Did we just start planning?

We're looking at honeymoon deals. OK, so not really "deals," so much as "places."

We've not ever shopped for a honeymoon before, so we don't know where to start. Some place in the Caribbean? Heck no. Too hot. Somewhere overseas? Ha. No. Somewhere out west? No. Hot. Bugs. Sand. Sun. Blah. Somewhere down south? Bugs. Big bugs. No.

Which leaves the East Coast and Canada. Specifically, Quebec. I've been there. It's like Europe, only cheaper. And more English is spoken there. And there's no overseas flying. It's France Lite. It could be pretty sweet.

There's no done deal. I'm fickle. But I think we may have a winner.

Look at that. We're planning. Ha. The procrastinator and the indecisive one are planning. Ooh. Something new and different for us.

I don't care what she did. Look at that HAIR.

It's Mardi Gras.

How am I celebrating? Ha. Eating. Lots. But throwing no beads. No drinking. No crazy parties. And no Britney.

Dang. Look at that hair. I hope there was a sweatsuit with some word on the bum like "babe" or "daddy's girl" written in sparkles to match.

Calling all cooks. Just this once.

This isn't a food blog, mainly because I hate food and cooking. But, for the sake of Dave and I and our entire relationship, I think I need to ask this question:

Does anyone have a good macaroni and cheese recipe?

I think he's starting to catch on that I'm not joking when I say I could eat it every day. Mainly because I do. I figure if I can get different recipes, everyone wins. He gets to cook something other than Kraft. I get to eat macaroni.

And no one gets to copy and paste the recipe from today's Oshkosh Northwestern and call it "sending Erin a recipe." I put that recipe on the page. I got that one. Smart alecks.

Also, I did some math. If I ate macaroni and cheese on average about three times a week (because as a child, it was more like one or two, and now it's like, five), give or take a few, I have eaten almost 4,000 boxes of it in my lifetime. I have no idea if I did that math right. But it sounds good.

(Photo: me, eating box No. 340 of macaroni, and why don't I have this shirt?)

That's it. I'm tired of it.

You know what? I'm tired of beating around "the fiance."

That wasn't a confession of being a domestic abuser. I mean I'm about to out him. Are you ready for this? This is a big deal. If you're not ready, don't read the rest of this post. I'm serious. It's a big commitment. Soon, you'll know his name and a few choice details about him, and you may become emotionally attached. Read ahead at your own risk. I'm serious.

This is something I can't take back. It's something you're going to have to live with for the rest of your lives. Basically, because I am going to live with him the rest of my life, too, and it's only fair. This blog isn't going anywhere anytime soon, and (dangit) neither is he. (Kidding on the dangit part.)

I'm going to level with you, only so I can avoid saying "the fiance," "my fiance," "him," "that jerk," etc. I took a vote. He wanted to stay anonymous to keep a level of mystery around him. I voted to out him. And I count for three, making it three to one.

His name is Dave.

There.

Don't you feel so much closer to me right now? I know I do. I can stop that ridiculous charade. Gosh. I feel as if a weight has been lifted.

(Photo: Yeah. This won't be one of "those" blogs, all about "us" and "we" and "isn't he cute," mainly because he'd throw up all over the place. But I figured while I was outing him, I might as well out him all the way. That's what he looks like when he's watching TV.)

"I am trying to break your heart ... I'd be lying if I said it wasn't easy."

So the weekend was good. Had some drinks with friends in Appleton Friday for the fiance's birthday. Watched as the music snob tried to get a confession out of a crowd of Backstreet-Boy-ballad-lovin' people (seriously, though, who puts on sappy music in a bar? And who even has Babyface on the brain in 2006? Who? I want names).

And Saturday, we lived like rock stars. As in, made no plans. Opened his presents. Got pizza. Etc. No one cares about all that crap. I won't bore you with the details.

Except one. I'm such a cool fiancee; I got him "I Am Trying to Break Your Heart," the film about Wilco. It's not new (2002, right before "Yankee Hotel Foxtrot" came out), and it's your typical band video, but I love it. I mean, he loves it. That's why he got it. Right. (Come on, like I was going to get him something I didn't want to watch, too.)

And anyone who doesn't like Wilco doesn't have a soul. OK, maybe that's harsh. Whatever.

But that started the (one-sided, mostly dream-sequence-ish) discussion of my fiance actually being in a rock band. How many guys have this dream? Or girls for that matter? Who wouldn't want 200,000 screaming fans? Well, not that I don't already have that. Kidding. I topped 1 million last week. Kidding. Gosh.

But he's got a few obstacles. One, being me. He just got a second job. There's no time to play.

And, perhaps the most important questions of all: can he sing? No. But he tries. Can he write songs? Well, he did once, about me cleaning the bathroom, to the tune of cats being thrown down stairs (not that I endorse cats being thrown down stairs, sickos): "Erin's cleeeeeaning the bathrooooom, Eeeerrin's cleeeeaning the bathrooooom, Yessss she iiiiiiiissssss cleeeeeanning the baaaaaaaaaaaAAAAthrOOOOOOm." It's a hit in nine countries.

Can he play instruments? Um. Guitar, I guess. I've never heard him play. Has he been in a band before? I don't think so. But he can wear a jacket, girl jeans and a scarf like the best of them. Well, I suppose he's on his way. I think he's kinda serious about this. Well. I guess he was serious about taking out trash, too, and that's still sitting in front of the door. I could be dating a rock star ... Interesting.

