Weekend!

Weekend's pretty fruity this week. We found the best margaritas in Oshkosh and the Fox Valley, and now, we're bringing them to you.

Voila.


Speaking of Weekend, we've got Sawdust Days. Lucky (or unlucky?) for us, we live right. On. Top of it. On my way home from work, I saw the Ferris wheel and the tents and the porta-potties. Ooh, boy. I'm actually looking forward to eating a funnel cake. I haven't eaten one of those in like, eight years. And I'm sure Dave'll go to take more of his carnival worker photos. He took a bunch at the county fair where we lived in Michigan, like this guy.

Movie time ... YES!

I get into movie kicks, and I can't stop. Last weekend, it was "He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not," an Audrey Tautou movie (love her in "Amelie,"). I'd heard mixed reactions about "He Loves Me," but I loved it. I wouldn't want to own the thing. But it did have me mesmerized for the whole movie (or maybe that was because I had to sit close to read the subtitles).

Tautou plays this art student who's in love with a doctor -- and he's married. The first half of the movie, we see her side of the story, through her sweet gestures all the way to the disconcerting end. For the second half, we see the doctor's side. I won't give it away, but the ending's one you'll say "oh, no" to. And still be able to sleep at night. Best kind of thriller.

And, I found the trailer for the new Zach Braff movie, which comes out Sept. 15, and I am so there (you know, months later, getting it on DVD, etc.).

I can't say if I love it, because I've only watched the same short trailer everyone else has, which can be found here. However, I will soon be able to say I know how it ends, as it's a remake of "L'Ultimo Bacio," an Italian film that I've got a hold on at the library. Gotta love the library. I'll let you know if I hate it. Because I am just like Roger Ebert, and the world values my opinion.

Ha.

One month to 'Scoop'

I love Scarlett Johansson; if there were any actress I could be, it'd be her. She seems so intelligent and well-spoken. Maybe it's because she is. Maybe it's because her peers are getting "totally wasted man" and land themselves on tabloid covers for breaking up with or getting back with Hollywood "bad boys." Whatever.

And I'm sure starring in Woody Allen's films doesn't hurt a career any, especially his recent work. First "Match Point," (awesome, go rent it now), and soon, "Scoop" (July 28). I am P.U.M.P.E.D. So pumped, in fact, that I'm not going to wait 'til it's in the used DVD bin at Media Exchange like I did for "Match Point."

I'm going to actually go rent this one. Maybe even from the movie store instead of the library. Hey, I can be cool and cheap at the same time.

But Johansson and Allen have a cool, quick-reading interview in New York, which you can read here.

Best part: has Scarlett made Woody a believer?

“I can only quote myself from the movie 'Manhattan',” he says. “Scarlett is God’s answer to Job. God would say, ‘I’ve created a terrifying and horrible universe, but I can also make one of these, so stop complaining.’ ”

(Photo: New York magazine)

My name is Erin and I like to do drarings.

What can you do with 100 pixels?

I can draw Nick Cokas' neck. And I don't think I know who Nick Cokas is.

That's right. Swarm Sketch lets you "draw" 100 pixels on a screen, and then vote to darken or lighten others' lines.

It's good for about 10 minutes, tops, of actual fun, but for the first three minutes of those 10 ... Boy.

It was created as an honors project, apparently, by some guy in Australia. But according to the stats, the United States makes up the majority of e-artists. (And judging by Nick Cokas, we really stink.)

(photo: Someone has talent. explorevirginiacolleges.com)

Want to sleep on my couch? Well, you can't, because we don't have one.

Here's a happy thought: we're all so alone.

According to Duke University Professor Lynn Smith-Lovin, we're all lonely, many of us have zero close friends, and work and marrying late may be to blame.

Frankly, it's kind of scary, and a bit sad. Therefore, I am not going to work tomorrow. I have some interpersonal relationships to work on.

I would have thought that IM, text messaging and e-mails would make people more connected; I talk to my friends more often. But no. No, apparently my "what's up" messages don't count.

Smith-Lovin (I'm so sure part of her last name is "Lovin") says that doesn't count as friendship. Nope. "It's one thing to know someone and exchange e-mails with them. It's another thing to say, 'Will you give me a ride out of town with all of my possessions and pets? And can I stay with you for a couple or three months?" Smith-Lovin said. Great. Now I'm depressed. WAY TO GO, SMITH-LOVIN(').

I guess I don't really ever ask anyone to let me sleep on their couch anymore. And I don't have a couch. Maybe that's my problem.

I just want to find a place to live and NEVER MOVE AGAIN (for a few years or something)

It's becoming increasingly harder to stay inside, as it's no longer 97 degrees, and it's not humid, either. But, instead of frolicking like children outside, Dave and I drove around all night, looking for places to live.

See, we conveniently planned the wedding exactly 15 days before our lease runs up. Uh, problem. I'm a control freak, and therefore I must know where we're going to live. I'm also indecisive. Own? Rent? What? (Hyperventilation) I just want to have a neat place to come home to every day. (Hyperventilation)

A place with air conditioning. A place with its own washer and dryer. Maybe a garage, one that's not leaning to one side. I also like street lights. Lights. Don't like being scared. OK. There. POOF. Where's my home? Point me in the right direction and I'll go.

And we know it's early, but we're anxious about getting it all sorted out before too long. After all, something tells me we're not going to want to be moving in lieu of getting married or going on our honeymoon.

I can hear it now: "Mommy, where did you go on your honeymoon?" "We went to the kitchen, honey, and wrapped dishes in newspapers, and then we went to the garage, and dumped that box over there, the contents of which are still a mystery."

Another twist to the tale is that we'll be getting all new items when we get married. Do we pack everything, or do we wait and see which we get new, and go from there? I have a feeling I'll be standing in my new kitchen worrying about where my three toasters go.

