We are what you'd call LAME

Since it's New Years, while you're out doing crazy things, we're here doing lame things. Deal.

It was a nice, quiet game of Trivial Pursuit.


That ended in one kitschy gnome losing his life.

You're a mean one, Google Web ad generator

Dave was working and I was waiting for laundry to get done (which, by the way, is still in the basement ... I'm waiting for it to bring itself up here, fold itself and promptly put itself away). I was Googling something, and that dear old search engine, boy, does it ever know how to recommend sites where you lose entire hours of your life.

Such as the Real Age Test.

I'm young; 20-something, about to have a birthday, a few years away from that "30" thing. So I should be at the peak of healthy living. Huh.

This Web site has you answer all these questions about your health, your genetic predispositions, your weight, your activity levels, your diet, etc.

About two hours after you take this ridiculous test, you log in your email and it tells you how old you really are. My mom was in high school when she had me, by this site's estimate.

Dave would say this was Google's way of showing me I need to cut the macaroni, or at least jog to the store to buy it next time. I am four years older than my biological clock. Or would it be that my biological clock is four years older than I am? Whatever.

Either way, it's a big deal to me. Four years isn't a big deal when you're talking about the difference between 90 and 94. Heck, 60 or 64. It's not. But when you've only lived a short number of years, almost divisible by four, this is bad news.

And I just took this test when I swore off resolutions. Daaaang.

Dave will never be Zach Braff, and apparently he knows that.

True story, paraphrased, of our Friday night spent watching "The Last Kiss," where a 30-year-old Zach Braff freaks out about his pregnant girlfriend and is tempted to run off with Rachel Bilson's character, a college sophomore with distracting hand gestures:

"What would you do?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. Rachel Bilson -- hotter -- or this other woman -- who you've been with three years? What would you do?"

Staring at me, silently.

"No, I mean if I were dead."

Staring at me, silently.

"No, I mean if I never existed and you were Zach Braff and this was your life."

Staring at me, silently.

This isn't a trap. Say what you want. There aren't any wrong answers. Unless you say "Go with Rachel Bilson's character." Because that would just be wrong.

I wouldn't call them "big" plans

New Years Eve is a huge deal for some people. They buy new clothes, they make elaborate alcohol purchases, they coordinate the watching of the midnight (or 11 p.m., if you're in central time) ball drop in Times Square around their partying.

I guess it is a big deal; it's a new year. And I must have some part of my brain that exists solely to file New Years parties, because I don't remember generic parties I went to on some random Thursdays in Toledo, but I can recall what I did for almost every New Years since I was 10. Well, I guess those random parties didn't have a ball drop with them or any distinguishing characteristics. Just some kegs and loud music and dirty floors and smokey couches.

New Years: There was the year we partied in a garage in someone's parents' house. There was a year we partied in some sort of tractor shed where someone actually found a friend with DJ skills. I use "DJ skills" loosely. It doesn't take a lot to play songs from iTunes on a big speaker system.

But the point is, outside of those nights (which I remember as being fun, but not monumentally so), I have pretty lame New Years stories. This year appears it may be no different. But see, this year, we get to call it "romantic."

Unlike years past where our staying home would be "lame," as newlyweds no matter what we do, our night will have this rosey haze around it, like in flashbacks in movies. I'm sure that's how my brain will remember it, too. If I allowed Kenny G music anywhere within 12 feet of me, it'd be playing in the background as we drank the champagne I don't like from flutes I don't own.

Yeah. It's gonna be a good new year, no matter where we end up watching Dick Clark. Woot, woot.

My, what an empty calendar you have

I am almost overwhelmed by my vacation days this year. Not the number of them. Just this plotting part. I mean, that's a whole year I have to think about, with a certain number of days to spare.

I don't have a wedding to save the days for. I don't have to worry about wedding showers, moving, or trips home to plan that wedding.

I don't have anywhere in particular to go. I just have that certain number of vacation days that I have. To. Use. Have to.

But for what? We don't "vacation." That's not the type of people we are right now. Those people have "some money," or "no problem using credit cards," or "like the sun." We tend to move in poorer, darker, colder circles. Circles around Wisconsin and Ohio, with straight, very quick lines to and from.

I don't have big events to coordinate days off. Sure, there are the holidays. I'll want to save a day or two for December. Blah, blah. But ... There's just nothing else, I think as I bounce my pencil on my empty calendar. My big, empty calendar. Dave is little to no help.

"Dave, where do you want to go?"

"I don't know. Tennessee? We can see my brother."

"OK. When?"

"I don't know."

"OK. Spring?"

"I don't know. Sure."

"Should you see if he's going to still be in Tennessee on (some random weekend)?"

"Yeah, I guess I can."

Silence. "Um, are you going to call him?"

"Oh, yeah. I will."

So I then threw my calendar on the floor, took the cap off my pen and started dropping it at the open year-ahead calendar. Let fate decide; we can't. But the pen kept hitting the floor or an area of no significance on the paper. See? Even fate says "I don't know." Sigh.

How do people do this in real life? I'm pretty sure our answers are all of the "I don't know" variety, and I'm guessing "I don't know"s turn in to "Let's take off a day in April and clean out gutters and shampoo carpets -- we can even do the stairs!" or "How about we make that weekend in September a long weekend and paint the garage and clean the basement! Think of all the time we could spend together!"

I just don't know if I'm ready for that kind of defeat yet.

Caution: Contains overuse of the word "awkward"

We have a three bedroom house, but only from the most generous viewpoint. Two rooms are great; accomodating, warmly colored, welcoming, nice floors.

The other, we've come to deem "the office," only because it has a filing cabinet we open about once a year to throw stuff in and an old computer we never use; not actually because we use the room for any office-related tasks.

It's an awkward, drafty, dark room that, should one insist on making it a bedroom, could hold a twin bed and a nightlight. As in the light that you plug in the wall. It's small. What makes the room more awkward, besides the ominous attic panel in the ceiling that centipedes crawl from and the bubbly carpet is the slanted ceiling/wall.

(Sidebar: I'm not sure how houses came to have these slanted ceiling/walls, but why. Seriously. Why. Could it save that much money? Did it come down to that wall, and construction workers were like "Guys, seriously. Let's call it a day. Just, here, lean that there and we'll plaster it all together. Let's go home. Cheese curds, anyone?" I want to know why.)

But, anyhow.

Cold room, slanted ceiling/wall, bubbly carpet. Now we're on the same page.

Step downstairs a moment and you'll notice a pile of CDs that Dave and I have accumulated (97 percent of which are his), which are getting pushed off the book shelf because of -- novel idea -- books (get it, novel idea? ha) (97 percent mine).

The CDs, ergo, must go upstairs. I put my foot down.

But, this awkward room doesn't leave a lot of space to put a shelf.

Enter Bob Villa. Bob, aka Husband Dave, will attempt to build -- yes, build, folks -- a shelf to run the length of the awkward, slanted ceiling/wall, using only his sheer craftsmanship, some screws and some wood. Or so he says. He's made shelves before. It's not hard. What's hard is the "get it straight," "this isn't shop class," and "mess this up, and that plaster will be dang unforgiving" parts.

Clearly, the awkward room is about to become more so, as I can only imagine the cursing, blood, sweat, tears and Elvis sing-alongs that'll come along with this task. If you need me, I'll be downstairs, pretending I don't hear a thing.

One-click shopping! Sign me up

I blogged yesterday about how I took my e-shopping cart all the way to the checkout line, just because I obviously NEED books that cost $0.01, even though my gift card didn't cover used book purchases.

I even felt ashamed of my purchases. When Dave came home from work, I confessed (not that he hadn't seen it on my blog anyhow) and tried justifying it ("But it's only a penny!"). He was relieved. He bought CDs yesterday. Well. Home free, then.

But I can't stop. Guys, seriously. Help. I logged back on tonight after work. See, I went to Waldenbooks with the gift card I had, and I browsed the shelves. I picked up books, carried them around, then stuck them back in their places when I thought "I bet I can get that book cheaper on Amazon.com. I just bet. And I bet shipping'd even be cheaper than paying this price." It was the most agonizing moment. I had the gift card. In. My. Hand.

The guy watching the security cameras was probably sitting there going, "Look, Hank, watch. Check this lady out. She keeps picking up 'The Falls,' then she puts it back. Watch -- SEE! I told you. Now watch, she'll go read the back of that other book again and put it ba- SEE!"

But online, I can get "Middle Age" by Joyce Carol Oates for $1.95. I can get "The Falls" for $0.80. I can get ... you get the point. And unlike the library (free books! weeee), I get to keep them, alphabetize them, lend them, barter them and let them make me look intelligent.

This e-shopping trip is completely permissible by my own rules. I have Christmas money and, gosh, there's that birthday coming up, and I haven't spent money on myself in a while. OK, really, I just made that up.

I need an intervention. Someone, disconnect my Internet.

I also LUVZMESOMEbUKS

I just defeated the purpose of a gift card. In order to sleep tonight with a clean conscience, I must rationalize this.

