All I ever wanted.

This week is the culmination of the gigantic project that has devoured my life for the last six months. Corporate Behemoth? You are a cruel and cunning mistress. Which is a fancy-pants way of saying "high-maintenance beyotch."

The good news is that success is within our reach and it will all come together and be marvelous. The not-so-good news is that I am exhausted. The really, really good news is that on Saturday, my mom and I are flying to Florida, where we will sit on the beach for seven days.

Yes. Sitting. On the beach. There will be fruity drinks with paper umbrellas. And trashy novels. And lots of seafood. And no rental car. And lots of walking on the sand and not giving myself carpal tunnel by working at a computer 37 hours a day.

Did I mention the beach?

I am so ready. So, so ready. I'm hoping that it will be an excellent way to zone out, recharge and get some perspective on recent events. And you know I'm not talking about the health care town halls or Michael Jackson's unfortunate demise.

Sigh.

I still have the double-bagged bunny carcass swinging next to my wind chimes. And today, after work? I discovered yet another dead varmint in the backyard. I didn't get close enough to see what flavor of varmint, and Foxie Doxie is under close supervision. I should have just womaned up, grabbed my trowel and more Target bags and addressed the situation.

But really? Really, after getting home at 7, knowing full well that I would log back on after eating my nightly peanut butter, tomato and onion sandwich? Really, when I found yet another carcass, it was all I could do not to raise my hands up to the heavens and scream, "ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!?!?!?!"

So.

Four days til vacation. I'm assuming I won't be called upon to dispose of any bodies while on holiday.

Ewwww.

We've been talking a lot about our Miss Universe-esque cultural heritage costumes. Don't forget to leave a comment describing the costume that best represents your peoples. You could win fabulous prizes!

Lil' Frankfurter initially thought he would wear a black and white striped prison uniform for his costume. It would reflect both his puppy prison background and the tyrannical rule of yours truly. However, he has since decided that he doesn't want to be negative, so he would just wear a costume made entirely of tennis balls.

Foxie Doxie was adamant from the get-go about his costume. He would proudly represent the doxie peoples by wearing a possum pelt. The skanky, hairless tail would be curled up on his head like a crown. And Foxie's chest would be puffed out like the great hunter he is.

As for me? Well, my costume of 21-year-old t-shirt and dog-hair-encrusted sweatpants has had a few additions.

First? I will be carrying my new life partner, Ione the iPhone. Yes. I got an iPhone. I don't know how to use it at all, but she has a pink case and is lovely. She's named after my great-aunt.

Secondly, I will have to hike up the left pant leg of those nasty sweatpants to show off a little home maintenance experiment gone awry.

If you are power washing the 17 layers of paint off of your front stoop, because it's stupid to paint a front stoop because the paint just peels anyway? And you end up with dirt and paint flakes all over your body?

Umm? Fight the temptation to take the water-shooting device in your hand and use it to rinse off your legs. Remember: you are holding a power washer. And yeah, it's powerful. And yeah, it will hurt.

Yeah, I got your sexy right here.

The third addition to my cultural heritage costume is courtesy of Foxie Doxie, who has been spending a lot of time in the backyard this weekend. Tonight, I finally figured out what was so interesting along the back fence line.

Foxie came in and ran past me, ignoring my demands to wipe his paws. From across the room, he shot me a look that said, "Oh, damn. I'm not going to get away with this, am I?"

It was then that I noticed the grey fur sticking out of the side of his mouth.

Now, the swell thing about having small dogs is that you can just pick them up and force them to do your bidding. This is how I managed to get Foxie and a roll of paper towels out on the deck in a matter of seconds. However, the entire time I was yelling, "I can't believe you brought that into MY HOUSE! What the FUCK were you thinking? Oh, HELL no!"

Because I was channeling the trailer from that Beyonce movie where she's all, "Oh, Ali Larter, you did NOT come into my house and touch my CHILD!"

Me and Beyonce? That's how we roll.

