So Dave was in pain

I'm going to write this so Grandma doesn't blush. Or, I'm going to try.

Dave was in pain Friday night. He came home from work, grunted for hours, kept us both awake, then moved downstairs to the couch to grunt in peace.

At 3 a.m., and once an hour for the next 15 hours, I asked him if it was time to go to the emergency room.

"No, I'm too embarrassed."

"No, what if it goes away?"

"No, it's too expensive."

"No, it's getting better, I think."

"No, I hate hospitals."

Well. I won, eventually, because I sat watching two episodes of "Cops" last night in the waiting room of an emergency room that looks happily nothing like that on "ER."

"Erin? Would you like to go back to see Dave?" a nurse asked. "Oh, Dave said you work at The Northwestern, too."

I gulp, never knowing what that means. "Yes."

"Cool."

Nice.

She leads me back a quiet emergency room to find Dave sitting on a bed, arms above his head, watching the History Channel.

"I got a CAT scan."

"Oooh. Neat."

"Yeah."

We waited for word. Dave thought he was dying. I thought he was a dummy for waiting. But, either way, 20 minutes later, we left with a new understanding of Greek history, a feeling of being violated on Dave's part, and a prescription for a low-grade infection.

So what did we learn? One, I show my love for him with an irritated "WHAT? For God's sake, if you're dying, I will be so PISSED" at 4 a.m.

Two, I show my rational thinking at 4 a.m. by thinking "I swear, he's probably dying and I'll have to go to that financial thing to find out how to be a single mother."

And three, he must have a low threshold for pain -- you know the sound of men grunting as they're lying, bleeding on a battlefield after being shot by a musket or something from old history shows?

He sounds just like that. YOU try to sleep through that.

I sound really grumpy here ... Dave was a saint

I handled registering for the baby just as I thought I might.

I was crabby. Overwhelmed. Angry at all the choices of some items -- who needs a whole aisle of nipples and bottles, for God's sake? -- perturbed at the fact that there are gobs more of the important stuff like cribs and high chairs on their Web site but no mention of that in the registry booklet, disappointed in the registry woman's lack of a personality, upset at being hungry already, at the weight of the registry guide with its lists of necessities, at the man waiting on God knows what sitting in the chair I wanted to see ... Sigh. It was great.

And seriously, I love babies. I love my baby in particular. I'm psyched about being pregnant. I love registering. I just can't stand the annoyances and ohmygod is that a hair in my mouth? I WANT TO STOP LIVING.

We scanned through a few items, but Dave was in pain (see next blog post) and I was hungry, so we said "screw it" and turned our gun back in. Later that night, I happily registered online for a few more items, and will finish the rest later this week.

I just can't do it in person. I can't. Too many gaudy teddy bear patterns. Too many "for mom's comfort!" Too many. It's just too many, man.

I'm so neurotic

As I took down the Christmas decorations today, I was extra careful in my wrapping of the glass bulbs, the removal of the hooks from the strings and the securing of the tops to the boxes.

Because, maybe I've mentioned this before, but when I get these boxes out again, there'll be a six month old crawling around. Or scooting. Or whatever.

See? Look at me. Safety first.

Never was much for waitin'

I know it's early. I know I don't know the s-e-x yet. I know I won't be giving anyone birth 'til about June.

But my showers are coming up -- as in February*. Yes, I know I have time. Plenty of it, actually.

But ask anyone who's lived with me longer than five seconds and you'll be told "Erin's crazy." And Dave and I don't get days off at the same time (where we're not driving to Ohio) more than like, what? Once every three or four full moons? And I took two semesters of hard-core astronomy. I know moons.

So that's why tomorrow, provided we don't die first in this snow -- Wisconsin snow, something no one with a career in broadcast journalism here has ever heard of, ever -- we'll set out to register for some of this baby thing.

And ohmyGod. Registering for the wedding was one thing. We walked around the store, gun in hand, pointing out all the necessities we could ever ask for, and a few of the items I'm not sure why I needed (our coffeemaker's more space age than my astronomy classes were ... really).

But this is like registering in a foreign language for something like ... how can I compare the alien feeling? Uh ... A cannon ball hitting your house? Something you have no idea how it works, what it'll do, whether it'll have "puke issues" (Mom's words, not mine) like I did, whether it'll have GERD like Dave does, whether it'll sleep, ever ... Just. I've been babysitting half my life, I went to school for two years for child development, yet I can't tell you what a person should register for.