See, Borders/Waldenbooks teamed up with Amazon.com -- awesome, I thought. Look -- I can get "The Time Traveler's Wife" for $3! And I can get three Joyce Carol Oates books for $0.01! Holy Toledo! I thought, happily clicking the "add to cart" button. I was an "add to cart" fanatic, throwing books on there I didn't know if I'd like, but hey, they were $0.35, so I could use them as paper towels if I wanted! Cheap! Cheap! That's all the frugal me saw. CHEAP! Under a buck! Can't even buy a tank of gas to go to the library for cheaper!

Then, I went to check out my e-basket full of CHEAP.

My gift certificate kept getting rejected. "We're sorry, there's a slight problem."

I said some pretty un-Christmastime words that would've made my grandma's ears turn red, and kept re-entering the same digits, because (say through clenched teeth) I KNOW it didn't work LAST TIME, but it's GOING to work THIS time, because there's NO reason for it NOT TO, I said. My dog looked at me with a whole new respect as I used curse words for nouns, verbs and adjectives. He's so proud.

But, in case you were wondering, you can't buy used items from Waldenbooks/Borders online with a gift card. Not even if your dog thinks you're the most foul-mouthed arguer in the word.

And ... gosh. The books, they were in my cart. There they say, those images of the cover, all waiting to be mailed to me from user LUVZMESOMEbUKS, the seller rated 96 percent on Amazon.com ... I couldn't let LUVZME down.

So I loved me some books. ... I'd feel guilty if I wasn't, well ... Kind of glad I still had that $25 gift card to spend.

See also: Erin goes broke but keeps warm by using penny novels as fuel and Dave just shakes his head and says "Erin, Erin, Erin"

"Teammates"

She took it a lot better than I would've.

I admit. I'm young, but where I used to live, most women my age are pretty dang married. I was one of those "I'm going to get married young because that's what we do" type of women. I got nervous before major events, just in case there was a certain question popped, I got a bit jealous when my younger brother and his girlfriend got engaged before I did ... Yes. I was one of those people.

Dave's younger brother is not one of those people.

He's one of those party people. The good-looking, good-natured, fun-to-be around kind of guys. He's the college guy you think of when you hear the phrase "college guy."

He's dating a really cool woman who seems, from the little bit I know her, to fit well with him. She's fun, energetic, etc., etc. And "dating" is new to them ... Until recently they were "teammates," which is a funny way of saying "more than friends, but let's go easy on the b-or-g word there."

And Dave scared the crap outta her.

Since we weren't there to witness her reaction in person, we had to rely on the third-person accounts of the result of Dave's Christmas masterplan.

See, Dave thought "What better way to spread holiday cheer than to make my brother and his girlfriend suffer from a bit of anxiety?" That's Dave. I got a ring for Christmas; a Wasinger family heirloom. After the initial "Aw" moment and as the glow died down from our excitement over my ring, Dave got the idea to use that box as a gift for his brother's girlfriend. You know, as a planted "engagement ring" under the tree for her on Christmas morning.

This for the couple whose most serious talk revolved around the "should we be girlfriend/boyfriend" conversation.

Dave cut out a photo of himself, put it inside the ring box, wrapped it up and gave his family distinct directions to make sure she saw the gift, cleverly marked "To Carly from Joe."

And if my third-party accounts are to be believed, she eyed the tiny package and just kept saying "Uh ... Joe? Joe?" as the rest of the family sat around the tree.

Had I seen that package under the tree, I couldn't say I'd be able to sit there and calmly say "Uh, Dave? Dave?" I'd be the one crawling under the couch, cell phone in hand, ready to dial 911 for myself, should the gift ever make it into my shaking hands.

If Joe would've done that to me and Dave before we were married, you would've heard about it on a TV news blurb: "Woman spontaneously dies after receiving gag gift; details at 10." Because I may be able to dish it out, but I'll be danged if I can take much of the teasing.

Merry Christmas, 1987

Holiday memories: We saw Grandma kissing Santa Claus ... and Grandpa didn't care.

A Christmas bonus

I have been tagged , which in regular life means nothing to me since I find it hard to get out of list-writing mode once I've started ... But it's Christmas time, dang it. So, I apologize to all who find these boring. But for the rest of you, here's some things you may not know about me.

1. I eat green olives like some people eat M&Ms. Sorry if you just threw up reading that. I get that a lot.

2. When I heard I was going to be by a window when our desks got rearranged at work, my first thought was "I bet I can make it to March before I need a can of Raid." And that made me happy.

3. Last month, a group of "young professionals" called Propel came to where I work for a tour and whatnot. I met a man there who speaks Dutch; he was an exchange student in high school to Belgium (which has an Ohio State-slash-Univ. of Michigan relationship with Holland). He started speaking Dutch to me, and I froze. I was so bothered by my inability to say anything back but "Ah, goed" that I immediately went home and popped in a Dutch CD and made myself sing with it. Dave would say that was punishment enough.

4. In my next life, I want to be a preschool teacher; I miss my babysitting job in Ohio. The kid's name was Teddy, and he pronounced "peanuts" like "neenah," so when I drive through Neenah, Wis., I think of him.

5. I can recite a list of words my 6th grade teacher made us remember, but I don't remember what they're for: Be, am, is, are, was, were, being, been, appear, become, feel, grow, look, remain, seem, smell, sound, taste. But I can't remember birthdays, phone numbers or grocery lists.

Ah, and I tag Krista and Badger girl. I don't have to pick five. I say so.

Don't get me wrong, I love me some Christmas. But ...

I get on these kicks where I have to have everything just right. I want the floors to feel smooth when I walk on them, and I want the dirt I just swept up to be hidden in the trash can, and I want the broom to be put away clean behind the door I just wiped down with oil soap.

That kind of mood.

They usually come when I'm either really energetic (about once a year), or when I have something else I want to not think about. Today, it was the latter.

I realized when I was sweating in my work clothes while vacuuming between the couch cushions that what I'm trying to avoid is my own bad mood.

I don't have to point out how the holidays are stressful. The drive is stressful. The realities of dealing with divorced parents and their own wishes for Christmas; the first Christmas as that newlywed couple with the dog; the too-much food; getting no sleep. Then when Christmas day rolls around and I have to think about going to work, how it's all over and how I have to start putting away decorations, it just gets to be so overwhelming.

Now's not the time to point out that I was not forced to put up five trees. I know this. You're not helping.

So tonight I tiptoed around my house, trying not to wake the big, bad me. I am the enabler in my own problem. Like, maybe if I can get this bathtub to smell like lemons and maybe if I can walk on my dark blue carpet and not see white dog hair everywhere, maybe it'll be OK. Maybe I won't be as moody on Monday night.

Maybe if I did all these dishes, and Soft-Scrubbed the kitchen sink and even if I throw in a disposer care tablet or two ... then maybe there's hope for me when radio stations switch back to regular programming at exactly midnight on Dec. 26.

Or, maybe I'll just end up blogging about it in my Pledge-scented living room with my extra-dry, red, cracked, bleach-smelling hands.

Right now, it's looking like that may be the case. Ah well. At least the house is clean.

I heart these shirts

At work, I lay out pages sometimes days ahead of time. This means that today, Dec. 20, I am already done with Christmas and have moved on to almost-2007.

It's a weird, anticlimactic feeling, laying out Christmas Eve and Christmas day pages ... then moving on and laying out the food page for the 26th -- a New Years' page at that.

I feel like it's over, and I should take my trees down before it's the middle of January. At least in my work queue.

But, in the name of holiday spirit and staying with the rest of the world right here in Dec. 20, I need to show you the extremely fabulous gifts Dave and I got today.

We've had our eyes on these shirts since Oshkosh's monthly Gallery Walk a while ago. Some people would've thought that getting a foam cheesehead coolie cup, a bag of cheese curds or a Packers shirt would be the "you live here now" litmus test. Turns out, it's just wearing a "Fox Valley is for lovers" shirt from Stella & Finn.

A decade ago, I thought Oshkosh was just half of the fun-to-say "OshKosh B'Gosh," and because I was a self-absorbed teen then, I never gave thought to Oshkosh as a real place where people lived, ate, slept, worked, paid taxes and grocery shopped or Gallery Walked or borrowed books from the library. Oshkosh was just striped overalls to me. Now, I heart Oshkosh. Ha.

He's It Big now

Dear Mr. Big,

I'm sorry. I was just following Bob Barker's advice.

And please stop licking yourself. You're going to have to get one of those plastic halos, and all the other dogs in the neighborhood will laugh at you.

Sincerely,
Erin and Dave

No more shopping. No, no more! Please! Nooo

It's hard to stand in the mall with what feels like millions of people and try to think of that special gift to buy someone.

It's hard to think of anything but that one special gift when you remember you got them the exact same Perfect Gift last year.

It's hard to keep from losing your patience when a punk-rock Christmas carol is being piped through the crowded store, sung by someone who clearly isn't old enough to feel the rage with which he sings.

It's hard to find Bengals paraphernalia in a place where Packers isn't a team, it's a way of life.

It's hard to be original and buy someone something other than a gift card when they fit so nicely inside a suitcase, and come with the guarantee that you haven't gotten them a gift they already had.

