J'aime le Weekend.

Octoberfest is here (yes, with a "c"). It's our Weekend cover story this week, along with a band line-up and must-see events.

I also suggest checking out this story on the New York City French-singing band Nous Non Plus. I heard their CD, and it rocks -- even though four years of French have still left me in the dark as to what they're singing about. Some songs are in English. They're going to be at the University of Wisconsin-Oshkosh this weekend, and I may go. Why not. I need to get out more.

That's it. Enough.

I've reached my limit.

A few people close to me have been waiting for this minute, watching the Erin Cracks Up poll to see whose guess came closest to winning the jackpot. Well, whoever bet "Wednesday, Sept. 27 at 7:36 p.m. CST" would be the winner.

Congratulations.

My breaking point? Here's how it went down (my low point of 2006):

"No, I will NOT go downstairs and put the clothes in the dryer," I said to myself. Yeah, to myself ("She's NUTS"). "No. I refuse. They will lay right here next to the door, because I am not going down to the dark, cobweb-infested, musty-smelling, 'probably no worse than any other basement in America but I am exhausted and overwhelmed by the thought of going down there and having to watch for mice and bugs or, God forbid, more boxes that need unpacked' basement."

But they're my BEDsheets. I have to go down there, I reasoned. I have to wash them, or else sleep on a bare mattress.

So there you have it, folks. The perfect recipe for a meltdown. Need versus exhaustion and a tendency for the overdramatic, mixed with a house filled with boxes and probably mice.

Instead of just picking up the dang sheets, I left them lay there, and I stared at them for a good five minutes, kind of zoning out at the same time, thinking "I can't move anything else. I cannot even lift these 1-pound sheets. There's only so much a woman can take in a couple weeks."

Sigh. There were expletives uttered and maybe a tear or something while a violin played in the background (yeah, I want some cheese with my whine, go on, say it) and there was a close-up of the tear rolling down my cheek, and it was all very teen movie. I was just waiting for the John Cusak character to show up with the boom box. Then I snapped out of it, and walked away.

After the initial "I've just lost my mind" feeling I got when I was staring at the bedsheets on the floor, I felt better. Not because they're clean. But geez. That was five minutes I wasn't deciding what would fill the shelf in the living room, or how I was going to carry that heavy box upstairs.

I'm OK with sleeping on blankets tonight. No amount of logic or "stop it"-ness will convince me that my doom is not waiting in the basement for me tonight.

And by doom, I mean "that stack of messy boxes that NEED TO BE STRAIGHTENED UP RIGHT NOW." I just can't let a perfectly good box remain unpacked. I want the box gone. Now.

OK -- I'm going to go stare into space now, thinking about how I WANT to go to work because at least there, I don't have to unpack anything. Whew.

Those pesky belongings

If I have to go back to my apartment one more time, I'll scream.

We've been making these really (to someone staring out the window) shady-looking trips back to the apartment. A night stand here, a floor lamp there, a suitcase full of dishes, all loaded on a cart and dragged out to my car to take back to the house, like a caveman coming to claim his game or something, once a day.

These shady trips are turning into quite the nightmare. It's H-O-T in that apartment, still. It's messy. It's loaded with stacks of random belongings that we swore we could "get in one or two trips with the car, let's not load them in the moving truck."

Wrong.

So, yes, I'm the woman you'll see driving around the city with Christmas trees and laundry detergent in the backseat of my car. I'm probably very angry looking, too. You would be too if you had to carry three Christmas trees, five pots and pans and a load of unfolded laundry back to add to the pile o' stuff at the house that you have left to unpack.

But, out of sheer joy (and with a bit of help from people who know some basic laws), I can scream for joy that, no, I will NOT be charged $75 for each carpet I do not shampoo. Why? Because it is eee-legal for me to be charged.

FLASH FORWARD: Hi, it's Erin, and it's 2076. I've just got the last box unpacked, which is fortunate for me, as it was a box of cereal, and that was 70 YEARS AGO.

