Thursday, August 31, 2006

Weekend


Joan Jett's closing out the Waterfest concert series tonight, and Sarah Owen talked to her for this week's Weekend. It's a fun interview about rock 'n' roll, women rockers and the last 25 years in the business (Joan Jett is older than my mom, and has been rocking for longer than I've been alive). That's a lot of years of punk rock.

Check out her story there before you go to the Leach. Because I know you're going to go. All the cool kids are.

Wednesday, August 30, 2006

I'm not a patient person


Do you ever feel as if your life is at a stand-still? Well, then, welcome to "Erin gets married in 45 days." Today, we'll be talking to Erin, who gets married in 45 days.

The countdown continues, ever so slowly. If this were a paper chain like they make in grade school, it would have far fewer rings on it than if it were August 2005. Obviously. But now that it's almost here, it seems as if time's going so ... slowly. I mean, come on, Erin, be married already.

I know in a couple weeks I'll be living in the new house, and I'll be busy unpacking and rearranging, but I just can't stand this waiting for everything to happen.

I have to force myself not to pack everything in the apartment right now: "No, Erin, you will need your toothbrush. Leave it out. And the hair dryer. And your shoes."

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

Flashback to August 2005


Let's reminisce.

One year ago while New Orleans was under water, I was in a car, driving myself to Wisconsin for a job interview from Michigan. I called Dave every few hours, and his parents and mine called to make sure I was OK a few times. I was scared; not really of the interview, but of the possibility that I might actually like Wisconsin, and then my whole life would change.

I took the first photo here because I'd just gotten off the phone with Dave, while getting lost in downtown Oshkosh. Not because it's big, but because of the one-way streets and turn-only lanes. GRRR. But, if Dave was going to move to Wisconsin, he wanted at least to see it. So, this is what I brought Dave. One crooked photo.


After the interview, I made it back to Michigan after what seemed like an eternity in the car. (Michigan can have that affect on people, I think.)

There were flowers there when I got home that night. We got engaged when I woke up the next day. (Yeah, that's the second photo.) So, I guess some happy things happened in Michigan.

That same morning, Washington State called (yes, the entire state of Washington) to offer me a job.

One interview, one job offer and a marriage proposal, in one week. Obviously, I said yes, no and yes, in that order.

Weird, how things change in a single year. I went from a copy editing job in Toledo to an editor job in Oshkosh. I went from Myspace to having a real blog. From an e-mail address with my maiden name to one with my new name (which I'll officially get in 45 days).

From renting to owning, from single to (almost) married, from poor to not-as-poor, from a 200,000-mile car to a new-to-me car, from easily stressed to basically happy. From a vegetarian to a meat-eater ...

A yellow and blue drivers license to a pink one with a sailboat and a barn on it. From frogs and clown fish (in Toledo and Maumee) to lions (in Oshkosh). Blonde to brown, babysitter to aunt, sister to sister-in-law, dog-lover to dog-owner (almost) ...

You get the point. I've done a few things this year.


OK. Enough reminiscing. It's time to move on (read: pack).

Monday, August 28, 2006

Le chien


Yeah, it's pretty much official now. Mr. Big's coming to live with us, after we get married in the fall. So, as the new character in the This is life series, I thought you all should meet him before he gets here.

When I start talking about a puppy relieving himself on my new home's floors, you will understand without my having to stop my frustration-filled blog post to remind you that, hello, Mr. Big is our DOG.

We came to a mutual agreement about getting Mr. Big (he's been named Mr. Big before he even existed, as this is the name Dave and I agreed to in 2004, when I discovered on TBS what the rest of the world had seen on HBO, "Sex and the City").

However, it wasn't exactly as if we had sung "Let's get a dog!" in unison while leaping, holding hands and doing ballet moves on a hill filled with flowers.

This is really more how it went:

"Let's get a dog!" I said. (Not on a hill with flowers, but in our kitchen, which in no way resembles a hill or flowers.) I've been saying this since the day I met Dave, for the record.

"Are you going to walk him?"

"Yes."

"Are you going to take him outside in the winter to let him go to the bathroom?"

"Yes."

"Are you going to feed him and take care of him? Or will I end up taking care of him?"

"I will!"

"(Sigh) OK. But I'm remembering this moment," he said, laughing.


Me too. Oh, wait, no, that was just deja vu from my childhood.

Though he's right to ask. Because, come February, I bet I can get him to take the dog outside in exchange for doing dishes or something. See? Trade-offs, just like we learned in marriage class.

(Photo: I'm supposed to tell you that my little brother took this photo. So, there. He did.)

Pete Yorn. Hot.


Hooray! Another week of free, entire CDs courtesy of AOL.

This week, I'm especially excited, because Pete Yorn's new CD, "Nightcrawler," is on there. Remember "musicforthemorningafter"? Hot.

But, don't say I didn't warn you: Jessica Simpson's new CD comes up as the default album.

Hope your computer goes faster than mine, so you can click on something else instead of listening to her. Unless you like her. But I don't understand that, so let's talk about something else.

Like Pete Yorn. Hot.

Sunday, August 27, 2006

Italiano? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller?

Since watching the French movie "5 x 2" last night, Dave and I have been searching for the meaning to the Italian lyrics of one of its songs: Paolo Conte's "Sparring Partner."