It's hard to concentrate when you can tell by the sweat on your forehead that you should've left your winter coat in the car.

It's hard to buy a gift for someone when you know you only have an hour left to buy it, and your wife is hungry and standing there yawning with her hands in her coat pocket, pretend-smiling when you ask her for the 46th time "How about this?"

For that, I feel bad for Dave, my ever-procrastinating husband.

I do believe he'd buy all his gifts in the 30-minute drive from my dad's house to his parents' if I let him. But because I am the ever-anxious person I don't let that happen.

And because I've had it with moms yelling at kids in stores, carts being run into my heels by strangers who don't apologize, and most of all because we're now broke, I declare us done with shopping. Please, don't make me go back to the mall, where I have to park across the street and walk a mile to get the chance to be one of the thousands to squeeze through the overcrowded food court to the overcrowded stores.

Please, I beg you.

Secret Santa stress

I quickly but quietly unwrapped my present: a wooden box with lavender-scented potpourri and some purple nail polish. At the time, sitting in a circle of 30 eighth graders who all had their eyes on me, I blushed so hard my eyes started watering and my sweater caught on fire (or at least felt that way, as I was suddenly burning up in that room, right there with the picture of poets or saints or something looking down on me).

After my mini embarrassment, I had to give my present to the person whose name I'd drawn. It was one of the girls, I think; Stephanie or Katie or someone else whose interests I had to be aware of for a few days, long enough to get them my Secret Santa gift.

Just like I expected as a 13-year-old, this was the most important moment of my life and it's shaped the way I've lived from this point on. That's why I can remember in such vague detail the way I'd wrapped the gift of ... Um ... Well. I'm certain I was right about it being the most important, never-ending moment of my life.

And now, more than a decade later, I again signed up to be in a Secret Santa exchange. Yes, I willingly, with no coaxing at all, put "Erin Wasinger" right there on a line and drew a name out of a hat a few days later.

At the time, I was thinking about last year's event, and how it was nice and fun, and how at least I know these people at work, unlike in junior high.

Which is why I'm stressing a bit, of course, that I have to get my Secret Santa gift this weekend. I tried gifts.com. I tried staring into space. I tried remembering every insignificant detail I'd ever overheard. I'm sure it'll be fine. Just ask Stephanie. Or Katie. Or whoever it was. I'm fairly confident I didn't ruin their Christmases, and subsequently their lives. Fairly confident.

I am sorry, 1327. Whoever you are.

I'm that cruel and horrible, horrible person who puts sweatshirts on dogs. Just mine, though. I don't usually go around clothing other people's dogs. Mine is enough of a hassle to wiggle into a sweater or sweatshirt.

But, because Dave says I'm cheap (I say frugal, but it's a tomato, tomah-to thing), it's 62 degrees in our house. And our dog, with few body-heat-producing mechanisms, has to be cold, I tell myself.

And the only way to remedy that is to clothe him and then take embarrassing photos of him. Because I am that woman now. The one who clothes and photographs her dog.



In other news, because the subject desperately needs changing,
I am a criminal. There, I said it. Arrest me, FBI. I, Erin Wasinger, opened the mail from our own mailbox -- for SHAME -- tearing through the Christmas card without looking at the envelope.

Being a newlywed, I wasn't shocked to be standing in the living room going "Who ARE these people?" Dave has relatives in Tennessee, Missouri ... I figured it had to be one of them.

So I was shocked to see the return address label on the envelope that I so cheerfully tore through said the card was from a place none other than Oshkosh. I am Dave's only relative in Oshkosh. And, we expect to get about zero cards from people in Oshkosh this year. Oh, and our house isn't No. 1327, as the envelope says. Oops.

I threw the phony "reduce your student loan rate!" envelopes, of which I get about 3.7 pieces a week on average, on the table and Dave and I tried to salvage the envelope. We stuck in the card quickly, then giggled as we tried to get the adhesive to stick again. And there it sits, hours later, looking like the saddest, most dejected piece of holiday cheer.

It's like a bad movie; the card all bent in a ripped, soggy envelope (it rained today) sitting on a table all by its lonesome. The camera would probably zoom out to show you a cold, 62-degrees house and a poor, poor dog in a sweater.

Or maybe I just envision the card as being more depressing than it really is because I know one or both of us should take it to No. 1327 and introduce ourselves as the heartless jerks behind the Christmas card envelope fiasco of 2006.

Spam e-mail saves owners' and pet's lives

Dave's been a really good sport about the whole homeowner responsibilities thing.

He's fixed a leaky spray hose in the sink. He's stopped a toilet from running all night. He takes out the trash.

But I interrupt this domestic bliss with this: I'm often paranoid and convinced that the worst thing may always happen -- and this is just who I am and he knew it when he married me. I was convinced that a third fire incident was going to take place (catch up: microwave popcorn fiasco and the burning table episode). You see, having been raised Catholic, everything comes in threes. It's just how we roll.

And when I'm tired, I'm known to believe that every possible bad thing is going to happen: floods, hurricanes, the apocalypse ... that sort of thing.

So when a friend sent me one of those "My best friend's neighbor knows this woman who died while doing ..." something e-mails, my normally jaded self was sure that IT WAS A SIGN. Yes, our dryer lint tube thingy would too spontaneously combust. Of course! And wasn't that in Dear Heloise a few weeks ago? OH my GOD, I thought, I will go down sitting on the couch with our dog, watching bad TV dramas. Everyone will know I watch "Friday Night Lights." Oh no.

So I came home from work and started fretting one day last week. I cleaned out the lint trap, like always, but it wasn't good enough. Someone was going to have to take a few boards off the side of the deck and crawl under to clean out the dryer vent.

And that someone had to be Dave, because it's not yet 30 degrees and God only knows what lives under there.

He said "when it gets warmer." He said "it's fine." He said "ERIN, you're being paranoid," and even though he was right, I said "But what IF?" And I was so right that it got silent, and all we heard was the dryer, ticking away its last moments before it was doomed to explode.

That's when he took ... um, whatever tools you need to take off a few boards and put them back on, and crawled underneath. And that's how we didn't get blown up by dryer lint. I have to admit ... I feel better. Now I can worry about something else.

I think my dog is really 14.

It's really hard to sneak a piece of chocolate when the wrapper is so loud your dog can hear it, how in God's name can he hear it, three rooms away.

It's even harder to sit and paint details in with the tiniest brush imaginable, and you're holding your breath and not thinking about anything but how close to the line you're getting, so your hand doesn't shake ... And then the dog barks and, you swear, that dog was in the other room not one second ago. HOW DOES HE DO IT. And now you are wearing black paint.

Everything is new to a puppy: gravity, physics, etc. Especially a psycho puppy who, in the middle of learning something really important such as how to roll over on command, suddenly goes running around the circle the first floor makes. Seven, eight and ... yup, make that nine times before skidding on the wood floor, right into the wall.

But then when you want to play, suddenly your dog gets all adolescent on you and lays on the floor, looking at you like "Seriously, woman." And you swear you just heard "you're embarrassing me" through clenched teeth.

At least that's how my Monday night is going -- from infant-like fun to adolescent rage, all in 68 minutes.

This post brought to you by Bob Villa, the man my dad once threatened to sue after Dad cut his finger off following Villa's advice.

So that pipe from a few days ago, which was preventing Dave from installing a new light fixture in the living room, has us stumped no more.

After being advised to take a photo of the situation down to the local hardware store, we were informed that we have a very old house.

Whoa. No kidding. I mean, about 100 years old. Old.

The pipe, for all you who like to know about such things, is a gas pipe. As in, the pipe that carried gas to the gaslights installed in our home about 100 years ago.

If I could take it out of the ceiling, I'd take it to "Antiques Roadshow." But seeing as I'm afraid to step on the ladder, let alone extract the 1908-era gas pipe from the 1908-era lumber that's holding it in place, I think I'll just sit back here and admire that my house is still standing.

And also stare in awe at the light, which the hardware store worker was able to instruct my artsy-but-not-so-craftsy husband how to install. A real, working electric-powered light.

That's why I attempted to cook tonight ... I felt bad

All my childhood, I'd lay in bed every Dec. 5 with butterflies in my stomach. I'd fight to stay awake, kind of like on Christmas eve. After all, it was kind of like Santa Claus coming -- It was St. Nick's Day. Oh, yeah.

It was a pre-Christmas celebration, a chance to get some candy and maybe a small gift. And St. Nick just came no matter what in our house -- You didn't have to be good or anything. Mom never threatened to call St. Nick to tell him we weren't behaving.

Last year, I got Dave candy on St. Nick's Day as kind of a throw-back to being one of those little Catholic kids. Because we were, I suppose. It was cute, it was nice. Etc.

Last night on our way upstairs to bed, we passed our stockings hanging over the fireplace (read: our stair railing, as we have no fireplace). I stopped, turned around and said "We're not doing anything for St. Nick's Day, right?" Just checking.

He said no, he hadn't even thought about it being St. Nick's Day.

OK, fine, I thought. And I believed him because after I'm so tired, I'll believe anything.

