Someecards makes me so happy.

Today's favorite.

Who am I? That's one secret I'll never tell. XOXO.

Alas, I am not Gossip Girl. (Oh, to dream though...) But my blog's been getting some new readers and I wanted to update my little description/profile thingy.

Here's what I've got so far:

A sarcasm-loving, pain-in-the-ass, fallen(ish), foul-mouthed 20-something wannabe belle-turned-Type A DIYer. Happens to be an unabashed puppy fiend and word nerd who would so totally dig an alternate career as a wine and cheese taster. Put another way: I'm your BFF, served with a side of smart ass.

Phew. That's a mouthful.

But, watcha think? What should I add? Change? Subtract? Edits and re-writes _ bitchy, pithy or otherwise _ and punctuation totally welcome.

I'm also eyeing a redesign down the road. But one thing that won't be changing is my Noodlesy nom de plume. After all, a girl's gotta keep her mortgage-paying working gig!

Paydirt, baby.

Sweet Jesus.

I just found a restaurant near my house that serves a prix fixe Sunday brunch, which, for $20, includes unlimited mimosas.

There too many good things to list about this. A) This is all of 30 feet from my church, which makes it a PERFECT brunch spot; B) Mimosas are, quite possibly, my most favorite-ever beverage. Afterall, who wants to start their morning with a screwdriver? Not me! Champagne, baby. That's where it's at. C) Did you see the UNLIMITED MIMOSAS part?

Take a wild stab where you'll find me on Sundays from now on.

Hells yeah!

This stuff only happens to me.

Who: Me, sadly.
What: Horribly embarrassing-yet-funny moment.
When: 7:28 p.m.
Where: Ash Wednesday services at my church.
Why: Static cling.
How: Because I have bad karma.

Picture this. We've just finished with a period of silent meditation. It's time to get up from our seats and head over to the ashes. I get up, put my hands on my back to stretch and am like, what? My shirt must be bunched up.

I adjust. Still feel bunching. Reach under my sweater to fix _ after all, the old people in front of me are taking a REALLY long time to walk up to the ashes _ and then I find it. Yup. A pair of stockings. Stuck like magnets to the inside of my sweater, where apparently, they've been all damn day.

So, I do what any self-respecting girl would do during the solemn part of the service and reach in, yank them out, shove them in my pocket and proceed up for my ashes while trying not to giggle myself into a stupor.

Seriously, universe? Pantyhose? In CHURCH? WTF?? And what I'm at it, what's with all you coworker people who didn't say, "Hey Noodles, looking a little lumpy in the back today..." Did you think I'd just retained some water??

I guess there is an upside to this story.

It could have been my black thong.

I'm such an inspiration. (Humble, too.)

So, it turns out that I'm an inspiration. Hear that? IN-SPIR-FREAKING-ATION! To someone other that my mom!

It turns out that after I posted my 25 Things list, a former editor decided to turn part of it into a song. Specifically, No. 24: "I love to screw up the curve."

How fucking cool is that? I have inspired poetry, or so The English Professor I briefly dated claimed. But never MUSIC. Much less recorded music that includes LYRICS!

This song is performed by the musical duo "The Great Mystery." And according to their Web site, the song "I Screwed the Curve" is a "modern-day version of the Ramones classic "Rock 'N' Roll High School." Except this time the smart kid wins."

Hell yeah!

You can listen to the song, and its lyrics, here. Both of which, I must say, are completely, totally and utterly jam-packed with awesome.

Things you should never do at work. (Or, oops.)

Perhaps you've been able to figure out that I'm a bit of a, shall we say, oversharer. There is no story too small or too mundane for me to share with friends. I think it's a side effect of being an only child.

This is important context point No. 1.

The other important point to note is that none of my coworkers are in Chicago. I'm part of a team of folks (in this case, all girls) scattered around the country. And we spend all day in a chatroom, doing work and chatting away, sometimes sharing randomness.

Final point of context: I have a dirty, dirty mind. (Seriously, who DOESN'T laugh at BJ's Wholesale? Dick's Sporting Goods? If you don't, you L-I-E.)

So when I came across the above picture in my Google Reader in a post about the crocheted childbirth doll that was available on Etsy, I nearly had a giggling fit and IMMEDIATELY posted the link in the chatroom, along with a snarky comment about how it was the weirdest shit ever.

