They like me! They really like me!

Or maybe they're laughing at me, not with me. Whatever.

Wowie! The lovely Mrs. G. has posted a submission by yours truly over at the fantastic Women's Colony. Check out her fab community and enjoy a chuckle at my expense.

Partners? Partners are good.

My match.com membership expires this week. I've been on the fence on whether I should renew it or not.

Mostly, I'm exhausted. It's not a good sign when I'm looking forward to next weekend - a three-day weekend with my brother helping me scrape and paint the exterior of my house - as downtime.

But, being exhausted right at this moment doesn't mean that I'm not a tiny bit ... itchy.

When I arrived in Dallas Friday night, I didn't have anyone to call to assure that I had arrived safely.

And yesterday in the airport, I sat across from a middle-aged couple. They were side by side, each playing a game on their phones. I thought that was sad, until I realized they were competing against each other, laughing. Then, I was jealous.

The final nail in the coffin? Today, after work, I noticed Foxie Doxie standing guard over a treasure in the yard.

Yeah, you know this isn't going to end well.

Foxie picked up the treasure, then set it back down, unsure of what to do. When I walked over to investigate, I discovered that the treasure was ... a dead baby squirrel.

Last time Foxie discovered a treasure in the yard, Poochie was here. Mercifully, my sweet baby brother took a snow shovel and tossed the carcass across the fence, into the yard of the empty house next door.

No, I'm not proud of that. But I was relieved.

So, today, my thought process went like this:

I have to do something with the dead squirrel.

First, I have to quarantine Foxie Doxie. I wonder if I can get him to gargle Listerine. Probably not.

I have to do something with the dead squirrel. Too bad I can't just chuck it over the fence, since that house isn't vacant anymore. Too bad Poochie isn't coming until Friday. Could I leave the squirrel outside until then?

Probably not. Foxie would try to pick it up.

It would probably be bad form if I called Poochie and asked him to drive three hours here and three hours back to dispose of a dead squirrel.

Ok. I'll double-bag it. I sure hope it doesn't stink up the trash in the garage. Trash day isn't until Friday, which is, like, 72 years from now.

I am a woman. I can do this. No one will know if I hold my breath and almost cry. The point is just to get the job done - doesn't matter how. I am woman, here me roar. I am woman, see me dispose of carcasses.

And then? Then I picked up the squirrel with a trowel, doubled-bagged the carcass, double-knotted the two bags, and threw the whole mess into the garage trash can. Yes, I closed the lid carefully. And yes, I then washed my hands for about 20 minutes.

And this, my friends, is yet another reason why I'm renewing my match.com subscription.

And yeah, I'm really, really tired.

I just got home from a weekend in Dallas. Sadly, the Diva and Daisy are on their fabulous global adventures. However, I got to spend two days with my darling friend K. The days? Jam packed with fun. And food.

I'm sure many of you think, "Wow, Cha Cha! Did you go to the grassy knoll? What about the museums? Dallas has so much to offer. What did you do?"

And I will tell you. We went to IKEA. And Marshall's. And Sonic. And Chuy's.

It was fantastic.

K. and I haven't seen each other in three years, but no matter - we picked up right where we left off. She cracks my shit up. Also? She introduced me to the most amazing tool ever in the history of mankind.

You see, K. has two golden retrievers. One of them, who has a lovely red face that is now mixed with grey, has cheeks the color of graham crackers. Both of these dogs are a bit furtastic and are suffering in the heat.

So, I helped K. brush them outside. She let me use The Furminator.

The Furminator is that brush that promises to pull all sorts of hair off your dog so you can pitch it instead of find it, say, shed all over your carpet. And I am here to tell you: The Furminator works. And, most importantly, is highly satisfying.

Now, I'm the woman who loves to paint simply because I like tasks with tangible results. The Furminator is like that. By the time we were done, we had enough hair to make, like, three puppies. And the dogs loved it.

At one point, I turned to K. and said, "This is the most fulfilling part of this trip. This is my favorite part."

Because we are friends, K. didn't miss a beat. "You are one weird lady."

Tell me what not to wear.

Corporate Behemoth keeps its offices at a delightful 68 degrees. This means that even in the heat of the summer, you need a sweater. Obviously, this makes dressing a challenge. Like, even more of a challenge than the usual plaid + stripes = eww.

