You ask questions. I make shit up.

OK, not really.

So, remember when I was all obsessing over Miss America?

Iron Needles asked the question on everybody's mind: Why is there a Miss Canada in the photo? Did I miss Canada (Ar Ar Ar...miss Canada!) being made a state???

Dude. I know! My friend Google tells me that Miss Canada actually competed in the Miss America pageant from 1947-1963. Who's Miss Canada? Well, she's the fairest girl in Canada ... standing there for Canada and the world to see!

Next up? In response to my comp day recap, loyal reader Cyndi B. asked, BTW...what dog toys did you buy? I'd be willing (not happy, but willing!) to spend $40 for toys that are indestructible for the crazy beagles. They destroy every toy I buy!

Gurl, don't I know it.

I bought Jerry the Giraffe.

He's a gentle soul. And a Good Karma Rope Toy from Jax and Bones. So far, Jerry is holding up nicely, just like the pet boutique lady said he would. This might be, though, because Lil' Frankfurter is focusing all of his efforts on his new Monsterpull.

Yes.

We have the green one. And now we have the one-eyed pink one, too. The green one has lasted more than a year, so I'm a believer - just know that your dog will probably feel compelled to remove the squeakers.
A word of warning: Monsterpulls are made by the same company that makes Pentapulls. They are not the same thing.
Not.
At.
All.

Monsterpulls rules. Pentapulls are for wusses. And yes, I realize Lil' Frank looks first like a mighty Viking hunter and then like a cold-hearted serial killer. That's my kid!

Finally, my imaginary friend asks: Cha Cha, is your Jiffy layer cake / opossum surprise dessert really all that?

Uh, yeah. Let's refer to a text message I received from my friend KG on Saturday morning:

Dear Cha Cha,

I'm helping my friend Pammy today. As a thank you she made a cake recipe from your blog, minus the hooker opossum. The cake is some good shit. I will be sitting on my couch with the pan later.

And that's all I have to say about that. Next question?

Tryin' to get the feeling again.

I took a comp day today.

I liked it.

I ran a few errands. I spent $40 (Forty! Dollars!) on two (TWO!) hopefully indestructible dog toys and watched Lil' Frankfurter wear himself out. I got a massage. I watched three episodes of Grey's Anatomy.

I want to do it all again tomorrow.

I am fighting burnout. I haven't been writing about it because I don't want to give it breath and legs and make it even more real. I know that in some ways, this is making it worse. I know that it's not normal to sit at your desk and want to cry. I know this.

I thought I would be fighting the urge to check my work e-mail all day. I was both relieved and horrified to realize that I didn't think about it all day. I am terrified to think about what my inbox might look like in the morning. I don't know what would be worse - for it to be overflowing or filled only with the sound of crickets. I don't want to be overwhelmed, but I also don't want to realize I'm suffering for a need that isn't there.

I'm trying to hold on to my massage hangover.

These are my people.

My Guy and I watched the Super Bowl with some friends and their 4-year-old twins. It was educational, and I feel like I really grew as an intellectual.

Dad: Honey, slow it down with the crackers.
4-year-old boy: Yeah, they don't have any fiber.
4-year-old girl: They won't help me poop?
Me: ... (hiding head behind sofa cushion as I convulse)

The Denny's chicken commercial was my favorite ... you know, the one with the silent chicken scream in space? Yeah.

Of course, I also laughed heartily and sincerely at this joke from a pair of 4-year-olds:

4-year-old boy: What did the zero say to the eight?
Me: I dunno ... what?
4-year-old girl: NICE BELT!

Bwah ha ha!

Cleanliness is next to dogliness.

I've been working like a dog. An ugly dog with no personality. So, really, I've been working like a opossum.

Yeah, I said it.

For some reason, all of this work has made me all itchy to nest. I finally combined the poster and frame that have been leaning - together - against my wall for several weeks. I cleaned off my craft table. I organized my knitting (size 6 bamboo needle, where are you?). And ... I cleaned out my medicine cabinet.

See, last night, in a burst of Cleaning Shit, I scraped a nice chunk of skin off my thumb. Oww. And so, as is my custom, I went to the bathroom sink and prepared the combination hot water / Bactine / Polysporin / Finding Nemo band-aid cure-all that has served me well. But in the midst of my Jesus-why-won't-this-stop-bleeding panic, I realized that there was a slight problem with my first-aid supplies.

My Bactine expired in 2005. My Polysporin? 2004.

I can't believe I've managed to keep myself alive for this long.

So, after eating Indian food last night, My Guy and I didn't go on our usual date-night Target run. Oh, no. We went to the CVS next to the Indian restaurant and I stocked up on all manner of up-to-date first-aid supplies. Because I am one hot hot date, friends. Also? I love drug stores and find them wildly entertaining. Purchase pantyhose, a GI Joe action figure, and some Funyuns? Don't mind if I do!

So, today, I decided to go through my entire stash of drugs. The good news is that all of the three boxes of Wal-Dryl (yeah, that would be off-brand Benadryl) are still fine. The bad news is that some of my band-aids were brown because they were so old. And I threw out not one but two large bottles of calcium supplements because, well, I forgot to prevent osteoporosis in 2003.

My recordholder was a package of Tylenol that expired in 2002. And, come to find out, drugs you buy in Mexico may or may not have expiration dates. Oh, Mexican FDA - you so crazy.

Side note: Ex-Ex, I miss your parents, the Coach bags your mom bought me for every holiday, and our trips to Mexico to buy prescription drugs. That is all. That Christmas your dad bought me a year's supply of birth control pills for $19 is still my favorite holiday ever. But other than that? You suck. The end.