We found them and, like good little American students (who are only taught a language to make us "well rounded," but aren't actually taught it well enough to speak it because why should we actually be learning, I mean we're only paying $250 a credit hour), we went to freetranslation.com.

I wish I could report that it's a love song, or this epic ballad of the triumph over evil, or something. But instead, it seems to be about jungles and elephants. The story of my life.

If you speak Italian, now would be the time to step up and Google "Sparring Partner" and let me know if this really is an accurate translation. I suspect it's not:

"It is a macaco without story,
she of him says,
that it the memory is lacking him
I infuse to the gloves bui…
but its look is a veranda,
time to the time and you will see it,
that it is penetrated in the jungle,
no, not to meet it ever…
I looked at in fund to the game
all here?… but - you know -
I am an old sparring partner
and I did not see ever
a more striped calm,
more secret of so,
you take the first pullmann, road…
all the given back it is already poetry…

It will have more of forty' years
and certain applauses now
due son for love,
not to meet it ever…
it was there in its smile
to guardar pass the streetcar,
old track from elephants
extended above to the macadàm…"

Thursday, August 24, 2006

And then I go back to being superficial.

Since buying the house, we have curbed our spending big time. No CDs (Dave loves that rule). No clothes (I love that rule, let me tell you). No renting movies, no eating out at restaurants, no no no no. Nothing.

It's really, really hard for Dave not to buy records, especially when he still works occasionally at the record store. It's really, really hard for me not to buy anything anywhere, especially when I was just getting used to having that extra $20 a month left over after paying bills and living to pick up a book or a magazine.

But now it's free or nothin'. We are the library's most faithful patrons now. We shop while the sample ladies are out. We head straight for the bins marked "FREE."

It's hard, but it's nothing I didn't have to do growing up. Look, we're building character.

And then I found a gift certificate in my bag. All rules were suddenly broken.

It was like gold in my pocket. Hello, Dave, I have to spend it. It's not even like money. It's a gift certificate. It's supposed to be spent on frivolous things, right?

So I went to Target, all pumped about FINALLY getting something cute. But ... I ended up buying items for the house, anyhow.

Thus proving the point that, given the choice to run free and buy clothes, I still aim for the domestic aisles and grab photo frames, pencil erasers and kitchen stuff.

I am so lame.

If you don't like 'mushy' things, maybe you will hate this. Though it's Disney Channel-friendly.

Some women like flowers, chocolates and love notes. They need to hold hands in the car, sing "our song" and have little mementos lying around their homes of "our first date," "the first time he gave me flowers," and "the first time he met my parents." They need these sort of reassurances to feel loved.

OK. Fine. Those are all nice things.

But the most romantic thing I've ever had anyone say, do or express to me is this (and it's rated G), and it happened this weekend:

I had a cold. It was quite severe: The sore throat, the fever, the headache, the stuffiness, the cough. I'm talking H-O-T. Maybe even H-O-T-T. I mean it was a hard-core cold.

I didn't know if I was supposed to take medicine with this other medicine I was taking, but I felt like I was going to die anyhow, so I thought "If I'm going to go, I'm going to go out breathing through my nose," and I took some children's cough syrup right before bed.

Whoa.

Ten minutes later, I was feeling woozy and I laid down and slept. The next morning over breakfast, Dave said "I was so scared you were going to die that I tried staying up all night to make sure you didn't stop breathing."

That was the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me. And the creepiest, all at the same time.

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

How much is that doggie on your sweater? The one that you obviously didn't register for.

I'm posting the photo I'd blogged about earlier this week that I wasn't able to post back in PB time. Previous Browser time.

Behold. He's more rad than you and me.

And I'm not packing tonight. I've had it. I feel like blogging, painting and then going to bed. But while I was procrastinating, thinking I was going to pack, I updated our wedding registries, just because I could.

The great part about them is that you have all this great stuff that you actually need, and you can track which items get bought. You can also change your mind about stuff, as I did tonight. I decided that even though it was a great idea to register for a lot of items (to give people choices), I want some items more than others. And you can't asterisk items on the list. So I just decided that we have enough Pyrex. Now it's time for pink towels and a quilt, baby.

I am so addicted to wedding registries that I think I'm going to demand that someone create one for Christmas. Dave's mom usually asks for a Christmas list around Halloween, so it'd be the perfect opportunity to say "Hey, just check the Web site. It's all there."

No more over-sized sweaters with poodles on the front. Yessss. I mean ... Uh, I love that sweater.

And, as if this post didn't have enough dogs in it ... But here is a tiny, blurry photo of a puppy that just might come home with me next time I go to Ohio. Meet Mr. Big.

Now that I've jinxed it, my brother will swoop in and steal him just like he did Julius, the kitten I had for a second before he cold-heartedly decided to keep it.

How rad!

And I'm back -- I can again post photos. And make words bold. AND italicized. AND left- or right-aligned, whichever I want. Why? Because I have a new browser program.*


I love it.

But, it's time for another round of "Erin Forgot." For those of you who are keeping track, this is round three. You'll notice it's a bit shorter. Dave sorta forgot to get boxes yesterday, and I sorta forgot to not fall asleep at 9:45 on the couch. Thus, a shorter list.

Totally tubular.

