'And what are YOOU supposed to be?'

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

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

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

That part was nice.

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah."

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

Kids these days ...

Just kidding.

Not quite a letter to Santa

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Exactly. So a digital camera was a necessity.

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

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

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

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

It's all just a front.

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

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

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

I am so impatient.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Boo

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

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

Sign of stability for a practical, frugal person

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

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

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

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

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

Now that's permanence. Ha, ha.

The wedding, the honeymoon and more

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

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


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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here's one to whet your appetite.

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

Troubles in Paradise

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, and by the way ...

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

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

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

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

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

Check it out.

A Halloween not thought through

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

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

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

Whoa.

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

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

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

2. Anything with feathers. (Too flammable.)

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

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

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

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

Holly jolly October

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

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

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

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

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

Sigh.

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

I kind of regret not marrying an exterminator.

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

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

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

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

Like it did for my cousin Paul and his wife.

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

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

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

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

Rock on, Weekend

Happy days are here again. It's finally Thursday.

We've got another week of local music goodness. Some local favorites are coming out with CDs ("finally" for some, "oh. neat" for others): Wandering Sons, Boxkar, Verona Grove. You know, that old chestnut. We've got the inside info, man.

Note: Anyone know of any 20- or 30-something Oshkosh area comedians for a possible Weekend story? Oh, and they have to be funny. None of this SNL stuff. OOOOH burn!

E-mail me if you have any recommendations.

So this is what "scatter-brained" feels like.

I thought I had everything under control for this whole wedding thing.

I thought I was done with the headaches and hassles of planning a wedding; then Dave reminds me that, hey, we don't have PROGRAMS. And Dave says we simply must have PROGRAMS. Because otherwise, who will know who's singing the opening songs if we don't have PROGRAMS. Who will know what the relationship between "Bridesmaid 4" and the bride are?

Um.

I never really thought about that part. I kind of just assumed people asked. Or figured. Or made up their own little stories in their minds to keep from falling asleep: "Oooh, Mary (not a real bridesmaid's name) and the bride were best friends in college, 'til that one night when Mary got friendly with Jake (not the real groom), whom the bride had her eye on since like, junior high. Since the Mary-Jake thing didn't work out, it's awkward for Jake and Mary to have to stand up there - see how they're not making eye contact? And the bride is totally loving it because she's passive-aggressive."

Or something.

But, no. Mr. Etiquette, who you know as "Dave," says programs are a must.

So I guess tonight, I have one final headache. And one would think it'd be easy to just throw this all together.

It's not -- I've had all the songs and particulars in the "nice to know, glad it's planned, now forget it" folder in my brain, and now it's MIA. A lot of things happen to be MIA this week, all of which were stored in that folder.

Hm. Yet another reason I will never, ever divorce Dave. No, not because he knows etiquette. Rather, by divorcing him, I open myself up to the possibility of getting married again. Planning another wedding is something I don't think I can stomach twice in my life.

Once, I have this feeling, will be enough. Lucky Dave.

And someday, my grandchildren will ask "Grandma, is something burning?"

I listen to the police scanner all week at work, sometimes chuckling at the looney situations people find themselves in. Raccoons in garages, that sort of thing.

Last night, I almost became one of those calls.

Dave got a more stable second job, so we decided to celebrate by being lame and watching season five of "The Twilight Zone" from the library and drinking some wine. Dave thought -- sober, mind you, the wine drinking we do is never really scandalous -- it'd be nice to make some popcorn.

He put the bag in, set it for three minutes (because that's what it was in the apartment, in the microwave that was provided to us there) and we sat back down. We hadn't gotten past the opening sequence when Dave jumped up from the couch and ran to the kitchen.

Smoke -- real smoke, not buttery vapor -- filled the kitchen (I was still on the couch, thinking he just burnt the popcorn, ready to shake my head at him and tell him to light a candle). He started screaming "MY EYES! I CAN'T SEE!" and I heard him run outside. I figured if the outdoors were a solution to whatever problem he was facing, I should check it out.

I hesitantly peeked around the corner to find the kitchen, my blue, beautiful kitchen, well, not there. It wasn't blue. It was filled with smoke. My eyes burned, my throat burned, it was just like like one of those moments in the Fire Safety Mobile when the fire fighters are telling the 8-year-olds "get down! You'll never make it out of this controlled situation if you don't GET DOWN."