(Photos: Top, from "I Am Trying To Break Your Heart," on popmatters.com; the bottom's my CD cover.)

We now return you to your regularly scheduled life.

It's over. Whew.

What's the medal count? I have no idea. Who won what? No clue. I successfully made it through the Olympics, with my one channel. NBC, I hated you. But I am ready to move on in our relationship.

Some may love the Olympics. Live for the sweat, the tears, the heartache and the redemption. That's why I watch movies. We're on the same page. I just don't like sports. So what? So what if I'd rather watch "Law & Order"? Does that make me a bad person? Some say yes. And unpatriotic, too. I say no. Who doesn't prefer some sweet, sweet (predictable) justice delivered on "Law & Order" over watching guys slide down a tube of ice? That doesn't even make sense.

IT'S PARTY TIME

That's right folks. "We're going to a party! It's a birthday party! It's your birthday party! Happy birthday, darling; we love you very, very, very, very, very, very, very much." That's Bright Eyes. I'm not just crazy.

Anyhow.

Friday is my fiance's birthday. It's no Erin birthday, but it should be a good time. We've got friends coming out with us, and it's a Friday, besides. Can't go wrong with that.

But what we're doing: no idea.

He's the most indecisive person. And this time, it truly is up to him what we want to do. Small, quiet bar? Loud, college-esque bar? Sports bar? Live music? Who knows. Not he. Not I. But it's a birthday, so it has to be fun. Right?

When do birthdays get less fun? My mom doesn't seem to be counting down the days 'til her birthday, and my stepdad doesn't even want to be reminded. Yet each year, I look forward to getting whatever I want, and going out, and being with friends, and eating cake. Lots of cake. Presents. Candy. Cards in the mail, etc., etc. Yet -- and I know I'm not alone here -- when it's over, this is what's going through my head: "Dang. Only 364 days 'til I get to do that again."

Enough sad talk. It's party time. I'd go so far as to say it's Peanut butter jelly time. Yesss.

(Photo: By moi. I thought it illustrated the moment of party-dom well.)

"If I could ask God just one" ... No, not God. Oshkosh-ians.

At my college paper (woo hoo Independent Collegian), we had this weekly Question of the Week feature that made me want to die every Sunday afternoon. Sitting at a table with 10 other people, everyone staring at the wall, as if we'd just asked everyone to list the first 87 numbers of pi. Clueless. One question a week. To ask five to eight random people. What's. So. Hard.

Well, now I remember what's so hard. If you could ask random strangers any question, what would it be?

Ha. Weekend, the coolest entertainment weekly in the universe (I may be biased, but ... it's pretty neat. I'd read it even if it weren't my job to put it together) has that feature now. A question a week. I'm cool through most of April. But still. It's your weekly, not mine. Well, OK, technically it is -- No, you know what? I'm sick of the technicalities. It's yours.

If anyone has any witty suggestions, feel free to comment. I can't promise I'll use them. I may just laugh at them and hit "delete." E-mail 'em my way, anyhow.

"I think I've got bird flu/SARS/trendy-disease-of-the-moment"

I am getting married to Mr. Hypochondria.

I'm not kidding. When Ohio had its "mad outbreak" of West Nile Virus, he swears he had the first documented human case in Lucas County. His dad supports this theory.

See, my fiance comes from a long line of hypochondriacs: His family has suffered from SARS, anthrax and bird flu. No, they don't work for the Postal Service, travel to Asia a lot or make out with birds (is that how you get bird flu?). They just "have weak immune systems."

I'm serious. These are real people. I'm going to be related to these people. (I hope it's not catching -- Do I look pale to you? Just kidding.)

I, on the other hand, am relatively healthy. When I feel like throwing up, I talk myself out of it. You know that itchy feeling in your nose right before you get a cold? I never get that (or admit it to myself). I get the occasional headache. I have upset stomachs. But I don't go from "My stomach hurts" to "I'm fairly confident the doctor will tell me it's a tumor."

It's especially hard to keep a straight face when, every few days, he tells me "I think I'm getting sick," "My stomach's been feeling weird lately," "I think I have a cold," "I think I have a calcium deposit in my ear," "I think I have (some disease native to Africa)", "I'm sure I have (some disease he's been innoculated against since kindergarten)."

Seriously. He's said all of those things. Maybe I am not tuned in to my body enough to know when I have a calcium deposit. But dangit, I'm not a rock formation. Calcium deposit. What 20-something thinks of that?

My poor fiance. I should give him more sympathy, but I'm afraid if I do he'll convince himself he's dying. So I try to talk him out of it. "Your tumor hurts because you drank eight cups of coffee today." "It's a bug bite. You'll live." "No, that's not SARS. I don't know what SARS looks like, but that's not it."

Sigh.

(Drawring: toothpastefordinner.com.) ("My name is Simon, and I like to do drawrings." Come on, guys. It's funny.)

My name is Robert and I can't stop thinking about ninjas.

I can't claim to have found this (Gannett News Service did), but it's my duty as an upstanding citizen to deliver the goods to you.

Real Ultimate Power. (Click "yes", don't be a little baby -- or click "no" for a good laugh.)

Can't make it to the site? Check out these gems:
1. "I heard that there was this ninja who was eating at a diner. And when some dude dropped a spoon the ninja killed the whole town."