So today, after doing my morning grumbling, scowling and other such daily unsociable behaviors that I allow myself from 7 to 8 a.m., Dave says "Aren't you even going to check your stocking?"

I stopped buttoning my coat and set down my purse on the table. I ran to the fireplace (stairs), and pulled out none other than Reese's Cups. Five or six of them. And a penguin gift card. And a Bright Eyes CD -- the newest one, "Noise Floor" (which is awesome, by the way).

And I was happy for about 2.3 seconds, 'til I remembered my manners and stopped reading the back of the CD case. "I didn't get you anything."

"I know. It's OK." And then he turned around and got the dog and went to sit on the couch; and he really wasn't disappointed. It was a good natured "I know, it's OK."

And that's why I like him. I can be utterly clueless about reading his signals; I can pretend to believe him when he says "I didn't even remember tomorrow was St. Nick's Day."

And I got a Bright Eyes CD that I was forcing myself to believe didn't exist so I wouldn't run out and buy it at midnight when it came out in October.

He has cometh.

And by "he," I mean "the tax bill."

It has come. We are now officially homeowning, property tax-paying citizens of Oshkosh. Well, we will be. Right now we're just homeowning people with a tax bill on the kitchen counter.

I think this is the part where I'm supposed to say a bunch of heartfelt one-liners about contributing to my community and how good it feels to give back; how when I sign away that check I'll feel like a better, more mature person.

But in reality, I'm kind of wondering what lunatic put Christmas and the tax bill season so close together. That's not even logical. How are we supposed to feel good about putting gifts on our credit cards if all we can think about is "escrow" and why it's our friend?

I mean, really.

Ah well. Better than paying rent for an apartment with a crazy fire alarm, moldy window sills and loud neighbors. I'll keep telling myself that the day I pay the bill: "No place like home. No place like home."

Old light fixtures do not a good time make

We decided that the old fashioned light fixtures had to go.

They didn't match our style (our style being "not too far out of college, mismatched furniture and hand-me-downs," not "probably an antique"), they hang down so I can't ignore them, and I needed a change.

We got a cool ceiling fan, Dave shut the electricity off (and you thought I was going to blog about him getting electrocuted. Sorry to disappoint) and he went to work on taking down the old fixture.

Not too much later, I hear Dave on his cell phone. "So, uh, split wood is bad, right?" Then the cell phone gets slammed shut and tossed to the couch. Apparently, split wood is very bad. And should I be getting the dog and some belongings out of the house, I'm wondering.

Then in starts the cussing, swearing and other such behavior coming from the living room telling me that it's just not going to work. The fan's too heavy for our original, 100-year-old frame to deal.

So, we take that back to the store and pick up a cool, lightweight fixture. I like it. He likes it. Split wooden beams should like it. (That sounds a lot more scary as I type "split wood beams" than it does when I just say it out loud.)

But as he climbs up on the stool to attempt it again, Houston (in this case, Cincinnati) is alerted of other problems. Namely, "WHAT IS THIS METAL ROD STICKING OUT OF THE ELECTRICAL BOX. And why is the electrical box so shallow?"

The dog runs from the room, probably feeling responsible for the depth of the electrical box and maybe even the metal rod.

Dave sends a photo message via his cell phone to his parents in Cincinnati for their input. We can't ask someone in our own area code to look at it, silly; that'd be cheating. And they'd probably be able to walk up to it, fiddle with some of the parts and, voila, we would all bask in the glow of the light.

So until he figures it out or caves in and asks for help (or hangs the old fixtures back up), I'll just be over here sitting in the dark, hoping the split wooden beam doesn't cave in. And putting "many, many flashlights" on my Christmas list.

Save The Plants: Don't entrust them to Erin

A friend of mine entrusted a lot of her possessions to my husband and me. She left her bike, her computer, her cats' toys and some random boxes in our basement for a month while she was, well, between homes. This past week, she also entrusted me with her plants.

This isn't a big deal to normal people, but I think she should've paid more attention to the vibes that my home eminates. "DON'T GIVE HER A PLANT. SHE KILLS PLANTS. GOOD WITH CHILDREN. GOOD WITH DOG. NOT PLANTS."

It's alive now, but I have no doubt that another week in my care, and we'd find its wilted body dragging itself to the kitchen sink screaming "waaa-ter," or else we'd see one plant hand the other a life raft, as I tend to go to extremes with that whole watering thing.

During college, my roommate and I would buy a plant every semester, it seemed. We'd name them, tend to them for about a week, then she'd tend to them while I tended to forget we owned Harry or Bob, or whatever its name happened to be. They'd die, and we'd sit there, shaking our heads, wondering why a plant that required light wouldn't like it in our sub-zero apartment on the third floor underneath some trees? And we almost died from the black mold in that place. We're fairly certain that's what did in our sophomore year plant. Charles? I don't remember.

Dave was surprised she entrusted us with the plants for a while.

"Wow, she left us her plants to watch? Doesn't she know about you?" my husband asked.

"Yeah, I guess not. I don't think she knows how many plants are dead because of me."

"You don't just kill them. You commit planticide."

Sigh. And this is the part of the blog post where I see my friend run across the office, grab my keys from my coat pocket and go save her plants before, God help us, it's too late.

There goes that 20-something talk again. Ugh.

The excitement of my life used to be judged by how many blog posts I did.

If I went for a few days without posting, I was out with friends, or sleeping in late, going shopping, watching movies.

If I blogged every day, it was because I lived in a crummy apartment and had a lot of time to surf the Net and watch NBC while my then-fiance worked second shift.

Now, when I'm not blogging, I'm not out doing exciting 20-something things. As a matter of fact, I've come to loathe the phrase "20-something" and will feel nauseous for a few seconds after reading it when it's used like "great for 20-somethings" or "those dang 20-somethings." I'm not doing anything "20-something." It's pretty ageless.

I'm doing dishes. I'm watching my dog chase his tail while also watching "Law & Order." I'm dusting. I'm getting jealous of friends who made it to the sale at the library and got some sweet books for a few bucks. I'm cleaning the bathtub. I'm reading. I'm worried about the washer that needs fixing.

I'm calling out "Mr. Big! Hey, Dog!" every time it gets too quiet in the house to make sure my dog, Mr. Big, isn't relieving himself under a Christmas tree, chewing on power cords or eating a shoe. I grocery shop at midnight on my days off so I can feel rebellious. See world, I don't need to buy my gallon of milk when everyone else does. Take that!

I'm looking forward to Saturday nights like I was back in sophomore year of high school, when Saturday nights were "OH MY GOD, it's Saturday night! Let's stay out late -- How late is your curfew, 'cuz I have to be home at midnight. Let's not do anything too crazy, either, I have to help my mom with some stuff tomorrow. Want to just watch a movie at my house?" At least that's what mine were.

I think all these diverse activities (or lack thereof) make me a better person.

But you should know that thinking that helps me sleep at night.

Maybe it is bird flu. Or SARS. Or Y2K.

My husband, who would be a hypochondriac if he had the energy for it (and I mean that in the best way, really), is obviously dying of bird flu. So he says.

Why else would he, a normally healthy 20-something vegetable-loving, sugar-free juice-drinking person have a sore throat, he asks me.

I don't tell him it's because it's November, and that's what bodies do: They get sick, especially in the fall-slash-winter, when the weather changes and everything's all foggy and gross outside.

What follows is a real, actual conversation that happened while the ravioli was boiling and the dog was barking tonight. Just to set the scene. The kitchen is blue, if that helps you.

"It has to be bird flu," he said. "You don't even believe me. Just like no one believed me when I had West Nile a few years ago and then that other guy in Michigan or Ohio got it right after me. Only Neil believed me. And that's just because he had Anthrax poisoning. You wouldn't even believe me if I were dead. You'd just tell my dead body to quit being lazy and get up already for like, three days."

I peek up from the fridge.

"It wouldn't take me three days to realize you died of bird flu. I'd get hungry way before then and be asking you to cook."

And just now, I realize how cruel and cliche that must sound online. I promise you he laughed in real life. And then grabbed his throbbing head. Or was it his forehead, to check for a fever? Or was it his sinuses? His stomach? I forget.

Ah. Dave.

(It's all funny to me now, but when I get this supposed case of bird flu here in a few days from him, I won't be laughing.)

It's Christmas, dang it.

We're back to the timeless debate about whose family gets to see most of us over the holidays, and how on earth do you squeeze in three families, plus the extended families (or do we?) into four days? Oh, with eight-hour drives in there.

Our first plan was priceless: Quit our jobs, then spend all the time we wanted hanging out at home. Then, we gazed over to our mortgage payment booklet and sighed and went back to the drawing board, hoping the lottery numbers would work out for us someday (that is, that someday when we start playing the lottery. That's just details).

Next was more feasible: Drive Thursday night, stay at my dad's on Friday, his mom's on Saturday, my mom's on Sunday, drive back Monday.

But wait -- that leaves the inevitable Christmas Monday morning open. I was thinking "Let's take the dog to Wisconsin and pout about having to go back to work and talk about how much it's going to hurt to take down all the holiday decorations."