'I don't cry when my dog runs away, I don't get angry at the bills I have to pay ...'

Actually, I would and I do.

But this is what I got (get it, "What I Got"? Um, I totally stole that song right outta the '90s).

I got wooden floors. And, yes, those brown shoes look equally as unflattering standing five feet above them as they do from across the room. And, yes, I am aware.

I've got one shelf - count it - one shelf that is completely do-not-touch-or-rearrange-a-thing done. The books are separated into fiction and non-fiction, then alphabetized and put in the Erin Decimal System. I think it looks fabulous, only because there are no more boxes to be put in front of it with books sitting inside screaming "PLEASE UNPACK ME FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY."

I've got a mocha room. Mo-ka. It's b-e-auuu-tiful and totally un-mauve. It's also an empty room, due to our lack of funds and furniture ...

And, I've got debt. And a mortgage. And a stiff neck from that whole painting/lifting/dragon boat thing.

And I've got Sublime's "What I Got" in my head. Oooh, dang.

More dragon boats

Reporter Aldrich Tan and photographer Shu-Ling Zhou also put this neat multimedia package together for the Web site: So click this link for more on the dragon boats.

The post in which you lose all faith in my athletic abilities.

My arms hurt to lift them. My shoulders hate me right now. If I hear the words "HOLD THE BOAT" or "BACK THREE DRAW" or "REACH! REACH!" anytime within the next few weeks, I'll probably break down and cry.

Twenty people from work (including the drummer) and I participated in the dragon boat races on the Fox River this weekend for UWO's Fall Fest on the Fox (along with like, 23 teams of 20 from Oshkosh area businesses and groups). Getting up at 7:15 to willingly get in a skinny canoe-like boat to race your way from one bridge to the next in the dirty water doesn't sound like fun, but that's where you'd be wrong.

For our first race, we had a man steering the boat who took me back to the boot camp I've never been to (but I've heard about it on TV). He yelled, he screamed, he kept hitting me in the back (I was in the lucky 10 spot with another woman from work). "ROW! HARDER! FASTER! FASTER! ONE TWO THREE FOUR ONE TWO THREE FOUR HARDER!!! DO YOU WANT TO WIN!? FAAAASTERRRR!"

It was pretty hard core.

The second and third men were more of a help (or maybe it just seemed that way because we did better time-wise during those races). We made it all the way to second place ... of the losers' class. Cough. Um. But it was fun. Even if I can't put my hair in a ponytail without my shoulders quivering.

It looked so easy watching everyone else paddle while I was standing under our tent at the Leach Amphitheater. Here's a running commentary of what was going on in my head after they yelled "Go," however:

"Must. Stay. Dry. PADDLE PADDLE FASTER, FASTER, oh, God, did some of that dirty water just get in my eye? I'm blind! Oh, wait, no, I'm not, not yet; great, it's in my mouth! Stop yelling, it'll make it worse! How can that boat be so far ahead of us already? Someone check them for steroids! I saw them juicing in the parking lot! PADDLE FASTER My arms! I can't feel them! Wait, a buouy -- does that mean it's over? No! It's just halfway over!"

And so on, for another 30-45 seconds.

And it was fun. Can you imagine.

You can read more about it in The Northwestern.

You can read more about dragon boat racing at the Great White North's Web site. They're the folks who brought in the boats and then yelled at us to go FASTER. Anyhow, find it here.

(Photo: Northwestern photo by Laura May.)

Another two-fer

Weekend is here, amen, amen. In my professional life, it means a Weekend cover story on Date nights around Oshkosh. Coincidentally, our photographer caught a couple on their first date at Water City Grill, so that's what you see here on the cover.

And in my personal life, it means I am moving. Finally. As I type in my cushy chair at work, Dave and co., are loading heavy items onto a truck. Don't scoff at me. I'll be the one unpacking and putting everything where it goes again tonight.