Of course, true to form, I neglected to scroll down. You, however being more astute than I, probably did.

Yup.

I posted a link that was complete with a gigantic picture of a naked, crocheted woman spread eagle (complete with crocheted nipples and pubes) pushing out a child, placenta and all.

To my entire group of coworkers.

And my boss.

Luckily, they're used to me. But ooooh, the mortification.

Hell quilt. Or why I'm never doing a Blooming 9 again.)

I'm a glutton for punishment.

For reasons that are really beyond my comprehension, I decided to sign up for a four-week class to learn how to make a Blooming Nine Patch quilt. This sucker may look tremendously cool when finished, but trust me when I say that it is a PAIN IN MY ASS.

At 72x82inches, this puppy has 2,016 teeny, tiny, itsy, bitsy squares made of up 1.75x1.75 inch bits of fabric. Yup. You read that right: 2,016. Then there's the 195 larger squares and the 60 triangles that are also in it.



If you're doing the mental math, that means this quilt has nearly 2,300 pieces of fabric seamed together, all of which I will have cut and sewn by the time I finish. Put simply, this quilt is drudgery at its absolute worst.

To make matters worse, I'm not exactly what you would call laid back about the project. That's because my totally screwed up, sadistic inner voice has turned it into a competitive sewing adventure, and I'm trying to finish before everyone else. (I told you, I live to screw up the curve.)

This combination of insanely annoying project + inhuman urge to kick ass means that I am logging long, disgruntled, profanity-filled hours on the sewing machine. It also explains this:

Winter? Or season of frosty discontent?

Two weeks ago, I cracked.

I had my annual existential crisis that is brought on, like clockwork, by the seriously horrible, dismal, never-ending days of wet, cold, dreary, blustery, icy, frozen, hurts-to-breathe cold winter.

Put another: Winter can suck it.

But, instead of taking my own advice, I have instead chosen to spend the past two weeks wallowing and avoiding the world, which, for the record, is one of the many things I am skilled at.

Consequently, my kitchen is filled with crusty wine glasses and dishes, dirty socks are everywhere except the sock drawer, I have spent whole weekends without leaving the house for much other than church and I have filled my Facebook page with bitchy status updates. ("Noodles thinks you might be a nice person, but is going to assume that you are a puppy-eating psychopath since you didn't bother to shovel and de-ice your sidewalk. Asshole.")

But even moping gets old. Which is kind of where I am now. (Did you know you can be bored with being bummed? I didn't.) Except now, I'm sick of snow and ice and three-digit gas bills and picking rock salt out of my carpets while surrounded by a stacked pile of needs-to-be-washed jammies and a dog who has taken to carrying a Scrabble tile holder around the house like it's her new bff.

Who wants to make me a stiff fruity drink served with an umbrella?

Apparently, I'm bitter too.

Perhaps you noticed, I have a thing for sass. Which is why I nearly spit out my coffee, when I saw this little number over at The Modern Gal.

I'm still debating which are my favorite dark Valentine's cards over at Someecards. Got any more sassy v-day card suggestions?

I am a greedy, greedy girl.

As it relates to, well, almost everything, I'm one of those eyes-bigger-than-stomachs people. It's probably why I can't read just one book at a time. Or why I can't just decide to try a triathlon OR a century and instead think I can do both. Or, well, the list goes on and on.

But needless to say, when it comes to all manner of sewing and crafting, I can't be left to my own devices. That's why I'm currently taking a class to do a blooming nine patch quilt, why I'm about to start one of Oh Fransson's mix tape patterns, and why I'm about to poke my eyeballs out in anticipation of trying my hand at Amy Butler's oh-so-adorable Charm pattern.

Measuring 50x50, the pattern itself is more of a big crib-sized quilt. But I want to tinker with the math and make it into a queen for my bed. (I totally blame the good folks at Quiltology for my Charm fascination, after see an in-progress one up on the design wall tonight.) Apparently, however, it's a total pain in the ass. Funky dimensions for the squares and then you have to appliqué the football shapes on the top. Having never actually appliquéd, I'm sure that I might want to shoot myself when I get to that point in the process, but ... EEEEP.

I am probably overly ambitious here and should try this as a baby quilt first before screwing with the pattern and making a big one for my bed. But... well, what fun is that????