2. "Ninjas are sooooooooooo sweet that I want to crap my pants. I can't believe it sometimes, but I feel it inside my heart. These guys are totally awesome and that's a fact. Ninjas are fast, smooth, cool, strong, powerful, and sweet. I can't wait to start yoga next year. I love ninjas with all of my body."

3. "Q: I heard that ninjas are always cruel or mean. What's their problem? A: Whoever told you that is a total liar. Just like other mammals, ninjas can be mean OR totally awesome."

I love the word "ninja." He, he.

Ben Gibbard, I'm on to you. Er, uh, we are. Dang.

You can run, Ben Gibbard. But you can't hide. You can tease me and come to Madison, only to sell out tickets in less than a week.

Go ahead. Try to run. Not with my music-snob sweetie. I say "sic 'em" to my fiance, he drags Ben Gibbard's work to me.

That is neither here nor there.

I -- no, we -- found him: here. As a nameless member/contributor to Dntlel. And no, I didn't spell it wrong. I love Ben so much I don't care if he forgets vowels are cool.

But, seriously, it's good ol' electronica/indie fun. It'll make your ears happy. Take a listen.

Look at that face. It's a face only I could love, because I'm eight hours away and can't smell her dog breath.

How can you not love that face?

Or, as I ask myself, how can you not get homesick when you see that face? It's my mom and step-dad's dog. Home! Mom! Step-dad! Sixteen-year-old annoying brother! OK. That last one might have been overly sarcastic.

My homesickness has been laying low for a while. I've been pretty busy, pretty stressed, and fairly entertained by what's going on here. Oshkosh is my new home, blah, blah, blah. You've heard it all here before.

But I've got Ohio friends coming. No, not the dog. Two -- maybe three -- weekends of friends visiting Wisconsin. Can I take it? Hardly not. It'll be awesome to have them here. I can't wait to show them off the town (using predetermined routes so I can't get lost and end up looking like a jerk). I've got a whole list of places to drive by and point out, and I might even show my cubby-cle (like a cubicle, only smaller) at work to one of my friends, just because she has a newspaper job (and mine's way cooler, and she knows it). Who knows? We'll live like rock stars and make plans later.

It'll be fun, but it's not the same as going home. When I wake up on those Saturdays, there may be Ohio friends in my living room (or a hotel room, whatever), but I won't be in Ohio. And when they leave on those Sunday mornings, it'll be the most quiet of Sundays, leading into the most depressing Mondays. Oh, I can't hardly stand it already.

No, Erin. Snap out of it.

I am NOT going to mope about those horrible Sunday evenings/Monday mornings until they happen (and I promise to try really hard not to mention them then, either). But I can't help feeling like I know that homesickness is coming. I'm OK now. I'm happy now. But it's coming. I can see it. It's right there -- on my calendar! Get it -- kill it! EEk! It has 18-and-a-half legs!

Oh, wait. No, that was the bug in the bedroom. That's another blog for another day. This one's going to end on a happy note: look at that dog's face again. There. Happy enough for ya?

Terrorists in Toledo ... Hmm.

Ah, Toledo.

You're at it again.

First it was the race riots in October, spurred by Nazis coming to Toledo.

Now, this plot to blow up stuff in Iraq. According to The Blade and Toledo Free Press, they're three guys with a horrible plan who spent some time in Toledo. And one was allegedly an engineering student at my alma mater, the University of Toledo. How exciting.

There's not much I can say about it, other than I am glad I'm not at UT right now. About 98 percent of the students I know are cool, but I can hear a few say "well, if there's one, there are probably more -- just look at that engineering complex." Ugh. God. The engineering department is made of about 2,800 international students. And a lot of U.S. students. I hope this doesn't get ugly. Ugh. Hate is nasty thing.

(Photo: UT's psychology department)

One day, dogs may develop the ability to speak, and then you'll get an earful.

Please.

I know it's almost Mardi Gras.

But, please, don't do this to your dog. Poor thing. He could at least have been something cooler. "Wizard of Oz" is so 1939.

(Photo: AFP)

Sad day in Erin land

The jerks.

The little jerks of Death Cab for Cutie. They say they're going on tour in April, coming to Madison. I rejoice. I cry, I get my credit card out.

Then the tour sells out in less than a week. My heart aches. Sigh. I can't keep going on listening to the CDs over and over again, guys.

Ben Gibbard, if you're reading this ... Oshkosh needs you. I need you. Madison? Phffsht.

Best advice I'll ever be able to post for you.

I could take advice from my mom and stepdad. I could take advice from a friend. From my soon-to-be inlaws, or from some lady in the checkout line at the grocery store.

But I'm going to take my advice from "Teen Guide to Married Life," copyright 1989, found in the "free" box at a community rummage sale.

Questions I was having that "Teen Guide" answered for me:

1. How big of a decision is getting married?



2. Will what my dad think influence my marriage? And why are Uncle Norbert's, Uncle Bob's and Uncle Rick's heads cut off?



3. Could my "Sex appeal" hat cause my fiance to doubt me, and then hug someone (or something furry) at a table full of empty drinks, symbolizing empty promises, while I stare off into space?



Now, I'll take questions from the audience about what I learned about marriage:
1. "Does age make a difference?"
Yes. (Direct quote from the book) "Jane is 16. Howard is 40. The age difference may not seem to matter now, but how about in 20 years?" (You mean when Howard gets out of prison for being with a minor?)

