Yet another reason I won't be including Michigan on my list of "Places dear to my heart."

My life is entering a new era in its existence. The era of "Court TV" meets Erin and her fiance. That's right. We're taking Michigan (or, rather the leasing company through which we rented our apartment in Michigan) to small claims court. In East Lansing. Because we don't have enough going on, we need to incorporate a six- or seven-hour drive into our lives.

We are owed $1,332.15. I am livid. And I don't get livid often.

When we got our "refund" check back (which wasn't even half of one month's rent), we panicked. When we saw they'd fined us an additional $700 and some odd dollars for a rent they say we didn't pay, we were angry. I'm talking foaming-at-the-mouth angry. The $1,332.15 includes a month's rent, surcharges and late fees, and the rest of our December rent, just because they stink at doing math. We have proof we paid the rent in question, and proof they endorsed and cashed the check.

Being young, paying a rent here, and paying school loans and other bills doesn't leave us with $1,332.15 to just say "Oh, well, let them have it. Michigan was such a great place for us, anyhow. Think of it as a going-away gift."

Wrong.

But, the real problem lies not in the fact that in that particular county in Michigan, you have to be there to file in small claims court, but in the two of us being angry.

We don't deal with anger well. We're young. We don't know how to write an effective "we're suing you" letter. (And this is the company that doesn't even have a Web site.)

We're not even sure we know how to sue someone. We tried friendly reminders, not-so-friendly reminders, and reminders that would make me cry if I were on the receiving end. I don't want someone to hold my hand through this. I want a punching bag. And I don't punch. Really. We don't really know how to effectively deal with the problem. It's not a problem between the two of us; that's not what I mean. It's a case of "We're broke, short money we're owed, and are hungry."

The adult in me says I shouldn't cry. But I can't help it. The kid in me is screaming "It's not fair!" and thinking of them as the big bully. The adult in me doesn't have a grown-up rebuttal to that sentiment.

They don't teach you "what to do when you get screwed out of $1,332.15" in college. Mom never talked about it. The Internet isn't even much help. But we're hungry. That's a lot of money. I like Court TV to stay on Court TV. Not come into my bank account and wreak havoc.

In all honesty, I feel kinda lost. And it's ruining my New Years Eve. This had better not be a predictor of 2006.

Where, oh where have loud, keyboard-infused Saturday nights gone?

New Year's Eve wasn't ever really "my" holiday. I don't get all crazy, I'm not that excited. It's fun, but I'm more of a Christmas and birthday girl. Forgive me that I'm not really THAT pumped about going out this weekend.

Don't get me wrong. We'll go out and a good time will be had. Maybe it's because the holidays are about over, or because I've been here for about two and a half months and things aren't "new" anymore, or maybe it's just because I just woke up. (Hey, it's my vacation day. I'll do what I want), but I really would rather be in Ohio on New Years. But I can't be, so I'm a bit bummed. I'll get over it. I'll be Wisconsin's biggest fan again on Monday.

But I know the bars in Ohio, and I miss them. Bars such as Mutz in Ohio just don't have counterparts here. There is no Bijou. There is no Underground or Headliners. This isn't a plea for spam e-mails about local happenings, or for hate emails from bar owners. Nope. Just a girl who wishes she could be in Toledo for a second. I don't want to live there. Just spend a few hours there.

The Underground is this bar/small venue (underneath the Bijou, incidentally) that (usually) good, local or semi-famous bands go to play. I saw OK Go, Rediscover, We Are the Fury and The Sun there. Not big bands. But three of them are signed. The other is just hot. See 'em all for $5. Wow. But I digress.

Headliners is a bit bigger. I saw some kid almost break his neck stagediving there. It's a good place. Not because of the stagediver ... but ... uh ...

The point is, New Years isn't my favorite holiday. It's neat, but it's no Christmas. The couple bars I've been to here aren't my favorite bars on planet earth. I don't dance around yet. I don't see people I know there yet. Notice the "yets." I like Oshkosh. I'm hoping that "like" applies to my Saturday nights soon.

I'm just in that comparing phase.

When I was in the Netherlands (I'm beginning to feel like an old person when I use that phrase), the program coordinators told us the "This is cool" phase lasted a few months, then the "In my country, it's like this ..." phase kicked in, followed by the "I love it here, I think I'll stay forever" phase. I'm not making this up. I think I'm in the second phase.

In January, I'll be going home, perhaps for my birthday. We are the Fury and Rediscover are playing Headliners. If I go, I'll probably get my fill, see someone I don't miss, and get homesick for Oshkosh. That's just the kind of girl I am. Fickle. That's the word of the week.

Planning in ink for us, pencil for them.

Well, it's that time. Time to take down the Christmas tree (until November, mes amis). Time to color the hair (got it). Time to finish laundry. Yup.

Time to ask people to be in our wedding.

It's T minus 10 months-ish, rounding to the nearest month, until the big day. We put off asking people long enough. We asked a few people over Christmas; the ones who are family, the ones who we know we'll still be friends with because we share genetics. I asked my maid of honor. He asked his best man. We still have friends to ask. We kinda put that part off. Again.

Why? Because moving to Wisconsin less than a year before our wedding was the dumbest thing to do, in terms of planning a wedding. (Oh, sure, it has its benefits -- health insurance, a pay check, snow and all that.) As far as picking friends goes, we just don't know.

Once upon a time, my college roommate from freshman year got married. But first, she moved home, about an hour away. She had twins. She quit school, she got a job, and a house. By the time the wedding came around, I didn't even know her. Was it my fault? Kind of. I could have called more. But I'm not a fan of awkward silences. I don't want anyone to have to do that for my wedding. The awkward calls, that is.