But, what I did find:

1. In the freezer: A butter container filled with cookies from Christmas. No-Bake Cookies (basically lumps of oatmeal and chocolate, and you put them on waxed paper to harden). The wax stuck to the cookies but, like a trooper, I peeled it off and ate it. Still good.

2. A 2-cent "booster" stamp: From when postage went up. Apparently, I mailed out something with too little postage and the person to whom I sent it got stuck with the 2-cent bill. Sorry about that.

3. Shadows: While burning photos onto a CD from my computer, I found the cliched shadows picture I took a few weeks ago. I think it's required for everyone with a camera to try to take this picture once in their lives.

4. Twelve decks of cards: And none of them match the others. One of them is even a round deck of cards from the Neil Armstrong Museum, with the moon on them. Oooh. If anyone asks, we and 10 of our closest friends will be playing Nerts.**

5. "Finding Nemo" on DVD, and "Finding Nemo" on VHS: I remember getting one of them. Not really sure where the other came from. Someday, I'll get my two copies of "The Great Gatsby" out and I'll read both of them while playing with all 12 of my decks of cards and watching two "Finding Nemo"s at the same time.

This concludes this evening's round of "Erin Forgot." Stay tuned for more.

*Did you know, Mac people, that in Safari, you don't have all the controls for Blogger? You cannot bold or italicize anything unless you remember the code. Now, think of all the brain matter that I don't have to devote to remembering nerdy code! How rad!

**Nerts is the coolest card game in my life. If you don't know how to play it, you should be ashamed of yourself. Or Googling it to learn. Also noteworthy: Until this year, I thought my family had invented Nerts. Then I moved to Wisconsin and other people knew what I was talking about. It was a sad moment in my life.

Two-fer. And look, I can post photos


It's a two-fer.
Weekend and Living Well.

Living Well, as you'll see, is out now. I am giving you a sneak peek at Weekend because I'm really excited about it. Sarah Owen interviewed Joan Jett and a few local female rockers about why women's voices are literally missing from the rock scene. I think it turned out well.

I expect you all to wake up at 4 a.m. to read the Weekend cover story, as that's about when it'll be on our Web site. If you're in the eastern time zone, you can sleep in an extra hour. Lucky.

Tuesday, August 22, 2006

Erin Forgot, Part Deux

(In my best radio announcer voice:) It's time for another round of "What Erin Didn't Remember Was In Her Apartment."

Last night was quite the eventful night -- I went through all the boxes we'd collected in three hours, and I still have books on my shelves. I'm proud to say three boxes are also too heavy for me to lift (not saying much), so I had to leave them sit where I taped them shut. It's like an obstacle course in here. Awesome.

And, without further ado, here's what I found:

1. My diploma (and it's real!): The most expensive piece of paper I will ever own, shoved in the bottom of a box that also has an autographed photo of Gordon from Sesame Street from 1988. Obviously of equal importance. (Sidebar: What I didn't find: Dave's diploma. I'd think he was faking being a graduate if I didn't, well, have to sit through ALL THREE HOURS OF HIS COMMENCEMENT, even though his entire family was motioning him to get up and leave after he got his fake diploma.)
See also: Erin skips own commencement, really is too cool for school

2. "One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish": Ranks right up there with "Moby Dick." Hey, I was a preschool teacher once.

3. Old flashbulbs: I believe they belong to a camera that hasn't been made since the '70s. Yet I have them. And I'm keeping them. Because I need them in case I go back in time and want to document the occasion.

4. A cable wire: I swear it was taunting me. "Ha, ha. You don't have any use for me, yet I still sit here in the closet, taking up space." I'm sure the neighbors were freaking out when they heard "some crazy woman" yelling "BACK INTO THE BOX YOU GO -- YOU HAVEN'T WON YET." Visions of AMC, "Sex and the City" reruns, "Cold Case Files" and Bill Kurtis ran through my head. I had to sit down for a minute and cry.* (*Not really.)

5. Two Exact-o knives: Neither with blades.

6. Warm Fuzzies: In sixth grade, my class had to write down one nice thing about everyone in the class and then give them to that person, so they could have something to read if they were feeling down. I have about 30 "Your a good reader" (sic) and "You have nice hair" fuzzies. I wonder how lame I must have been at 11 years old to make someone write "Your a good reader" and not "You're a totally rad friend." More tears are shed.* (*Also not true.)

7. A mini football helmet: It's from the University of Tennessee that suctions on to surfaces. I'm not really sure what it does ... It doesn't bobble. Must be a guy thing.

8. Pictionary: Never been played. Think of all the hours of enjoyment still sitting in that box. I estimate at least 45 minutes.

9. Little empty camera and flash boxes: Dave won't let me throw them all away, just in case he feels like selling them on eBay in three years and the person asks "Does it come with its original box?"

10. Darts and a dartboard: Dave got these for Christmas, and they've never been opened because our landlord is a stick in the mud and doesn't like holes in the wall. It would take a lot of toothpaste to fill in the holes I'd create. I'm not really that good.

Monday, August 21, 2006

Erin Forgot, Part 1

We're going to play a little game I like to call "Erin's really busy with packing and whatnot, so she's making up a series so it's easier to post blogs."

The name of this series will be ... drumroll ... What Erin Didn't Remember Was In Her Apartment. These are all true stories. Consider it a study of contemporary American culture. Or something.