The end of an era.

I graduated from college seven years ago. When I started there four years before, I thought I'd become a politician and work on Capitol Hill. I didn't, and I'm not. And my career is one that, at the time, I honestly never imagined I'd pursue.

In the intervening years, I've taken a lot of steps I never thought I would. At the time, each one was terrifyingly, breathtakingly, horrifyingly scary. (Perhaps you've noticed my tendency to panic... If I am anything, I am consistent. ) And in hindsight, each one was absolutely right.

_ I picked up and packed up moved to strange new cities. Over. And over. And over again, starting out with a fresh slate, each time.
_ I made Chicago my home, even thought the city practically (and for reasons I can't comprehend now) paralyzed me with fear.
_ I bought a condo. The day I closed, I handed someone the largest check I'd ever drawn. My hand shook though each signature at the closing, straight until they handed me the keys.
_ I lived with someone and started planning a life together.
_ I ended it.

And today, I took another step. This one isn't as fundamentally life changing as the others, but that didn't keep me from having that familiar crushing feeling of panic and self-doubt in my chest.

At exactly 5:46 this afternoon, for the first time in 11 years, I handed over my keys, signed some papers and officially became a driver without a car. And it is both terrifying and exciting, panic-inducing and liberating.

On the bus ride back from the dealership, I played with my demonstrably lighter key chain and thought about all the things I never thought I'd do. And how my life today is so, so, SO different from what I thought it would be. And you know what? I'm totally ok with that.

So, tonight, I am raising a glass and proposing a toast. Here's to anyone who's taking steps they never thought they would and being brave enough to follow through.

Cheers.

Tonight I am neither funny, nor creative.

Dear Federal Government:

I would like my refund. Now.

By the way, just so we're clear in the future, am I supposed to offer you my first-born, too? Or just my kidney?

Thanks for the clarification.
Always,
Noodles.
_________
Dear Girls In Cute Flat Knee-High Leather Boots:

OMG! Your shoes are so freaking cute. I want them. But then I realized... I am not Robin Hood. And neither are you. So let's not dress in period attire, okay?

Sincerely,
Noodles
__________
Dear Dishes:

You're starting smell. Perhaps you might want to get around to cleaning yourself? You're going to start to smell bad soon.

Although, the economy is getting bad and money is tight. So you never know when some home-made penicillin might come in handy.

Love,
Lazy Noodles
__________
Dear Life:

WTF? Really?

Kindly,
Noodles

P.S. Can I have an intern? Pretty please? I promise not to be abusive.

Profound? Or situationally appropriate advice?

While huffing and puffing my way thought spinning class today, the instructor made a comment that just stuck with me. We were doing power sprint climbs, which means pretty much you were working in high gear, with high resistance, trying to climb as fast as you could. (And if you were me, you were also sweating and swearing and probably wishing you'd worn better pants so they wouldn't feel like they were slipping off your rear, thereby showing everyone in the world your undies. But I digress.)

So he faced everyone, who was equally huffy-and-puffy and said: "Don't get tired. Get tough."

And I was like.... WOAH! Revelation.

Applicable in this situation? Totally. But is this a command/advice/manta that would be useful elsewhere? I think it could be. Work? Sure. Draining family members? Oui. Life in general? I think so.

So, anyway, I start my new week with a new mantra. Let's see where it goes.

What do you think?

Ambitious thoughts from a body at rest.

Maybe it's because of this totally welcomed thaw, but I'm getting antsy. Fidgety. I'm unhappy with my body and the way it feels (when it's not, you know, heaving into a church camp toilet at 4 a.m. in rural Wisconsin during a women's retreat.)

I'm just tired and fed up and worn out with the status quo. Which would basically be me (the blob) and my impossible-to-counteract inertia.

So, I am deciding to train.

For what might you ask?

Well, good question, reader.

I'm not sure yet. But I live to screw up the curve, so I'm sort of thinking of training for two things. Yes, yes, I know this is probably a baaaad idea. But let me explain.

I love to cycle. Once the mercury hits 40 consistently, my butt and I will be commuting everywhere together. It's about a 16 mile round trip bike ride from my house to the office and it's no sweat. (Ok, that's a lie. I'm a sweaty fool when I get there. But I do not feel at all ready to die.) The longest I've ever ridden straight is 30 miles, which wasn't even a big challenge. So I think I want to try a big distance ride.