I suppose I can deal with the toaster problem later. It's this whole living thing that's getting me stressed out. And it's not even time to stress yet. Oh, man. And moving is something I'm way too tired of. This will be move No. 12 in my life. Never mind that it's only the sixth or seventh I've had to do as an adult. Never mind the rest weren't really long moves. Anyone who's moved will tell you it doesn't matter how far you move. It's that annoying packing, lifting, unpacking, washing, organizing routine that gets ya every time.

(Photo: From relocationessentials.com)

You can sheep when ewe're dead

The weekend was packed with library-going (uneventful), grocery-shopping, driving around, movie-watching (too depressing to write about, "The Pianist"), and regular shopping, and a birth (I'm kind of an aunt now -- how exciting!).

And then there was:

1. Wine and cheese-apalooza.
Because the whole "-apalooza" thing isn't overdone enough ... Some friends came over Friday night, and we tried to act all mature with our wine and cheese party. On the table: Brie, gouda, colby jack and ... string cheese. Ha, ha. Yum. The wine offerings weren't much more diverse. For a first-time go, it was totally successful. And late. I haven't stayed up 'til 5 since college. We all felt cool again, even if we did have those tell-tale purple mustaches.
(Photo: http://www.wilshirerestaurant.com/img/wine.jpg)

2. Finally checked out the lake.
We live literally a stone's throw from Lake Winnebago. Really. I can sit in my living room, and if someone holds my feet, I can lean outside and throw a stone to the park. And we've been there, like, twice.

Yesterday, we finally shut the computer off and went outside, and walked around, sat by the lake, and then realized we're just not used to all that nature. We were attacked by those strange, never-seen-before-in-my-life-and-hate-with-a-passion lake flies. What the heck are those things??? They swarm, they get in your hair, they congregate on your car ... But the park is nice. Just keep your mouth shut.


3. I went down the big-kid slide.
Once. Of the three slides at the new water park, two get my seal of approval. Meaning the third has a big drop that makes you want to die mid-air rather than hit the cold water. But it was fun. Go. Now.

4. I was part of a fund-raiser that didn't involve bowling, math or riding a bike.
This is a big step in my life. Yeah, a real fund-raiser, for Christine Ann Domestic Abuse Services Center. Sixty-some men cooked up delicious food and we got to taste them all. And we got smart, too. We picked out our favorite cooks, and sent our friends back to get seconds. I had five servings of the scalloped corn; I'm pretty sure my friend ate 43 scoops of strawberry sorbet. OK, maybe it was like, four.

5. Congrats to Xiku

Chimp tries to kick the habit. "Xiku the chain-smoking chimpanzee has almost kicked his deadly habit thanks to the efforts of zoo keepers in China, but it has taken a beer or two to help get him through detox." Well, that's a relief. If Xiku can do it, so can you.

Country USA takes over

It's Thursday! Finally.

And with Thursday comes (everyone now) Weekend. Our reporter Sarah Owen interviewed Montgomery Gentry (wild!) and Neal McCoy (family guy). We were going to have it flash "EXCLUSIVE" on the front page of Weekend, but apparently that's next to impossible to pull off with just ink.

Maybe next year.

I'm pretty sure this guy's going to get fries thrown at him wherever he goes for a long time

Some communities and cities have restrictions on liquor licenses, strip clubs, buildings over X-stories high and above-ground pools. But I don't really see this taking off: Limiting fast-food joints. In New York City.

OK, so maybe half of New Yorkers are overweight (according to the story, man, I'm not calling New York obese). But all I know is, when I get a craving for a roast beef sandwich that's not really what I think it is, drowning in cheese that comes in a gallon can, I am willing to walk to extra block or three to get it. Much like people who like bars go to bar districts; and people who like their pools where they can see 'em across the yard move to the country, outside zoning laws, people are gonna eat their fries and greasy burgers and fake Mexican food. Of course if they had to walk farther to get it ... EXERCISE.

"SUPERSIZE IT, we're walking home!" OK, at least that's what I'd think.

(Photo: From the coolest site in the world, toothpastefordinner.com.)

ENOUGH. We're now going to look for a house. No more living in a stupid apartment.

Another day, another fire alarm. This time it wasn't at 3 a.m. like usual. Nope. 6. Yes. 6 a.m. As in "Erin wakes up at 7:30 a.m., and therefore is in that blissful homestretch of sleep ..."

Insert the alarm.

Good news is I am confident I won't ever sleep through it should it ever be a real fire. Which it wasn't. Again. We made it out our door, to the stairs, when the alarm went off. Instead of going back to sleep, I thought I'd take a shower, but then it went off again, so I in my jeans and pajamas and Dave in his flip-flops carry our most valuable possessions (though a few less than the last time, because we're getting lazier). Then it goes off again, and we can hear our building manager yell "Go back to bed, it's just the (redacted) equipment room."

So this time I really just took a shower and went to work. It was about 7:30 a.m. when I got there, and it was nice. All quiet, no phones ringing, no one there. No e-mails. Not "nice" as in "I'm going to come in at 7:30 every day!" But it wasn't so bad. Well, except I wanted to die because I was so tired, but that's because ...

We stayed up pretty late (on a school night!) watching "The Hours." Not one of those movies that lifts the spirit. More like crushes it (or walks it into the river with stones in its pockets, as in Virginia Wolf's case).

What I was doing last week

Check out Living Well.

It's got a cute pet photography story, and an awesome recipe for cake that'll keep your dentist in business.

I'd comment further, but seeing as the stupid fire alarm was going off this morning, I don't have the energy. UGH.

Happy anniversary to us, kind of, maybe ...

I've had anniversaries before. I've been to golden anniversary parties. I danced the polka (really) at my grandparents' 50th.

