-year-old girl (yeah, she never goes away) was pretty sure that the entire universe knew of my pit situation. Yes, my inner 12-year-old girl was embarrassed to be associated with such stink and was also convinced that all my friends would disown me. People in the grocery store would abandon their carts and run out of the store when they saw me. I was that gross.

But guess what? My inner 12-year-old girl was wrong.

Nobody noticed by armpit leprosy. No one was overcome with the fumes from my stinky pit. And even if they did notice, "Gee, that woman hasn't shaved under her arm for a while?" Well, they didn't care enough to say anything. Because it wasn't worth their time. Because they did not give a shit.

The armpit was a huge deal to me. And only me. And all the energy I spent worrying about my pit's outward appearances was wasted. I could have knitted a scarf or written and recorded a number one pop song with that energy. But alas!

If I can walk through the world with a lovely disaster of an armpit, you can go to the grocery without curling your hair first. The world doesn't really care if you've got a zit, or if your shoes are the latest style. The world is just happy you're wearing pants.

Relax. You are beautiful, exactly as you are. Own your beauty.

Love,
Cha Cha

An open letter to the azalea in my front yard.

So, I'd never used a hack saw before.

Much like the fight scene in "Anchorman," I think we can agree that things escalated quickly. I mean, that really got out of hand fast.

I'm so, so sorry.

I'm sorry, but I think we can agree that you were a little ... rangy. See, you're a shrub, right? You weren't ever supposed to be pushing 7 feet. I went in with my clippers to cut out all the dead wood, but everything above about 2 feet was dead wood, then more dead wood ... and then 3 leaves on top. Hence your extreme haircut.

The clippers weren't getting through the thicker branches, hence the hack saw. I thought I was just a weakling, but evidently, I was using a saw with a blade intended for cutting metal, not wood. This meant the trimming took forever and made my husband laugh. Well, he laughed at me after he got over his initial shock at the carnage.

It needed to be done. I was just surprised and saddened that it ended up looking so ... destructive.

Please trust that I had only the best intentions, and that I'm sure you're going to come back better than ever - full and lush and the envy of the neighborhood.

If you don't bloom next year out of spite, I understand.

Just please don't die. Because I really don't want to dig out your ancient roots. And because my husband is making fun of me already. Please, team up with me to prove that his foretelling of your demise is wrong. I love you and believe we have a future together.

Two feet tall is a really good look for an azalea. Work it! Own it! Please don't die! I promise I won't trim anything else without adult supervision!

An open letter to my dad on the day of his retirement.

Dear Dad -

Huzzah! A mere 40 years after joining the family business, you've made it to retirement!

I know Mom jokes about getting you a job as a greeter at Walmart. Personally, my money is still on a second career as a school bus driver. Remember how you'd tilt the steering wheel of the Buick way up, and pretend to yell at us kids? You're a natural.

When I was little, I wasn't quite sure what your job was. So, I told everyone you were a businessman, like the guys in suits in the J.C. Penney catalog. I was somewhat in the dark, but proud.

As I got older, I figured out what your job entailed - because you were willing to explain it to me, no matter how many random questions I asked. I also figured out that a family business was a pretty special thing. Poochie and I both had our first jobs with you - I was a file clerk, and he was a janitor. To this day, I'm awesome at alphabetizing. And Poochie? Well, I think he finally took "sanitation engineer" off his resume to make room for his master's degree.

You worked really hard. We learned that drive from you. We also learned that doing your best, treating everyone well, and living with integrity were givens. You taught us by example.

Your hard work enabled us to live in a nice house and enjoy fun extras. We had some awesome vacations. You sent our sorry asses to college - despite my expensive out-of-state educational tastes - and set us up for success. You also empowered us and gave us the freedom to follow our hearts, even if that led us away from home. I'm only now starting to truly understand the value and depth of these rare, special gifts.

I hope this new era gives you these same opportunities - the time and the freedom to try new things and enjoy grand adventures. Keep on being your interesting, always-learning self. I can't wait to see what else you have to teach me. You've already taught me what it means to be a success.

Thanks, Dad. Love you always -

Bug

An open letter to the guy with the fake "hair."

Hi, friend.

I was standing behind you in line for a concert Saturday night. The line was long, and so I hope you'll forgive me for the time I spent staring at the back of your head.

I am a woman, and I have what can best be described as a shit-ton of hair. This, admittedly, means that I don't really know what it's like to be a man with thinning hair. I can imagine, though, that it's frustrating. So frustrating that you'd be willing to try just about anything.

I am here to tell you - as a friend - that the colored spray you spritzed on your bald spot is not fooling anyone. As a friend, I must tell you that said spray makes it look not like you have hair, but like the crown of your head just got out of an Ash Wednesday service. And the black ashy stuff that was supposed to adhere to your scalp? Isn't.

Yes. You are molting black fake-hair dandruff.

I'm guessing you aren't a chimney sweep. There is no reason for your head to be caked in flaky black dust. And as a lady, I can confidently say that hair from a can is not going to get you laid. Personally, I'd be afraid that you'd get black crap all over my upholstery. And that's not a euphemism.

Embrace the bald spot. Own your noggin. Get that shit off your scalp.

Your pal,
Cha Cha

An open letter to whomever wallpapered our bathroom.

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

Why I don't work at Hallmark.

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

Ugh.

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

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

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

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

Oh, yeah.

Dear My Friend's Lunatic Boyfriend,

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

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

Love,
Cha Cha

Whoo! That felt good!

Dear Cheap-Ass Coworker,

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

Love,
Cha Cha

Totally on a roll ...

Dear My Guy's Aunt and Uncle,

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

Love,
Cha Cha

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

An open letter to the good people of Mattel.

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

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

Yes. Mattel is making Krystle and Alexis Barbies.

You know, Krystle and Alexis, from Dynasty?

I know!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Glitz, glamour, and home ownership.

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

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

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

Right.

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Homeowners,

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

Love,
Cha Cha

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

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

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