2. "Why get married at all?"
Because people who just shack up lose out. (Direct quote from the book) "If a couple who have been 'living together' separate, the woman may not be entitled to anything except some support for their children. She could have helped furnish a home, may have cooked and washed and ironed, raised their children and given up her job. In these days of 'sexual equality,' she will have allowed herself to become dependent and helpless."

3. "How can I protect my spouse against financial hardship if I die?"
You get life assurance (sic).

4. "How should we manage money?"
I don't know. But "It is worth shopping around to find the account in a bank or building society which meets your needs. And don't be frightened of bank managers." Because they are all scary, scary men? What?

And, finally, 5. "What if we have an unplanned situation?"
"Not all pregnancies are planned. ... We do not plan to have a baby who never sleeps, a hyperactive toddler or a teenager who takes drugs. Nor do we plan to be ill, unemployed (or) divorced. But these things can happen."

My weekends just got a whole lot more exciting.

My quest to find more local music is going very well -- I went to Cranky Pat's in Neenah on Friday with two of my favorite music snobs: my fiance and a social butterfly, and two other good friends.

We saw two pretty cool local bands: The Blueheels from Neenah, and The Robins (formerly No. 1 Fan) from Appleton -- good, good stuff. The Blueheels sound like nothing I have on my iPod already, but if I had to classify them, I'd stick 'em with "Erin's good stuff." Few bands make it to that playlist. Death Cab. Billy Joel. Postal Service. Bright Eyes. That's about it.

Plus, Cranky Pat's (when they're not having jam bands, cough, cough), reminds me of Mickey Finn's in Toledo, one of the coolest bars you can go to in Northwest Ohio (if you have the money for the stupid $5 cover charge, and if there is a good band playing.) OK, so maybe it's not like Cranky Pat's at all. But ... It felt like Toledo, and that's the most important part.

I don't know if Neenah should feel offended by that or not ... Hmm.

Anyhow. I'm getting to the point where the fiance and I are feeling more at home here. Getting out of the house helped a lot. Seeing live music again, like real 20-somethings, helped even more. Meeting new friends played a large role in that ... Funny what coming out of isolation (quiet isolation) will do to a person. Sigh. That was a good sigh.

(Photo: That's the Blueheels playin' at Cranky Pat's, from the band's site.)

Wintery memories ... sigh.

So -- surprise! It snowed in Wisconsin today. Whoa.

How did TV news handle it? Like dorks. According to NBC 26, based in Green Bay, "the blizzard of 2006 will be remembered by everyone for years to come." I bet I should have written that in all caps: "The BLIZZARD OF 2006 will be remembered by EVERYONE for YEARS to come." (Nodding at co-anchor, screen switches to shot of someone shoveling, back to anchor, more nodding by the co-anchor, over to the meteorologist, who nods and says "Yup, we got some snow. Details in 10 minutes," back to anchor, cue music "Next, see how one local resident blah blah blah ...")

Don't overgeneralize, NBC. Ugh, I've got goosebumps just thinking about how nerdy that sounds. I'm embarrassed to have heard that. See, when people say they hate the media, I don't think they really think we're biased. Nope. I think they mean they hate phrases like "the blizzard of 2006 will be remembered by everyone for years to come."

That said, Oshkosh didn't get the predicted 12 inches. We got 7. It's OK, though. It's still seven times the amount of snowfall we had in January.

But no amount of snow, not even 7 inches, can make me feel better about those pesky winter memories. Going down the hill on a sled, and crashing into the chain-lined fence at the bottom. Sticking my tongue to the aluminum door at Grandma's. Not having power for hours, and having to heat up Spaghettios on a kerosene heater. Burning my fingers on a kerosene heater. Sigh. Good old days? Oh, god. Right.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not hung up on my childhood. It was good. But, aside from making snowmen, I'm more of a window-watcher than I am an active participant. I love snow from a distance. Skiing? Are you kidding? Pffhst. I'll be inside.

(P.S. The fiance took some pictures of Oshkosh today. So, Ohioans, this is what snow in Wisconsin looks like. White and cold.)

"American Idol" beats the games (lowercase "G," please)

Yessssss. I don't get Fox, so you can't thank me. But "American Idol" put the Olympics to shame. I'm serious. I think I saw the men's figure skaters crying. Not that I was watching. I mean, it was uh, on the wire.

And about the whole "65 percent of Americans have tuned in to watch some of the Olympics" thing -- I beg you all, stop letting your dogs play with the remotes. They're making the numbers go way up.

"I have waited, the anticipation's got me blue." (Yeah, it's Death Cab.)

It's like we've not seen real snow all winter or something. I mean, they're calling for a measly 12 inches of snow, and all of the sudden, everyone goes crazy.

Wait. That includes me. SNOW. Finally. Gosh, I didn't move to Wisconsin because of the cheese, folks. (Though there was that whole job thing.) I'll admit eight to 12 inches is a bit excessive, and I further confess that if it were Dec. 25 (or even a weekend), I'd be much more excited about it. I want to play in it. I don't want to drive in it. I want to watch it snow from my bedroom window, not from the window across the office at work. Man.

Now, watch, I just jinxed it and it won't snow at all. Sigh.