What I found last night:

1. A fake Jack o' lantern: Bought in 2003, when a few friends and I decided to carve pumpkins. I, being the most frugal, found the plastic pumpkin with the light-up face, and said "why buy a pumpkin to cut up and rot when you can have the joy of a pumpkin all year round?" True to my hypothesis, this pumpkin still has its face intact, and hasn't (as of yet) developed those weird red spots or black mold.

2. A love letter from one of Dave's old girlfriends: With hearts drawn on it and everything. I'm not a jealous person when it comes to this kind of stuff, so we just chuckled (show me your new clothes and I get jealous ... but this, come on, that letter is sooo 2002).

3. Dave's ATM receipts from yesterday through October 1987, all in a pile on his dresser. Amazing, he was riding training wheels at the time. Good thing he kept those. Boy!

4. My "To: Elliott, From: Portland" CD. Thank god.

5. My library card from the Way Public Library, circa 2001. Because I need this. Because I'm in Perrysburg, Ohio, ALL the time. Nonetheless, I put it on my keychain. It makes me look important. "Look, I can check out books in two states!"

6. Three sets of measuring cups ... All missing the 1/3 cup. WHERE IS IT. I was puzzled for 3.2 seconds, before I remembered that, hello, you need the 1/3 cup to make Easy Mac. Maybe they're at work? I'll forget to check, so I tossed the rest of the cups in my brother's take-to-college bin. He's smart. Let him figure out how to measure 1/3 cup using only the 1/4, 1/2, 3/4 and 1 cups.

7. A glass negative of a woman Dave bought at an antique store months ago. Kind of random.

8. A cup that was full of paint-saturated water from when I was painting last winter, which has evaporated on my painting desk since then, and left only a powdery substance behind. Can't be good for the air quality. Or my brush. Crunchy.

9. What's better than one copy of "The Great Gatsby"? Two, of course. I don't know how that happened.

10. This photo ... Which Blogger is not letting me post right now. Silly Blogger. It's a dog. With sunglasses. Sounds a lot more cliche than I think it looks. Whatever.

"I like, cry when I listen to it, it's so good."

In case you haven't caught the buzz, the much-anticipated release of Paris Hilton's CD is like, so good. Or, so she says. (I haven't heard it.)

Check it out.

Paris Hilton Praises Her Debut Album

Paris Hilton is no stranger to self-promotion. But when she asked DJs to play songs from her upcoming debut album, "Paris," last spring, she wasn't so confident.

"People go crazy," the 25-year-old socialite/reality TV star/singer says in an interview in the September issue of Blender, on newsstands Tuesday. "They love it. Everyone's like, `Who is this?' I don't tell. Because I don't want someone putting their phone up and recording it and making a ring tone off of it.

Of her album, she says, "I, like, cry, when I listen to it, it's so good."

Sunday, August 20, 2006

The Great Addressing Storm of 2006


The horror of compiling a guest list is nothing compared to the horror of mind-numbing brain-searching to make sure everyone who should get an invite actually has one addressed to them. We sat there going "OK, when we lived in Toledo, who were we friends with? OK, got them. OK, when we were in Michigan ..." Etc.

And now it's all messy ... My guest list was in alphabetical order. The list was written neatly in my book, in pencil, in neat handwriting. The invites are kind of in a semblance of what might call a "stack" in a large bowl on the kitchen table.

Doesn't help the anxiety of a sloppy-looking apartment, but we're not at a stage to worry about fung shui.

The stamps are even the special "wedding stamps," (insert "oohs" and "aahs"), which my soon-to-be mother-in-law gave us -- She said the guy at the post office counter said "Believe me, lady, these are the stamps everyone's buying." She and I both found it hard to believe. They're kind of ... purple and bird-y (see above). But, well, if EVERYONE'S doing it ..!

Now Dave and I are just two worry-prone people staring at the heap of invites, biting our nails, grateful we're not asking for RSVPs.

So there's one less thing ...

Thursday, August 17, 2006

Madden. Woot woot.


Weekend is here, and it's full of football, which is my favorite pasttime (your lie detector should be wiggling all over the place now).

Madden '07 comes out Tuesday; I remember when Madden '04? '03? came out, and my exboyfriend and three of his friends basically hid in a friend's apartment to play it hour ... after hour ... after hour. You'd go in there, and it'd smell of men. Chips. Beer. Bologna. And they'd be talking about their manly teams, and plays and wins and losses, and I'd be bored to tears.

It was great.

So, I guess I don't have that to look forward to this year. Dang.

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

Don't mess with me on this one


You guys are not going to believe this, but Samuel L. Jackson just called me.

He told me if I wanted to live, I should go see "Snakes on a Plane."

Amazing. I didn't know he had my number. Or, more accurately, I can't believe my friend KNOWS him, and that he AGREED to talk to me, using my friend's phone. Wow. He must be a high-roller, my friend.

More amazing? The marketing and hype this ridiculous movie's gotten. If I see a spider in my bathroom, I spray it with Raid (or air freshner, if that's all I have on-hand) until it's apologizing for ruining my life. I do not think I'm "Snakes on a Plane" material.

But, I do think I'm going to send someone a phone call from Samuel L. Jackson. (You can too, at the link above.)