They don't teach that in school. Not even at the community college. Weird, I know.

So anyhow. They'll probably hand us the gun and we'll be standing quietly in the megastore with a sheet of paper in front of us that I tore out of Fit Pregnancy magazine, going "OK ... they say four sleepers ... But it'll be June. Who wants to be wrapped in June? Oh my God. I quit."

Wish us "Godspeed." Hey. At least the stuff's cute. I mean, come on. Have you seen this? This? This? And yeah, this, too.

*Ah. It should be explained my showers are so early because a.) Dave's sister's hosting one and she's due with her baby in March, b.) I don't want to travel eight hours at eight months' pregnant, and c.) we were going home anyhow because I'm that awesome wife who got Dave those Foo Fighter tickets.

Hallelujah -- We've been saved

Here's how the money works in our house.

I make some, he makes some, I collect bills in a slot for our envelopes, he pays bills at the very last second, every time, like he's surprised that -- oh my God? Erin? This one's due on the 1st too! Again! Every time. Dang.

Admittedly, I have little idea how much those bills are unless I open them; he has little knowledge what day of the month it is, so we often pay bills RIGHT on time. Exactly on time.

Saving? Well, yeah, we have one of those accounts. I don't recall ever putting money in it since we opened it. But see? I'm SAVING it. And checking account? Yup. Retirement fund? Uh, I have ... something set up through work. I couldn't tell you what it is, or what it means. Or what those student loans have left on them. Or what Dave's do, though I know he has more than me, and even though we're married, that's all the same headache.

My credit card's paid off. His isn't. I have a car payment. He doesn't. But we will soon. No, it won't be a minivan.

That about covers it. Oh. The mortgage. I've got one of those.

So. We've got some money stuff.

And now? We've been SAVED.

Remember that pre-Cana thing I just mentioned the other day? (Here's my original blog about the marriage class ...)

Well, one of the presenters/ counselors/ speakers from that whole thing just called. Apparently, the free financial counseling session we all were entitled to for going to the pre-Cana class is still good. And, what's that? Our number just came up? YESSS.

He told us in June 2006 he'd call in like six weeks, so after we didn't hear from him after that, I kind of thought he hated us, or maybe noticed we were unmarried and shared an address? That's OK. He's over it now, and thank God.

We need some help. I picture myself dumping my money stuff from a shoebox onto his desk, and him saying "No, no, don't do that!" and "Yes! That's what I call saving!" And there will be singing! And rejoicing! And counting of coins in tall stacks with green visors.

I don't know if you knew, but babies cost money, and we have 23 weeks and five days (according to my online pregnancy calendar) to find some money. I'm so ready for this money thing. Help me, man.

Wasn't so, so bad. Just bad.

I found out the worst part about working Christmas Day wasn't the fact that I was missing cheesy potatoes and pumpkin pie. Though, yes, now that I mention it, I could use some of that, please.

It was staying up.

I was working about two to three hours after I'd usually be sleeping. It didn't hit me til I got home and started to whine, or until this morning when I thought about poking my eye out so I wouldn't have to go to work. Or at 2 p.m. today when I wanted a nap.

Dave. You second-shifter, you. There's a reason I only see you at work. Days are so long, man.

This was almost as good as finding his old love letters to an ex

I've talked before about how Dave's mom's saved everything from Dave's first dental X-rays to a sheet of wallet photos from his junior prom, but the bin of treasures she dug out of their basement went so far above that expectation that I couldn't do anything but shake my head.

I'm not sure why anyone would keep items they weren't sure what they were or where they came from. Posters. Cereal boxes. School notebooks. Avon cologne bottles.

And now's not the time to talk about "Antiques Roadshow." I'm not talking about "AR"-type finds.

Over the last few years, though, from our moving to Dave's having to carry items from the top floor to the basement, I've convinced Dave that a good rule of thumb is, if you forgot you had it, you probably don't need it. I've trained him, my words like a shot of water in a squirt bottle, poised for him to say "Should I keep this?" ZAP, ZAP, "NO -- ROOOOOAAARRR" ZAP, ZAP. He's drenched on the floor, one hand extended to the garbage can by the time I'm done shooting him my looks.

