We are moving! We are moving!

You. Guys.

I finally moved this here blog to new, luxurious digs. Please visit www.noodleroux.com.

If you subscribe, THANK YOU! And I'm sorry, but you'll have to resubscribe at www.noodleroux.com. This ancient Blogger site has served me well, but all updates will be at www.noodleroux.com from here on out.

I love you. That is all.

Why I stopped writing.

I kind of stopped writing because I started to think that my stories didn't matter.

It's such a ballsy thing to stand up and say, "Yes, my story matters. It's important and I must get it out into the world and it will make a difference."

But I was depressed and couldn't imagine such things. So I made excuses. I was tired. I was working on writing that pays, writing about Joe's Mattress Shack and their new pillowtop ultra extreme bedding extravaganza. I wasn't denying the world anything of value.

Except I was. I am.

It's so easy to look at other people's stories and say, "YES! This is of value! Get this out in the world!" Like the story that Mary-Claire King tells about Joe DiMaggio babysitting her daughter at the airport. That's an important story.

But the gist of that story is that you never know what ripples a simple act of kindness will have in the world. In Mary-Claire's case ... well, you should just read the story.

In my case? Maybe somebody just needs to hear, "Me, too."

Or maybe I'm more of a cautionary tale. Whichever.

Either way, I'm getting back on the horse. I'm telling my stories, even when it hurts.

Here's what I've been up to:

• Rehabbed our rental house, put it on the market, and got a full-price offer within an hour. An hour! Last time I tried to sell a house, it took nine months, so this was amazing. Except ... we knew we had to replace the roof. The roofers didn't tarp the roof correctly. We had a torrential rain. THE CEILINGS INSIDE THE HOUSE COLLAPSED FROM THE WATER DAMAGE. It's all so stupid. The roofing company took responsibility and it only moved our closing back a week, but My Guy and I both lost about 10 years off our lives due to stress.
  

  

  Dude. That's not supposed to look like that. Also, just out of frame? My husband and I having simultaneous heart attacks.

• Obsessed all summer about going to the beach. It was to be my finish line after a summer of the aforementioned house flipping madness. I am one of those people who just neeeeeeds water. We were scheduled to go to Florida ... during the hurricane. When I called the hotel to cancel our non-refundable reservation, I was all, "You don't want me during the hurricane! I have no skillz!" and they were like, "You're right, we don't want you. Here's all your money back." I was relieved but ... slightly hurt.
• Been mauled by this now-50-pound dog.

"Hey! I'mma jump on you, 'kay?"

So. Let's catch up. What's up with you?

Mega, huge, completely indebted thanks to reader Cyndi B. who reached out to say she missed my writing. Thank you.

I have a placemat for my VCR. If I still had a VCR.

The new phone book's here! The new phone book's here!

Or, rather, my new issue of Uppercase magazine. You know, the issue that features a piece by me? Yeah, I'm published. Whatevs.

Except it's kind of a big deal. It makes me happy, and is a gentle prod to keep keep keep writing.

You can see the issue here. However, the resolution isn't so hot, so here's my article for your viewing pleasure.

--

My grandma created many beautiful items. She crocheted baby blankets and tatted Christmas ornaments. Those of us lucky enough to be in her family have potholders and afghans crafted as her slim fingers flew, needle and thread in hand.

Grandma filled her home with lovely things, items that were arranged just so. She loved to have people over, and took pride in providing a comfortable, gracious home. That house on Lacey Drive was always spotless. Grandma took care of business.

So, when the kids encouraged “the folks” to get a VCR, preparations needed to be made. You couldn’t just plop the machine on top of the console TV – it might scratch the wood. And so, the VCR sat on the carpet until Grandma could crochet a placemat.

The placemat was perfectly sized and made of the same creamy yarn she used for countless blankets. It protected the TV from whatever evil was lurking underneath the VCR. We grandkids giggled as we reprogrammed the VCR’s clock for the umpteenth time, but we accepted that grandmas were just wired to crochet placemats for their electronics.

The placemat was in a box of linens that I’ve toted around since we emptied the house Grandma and Grandpa called home for 40 years. Now, I realize this is no ordinary placemat.

This placemat is a work of art. Even though it was created to hide under a VCR, spending its life in the dark, the placemat has a series of intricate patterns. Instead of row after row of plain stitches, it has ribs and meticulous designs. The patterns were thoughtfully laid out to create a perfectly VCR-sized end product. It was created with care.