"That's right, I'm talking about 'Snakes on a Plane.' I know that sounds crazy, but I don't give a damn. (His word, not mine.) Because 'Snakes on a Plane' MIGHT be the best motion picture ever made! ... Do as I say and you live! You don't wanna mess with me on this one, because I will come after you! You hear me?"

I also shiver when he says my name. "Aaiirr-un."

Wait, wait ..!


Just when I thought getting sick was for suckers, I go and get sick.

And let me tell you, friends ... Getting sick makes those around me want to push me off cliffs. And it definitely doesn't make me want to blog. Or live. Or swallow, which is mainly the real problem at hand. But hey! The fever's been gone a whole 18 hours or so. So there's that.

It appears I'm going to pull through this one. Your flowers, cards and kind thoughts really helped me during my darkest hours (sometime around 4 a.m., when I woke up, and was instantly angry at being thirsty. Doesn't my body know I do not want to swallow right now? Sometimes, I can be very inconsiderate of myself).

Anyhow. I am back. Bearing good news.

While I was feeling sorry for my throat and head, I found another podcast that was not only worth downloading, but also subscribing. Yes. After my initial "I love podcasts," I had subscribed to like, 10 'casts. But then I realized, all the podcasts on my player weren't ever getting listened to. ... Time, it is a funny, fleeting thing. So now I limit myself to the good ones. I mean the really good ones.

Including this one: "Wait, Wait ... Don't Tell Me!" from, of course, NPR.

(NERD ALERT.)

It's this hour-long quiz show where people such as Barak Obama or Tom Hanks come on and answer trivia questions, or where callers try to answer trivia questions -- and all the news is actual news, from the week before. Not unlike watching Jon Stewart, I feel as if I know more about the world after listening to this. Or, maybe that's just because when I hear "NPR," I immediately get the smoking jacket out (though I don't smoke), sit by the fire (though I don't have a fireplace), and crank up the radio (though it's really my iPod), thus making me look smarter.

Monday, August 14, 2006

And for the next trade ...


I'm pretty certain that I traded DOWN for this one, but I have gotten rid of "Phil Vassar's Greatest Hits."

Now, who wants the TOTALLY RAD "Jumanji"? It's a VHS with tons of bonuses, including the ability to rewind, fast forward, stop and play -- ALL ON ONE TAPE.

Wanna trade? Comment here. Let me know.

Save the drama for your mama.


I sit amid boxes, bags, tissue paper, gifts, trash, dirty carpet, clean linoleum, a sink full of dishes, half-folded laundry, cluttered tables, dusty shelves and a noisy dryer. If I move my mouse an inch to the right, it knocks over a packed bag of Christmas items. If I move the keyboard over to the left, it knocks over a stack of 300 CDs. I clearly am in a true, physical rut here.

This is why you will probably not be getting too many elaborate blog posts from this woman in the next few days.

This weekend was wedding shower, part deux, preluded by the meeting with the cake lady, and the meeting with the decorator. In a nutshell: They think I'm crazy.

1. "What do you mean we won't be playing shower games? Are you crazy?"

2. "Wait. Let me get this straight: You want a chocolate wedding cake with chocolate icing. Brown. Brown icing. On your wedding cake?"

3. "Do you like these flowers (pointing to one that looks like a beautiful, full rose)?" "No, I like this one (pointing to one that's tiny, because tiny means "cheaper," right?)."

4. "You really, honestly think you'll be able to move into a house that's almost 100 years old, and not have any bugs or mice or bats? You are C-R-A-Z-Y."

So be it.

We are now officially under the two-month mark (by one day, but still ...), which means my headaches have kicked it up a notch from "I'll deal" to "OH MY GOD ERIN YOU'LL NEVER GET IT ALL DONE." But my natural response, because I rock, is to say "Oh, well. Then it won't get done. Stop it, clenched teeth. You're being so melodramatic." Scoff.

Because I'm not down with drama. I don't really have the time at this exact moment. But, OK, you twisted my arm ...
Moment of drama in our lives, Vol. 975, issue 87:

It's 8:30 a.m., Ohio time. My legs still haven't adjusted to standing after my almost-nine-hour car ride. I stand in the warm kitchen at my mom's house, as she brings over the box of invitations that had come in the mail a few days ago.
My heart gets all excited. I open the box, ripping the tape and throwing off the paper on top.

And I read: "Erin, Dave, wedding, blah, blah, church, WRONG ADDRESS." My heart immediately says "I quit" and lodges itself in my throat, causing my eyes to water and my temperature to hit 1,000 degrees. I look at my mom, who noticed the mistake at the same time. "OH MY GOD," we said. Gasped.

I throw it down, I pick it up, reread it, hoping to be misreading it, but no, my skills haven't failed me ... I am reading MY OWN MISTAKE. On 175 invitations. Over ... and over ... and over ... like some bad techno song. Only this isn't a club, or even some crummy bar, there's no pulsing light ... It's my mom's kitchen, and I'm holding a box of 175 mistakes. And that's when I decided maybe I should take up drinking. But it's an expensive, unhealthy hobby, so I decide to brush my teeth and lay down for a bit instead.

Never in all my 20some years have I felt more stupid.

And here I am, telling you about it. So future generations can benefit. Somehow.

I don't know if there's a moral to this story, other than "Maybe it's a good idea to have someone else read over your invites before you send them to the printer." Maybe another one would be "Maybe it's a good idea not to blog to everyone about how you messed up your own invites."