I didn't get down. I instead started waving my arms in front of the smoke detectors, praying it didn't go off. (On a side note, the dang thing never went off. I'm pretty sure it's dead.)

Dave opened all the windows and doors, turned the fan on high, and ran around going "I'm sorry!" as the smoke filled the entire first floor. As the smoke in the kitchen dissipated, we tiptoed over to the smoldering microwave to inspect the damage. It was black. If you've ever stood over a hot fryer at a Dairy Whip for five years, you can imagine how the burnt grease dripped from the top and sides of the microwave.

He went back outside to grab the popcorn -- it hadn't even popped. It just burnt in the bag. Little black pebble-looking kernels sat in the bag, looking more like he cleaned out the bottom of a charcoal grill than tried to make himself a snack.

We slammed the door shut and tried to forget about it. It's a stained microwave, all yellow with shame.

And it stinks in here, 12 hours later. We can air out this house for 65 years, and on rainy days he'll still turn to me and say "Erin, I'm sorry. No more popcorn."

Spooky.

Weekend is pretty creepy this week. We've got a guide to the area's haunted houses (with more listed online if you're holding the print version right now).

I'm so comfortable right now.

We have a couch.

It really doesn't look like this couch at all, except for the color.

But that's not important.

You guys, we have a real, actual, three-people-can-fit couch. I bet you could even put a fourth person on this couch, provided you had all showered that day.

Our one-and-a-half person (and even then it's not really comfortable) loveseat has been demoted to the living room, where it sits, looking all odd and green in front of our red curtains. We really didn't think that one through.

But, nonetheless, this couch also means that instead of being restricted to the upstairs spare bedroom (because who wants to sit on an uncomfortable loveseat), we are finally given the opportunity to sit. In. The living room.

And what do I do? I watch TV. Because I haven't in months, and man. It's "Friday Night Lights" and I am watching it. It's about football. Football, people.

That's it. The couch goes back. I don't even know myself anymore.

Woot! Woot! (That's a good-humored cheer)

For all of 2006, it was all about our wedding. In 2007, it's going to be about three other couples -- and I can't wait.

As of this moment, I appear to be in two if not all three of the weddings set for next year: June, July and August (the "maybe three" part reflects one that is a sibling who made a mention of it in passing, and there was wine involved, and so I'm not really sure even if he knew he asked, or if it was a joke ... um. I should look into that). Seeing as weddings are always a good time, I am so in.

And, not to get "mushy" on you or anything, but I'm really, really excited about all these weddings, as it reminds me of belonging to bigger things. OK, enough mush.

But, as Dave's a wedding photographer, and we're getting married, and I've been in three weddings and weddings, weddings, weddings are coming out my ears, I think I shall list myself as the go-to woman for all wedding advice-giving.

I mean, I've been to a few weddings and I've planned one, and in the world of reality TV and the Internet, that makes me a bonafide expert. I've done everything but cook and handle the men's side.

Oh, and the bachelorette party. I've never actually been to one of those, though I've seen them in bars. Hmm. But I bet that, in a pinch, I could handle myself well. And I wouldn't be one of those girls with the T-shirt with the Jolly Ranchers on it. Yikes. Mothers and dentists unite against that.

So, starting now: Anyone need any help? Anyone? If this takes off, I may start charging.

Hey, it'd pay for the bridesmaid dresses! Ha.

(Photo: I am wearing this dress to the August edition of "Erin Is a Bridesmaid." Stay tuned for more.)

Hi, Reality. I'm Erin.

With the exception of the two (2) GIANT millipedes that refused to die even while being sprayed with Raid by a woman with a hammer in her hand, and then decided to split up, thus leaving said woman with one (1) millipede and one (1) hammer. And hi, I have wooden floors. So no. Hammer, you were just for looks.

ANYWAY.

With the exception of that one horrible 15-minute period of my life (though the trauma of allowing the other millipede to scatter and leave alive but probably with the same case of emphysema that I just gave the three (3 -- two of them, one of me with my hammer) of us will keep me awake tonight), my October is going fabulously.