Grandma loved handicrafts, and the way she and Grandpa lived their lives showed they believed a job worth doing was worth doing well. Discovering that the VCR placemat was no exception was not a huge surprise.

Grandma been gone for 14 years, Grandpa for 9. They were married for 69 years. I miss them every day.

But little things like the VCR placemat remind me that they’re here, that I have a history. And a little OCD isn’t a bad thing. And even work that will be hidden should still be beautiful.

There are no adults. It's just us!

It's a Thursday night, and our neighbors are having A Grown-Up Party.

Luxury sedans line the street, and a gaggle of folks are enjoying their hosts' lovely brick patio and brand-new outdoor fireplace. There's scrumptious food and music that's fun but not too much. They probably even have some sort of signature cocktail.

I'm trying not to be the weird neighbor who looks out the window and watches. This is actually not that hard, seeing as how I'm busy cleaning up dog pee. Inside my house.

At least my dogs had the good sense to run outside, do their business (or not), then come back in with no fuss or barking. It's like they realized that we, as a pack, aren't classy enough to mix with the gentry next door. We should just cower in our house. You know, the house where a bunch of the front bushes died over the winter, so the whole place looks slightly "crazy cat lady meets 'Sanford and Son?'" That house?

Clearly, I am faking being a grown up.

I've always felt like I was faking being a writer, too. Because, you know, writing professionally for 15 years and blogging for 7 years don't count. Clearly, I was just pulling a fast one.

My recent writing workshop adventures made me rethink that. At some point during the Erma Bombeck Writers' Workshop, between sessions and explaining that "I write about dogs and boobs?" Somewhere in there, I had an epiphany.

I'm a real writer.

I texted BFF and admitted this discovery to her. Because she's brilliant, her response was, "Jeez, YOU THINK?"

And my book club girls, upon hearing this same discovery? They were all like, "No shit." But then I asked, "Don't you guys ever feel like impostors, like you're going to be found out at any moment and outed for not knowing what you're doing?"

Ohhh. They all had that going for them in 1 area or another. Being a "real writer" just happens to be my personal sweet spot.

And yet we all drudge along, sure that everyone is smarter, more talented, more together, and just plain better.

We are so dumb.

We're all faking it 'til we make it. There are no grown ups. It's just us, over-grown kids that we are, trying to figure it all out, and still amazed that we can buy beer. None of us know what we're doing.

But we do know. If we're honest and willing to toot our own horns, we have areas of expertise. Mine are putting words together and making grilled-cheese sandwiches. I'm pretty happy with 2 solid life skills. I need to become more comfortable owning these mad skillz. You need a cheese-based meal or some web copy? I am your woman.

Throwing Grown-Up Parties isn't in my skill set, and that's OK. My skills are valuable, and my story is valuable, and I need to own them.

What's in your skill set?

Inspiration and vomit.

I just returned from the Erma Bombeck Writers' Workshop. It was ... amazing.

I'd never been to a writers' conference before, and in the days leading up to the conference, I was all stressed out. I worried about having to pretend to be extroverted for, like, 3 whole days.

What if everybody was cooler/prettier/a gajillion times more talented than me? What if no one would sit next to me? It was like the first day of junior high all over again, except now I worried not about my locker, but about those pesky electronic hotel keys.

The first day of junior high was kind of terrible. Erma? Erma was wonderful.

I got to shack up with Green Girl, my blog friend of 6 or 7 years. We'd never actually met in person, but now I'm pretty sure she's my soul mate. And I met so many honest, supportive, wonderful people. I enjoyed a weekend of talking about writing with like-minded folk. And I got to see Phil Donahue, who is basically the coolest human ever.

Laura writes about her take-aways from the conference, and learning to maintain a little perspective. Yes. That. I think the trick now is to take the energy we got from the workshop and keep it going. It's tough when you're surrounded not by like-minded folk, but - sigh! - the real world.

I was very excited to see my sweet husband. He picked me up from the airport, and took me out to dinner on the way home. We chatted over salads and he wanted to hear every last detail about the workshop. I am blessed to have such support.