But standing in his mom's living room, it was different. He hovered over the black garbage bag, pitching 75 percent of the treasures his mom had lovingly saved as she and I watched from our seats near the fireplace. Yet in came his dad, reaching for an Avon cologne bottle amid the garbage. "Hheeeyyyy, what's this?" he asked, holding it up.

"Erin's not letting me keep it."

"Why not? This is probably worth something." And that's how the Avon bottle ended up on top of their fridge. And how my life was rid of it.

Now, watch. It'll be the ONE bottle that's worth something, and when his brother or sister realize it's on top of the fridge, there will be an all-out war over who gets to show PBS the coveted item.

Say what you will, but people don't realize that gobs of wallet-sized, one-pose-only, professional prom pictures of Dave and a girl named Jamie lead to happiness that can't be measured in money alone.

Do stuff for me

We discovered I'm what our pre-cana leader called a "do things for me" person. See, when they were explaining marriage and what a long complicated time "forever" is, the leader said there are certain types of people in marriages. There are "do things with me" people. "Do things for me." "Touch me." "Buy things for me." Etc.

It basically means that instead of buying me something nice or hugging me before I've brushed my teeth in the morning, I'd prefer to be "told" "I love you" by having Dave switch over the laundry. Shovel the driveway. Empty the dishwasher. Take out the trash. Yup. That's the key to making me happy. Just do stuff for me.

So, it can be deduced by that and my cold mental state that I just don't like to be touched. I'll hug Dave, Mom, family. I'll cuddle with the dog. But when anyone other than my specified few come at me with hands extended toward my belly, I'm going to freak out. I'm not a touch-me person. Just because my belly is cute and growing doesn't mean it's an open invite to touch. No one is proclaiming that everyone -- yes, everyone -- should touch my belly!

So far no one's been in direct violation of this as they've all been family, but the first stranger in the grocery store who touches me is going to get karate-chopped, right there by the bananas. Don't they know? They could so much easier have asked me if I needed anything. Maybe a bag of dog food in my cart? Anything? And I'd feel much better.

Merry stinkin' Christmas

I'm not the only one who has to work on Christmas. Doctors, nurses, Wal-Mart cashiers, gas station attendants, the poor guy in the toll booth on I-80/I-90 ... I know, they do it, too. But it doesn't mean I was looking at the cup as half full as we drove back from the promised land of Ohio to the lonely, cold, snowy land of Wisconsin tonight. It was more like I saw the cup had some water in it and I kicked it over out of spite. Kind of like that.

Christmas Eve is usually the night my mom and stepdad and my brothers would open presents. Christmas Day is the Schroeder Christmas party in the church basement in New Cleveland. Dinner is always leftovers from lunch's big meal. But instead of that, I'll be at work here in Oshkosh. Ugh.

The problem with working on Christmas is you go in to work when it's bright out, the roads are clear because people are at Grandma's or home, eating turkey and cookies. When you leave work, it's dark, radio stations have stopped playing the Christmas songs already and the only ones on the road are the ones heading home after a long day of nothing. Jerks.

Last time I worked Christmas Day, I served food to folks and did dishes in a nursing home (I was a dietary aide, not a volunteer ... that'd be different). By the time the hair net came off at 8 p.m., Christmas was pretty much over, and all I had to show for it was a glob of pureed peaches crusted on my white pants and the onset of strep throat. That was awesome.

If I picked up that half-empty cup and put some water back in it, I'd say at least Dave's there this time. At least we'll both be working. May as well both be miserable.

Sixteen-and-a-half weeks

Pregnant women are especially easy to Christmas shop for -- gift cards, baby clothes and baby books. How can you go wrong?

So that's what my Christmas was like -- full of onesies, Cincinnati Ben-girls bibs and socks (I was raised a Browns fan, ya know, this is hard to handle) and even a sweet changing table. We got "Goodnight Moon," a "Baby's First Christmas" ornament for next year and a set of animal books. So cute.

And now that our Christmas is basically over, and as it gets closer to Jan. 18, I'm getting less "it'll get here ... patience, woman" and more "OHMYGOD I'll never make it." Because after finding out the sex, what's there to look forward to but the whole birth thing? Not that that's the process you look forward to, so much as the end result. You know what I mean.

Anyhow, all these baby items that are lying on the spare bed upstairs and all the unsent baby shower invites at my mother in law's and my mom's houses -- they're just little baby-powder scented reminders that I'm not even halfway done yet with this pregnacy, and I'm not a patient person.