He was thinking "Let's drive three hours south, after just having driven said three hours to see your mom, stay for two hours with my extended family, and then make the eight-hour drive from there to Oshkosh."

The dog whimpered. I whimpered. Eight hours. Plus three. That's 11 hours in the car. In one day. The lack of time is already bad enough, as it's practically a "AW! Merry-Christmas-Thanks-for-the-gift-We-have-to-go-Bye" affair.

Back to plan C. Only we don't have a plan C; that's our problem.

I know, I know ... Compromise, compromise. Ugh. It's Christmas, dangit. This is supposed to be fun. "RIGHT? AREN'T WE ALL HAVING FUN," I say through gritted teeth.

In conclusion, we bought a table with a leaf that seats six.

I'd thought about "forever" (or "FOR-ehhh-ver," as the "Sandlot" boys say) before I married Dave.

But it's this building of forever that continues to surprise me.

We wanted to get a new, bigger table for a while, but the scent of our freshly burned kitchen table made me long for a new one. Now. As in right now. Yesterday would be better. Every time I walked by the table I could picture it on fire. And I still smelled that smoky scent, even though Dave said I was just crazy. Maybe.

But Dave likes buying things, too, so we set out this weekend to jumpstart our search.

First stop: A furniture store that's going out of business. We happen upon these really, really cool tables ... for $1300. It's about $900 more than I would ideally like to have spent, so we kept walking. We passed the cool walnut tables. Continued on by the high, bar-like tables. We stopped in front of the typical "Just Like You Remember From Your Mother's Kitchen!" tables.

Dave continued walking, but I was seeing the wisdom in the matron-friendly tables.

Good God, I was thinking, there's room for six people at this table. And wooden seats, not cloth. Easy clean-up. It was like a ... natural train of thought.

Dave pointed at a cool looking one, more adapted to sitting in the middle of some uptown loft than (what the realtors would call) a "quaint" house in Oshkosh. I pointed at my choice. There was some salesman heckling, and we left tableless.

"Why didn't you like that one?" he asked.

I looked around ... "Um. Because there are only four spots."

"It's just the two of us."

"We're going to have this table more than a couple of years." Hint, hint.

Dave stared at me and I swear I saw a lightbulb go off. "O-o-o-h. O-h." You should note that's an "O" sound and not an "oo" sound.

And that's when we got in the truck and became immediately more interested in the passing scenery.

"But ..."

"If we have a set of our parents over, that leaves only one spare seat, if there are three of US," I said.

"Oooh. Yeah."

I am so ... married.

Happy Thanksgiving

It's warm. About an hour ago the sun was shining.

And I'm at work.

My mom, stepdad and younger brother are at our house waiting for us, probably thinking up bad jokes about burning down the house (referring to my blog post on Monday) and enjoying our NBC-or-Fox TV choices. And making us a chicken fajita Thanksgiving dinner while our turkey thaws out in the sink, waiting for its moment to shine tomorrow (yes, on our charred table).

I've never felt so awkward, waiting here at work, wondering if I left any dirty socks lying around the house or if Dave left any half-empty (or half-full, ahh) glasses of milk sitting around the computer room for them to find and make little mental notes about.

And ... After Dave's parents brought him his childhood in boxes last weekend, this weekend was my parents' turn. I didn't have boxes upon boxes of half-constructed dinosaur models or anything. Just Barbies -- and those obviously have more collectors' value.*

(*If you like collecting headless Barbies with dog-chewed feet and mismatched clothing.)

I can't fight this feeling anymore.

Post-fire last night, I didn't actually go to bed, nor did I fall into a coma, unfortunately.

Instead, I sat and tried doing the only thing that used to make me happy no matter what: Writing up a Christmas wish list.

But you know, I realize how much different ... how "married" I've gotten. It just wasn't "rainbows, unicorns and happy faces" fun anymore. Instead of CDs and movies, I was dismayed at first over my own desire to add "shovel" and "dish towels" to the list.

Suddenly, it's not fun and frivolous. It's all house-related and boring.

When I was younger, trying to keep my tired eyes open during the adult gift exchanges at Grandma's house was torture. An uncle and aunt would get pillows. Another would open and feign surprise in some tools. One got a toaster.

I mean, we're talking about stuff that now appeals to me.

So why fight it, I concluded.

I just added "garden tools" and "a small wastebasket" to the list.

All that's missing is a pickup truck, a cowboy hat and some boots

I should've known it was going to be a bad day when I woke up late. On a Monday. With a headache.

I should've called in sick when I tried on shirts and every single on had bad static cling. I should've crawled back into bed when I put on my shoes, stood up in the dining room and promptly stepped in a pile of dog "mess" that was obviously not fresh. I should've punched myself when I realized what I'd stepped in ... two minutes later, after walking all over the living room and dining room.

Plus, it's Monday.

Nothing, so it seems, got done today at work. I'm busy. It's a holiday week. Guests just left, and more are coming. Don't get me wrong - that's good news. But it just adds to the mounting evidence of my life being the perfect country western song. Or so someone suggested to me today earlier.

Well, I'm not sure which country song "I almost watched my dining room go up in flames" is in, but I'm guessing I may be the first to actually put the dog crap and the fire in the same song.

We were given these really pretty votive candleholders this weekend, and I put candles in them. I turned my back and did dishes in the other room, and what to my wondering eyes should appear was this glowing orange ball to my left.

I gasped, saw the foot-high flames, and ran to see the tablecloth burn (which, I'll have you know, was not underneath the candles, but "safely" pushed to the side) -- along with my table. Apparently the flame burnt through one of the holes you see here, and spread to the table, then the tablecloth.

I was, because I'm this stupid, concerned about the police scanner call when I grabbed the table cloth and beat the fire with it, then grabbed the vase of flowers and dumped water all over it. The police scanner. Seriously.

Dave had just left for work; I called him and asked him come back. "Hi, it's me. Just wondering if you wanted to survey the damage of the fire. Oh, yeah by the way, there was a fire." Or, maybe it was more "COME BACK PLEASE."

Which made him late for work. Which made me feel bad. Which made me realize that "WOW this would make an awesome blog." Which leads me to believe that my next step, upon finishing this blog post, will be to hope for a deep coma of some sort that would last until 2026, or else carefully walk to the bed and go to sleep. At 8 p.m.

(Photo: Yes, these are the candles that set fire to my table. Yikes.)

Free to a good home: "Triceratops, Or Half Of It, Anyhow."

My first official "In-laws" visit came and went, and was relatively painless. With the exception of a minor, tiny, insignificant detail ... Or about 156 minor, tiny, insignificant details. Sitting in my living room in boxes. And dresser drawers. And bags.

Our parents are all looking forward to getting our belongings out of the house. Mine are coming Wednesday to bring me, of all things, my bike, my dollhouse from 1989, and some lawn chairs we couldn't fit in our own cars any time we were driving back from Ohio. Oh, and the wedding pictures.

His parents brought -- drumroll, please -- two coffee tables, a desk chair, a dresser, a partridge, a pear tree, less than half of a triceratops, some mini baseball helmet bowls, a football sign that was later determined to belong to Dave's brother, two football helmets, Little League trophies, books, a school workbook, a shelf, one sweet chair his grandpa made and seven lifetime's worth of Americana, boyhood "stuff."

Dave loved it. For a second. Then he realized "Oh, God, yeah, I'm married. And ... oh, no, my wife's not going to like this triceratop head on our coffee table."

And that's where he was right. Because I'm uptight sometimes, and that's only made worse by the thought of half-finished dinosaur models taking over my living room.

But there's happy ending. We didn't fight. For much longer than a few seconds. He threw a lot away. He hid the rest in the basement and a closet. It's out of sight. It's out of my mind.

And I'm pretty sure that's how most packrat marriages start.

(Photo: Apparently, I should've kept these bowls. They're going for a whole $9 on eBay.com right now. DANGIT.)

Mr. Big

In honor of my mother in law coming this weekend ...

Who, as a disclaimer, I must say is a good sport, as I have mentioned her in passing on here before and she just shrugs it off as "one of those blog things." It's cool. She's cool. But, as I was saying, in honor of my mother in law coming up this weekend ...

No, there is no "nesting" impulse going on anywhere in my vicinity. See this area? No nesting going on. It's quite un-nested, as a matter of fact. Except maybe if you count the dog. I am sorry.

The dog, who has become "our wittle puppy." It's quite disgusting, so I've heard from passersby: "You don't call yourselves 'Mom' and 'Dad' to the dog, do you?" a friend asked.

Cue crickets, tumbleweed, wind blowing. "No. Of course not. Don't be ridiculous."

Sigh.

I used to make good-natured fun of the people who'd pass me on the way to the grocery store with poodles on their laps, staring out the window. Now, I have a dog on my lap in the car sometimes.

Dave used to swear he'd never have "one of those sissy dogs." Yeah, I try to tell him that now that he has a seven-pound dog sitting on his lap while they're watching football.

And the readers of my blog just shook their head in disbelief and disgust.

Knotted for a whole month.

It's been a month to the day since I tied the knot.