He mentioned that he had vacuumed "every surface I could find." I about fell out of the restaurant booth. Thankyouthankyouthankyou! Considering the 3 dogs / recently reseeded yard combo we've got kickin' right now? Best husband ever! Between dinner and the prospect of a clean house, I was a pampered woman, indeed.

A few minutes later, he casually mentioned that the previous night, he'd been so tired. Exhausted. And when he went to bed, he discovered that 1 of the dogs had either puked of peed on the bed. But it was on my side, and he was too tired to deal with it, so he left it.

And he left it that morning.

And it was waiting for us (read: me) when we got home.

And, well, it wasn't on my pillow, but near the pillow region of my side of the bed.

I sat back in my seat. I folded my napkin. I placed my knife at 1 end.

"Pretend this is my side of the bed," I said. "The knife is my pillow. Where is the dried bodily fluid located?"

My Guy took a draw on his beer and considered. "Well, it's in this region," he said, waving his hand right where my shoulders would go. "But, ehh, you know, it's probably dried by now." He laughed.

I examined my knife and wondered why restaurants that serve booze generally don't provide sharp cutlery. 

I sucked down my mojito and thought lovingly back to the Erma conference. Everyone was so nice, and we had daily housekeeping service in our room. One of the housekeepers even stopped me in the hallway to tell me how much she liked my hair. She made me feel like Miss America, minus the painful waxing.

You know what doesn't make you feel like Miss America? Sniffing your bed to determine what flavor of stain is on your sheets. No Miss America contestant in the history of ever has performed this particular trick as her talent. Trust me - I know my pageants.

If you must know, it was vomit. I consider that to be a win.

Is it just me?

I had the humbling experience of receiving two very kind, very generous e-mails today. Both messages lauded me for being an authentic, honest blogger.

By "authentic and honest," I'm assuming both of these friends meant "mute and MIA."

I'm more than a bit disappointed in the volume of my writing as of late. I look at the post counts from last year and think, "Ah, those were the days! 30 posts in one month - I really had it going on!" And I forget that yeah, I posted 30 times in one month ... a month in which I didn't really leave my house. My main activities were knitting, blogging, and nursing a broken heart.

And now? Now, life is coming at me at the speed of ... well, at the speed of a really high-quality Internet connection. And I just don't have the time or the energy to post like I think I should. I'm too busy doing. I'm swamped at work. I have a lovely albeit time-consuming second job planning a wedding. I like to do crazy things like spend time with my fiance. And yet?

And yet, I am still attempting to not learn the very valuable lesson that My Guy would teach me if I'd just pull my head out of my ass and fucking pay attention.

That lesson is compassion.

I feel like I'm doing everything half-assed. I'm having moments of freak-out over the wedding. The pile of work at Corporate Behemoth continues to grow. My house is a mess and all of my produce has gone bad. I feel like a fuck up.

And yet? This kind man still loves me. And when I confessed that I didn't think I was being a very good friend to myself? He said, "I'm so glad to hear you say that. You're such a good friend and so understanding and compassionate. You need to cut yourself some slack."

So, this is me being honest. And attempting a cease-fire in the war with myself. And asking to hear from all you other my-own-worst-enemies out there: how do you engage in peace talks between the warring factions in your brain?

Nameless, faceless corporate drone.

I feel like the world's worst blogger. Or maybe just the world's worst human.

I've been working like a crazy woman all week. As in, working late, coming home, then working some more. Waking up in the middle of the night, thinking about work, not being able to go back to sleep, and deciding I should just get up and work. Then, next thing I know, I've slept through my alarm and am late for - you guessed it - work.

Balance? Huh? Whaaa?

But I have managed to walk Dachshund Nation every day this week. Tuesday night, I managed to coerce them to go to bed at 9:30. So, little victories. But I haven't even had time to watch my DVRed Miss Universe Pageant, chock full o' national heritage costumes and hosted by Mr. Bret Michaels.

Now? Now, it's almost the weekend. And I promise to have something - anything - to write about then that will be at least marginally interesting.

Transition and muscle aches.

It's been Festival of Home Improvement here.

Saturday, My Guy and I each ended up organizing our respective basements. It wasn't planned - it just happened that the moons of Jupiter aligned and it was Clean Up Your Damned Basement Day.

Sunday, we landscaped like we have never landscaped before. I showed up at his house with a car full of mulch and potting soil and hostas and plants galore. We ripped out a cruddy old planter, and then I went to town weeding and mulching and planting and hosing everything down. Basically, I was a landscaping diva while My Guy cursed home ownership while cleaning his gutters.