I've also witnessed not-so-happy anniversary parties:

("Fifty years ago today, I made a big mistake," says some old man, while everyone laughs nervously, quietly, looking at the floor, shuffling from one foot to the other ... "Oh, look, grass. Dandelions," they think. "Oh, I'm just kidding," the man says, to more non-laughing laughing).

I've witnessed embarrassing "we don't celebrate anniversaries" speeches:

(Total stranger, trying to make conversation: "How long have you and Rob been together?"
Woman: "Oh, well, we don't really count. We just sort of started hanging out, like with other friends, a few years ago, and then we started just hanging out just the two of us. But we don't really keep track of that stuff. We just hang out ..."
Stranger: "That's nice." Cough.
Witnesses: Fidgeting, thinking "Just make up a number, you'll never see this man again in your life, ever. He doesn't really care. Just PICK A NUMBER -- TWO, SEVEN, WHO CARES.")

I mean the anniversary you have when you're just dating someone. The ones that say "Wow, we've been dating two years. Neat. Let's go to Fazolis." Those are the kinds of anniversaries we have. But now ... Now it's different. It's only a matter of time (about 106 days, but I'm not really counting) before we get a new anniversary. I'm assuming July 2 (cough, cough, if Dave's reading) just becomes meaningless after Oct. 14, but does that mean we don't get to celebrate (read: go to Fazolis and get a card or something) this year?

Or does it mean we get TWO anniversaries this year? YES.

Oh, wait, is this the part I am supposed to say "Aw, it doesn't matter. Just so long as I get to be with Dave." Now, see, look what you made me do. You know I'm not sentimentally mushy. Now I feel queasy.

Kidding.

And gifts -- gifts! -- who came up with the traditional anniversary gifts? Who? I want answers. I Googled it, but found conflicting reports. But, seriously, paper, cotton, leather, iron? I know you don't just get a bushel full of cotton (does cotton come in bushels?), but still. Why?

I think they need new ones. First anniversary, cookies. Second, free movie rentals. Third, tanks of gas. Fourth, cable TV. Fifth, free day off work. I mean, stuff I'd actually know what to do with.

(Photo: Lasagna, the official food of anniversaries.)

(Fun fact: When you do a search on Google images for "fazolis," you get my photo in the second page of results. See? And check out that guy beside me. Oh, man.)

'I've got visions of a small western town where the band plays all night, but it don't matter 'cuz there's no one around'

What're you doing July 1?

I know what I'd like to be doing. Road trip to Minnesota for Rediscover. You're driving. I call shotgun.

Come on. Let's go. Minneapolis. Rediscover and Action Action. Though I don't know if it's cool to admit you like Action Action. No matter. I'm so there. Maybe. What day of the week is that? Saturday? Yeah. Maybe.

Rediscover has a mysterious fourth bandmate. I'm intrigued. And I have like, one song from a sampler disc from Action Action. It's not bad, I guess. But Rediscover -- come on!

Sigh.

But, onto more realistic live music news, Wandering Sons are playing at Cranky Pat's in Neenah this weekend. Hmm ... Wandering Sons or Neal McCoy at Country USA ... Hmm. So many tough decisions. Unless a fire, flood or act of hillbilly fever hits, I will be at Cranky's. I just got the Sons' CD (well, OK, Dave did while he was at their last show), and I am addicted. I also stood next to them at Waterfest. Does that make me cool? No? I don't think so, either. There was no eye contact.

Ha.

And, because it's my lucky music day, Neenah's Blueheels are playin' at Cranky's in Neenah next week, June 30. I'm so there.

(Photo: Rediscover, from their Web site; headline is from the Blueheels)

"Oh, I downloaded those ... Right."

It's just the summer from the past, man. Meaning a few weeks ago, I saw the Gin Blossoms, and then have had "Allison Road" in my head ever since. So last night (after looking for a copy of their CD at the library, to no avail ... it was probably checked out), I bought it off iTunes.

While I was waiting for it to download, I went back to check out the free download of the week from last week (or was it the week before?) that I'd never listened to (bad habit) ... and I loved it. Loved. It. It was Office a "pop/glam/indie" band. The single was "Wound Up," and after a long Google search (come on, like I thought searching "Office" would take me to some obscure band's site), I found two more downloadable songs -- happy day. They take the glam pop schtick and run a 1500 relay with it. Not that I'm complaining, but I'm warning you, it's catchy.

Another "free download" band I remembered I had was from Editors, which is great if you're looking for more from The Killers, which I wasn't. I already have enough of them, thankyouverymuch. Delete. ...

And, this week's free single is from Under the Influence of Giants, and it's a keeper: "Mama's Room." Very pop rock. Very Hall and Oates, very BeeGees.

So, for good measure, I downloaded H & O's "I Can't Go for That."

I passed on the BeeGees.

(Photos: Under the Influence ... from their Web site, and Hall & Oates, from a Google search ... Oh, mullets.)

And that's how Rossford broke Erin's heart

It's like this big, lonely, quiet waste. My first two years of college, I lived right by this amphitheater-wannabe in Rossford (relatively speaking, it's Toledo). It was on the way to pretty much everything my roommate and I drove to, and each time we'd pass it, we'd say how cool it'd be to actually have a live-music venue so close to the apartment. Toledo really doesn't have an outdoor venue of that kind (well, International Park, maybe, but ... no).

And which big bands showed up? Which festivals crowded it? None, nothing. It just stood there.

The (Toledo) Blade says it's going on an auction block this Thursday, if you happen to have some money lying around and don't know what to do with it.