But once I had my glasses and plates in the kitchen last night, I got less tired of it all and more excited. Hello, I LIVE there now.

So there's that.

And, speaking of new homeowners, our Living Well section came out yesterday. It's a special home edition. Check it out.

Way to go, Bright Eyes

Conor Oberst, I'd like to welcome you to our wedding. You're the winner of the First Dance Award, given out only to that one song that means something to the both of us, and has been sung multiple times by two very incapable singers on the highway. It's your song called "First Day of My Life," and it's from "I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning." Of course you know this, being Conor Oberst.

And I love it. We just made a decision while eating supper, in haste, talking about the paint job done in the kitchen while rushing out the door to put boxes in my car to take to the other house. We also mentioned "mortgage," "did you get the mail," and "oil change."

We are officially boring. YESSS.

Hold your applause.

(We found our slip we were supposed to give the DJ about a month ago saying which songs we wanted to dance to when, and we're kind of panicking about it being late.) We're thinking that since we were late mailing it back, we're going to get bad songs and horrible montages. Like the "Grease" montage. Or the ABBA montage. OH GOD NOOOOOO.

So, forgive me while I step over here and plead to all that is holy that that doesn't happen.

Tick, tock, tick, tock ...

When I'm married, moved in and settled, I'm going to be the most boring person you'd ever know for a little while.

I'm going to sit at home and watch movies -- from the library. I'm going to read more books. See this shelf? See how it's glowing? That's because it's like a dream, beckoning me: "Erin, read all of these books. Even the boring ones." I'm going to watch PBS. I'm going to take walks or sleep in on the weekend, or maybe just stare into space or count ceiling tiles.

It's going to be awesome.

And, because I'm waiting for paint to dry (so I don't want to unpack at the house), and I'm waiting for boxes to be taken out this weekend (so I can't clean the apartment), I'm sitting here thinking about all the tears-rolling-down-my-face-because-I'm-so-bored kind of things I'm going to do.

I can't wait. Big life changes are fun when they're dreams, and I'm sure they're great when the exact moment arrives and when they're realities. But it's the waiting that I can't stand. (Especially when I have air conditioning vents to clean. I'm sooo sure.)

Of course, I'm sure there'll always be something coming up that I'll have to do.

Hmm ... won't retirement be fun?

I'm stressed and ANGRY

I'm tired. I'm so tired. Years from now, when I am wiping snot from a toddler's nose and worrying about diapers and midnight feedings, I'll look back on this and say "You had no idea," but just for right now, humor me.

I've been painting, cleaning, moving bits and pieces, stressing out, spacing out (a result of stressing out), and other things that go along with being a homeowner. I've not even been a homeowner for five days (let alone lived there yet), and already, I understand. You guys, I understand.

I know what it's like to wonder if I left that window open (or did someone break in and is HIDING IN THAT CLOSET WITH A CROWBAR), if I left that light on (or was it CROWBAR MAN), if I double-checked the doors juuust to make sure they were locked when I left (so CROWBAR MAN could be kept safely inside), if, if, if.

And no, there wasn't anyone in my closet. And no, I wasn't really scared. (Petrified.) No, not really.

I'm stressed, but excited, too. I got the list from our landlord about what we have to do before we move out, and how much we'll be charged or taken to small claims court for if we fail to do them, and besides the initial feeling of outright ANGER (in all capital letters), I felt relieved.

NEVER AGAIN will someone tell me that I have to "wash and dry all cupboard doors, then shine with furniture polish" or "remove air conditioning vents and rinse in a cold water and vinegar solution" or even "make a move-out inspection appointment one week before you plan to vacate, after you've removed all items from your apartment" even though HELLO, LANDLORD. If I don't PLAN to VACATE for another WEEK, where would I put my stuff???!!!

OH THE ANGER.