Did I mention it was 96 degrees and humid?

We were dying by the end of the day. Dying. So My Guy made us the dinner of champions: Kraft mac and cheese and purple Kool-Aid.

Seriously. It was beyond awesome.

But why the flurry of activity?

We've decided to put not one but both of our houses on the market right after Independence Day. Because we are insane. And the housing market scares us in a it-might-take-72-years-to-sell-these-houses sort of way.

When I got home last night after the landscaping death march, I found myself almost disappointed. Why do we own two houses? We have two, TWO houses to stage! Oh, for the love of Pete! Whoever Pete is!

But tonight, as I'm finally sanding and prepping the woodwork in my kitchen ... my kitchen that I remodeled three years ago and just lived with the chipped woodwork? Well, my heart is a bit heavier.

First of all, whoever painted the trim with the cheapo paint? You suck. I can't sand without the paint peeling off in cheapo strips. Buy the expensive paint - it is so worth the extra $10. So. Worth. It.

But also? My heart is a little funky because I'm so excited to be with My Guy. It's just that simple - I want to be with him. I want to live with him, even though he doesn't know the proper way to fold sheets or towels. I love him even though he dowsed my bag of gardening gear not once but twice yesterday with both water from the hose and the crap that comes out of gutters and smells like turtles.

But my house? I love this house. It's going to be hard to let go of this house. It's the only place I've ever lived where I had the ability to make it any way I wanted. I painted my closet pink, for Pete's sake (again - who the eff is Pete?). And buying a house was a huge accomplishment.

When I decided to leave Ex-Ex and his wicked ways, I had exactly $25.35 in my bank account. This is not an exaggeration. I was building my freelancing business and I was brokity broke, broke, broke. I moved into a slightly shady apartment that approved me because they checked my checking balance on exactly the right day, after the deposit but before the bills cleared.

Less than two years later, I bought a house. Because I could afford it. Because I was wildly successful in my freelancing career. And so, I left The Apartment of Shame behind for a house that I remodeled and tweaked and smudged with sage. My intent for this house was peace and prosperity.

And so it has been.

And so it shall be in the fab, new, yet-to-be-determined house that I will share with My Guy. And our (gulp) four dogs. Although Lil' Frankfurter is really more the size of a ferret.

My mom popped the heads off the Hungry Hungry Hippos and tried to convince us that it was more fun to play the game that way.*

I have blogger guilt. It tastes like sour milk and shame.

I haven't been writing a ton lately, and that seems to reflect me in the three-dimensional world.

When I get stressed, I tend to turn inward. All the recent craziness with layoffs at Corporate Behemoth meant that some days, I literally did come home and take to my bed. It felt very Southern Recluse in a most Tennessee Williams sort of way.

But even when really wonderful, good things are happening? Well, I tend to play it pretty close to the vest. I'm scared to jinx it. There's part of me that is prepared to be disappointed and deeply hurt. And then there's another part of me that accepts that happiness is natural and welcome and expected. And sometimes, those two parts of my personality duke it out like Rock 'em Sock 'em Robots.

Or Hungry Hungry Hippos.

Or the violent 80s toy of your choice.

But sometimes? Sometimes, I just let it be.

So now, I will tell you what's really going on, because it feels like the elephant (or hippo) sitting on my laptop.

There has been talk. About houses. And futures. And jewelry has been selected. And this weekend, parental blessing was obtained. And now I'm just sort of floating along, knowing what is coming but not knowing when or how or anything.

This all feels so easy and right.

But don't ask me about it. I don't want to jinx it.

* I think she was having one of those "You're the reason Mommy drinks" sort of days. It's cool.

Images courtesy of Amazon.

Mea culpas and blogging with friends.

Alice called me at work today.

"I just got off the phone with Our Mutual Friend Who Broke The News of Bret Michaels' Brain Aneurysm."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. I asked if he'd read your blog about Bret and wasn't it funny? And he had. But he was upset."

"Huh? Why?"

"Well, he thinks you totally phoned it in when you called him 'KG' on your blog."

"Really?"

"Yeah. He was like, 'You're Alice and that's cool, but it's like when she got to my name? It's like she didn't even TRY! And Jake's name is cool, but KG? Like, I'm not even worth the effort!"