I figured that if I were to ever have to show my children either A.) where it all went wrong or, more likely, B.) how it all went right, then this would be a good place to start looking. I will be able to say "Ah, yes, around month 54, he stopped leaving his socks on the bathroom floor in little balls. THAT'S when things greatly improved." Then my children will say "Yes, but he's not worn socks since then. He's a flip-flop guy now."

And that will explain EVERYTHING.

But, it's month one and, unlike mothers who blog monthly about their children, no one is teething. No one is learning the ABCs and my goodness no one is being potty-trained. So don't expect anything as witty and fun. This is marriage. And according to the marriage counselor we had to talk to before we got married (who, by the way, has never been married), this is hard work.

Month 1: Ah. So you didn't really doooo them.

Dave's doing laundry. I'm doing dishes. Dave does garbage. I dust and vacuum and sweep. Dave changes the batteries in the TV remote and takes out recycling to the garage. I clean the bathrooms. And so on.

But we're learning the power of bargaining. Or so I thought.

I heard the dishes being clanked around in the sink last Sunday, and thought "If I sit here quietly, he'll do them JUST TO BE NICE." Because it was a Sunday, and I had to work at 1, and he had some extra time. I went back to reading my book.

That night, he asked me to put away laundry. Clearly one of his tasks, the newlywed in me was saying. "Um, OK," my married self was saying. I said, joking, "So THAT'S why you did dishes. You wanted me to do the laundry." Laughing, ha ha, laughing.

He kind of shook his head and stammered, "Oh. No. I didn't really dooo dishes. I put them in the dishwasher."

The dishwasher, which we don't use because it's small, it overturns cups and bowls and leaves dirty, sediment-filled water in them that renders them good for nothing but another go-round in the sink, and it actually takes way more effort to remember that there are dishes in the dishwasher than it takes for me to actually just wash them myself.

"Oh. I thought ..." I opened the dishwasher to count the dirty-water-filled cups -- four, by the way -- and then I gingerly closed it and coughed. Um. Now what, marriage counselor? Huh? Now what.

But I put away laundry after all. I mean, I think the bathroom drain may need some attention, and I may just be able to fold some socks to get out of doing that one.

GO BUCKEYES/GO BIG BLUE

This weekend is monumental.

Not only are my inlaws coming up, but do you REALIZE what's going to be on TV?

Ohio State vs. Michigan. In football.






OK. I tried. Look, I really tried to get into the game. I did. I've lived in Ohio, UM's big rival state, for years. I lived in Michigan (and hated every second of it, just about) and tried to keep an open mind.

I learned all the "Hail to the ____" songs that don't use the traditional UM fight song words. I've been to a party almost every year to watch this game. I've participated in cheering one side or the other.

But I don't care.

I'm the woman who has relatives with a scarlet and gray garage, adorned in buckeyes; the one who knows a guy who would be hard-pressed to find an article of clothing that didn't have some sort of OSU mention on it; the woman whose family sings "Hang On Sloopy" while motioning "O-H-I-O," YMCA-style; and the woman whose family makes buckeyes not because they're delicious but because they're BUCKEYES. I'm the one who has the family for whom "Go Bucks" has nothing to do with Milwaukee.

We're talking a serious, serious OSU infatuation for my family.

And I married a Michigan fan.

While my family all releases a collective "UGHH GROSS," I must explain: I had an OSU sweatshirt once. Not because I was a huge fan, but because that's the standard Christmas gift one gets in Ohio. And I had a UM sweatshirt once, not because I like the Wolverines, but because it was $5, and hello, it even had a hood. And OK, it made my family gag, and that was funny at one point in my life.

I find it really, really hard to pick a side, because I just don't care. I don't. And I don't care if that makes me a bad person. So be it.

This weekend, when my husband's happiness lies in a few touchdowns (or lack thereof), and when the phone starts ringing for the inevitable "HAAA TAKE THAT"s when one side scores, I shall be sitting back, cleaning the toilet or something.

Or, if I'm lucky, someone will offer to take Dave to the bar, and I can tag along for chicken wings. Because if you can't beat them (or even stand the game), you may as well eat something while you're ignoring them.

That is, if Wisconsin bars play that game anywhere. Dang, wouldn't that be a shame.

(Photo: Friends of mine, who wore buckeye necklaces to my wedding. True story. Ohio State fans are crazy. And I can say that, because I was one of them. Kind of.)

Hello, again.

I've been a bit absent from the blogosphere lately, and I blame things like democracy, an extreme lack of sleep, children (not my own), Christmas and housewarming parties.

But I'm back. And I'm back with a vengeance.

Because doesn't my dog KNOW that just because there is a 7 1/2-foot tree in my living room that it doesn't mean "OOOH! A TOILET UPGRADE! This is way better than peeing on the rug."

No. As a matter of fact, as Mr. Big is learning, it really means "TOUCH AND DIE, LITTLE ONE."

And when I say "die," of course I mean "not die," as he really is the cutest puppy in the world.

Sigh. Go ahead and say "I told you so." For added Mom effect, you can also throw in ERIN FRANCES in there. That's what she usually does.

A sure sign I'm getting old

When I was 16, back in the day, I was living in Holland, going out and dancing to one of Europe's favorite music genres, Bad Electronic Music. At the time, it was "awesome, man" because my mom hated it and, being 16, what more did you really need to know?

And when I came to my senses a little later, I realized that it takes a special person, i.e., Radiohead or Postal Service, to make electronic music good. And that's when I lost my Chemical Brothers' CD.

Anyhow. After all of these embarrassing revelations I'm spewing here, there is a point. Last night, post-election hoopla made me go out after work. Out to a bar that had a band that was playing OK music. Then came the DJ for a while. Those times, the songs made me feel old. Maybe I was just tired, but the "dancing" I was doing was in one-and-a-half second spurts, and it was mainly to mock my 16-year-old self.

Inside, I was my mom, saying "WHAT IS THIS CRAP AND WHY IS IT IN MY CD PLAYER." It was electronic music. Circa the 1990s. In my ears. No. Make that "offending" my ears.

I think I handled it well enough. I don't believe I made the Annoyed Mom Face or anything.

If I hear "I approve this message" one more time, I'll scream.

I will be so glad when the elections are over.

Besides the annoying TV commercials and the yards with 75 signs in them (all the same, of course, just in case you missed it the first 74 times), I am just exhausted of the wait. Working at a newspaper, I read about the issues every day. I'm reading the stories on the wire. I'm reading letters to the editor. I'm up to my ears in elections.

And I just want it to stop.

I want to watch "Law & Order" and only think about how cute Chris Noth is. Not how annoying it is to watch the commercials.

I'm also excited to be voting this year in particular. My first "real" election was when I was almost 19. I voted in a mid-term election for the county dog warden and the sheriff or something like that. I remember walking in to the Putnam County, Ohio, courthouse, taking the pin and voting with an envelope, all low-tech. Probably the same way the Pilgrims did it. Should they have had to vote for dog warden.

And tomorrow I'll vote for the first time in Wisconsin, where you're allowed to register at the polls, oddly enough. None of this 30-day waiting period stuff. Different.

But what I'm expecting will be most different is the peace and harmony I'll feel when I turn on the TV and don't see "I'm (So and So) and I approve this message." Seriously. I expect Hell would be a hot, sticky, windowless room with a fuzzy TV that just kept replaying political ads over and over again. With no remote control. No "off" button. No cord to pull out of the socket. Yes. That'd be my hell.

The name change game train

I envisioned changing my name to be on par with the annoyance of, say, getting through international airport security. I was right, kind of. It's just like that, only instead of taking an hour, it takes weeks.

I got my certified copy of my marriage license five days after I sent away for it. I got my drivers license two days after that, after a 45-minute wait in line. I waited three minutes to talk to the Social Security clerk about changing my name on my card, and now I get to wait 10-12 days to get it in the mail.

And as I'm sitting here, two days into my 10-12 day period, I'm making a list of all the places I have to change my name through, once I have my new SS card: There's the cell phone, credit card, library card, magazines, debit card, bank account, car title, house title, insurance, prescriptions, doctors' offices, and the worst, all my work user names and my e-mail address. It's not as easy as hopping on Yahoo and getting a new e-mail. No sir.

Because it can't just be this easy process. No. It's got to be this long, drawn-out process full of "Marriage license, please. Now your driver's license. Now your blood sample. Now your mom's maiden name. Mom's blood sample. And a partridge in a pear tree."

And changing bank accounts was even more fun. We decided to create a joint account from his old one. You know, hi, here we are, let's put my name on it. But even that causes headaches. I can transfer money online into that account, but my name won't be on it for a few weeks, until the checks come back. And no debit card, either. Nope. Sorry. That's another two weeks' wait.

So I ended up keeping my old account for now. No debit card? For two weeks??? Please.

And, I can vote now.

A little less than a year ago, I gave up my rad blue, yellow and white Ohio driver's license for a pink Wisconsin ID with a barn, an American flag, some green cloud thingys and a sailboat on it.

Aside from the obviously downgrade in design ... it was pretty cool to be a card-holding member of the Badger State, seeing as I live here now. Now, I'm even cooler.