Never again. Sigh. It's all over now. Sept. 30, I am throwing my keys at my landlord and screaming "You can't tell me what to do anymore!" And then CROWBAR MAN and I will share a collective sigh of relief.

Hellllloooo, Mortgage.

Erin Niese. Erin Niese. Erin Niese. E.N. Erin Niese. Erin Niese. E.N. E.N. Erin Niese, also known as Erin F. Niese. E.N. Erin Niese. Erin Niese. Times 857.

OK.

I just wanted you to know what it was like to be me this morning when we CLOSED ON THE HOUSE. Nothing went wrong, thus proving my gut has no brains. I didn't even get a hand cramp from signing so many papers -- I've been training for that moment since before kindergarten.

So yes. I'm a homeowner. Going through the house again today, owning it, holding the keys in my hand, seeing my name as "buyer," was the best feeling -- it was like winning the lottery ... Only I have to pay instead of receiving lump sums of cash.
Yeah, thinking about paying the mortgage ... Not so great of a feeling. But we have a house. And it's beautiful. Woodwork. Red dining room. A yellow ceiling, which I love, love, love. I love that house -- cobwebs, imperfections and all.

And until we get married, it's MINE. MY name's on the mortgage. MY name's on the title. MY MY MY. A single woman, owning a home. Bras were burnt (before I was born) so I could blog about this moment.

I'm happy -- I'm stressed, too, but I can sleep well tonight. Well. Maybe not. Now I have to worry about the utilities getting switched and turned on and, hello, where will everything go?

(Details. Details.)

Oh, and I'm blogging now (at the old apartment) because I found the old residents' industrial-strength mouse killer under a built-in drawer I was wiping out. I didn't want to hang out in the house alone while Dave worked second shift for fear some rodent would come and demand me to recognize that the house is indeed big enough for him and 40 of his friends and family while I scream for my life.

So, yes. I have a house, and I'm afraid to be in it right now (until Dave goes over there and checks it out and assures me there won't be mice until at least November, when it's cold outside). Someone out there is regretting burning that bra after reading this sentence.

Though if I'm asked, I'm here because there's no running water there until tomorrow.

Brett Favre, you made it on my blog. Congrats.

What the world needs now is more Brett Favre.

So I put him on the Weekend cover: Weekend's cover story is about football, wings and beer, and where you can find all three. Exciting. Mmm. Wings.

One step closer to owning the house with the dirt piles in the yard

We're one step closer to moving into the First Home. After work tonight, we did the walk-through with our realtor.

Did I tell you our yard is torn up due to some water line problem? Did I tell you how happy I am that the water line problem happened before we moved in? And did I further tell you that there are piles of dirt sitting in my yard? Well, their yard, until tomorrow, if all goes well. After noon tomorrow, it should be my yard, my piles of dirt.

I went through, mentally picking out colors of paint (thanks to a few people we work with, the Been Theres, Dave's backed off a bit from the "I WANT TO PICK COLORS! ART CLASS ROCKS" stance. Hence, the yellow's going to be gone, replaced with less permanent in-your-face happiness. I'm sure it'll be something we both like. I'm not talking pink here, guys. But, again, I refuse to stand for chipperness at 7 a.m. I refuse).

I thought about nail holes, shampooing carpet, intensive cleaning (it's not that dirty, though, thank God. They took good care of the house), and where our stuff is going to go. I thought about how we'll be putting our belongings just where we like them ... And then getting new stuff in 30 days (30.125 days) and getting to pass the old belongings to my college-bound brother, thus rearranging everything again.

And, like a sick, sick person, I thought about where the Christmas trees would go. All six of them. Because if not for the wedding, the puppy and Dave, what else do I have to live for? Christmas, my friends.

I thought about parties we could have (not keg parties; I mean like "hey, let's watch scary movies and eat cheese and drink wine" parties), the sitting out on the deck, the bug zapper I registered for (AWESOME), the changing the landscaping next summer, the photos on the wall, the decorations sitting out. The clothes hanging in the big closets. The furniture we have to get ...