It's just hard. We don't know who we're going to be friends with next year. How can we pick who should be in our wedding? It seems petty in a way, because we were able to pick a lifetime (g'day) mate, but we can't pick a few innocent bridesmaids and groomsmen. But in another way, it's a huge deal. I want people who are good friends of mine. Who I can tell "stuff" to. Who know "stuff" without me having to tell them. I want them to know what I'm doing now. In Wisconsin. In life. And I want to know about their lives.

The only things I'm confident about are my fiance, my current lineup: Roommie -- not the married one, two sisters in law, a half-sister, a cousin. His? A brother, three brothers in law, a friend); and my dress.

The rest ... well, I'm fickle. I'm planning this thing in pencil.

Girls. Can't live with 'em, even if you are one. Like I am.

Girls are funny. Not ha-ha funny. I'm talking moody, cranky and otherwise unpleasant to be around. Sometimes.

I find boys a lot easier to talk to, a lot easier to be around, and generally a lot more fun. But, yes, I miss having a close girlfriend within local calling distance. Guys think girls are these tough, hard-to-decipher characters who only understand their own kind. That's not true. I don't think we understand each other that well, most of the time.

My college roommate; now she and I could read each other's moods. I got her. I understood what made her angry, and what topics were off-limits, and what we could whine and complain about together. Mom; I get her. But other girls, the ones I've met here, most of the girls I met when I was in school, friends of friends, girlfriends of friends, and even my soon-to-be relatives -- I don't get them. Not like I get Roommie. Or Mom.

I'm fairly confident I'm not the only female who can't read others' feelings. But it bothers me nonetheless. I still don't know what to say when someone gets dumped. I don't know what to do when someone other than Roommie asks me if something they're wearing looks bad. I don't know what I can joke about. It takes me a while to get comfortable enough to talk about myself; how am I supposed to know all this stuff about girls I just met? Or girls I see just at holiday parties and family get-togethers?

How can these girls know what to say to me, I wonder. Was this something my mom should have taught me, but didn't have time to do between raising three kids, a dog and a guinea pig, and working? Could it be that I just won't have another friend like Roommie? I don't think so. That's too depressing, and I'm not that dark and cynical.

I'd like to get closer to other girls. I need the fashion advice. The boy talk. The shopping. But -- and this is my deep, dark secret -- I get sweaty palmed and nervous when I have to think about dealing with girl-isms. Gossiping. Talking behind backs. Whispering. I can gossip and whisper like the best of them, too. But sometimes, it gets to be a bit much.

Can't we just talk about boys and clothes and superficial things, and laugh and have a good time and then go home? Gosh.

I propose we get rid of Indiana.

Well, we made it back. Both of us, the fiance and I. The trip wasn't so bad; but don't be fooled. It wasn't because we like riding in the car with each other now. No. It's because when driving the length of the state of Indiana, it becomes increasingly obvious why we should stick together.

If you've ever driven through Indiana the long way, bottom to top, you know what I'm talking about. If you haven't, your life is probably better for not having done it. This was my first south-north trip throught Indiana. I've always cut through the state going west to east, and I thought those trips were long enough.

Indiana is where fun goes to die. Indiana doesn't know the benefits of having street lamps. Indiana doesn't have exit ramps for a good 1,000 miles. Indiana's McDonalds have those big Hollywood-esque search lights on their buildings; probably because there aren't street lamps to guide you to them. I can't stress enough how boring Indiana is. I propose Ohio and Illinois inch their borders together til there is no Indiana left. Ohio and Illinois could fill up the empty space with like, garbage or trees or bright lights, big cities. SOMETHING. Give me something to look at. Anything.

But Indiana brought us together. I begged the fiance to stay awake, if only to keep me awake. It was us against Indiana. And we won, because we made it out alive. And because Indiana annoyed me more than the fiance.

I guess the boring car ride is one of the reasons I was looking forward to getting back to Wisconsin. That, and sleeping in my own bed. And snow. There were no white Christmases to be had in Ohio. But I thought I would miss Wisconsin more than I did.

Besides the bed, I really wasn't looking forward to coming back yet. I kept thinking about work, and I worried about getting it all done in the two days I have to work this week. I didn't want to come home to do laundry and put everything away. I loathe my barren cupboards, and dread going grocery shopping. I'm resentful toward my brothers, who don't have to go back to school until mid-January. I regret not leaving the heat on a smidge higher in here. I get cranky when I think about putting all the Christmas trees and decorations away, and hate myself a little bit for thinking I needed five trees. Seriously. Five. It's like a magical forest in here.

It didn't even really feel like Christmas. Sure, I watched "A Christmas Story" and opened gifts, but it went too fast. If only I had one more day. Juuuust one. Dang. It feels like a Monday.

Oh, man.

O Brothers, Where Art Thou

Today is a highly important day for me, my brothers and the dog. Rest that dog's soul. Oh Spanky.

Today is Christmas Eve Eve, and when we were younger (read: until last year), it meant we didn't have school, Mom still had to work and we had the house to ourselves. Festivities on Christmas Eve Eve involved shaking the presents that were under the tree, stealing items from each others' room to wrap up and give back again the next night, and eating all the candy Mom had made the weekend before. Sometimes, if we begged enough, we'd get to open one gift when Mom got home from work.

Sigh. Those were the days.

Today would be a great time to ponder over Eve Eves past, but I don't have that much time. Instead, I'm wondering what happened to that whole family thing. I mean, I'm really close with my mom, but my brothers? Not so much. We had so much fun on Eve Eve, and now it's weird to even talk to them on the phone.

If I were able to do math, I'd insert some fact about spending no more than 16 years of my life with my brothers, and the rest of my life with my fiance, and then our (unconceived, unborn, don't-get-any-ideas) children. I guess it's logical that we'd grow apart. And there was this story I read that said friends are the new family, which proves to be true in both my parents' lives. Is it inevitable that siblings grow apart? Probably. I'm sure moving to Wisconsin played a part in that, too.