However, there is more good news, folks. I need to write more "I hate life" blogs more often, because as soon as I do, another band of mine (mine, because I obviously own them) announces they're going on tour or something. Yes. I can see the next blog: "Dear Billy Joel, My life is meaningless and holds no ... uh, meaning, without you. Please tour." And the next day, he'll be like, "Dear Erin, I'm so there. Love, Billy. P.S., Yes, I signed it 'love.'"

This time, it's my boys Death Cab for Cutie. You know, like the Postal Service's Ben Gibbard, mixed with some other not-ugly-but-not-hot guys singing about sad things in a sort of happy way. It's brilliant. Love it.

Madison (love it). Friday, April 21. 8 p.m. $25. I'm so there. With my friends. Yesss.

Tom and Katie save me from my Wednesday Eve slump.

Reasons to be happy ...

1. Tom and Katie: Still a couple. Why is this good news? Because I love to hate them.

2. Katie Holmes: Because I don't live in Toledo anymore, I don't have to precede "Katie Holmes" with "Toledo's own." Ugh. And, I get to miss "TOM AND KATIE: AT THE MALL," "TOM AND KATIE: AT A MUD HENS GAME," "TOM AND KATIE: AT INVERNESS COUNTRY CLUB - TONIGHT AT 11." Yessss. And you guys thought watching them on "Oprah" was bad. Man. Tom and Katie (because we're all on a first-name basis) come to Toledo, and the TV news crews go wild. Eek.

Welcome to Siberia.

I live in the future. Yeah, I'm one of those people.

"Live in the present, yay, balloons and unicorns and happy thoughts," you say. No. I won't. You can't make me.

I am constantly counting down to something. Or, at least I was. But this time, it's a long, long, long road to count to. I count the days 'til Christmas. My birthday. Our anniversary. 'Til a three-day weekend. 'Til Rediscover has another concert. Until someone comes to visit ...

But I have nothing going for me. Nothing. I'm in the middle of the Siberia of my life. Or maybe it's just Wednesday Eve.

How do people go on like this, day after day? I mean, I'm not a marathon runner. That's why I don't run them. So why does it feel like I'm stuck at mile marker one, with 89 miles to go? (I realize that's not a marathon. It's my blog, though. What are you gonna do about it? Huh?) How do people who are in their middle ages (not The Middle Ages) get up and go to work and come home and eat supper and fold laundry and go to bed early and get up and go to work -- every. Single. Day. How do they do it. I want answers.

I realize the bills won't get paid if they don't get up and go. I get that. I will continue to get up and follow the masses to my day job because it pays rent and the bills, and it's not a bad job at all. I like it. But I just started. Maybe I should count the days 'til retirement. Nah. It keeps moving back, anyhow. Ha.

Glimmer of hope: I'm going to see a band Friday night. Don't know 'em. But I'm going with the fiance, and a few friends. I guess I could count down to that. Three days. Three days. Three days ...

This didn't work out really well for Winston Smith, if you remember.

Call me crazy, but all I can think of is our boy George Orwell. Eek. Very science fiction, baby.

Implanting chips into workers? Um, no thanks. I'll take my job with a little less creepiness, please.
(AP photo)

The way to my heart: a VHS tape and no fancy dinner.

I found this kinda-cool buy-sell media place nearby, and all of my Valentine's Day dreams came true. Mega Media Xchange, in Appleton. I'm over the whole flowers thing. Instead, I wanted movies, and I wanted to pick them out. Nothing spells romance like watching Woody Allen get his neurotic heart broken again. Chocolates can't even come close to bringing that kind of joy.

What I was searching for: "Annie Hall." But the trip ended up being more fruitful than that. The good news is, the movies I got didn't cost more than $1.99 each, because I got them on VHS (a dying art form, if you ask me). (It should be noted that I only like VHS now because they're cheap and come with "totally tubular" previews: on one, I got a preview for something that was coming to theatres in 1984. I was like, teething. Awesome.)

Luckily, I've got a fiance who understands where my feelings lie: in the "Bee kind rewind" stickers with -- how clever -- little bees on them, and in not getting dressed up to go out to some meal where there is no macaroni & cheese just because it's Valentine's Day. I may be coupled up, but I don't push for the overtly romantic stuff. Unless you call pizza romantic. I do. But I'm probably the only one. So while you're out eating your fancy dinner, we're eating off paper plates on the floor, watching "Annie Hall." And I like it.

Oh, and speaking of undying romance and lots of sea water, there are still four VHS copies of the Leo and Kate "Titanic" left there, and one of "A Night to Remember," the 1950s version of "Titanic." Not that I was looking. But ... uh, I saw it. And no I didn't buy "Titanic."

P.S., Other movies they have that you didn't know you needed, but will probably go buy immediately upon reading this because of their cheesiness factor alone: "Risky Business," and "Footloose."

Why you gotta be a hater?

People can be mean to strangers. Me included. You should see the way I bring gas station attendants to tears when they give me the wrong change. OK, so that's not true. At all.

But I know that people feel more free sometimes to chew out the check-out lady than they would close friends. I get it. I was a psych major for a hot minute. I get human nature.

But sometimes, I just don't know why people can be so cruel. A friend of mine has this anonymous commenter on her blog who, instead of leaving "I think you're full of it" comments (like he or she most likely thinks), leaves "I think you're chubby, you have droopy eyes, you are NOT cute," (etc.) comments. Why? Just click "next blog" at the top if you hate it so much.