Those of you know me in real life know that I've waxed on and on and on about the Apple Cider Century, which is held each fall across the lake in Michigan. It's supposedly beautiful and low key and a great day. I'm interested in the 60 or 75 mile ride, although part of me says I should go big or go home and do the full century. But I probably won't. I just want to do the middle distances.

Meanwhile, I've also managed to convince myself that I want to do a sprint triathlon before I turn 30. (Which, btw, will occur in exactly 2 years, 3 months and 10 days. Not that I'm counting.) I think the sprint distance is entirely manageable and the hardest part would be the running, since I don't, you know, run. Ever. Unless I'm being chased by a big pack of rabid animals. And even then, I might stop for a cookie. But whatever.

Anyway, the sprint distance is a half mile swim, a 13 mile bike ride and a 5k run. The name, perhaps, is deceiving since I would not at all be sprinting. Just trying to finish.

Chicago has a HUGE triathlon in late August. But I'm totally freaked out by it. A) I am slow. And fat. And I do not care to be surrounded by the hardcore athletes who flock to this thing. I don't entirely get the first-timer vibe from it, but I could be wrong. B) There are boys. Mean, testosterone-fuel, PR-setting boys. And frankly, I do not want to be in their way. C) It's expensive. Like, $165 to register. Eesh.

Some of my co-workers in Seattle trained together and did the SheROX Tri last year. They have events all around the country and it's all-women. Which takes care of the testosterone issue. It's also supposed to be a totally welcoming and awesome event for tri-virgins and the super slow molasses folks like me.

The team invited me to fly out to Seattle and do it with them this summer, which is awesome and lovely. But see C) (expensive plane ticket) as an issue, even though it's a much cheaper registration fee. But yay for an actual team of girls that I know and love.

The SheROX series has a Chicago event in late September, in fact the same weekend as the Apple Cider Century. And, maybe I'm a wuss, but I have no desire to do an open-water swim when it's almost October.

So, here's my conundrum. Do I pony up the cash and swallow my pride and do the hometown tri? I know the course. Presumably I could bribe a few of you to come cheer me on. Or do I suck up the money and go to Seattle? Or do I look for a third option?

And while I'm on this topic, am I fucking insane? I hate exercise. But I don't, you know, want to die. And I like food too much. So I'd rather work out so I can eat.

I don't know. I'm indecisive. And scared. And I don't have a great track record of success here. But I'd love to accomplish something. And I think if I build up enough endurance for the tri, doing the big bike ride a month later should be no problem at all. Especially if I'm only doing 60 miles.

Thoughts? Suggestions? Inspiring comments? Tips?

Alive and well in the not-too-cold tundra.

Well, howdy. Why, yes. I am in fact alive! Barely, thanks to a Mutant Hell Virus that decided I didn't need my intestines or any of the stuff in them and in fact, it all needed to get out of my body OMG, RIGHT THIS VERY SECOND.

Hell really must involve uncontrollable vomiting while sitting (yes, sitting) on a toilet. I'm sure you get the picture.

In retrospect, the bout of illness sucked a big one. But, I'm one of those annoying glass-half-full kind of girls. So, thanks to MHV I managed to drop 7 pounds. Admittedly, in 24 hours. But whatever. Beggars cannot, as they say, be choosers. I will take what I can on my quest to have pants fit again.

But, I digress. There's much more important things to say.

Like the fact that OMFG it's above freezing in Chicago. SERIOUSLY above freezing. (Weather.com widget says it's 44 right now. BAM!) If it stays this way tomorrow, I may very well strip off every article of winter clothing (including my oh-so-toasty base layer) and run around buck-ass naked in pure excited-for-spring celebration. I won't, of course, actually do this. Because, a) I am am not into getting arrested and b) I do not wind to blind any innocent bystanders. But I sure as shit will think about when I take the mutt for a romp in the sure-to-be-muddy park, or when I put air into my bike tires and run errands on my little two-wheeled baby for the first time in months.

Of course, it's going to get fucking frigid again soon, even if is going to be 53 degrees on Saturday. And I will, of course, cry. But I cannot, cannot, cannot WAIT to enjoy it.