I'll see them tomorrow, and we'll laugh and have fun, but I don't know what's going on in their lives. I don't know how school's going for them, or how their significant others are. I guess I could ask. Hm. Maybe I will. Or, maybe we'll just watch "A Christmas Story" instead. Hm. (Pondering.) I don't know.

Long drive home

I'm getting a little nervous about the whole driving home thing. I'd fly, but that's too easy. I'd take a train, but I don't think people really do that in real life. And buses are scary.

I have that new car, so it shouldn't be as big of a problem making the trip home as it was getting dear old Geo to Wisconsin (with all 201,000 miles on it). Rest Geo's soul.

No, I'm nervous about spending the time in the car with the fiance.

We're a great couple. We don't really fight, we like to hang out, we laugh, he cooks, we're happy, all that stuff that's making you want to throw up (or cry) right now. But I draw the line at five hours in the car with him. We'll be spending eight hours in the car from here to Ohio Friday night; three-and-a-half from there to Cincinnati Sunday morning; 40 minutes from western Cincinnati to northeastern Cincinnati; then ... 11 hours back to Wisconsin from there on Monday.

Noooooooooo ...

Everything that I find cute about him will suddenly become annoying. I may leave him at a rest stop somewhere between Cincinnati and Oshkosh. I'm not making any promises that he'll come back in one piece, or at all.

OK, so it's not that bad. But he'll hum or sing along to whatever it is we're listening to, and my blood pressure will rise, and I do the tight-grip-on-the-wheel thing. He'll want to listen to his music (in my car, can you believe the nerve of this guy?), which isn't good, trust me (Sidebar: When someone tells you they'll listen to "just about any kind of music," what they really mean is they have no taste in music. If you don't take anything else away from this blog, please ... remember that.).

Or, there'll be a football game on the radio: "Come on, Erin, we just HAVE to listen to it." The only thing worse than watching football on TV is hearing it on the radio. (There's no picture; how do you even know what's going on? Seriously -- and that AM static; I can't even take it.)

Or, he'll snore. Or leave his trash on the floor of the car. I think you get the picture.

I can be a bit much, too, I admit. I have my five or six CDs I'm really into right now, and that's all I want to hear. I am not hungry until we drive by the off-ramp, or until we've been on the road no longer than 30 minutes. I like to remind him of my hunger status every few miles: "Still hungry." I can see how that would be annoying. I know I'm no joy after a while in the car. But I'm a girl. I don't burp or do gross things boys do when they're bored in the car. Dang.

Four hour and 59-minute trip = good. Hitting that five-hour mark = bad. Very bad. In reality, yes, he's coming back to Wisconsin with me. We'll be happy again. Just ... not until like, Wednesday. Baby steps, man. Baby steps.

Construction paper, anyone?

I thought that this week would be like the week before the holidays in elementary school. We would be all excited, the week would go slowly, and we'd get in trouble for not paying attention. We'd make snowflakes on white construction paper and hang them in the windows. We'd color pictures for Santa. We'd watch movies while our teachers stood in the hall and gossiped. You know, normal pre-holiday stuff.

But alas, 'tis not the case. I don't think we even have white construction paper at work.

The bad news is it feels like any other week. The good news is, it's not. And it's not going that slowly.

I woke up this morning (against my will, like every morning), and thought it was Tuesday, for like a whole half hour. I thought about all the things I had left to do this week, as far as work goes. I thought about what I should wear today since I had four other days to think about this week. I thought about how I had a few days to start laundry, and I told myself I should start getting gifts and the suitcase around Thursday, so around Wednesday I should make a list of stuff I can't forget to bring home.

But it IS Wednesday. I can't think of a better feeling at 8 a.m. Wait, yes I can. It would've been better if it were really Friday. But let's get real. I'd KNOW if it were Friday.

I don't remember being this excited to go home since I came home from the Netherlands. Yet, maybe it's because it's just a normal work week (since Christmas is on Sunday), or maybe it's because - unlike third grade - I actually have work that needs to be done. If I don't get it done, the consequences would be deeper than missing recess. But I'm forgetting to be excited. I'm forgetting to be giddy and ancy (spelling? anyone?) about going home, until I look at the calendar.

This is probably a good thing since, as I remember, I don't get much other work done when there are paper snowflakes to be made.

Taaake, take me home, 'cuz I don't know where any roads are, taaake, taake me home

Toledo (pop. too many mean people), I had figured out. Got about four and a half years in there. Learned the roads. Knew the backroads. Knew 18 different ways to get to the mall. You know, the important stuff.

Oshkosh (pop. I don't know), I don't so much have figured out. Granted, I've been here two months. And, granted, I didn't have a roommate (really ...) freshman year in Toledo, and I lived in an apartment. That pretty much meant if I were to eat and survive, I'd have to learn how to get around.

The Fiance and I drove around last Friday so I could learn to get places. In life. No, in Oshkosh. He's been here as long as I have (I have three days on him, actually), but there's something about my brain that doesn't understand that sticky concept of north-south-east-west. Or road names. Or highways.

I know Appleton is north, and I have NO problem finding the mall.

I know Fond du Lac is south, and I've been there.

I know there's a lake outside my window, and that's east.

Sheboygan's around here, and I know that's fun to pronounce.

But as far as "hey, meet us here," goes, forget it. In my fuzzy understanding of Oshkosh, there's Highway 41, the road to my mom's, Ohio and all things familiar one way, and the mall and all things I just "like, need" to the north. And around 41 are access roads. The frontage road. And Wal-mart is on one of those roads. So is Walgreens (what are the odds, those suckers are everywhere), and a Pizza Hut.

I know what Murdoch is. He owns Fox. And, that's where the other Pizza Hut is.

I know there are four bridges. (Aren't there?) and that none of them leads to Terabithia.

I know where South Park Avenue is, and that it's the magical road that brings me to Target.

I know where there's an electric pink house.

I know where work is.