Though Mom says that when it comes down to June and D-Day, I'll probably panic and say "No! Wait! I'm not ready! One more day, just one more day!" Probably. But that's how I roll -- fickle and anxious and slightly neurotic.

Always thinking

We exchanged gifts already since we'll be out of town before and working during Christmas. It was one of those really romantic evenings with the fireplace going, Harry Connick Jr. on the radio, perfectly wrapped gifts and champagne.

Or, Dave just finished "wrapping" my presents five seconds before he said "wanna open them now?", we flipped the volume off "Clash of the Choirs," and we're not much for champagne. Or having fires, since that'd require burning my house down. Or Harry Connick Jr. since he has a tendency to sound like a herd of elephants if you don't listen, put all your energy into listening to his damn Christmas songs -- and I just don't have the energy for that.

Anyhow.

I got my ring, of course, and "Mr. Big got me" a gift certificate, a couple shirts, a pillow, a CD. I'm so good to that dog.

And because I'm such an awesome wife, I got Dave tickets to see the Foo Fighters in Detroit in February, the same day as my baby shower and Dave's birthday. Convenient, huh? Dave thinks he got the tickets because he's such a good husband, or maybe the hormones swung in his favor for a minute, or maybe I just had a stroke of good planning. Maybe. Or maybe it's my way of saying "This is the last time, buddy. Enjoy it, my friend. En. Joy."

Correction

There's a correction I'd like to make.

The 80 GB iPod has been on back order, so instead of being rational and waiting for it, my dad's bosses said "Hey, remember that day back in '87 when Randy was all like 'Bill, I'll do that report'? Yeah ... Let's upgrade." And that's how Dad ended up calling me to ask me if 160 GB was anything special.
Seriously. If he could just turn it, yeah, just a little bit? To the left? Yes, there. I think the knife's in deep enough now. My 20 GB iPod from college is hiding behind its black-and-white screen out of shame now.

Teary woman

A coworker didn't mean to make me cry, but I about did when she sent me a picture of her sister's ultrasound. I don't know her sister; I am just the token pregnant woman who, yeah, enjoyed looking at it. The baby (a girl, if you were dying to know) at 19 weeks is just about how mine will look (if all goes well, ya) Jan. 18. God. I was doing that breathing deeply, looking at the ceiling thing so I wouldn't embarrass myself.

Then today, I got to do it all over again when I opened my gift for the work exchange. I saw this bib and wanted to crawl away and cry. I love, love, love it. It's so freaking cute. But no, I didn't cry. I think I squealed or something. Just wait til my shower in February.

Grocery shopping

"Did you see those boots?"

"Oh my God, yeah!"

"How many Muppets lost their lives for those?"

"Fozzie's definitely no longer with us."

Zee baby

Well, I broke down and got two more pairs of maternity pants, and wore one to work today.

I know this isn't a big deal to anyone who's not had a drastic change in body shape, but I was nervous and worried about how I'd look in them for an irrationally long time last night while I was trying unsuccessfully to sleep. I like the belly, but I don't like how the short-waisted Erin looks with the pants that come up so far in the back and the shirts that cut me at just the wrong point ... But that's not what you're here for, to hear about my expanding stomach.

In summary, I wore them. I felt comfortable. I need to deal with the fact I'll never look the same as I did. Whatever. I hear there's a reason for this -- apparently I get a baby at the end of all this. And they let me KEEP IT. So, moving on.

Back to this not-sleeping thing ... I keep reading in my bible of pregnancy (this one is the best, courtesy of my doctor) that sleeping doesn't get easier as you get bigger. But I can't get comfortable NOW. I can't stop thinking about work, the baby, Dave, in-laws, holidays, traveling, money, work, foods, memories that mean nothing, songs in my head, work ... And this is me, the Olympic medal-winning sleeper. I don't get it. I can't stop thinking. And I can hear myself breathing. UGH.

I blame it on not sleeping on my back, as that book also says like a harsh German dictator, that you MUST NOT DO, because we don't want to huurt zee baby!, and that's annoying only because I am still 3 when I want to sleep. Tell me I can't do something? That's the ONLY thing. I want. To do. And if I could, I'd throw myself down on the floor and stomp my feet about it. But, I don't want to hurt zee baby. Ah, well.