I have my new name, my new address, my new haircut and my "married" face on it. Not a big deal to like, world peace or anything. But when I slid my gold-seal adorned piece of parchment from the State of Ohio that declared that I was married and the woman behind the counter said "Oh, congratulations," it felt more real than my entire wedding day.

And I audibly giggled when I walked out of the crowded DMV, pushing past the teenager who was on a cell phone with her mom, saying "They won't let me get my permit because I don't have my birth certificate, and Dad won't go home to get it because HE'S STUPID."

I didn't giggle really at her, though I remember that deep-hearted feeling of injustice at the sheer idiocy of a parent through a 15 1/2-year-old's eyes, but because my new ID says I'm Erin Wasinger. Yeah, that's a good feeling.

4 a.m. wake-up call

Every morning, we're awakened by this whimpering. Crying. Whining. I'd do my best whimper here if there were a microphone on this computer. It's classic puppy whining at its best.

It's not like, cute, happening just when the alarm was going off, right before he licks our faces as a ray of sunshine spreads across us all and music plays and it smells like cinnamon rolls, and we all go downstairs to eat drink orange juice and talk about our days before going to work.

No. It's not quite like that.

It usually happens around 4 a.m. when it's cold and there's no sunshine and it doesn't smell like cinnamon at all. I've babysat overnight before for an infant ... OK, and I know it's nothing like BEING a parent (so stop writing the angry comments now), but the moment I first come out of REM sleep to hear the whining, that moment of confusion-slash-realization that if I move, if I make the first "shhhh" sound, I will be the one to get up. That moment. It's the same idea.

"Hey?" Dave will ask, as a test to see if I am awake.

"Dog whining? What dog whining?"

'And what are YOOU supposed to be?'

Being a homeowner means lots of good things. Taxes. Leaky sinks. Musty-smelly basements.

And trick-or-treaters who magically appear at your door.

Only that last one was a 97 percent positive experience. Could've been warmer, too, but I won't factor that in. This is Wisconsin. The good came in the form of the candy that I ate (my body weight in M&Ms, the peanut variety), the (please read in your best baby voice) cutest little babies ever dressed like animals (stop using baby voice now) and the nice people who introduced themselves to Dave or I: "Hi, welcome to the neighborhood, I live over there," etc.

That part was nice.

The not so nice part was the one or two kids -- and they aren't young (because then it's forgiveable) -- who grab without saying anything. It's like, hello, my candy bowl has been violated on my own porch by a lone teenager who didn't even dress up carrying a duffel bag that would be confiscated at the airport by the TSA, I can say with some air of authority.

(For the record, I'm OK with teens trick-or-treating if it's aw, good natured and with friends or family and they dress up. Put some effort into it, kids. Humor me.)

As he walked up, my friend and I muttered under our breath "Dubble Bubble." No way was that kid getting Kit Kats. Nuh-uh. You need a costume for that.

I threw a piece of gum in his bag and as he walked away Friend and I gave each other a look.

"If I had (uh, guts), I'd've asked that kid what he was," she said.

"Yeah."

Then we went back to commenting from my front porch on the speed of cars as they drove by.

Kids these days ...

Just kidding.

Not quite a letter to Santa

I'm not one for shopping early for the holidays. Much as I love that whole season, I'm too frugal (read: cheap) to actually go and shop before Halloween.*

(*Unless it's for me, of course.)

Who can shop for holiday gifts that far in advance? I'd lose the gifts, or forget I bought them and buy that person something else, then be stuck with TWO gifts. And you can't very well give them both, so I'd save them for a birthday, but I'd inevitably forget I had them because of course their birthday would be in July or something, and that my friends is how Erin The Woman Who Doesn't Play Poker got stuck with a poker set. It's that mentality.

But making out lists, that's another story. And I just got asked for one. In October. By my dad. He actually said "Do you have a Christmas list"?

I should take out my crayons and write "Barbie" and "ponies" on it, with all the "R" and "P"s backwards. But instead I just said "It's on my bridal registry. It's what I didn't get."

It's not quite a pony, but an electronic shopping list -- where you can check to see what you got before you get it -- makes me wish it were Christmas RIGHT NOW. That's really not all that different from any other day, come to think of it.

Remember when I promised I was done talking about weddings? I lied.

We had a wedding photographer. Obviously. Dave is a wedding photographer, but I drew the line at him buying one of those remote control thingys and a tripod so he could take his own wedding photos. I will say "yes" to the Bengals socks. No to the remote control and tripod idea. Sorry.

But, even as I told Dave to leave his ginormous camera bag at home, I brought my tiny digital "flash on or off, these are your choices, lady" camera. Because, you know, our photographer could be off shooting pictures of the cake, and I would want a photo instead of my sister tearing apart her plate because she is 10 and "GOSH do you guys have any other food?"

Exactly. So a digital camera was a necessity.

And, if you're lucky, you only get married once. So I used up pretty much all the space on my teeny little memory card taking pictures of a groomsman with a garter around his head like Rambo, yelling "WE'RE GOING TO THE WORLD SERIES" (Tigers fan), and my sister, you know, eating Styrofoam because "GOSH it's better than eating THAT." It's cute. I promise.

And, as a reward for writing all my thank-you notes like a good bride, I let myself get multiple copies of prints this weekend.

Who would've thought it would cost me almost $70? Surely not the woman behind the one-hour photo desk who was screaming for mercy as my order just. Kept. Printing.

Then you throw in the photo albums because you can't put gorgeous wedding photos in a crappy album and call it a life. No. You have to get red. Because that is our color. And ooh, that black one. Because that is Dave's color. And it says "Photos" on it so if it's ever laying on the coffee table you can be assured you know what you are getting. So ... pretty photos, fabulous album ... Happy? No.

It's all just a front.

You see, my wedding photos, the real ones, the ones taken not by me in a giddy whirl of excitement, are sitting at Mom's. Probably on her laundry room counter, right next to the Hootie and the Blowfish cassettes and the LTD catalogue. Or they will be sitting there soon. They're sitting there, all nice and DONE in OHIO and I am here, hello, in Wisconsin.

And will we trust the United States Postal Service to deliver our wedding photos on time, guaranteed? No. We have bad luck. And you can't mess with wedding photos.

Alas, I don't get to see them until Thanksgiving when my mom and stepdad bring them up in a locked, armored vehicle. Then all will be right with the world. Or at least my peace of mind.

I am so impatient.

This post includes a bit of paranoia. As if you'd expect anything less.

Dave and I have been spending our glamorous married life writing thank-you cards for our wedding gifts -- and it's just like we expected it to be. Troublesome.

We've got some problems ... A few we don't have addresses for. Simple enough. It's the reason Man created Google. A few we don't have last names for. Might be tricky, but we'll call our parents and ask "Hey, do you know a Bob and Diane? No? Oh ..."

We have one family (a husband and wife and their two married children) who gave us one card from the husband and wife, one the husband and wife and their two children, and the two children and their husbands also each gave us a card. We're pretty sure we don't have to send four cards back, but I wonder if they even realized they did that. Or if it was just a "I wonder if Luke picked up the card? He wouldn't have ... I better pick one up just in case."

But two other issues in particular are proving to be quite the problems.

We have one gift we don't know who gave it to us.

We have one family we don't know what they gave us.

Seems like we just solved our problem right there, doesn't it? But what if we didn't? They didn't come from the same pile, and therefore there's a good chance the gift in question didn't come from the party in question.

What would Emily Post do, Ms. Etiquette herself? She'd probably smack me first, then tell me I'm screwed and I'm better off just writing something generic like "Thanks for the generous gift." Or jump off a bridge. Whichever.

But then, we run into another issue: My Lifetime Fear. Lifetime not being the TV network, but my actual Lifetime Fear.

I have this paranoia that people get the thank-you card I write and stand it up on their counter because -- aw, it's got an apple on it and it's so fall-like and pretty -- and someone else, who also got a card from me, comes over to their house to visit and SEES the other card, reads it, and says "Hey, that sounds pretty dang similar."

Because then they'll know: We are totally generic when it comes to thank-you card writing.

So we try to be creative; we'll switch out adjectives. "Nice" becomes "great" or "beautiful" or "fabulous." It's like a polite Mad Libs sheet.

I'll let you know how it goes. I've got more writer's cramp to create. SWEET.

Boo

Weekend is here, and it's full of spookiness. The main story's about throwing a Halloween bash, but there's much more than that.

We've also got a calendar full of haunted houses from today through Tuesday. Woot woot.

Sign of stability for a practical, frugal person

A small observation: When in college, toilet paper, milk and other shared items were bought in small packages: the four-pack, the half-gallon. You bought one, your roommate got the next one, and so on.

While dating, it was kind of "get whatever's cheaper."

Now that we're married, we gravitate toward the bulk.

"I'm not going anywhere. Just get it," Dave'll say.

And that's why we now have 24 rolls of toilet paper under the sink. I've never owned this much toilet paper in my life.

Now that's permanence. Ha, ha.