We're down to the last few seconds (exaggeration) before this wedding thing, and all I can think about (besides bugs and how much I dislike Dave working second shift at this exact moment) is work.

And that makes the time fly, mainly because I will die at the wheel of my computer (because journalists have wheels on their computers. They come standard on any model) before I admit that there's no way I can possibly cram 10 days of work into two.

So I have to let go.

This is the part that some '80s song comes on, played by a jazz flute. On one hand, I want to walk away from it all at 5 p.m. on my last day there as a single woman and not look back, and get in my car and make that long, boring trip alone. But then again, I know it's going to be more like I leave a little later than that, to get in my car and freak out all the way home because HOLY CRAP I AM GETTING MARRIED and What is this?! A wedding dress?! In my backseat!? Is this for real?!

I will speak out loud and insert the ? and the ! as if I were typing.

And it will be for real.

Don't confuse this with cold feet. My feet are slightly above 98.6 degrees. It's just ... I'm not going to work the next day, and I have a big dress in my car, and ... oh, look, the dog sweater.

Reality's sinking in. Whoa. This is awesome.

(Photo: No, it did not snow. This is from the vaults of Erin's life.)

"Winnebago County is under a severe thunderstorm warning. Your house will be knocked down."

I'm naturally a worry-prone person.

If I have any amount of control over a situation (and "miniscule" is "any amount"), I tend to panic for split seconds about all the mistakes that could've been made, things that could go wrong, worst-case scenarios and the like.

Tonight, it was "oh my god, if I'm not torn to pieces by this impending storm, I will most certainly regret buying a house, because I'm sure it's laying in messy piles all over the county."

Because this is how a rational person would react to seeing an approaching thunderstorm.

I know, I know, it's not like we don't have insurance. It's not like it's the worst thing that could happen to me (I could find out I had some terminal illness, and then get hit by a bus -- but not killed -- on the way back to pick up the pieces of my broken house, after all). But I realized: I care for this house like I care for ... well, most of the belongings that are irreplaceable.

You can buy a new copy of Billy Joel's complete catalogue (and I would), but you can't replace the house. You just can't. It smells like old house. It's been painted in colors we like. It has a big dirt pile outside that we'd take care of if, well, we had the time to go buy a shovel and some grass seed.

And insurance just can't buy that kind of stuff.

So when said storm rolled in, my stomach was in knots thinking that, obviously, my basement is flooded and some electrical shortage will cause my house to catch on fire, or else it'll be struck by lightning.

And where did all of this worry get me? Listening to sirens outside (not at my house!) and a problem complexion. My sheer worry must have scared away the storms. I'm sure of it.

FUN FACT: When I was in Ohio (and probably here, too, but I don't remember the last time I listened to a radio station), the recording that would read the weather was (allegedly) from the '80s, and legend had it that the man who lent his voice to the National Weather Service was actually murdered. To add insult to an unlikely murder, we would laugh at the man in the recording for talking like he was getting punched in the stomach: "There is. ... A seVERE thuu-uhn-derstorm wahr. ning. In effect. For Putnam .... County and Allen .... County uuuhn-til (deep, slow voice:) 9 (quickly:) o'clock. P. .... M."

Creepy.

(Photo: Look! I made lightning in Photoshop. Now I too can be lumped into that "why, oh, why" category.)

Actually came out of my mouth: 'I just want to get out my protractor and measure some angles'

Don't choke on your coffee, but ... I bought a sweater.

For my dog.

I am sorry. But I cannot resist argyle when it's on a human being, so how can I resist when it's on a dog? I can't. That's the answer.

The pattern! The colors! The geometric shapes! I can't take it! I just want to get out my protractor and measure some angles when I see argyle. And that's a compliment.

Besides, it was on sale. I couldn't buy argyle socks for myself as cheap as we got the sweater for Mr. Big. And it's Wisconsin, so obviously he needs it. I don't know if you know this, but it gets kind of cold here. And I'm a sucker for a man (Dave) who doesn't mind that I don't turn the heat on until the pipes are at risk of breaking. I'm cheap (see also: Erin turns off all the lights compulsively, Erin buys off-brand everything, Erin loathes fees and hidden costs).

Let the record show I didn't buy him bows for his hair, toenail polish or any sort of "bling." I'm not that crazy. Come on. He's a male dog, guys.