"Oh, nooo ..."

"Yeah. Our Mutual Friend Who Broke The News of Bret Michaels' Brain Aneurysm is really bummed. He wants to be called 'Rocco.'"

Now, in my defense, the first time I wrote about Our Mutual Friend Who Broke The News of Bret Michaels' Brain Aneurysm, it was after a three-hour happy hour. He'd gotten me drunk ... how was I supposed to come up with a clever name after that?

And Rocco? Rocco is Our Mutual Friend Who Broke The News of Bret Michaels' Brain Aneurysm's dog. The luckiest dog in the universe, as Our Mutual Friend Who Broke The News of Bret Michaels' Brain Aneurysm saved him up from the pound and certain death and promptly took him to Coach, where they picked out a new leather collar more fitting for Rocco's new lifestyle.

So, basically? Our Mutual Friend Who Broke The News of Bret Michaels' Brain Aneurysm is awesome. And any non-awesome moniker simply Will. Not. Do. I will totally refer to him as Rocco and have actually gone back and changed all references to him to Rocco.

Rocco? I'm sorry.

And this has nothing to do with the fact that last week Rocco left me a voicemail that I will save forever and dip in bronze:

Hey Cha Cha. It's Rocco. My God, you are so funny. I swear to God, of all those bloggers that end up becoming famous because of their blogs and end up writing books and shit? They're just poseurs compared to you. That's what you should be doing. I feel like you need to just drop this Corporate Behemoth act ...

Sometimes? Sometimes, you just need to hear that. Thanks.

Miscongeniality.

I attended a little blogger meet-up.

Ever feel like you just did not put your best foot forward, and anybody who came in contact with you was worse for it?

Yeah, that would be tonight.

I did not physically assault any of the fabulous bloggers in attendance. I didn't even verbally accost them. I was just ... off. This was a great opportunity to meet other bloggers! And talk about blogging! And the future of social media! And the importance of community and telling our stories!

And I just sort of sat there.

Ugh.

Yes, please read my blog. It's almost as exciting as my real-life, three-dimensional persona. You know, the one who just sits there? Scintillating.

So, I've been trying to put my finger on why, exactly, I felt out of sorts.

I have cramps and pretty much want to sever my body at the waist.

I arrived at said blogger gathering immediately after crying to my therapist about how scared I am about the possibility of being laid off.

My cute new shoes hurt the top of my left foot.

At lunch, I ran my hand through my Chipotle bowl and so have guacamole caked into my ring, which is undoubtedly attracting bugs, maggots, and drunken Cinco de Mayo revelers.

Allergies are partially to blame for my recent rash of headaches, and drinking even than one beer tonight impacted the delicate balance of pressure in my sinus cavity and possibly cut off the circulation to my brain.

Sigh.

So, at least I have solid reasons for being slightly less engaging than usual. So maybe I was mute. But at least I was wearing cute shoes.

Ask me stuff. I'll make something up.

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

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

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

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

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

Screaming for Chocolate asked:

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

You got it.

On my book report about Street Gang, Gertrude commented:

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

Lovely Iowa girl A piece of news lamented:

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

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

Hope505 asked another pressing question:

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

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

What were we talking about again?

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

My invisible friend asked:

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

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

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

Next question?

I'm so threatening.

I feel like I should have something hil-AR-ious to post. I mean, c'mon - I haven't posted in three days. Surely, something vaguely entertaining has happened in those 72 hours.

Alas? No.

Lessee ... working. Collapsing after said work and sleeping for almost 10 hours on a school night. Working again. Eating awesome Italian food with My Guy, then watching the Olympic opening ceremonies (yawn). Cleaning. Being ignored by the shoe salesmen at Nordstrom because I was wearing a vintage Iowa Hawkeye t-shirt and three-year-old Sketchers. I know I'm not cool, but maybe I would have liked to try on those green pumps. Think about it.

So, yeah.

How do you keep those occasional day-to-day blahs from making your writing blah? I refuse to get into the minutiae. Twitter, I am looking at you. And Facebook. And my dear friend who learned how to merge the two and posted - I am not kidding - 104 Facebook status updates in 48 hours.

Help me. Or I might have to start writing about dryer lint, in all its intricate, interesting glory. Posts and posts about dryer lint.