Yes, yes.

(Photo: www.ctio.noao.edu.)
(Secret: Sometimes, when I hear the word "wedding," I am really screaming inside. Eloping is attractive, sometimes.)

Thursday, August 10, 2006

Wednesday, August 9, 2006

It's just a solicitation for donations. But to Mike, or Bob, or Rob, or John, or whoever he was, I was "THAT WOMAN WHO HUNG UP ON HIM."


I've been in a sour, tired, blah mood all day. I do not want to fold laundry. I do not want to wake up. I do not want to clean the bathroom. I do not want to take out trash. I will do it tomorrow. Sigh. Sigh. Sigh.

So when I finally get home tonight, knowing dang well that I have to pack, and that the clothes I want to pack have been sitting in the washing machine all day, I sigh a bit more.

I walk in the door, sighing, and the phone, it's ringing, and I'm so annoyed by this ringing phone that I almost don't answer it. I am angry at my phone, thinking "WHY ARE YOU RINGING? CAN'T YOU SEE I'M SIGHING?"

Not answering it is worse, though, because then if it's someone you know, you inevitably have to call them back, and I'll undoubtedly forget, and then we'll have to have this discussion about why I never call them back ...

So I just answered the stupid thing.

"Hello, this is (I don't remember, Mike or John or Rob or some other one-syllable name). I'm calling on behalf of the Wisconsin firemen .... Is Erin Nice there?"

NICE. NICE. No. I laughed about this on the inside, trust me, when from the corner of my eye, I swore I saw something on the carpet, and I swore it just moved. Toward me. And it is black and round, and I'll be danged if it's not a bug.

"Yes, but this isn't a good time ..." My heart raced.

"It's OK, I'll only take a minute," he said.

"But I have to go," I said, and hung up. I HUNG UP ON A FIREMAN. But in my "I have to go," I'm sure he also heard "But I fully support you and your group and the fighting of fire and the saving of kittens and the rescuing of people. I do. But there is this THING on my floor. Unless you'd like to come over and investigate it, I must hang up now and scream like a child."

I stared at the THING on the carpet, threw my shoe at it, and it didn't move.

OK, so it wasn't alive.

So now I've just hung up on a man who thinks he knows my name, and who surely knows where I live, and who possesses the ability to let my cat hang out in a tree, if I ever get a cat, and that cat ever climbs a tree.

AND NOW I HAVE ALL THIS GUILT. GREAT.

Tuesday, August 8, 2006

'Ben Roethlisberger is a jerk'


It's rare that sports news makes it to my blog, mainly because I would rather talk about math than sports (yikes). But, as this involves the beloved Bengals (yikes again), perhaps it's worth talking about:

CINCINNATI (AP) - Bengals fans annoyed by bad behavior in the stands can now report it by cell phone.

The hot line number should be easy to remember - (513) 381-JERK. ...

The team doesn't want to become the "curse police," but expects fans to behave themselves, said Bob Bedinghaus, the Bengals' director of development for Paul Brown Stadium. ...

Bedinghaus said the Bengals expect some prank calls.

"If you get 6,000 people calling this line -- 'Hey, (Steelers quarterback) Ben Roethlisberger is a jerk' -- then it becomes less effective," he said. "The thing to remember is we have caller ID on this line."


Great! Now can we have a line like that in real life?

"Hello, Life squad? It's Erin. I'd like to report a jerk who CLEARLY did not have the right of way, but pulled out in front of my car anyhow. Oh, and that lady in booth 5 over there totally just said the mother of all curse words. UMMM." I'M TELLING!

But, OK, this is kinda cool. I remember shivering in fear (in the snow, too) at some Browns game when I was a kid, sitting next to some jerk with an airhorn who was drunk.

Ah, sports. Brings out the best in some people ...

(Photo: And if my dad knew I posted a Bengals logo on here, I'm pretty sure he'd disown me. Nieses are BROWNS fans. As in "NOT BENGALS! DEAR GOD, ERIN, DIDN'T I RAISE YOU RIGHT??!")

Streaming music -- including the Gin Blossoms


I'm really excited about the movie, but ... AOL is streaming the soundtrack to Zach Braff's new movie, "Last Kiss," and you know ... it's not really good. Remember The Shins, Nick Drake, and Paul Simon on "Garden State"? Remember how even Nick Drake, the king of all sadness, sounded not-so-sad?

This is much less cool. It does have some repeat performers such as Remy Zero and Cary Brothers. Oh well. I hope the movie isn't like the soundtrack ...

What I'm most embarrassed to admit I like from this week's lineup: Gin Blossoms' new CD. Wait. No. I shall no longer be embarrassed. I declare it rad. I SAID IT. Rad. It pretty much sounds exactly like their other songs, which I've started listening to again (for the first time since 1996) since the band came to Waterfest in Oshkosh in June. They played one or two of these songs in Oshkosh, actually.

Most dig-able: "End of the World," "Long Time Gone," and "Learning the Hard Way."

Most "should be on a 'That Thing You Do!'-type movie": "Heart-Shaped Locket."

Awesome. Rad. Totally.

Pro-crast-i-nation


I'm a horrible keeper of photos.