Then I thought about our lender, and how I wanted to scream at him. And then the stress came back again. I just have a feeling something else is going to go wrong before I can hang the photo of Mr. Big and I; before I get the chance to paint my yellow bathroom a calming shade of "It's OK, 7 a.m. won't last forever" green.

All of this is making me extremely empathetic to the moving humankind.

From now on, every time I hear that someone is moving, or thinking about moving, or packing or closing on a house or signing anything or getting on or off the phone with their lender, I will hug them. Stranger or not. No matter how many times you hear people say "It's a big headache" when talking about buying a house, you tend to think "Well, I'm sure it's a lot of paperwork, but it can't be that bad."

Yes it can. They do not mean "It's a hassle." They mean "Well, I suppose if you were to push me over the bridge or force me to talk to my lender one more time on the phone, I'd pick the lender. But, wait -- How high of a bridge are we talking?"

(Photo: A real statue thing in Ohio that I took a photo of from the car on I-75. It's how we will feel tomorrow if there really isn't another problem and we get the keys; it's kind of like "AOOOHHHHHHHH!!!," that glorious angelic sound. And light beams will shoot from our fingertips.)

Homecoming

Homecoming wasn't one of those things that I really got into when I was in high school.

I wasn't cool enough for the homecoming court. I wasn't into sports enough to care about the game, and I wasn't inclined to want to dress up enough to make a big deal out of buying a homecoming dress. It was fun, but it wasn't the epitome of my high school career.

I don't think it was for many people. You just don't hear people sitting on the sidelines of life going "Man, if only I would've danced to that one song at homecoming back in '97. Man. Things would'a been a lot different."

So none of this explains why I had to fight back tears on Friday night.

Yes. In public. There were no actual tears shed. More of an overwhelming feeling of "OH CRAP, tears are coming!" and then I'd look at the sky and think about marshmallows until the feeling passed.

My outpouring of emotion wasn't for a stranger, or for the dance I sat out in '97 (I shoulda danced to that Mariah Carey song. UGH! What was I thinking?!). It wasn't because I only got a handful of candy at the parade, and it was crappy candy -- smashed Twizzlers and melted M&Ms.

It was for my little brother. My tiny, twerpy, nerdy little brother. The kid I used to want to push down a flight of stairs.* The kid who used to kick me just for fun. The kid who never failed to embarrass me, his older, cooler junior high school sister. (I use "cooler" very loosely.) He'd break my cassette tapes. He'd crack my crayons in half. He ALWAYS ate the last cookie. ALWAYS.

He was on homecoming court. And he won. He's homecoming king. He's not even a football player. And dangit, I was proud. Not that I'll admit that to him. Come on. And I wasn't crying. I had something in my eye.

(*For the record, I don't promote pushing kids down stairs, nor do I recall actually doing it myself. What sibling doesn't get a bit angry at another once in a while?)

Just let me mooove already.

Sad news bears. There were some issues with the lender today, and so we won't be closing on the house tomorrow.

My phone rang while I was at work, and Dave s-l-o-w-l-y told me "Uuuuuh, we have a problem."

"What?" I'm saying this uber-fast, as if the quicker he told me the problem, the sooner I could be done dealing with it.

"So, uuuuh, the lender called."

"And?" This is my way of being tortured. Tell me I need to know something, and then refuse to tell me for at least 45 seconds.

"We can't close tomorrow."

And then I proceeded to feel as if I got punched. In the face. Twice.

It's just a delay, and it's nothing too major, but when you just got back from driving all night to get a marriage license, and you're planning on moving, and you've got everything all set, and you're worried about moving and the wedding dress fitting appointment on Saturday, this is just one more thing.

Aside from the eight-hour ulcer I had developed today and the feeling of getting punched in the face at 9 a.m., I'm doing OK. And why? Because really, what else could I do? I don't have time to panic.