So, I took a paper towel and used it to fish the treasure out of Foxie's mouth. It was a tiny baby bunny ... well, half a baby bunny. Let's just leave it at that.

I promptly dumped Foxie into his kennel. And I wrapped the carcass in the paper towel, then double bagged it in two Target bags. Having learned my lesson last time about how rotting varmint can pretty much ruin your garage, and also thinking about a show I saw about bears recently, I hung the double-bagged bunny from a hook on my deck, next to the wind chime.

I'll take it to a dumpster tomorrow. But for tonight? My cultural heritage costume includes a Target bag swinging about saucily.

In which I am culturally illiterate. And catty.

One thing I'm sure we can all agree on is that Miss America is The Best Pageant. It's actually not a pageant at all, but a scholarship competition. With swimsuits. But there's a talent competition. And all the contestants have to be in, like, you know, college.

The one thing Miss America lacks is any sort of state costume competition. And in that way, Donald Trump's Miss Universe has the upper hand.

Now, to be Miss USA and Miss Universe, you don't have to be literate. You have to be pretty and want to be a spokesmodel. There is no talent competition. For some reason, the top five finalists have to answer questions about health care reform or Apartheid, which is totally unfair. They should be questioned about stuff they know, like laser hair removal versus waxing. It's not like Miss Universe will serve next to Yoda in some sort of intergalactic United Nations.

Anyway.

The questions are stupid. But the national costumes? Divine. Let's review some of the noteworthy submissions from Sunday's pageant.

Miss Honduras
Now, this is a nice example of your traditional national costume. She's displaying the cultural heritage of her people. She looks feminine and fresh.

Miss USA

Ah. I'm proud that our git-r-dun heritage was well-represented for the whole world - nay, the whole universe - to see. Miss USA is neither fresh nor feminine. She looks like a waitress at a NASCAR-themed Hooters.

Miss Ukraine

Feminine. And graceful. I just didn't realize half-bird, half-mermaids lived in the Ukraine.

Miss Germany

A for effort, Miss Germany! Any national costume that requires you to walk sideways through doorways is a winner in my book. But, let's be honest: the poor girl looks miserable.

Miss Albania

Umm ... I'm sort of scared to comment on this one. I'm afraid that Miss Albania will come for me. In the night. Sort of like Maleficent from Sleeping Beauty.

Miss Panama

I'd actually like to know the cultural significance of this one because it's ... wow. I know she's representing Panama, but our friend is obviously part Vegas. Or at least has a future career there.

Miss Montenegro

It's a strong statement to represent the people of Montenegro's rich cultural heritage of ... wearing bows.

If I had to design a costume representing my cultural heritage, I think it would be jeans. No, wait - sweatpants. And covered in dog hair. Yeah. And an orange t-shirt my parents got me in St. Maarten in 1988 that is the softest t-shirt in the whole universe but that I only wear when I really need it because I now consider it a frail antique. And more dog hair. Because dog hair? The new feathers. So suck on that, Miss Panama.

What about you? What's your cultural heritage costume? Best comment wins a fabulous prize pack. Seriously. Because I feel like giving some cool shit away. And I'm hoping it will atone for this post.

Send your costume descriptions by August 31. In the event the winner is unable to fulfill her duties as Miss Noodleroux Cultural Heritage Costume Queen, the first-runner-up will assume those duties. You know the drill.

All photos courtesy of www.missuniverse.com.

Soundbites.

Attempting-to-be-cool-but-kind-of-serious dad to Catholic school uniform-wearing teenage daughter juggling wallet, water bottle, keys and sunglasses: How can you carry all that stuff? You need a pocket. Or a purse. Or a camel.

Husband to brave-to-show-a-bad-junior-high-photo-of-herself wife: Your parents were cruel. Maybe that perm was their way of preventing teenage pregnancy.

And really? That's all I've got tonight. But! Up next? Hard-hitting journalism as Cha Cha reviews the national costumes of the Miss Universe pageant contestants. Don't miss it!