My memory card gets maxed out at 500 photos, and I just start erasing old photos. This, coming from the woman who has her film negatives from 1992 safely stashed in a box, just in case I'd ever want a reprint of that photo of me at the Neil Armstrong Museum. They're all neatly labeled (some of them even have "The roll with prom" written on them. Now that's not bad for organization.

But with digital photos, it's too easy to just say "Oh, yeah, they're on my camera and my computer" (until your computer crashes and you lose everything) to just take the half hour to download them and burn them onto a disc.

So, to avoid folding towels and packing for a bit, I'm going through old photos and burning them. Funny how the mundane becomes interesting when there's dryer lint to clean out, huh.

Also playing this evening: Erin counts carpet fibers, Erin thinks about the meaning of life, and Erin decides to go to bed early, part IX.

(Photo: One of the first photos I had on my camera, from 2004.)

Monday, August 7, 2006

There's just no time


I had lunch with a guy who works in Nashville for a production company, which does a lot of work for CMT (the country music video channel). No, I am not considering a career change. Not that drastic, anyhow. Me? Country music? I don't know if I could handle it. Oh, and I have no TV experience, other than watching it. And I've vowed not to watch TV this summer because it makes me smarter, I hear.

But it was awesome hearing the inside stories for some of the bands, and how the shows are put together. For instance, he told us the story of how a certain band won't participate in a "Top (whatever) of all time" show, unless they're on the "top" list. And it'd better be the top half of the list, or don't even bother calling. Or how videos are put together sometimes by happenstance (like "Wide Open Spaces," by the Dixie Chicks).

Interesting, to say the least. And he didn't go to college to do this, which seems to be a common occurence from people I know ...

Sometimes listening to someone in another field can make you get a bit antsy -- let me make it clear, I'm not thinking about quitting my job (and my boss just about spit his coffee on his monitor right now). Not at all. I repeat, not at all. But I need a hobby -- well, OK, after the wedding and moving thing. I want to do more. Maybe finish my book? Maybe learn some Web design? Maybe get into podcasting? Maybe take a class? Something? Something (more) fun (than planning a wedding)?

I don't think I should be thinking about getting a hobby 68 days before my wedding.

But, dang, I'm 20something. I want to do it all.

(Photo: Ooh, look at all the choices. For extra credit, write 300-500 words about how these dark, scary doors in University Hall at the Univ. of Toledo symbolize all the choices I have in my life. Or, write 30 words about how dark and scary that hallway really is. I took that scary photo by the way. I did not steal it.)

Sunday, August 6, 2006

Whoa.


When I was a kid, my mom used to let me stay up late to watch some TV show on Thursday night, because the next day was Friday and, geez, who cares if you're tired on a Friday??

When I was in college, I'd applied that logic to semesters ... In January, I'd be in bed by 11 p.m.; by May I was lucky to make it there by 4 or 5 a.m. Why sleep when I could be going out, or doing homework, or watching TV? After all, I had all summer to catch up.

Now ... I'm just trying to find a way to rationalize why I'm going grocery shopping at midnight. On a Sunday. When clearly I have to work at 8 tomorrow. And there's no catching up. Sigh.

Rationalization 1: Thursday and Friday, I took care of beaucoup de wedding stuff, including getting a veil, getting fitted for my dress, buying gifts for the bridal party, putting together final touches on the guest list, and making sure everything else was in line. Check.

Friday night, Erin needed to get out. So we did.

Rationalization 2: Saturday, we woke up late (see rationalization 1) and spent the rest of the day doing laundry, cleaning, and then going to the Gallery Walk.

Rationalization 3: This week leaves no time to do anything but work and pack -- I'm going to Ohio, after a long week of putting together Living Well, and finalizing the fall edition of Oshkosh Magazine. Yikes.

On a side note, this month's Gallery Walk was the best one we've been to yet -- and yeah, that says a lot:

>>Great Estates, this furniture store downtown, had Marilyn Monroe and Andy Warhol impersonators, as well as wine, cheese puffs, Pixie Stix (the foot-long kind), meatballs, Ho-Hos and Twinkies, and, get this ... Tang.

>>The building that housed the Exclusive Company and is now vacant had three young artists who had their work on display. I know two-thirds of them and can attest to their coolness factor, but I'd no idea the art was so good. Plus, the best part was, as they're like, 20, they attracted a huge number of young adults and older teens. We stopped by twice (once to see the work, once to bring friends by to check it out), and both times it was packed with the hip(ster wannabe) set; complete with the artsy glasses, cuffed, pressed dark jeans and magenta polo shirts.

I didn't care -- they were blasting Arcade Fire, a stand-out band in my life, circa 2005.

>>And Decor and More had really cool charcoals by Tanya Hribal (I believe is her name), who we'd featured in Saturday's LifeStyle section. I was quite jealous Ohio didn't have anything like this for my peers and I to display our work.

Lucky! (In Napoleon Dynamite's pleading voice.)

And, to top it off, I re-met (yes, it's a word) our neighbors across the street. I'd briefly said hello to them a couple of weeks ago, but this time I got to meet their foreign exchange student and hear more about the last few they had.

Which means ... Erin and Dave went on Gallery Walk ... And talked to people who aren't just employed at The Northwestern.

This is HUGE.

Thursday, August 3, 2006

Know what I mean??


We had to put up some "earnest money" today for our house. Not a shock, we knew this. But the shock was my thinking "earnest" and taking it to "Ernest P. Worrell," (Jim Varney) and then hearing Ernest's voice in my head asking "Know what I mean, Vern?"