The wedding, the honeymoon and more

The justification: A wedding happens once in a lifetime, and This is Life is about my life. Hence, you get the biggest day of my life, in photos.

6:45 a.m.: Erin gets her hair done by her soon-to-be sister-in-law.
**What you don't see: Erin eats three giant maple rolls, tries to hide the fact that in two hours she plans on eating half a box of macaroni and cheese. Later, succeeds.


8 a.m.: Step-father isn't impressed. Continues to read paper.
**What you don't see: Four women in a tiny bathroom doing hair. No wonder he's not outta the chair.

10:45 a.m.: Erin gets dressed in the church basement, poses for first of 673 photos with maid of honor.
**What you don't see: Erin freaking out when she hears Dave's voice upstairs: "Is that Dave?? Dave? How is he? What's he doing?" You also don't see Dave's brother telling me Dave's throwing up. Which he wasn't.


12:45 p.m.: Part of bridal party waits for the 1 p.m. show.

**What you don't see: The ceremony, as I was kind of busy getting married to take photos. Sorry.

3 p.m.: Post-ceremony, post-pro photos, Dave and Erin ride to barhop, which is an Ohio thing ... You don't get drunk; you just go to a few bars and be loud and married and play "Sweet Home Alabama" on the jukebox.
**What you don't see: Me, taking 15 minutes to figure out how to fit a round dress in a square car seat.

3:17 p.m.: Erin and Dave sing to "Sweet Home Alabama" on the jukebox.
**What you don't hear: Our horrible singing.

5:56 p.m.: Erin and Dave cut the cake. Crowd goes wild for chocolate.
**What you don't see: Us throwing cake on each other. I told him I'd divorce him if he got chocolate on my dress. He listens well.

7:59 p.m.: Even in tux, Dave can't really dance. But it's forgiveable.
**What you don't see: Me, also with no dancing skills.

9:02 p.m.: About as crazy as it gets: Moms and groomsman dance to Meatloaf.
**What you don't see: My grandparents dancing to Justin Timberlake. It happened. I swear. It was awesome.

Sunday, 2:55 p.m.: Dave and Erin wait for the plane in Detroit.
**What you don't see: Erin freaking out, convinced she will die in a horrible plane crash.

Monday, 4 p.m.: Dave takes photos in Quebec City.
**What you don't see: Me, going "Are you done yet?"

4:15 p.m.: Quebec rocks.
**As you can see.

4:16 p.m.: Arret in the name of love, baby.
**Yeah, we took the touristy photo. "Look, ya'll, it's FRENCH."

5 p.m.: See, I was there, too.
**What I don't see: Much of anything, as I left my glasses in Ohio. Oops. You also don't see the rest of the honeymoon, as a woman's gotta keep some things to herself. That, and it rained, cutting down the photo opps.

Saturday, 10 p.m.: The wedding gift that keeps on barkin': Mr. Big.
**What you don't see: How cute he is all curled up on his pillow.

There. I shall from this day forth no longer speak of my wedding day at such length. But I'm only doing this wedding thing once, so I'm getting my money's worth of talking about it.

So there. On with This is Life. Married life.

Here's one to whet your appetite.

It's pilfered from a fabulous bridesmaid's Web site. Yes, it really is me. This is what I call "Dave's not really all that used to opening champagne," or "Hi, we've been married about four hours."

Troubles in Paradise

The cord that transfers my photos from my camera to my computer is MIA. Either it was confiscated because of its obvious resemblance to a bomb by the TSA* during our flight from Detroit to Quebec City, along with my menacing face wash, or else it's in The Scary Basement, which I cannot get to without stepping over that mountain of laundry in my way.

Therefore, I will sit here at this table instead of blogging and convince the Social Security Administration that I do indeed qualify for a new card with my new name. You, on the other hand, get to wait another day for a couple wedding photos.

I apologize, and I hope you're able to sleep tonight.

*I really did have my purple bag (all the terrorists are using purple bags nowadays) broken open by the Transportation Safety Administration sometime after checking my bag at the counter in the sparkling metropolis of Detroit and getting it from the conveyor belt in Quebec. I went to unlock the bag at our hotel when I noticed I didn't have to ... the lock was gone. Inside, on top of my now-unfolded clothes, was a pamphlet, apologizing for the trouble. I was randomly selected for a baggage inspection in the interest of national security. Mr. Bush thanks me for my cooperation.

It should also be noted that I may have left my face wash in a hotel in Lima after the wedding, but that's not as entertaining as thinking a bunch of airport guys with bad complexions took it.

Oh, and by the way ...

While I was having someone post my blogs about mice, Christmas, Halloween and what was in the last two issues of Weekend, I got married and had a honeymoon.

(I planned ahead and had those done on Oct. 1. Writing those blogs kept me from counting down the hours to my wedding day, which I tried to do but failed miserably.)

See? You didn't even miss me, and now I am officially Mrs. Erin Wasinger. Ooh. Dang.

Weekend ... A few instruments away from being a small-town band. Without the musical talent. So I guess they're not really that similar.

It's Weekend time. As usual, don't miss this week's story: It's about small venues and small-city bands, and how one helps the other.

Check it out.

A Halloween not thought through

There was talk of a Halloween party among some people at work. I immediately panicked. I went to one Halloween party in college, and I wore wings. That's all. Just wings. No halo. No costume. Just wings. The other three Halloweens were spent with me going "No, I did dress up, I'm Becky (my roommate)" or "I'm supposed to be a woman, duh" or something equally as lame and cringe-worthy.

Obviously, this Halloween was going to be really pitiful if I didn't think of something cool -- fast, I thought.

But then I heard the rest of it: If there is a party, it's going to have rules. Ooh, I love rules. "Only half-thought-out costumes allowed."

Whoa.

This is the Halloween party of my dreams. You mean I can go and NOT get the awkwardness kicked outta me because I'm not dressed in some skimpy costume on a frigid Wisconsin night? Or suffocating in some smelly rubber mask because yeah, that's totally cool for my temperamental complexion. Right.

I'm thinking about replicating the angel routine. I think the wings are in some closet (or in a bag in Walgreens for $5, I bet). I'll wear them with a band T-shirt and my black jeans. Hot.

Five outfits that should be banned, because I've seen how they worked out and it wasn't very good:
1. Any man in a Hooters outfit. (I really did see this one in real life. I still have nightmares.)

2. Anything with feathers. (Too flammable.)

3. That "Scream" costume. Come on, everyone had that one. In 1997.

4. Dorothy from "Wizard of Oz." Come on, everyone's been doing that one since 1939.

5. Anything with those fake redneck teeth. Everyone I've witnessed with those things has to spit them out to talk, drink or eat so the slimy fake teeth with the bad tartar build-up sits in their hands all wet and sticky, and you know that person is inevitably going to hand you a cookie or something later that night and you're going to eat it before thinking, and then spend the next hour in the bathroom gagging.

Not that I've experienced that, but ...

Holly jolly October

I know it's sick. I know it's horrible of me. I know I should be dragged out to the street and forced to apologize to the world for admitting it:

But I love, love, love that holiday items are out already, and it's not even Halloween. Call it commercialism gone wild. Go ahead. Do it. Call it a marketing department's ploy to get me to buy. You're right. I buy.

I buy stockings, lights, shiny ornaments and foot-tall trees. I buy blown ornaments, little "Rudolph" figurines and holiday movies from the dollar bins. I buy tree skirts, holiday CDs, and scarves, hats and gloves.

It's a bit crazy, but this usually cheap, frugal woman can't help it. And I'm not one of the people who get tired of the holidays by January. No, that's usually when the depression sets in.

Not because it's all over ... But because everything I bought has to fit back in that closet upstairs. So ... heavy. Can't ... go ... on.

Sigh.

But for now, dang. How festive is my living room going to be when I've got all this set up? That's what I'm talkin' about.

I kind of regret not marrying an exterminator.

I'm terrified of mice. I'm not going to go into the whole embarrassing column I wrote in college about my encounter with the rat at Dave's college house, or even about that memory that's burned into my brain of Mom screaming because a vole ran over her foot in the garage. I won't even mention it.

Instead, I'll tell you about the mouse traps. The traps that are now so complicated I had to ask the mice how to set them (and now I bet I don't even catch any). Dave and I both played around with them (and have swollen fingers and thumbs to prove it), but we can't get the stupid things to latch.

Where did this mouse-eliminating technology come from? We can't keep up.

It's not a bad problem in our house, but I'm all about prevention. I need to stop any problem before it gets out of hand.

Like it did for my cousin Paul and his wife.

My aunt told my mom, who told me sitting around a campfire, speaking with a flashlight under her chin, that there were so many mice that they killed dozens a week. SNAP! the traps would go in the middle of the night, while they lay in bed listening. SNAP! in the kitchen, in the family room ... SNAP SNAP SNAP times 20.

I would've staying in that house for maybe two SNAPs before I would've packed a bag and checked into the nearest hotel.

So all I have to do is get these stupid traps to work. Dear god the directions don't help! And I hear them! I QUIT.

(Photo: doyourownpestcontrol.com -- If I ever need the one on the right, I will seriously quit.)