I just don't know what it's all called. Maps don't help. Directions don't help. I can't put it all together. I can't leave, say, Target, and go to the electric pink house without going back home first.

I would say "Hey, Fiance, let's go driving around." But really, I need to associate places with things. I need a road to mean something to me: I drive home on Washington. I go to Target on South Park. Work is on that one road. Dang.

A mime routine, a belly shirt and a hug -- all I need to feel better about life.

There are pizza days. There are macaroni and cheese days. And there are Velveeta Shells and Cheese days.

This is a Velveeta day.

Pizza days are celebratory, macaroni days are everyday days and Velveeta days are horrible, "I need a hug" kind of days. And I need a hug.

Life happened today, and it was tiring, and stressful. But we've done all we can do today, and I came home a weary, tired old soul, using my cliches and all. I am too tired to be incredibly original.

And when I get to feeling like there isn't enough Velveeta in the world to make me feel better, I like to think not of the good things (I'm way too melodramatic for that), but rather of the bad. As in, "hey, it could be worse." As in, "see, Erin, look at how bad it was. This is nothing."

I'm not talking poverty, or my parents' divorce, or bad breakups. I'm talking about weird, "I don't know how I survived" moments.

For instance, speech class in high school. The class itself wasn't that terrible; public speaking is a pain, but I'll do it. No, no, no. It was the pantomime lesson that made me want to quit living. A seven-minute pantomime routine in front of scary upperclassmen? It took a lot of pretending people in their underwear to get through that one. And I'm not even sure why picturing people in their underwear helps. Anyone?

Or, I could be living in Michigan. That was bad. And hot. And humid. And the sun shone in the apartment and roasted the place. Dang, that was pretty bad. Whoever said "global warming, global schwarming" can go to Michigan next summer and suffer as we did.

Or, perhaps, I could be at the office of my college newspaper, startled by Bombs on Secor, who'd found me in the office, alone. It was July, but he had a winter coat on, and a belly shirt. (Those are enough to make me want to die, too.) Maybe I'd watched too many "Cold Case Files," but all I could think of was how they'd describe me on the TV show. I wondered if Bill Curtis would read my story. OK, so really I was feeling around on the desk behind me for a letter opener, and trying not to cry while he yelled "The terrorists put bombs inside your tires -- TERRORISTS -- and they're all under the road on Secor. THERE ARE BOMBS ON SECOR." Man. They should not sell alcohol to people with belly shirts.

Or, I could be 13 again, and standing by a hotel swimming pool in Columbus, Ohio, waiting to go upstairs, and have some random lady wander over to me and hug me, while saying "I miss my grandkids. Gimme a hug." That was terrifying, too.

See, when I think about all these things, today's life doesn't seem so bad. I mean, I survived a belly shirt, a random hug, pantomiming ... I'm a lot stronger than I thought.

And I also have shells and cheese boiling on the stove. It's going to be OK. Monday's almost over.

I'll be home for Christmas, if there are good gifts, food and no present-opening ceremonies

I'm getting a little nervous about this holiday thing.

I'm not going to lie. I love getting gifts. I mean, come on. Who are you kidding if you say you don't? It's the opening of the gifts in front of other people that I don't particularly care for. It's the gift exchanges with people I can't pick out of a crowd. It's the weird foods. It's the bad memories of Christmases past.

Yup. I'm officially nervous.

Past Christmases have proven that I need to be nervous. I've had the boyfriend whose family opens gifts one ... by ... one. And then you had to hold the item up. Then they decided if it was a "pass-around" gift. Meanwhile, the next person waited anxiously (or eagerly, if they were nerds) for their turns. Not only were there like, 75 people there (a slight exaggeration, but not much), but when it was my turn, I didn't know the person who had given me the gift. Come on! It was my first Christmas there! I didn't even want to be in their stupid exchange, anyway.

I was there, blushing, eyes watering (not crying, just under stress), and looking around the room, trying to see who showed the most interest in my facial expressions behind my blurry eyes (I needed glasses ... uh, it wasn't the tears). "Uh, thanks Jean," I said, and someone (not so bluntly) told me Jean was sitting behind me. Everyone was laughing but me. I wanted the chair to fall through the center of the earth, with me on it. Dang. That was embarrassing. I would like to say that event had nothing to do with our relationship ending ... but ... OK, so it didn't have anything to do with that. But wouldn't it have made a better story if it had? Yes. I agree.

Another Christmas, I nearly passed out from the lack of delectable food. I believe there was green bean casserole (yeah, I'm going to put that in my mouth. Right), raw veggies, pork, saurkraut and meatballs, and Jell-o with pineapple inside. Thank God there was a bowl full of yummy green olives there, too. I was thirsty like nobody's business, but those green balls of heaven probably saved my life.

And then, finally, the Christmas to end all holidays. The cow-tongue incident. Yes, ladies and gents, there was a bag full of frozen cow tongue. I don't think I can even talk about it anymore. It was too painful.

I'm grateful I get to go home for the holidays for a bit. But there'd better be some fantastic presents that I can open at my own pace without everyone watching, all while eating good food and watching "A Christmas Story" on TBS, or I'm going to get in my car and drive all the way back to Oshkosh so fast. Like 11 hours fast. Yeah.

Fazolis, weather maps and job searches

Because I am a picky eater, I don't really get into the whole "food" thing. And that includes going out to eat. I have my one "Italian" restaurant (the quotation marks are because I have to admit, Fazolis isn't really that Italian), my two pizza places, my one fast-food place. I know what I like, and I don't like trying new foods. Period. Most food is gross.

So, if I can make a confession, it's this: this summer, when I was looking for a job, I was looking (at first) around Ohio/Kentucky/Pennsylvania (not Indiana. Nothing happens in Indiana). Then, my search expanded to include Tennessee, New York, Virginia, Wisconsin and Illinois. Then, out of hunger and desperation, it pretty much included the whole country. World. Universe.