Comedy, tragedy, or farce?

I feel like I have a Greek chorus following me around.

Typically, this Greek chorus would chant, "Lil' Frankfurter peed somewhere in the house! And you just haven't found it yet!"

But lately, it feels like the chant is more like, "Don't! Don't feel that way! Don't want that! Don't open yourself up to hurt again! What is wrong with you, you crazy bitch?"

It's got a really lyrical cadence, don't you think?

Basically, I'm processing the torrential emotional downpour that was my meeting with Ex-Wonderful last week. I'm just trying to feel my way through it. I'm not contacting him. I'm adding to my stack of letters written with zero intention of ever, ever sending them. And I'm trying to be still and listen.

But it's hard. And it's hard to tune out the "Ohmigod, that guy is such an ass! If you ever talk to him again, I will kill you!" diatribes. My favorite was, "Why'd you talk to him? That guy's got real problems."

I know I'm smart. I know I deserve good things. And I've gone through all the very-worst-case-scenario-ever scenarios, and they aren't that bad. As in, I'm going to be fine no matter what - no matter if I never see him again or if we get married and have 17 kids. I. Will. Be. Fine.

Because I just am.

But in the meantime? It's tricky to tune down the din of the chorus. But it makes me all the more appreciative of the kind, gentle folks who offer their love and support ... and don't try to stage an intervention.

Yeah, I appreciate that. Because I'm fine.

So, thanks.

Don't worry; he's fine.

So, I've been waiting for the dental floss to work its way through Lil' Frankfurter's system.

And waiting.

And waiting.

I think maybe his body actually digested it. I use the woven kind - not the plastic tape - on account of my freakish, you-have-the-gums-of-an-80-year-old-smoker periodontal issues. I'm starting to think that this just provided a little more fiber in his body.

I'm both relieved and a bit disappointed. However, I caught everyone's favorite mini doxie carrying an almost-empty box of tampons around the house. Because once you've fought dental floss and won? Well, it's time to take on more substantial opponents.

He seemed really disappointed when I confiscated the tampons. I can picture aiding in the digestion of floss. But digesting a tampon? No. And you know that would involve some expensive emergency veterinary care.

But Lil' Frank did require a little emergency care this weekend. My mom and I kept finding blood on our legs, but we couldn't figure out where it was coming from. Finally, I realized that the carpeted stairs in my folks' house had caused Lil' Frank to get carpet burn on the pads behind his ankles.

My sweet mama worked her magic with gauze and tape.

Yes, this is the most pathetic doxie photo ever taken. Ever. In the history of doxies.

But isn't there part of you want wants to sing, "He's a maniac! Maniac! On the floor! And he's dancing like he's never danced before?" Let's face it: Lil' Frank rocks those legwarmers.

Do you take this spinster?

I went to Iowa this weekend for a wedding. The groom was a friend of my family, and a childhood friend of Poochie. Poochie was a super-handsome groomsman.

Now, it was a lovely wedding. The pastor acknowledged that the bride and groom are as different as night and day. The ceremony was filled with laughter and the whole deal was very ebullient.

I have two qualms.

One: the second song at the reception - the bride / daddy dance? Was the live band singing The Eagles' "Desperado." Umm ... is it just me, or is that song about isolating yourself and shutting out love? Now, is that appropriate for a wedding? Methinks perhaps not.

Two: the younger brother of the groom, who has been married for about three years, came up to me and said exactly one sentence: "You used to babysit me!" Then he walked away.

Just a hint, kids: this is not the thing to say to a woman who is already feeling like a spinster at a wedding with her parents, a woman who has just had the emotional turmoil of having the man who crushed her heart and her will to live announce that he was still in love with her. This is not the most effective way to tell her that you're glad she's come to celebrate with your family.

And yes, the only person who danced with me was my sweet daddy. And yes, my parents had me drive them home.

But the cupcakes were good. And the hot pink frosting dyed my tongue, which I really enjoyed.