Pregnant lady at a liquor store

I like getting little "pretend" presents for people to go with their "real" presents. Most call them "gag" gifts, but since I'm talking about buying cheese curds as jokes, I don't like to use the word "gag." Mainly because yeah, when you explain to someone what a cheese curd is, and why they're called curds, they really do gag ... and that's not my intention. I just wanted a little laugh.

Anyhow.

Besides those cheese curds I'm going to be throwing on top of real presents, I'm officially DONE-ish with Christmas shopping. I add "ish" because in a bit I'll be wandering around the wine section of the grocery store for a gift -- a GIFT -- as I hold in my belly behind my winter coat so I'm not the one people are whispering about behind the reds, what with their "can you believes" and "lush"es on their lips.

See, I may as well light up a cigarette mid-belly scratch and drink right outta the paper bag.

I plan on kindly escaping past them with an apologetic "but I just love wine .. they're made from grapes, right? Fruit? It's gotta be safe for the baby. It's just gotta be. Right?" Hack, hack, smoker's cough.

Yeah. After that fun experience, I'll be done with Christmas shopping for the year. Then comes the fun part ... getting the presents. Whooooo!

The 30th anniversary isn't for pearls anymore

My dad celebrated his 30th anniversary at his work Thursday, and for his years of dedication and traveling and hard work, he got something he wasn't convinced would ever leave the box.

He got a freakin' 80 GB iPod. An ay-tee gig iPOD. I'm pretty sure that's ridiculous. What happened to a cake? A watch? He gets an iPod? Really?

"Maybe when you come home you can show me how to use it," he said.

Or I'll show him how I'll steal it, is what I'll do.

Imagine how it must've been for him in 1977, walking in that flooring company.

"Hi Randy. Here's your desk. Your coffee mug. The restroom. Now, just think ... sure you'll install floors for a few years, then you'll sell some stuff, you'll travel so much your kids'll hate it, you'll work at home cuz you're on salary ... huh (pat on the shoulder)! But seriously, Randy, you just wait! It'll all be worth it! In 2007, we'll give you something that can fit 20,000 songs on it! And it'll fit in your pocket. Yep. That's right. We're getting you an iPod ... Just keep your eyes on the prize, Randy. All right. Get to work."

I got five months

I wasn't feeling well today, so I decided to stay home from work and hang out in bed. Before he left for a morning meeting in Appleton for work, Dave asked me what I was going to be doing today.

Gee, I don't know. I thought about organizing the garage? Maybe making four dozen of his favorite cookies with homemade icing? Knitting sweaters for him?

Or, I don't know, napping. Reading. Nothing.

"Your days of doing nothing are getting limited, huh," he said, chuckling. I thought quickly to the finality of his statement and shrugged.

No need to be so danged melodramatic about it. Hmph.

The only time in my life I'll say I wish I were fatter

I went from about five to seven comfortable, don't-even-think-about-it, you-know-it-matches-so-just-grab-and-go outfits to wear to work to about three outfits. I'm down to two pairs of pants and three shirts. Yes, I still work five days a week. I get really, really creative around Wednesdays. Matching isn't so much a priority.

And nothing is more annoying than having to stand looking at clothes you wish you could wear if they fit. I have a whole closet full of them -- look at them! Purples, blacks, whites, stripes, sweaters, cute little shirts ... Just standing there. If I had the extra space, I'd box them up and keep my few shirts hanging there to inspire Dave to say "wow, you need clothes." But since we don't have the extra space and because Dave would willingly set his Kirby Puckett collection on fire before he'd notice if I ran out of clothes to wear to work, I won't do that.

The two comfortable maternity pants are great for wearing around the house, but I have to pull them up too often to make it feasible for wearing out of the house. Walk, walk, hike up pants, walk, walk. Not yet. And I don't want to go shopping yet. It's depressing.

I realize that in a few short weeks this won't be an issue, and that in a few months I'll be so uncomfortably shaped like a small bus that I'll wish I could complain about my pre-pregnancy pants fitting at all. I know. But let's not talk rationally to the hormonal lady. Got it?

Let's instead pretend my outfits match. GOT IT? LIE.

What dog whimpering? I don't hear anything

Sleeping's my favorite. I can do it anywhere, anytime, no advance notice, no darkness, no quiet. Just give me five minutes and I'll be out. Bam. I'm GOOD at it.

