Mad propellers. I mean, mad props.

A few days after Thanksgiving, I sat in the booth of a Mexican restaurant with my parents. The Geriatric Poodle had just died, and I was feeling low. My folks sat next to each other across from me, joking yet again that the reason they got married was because my dad needed a roommate.

For some reason, I looked at them and asked if they were disappointed that they don't have grandkids. After all, my brother Poochie and I are both complete underachievers in the procreation department.

I was surprised and delighted by the response I received.

"Oh, God no," my dad said. "All the people we know who have grandchildren got really boring!"

Of course, this was followed with a "if-happens-we'd-be-delighted" caveat, and the reminder that me and Poochie excluded, my dad doesn't even like kids. It all made me laugh.

The truth of the matter, though, is that my parents are incredibly interesting people. Not in a "hosting a salon and drinking port and talking about The New Yorker" sort of way. No, they are truly interesting in that they are always learning and trying new stuff.

My mom is the reason why I held an entire table of friends captive - and silent - with an off-hand comment about the lovely quilt on my bed. They were shocked and delighted to hear that my mom made the quilt. She's an incredible quilter - and this is a fairly recent hobby.

For a birthday that ends in a zero, my dad decided that he wanted to become a pilot. He takes such joy in flying. And on Monday? He received his instrument rating.

Are my folks cool or what?

It occurred to me that in addition to winning the parental lottery, I have also won the role model lottery. It was always a given that you volunteer in the community. It was always a given that you be a reader and a listener. And, I'm realizing, it's a given that you keep growing and stretching and exploring.

And for that? I'm thankful. Even if my dad never wanted kids in the first place.

Because every day is a good day for Aerosmith.

A few days ago when I admitted that The Ex-Boyfriend Formerly Known as Mr. Wonderful is still floating around in my skull, wasting perfectly good brain cells, I received a beautiful comment from Marsha at Tumble Fish Studio:

I know you don't want to hear it necessarily, but there will be a time when you can finally let go of what's already gone. That's hard for most of us to do, to let go of what's already gone, and that's where our struggle comes in. We fervently and illogically try to hold onto something already beyond our grasp as it fades away with all that yesterday was - we prize it, try to keep it front and center in our memories and relive every drop of it. It's natural and we all do it. I love you Cha Cha.

Oh, and I love you, Marsha.

This comment actually blew me away - not because I didn't want to hear it, but because the sentiment is so obvious and simple and completely difficult.

I think letting go of what's already gone is such a powerful visual. I picture myself holding on to air as tightly as I can - my knuckles white, and my hands totally empty. It's wasted effort. But it's also the nature of grief - valid but not exactly rational.

So, when I find myself mourning, I'm trying to acknowledge the value of what I'm missing ... but also let it go, as it's already gone. So I might as well get with the program.

This sounds a little harsh. Someone I love very, very much is experiencing a deep, painful loss right now. And I want to fix it and I can't. But I would never tell her to get with the program - I want her to know that her grief is valid and that she is loved. And while the loss will always be there, it won't always hurt this much. But mostly? Mostly, I just want to sit next to her so she knows she's not alone.

So, maybe that's what I'm doing for myself with all of my couch time as of late. Me and Foxie Doxie. Hangin' on the couch. Regrouping. And being F-I-N-E fine.

A confession and an intervention.

I typically shy away from reality TV. Survivor? Nope. The Bachelor? Eh. I'm just not interested.

However.

I have a strange fascination with Rock of Love With Bret Michaels and Rock of Love: Charm School, where none other than Sharon Osborne tries to teach the Rock of Love rejects some manners.

Charm School just finished up, and last night was the first episode of the next season of Rock of Love. After careful consideration, I have come to an important conclusion.

Bret Michaels better be in on the joke. If not? Boy needs an intervention.
But Cha Cha, why?

Lemme tell you. No man in his right mind would really, truly think that he's going to find love on a reality show, much less a reality show where - I'm sorry, but it's true - women of questionable character try to outwhore themselves to win his affections.

The catfights are entertaining. But the contestants?

Bret recognized this contestant from her, uh, film career.

I really wonder what this show would be like if they threw in some normal women. Make it half crazy, dirty girls, and half normal, clean girls. The strippers versus the librarians. What would happen? Would the dirty girls play the nice girls and trick Bret into eliminating them? Or would the nice girls use their collective brain power to show that smart is sexy?

The world will never know.

And the winner of Rock of Love Charm School, the winner of $100,000 and the praises of Sharon Osborne? She's lovely, and got rid of her bad blond dye job. And she earned Sharon's praises for saying she was going to use her prize money for ... a boob job. She has no big plans, no dreams, no crazy ideas about using the money for tuition or starting a business. She's getting boobs.

I think part of why this show makes me crazy is that I fear that somehow, some way, the dating scene will end up like this when I eventually make my way back into the fray. What about normal girls like me? I was a fucking Mathlete and I know the Dewey Decimal System. If that's not sexy ... well, then, I'm screwed. But not in the way you want to get screwed. You know.