While I was in my "Ohio-esque" zone, I knew I was all right. Life could pretty much stay the same, climate-wise (couldn't live in the South, I can't stand being hot; couldn't live in the Southwest because it's too dry and sunny, etc.), cost-of-living wise, and Mom-wise. Meaning, if there were a fire, flood or proverbial act of God in Ohio, I could get to my mom's house in one day or less.

This made Washington State a poor candidate for "Erin's first job."

But, I was hungry, remember. Starving, I believe I might say (though it is a bit dramatic). But I applied to a newspaper in Longview, Wash., interviewed on the phone, and thought that was the end of it. But, just in case, I looked up "Fazolis" on the Web. There isn't a Fazolis within a day's drive of Longview. Whoa. Not to mention Mom was way out of the picture. Literally. I mean, when I'm watching the weather on the 5 p.m. news in Wisconsin, I can see Ohio sometimes, depending on where the meteorologist is standing. In Ohio, Lake Winnebago was on our weatherman's map. In Washington, it'd be like ... impossible to see past, what? What's out there? Idaho?

And that pretty much put the nail in that ol' coffin. Starving or not, there was no Fazolis, no Meijer (it's a store like Wal-Mart, but with more heart, soul and health benefits) and no Mom on the weather map.

But I got the job. I mean, I was offered the job. I got engaged around noon, and got offered the job around 2 that same day. It was the weirdest moment in my happy day. I stammered something like "uh, I have to think about it," and hung up really quickly. By then, I'd already had my heart on Wisconsin, and I'd already interviewed there. Plus, Wisconsin has many Fazolis, is three hours away from Meijer (not that I drive that, but I suppose I could), and I can see Mom on the weather map.

Uh, duh.

So I called Mr. Washington back and apologized and said we'd have to see other people. It's not you, it's me. Etc.

Ain't nobody going to take my Fazolis away. Not even if there are benefits and a salary. You know how long it'd take me to find a Fazolis replacement? Don't even get me started.

I don't like to think of it so much as me not wanting to move to Washington as I think of it as me not wanting to leave my Midwestern roots for ... um ... Western roots.

Plus, I may have to watch Brian Williams at 5:30 and nightly news at 10, but I'd be in a whole new world in Washington. They don't speak Midwestern. Pacific time. Puh-leeze.

Get me some snow pants.

This work thing is pretty funny. I mean, it's like, something you just have to do. Every day. Man, when God was passing out silver spoons, I must have been in the bathroom. That's so like me.

And, get this: regular workers don't even have snow days.* ("No way!") Yes. It's true. I listened by the radio for a half hour today, just waiting to hear my workplace's name, but they never said it.**

Snow days were the best when I was in school. My brothers and I would sit by the radio, just waiting: "Ada, Bluffton, Coldwater, COLUMBUS GROVE, Cory Rawson, Delphos, Elida with an 'E,' Kalida with a 'K' ..." Yessssss. That school closing report is permanently stamped in my brain, filed under "happy memories."

We'd go sledding, watch movies all day or talk on Instant Messenger. Sigh. Those were the days.

Then came college. Shffttphst. Yeah. Like I was going to go to class if it were snowing. Or had snowed. Or looked like snow. Or if the sun was shining too brightly off the snow. Riiight. I'd sleep, or watch movies all day or talk on Instant Messenger. Those were the other days.

But, a smart aleck or my stepdad would argue that those days didn't pay the bills. Er, I mean, if I lived like those days now, I wouldn't pay the bills ... uh ... whatever. There's always someone who comes by and snows on my parade.

I suppose the whole world can't come to a stop on account of a little snow. But what if it could? Huh? What. If. I'd have to get me some snow pants.

(*For real.)
(**Not actually true.)

The new urban legend: "... and they didn't even have a Web site." ("Whooooaaa.")

I love instant gratification. Love it. If there were ever some meltdown of communication where cell phones, the Internet and, heck, even (what do they call those things?) landlines all stopped working, so would my heart.

I was a kid/teen in the '80s and '90s. Life sped up from 1980 to 2000, and that's a scientific fact. The Internet changed from telephony to Instant Messenger. Car phones turned in to Zac Morris phones, to cell phones. Letters turned to faxes, into e-mails. And I love it. Every bit of it.

It's like living in a VCR (remember those, ha) where someone's always pressing fast forward. If I have to wait longer than a few hours to hear from someone over e-mail, I panic. Well, first I text message them, and then I panic. The point is, all this is great, but it's made me a pretty impatient person.

Gather 'round, children, by the campfire. Erin has a scary story to tell.

Since we no longer pay rent in Michigan (thank all that is holy), we got a refund for the rent we paid in December. Problem? The money wasn't all there, because the rental company said we didn't pay for rent in October. Uh, yes we did. Naturally, I screamed a bit to no one in particular, then went online to my online bank account to fix the problem.

But the bank's site was down. For like, 48 hours. I'm not even joking. This stuff happens, apparently. Can you even believe it?

So I went to the bank. Yeah, in person. (After I Googled "banks in my area" to find it.) I talked (face to face!) with the bank teller. She gave me proof that I paid rent, and that the rental company had cashed the check at the beginning of November. Erin's right. Score.

So the fiance and I call the rental company. They can't help us. It's out of their hands. It's in corporate hands. We ask for corporate's number. They can't give that info out. They tell us to write a letter. WRITE A LETTER. And mail it. No, that's not a typo. Mail. Not e-mail.

Are they kidding? What company doesn't have an email address, a Web site and an 800 number?

What kind of company are they running, anyhow? Don't they know it's 2005? Almost 2006?

As a child whose generation has never known life before M*A*S*H reruns, answering machines, MTV and CDs, this just can't be happening. It's as if I stepped into a time machine, and can't get out. Where's the "take me to 2005" button?

This can't be happening. It's an urban legend. WHO DOESN'T HAVE A WEB SITE? Who. I want names.