In better news, Mr. Big met Dave and me this weekend. We spoiled him, bought him a carrier and dishes and a leash ... And then had to let him go back to his mom for another five weeks. Le sigh.

We went home Thursday night, and ended up in the booming metropolis of Ottawa, Ohio, at 8:30 a.m., right on time to swear to the State of Ohio that we were ready to be married. After forfeiting $40, we were given a long piece of paper with a pretty gold star on it, saying we're able to be married within the next 60 days in Putnam County, Ohio. It's pretty much official now. That's one less thing to worry about.

Now if we could only manage to CLOSE on this stinkin' house.

Don't go left, the moon's right there.

If I'm ever chosen to be on "Amazing Race," I will most certainly never be heard from again.

And if I'm asked to choose teams, I have one friend in particular I wouldn't pick if I needed to get out of the Sahara asap. No offense, Friend.

My wedding ring came in today, and I haaaad to go get it now because, duh, you don't just leave your wedding ring in the hands of complete strangers, even if they are diamondologists (real word). Or jewelry store clerks. Whichever. You just don't do it.

I asked my friend to go along, and she agreed, and we gossiped and laughed all the way to about Neenah (this is about 10 minutes from Oshkosh). Then we stopped. I mean, the car stopped. We were still laughing. But from Neenah to Appleton, we were given the chance to watch brake lights in a single-file line, as far as my eyes could see.

I love construction. Sigh.

After picking up my ring, we decided to avoid the identically slow traffic in the southbound lane by taking what we thought was the frontage road.

Uh. It wasn't.

And that map in my car that I thought was a Wisconsin map? It's for Toledo. Suddenly, flashbacks of me getting a free map from the Wisconsin Department of Motor Vehicles last year came back, as I watched myself put the Wisconsin map IN THE KITCHEN JUNK DRAWER. Because when I am lost in the kitchen, I need to turn to my kitchen junk drawer to help me get back on track.

But, like the girl scouts I don't think either of us were, we said "Oh, well, the sun's that way (pointing right). We'll go this way (pointing straight ahead)." But roads curved. Roads ended. Roads went under 41, beside 41 and finally abandoned 41 altogether.

We were passing cows (in the dairy state, of all places), a lot of new houses out in the middle of nowhere, and then signs for the Town of Clayton. Clayton? I have no idea where Clayton even is. Then came Winchester. Then Winneconne.

Come on, we thought. How hard can it be in Wisconsin to find your way home? Well. Pretty difficult. My internal compass is broken. Hers seems to follow celestial bodies.

"No, don't turn left," she said, straining her neck to see to the left, then right of a dark road with no apparent signs of life. "The moon's right there."

Um? What do you say to that? I'm pretty sure this is the kind of thinking that got Christopher Columbus stranded in the Caribbean instead of India. But, hey. I'm here, aren't I? Didn't we make it?

I'm just glad I didn't attempt the trip alone. I would still be in Winchester on the side of the road, wishing for cell phone reception, screaming "DAVE! I'm in Winchester. No, I don't know where it is, either. Try Google."

I only posted this so I could post a photo of Tapes 'N Tapes

I would like to think my mentioning this band in my blog umpteen weeks ago had something to do with their making it to the big time. Namely, making it to the entertainment section of thenorthwestern.com.

As if you didn't know "big time" meant "Oshkosh." Come on.

But Tapes 'N Tapes ... Good, good stuff. Check it out here.

Then, tomorrow at 4 a.m., wake up and check out the Entertainment section again (I'm tellin' ya, it's the place to be), and read all about Rock Garden Studio. A lot of local bands use that studio on their way to bigger and better things.

Like the Entertainment section at thenorthwestern.com. Of course. You'll find the link to that story right here.

Less than a week!

We're nearing the end here in our little apartment.

One bathroom is off-limits. The door's shut, the shower curtain's in the garbage, the shelves are cleaned, the whole room smells like a swimming pool ... It's fabulous.