Why all the drama? I know anyone who has a blog is putting themselves out there for people to criticize. If you have a blog, you have to deal with that sort of thing. I get it. I'm OK with it. My feelings and self-worth don't rest on the words of some anonymous poster. But I don't get these people, and I want to know where they're coming from, is all.

Let's take a step back. Let's say I stumble upon some random blog, written by someone I don't know, and I stay for a while and read it, and hate it. Am I going to leave a message, telling them how I think they stink at life? Um. No. My momma didn't raise no jerk. I'm gonna go read some other blog, or go fold laundry, or watch a movie. I say my mean words outloud, and then they're out there, gone, no one hears them, and I go on with my life.

Who are these posters? And why do they come back? I would guess it was to direct traffic to their blog, but this person posts anonymously. The comments are turning personal, too. To all of us. Yup, this person hit 80 percent of recent graduates below the belt -- Anonymous actually said my friend had nothing to show for her life because my friend had to get a second job, on top of her day job, to support herself. "You're a college graduate with a bartending job -- yeah, real cool."

(Sidebar: This person is either rich, or is still in college and believes everything he or she hears from his or her guidance counselor. "The job market is picking up! You're going to get a job right out of college that pays $75,000!" Um, unless you're an engineer or a pharmacist, you just don't make that kind of money. Some of us never will. Get over yourself.)

I like comments on my blog; I can take it. I'm a big girl. She is, too. Her and my questioning of this person's motivations is more out of a curiousity than it is a result of a life-ruining or morale-crushing moment.

I'd love to hear Anonymous' inner dialogue: "I, Mr/Ms Joe/Jane Smith of Nowhere, USA, find this girl annoying and ugly. I should probably endow some of my worldy wisdom on her: 'Dear Blogger, You are ugly and worthless. Your life has no meaning. Sincerely, Mr/Ms Joe/Jane Smith.'"

I just don't get it. I can be mean like everyone else. Whoa, can I be mean. But that mean? No. I don't get it. Oh well. I'm over it. I wish Anonymous would be, too.

Didn't they ever watch "Titanic"? It sank ...

OK, so maybe it's because I just saw the Titanic exhibition at the Oshkosh Public Museum, but I just don't think this Royal Caribbean Freedom of the Seas thing is a good idea.

When I saw the blurb that drew me to its Web site, it said "It's bigger than the Titanic." Didn't anyone learn anything? You aren't getting me on that ship. No way.

(Photo: titanictown.plus.com)

Welcome to Erin's blog: Your home for NO Olympics coverage

It begins tomorrow. Good Lord. Help me. So here's how I plan to spend part of the 418 hours of NBC coverage:

1. Sleeping.
2. Working.

And now the fun stuff: My to-do list for the other 300 hours of the Olympics I won't be watching on TV.

1. Reading "Everything is Illuminated".

2. Breaking in my new Morningwood CD.

3. Playing Dr. Mario -- yeah, the old school, early 1990s version for Super Nintendo. If you pass level 20 (the highest level shown on the menu options), you go into this secret super level thing. I've made it to level 23. It's very anticlimatic, but I feel like a better person each time I beat level 20.

4. Planning my next trip home. It's gonna revolve around Mom and perhaps a certain Toledo band.

5. Catching up on movies I haven't seen in at least three days: "Play It Again, Sam," "Torn Curtain," and "Lifeboat."

6. Taking suggestions for local bands to go see. Post below.

And that, my friends, is how I will survive. That, and a lot of the Internet.

Bobo the chicken

You've got to see this. Or, should I say, ya'll gotta come see this here video.

Chicken mouth-to-mouth. (Click "Hometown TV" when you get to the sight -- it's called 'Fowl Mouth-to-Mouth.')

(Oh, and the picture's from CNN. So I don't get sued.)

Call me shallow, but ...

I'm not watching the Grammys. If you know me at all, you know it's because I don't have CBS. Would I be watching the Grammys? Are you kidding? Do I appear that shallow?

I do?

Well. Um. I wouldn't be watching. Nope. I'm a 21st century Grammy watcher. Make that awards-show watcher. I'm just watching the highlights on the Web (my favorite and yours, Pop Candy and her play-by-play updates. "Hello? USA Today? Hi, it's Erin from the Oshkosh Northwestern. Can I please have her job? I can start tomorrow. OK, thanks.").

I get to miss all the annoying "And I'd like to thank"s, and I don't have to listen to music I don't want to hear (my confession: I loathe Madonna, and thus, missing her is like a gift from the Internet). Thank you, Al Gore.

That said, the Grammys are my favorite awards show. Music is more interesting to me than movies (the last movie I saw in a theatre: The Incredibles. That's right, ladies and gents, a children's movie. In 2004. Oh, God. I just proved how uncool I am. But ... but wait! Come back! I watch Focus films! I watch movies from the Criterion collection! Hello? Anyone?

OK, fine, so I know music -- OK, not like my music snob fiance (I say that in the nicest way possible), or Steve (yeah, I mean it in a nice way for Steve, too). I take it personally when Kelly Clarkson wins or loses (for the record, "Since U Been Gone" just won). I took it personally. So what if this is a big deal to me. Call me shallow. I can take it.

Forgive me, while I scream like a little girl

Chris Carra-who? I don't even know who you're talking about.

Rediscover. My Toledo powerpop band. That's what I'm talking about. Last night, all my dreams came true. We all met in Madison for what I like to call the "Rediscover missed Erin" tour. I think it's technically called the February tour, but ... that's unoriginal.