One-way ticket to Mom Jeansville.

I'm kinda finicky about my clothes.

I find a pair of pants I really, really like, and then I go buy another pair just like the first pair (or maybe, if I'm feeling adventurous, in another shade), in case one gets ruined in the washing machine, or I want to wear the same kind of pants a few days in a row.

I don't rewear clothes before I wash them.

I fall into slumps with my clothes. I get one "look," and it's pretty much the only look I'll have that week. Or two. Or month. You get the point. I just realized last week that I have a "Monday" outfit and a "Friday" outfit. I realized I have a routine, and that routine means I must do laundry on Saturdays, with one load on Thursday night if I decide not to rewear a pair of pants.

It's a science. And it's pathetic. I am old. I am old before my time.

I am supposed to be on top of my fashion game. It's only a matter of time before the waistline of my pants creeps up and I have the "mom jeans" look: high waist, straight through the thighs, tapered at the ankles. I'm heading toward mom jeans faster than I should. And it scares me. I don't ever want to end up in Mom Jeansville.

Why? Because once you lose your sense of fashion, that means you've crossed the line of no return. It means you're no longer hip. I'm scared of losing my cool factor. How am I supposed to hang out with my friends back home if what I've become is a 9-to-6 worker with a 401(k)? What will happen to my well-deserved "street cred"? ("I'll tell you where it'll go, Erin. It'll go out the window if you ever use the term 'street cred' again.")

You may think it's no big deal. "Just don't buy mom jeans."

It's not that easy. Mom jeans aren't a fashion choice. They're a lifestyle. It starts with "I have a Monday outfit and a Friday outfit," and it ends at a minivan.

I'm just not going to be that grown up.

So, for the record, you will not see me in my Friday outfit this week. I'm shaking it up. And if you notice I'm falling into a pattern, would someone please intervene?

Comfy as a big sweatshirt. A Febreezed sweatshirt.

Comfort is a big thing to me. I need to be comfortable in relationships. I need to be comfortable in my job. I need to be comfortable in my apartment. With people. With friends. In my clothes.

Basically, it's a big deal. It takes me a while to feel comfortable. When I started living with my college roommate, I wasn't comfortable until all the firsts were out of the way: the first disagreement, the first paying of the bills, the first cleaning of the apartment, the first witnessing a fight between my then-boyfriend.

When I started living with The Fiance, I wasn't comfortable until he'd seen me cry, until we'd had our first disagreement, and until we turned the air conditioning on. Then I was comfortable.

But there's a line, and it's fuzzy. On the right side of the line is the "I think this is still kind of weird" phase. You're polite. You're clean. You do nice things. You go out of your way to not bump into each other in the hall. At the line, it's "This feels right." And on the left, "You really, really, really need to get acquainted with the clothes hamper. Now. And by 'clothes hamper,' I don't mean 'Febreeze.'" On the left is spills on the carpet. On the left is leaving a mess in the kitchen. Not taking out the trash when it starts to smell bad. Not remembering there are clothes in the washer .... for a few days.

When the line gets crossed, I'm immediately quiet. An angry quiet. I can only imagine being 75 and still picking up dirty socks. (I'll housetrain him yet.)

But, the comfortable part about it is (read: why I don't kill him), after that angry quiet, it's OK. And happy. And laughable. It took a while to get to that point, but I'm here. I'm lounging. I'm gellin'. I'm comfy.

"Home, home in the frozen tundra that is Wisconsin," or "A lot of unanswered questions"

It's official.

I am a Wisconsinite. Or Wisconsonian. Or Wisconsiner. (Whatever.) I have a Wisconsin driver license and license plates. I have figured out what a frontage road is (silly Wisconsin roads), and I like cheese. Yessss. I got it down, pat.

I've not been an "official" resident of any other state but Ohio since 1993, when I hailed from Kentucky. Northern Kentucky. In an area they call "Greater Cincinnati." I'm NOT talking Appalachia, here.

We're getting off track. Point is, my whole center-of-my-universe has shifted. Where is my home?

Wisconsin is my new residence. Oddly enough, or perhaps this is normal and it just feels strange to me, it doesn't feel like home yet. I haven't had the sense of "home" since I was in high school, living at "home." When people ask me where I'm from now, where am I supposed to say? Ohio? Wisconsin? Anyone?

How long do I wait before I can tell people I'm from Wisconsin? I'm not a fan of the over-explanations. "Where are you from?"
"Well, Ohio, originally, but I moved to Kentucky for seven years, then back to Ohio for 12, then to Michigan for six lousy months, then to Wisconsin..." It's supposed to be small talk. It's not a life story. So when can I drop the backstory? When do I tell people I'm a ... uh, whatever Wisconsin people are, instead of a Buckeye?

When does that warm, cozy sense of home sink in? You know, the one that makes you feel like your home belongs to you and whoever you're living with, and you can put your dirty clothes in a pile and have them be just that -- dirty clothes -- and not like, another reminder that you (or your fiance) are the only ones in the whole world who will wash that pile of dirty clothes. Boy, the world is a scary, lonely place. Ha.

Do you have to live in a place a certain number of years for that sense of home to hit, or is that something you just "know"? Or, sadder yet, is that cozy sense of home just a place we thought we had, but was actually just an illusion?

I'd like to think Wisconsin will start to feel like home soon. I plan on sticking around a while. I'll be married soon. I'll get a dog soon. I hope I won't be renting that much longer. Then will it feel like home, when it's ours, and not a landlord's?

So many questions. So few answers.

I hope this isn't something that adults spend their whole lives chasing -- that sense of belonging. I belong here because I am making myself belong here, and I'm happy here. But I have no strong emotional attachment to Wisconsin yet. A little attachment. But not a big one. I'd defend Wisconsin on the playground, but when push came to shove, I'd be hiding behind Ohio's back all day.

Give me time. I think it's time I need. (Or is it?)