Or, I was. Now I tend to not get comfortable. And when I do, I havea few things on my mind. I never understood when my college roommate or my mom would say they had trouble sleeping, or slept like crap, or had so many problems or issues on their minds that they couldn't sleep. Now, I get it.

I fall asleep fine. But I'm painfully aware that I won't be sleeping like a champ that much longer. When Big wakes us up whining at 4:45 a.m., or throws up in his crate three feet from my bed, I'm reminded that another human being will be doing similar miracles. And then I can't get to sleep.

Sometime around 6 a.m., I'll give up and fall asleep .... til my alarm goes off at 7:45. I hate it.

But it is giving me plenty of practice time -- practicing my pretending to be REM-ing. REM-ing accompanied by sharp, unconscious jabs in Dave's back; jabs that lead him to get up and take the dog outside. At 4:45 a.m. Marriage rocks.

Goodbye, 'Journeyman' (maybe)

As one of three fans of this show, I feel it necessary to comment on its finale -- ooh, wait, did I say that outloud? I meant "little break before it never comes back or starts anew on the SciFi channel."

NBC, replacing something with a plot with a reality TV show or something will not grant you access to TV heaven.

---
Two hours later, I should add ... They just said there's another new episode next Monday. Right. Okee.

Then you really might know what it's like

August of my freshman year of college, I had one of those "wait, that can't be right" moments with my then-roommate, a friend from high school. She was standing in the middle of the apartment we'd moved into two days before, holding a pregnancy test that, yes, showed she was very pregnant. Later, we'd find out just HOW pregnant she was, as she had twins. Yow-za.

That little Lifetime moment aside, she gave birth months later to the two cutest babies ever, until I have my own, of course. As I visited the three of them one day, I asked her how things were going.

"I don't feel like they're mine. I feel like I'm babysitting, and any minute now someone's going to walk in and take them away," she said.

So today, as I watch my nephew so Dave and his family could go to the Packers-Raiders game in Green Bay, I keep peering (not eerily, just curiously) at Jack and wondering what it'll be like in a year when I have one of my own. Only by "a year or so," I mean five months. Mini panic attack .... Aaaaaand release. Whew.

We stood by the door and checked out the snow. We hovered over the coffee table and made pictures from Bingo markers and printer paper. We watched a little of "Finding Nemo." I don't know. Maybe it's because I've not HAD one of these things before, but I just can't picture one running around who's my own. Who lives here. Who I feed and bathe and clothe and raise and love and cuddle and curse when they throw up on the rug. I'm thinking it'll work itself out. I can't freakin' wait.

And, for the record, put down your cell phones with the pre-programmed child service's number in it. He's sleeping now. It's not like I tied him up and said "Ya'll wait here. Auntie Erin's gonna BLOG."

No Christmas spirit, no Christmas spirit at all

I know that stress sometimes can be transferred to animals, but I didn't think it'd come in the form of chewing through a strand of Christmas lights.

Idiot.

Luckily, it wasn't plugged in. But I could've lit that dog up when I walked in the room to turn on the tree and found -- what's this? -- the plug lying across the living room, copper wire exposed from its green plastic, the caution tags irresponsibly ignored and wet with dog spit, balled up on the rug.

What? Who DOES that? What a tool. And of course the strand was on the tree, the tree he pretty well ignored til this point, so Dave got the merry job of buying another strand and re-decorating our tree so we could light it again.

What did Big get? He got to wear the sweater. And when he wears the sweater? He pouts on the couch for hours. YEAH. TAKE THAT, DOG.

Did you HEAR that?

It's easy to feel not-pregnant sometimes now, because the nausea's disappeared and the maternity pants have yet to move from where I put them last week -- in my drawer.

But at the doctor today, seeing the scale finally move upwards -- an occurrence I thought as a woman I'd feel guilty about, but instead laughed a little when the doctor looked at the chart and said "Well, you're putting on some pounds!" -- finally helped me feel better.

What made me soar a bit was hearing the heartbeat. Loud. About 150-some times a minute.

I kept laughing and making the Doppler device blow out like a bad stereo, and then holding my breath and waiting as the nurse moved it around on my stomach. I looked up at the ceiling and waited for her to find the heartbeat back after I giggled and lost it. Glancing over at Dave, his face was a mix of "wow, that's great" in a Ben Stein-type way and "Really? that's a heartbeat?" Later, I asked him if he thought that was as cool as I thought it was. "Yeah. I just don't have something growing inside me. Nothing ever happens to guys."