Last night was the ultimate fan/I-have-a-job?-what?? night ever. My fiance and two friends from work went to Madison (which is sort of like Ann Arbor, Mich., from what I saw) (Ann Arbor is the only good thing about the state of Michigan, so that's a compliment). College-like, a bit artsy-hipster in parts, a bit more capital-like.

We ran into the band in their van (not as tragic as it sounds) and got the tour of the bus. Yeah. Go ahead, read that sentence again. The inside of a tour van is kinda cool, for a small space that holds four men on cross-country trips. It had a TV and a video game console, and smelled of men.

The band and their roadie/manager/friend with no job went to a restaurant across the street and ate with us. I have three other people who can verify this.

Then, we went to see them play at King Club. Well, technically, we hung out with them for another hour and a half while some Gwen Stefani-sounding, Garbage-looking band sang, but "hanging out" is really something too special to share And by "too special to share," I mean it was your typical hanging out -- talking, etc.

And then Rediscover played, and it was magic. Or powerpop. Whatever. It was glorious. We danced (and I can't really dance), we sang along, we took pictures like the paparazzi ... sigh. And I'd like to reiterate: We came as friends, not as those scary, obsessive groupies you normally see at small venues who follow the band around and talk as if they know them. We do know them. Clear? We are not scary.

The show was like Toledo, only in Madison. I was homesick, but I didn't want to be anywhere else at that moment. What an odd little feeling. When we said goodbye, I wanted to both go back to Oshkosh, and go back to Toledo with them. It just felt so good to go OUT, and to see good, live music, and to be with friends. I felt like myself.

And yes, we all had to work the next morning at 9 a.m., and yes, we got back to Oshkosh at 2:45. But it was worth every missed hour of sleep.

The only bad part is I don't really have anything to look forward to now, except getting my new Rediscover T-shirt out of the dryer, and seeing Rediscover's April tour stop in Chicago. I'm going to need a new band to scream like a little girl over. One a little more Fox Valley.

I'm so proud of me: I didn't mention Monday one time in this whole post.

I got home from work today at a normal-people time, which is always good. I had some mac 'n' cheese, even better -- and then I sat down to go through the mail.

Yeah. Bills. Yay. Junk mail. Etc. Then, a fabulous present.

A DVD from my Grandpa. Made by Grandpa. Edited by Grandpa. He's going to be 80, and yet he can do more with DVD editing than I can. Talk about making me feel like a slacker.

It was called "For Roger," my missionary-priest uncle, and it basically was pictures of all like, 56 of us grandkids standing beside Roger at various stages of our lives. The babies got the best: they're still cute, they're in the video like, eight times each. The older kids who live near home or who made it to the Christmas party also got it good. They look like they do now, which won't be embarrassing until 2010. Ha. (All 10 of my teenaged boy cousins in 2010: "Remember when long-sleeved polo shirts with white T-shirts underneath were cool? Man, look at that gelled hair. We were so AWESOME.")

Me? I gotta go home more often. The only picture he must have had of me was this terrible one of me pouting on a bench in Chicago, because I'd just gotten in a fight with my then-5-year-old brother, in Chicago circa 1995. Man. Lessons learned: 1. Keep in touch with Grandpa, sending pictures often, 2. Be grateful your brother isn't 5 anymore (man, he was embarrassing -- me? Oh, no, never), 3. Rolled socks AND rolled shorts = not cool 10 years later. (Probably wasn't so hot then, either, come to think of it.)

But, nonetheless, it made me all warm and happy inside. Or maybe that was the macaroni. Either way, I was impressed with the video, and kinda proud my grandpa did it. (Insert the song "I Love Technology" from the wedding at the end of the "Napoleon Dynamite" credits.)

With my choice of clothes 11 years ago, not so much.

Pedro offers you his protection.

I gotta credit this one to Pop Candy, but I just thought everyone should know. "Napoleon Dynamite" director Jarod Hess has a new movie coming out this summer. Any chance I get to see Jack Black with his shirt off ....

Wait. What I meant to say was, any movie that's going to have Pedro in it again (well, the guy who plays Pedro) has to be good.

Can't. Stop. Watching.

I'm into train wrecks. No, not like, people-dying, derailment train wrecks. I mean this.

Paris Hilton and I don't get along. She's asked me to be her BFF, but I told her I just can't. I have enough friends as it is, and besides, I'd only ask her to pay my student loans and perhaps rent. She'd get tired of supporting me, so I just don't think it'd work out.

Plus, on top of monetary reasons for disliking her, I also find her mildly vomit-inducing. I get enjoyment from picking out her every flaw, or supposed flaw, or anything I'm jealous of. Too skinny. Too rich. Too blonde. Too tan. Too dumb. Too rich. Too raunchy-tape. Too rich. Too closed-mouthed about what happened between her and Nicole Richie. Whatever.

But still, I think she's a guilty pleasure. I admit, when I see her name on the Yahoo homepage news blurbs, I click. When I read about her latest night out, I read to the end, disliking her the whole time. But I think we're supposed to feel sorry for her now. (In case you didn't click the link above, I mean she's had her possessions stolen.)

Possessions include diaries, clothes, computers (yes, I meant to put an "s" at the end of that), furniture, videos (uh-oh), pictures, etc. All "stolen" because she allegedly didn't pay her dues at the storage facility where she kept everything.