I have an $18 license that says I already look like a Wisconsonian. Wisconsinizen. Wisconsinun. Whatever. I have an $18 license that says "hey, kid, you live here." Here in Wisconsin.

Getting lost is an everyday thing for me now.

I don't think I can stress enough how much I miss really knowing a city. Take getting lost, for instance.

There's the whole map thing. I'm horrible with them. I can map out a trip just fine, but when I get behind the wheel, suddenly my internal compass goes awry and I'm turning left to go right. Does that make sense? No? Well, it doesn't when I'm driving, either. I can't hardly get to the grocery store without a big hassle (read: someone in the seat beside me). I can drive to the mall 20 minutes away like nobody's business, but that's a whole 'nother story.

But "getting lost" also means "getting lost in conversation."

When you're with people you know well, talking about subjects you know well, you feel so in control. At least I do. But I can't talk politics or "Did you see that thing that ran in The Blade?" I can't do it. There is no Blade. And I don't know who anyone is. I don't know the backstories. I haven't followed any 200-part "Coin-gate" series on anyone like The (Toledo) Blade has been running for the last century. (Sidebar: Please don't, under any circumstance, put "-gate" behind any old scandal. Let's reserve it for Watergate. Seriously, Blade, it's not creative. It's lazy. And annoying. End sidebar conversation.)

I feel lost.

When people talk about mayors or politicians, congressmen or the local police chief, I am already in over my head. Ask me about Ohio Gov. Bob Taft (who has the lowest approval rating of any governor in Ohio history, and in most states' histories)! Ask me about Carty Finkbeiner (Toledo's soon-to-be "let's try this again" mayor who has his own Trivial Pursuit question ["Which controversial Ohio city mayor suggested moving deaf people to live near the airport to reduce air traffic noise complaints? CARTY"]!

This is stuff I know. Granted, there's no big election I need to be studying up on, and I'm not really all that into voting ("Huge Democracy Geek Even Votes in Primaries" -- not I).

But mostly, I'd just like to be able to follow a conversation, and get all the jokes.

Or, I'd like to be able to get to a grocery store without someone going "turn left. No, I said 'left.'" Riiiight. Left.

"Grocery Shopping," the epic struggle featuring Erin and The Fiance, only on DVD

I am neither old, nor am I a mother or a hubbard, but my cupboards are baren. I'm talking one box of macaroni. A can of ravioli. Some pineapple (for the boy, not for me). Some bread. And meat, c/o the Stepdad.

But because I don't cook meat (The Fiance does the cooking) and the leftovers are gone, it's about time for another round of "Erin and The Fiance Get Groceries" (you'll find it in the straight-to-DVD bin at your local Family Video).

We're horrible grocery shoppers. We walk in, list in hand (and by "in hand," of course I mean "I wrote a list by hand and conveniently left it at home"), into the store, telling each other "we're only spending 'x' amount of dollars" (and by "x" we mean "x + y + z = a lot more than x" -- neither of us is very good at math).

We start at the back of the store and make our way up to the register and, lo and behold, everything just looks so good -- to him. "Let's get this." "No." "How 'bout this? Will you try this?" "No."

I'm a real pleasure to grocery shop with, let me tell you.

I know what I want, and I know I want mass quantities of it. Macaroni. Grapes or kiwi or whatever fruit I'm into that month. Chicken. Fruit 'n grain bars. Juice. Soy meat crumble thingys. Cheese. Eggs. You know, the basic "get me through the week" kind of food, and the occasional "bad day" food (when I'm having a bad day, to cheer myself up, I make Velveeta Shells & Cheese, as a sort of hug to myself). That's it. No fish. No weird vegetables. No weird dinners. I can't handle new food. It's gross. And, because we're semi poor, gross food = wasted food = wasted money.

It's a no-win situation for The Fiance, who has to feel like he's on a bland diet. Yet every week, we keep going back to the store, going through the same motions. I can't send him by himself. We end up with off-brands that aren't preapproved by me (par example, Kraft and Wal-Mart macaroni is OK, Roundys is not), or he spends too much money, or he forgets stuff.

I can't go by myself. I just ... don't like to. So what is a young, poor, starting-out couple to do?

Keep writing the lists. Keep going to the store. Keep buying a mixture of his and her things.

Or else starve.

You spelled that wrong - EXPOSED

As I've been telling people about my blog, I realize my Web address actually has (seemingly) little to do with my actual blog. Or does it? The plot thickens. **Cue lights, music.**

In school, spelling divided people from the two or three who could spell words such as "ostentatious" in sixth grade from those who'd heard a rumor about hard words, but didn't quite believe such words existed until their fragile 12-year-old egos were frying under the bright lights on the stage in front of the whole school, and parents and grandparents. Eek.

I was the kid who knew how to spell it, but misspelled it on purpose. I hated being on the stage. I was terrified of having to go on to county, then districts. I didn't want to be one of "them."

But I was one of them. I just didn't know it. The principal would say (mockingly, I swear) "I'm sorry, that's incorrect." And there'd be whispers. But I'd blush and sit down, heart pumping, and be glad I was done.

And spelling bees weren't the first time I missed out on something. I'd been asked to spell some easy words in first grade for my teacher, Scary Ritchie (there was an urban legend that she had rags to wipe the boards because she used to throw the erasers at kids and someone died). I was in a split class; half the class was in first, the other in second. I misspelled the words on purpose because my friends in the first grade got to play, while I was reading with the second graders. Come on! That's not even fair!

And then there was the time I didn't want to go to the "smart kids" school every Wednesday so I failed the test, in case something happened with my mom (or my belly or my ears or my clothes) and I had to go home immediately. I felt claustrophobic because I wanted to be at the school by my house, not on a bus out with smart kids.

If I had spelled those things right, would I be in the same place I am today? I don't know. Maybe they weren't tests so much as insignificant times in my life that I choose to hang a lot of "what ifs" on. I'm just about to the point where I am completely happy with my life. (I need a dog, and in a few years, some kids.) Will I let go of the "what ifs"?