The oven is so clean you could eat off it. Right off it; I mean grab a fork and just try to find one dirty spot in that thing. I've got a sore right arm that says I scrubbed it all clean.

And the cupboards are cleaned out. The boxes are neatly stacked, waiting. The Goodwill pile continues to grow. The "give to Christopher" pile grows, to my college-bound brother's delight.

And we're but six and a half days away from moving.

Already we've had a disagreement about what color the bathroom will be. It's now yellow. As in YELLOW! HELLO, I LOVE BEING AWAKE AT 7 A.M. YELLOW! In all caps. It screams at you in all capital letters. And I'm not that happy at 7 a.m., ever. If I won the lottery at 7 a.m., I wouldn't be that happy. I would say "Good, now I can afford to go back to bed." That is how un-yellow I am in the morning.

Dave says it should stay yellow because maybe then this is how my morning would go:

Erin: YAY! IT'S MORNING! THE SUN'S NOT EVEN HALFWAY UP IN THE SKY! I LOVE BEING AWAKE! DAVE! LET'S FROLICK IN THE FIELDS AND PICK BERRIES BEFORE I HAVE TO GO TO WORK!


Dave: YAY!!!

But I think it'd go more like this:

Dave: YAY! IT'S MORNING! THE SUN'S NOT EVEN HALFWAY UP IN THE SKY! I LOVE BEING AWAKE! ERIN! LET'S FROLICK IN THE FIELDS AND PICK BERRIES BEFORE YOU HAVE TO GO TO WORK!

Erin: Slams door.

For the sake of our relationship in the mornings, I picked the top color. The other is the real color. See? Which color says "7 a.m. is OK. Sigh," and which one says "7 a.m. is A-OK!" in Barney the dinosaur's voice?

That's what I said.

Angry mama. Literally.

I labored on Labor Day, but that's not the most important thing that's happened today. My mom got older. Yeah. Old. Er.

I'm posting this here, not to be a "this is our family! Aren't we neat?! Look at us! Don't you want to be us!" blog (those blogs make me want to puke), but because it's a holiday, so you're going to get a "remember last year?" blog. Sorry.

Come back tomorrow if you want another, fresher story. Maybe you'd like to hear about how I just got done cleaning Dave's bathroom -- complete with before and after photos!

Or, how about how I put "works in eight hours!" oven cleaner in the oven and left it on for 27 hours because I forgot it was in there, and then when I went to clean it tonight, my lungs felt as if they were on fire! Doesn't that sound like something you'd want to read about!??

No? How about how Dave saw someone in the elevator in camo pants with gun shells on a belt around her waist? Yeah, actually, I kinda wish I knew more about that, come to think about it. But, sorry, that's all I know.

OK. Reminiscing it is, then.

I got engaged on a Friday or Saturday last year, but I kept it secret from my mom for two days because I knew she would be angry. She hates Dave. I mean, she can't stand him.

Just kidding. I was making sure you were paying attention.

I kept it secret because I was supposed to go see my mom on her BIRTHDAY, and I was poor so, hello, what better gift could I offer than the news of your finally getting rid of your daughter? That's what I said.

But I couldn't wait to tell someone that I got engaged, so I called my best friend. And my cousins. And Dave's parents. And his family. And my brothers. My best friend from college, Dave's best friend from college, etc., etc. Pretty much everyone in the world, except Mom. She really, really loves being the last one to know stuff.

So when I showed her the ring, finally, she looked around for my stepdad's reaction, but of course he already knew, so he said "What? Didn't you know?" and laughed.

I mean, the mailman had already found out, as did the guy working the gas station and the woman who was putting her groceries in her car whom we passed. She kept stammering. "Well, does Becky know?" Yes. "Does your cousin Kristen? Millie? Derrick? Christopher?" Yes, times four.

She was angry in a "well, I guess I'm glad you waited, but I'd rather have gotten some mums or something instead" kind of way.