Mark Zuchowski, who served as Rossford's mayor from 1991 to 2003, and other elected officials envisioned a 15,000-seat, open-air amphitheater to rival the DTE Energy Music Theatre near Clarkston, Mich. Next to the Rossford amphitheater would be a 12,000-seat arena that would house a professional hockey team. The complex was expected to open in 2000 and haul in millions of dollars of business profit and taxes each year.
Though the project seemed on target for months, it never could land a favorable bond rating. Even so, construction began with "temporary" loans that still have not been paid.
Work stopped in late 1999 for lack of funds, though construction on the amphitheater was 20 percent complete.

But, in a much smaller community ...


Oshkosh has the Leach, which brings in small, has-been artists, and some good ones, too ("good" means "still on top-# lists, Grammy-winners," not "artists on Erin's iPod"). Lyle Lovett's coming, Gin Blossoms were just here, Dierks Bentley's coming, Staind and Trapt (oh, yeah, baby, greasy-haired rock!) are coming, the guys from "Viva La Bam" ... and Toledo/Rossford didn't want this? Couldn't find a way to work? Why?

In an abrupt telephone interview, Mr. Langevin blamed prejudice against Rossford. He said conventional wisdom of detractors was that such a grand vision was "not supposed to happen in Rossford, Ohio."

And it can happen in Oshkosh, Wisconsin??

I still feel a bit slighted, and I don't even live there anymore. (And no, it's not just because I would've had to go to Michigan for concerts.) It's because, dang, that would've been so sweet. It's near three colleges (and a few small ones that I can't really think of to count). A few big suburbs. Growing area. YOU GUYS COULD GET A BASS PRO SHOP BUT NOT COMPLETE YOUR AMPHITHEATER? Rossford, Rossford, Rossford. You're breaking my heart.


If I had a few million lying around, I'd buy it. But, alas, I'm just that girl who used to drive by it while going to the community college, a few years before she was the girl going to work in a few hours at a journalism job. Not really a millionaire. Yet, anyhow.

(Photo: The Blade file photo, and The Northwestern file photos)

My computer's brainchild is cooler than yours (unless you, too, have a Mac)

Next time your computer crashes, maybe you should look at who made it and curse them.

When I saw this photo, I thought "OK, another file photo from a cold case that just got solved?", expecting one of the beareded men had axed the others to death, and his diary was just found in the bedroom of his cat-filled trailer and now his scrawny body was hauled off to jail.

But I was wrong. It's really Bill Gates. And, as far as we know, he neither has a cat-filled trailer, or a murderous past.


(And Steve Jobs looks way cooler. You have to admit.)

Speaking of cat-filled tailers, Dave and I watched the documentary "Grey Gardens," a movie we got from the library (awesome and free). Talk about messed up. You spend the whole time watching Jackie O's aunt and cousin walk around a decaying house in East Hampton, either yelling at each other or singing "Tea for Two." It's very sad, and a bit disgusting.

You have all these nice houses, and then you have this one ... which, actually, was later bought and restored by Ben Bradlee from the Washington Post. Weird, huh. I guess cat pee and raccoons can't deter that "fix 'er up" attitude. Eek.

Yeee-haw

Weekend's out, and it's country. All country. Country USA's next Wednesday, so we got a few previews, the must-see acts and all the details for ya.

Billy, Blueheels and other "B" words

I like music. I like clothes. I like my life. Ergo, I am going to write about music and clothes and my life. I am 20something, and that's what I do best. So, I scoured the 'Net for the best in the Internet, but came up only with stuff I own and already knew. Ergo, I am sharing. I love "ergo."

>>Something Dave and our friend Tim helped get me: BILLY JOEL'S NEWEST CD, "12 Gardens." It's all live. All Billy. It even has a bonus track. Oh, man. You can sample a track or two here.

>>New (to those of you who don't know this, ha) in our area: The Blueheels have a new drummer. That's right. New Kentucky Quarter now has two members in The Blueheels. The drummer's the newest guy. Awesome. Dave and I went to see them last week at Water City Grill after Waterfest, and they rocked; sounded a lot more polished than they did a few months ago (and I thought they rocked then). They're playing Friday at Raven's in Appleton. Dave and I may be there. You should be too, then.

>>"Saved by the Bell" (got a "b" in there -- ha!) just doesn't seem to be makin' Screech any money, despite its syndication. Check out Dustin Diamond's attempts to keep his (Wisconsin!) house. Poor little guy. If you feel sorry for him, you should buy a T-shirt. It's like saving manatees, only ... wait a minute.

I'd call it "Can you hear me now," but that commercial is so 2003.

Kids, you're going to really love this.

Here's the deal, for all of you lazy link-haters: Teens are downloading this new ringtone to their cell phones so they can use them in class, or wherever, without adults knowing. How? They ring in a super high-pitched tone that the New York Times says most adults can't hear.

I'd say it separates the cool kids from the old kids if, well, I didn't have trouble hearing the mp3 myself. My left ear's broken. I held my laptop up to my right ear and heard it, so I guess that means I'm half cool. Right? Or half old ..? Or half deaf. I've heard that before.

Anyhow. Go to the link above and check it out. The audio file's under the photo of the kid on the phone (with a Windows screen behind him, with no icons. Whose computer doesn't have icons?).

(Photo: Motorola)

Because you're DYING to know about our wedding, I just know it.

Because I know you're all DYING to know what the latest wedding plans are, I will tell you. Stop asking, you crazy mob. It should be noted only two people have actually asked me. ...

Anyhow.

1. We got our rings. And mine is gorgeous. Well, OK, we picked them out and get to pick them up from the store Saturday. But it's gorgeous. I considered going to the courthouse to get hitched now just so I could wear it, but I'm not sure how Mom'd like that. I'm guessing not much.