So, uh, Bret? I hope this show is really reviving your music career. Because every time you tell some drunken "model / actress" that you're sure you're going to find true love among these ruins of womanhood? I die a little. Just like your street cred.

Write it down.

I have spent a good part of the day doing my duty.

Of course, by "my duty," I mean writing thank yous.

I am a true believer that thank you notes separate the women from the girls, the ladies from the skanks. Much like covering your privates in public, it's just something you do. Nevermind the fact that by the last three or four notes, my handwriting sucked because my hand was cramping up. The thank yous are done.

But just between us? The real reason I write thank yous?

It's so I can buy more stationery. There. I said it. I love stationery and I don't care who knows. My name is Cha Cha, and I am addicted to paper products!

My little problem aside ... the lost art of handwritten correspondence has a beauty to it because it's tangible proof of our stories. That's why antique stores are filled with old postcards. People hung on to them because they were important reminders, and a piece of the folks who sent them.

I received an awesome comment on my post about Christmas music. Wally Howerton wrote:

When I was 5 or 6 I had to sing "Bow Wow wants a Boy for Christmas" in front of our church in southern Virginia. This would have been the winter of 55 or 56 I believe. My mother practiced with me for hours/days. Even the church pianist/organist had a couple of run throughs with me. I had it down perfect! Well, the night of the performance, mom put a giant red bow on Chi Chi our Pekinese. I was in my suit and bow tye looking spiffy! The music started and I started to sing. Through all the practices, Chi Chi was absent after all she wasn't going to sing. Well, Chi Chi was the star performer that night. She started howling and didn't stop until the music ended. Mom was crying and mortified, I was frustrated telling Chi Chi to shut up, and the entire Church was literally rolling in the aisles. I was looking for the words to the song because I am writing and posting short stories for my grandchildren. That Christmas was a wonderful Christmas. I still laugh!

This comment made me howl with laughter! And how lucky are Wally's grandkids, to have written stories from their grandpa?

One of my greatest treasures is a stack of paper about 25 sheets high. It's two stories: an autobiography by my grandma, and one by my grandpa. My grandpa describes every car he ever owned. My grandma omits details like how her mean drunk of a father burned down his own son's house for the insurance money.

I read these stories and hear their voices, and remember the tales that fill in the spaces. Somehow, the tangible retelling of parts of their lives makes the people themselves tangible, even though they are both gone.

Maybe that's why I like blogging. By writing about my life, I feel validated - especially in the last few months, when I've felt completely washed away. But by recording my experiences, it's somehow proof that I am here. Sort of like how thank yous are proof you received a gift.

That's why I like reading blogs, too. They are proof that I'm not the only one! I'm a little amazed by the affinity I feel for many bloggers whom I have never met in person, but feel like I know very well. But, like, not in a show-up-at-your-house-uninvited sort of way.

No, I save that for My Boyfriend Dave Grohl.

There's no such thing as overaccessorizing.

So, it's another uptown Saturday night at Casa de Cha Cha. I've been knitting for about three hours, and Foxie Doxie is ... uh ... licking himself. I guess he's enjoying his Saturday night. And we're listening to a 1981 Springsteen concert, thanks to Sirius Radio. Bruuuuuuuuce!

I'm in a weird place. I am both simultaneously glad to be sitting on my couch alone, but also lonely. I believe this is called learning to be still, in spite of everything. Just be. Peace be still. I have not been this still, like, probably ever. Ok, at least since my dad taught me to roll over. I fidget and fret and do and worry and putz. But right now, I'm knitting, and being shocked by occasional blasts from my flatulent little doxie.

And ... it's ok.

So, I'm sitting, knitting, dreaming about my boy Bruuuuuuuuce, and sporting some new bling, courtesy of Andi over at A Thousand Miles From the Place I Was Born. If you haven't visited Andi, you totally should. She's real and funny and a wicked writer. Wicked as in wicked awesome.

Sweet Andi is making me blush with this fierce bling!

The Superior Scribbler Award

Love Your Blog Award

I am humbled and delighted that anybody reads, much less comments, not to even mention visiting again, or giving me bling. You all have made a huge difference in my life.

Ok, I'm collecting myself. Ok.

So, the deal is that I now get to pass these fine awards on to four fellow bloggers. Yahoo! Here is a mere sampling of the blogs that bring me joy. Check them out.

It gives me pause. Written by You Gotta Wonder, this is a blog you gotta read. She shares a lovely perspective that's been good for my weary soul. And! And our sweet friend is published! Be sure to check out this post about her very cool magazine article ... an article that hit home so much that it made me cry. But don't tell anyone. I wouldn't want to tarnish my street cred.

LaDue & Crew. Note to self: accept any and all invitations to mealtime - any meal - at the home of Ms. LaDue. Her blog features her sweet, snarky stories and all sorts of recipes and cooking adventures. And you know you'd be friends because she, umm, put some English toffee in a dish for holiday guests? And then sort of hid it? Yeah, she's my kind of hostess.

Green Girl in Wisconsin. When Melissa is a famous novelist, you can be all "Oh yeah? Well, I've been reading her work forever. Everybody who's anybody is familiar with her blog. I've actually memorized entire posts." Which would be doubly funny because the dear blogger in question is so down-to-earth and funny and fabulous. I would like to tailgate with her at a Big 10 football game. Just because that seems like something we would do.