Today, I decided to be all crazy like and not wear a sweater. I decided to go with a short-sleeved t-shirt and a linen scarf. I figured the scarf would offset any chilliness from having bare arms.

Here's the ensemble, with the camera cleverly positioned to cover up the 276 zits on my chin:
Ok. So, today I had not one but two male, developer-types stop me in the hallway about this ensemble.

The first was just like, "Nice scarf!"

Umm? Ok.

But the second? Stopped, and told a senior vice president to hold on a minute, because he needed to talk to me. And here's what he said: "Nice scarf! Do you have a cold? Or is it winter and I just didn't know it?"

And here's what I said in return - verbatim: "Uhhh?"

Seriously? These two guys are dressed up when they're sporting clean polo shirts and khakis. And they're dissing my scarf?

The first comment could be an anomaly, but two comments make me nervous. So, shoot me straight: is the scarf a little too Dr. Zhivago for June? Or am I a fashion visionary? Or something in between?

Give it to me straight. I can take it.

I should run for school board.

Today I was behind a minivan with a bumper sticker that proclaimed, "Proud Parent of a TRAIL RIDGE MIDDLE SCHOOL Honor Student."

Except that the sticker was wrinkled, so upon first glance it looked like the honor student in question attended Thai Ridge Middle School.

Which got me to thinking - what the hell sort of name is Trail Ridge, anyway? And why are all of our schools named like craptastic subdivisions? Trail Ridge, Prairie View, Wood Crest? Seriously?

I like Thai Ridge Middle School because it makes me think they serve totally yummy lunches, and Friday is curry day. But really? I think all middle schools should have names more appropriate to the experiences they house. Sort of a truth in advertising thing.

Perhaps:

• Everyone Is Cooler Than You Middle School


• I Hate My Life Middle School


• The Longest Three Years of Your Life Middle School


• Like Waterboarding But Worse Middle School


• This Isn't Like Saved By The Bell Middle School


• My Mom Said This Zit Wasn't That Noticeable Middle School

Other suggestions?

Cha Cha, this is your life!

A few random things:

1. The other day, I noticed a few kernels of popcorn on the floor of a stall in the ladies' room at Corporate Behemoth. This means someone took popcorn with them into the stall. Now, while I have been known to linger in a stall and do some deep breathing as a means of stress relief, I've never actually brought snacks. I'm going to be all judgmental and say, "EWWW!"

2. Second Chance Guy won't let up.

First, there was this text: If I call, will u answer?

Umm? Considering I haven't responded to any of your texts in two weeks? I'm guessing the answer should be apparent.

Then, there was the e-mail via match.com:
Subject: Hi
I just wanted to say hi.

Ok, then. I just hope "hi" isn't code for "I'm sitting outside of your house in my van and don't you mind the duct tape and packing knife in the seat next to me."

I'm starting to be a bit creeped out, although my shrink thinks the e-mail means he's getting the message.

3. Because I love Journey, this made me laugh and laugh and laugh.


And ... that's all I've got.

Every day is Father's Day.

Guess who was just minding her own business, trying to be a responsible homeowner by throwing a little grass seed down in the bald spots of her front lawn? And guess who learned the hard way that there was a ginorous mud dauper nest inside her hose reel?

Sonofbitchshit.

Well, the blue mud daupers are really pretty. But a bit, umm, bitchy. I have four stings on my left bicep. Perhaps it will swell up and I will look really buff. But right now? Right now, I'm stoned out of my mind on Benadryl. I'm sort of allergic to wasps.

Strangely, these stings didn't hurt the way I remember other stings to hurt. Perhaps I have passed my Delicate Young Flower stage and am now officially a Tough Old Broad.

The wasps made me think of my sweet daddy. When Poochie and I were growing up, we had one of those metal swing sets. Ours was white with orange and green accents (of course - the official color scheme of the 70s).

The problem with this particular swing set design was that the hollow tubes made the most awesome wasp condos ever. And no kid is particularly pumped about swing sets with the added bonus of painful stings.

So, every year, my dad would get his can of Raid and spray the crap out of that swing set. My mom, Poochie and I would stand at the sliding glass door and watch him spray Raid into one end of the main swing set support ... and watch a hot mess of pissed-off wasps come flying out the other end. Then, we'd cheer as my dad ran like holy hell for the house, wasps hot on his tail.

It's one of those things that I thought was really cool as a kid. As an adult, I know how completely distasteful that task is and have a totally new appreciation for my dad.