2. T minus four months (almost to the day, thankyouverymuch), and still no sign of invitations.* We were going to make some, but this whole job thing got in the way.
*See also: Erin has no veil, Erin has no shoes, Erin has no cake picked out, Erin has no idea what to do if she's getting married out of state, and Erin has no transportation from the church to the reception (make that Erin and Dave and wedding party, as I'm sure I won't be getting married, then bumming a ride with Grandma while all my friends and Dave chill in some van).

3. I'm starting to care less. I got the big stuff. I'm not so worried anymore. Now, I'm just excited. As in pumped. As in I will probably squeal a bit if someone mentions that -- holy crap -- I'm getting married in four months. Four months to the day TOMORROW. Holy COW.

4. We still don't know what our song is going to be ... We like music too much to just get to pick one. We don't have a "song." We have a never-ending soundtrack. Whoa. That's deep. We had picked out an Iron and Wine version of a Postal Service song, but I'm not sure it's not about hating people; and then we thought about a Damien Rice song. Rice's song is all sweet and romantic and "Can't take my eyes off you," and then, right when you're like "THIS IS THE ONE," he goes and whispers "'Til I find someone new" right at the end. Jerk.

Suggestions?

5. Not sure how to handle that whole parents/step-parent thing. Do I dance with just my dad? Can I split the time and dance with my step dad? Why can't I dance with my mom? Come on. Why not?

6. Good news: I've nixed the dollar dance. BO-RING. I've also nixed the hokey pokey, chicken dance and all line dances. There will be no "Electric Slide" played at our wedding. If so, I am grabbing Dave and leaving. THAT'LL teach 'em. Jury's still out on the Cha-Cha Slide, as it's a hit with the under-10 crowd. And me. I have no shame.

7. Best meal ever: Mashed potatoes, beef, pork, rolls, corn, noodles. No one outside of Putnam County would understand just what that means. It means Putnam County (Ohio) wedding food. It means no scary chicken-like blob on your plate. It means no crazy "mashed potatoes with parsley and (whatever else you may want in it)." It means when Dave and I leave, we'll have Ziploc baggies filled with noodles that we can take home and freeze and live off for at least a year. BEST WEDDING EVER.

8. Honeymoon: Set. Quebec. Yesss.

9. Hair: My soon-to-be sister in law's doing it for me. Yesss.

10. Bachelorette party: Really?

And there you have it. And that's how Erin and Dave got married.

The end.

(Photo: It says "Jewelry may be enlarged to show detail." No kidding? Dang. And I thought I'd be walking around with a ring the size of my fist. DANG.)

I'm the reason we can't have nice things

When I was a wee one, I used to think librarians kept running tallies of who ALWAYS had overdue fines, who returned books with bent corners and who checked out the Danielle Steel books.

Well, OK, part of that came from my actually working in a small-town library (we had like, 34 books) and listening to the librarians gossip. "Suzanne checked out 'Wanderlust' like, two months ago. What is her problem?" "I know, her son came in and sneezed right in 'World Full of Monsters' and then put it right on the shelf."

Something like that.

When I moved to Toledo and joined its huge branch of libraries, I should have known no one really pays attention to some random Raymond Carver book from the '80s that some college girl (me) checked and returned a week late. But I didn't think that. I thought they knew I was a late-returns kind of woman.

And that pretty well shamed me into turning things in on time. Good for business, I suppose.

You can imagine my horror, then, when I went online to renew my books tonight and saw I have $1.50 in fines.

Wait. What? Me? Oh, God, they're going to burn my card and kick me out of the summer reading program, I thought. I actually did feel a bit of panic: "You mean I went in there and let Dave check out a book for me, all while the librarian had to have known I was harboring three DVDs and some change?"

I am so ashamed.

It's paid now, too, by the way.

Oshkosh Magazine, back in bl- ... green

How exciting: The new Oshkosh Magazine.

Yeah, just in time for me to start planning the next issue, here comes this one to remind me. I'd go on about how awesome it is, but I'll just let you skim through it yourself instead.

Here's to being a Niese. Or, to not being a Niese.

No one'd asked me really, if I were going to keep my name, or take Dave's last name when we get married in October. That is, until a few weeks ago. Now, everyone wants to know.

I'd kind of grown up thinking "Niese" was only temporary, but now I'm not sure. I still haven't decided, so I wrote a column about it, and you can read it here.

I'm leaning toward taking his name. And, no, it's not because of our miracle wedding classes we had to take.

I still may change my mind. I don't know. Dang, man, don't pressure me.

Speaking of setting the womens movement back, here's a funny drawing from our friends at Married to the Sea that I found appropriate after all this talk of "his" and "mine." I don't think voting and my last name are on the same level, but ... laugh, nonetheless, please.

(Dude, I've warned you before: They get a bit potty-mouthed at times (not hard-core no-no words, but the kind you'd feel funny about saying too loudly in a church). Don't say I didn't warn you.)

Eight years later, the pants story

There are certain moments in a woman's life when she thinks she just may crawl into a pair of yoga pants and never come out.

Yesterday, my friends, I had one of those moments.

After bypassing any semblance of a healthy meal for fast food this weekend, I was well aware my body needed to go through a bit of fruit and veggie therapy. I knew I'd feel blah, I knew my mouth would have that weird greasy-food feeling. But the moment I wanted to grab my stretchy yoga pants was one I hadn't really expected.

Enter moi, carrying a pair of my favorite new, springy, light-weight pants. They're green, they're comfortable, and they dry in no time on a hanger in my bathroom. What more could I ask for in $10 pants? Nothing. Actually, I loved them so much, I went back to buy two more: one in khaki, one in pink. That's three. Then with my one pair of cords and my jeans on Sundays, I had my entire workweek mapped out in my closet. Talk about sleeping in for 10 more minutes each morning.

All those 10-minute snooze periods faded before my eyes, however, when I put on those magical green pants.