The Gift. AnastasiaSpeaks vowed to write every day for a year and, really, we're the ones who receive the gift. A recovering lawyer who is working from home with her young ruffians, Anastasia writes with a refreshing honesty. She is kind and smart, wonders what the hell she's doing, laughs about everything, and is a voice of reason. Yeah, you'll like her.

Happy reading, all!

Here I go again on my own.

For the last five days, I have been luxuriating in the glory of vh1's 100 Greatest Hard Rock Songs.

Yes, I love those stupid compilation shows. I can't help it. My people are a simple people.

But this one is great, because in addition to showing clips and talking about where the bands are now, they also interview people who really know what they're talking about. If the guys from Judas Priest say that somebody is a hell of a rocker ... well, who am I to disagree?

I've had two favorite moments in this five-hour odyssey of awesome. The first was Iggy Pop saying that in the beginning of The Stooges, if he was nervous before a show, he'd think he needed 20 white Russians to calm down. Now, if he's nervous before a show, he thinks he needs to do Tai Chi.

Heh.

The other great moment was realizing that Ronnie James Dio, he of Rainbow, Black Sabbath and Dio, the guy whose very visage creeps me out and always makes me think he's going to show up in a black cloak, croaking, "I've come to collect the children" ... that guy?

He's only 5'4"!

Or, as Chris Jericho described him, he's got the voice of a rock god coming out of the body of Carla from Cheers.

Heh.

The problem with the 100 Greatest Hard Rock Songs is that while I've enjoyed it so much that I've watched each episode multiple times ... I can't help but think about how much fun Mr. Wonderful and I would have had watching it together.

We would have laughed and debated the choices and enjoyed all the random, useless trivia.

It's just a continuation of a little voice whispering in my ear last week. I wondered how he spent the holidays. I wondered what Santa brought for The Ladybug. I wondered if they wonder about me at all.

I miss them. And I'm sad.

And watching and rewatching shows about slick guitar riffs and tight pants brings me both joy and pain.

One of my sweet friends gave me a Louise Hay day-by-day calendar. Today's entry is "The past is over and done. I release it with love - blessing every person, place, and experience. I welcome the new."

Which is lovely. But my first impulse when I read it this morning was, "Dammit. Not today." Because while I know it's good and right in theory? In practice? It's difficult. Because releasing the past leaves me even more alone.

I know it also makes me more agile and able to move forward. I'm trying.

Dick Clark got nothin' on me.

Happy new year, all!

My new year's eve turned out to be a study in Why it Sucks to be Alone. I have been fighting a cold for a few days, and last night I just felt craptastic. So I went to the bowling alley, as planned, but didn't take off my coat. Instead, I just tried to pay and leave. I just wanted to be alone with my couch.

Well, my friends didn't let me pay, but they gave me well wishes as I headed off to the grocery to procure Kleenex and NyQuil. When I pulled into the parking lot, I was afraid the store was closed. But no, no it's just that only total losers go to the grocery store at 9 p.m. on new year's eve.

I saw a beautiful woman in a full-length fur agonizing over flavors of gourmet ice cream. I wanted to hug her and tell her that I was having that sort of new year's eve, too, but I think my cart and snot told her all she needed to know.

So, Foxie Doxie and I fell asleep on the couch and were roused by a surprising number of fireworks at midnight. I tried to remember how I spent last new year's eve, but it's a bit of a blur. I think Mr. Wonderful and I played games with his friends. I was excited about the upcoming year.

Hahahaha.

But I am excited about 2009. My cold is mostly gone, so that's an awesome start. But I'm also excited about a handful of resolutions.

I like to be crafty, but that's something that I haven't made time for very much in the last few years. 2009 will be different.

I also like to cook. I'm going to do more of that in 2009.

But the big resolution?

Well, BFF works for The Government. In October, she moved to a struggling African nation that is working to get its shit together, including standardizing its education system. Due to the nature of BFF's work and the fact she works for The Government, I can't go into too much detail, but suffice to say she's awesome, it's a cool job and I am waaaay proud of her.

But we are both astounded by some of the basic issues faced by the lovely people of her new home.

Countless girls miss a week of school every month because they don't have feminine supplies.

Libraries aren't well stocked and are hardly ever utilized by women.

Well, if there are two things I love in this world, they're books and feminine hygiene. So, my big resolution this year is to send care packages to BFF - one a month - containing pads and paperbacks.

We aren't sure about the cultural issues surrounding tampons. But I don't think not being able to swim is a big deal as long as the girls can freakin' go to school.

I'm pretty excited about this. I love shopping for bargains, and for books, and for gifts, so this is perfect. I do need some help, though.

I need suggestions for books that will appeal to women, are kind of a junior-high-ish reading level and would be considered part of the American canon. The best example I have so far is To Kill a Mockingbird, but I'm also thinking about I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings and The Diary of Anne Frank.

What are some other books for which I should be on the lookout?

And how are you resolving to spend 2009?