Clearly this is a problem I'm going to have to get over, or else I will laugh in the next person's face who says "Ernest money." Make that "earnest money." And now I have the song "There once was a man named Worrell ... Ernest P. Worrell" in my head.

WHY CAN I NOT USE THESE BRAIN CELLS FOR SOMETHING ELSE?

This blog has reached its all-time low now, as I've just posted a photo of Ernest on it.

God help us all.

Dierks

Weekend's here, but for some reason the photo isn't posting. All the more reason to go to the link and check it out.

This week, we've got Dierks Bentley, the country singer (who is not ugly, I must admit). Also, at one point, I had one of his songs on a mixed CD. Do not ask how it got there. And no I do not have it now.

But he's coming to the Leach Friday. Read all about it. Extra, extra.

Wednesday, August 2, 2006

"Yesss I love technology ..."*


I thought it was just me. I don't wear jewelry, I don't like things hanging from my ears or my neck, and I get annoyed when there are bracelets banging against counters, faucets, getting caught inside sweatshirts .... Grrr.

Not that every woman hates jewelry, I'm sure. But 75 percent of us would choose a plasma TV over a diamond necklace, according to USA Today's article "Study: Women like tech toys more than shoes."

Heck yes, I do. I'd trade seven or eight pairs of my shoes for a new laptop. Twelve for a plasma TV. Two for a Gameboy.

And don't make me imagine my life without my iPod. An unfortunate accident caused a friend of mine to lose hers for a few weeks 'til Apple sends her a new one. I think she'd give about 24 pairs of shoes right now to enjoy the hills that are alive with the sound of music instead of people talking at work. Poor woman.

Now where do you go to get people to trade you new tech stuff for old shoes? Maybe that's what I should work on trading up for. ... Hm. Yes. I'll take the one pictured here, please. With my name engraved on the back. Make sure it plays video. Thanks. Oh, and you can have the Phil Vassar CD.

*(Read in Kip's voice.) (Kip from "Napoleon Dynamite.")

(Photo: Apple.com)

Tuesday, August 1, 2006

One less thing to worry about


Rejoice, world, rejoice. No, really. Get up and rejoice.

Erin and Dave are not homeless. As of 5:27 p.m. today, we have a house.

I'd tell you it's the most gorgeous house ever, and that I'm really excited to get in there and see my stuff in it ... But in reality, while it is gorgeous, I'm relieved to have a house, and to look forward to not moving for a long time. It'll be refreshing not to move every six to 12 months. And, it's OURS. We can paint it, we can hang stuff on the walls ... Freedom. "Wait, you mean I can hang stuff on the walls and not have to count them in $1.50 increments?? What? AMAZING."*

And yeah, the house really is gorgeous. It looks pretty much like this house, exactly. Only it isn't located on a beach, it has about 2,800 fewer square feet, it's not tan, it has only one deck and it's really a lot more old-Midwestern than that one. But other than that (and the price difference, I'm sure), it's exactly the same. It has a roof, some windows and a door, just like this one.

Not having to worry about being homeless or stuck here 'til February** means I will sleep a bit better tonight. Even if it means I now have "homeowner" issues to worry about. Please, those aren't my problems until September. Don't tell me about them.

September -- Ahh! I'm moving in like, 40 days. Whoa. I've gotta start packing or something (insert me, standing here with my hands waving in the air, not knowing where to start, though I've moved literally 15 times in my life and know the drill).

(*A landlord I had in Toledo charged us $1.50 for every nail hole we left in the wall. Not "hole" hole, but regular ol' "wanna hang this photo on the wall" nail hole. Little did he know we were too cool not to hang photos, and too poor to afford to, so we filled the holes with toothpaste and he never knew any different.)

(**There's a neat, tiny, 2-point-font clause in our lease that Dave and I found a few days ago. Our landlord is OK with us going month-to-month on our lease after the first year, but by signing that lease we signed last year, we promised not to move out during the winter months. "Winter" in Wisconsin, to my landlord, is Oct. 31 to Feb. 28.)

Addresses, schmaddresses

I don't want to go home to my apartment.

I've been trying my best to think of errands I have to run, or groceries I need, or library books I've been meaning (but don't have time) to read. Why? Going home means Wedding Planning. Capital letters, W and P.

Right now I'm in the guest list stage, which I mentioned earlier this week. It's not bad, unless you stop and think about actually finding addresses for people (using Mom, Dave's mom, my stepmom, and anywho.com), and then writing them down, and thinking about how when the invitations come, you're going to have to rewrite them ... In much prettier handwriting, of course, because otherwise you're breaking the code of weddings, which decrees that all things written must be in script or calligraphy (see also: Things Erin hates, hand cramps, and "no.")

I thought about writing in all bubble letters, just like I used to write my name in junior high, just to say "dang the man," but that'd be pretty ugly, anyhow.

And I started noticing certain things -- like how many people with a last name starting with "S" I know. I had to overspill into the "R"s and "T"s. How many Roy Schroeders I know. How many people named John/Jon I know. I need a new hobby.

So if you want to reach me, I'll be at work. Or the library. Or the store. Or in my car, driving around as if I've lost my way. Don't bother calling my apartment. I'm not there.

Or, trying not to be.