They stopped above my ankles. First problem: They're not supposed to. They're pants, not ankle-length cropped pants. They're not capris. They are pants. Regular, long pants.

OK, I tell myself, half hoping this means I've finally had that growth spurt everyone else had in the sixth grade. I've been waiting patiently for years. Why I thought it'd decide to come now, overnight, on some random Saturday, I don't know.

Second problem: I couldn't button them. At all. Sucked in, did the hop up and down dance, stretched them out, pulled at the waistband (no elastic, so it was really a futile attempt). Took them off, put them back on (like "maybe I did it wrong the first time"), shook them out, tugged at the bottom, threw them on the floor, picked them up, tried again, stood in front of the mirror and saw me, looking angry.

Oh, god, I thought. Greasy fries, quesadillas, Arby's, pizza, cheese and crackers: They all came flooding back (pretty literally, as I felt like throwing up). Is it possible? To gain that much weight in four days? So much that my pants no longer fit? No -- it can't be! (Insert "Psycho" shrieking noise here.)

Then ... I heard the dryer ding outside the bathroom door. The lightbulb over my head dinged at the same time: Dave. It had to be Dave. Dave, who avoided doing laundry if I so much as mentioned there were special directions ("This doesn't get washed with this, don't put these towels with these clothes," etc.). Dave, who is pretty much the most forgetful fiance I have.

Dave. Shrinker of favorite pants.

I grabbed other pants, was glad they fit right, and ran out to check the dryer. What do I find inside? My other two pants. Shrunk. All of them. Ruined. No more comfy pants. No more green, springy colors. No more lightweight cotton. No more ... no more.

So, rationally, I grabbed my cell phone:

"Dave? We're officially fighting."
"What? What'd I do?"
"My green pants. My pink pants. My tan pants. All. Shrunk."
Silence.
"Dave."
Silence.
"DAVE."
"Sorry, I forgot."
"WHAT AM I GOING TO WEAR NOW?"
"Uh, I'm sorry?"

Men.

I hung up the phone, sat down in my pants that fit, and thought about going to get more pants. But that'd be $30 ... and what if they don't have my size? In my springy colors? What if? What if? War, famine and injustice in the world, and I spent 15 minutes actually plotting out a way to fit "buy pants again" into my schedule.

But, silly me. I didn't have to find time. Dave did. I'd like to report my new pants are now happily hanging in the closet.

And Dave? He's got a list by the dryer:
"Tan pants, Old Navy, cold water, NO DRYER
Pink pants, Old Navy, cold water, NO DRYER
Green pants, Old Navy, cold water, NO DRYER."

Oh, Dave.

(Photo: Right church, wrong pew ... right color, not really the pants, though not too far off: http://store.subcultural.com.)

It's about dang time

I've been trying to post blogs since yesterday morning at 8 a.m., but Blogger (which hosts my blog) had "unexpected errors," and was down all day. Ugh.

So, it's not Thursday, but it's still the weekend, ergo, check out Weekend.

And, it's too late for Waterfest, but if you're interested in just how big of a bore the BoDeans interview was, check out this story.

I'd type more, but you're going to have to wait a hot minute, because I've got some breakfast to eat with the family, and then a day of playing "and this is Oshkosh ..." with the dad, stepmom, and three girls. Whoa.

Baaad music Wednesday

Not to rub it in or anything, but tomorrow's my Friday. And, to celebrate, some happy music (and, please, don't think that this means it's GOOD music. Nope. Just that it's happy, or masquerades as happy, or makes me happy; as a matter of fact, two or three of these I'd be embarrassed to admit to liking if this weren't the free-for-all blogosphere):

No. 1: Hot Chip: Let's not get all confused and think "Erin's into electronica??" No, not really. But Brit boys Hot Chip's sound's so different from anything I have, except maybe the Postal Service. Maybe. Though nothing will ever come close to replacing the Postal Service.

Moving on.

Hot Chip's got this sound that makes me want to either dance around my apartment or clean my apartment. I can't decide. I think maybe if I danced while cleaning AND while listening to Hot Chip, I'd totally be in nirvana. And, if you're into them, too, you should go to Milwaukee on Aug. 5, when they'll be at Onopa.

No. 2: Remember "Lovefool? That horrible song from Top 40 radio circa 1996? Yeah, it's totally track one on my newest mixed CD. Why? Because nothing sings summer like a band from Sweden.

No. 3: "Office." Not "The Office." Not "Microsoft Office." Not that place you get paid to sit in, surrounded by cloth-covered four feet walls. But Office. A band that's got a free download on iTunes this week, which isn't bad, not bad at all. The bad part is their Web site is impossible to find ("impossible": (adj., means "Erin did two Google searches and only came up with business-related stuff, and thus gave up."). I'd link to it, but I think a better idea is for YOU to find it and link to it for me. Thanks.

He's always a woman to me ... Wait, that came out wrong.

I foooound it, I foooound it. OK, so Pop Candy found it. But I found it from her finding it!

BILLY JOEL IS BACK.

And you can hear his new CD here. This really is the best day of my life. (You can stream the music from that site until June 10.)

OK, so there are a few bummer points. None of the songs is new. He rocks live, but it just reminds me I'll probably never see him live. Bring on the tears, etc.

But come on, Billy Joel, man. "Laura"? "Scenes from an Italian Restaurant"? "Vienna"? It doesn't get much better than this. Well, I suppose if he were standing in my living room, singing them to me, that'd be better. But I'll take what I can get.

(Fun Billy Joel fact No. 46: When I was sick once in college, I got out a piece of notebook paper and pulled up my media player to listen to "We Didn't Start the Fire," and then I went through and found out what all of the words he says mean.
You know, "Harry Truman, Doris Day, Red China, Johnnie Ray, South Pacific, Walter Winchell, Joe DiMaggio ..." I memorized it, and felt all proud of myself ... and then I found some site like this one, and it totally made me feel like a loser for having spent all that time looking up why Richard Nixon's in the song twice. I have no shame.)