Will I keep spelling things wrong because I'm scared? I don't no. I gues wu'll sea.

Getting to know youuuu, getting to know all about youuuu

Another Monday has come, and I don't have anyone here to make me talk.

Look, it's nothing personal, but before 9 (really, before noon, but I understand that I have to be able to deal with people in real life) I just don't feel like talking. To anyone. The Fiance will try to make jokes. I'm not jovial. He'll ask me questions. I don't want to answer. I want to scowl, pout that I have to be awake and yawn a bunch. It's what I do.

Today, he had to work early. Now it's kind of quiet here. I kind of miss the noise. But only a little bit. Is this part of the "getting to live with you" phase, or is this just me being a moody person? I think a little of both. The College Roommate gave me 20 feet each morning, Monday or not, because she, too, isn't a morning person. It was nice. We'd dance around each other, avoiding eye contact until she'd had her coffee and I'd had my Apple Jacks. Then when I started to work at the college paper, I'd work until 4 a.m. and not wake up until noon (tough life, i' twas), so she'd already have four hours of life under the proverbial belt before I'd even showered. She'd walk in from her morning classes, and I'd be laying on the couch, skipping one of mine. But I'd be in a good mood by then. It'd be past noon. I miss college.

I guess I'm going to have to put on a cheery face in the morning and be nice about it. But why do I have to pretend? I'm a nice person. I pay my taxes, I hold the door for strangers, I don't even get road rage. Is it too much to ask for a little alone time in the morning?

I hate Mondays.

I don't know why this is funny.

I can't stop laughing. But this is from Toothpastefordinner.com.

Sorry for wasting your time. But if you laughed, you're welcome.

Hands down, second best day of my life.

Yes. That's right. I'm done with Michigan. Holy Toledo. That's a $680 lifesaver, not to pay rent there again. EVER.

And it's Friday, which always makes me happy. I got paid. I picked up the new car today (she's beautiful). The Roommate from College got her first job. That's neat.

But I came home, all excited, and I didn't quite know what to do. If I were in college, I'd run through the door and scream "LET'S GO OUT! NOW!", like I did after a hard test or ... well, like, every Thursday.

How does a twentysomething with a real job act/do? Eat pizza? (Tomorrow.) Shopping? (Tomorrow.) But what about the big night of celebration? Um, I'm doing some laundry, watching some TV, hanging up Christmas ornaments that The Fiance's Mom sent up (which could be a whole blog in itself. I'm cool with sharing a closet, cool with sharing a bathroom, but I am NOT cool with all of his Christmas ornaments. I pick out my ornaments with a 10-point checklist: "Cool? Check," etc.; needless to say, some of his don't match some of mine. How does one decorate a tree (or five) with a significant other's ornaments? I think he'll notice if I put them all in the back, against the wall.)

I admit, I'm a little bummed about not going out. But would it be the same? No. I couldn't come home and eat pizza rolls with my roommate. I couldn't see everyone from school, and know everyone I was with. I couldn't be the loud, fun person I am when there's loud music and fun people around. And when I think "I wish I could go out," I mean to Mutz. You know, Toledo's Mutz. Downtown. Karaoke, smoking ban, people I know, etc.?

Is that part of growing up, too, "settling"? I don't know. But ... a small, adult part of me is really enjoying the scent of clean clothes and, boy, do I fit right into that loveseat, or what?

Or. What.

I'll be cliche to write one in three weeks. Now? Cool.

I'm gonna mix things up a bit. You know how at the end of the year, there are all these "top 20 of 2005" lists? The classic, overdone end-of-the-year lists?

Well, I'm gonna do an "end of 11 months" list. The "11 at the beginning of the 12th month" list. (Gee, that's catchy.) (I had to do this list now, so it wouldn't get lost in the shuffle at the end of December.) At the end of December, I'll be writing regular, intriguing blogs while everyone else will be makin' lists, thus making my blog more interesting. (Erin wins!)

Bear with me.

Here goes. The top 11 moments in the last 11 months, written at the beginning of month numero 12.

1. High moment: I got a job. I got engaged. Those were pretty good, I guess.
2. Low moment: Signed a year lease in Michigan. In April. Look how well that turned out for me.
3. "Ewwww" moment: At my farewell concert, some guy stage dove and almost died. Oh, the blood, sweat and tears.
4. "I can't believe I did that" moment: Saw "Eternal Sunshine" and cried for two hours after that "because (sniffle) it's just so SAD!" Lesson learned? Don't watch "Eternal Sunshine" in front of people.
5. Exciting moment: Question mark. (Hey, I still have a month.)

(pause for dramatic effect)

6. Scary moment: You can either read this or you can just take my word for it: it involved a few mice, the East side of Toledo (scary in itself), and me. Screaming.
7. Sad moment: When Billy Joel said he was going to retire.
8. "Dang." moment: Trying to think of an exciting moment a few minutes ago. Dang, that was hard.
9. Lie-filled moment: When I wrote #3. It wasn't my farewell concert. Just the last show I saw in Toledo. Dang.
10. Cheesy moment: I just ate a whole box of mac 'n cheese. I wish I were witty (and had a big will power) enough to be making that up.

(I think they call this "the kicker"):
11. Moment I realized I thought I'd be in a waaaay different place in almost 2006? Now. I can't believe I'm going to be - ah, ha, ah, I almost gave the age away. I can't believe I'm going to be another year older in about a month. Where's my money? Where's my entourage of "Sex and the City"-esque friends? Where are my six-pack abs? My book deal? My book, for that matter? Dang.

My 16-year-old self would be so angry at me right now. I mean, I have a real job! What happened to the Peace Corps? Speaking Dutch? Marrying someone rich?

Oh. Yeah, real life. Forgot about that one. Dang.