I guess I owe her some mums. Dang.

Reason No. 6,379 I'm glad to be leaving this apartment.

Dear Apartment ##5:

Hi, I'm Erin, this is my fiance, Dave. We live in ##3, right next door to you. Nice to meet you. Sorry, I didn't catch your name as you closed the elevator door the other day? I'll call you ##5 from now on.

It's nice to get to know your neighbors, isn't it? I think so. And I feel as if I've gotten to know you really well these last few days, since you moved in here two weeks ago.

For instance, you must either be an insomniac or work second shift. Either way, I notice you like to play war video games in your room (and I know it's your room, because our apartments are exactly the same -- two bedrooms, one on each end of the narrow apartment. Ours share a wall. Lucky me!). I know you have surround sound, and I know you either kicked some butt or got yours kicked in that game, as bombs went off and machine guns were fired well past 3 a.m.

I also noticed how you were awake at 6 a.m. on a Sunday, and that you have really bad taste in music. Rock 'n' roll does have bass in it, yes. But I don't think that "Pour Some Sugar on Me" should have bass that makes the humidifier on my dresser shake. I don't think that it's appropriate for me to have to pound on the bedroom wall, to no avail, to encourage you to politely shut up.

I also don't think it's appropriate to completely ignore logic and continue to play said music until 11 a.m., when I pound on the wall right before leaving, just to see if you'd listen then, using a bit more force than I could muster at 6 a.m.

Then you stopped. How kind of you. You must have thought, "Wow! I should really turn it down. I bet they don't like hearing it this late in the morning. I'll refrain from playing this loud music/game/whatever past 7 a.m. from now on."

The neat part about our living arrangements are, you have a good chance of never running into me again after Sept. 12. In nine days, we'll share ZIP codes (and these fond memories), but that's about it.

The bad part is, I'm kinda stressed right now in life. I also really like sleeping. Therefore, if you don't POLITELY STOP PLAYING MUSIC/GAMES/WHATEVER, you're going to find me outside your door with a baseball bat. Well, not really. If you knew me at all, you'd know I'd send Dave over.

We don't even have a baseball bat. We'd bring you a guidebook on these things called "headphones."

Sincerely,
Apt. ##3.

(Photo: Maybe the game you were winning/losing?)

The last Waterfest of the summer ...

Last night was the final Waterfest concert of the summer, and the Leach was pretty packed. So packed, in fact, that the man and his wife standing so close to me in front of me kept stepping on my toes, and bumping into me. Good thing I was invisible, so they didn't have to turn their 6-foot bodies around to apologize when they dropped their beer and it splashed on my leg, or when the wife elbowed my head. I'm all for marital bliss, but the argument they had that they took "outside" made me happy.

When they moved away, Joan Jett was there -- OK, not like, right there, but she was up on stage, and I could see her, and it was pretty awesome. She's small, and punk-rocky, and pretty much all I expected. My friends and I knew about four of her songs ("I Love Rock 'n' Roll," "Crimson and Clover," "I Hate Myself For Lovin' You," and "Bad Reputation"), so we were kind of glad she spread them out a bit between her new stuff (which wasn't as good ...).

She also threw in the "Mary Tyler Moore" theme song, which rocked. So, five songs I knew, and some songs I've heard on her promo CD she sent us, which all kind of sounded the same. But hey. She's about 50. She was on the Warped Tour this year with people who knew her music from "Shrek" and "Ten Things I Hate About You" and karaoke contests. Joan Jett could hold her own. Gotta give her that.

It was an awesome show -- despite the giants standing in front of me, but I'm kinda used to that, being 5-foot-1 -- but I'm really sad to see the summer end. No more music at the Leach. No more free passes, no more opening bands wearing beanies or playing the accordion. Sigh.

(Photo: from "I Love Rock 'n' Roll," at a Web site whose name would make my grandma uncomfortable.)