Dooo-dooo-dooo doodo doo doo, Dooo-dooo-dooo doodo doo dee ... (That's the 'Unsolved Mysteries' music)

I'm not going to come right out and say I'm brave. I'm not. I admit it.

That dot on the wall? It's gotta be a bug, and that's why I'm sitting in the other room. If there's a dog barking, he's obviously got rabies and is coming after me. It's dark, I'm listening for a serial killer. It's all quiet at home, I'm alone, and I hear something, my first instinct is to look at the floor because I'm certain a mouse will scamper by. Brave? No. Not really.

But I did take pride in being able to stand "Unsolved Mysteries" as a kid. That music, Robert Stack ... I mean, it's creepy. And, much like making yourself stand on hot cement barefoot, it's uncomfortable, but putting on shoes would just make Mom too happy.

Later in life, I was happy that I was able to make it through hours upon hours of "Cold Case Files." Bill Kurtis isn't really that creepy. Is he?

Fast-forward to two nights ago. Dave's working late. Erin's home, curled under a blanket, watching the DVD of "Cold Case Files" she got from the library. First four stories are creepy, but don't cause much alarm. The fifth ... Oh, goodness.

Suddenly, not only was I expecting mice and bugs to go racing across the floor, I was worried about the Zodiac Killer sneaking up behind me. I was worried about it being so dark in the apartment, and so cold. Clearly it was so chilly because I was being visited by the Angel of Death, right? Right. It was so bad that I had to shut off the DVD. Shortly thereafter, Dave came home, and I made him sit and watch it with me. But it was too late. I was already freaked out.

"Get out 'Mr. Blandings,'" I said. "I can't even stand this." They hadn't caught the guy! The guy shot young people as they were making out, or having picnics or other scandalous affairs that everyone's done. He had a flashlight taped to his gun! He wrote letters the the newspaper! He said he made deaths look like accidents so no one would question it! OH MY GOD.

I tried to make myself feel better, like "the guy's gotta be dead now. That was 1967." But no. he's no older than my grandpa. Obviously, he's in Oshkosh. In my apartment. Ready to jump at any time.

That's it. I'm taking the DVDs back to the library.

Fun in the sun ... except it's raining now, and not really all that warm

It may seem that all I do is have visitors or go home myself, but ... OK, yeah, it does seem like that.

This time, it's my dad and his wife, Linda, my two stepsisters and my half-sister. They're showing up tomorrow night (yeah, a Wednesday), which is cool because it gives me a reason to hurry up a bit more at work to go see them. That, and I finally get to try out my new bathing suit when I pretend I'm totally staying at their hotel.

This also means I have to figure out something for them to do while I'm at work Thursday. I'm thinking of sending them to the EAA Museum or something. The kids range from 10 to 17, so they don't want to do anyhting, like, gawd, totally uncool.

Speaking of swimming ... tomorrow's The Northwestern's big water park preview tab for the opening of the new Pollock Water Park. I'm not ashamed to admit that my friends and I have already decided we're going. That big slide? It's not going to ride itself. I've got to be there. And it's in Oshkosh. Holy cow. It's no Beach (Cincinnati's contribution to my summer fun when I was 15), but hey, it's wet. It's new. It's in Oshkosh. Etc.

This blog is a long one. It'll take commitment to read it. I hope your love tank's full.

I've been through the marriage course, and am now a wiser person. My marriage toolbox is full, my marriage box is empty and my bank of corny phrases is overflowing.

Before I begin crackin' your side with all this marriage class goodness, I must first say I know it's important, yeah, yeah, yeah, I know marriage is a big deal, and all that. I know. But come on, this is pure goodness. You can learn something and laugh at the same time.

The class's big problem was the time: 8:30 a.m. When my alarm went off at 6:45, I briefly considered calling the whole marriage thing off so I could sleep in, but figured I'd regret that when I woke up (refreshed) at noon. I crawled out of bed, got ready and sulked the whole drive to Appleton.

Once there, we walked in and stood in line to find our names on the table. We signed in, got color-coded name tags and a glossy folder that said "Preparing for your marriage" in italics around a pair of clip-art hands and a levitating heart. Ugh. The muffins were sticky. The orange juice was warm. My mood didn't improve, until we walked in the theater of the high school for the opening address of our marriage course.

"Marriage: The Great Adventure."

Yes. The great adventure. A speech given by a woman with a penchant for Scrunchies; and her husband, who started his speech by admitting to having an unhealthy fascination with trains. I don't really know what was so adventurous about them, unless you count the Trekkie convention they talked about going to.

They were nice enough, I'm sure they had good lessons to share, but their speech kind of killed the lesson. "Listen to his heart, not his words," she said. "And I couldn't believe it when she said she didn't want to chase trains with me," he said. "You need to make time together, to keep your love tank full," she said.

Keep your love tank full? After the program, Dave and I told our friends about our day, and we thought it would be more appropriate now if they had more modern examples, such as iPods. You may be a 20 GB pod, she may be a Nano. Together, you have to learn to share music, even if she's not compatible with Macs. Etc. Pope, take note.

iPods are way cooler than "you need to turn the crank of commitment every day."

"Relationship Skills for Newlyweds"

The theater was huge, and after they split us up by colors of our name tags, we went to get some skills (you know, cage fighting skills, numchuck skills, etc.). We thought it'd be another "Keep your love tank full" couple, but instead we went back to our college days and did GROUP WORK. I used to leave class if I knew group work was coming, but they had already shut the doors. We were trapped. We went down to mingle with the other groups while they passed out MORE color-coded worksheets. Our group, which included us and three other couples, were supposed to talk about solving a problem on our worksheet to present to the class.