So, now I'm watching Hoarders and feeling more superior that usual on account of my tidy and mostly up-to-date meds. But lest you think I'm nuts? I kept the just-barely-expired prescription one-pill yeast infection treatment. Some things you just have to keep. Just in case.

Let me give you my card.

Yesterday, on my way to a chiropractic appointment, I made a pit stop in the ladies' room.

Yeah, you know this is going to be a great post.

Anyway, in the stall, there was a business card - just sitting on the little metal trash bin. You know, the sanitary personal hygiene disposal bin?

Yeah.

Tiger Jones

Professional Boxer

Amateur 0-236-7

Pro 0-32-2

Thai 2-47-3

MY RECORD SPEAKS FOR ITSELF

Telephone 555-1212

Fax 555-2222

OK, then.

My gut reaction was, "Well. I guess boxers don't e-mail."

But then I woke up and started asking the tough questions. How does the business card for a boxer end up on top of the sanitary personal hygiene disposal bin thing for secret ladypart products? In the restroom of an office building?

And does the boxer reprint his business cards with every new fight? Otherwise, he's giving out-of-date information ... information that's supposed to speak for itself.

And if his record speaks for itself, why does he even need a phone number?

And then I looked up boxing records with my friend Google. Tiger's record sucks. He's only won two bouts. Out of 329.

So, having his business card land on top of a metal sanitary secret ladyparts product trash bin disposal thingy must either be finally hitting bottom, or just another exciting adventure in a life led with great humor.

It makes me want to print up bogus business cards and leave them in random places, just to see who will e-mail me.

Why it's a good thing I live mostly anonymously in a large city where I will not be judged for my desserts.

With all of the talk lately about Jell-o and pudding and all of the awesome recipes you all have been so kind to offer, I truly had a hankerin' for my grandma's Layered Jiffy Cake Dessert. And, I was in luck - I had to take a dessert tonight to PEO.

PEO is a women's organization that provides assistance to women who want to further their educations. It's truly a wonderful group, and it's pervasive in small towns in the Midwest. My grandma, my mom, and all of my aunties are PEOs, and going to a PEO meeting in a small town is a bit of an Event. You wear a dress.

I am a member of a rogue chapter. We all hail from small towns but ended up in our fair city. We don't wear dresses. But every once in a while? We will channel our inner Small-Town Ladies.

And so it was last night as I made my grandma's dessert.

My grandma made this fairly often, and it's been my favorite for a very long time.

1 box chocolate Jiffy Cake Mix* – mix as directed and bake in a 9x13 pan for 15-20 minutes. Cool. Add 1 cup milk to 1 pkg. instant chocolate pudding and 1 pkg. instant butterscotch pudding and blend.

Now, if you're like me last night, at this point you will hear barking and - oh, yes - hissing coming from your back yard. Put down the whisk, abandoning your pudding mixture, and grab your coat and pink Disney princesses flashlight. Then, step out on the deck, grab the broom you use to sweep poop off the deck, and head toward the sound of the the barking and hissing.

At this point, discover Foxie Doxie (or the misbehaving dog of your choice) standing over a dead hooker. I mean a dead opossum. I mean a opossum who is playing dead. Your dog will refuse to leave the varmint. Realize that your dog isn't wearing a collar and so you don't have anything much to grab on to, so make several unsuccessful attempts to herd the dog with the poopy broom. Make sure that you keep a safe distance from the comatose varmint, as you'll be quite frightened to learn that playing dead includes opened eyes and a healthy dose of damn-you-need-orthodontia teeth on the part of the opossum.

The next step - and this is very important - is realizing that your other dog is standing inside at the back door, screaming. He is very upset about the goings-on in the back yard and the improper broom usage. Personally, it was at this point that I recalled a rainy night several months ago when I used the same broom to usher Foxie and yet another opossum out from underneath the deck while Lil' Frankfurter, upset by the commotion, ran around the house, dousing my floors with his nervous bladder.

Finally, use the poop broom to get the disobedient dog the hell out of the backyard and into the house. Foxie didn't seem to understand why I ushered him immediately into his kennel. But, like sifting flour, some things just have to be done.

Then, wash your hands and mix 4 cups vanilla ice cream (softened) into the pudding mixture. Spread the mixture on top of cake. Refrigerate until firm.

I don't recommend letting the pudding sit for 10 minutes while you go on varmint duty - my pudding never quite mixed properly with the ice cream. This might have been due to the fact that it was the sugar-free / fat-free pudding (never again!) or my dark and murky aura as I determined that no, my grandma wouldn't have left her PEO dessert half-done to go battle a dead hooker. I mean opossum. Grandma would have been wearing pearls, the opossum would have been scared of her (rightly so), and the dessert would have been flawless.

Serve with dollop of Cool Whip on top, sprinkle with pecan if you like.

* I have trouble finding chocolate Jiffy Cake Mix, so I just make a regular cake mix and only use about half of it – maybe make six cupcakes with the leftover batter.

He's obviously a keeper.

As I'm sure you know, this weekend was the Miss America pageant.

I love this pageant. I mean scholarship program. Love it. I'm pretty sure that Miss USA is just a dirty whore in comparison to college coed Miss America.

My Guy was kind enough to watch the pageant with me and listen to my ongoing (and oh-so-insightful) commentary. I will admit that one contestant in particular was just a bit too precious for my taste.

Me: I'm just so sick of her face!

My Guy: Maybe her talent will be suicide.

And ... scene!