I don't know why I care. I mean, she's Paris. Hilton. Ugh. I hated (and hate's a strong word) "The Simple Life." I don't think she's all that glamorous, and I don't really get why she's famous in the first place. Oh, wait. Her role in "House of Wax." Never mind.

But anyhow. Among these scandalous possessions are -- and I copy and paste -- (Her lawyer) told the Los Angeles Times the diaries contain "everything that would be dear to a woman's heart: relationships, personal feelings, sex, love, breakups, sexual experiences, all those little things that make up a little girl's life. Her deepest, darkest secrets.

He used the words "a little girl's life" to describe all that, did you catch that? Ridiculous. And yet, I can't stop reading. Someone help.

Best five days ever, minus Monday.

Tonight is round two of four for the fantastic extended weekend. Extended meaning Monday will still be horrible, but it's Tuesday Eve, which is Wesley night.

So far this weekend, I've seen Titanic stuff, a crappy, horrible, awful jam band (I've gotten yelled at enough this week, so I won't reveal who they are, short of saying there's only one way my seeing live music in Wisconsin can go -- up), and am about to see "Play it Again, Sam," a Woody Allen movie.

This has been the best weekend so far of my entire Wisconsin life.

But no, I still don't like "jam bands." They bring out the type of people who take off their shoes in a bar and let down their 6-feet-long hair to dance like they're Janis Joplin wannabes, they get mullet-haired guys to dance like they did when it really was Jimi singing "Watch tower," and they play for-ev-er. (Shudder.) As a friend said, jam bands remind us that "oh, yeah, the '90s did suck."

The good part? We were hanging out with new friends. And friends of friends. I'm talking big stuff. Inside jokes, good music in between sets of the jam band, and conversations that aren't your usual "Uh, so what do you do?" type. Yesss. Outside of the music, it was awesome. And, despite what it sounded like, it felt like Ohio to go see live music. Yesss again.

And Titanic -- go see it. Now. This version is the smaller version of the one that the Cincinnati Museum had a few years ago (for all of you who heard me talk about going to see that one with my dad and stepmom), and yet it still packs a punch, and you still get boarding passes of real passengers, whose name you check at the end of the tour to see if you lived or died.

Mine was Mrs. Elin Hakkarainen, who was 24 and traveling with her -- er, uh, I mean my -- husband from Helsinki, Finland to find economic and political freedom in Pennsylvania. Third class. Eek. He died. I must have been good lookin' or lucky, 'cuz I made it.

The only thing I wish they had had at the museum (which was included among the museum's photos, but wasn't anywhere that I saw) was the replica ice berg. In Cincinnati, it took up a whole wall, and you got to stand there and see how long you could stand touching it. It was the exact same temperature as the water the night the Titanic sank. Creepy.

So, yes. Go see it.

And tonight, it gets better. We're going to Appleton for my friend's birthday with our new friends (believe it, man). Tomorrow, chicken wings and some lame football game. Monday will be Monday. Tuesday, Wesley. Wisconsin, you may be cold and windy, but you rock right now.

Blast from the past with a meth problem.

I always wondered what happened to her.

Soon, I'll be Mrs. Carrabba. Just don't tell my fiance. I think he'd be jealous.

I feel sorry for boys. I really do. Well, straight boys. Non-emo-loving boys.

See, one of my boyfriends is coming to the University of Wisconsin-Oshkosh to do an acoustic show. (By boyfriend, I mean "musician who doesn't know I'm alive.") Chris Carrabba. Mrs. Erin Carrabba .... Sigh.

Anyhow, as soon as I heard, I was already thinking about what I was going to wear. Was I going to go? Phhssfft. Not even a question in my mind. Of course I'm going. I have the press release hanging at my desk, as a "reasons to live" incentive.

On the other hand, as soon as one of the guys I hang out with heard, he was already snickering, casting nervous glances back and forth (over e-mail) and saying "I had no idea that you were one of those mopey, sensitive, emo-loving, self-mutilating, coffee-drinking, live-journal-writing, ironic-T-shirt-wearing, air-quote-abusing people."

Well, obviously he doesn't know me very well.

Kidding.

Boys just don't get how we, women, can love someone as -- yes, OK, I'll say it -- emo as Chris Carrabba. Um, hello? He's cute. He's singing about the best night ever, measuring minutes by a clock that's blinking 8s, and screaming infidelities. It doesn't get much more emo than that.

And he's coming to Oshkosh, to sing to me. Just me. Well, that's what everyone who goes will be thinking when they go.

Boys don't get that. Who do they have like that? Christina Aguilera? Hilary Duff? Yeah. They can't go to any of their shows without losing their precious street cred. Girls can like so-called crappy music and go to shows and feel "like, so on the same wavelength" when Chris Carrabba sheds tears during "Hands Down," and not lose any face.

They're so jealous, those boys. They've got Dashboard Confessional T-shirts in their closets, and they're sad they can only wear them under sweaters. Ha.

Chris Carrabba made up my entire junior year of college. I can't separate him from that psychology class I liked, or the linguistics class I went to that one time. He (and The Strokes, and The Killers, etc.) is the Independent Collegian. He was on "constant repeat" when I went to bed. He was my first date with my fiance (ha -- look where that took us), and he was the first 10 minutes on my drive to Wisconsin.

I don't wear a "emo girl" button on my shirt. But if push shoves Chris Carrabba, I'm pushin' back. What's up now, boys?