Ours? "I can tell when you're not listening when ..." Oh, boy.

We ended up spending the whole time talking about the Scan-Tron test some parishes made the other couples take to get married (more on that in a second) instead of our color-coded problem, so by the time the microphone made it around to Dave (who lost the "not it" game), we had one thing written on the paper. He started stammering ... "Uh, well, we thought that first of all, communication is a two-way street ..." We giggled while the presenters smiled. Two-way street. Boy, they loved that one. "Yes, that's exactly it (pause, searching for his name tag), Dave. Good, good work." Whew.

Scan-Trons

Some parishes require engaged couples to take a bubble test before they can sign up to get married. We didn't get one, but I'm almost sorry we didn't. "Do you feel your partner drinks too much?" "Do you think your partner has homosexual tendencies?" "Have you ever had relations with your partners' mother/father?" Uh ... what? I think they ask those questions to throw you off, or maybe to see how humorous you can be with bubbles: "So, Bob, you feel your fiancee is gay, and you have had relations with her mother ... Beth, how do you respond to that?"

"In-laws, Children and Your Marriage: The Unholy Alliance"

I chose this workshop because the others ("Intimacy" and "Interfaith Marriages") didn't really appeal to me. Plus, I like my mom more than Dave does. So, what the heck. We walk in the room (which is obviously a math room, with its trigonometry books stacked against the wall and the eight chalkboards everywhere), sit in the same desks I think I had in my high school, and listen to a speech on putting your marriage first. OK, nothing weird here. Until ... warning lights flash ... "LET'S WATCH A VIDEO."

Please, please, if you coordinate one of these marriage things, do not ever think it's OK to reach in the VHS piles for a video, especially if there are mullets, acid wash jeans and flattops involved. I don't know what the video was about. I was laughing too hard at the mid-'80s 'dos. I felt like I was a kid in a classroom where someone just said a dirty word. I couldn't stop giggling. I was sure the instructor'd taken our certificate and burned it: "Obviously not ready for marriage," she'd say, holding it over a candle.

The hallway display

When you walked out of the theater, you couldn't miss it: a 5-foot tall, 10-foot wide display for (gulp) family planning. Complete with brochures on (if you're under 18, I think I have to tell you to stop reading now) the rhythm method. I didn't know the ins and outs of it, but I'd heard it before, in a joke: "What do you call people who use the rhythm method? (What?) Parents." Ha, ha. We all got a brochure. I would go into details, but I don't want any word that you learned in sixth grade health class to be used here along with "work it into your daily routine," and "observing a woman's changes." I think I just threw up.

The church's stance on ... more giggling

Let me just say this: the worksheet we got says God is a very important part of your sexual intimacy. That's all I'm saying. God's in your bedroom. You can draw conclusions without me going into "oneness" and "celebrations of the mysteries of life."

Certificates

We made it. No burnt certificates: there we were with our names in calligraphy on a "READY FOR MARRIAGE" slip. We all got a parting gift: a DVD called "After the Cake is Gone." We haven't gotten around to watching it, but trust me. We will. You can borrow it when we're done. I hope it's not about the rhythm method.

This gentleman brought to you by Us magazine and Photoshop

Who is that man, you ask. Before you call him handsome or dashing, let me ruin the moment for you and tell you it's Britney's K-Fed, everyone's favorite ... uh, rookie of the year. He's in Us, and boy is he charming or what?!

"It's completely unfair when a child is brought into this world an now he's already looked at like a prince. My kids are going to have to learn what a real job is, what life is. You don't have it easy with me. Period....My kids are going to work at Taco Bell, dammit," he says. Yeah, dammit.

Word, K-Fed. Word to your mother.

You know what you're like..?

Waterfest, week two, was last night, and it was awesome. OK, so the cover band went from "Lady Marmalade" to "Sweet Home Alabama" to "I Will Survive," and then over to Bon Jovi's "Livin' On a Prayer." So the lead singer was the stereotypical cover band guy: the sunglasses, the bare (waxed) chest, the muscles, the Superman tattoo on his shoulder. ... I mean, it was hot. (Or not.)

And so the second band, a Canadian country-ish band was just OK (not bad, though, not bad).

But the Gin Blossoms. Oh, man. I suddenly was back in Mrs. Kohls' classroom, learning how to add fractions. Oh, the memories.

There's something about listening to a band and enjoying it because they're nice people, and you know because you talked to one of them on the phone (and they're all just like him, I'm certain), and you know the words and you dance a bit (but not too much), and you people-watch.

Too bad I won't be doing that next week.

If there are any die-hard BoDeans fans, please do not read on. I don't want hate mail just because I'm about to say something slightly unpleasant about Sammy Llanas. I know he's from Waukesha. I know it's like, unamerican (or unwisconsin -ian/ -onian/ -itean) to dislike the band.

And for all of you not from Wisconsin who are also not "Party of Five" fans, and are haters of all things pop, you're scratching your head. The BoDeans sing exactly two songs you'd know off-hand (after you Google it really quickly and read over their discography): "Closer to Free." "Outside Looking In."


That's it. And, man. Talk about a horrible interview. Hor-ri-ble.

"What's your band's story?" (A question we've asked all the bands, and they've answered it with funny or factual responses.)
"We don't have a story." Silence. Crickets chirp. I cough, stare at the computer screen, waiting for him to go on. A tumbleweed blows by.

I'd go on, but I don't want to waste all three of my good quotes on this blog when I'm going to make a story out of it. You know what you're like, BoDeans?

School in the summertime.

Say it with me: It's Thursday

It's Thursday: I have you all trained by now to know that means it's time for another round of Weekend.

And, as promised, The Gin Blossoms interview. Rock on.