Well. Maybe he should try to get pregnant. Cuz this is AWESOME.

Additionally, Jan. 18 is the day we get to find out the s-e-x. Now you know.

Picture: Taken about six weeks ago ... Just thought I'd share

Dear Dave: I want a maid for Christmas. And I want that maid to be you. And I really just mean stop leaving your shoes under MY side of the bed.

A normal person would brag about Dave's cousin being in the NFL, and how his family's coming up this weekend to see the Raiders play the Packers, and yay, football.

But I'm not going to the game because I'd rather poke my eye out with a stick than watch football, especially in snow. And "special teams" doesn't mean much to me, despite it being neat knowing that I sorta, kinda know someone in the NFL. Wow.

What's stressing me out is my messy house. And my inability to stay awake past 8 p.m. And the fact that when I say "messy," I mean messy for real this time. Not "Erin's being crazy about that book not being in the library bin again." No, this time I really mean "my mother would be so angry if she saw this."

So as I swept today, fully knowing I was going to leave a note for Dave saying "Dave's to do list for Wednesday: Sweep/ mop, laundry, vacuum, fold laundry, dishes, put away laundry -- all of it," I got so tired I actually had to sit down.

Loooooser.

Which is why I'm blogging with the broom beside me. Ha. I live so scandalously.

I'm not comfortable with the word "belly" sometimes

On this, the second anniversary of this blog, I bought maternity pants. Two years ago, I was broke, living in a shoddily constructed apartment, searching for a wedding dress. Now, maternity pants. Ah, life. This is it.

My first pair ... I purchased them from the privacy of my dining room table, looking online because I was too embarrassed? (Uncomfortable? Anxious? Afraid of having strangers look at my stomach and saying "she thinks THAT'S a bump? She ain't seen NOTHING yet") to get them in the store like a rational person.

Without mom or a friend there, you just look like a crazy lady in a winter coat, in my opinion, if you're not showing-showing. I'm not showing-showing. I'm just uncomfortable with the status of wearing pants that need to be held up by elastic hair ties. Give me Spandex waists for God's sake.

I don't mind gaining weight now; it means everything's progressing normally, and it's kind of cute if I may say so myself.

What do I mind? Not being able to wear anything I want when I'm exhausted at 7 a.m. on a lousy, rotten Tuesday. Of the seven pairs of "work OK" pants I have, two fit now. Of the four jeans I have, one can be zipped all the way -- my "fat pants," the ones I kept from the year I was losing those 30-some pounds between high school and college. And they're so comfortable, my God.

And buying clothes, as anyone knows, is not what one might call "cheap," or "remotely fun to spend money on," especially when you're not really sure what the difference is in comfort between a belly panel, a low-rise panel and a roll panel. (Panel? I'm buying clothes with panels? I need Mom. Mom! My clothes have panels; help me!)

And no, I'm not wearing them yet. Gosh.

Written Nov. 18

Not embarrassed, just annoyed.

I thought he was going to shoot it.

Though we don't have a gun, that was the first thought that came to my mind as I watched from the comfort of our dining room as Dave give our neighbor's snowblower not one but two middle fingers yesterday morning.

Our neighbor's away, and we've been given the use of the snowblower so long as we clean her sidewalks and driveway, too. More than a fair deal if you live here and are perceptive enough to notice we got seven inches of snow yesterday.

But Dave can't get the dang thing to actually work. That's problematic not only for his transportation -- he parked his car in her garage yesterday before it started snowing, and instead of shoveling two driveways, he only wants to do ours, so now he can't get it out -- but also for his ego.

"Does it embarrass you I'm not man enough to fix a small engine?"

"No."

Because why would it? Who sees you be the crazy guy in the driveway, giving two gloved fingers to a machine that won't even turn over in response? Oh, wait. Those people who read my blog. Riiiight.

I'm going to start calling the baby 'the third party'

The first time I wrote a column for my school newspaper in college, I could hardly sleep the night before it came out. I don't even remember what it was about; only that even after a few short years, I'm already sure it wasn't good. I'm quite confident about that; it's like reading a diary entry years later and realizing what a nitwit you were. Just ask what happened to my junior high diaries when I found them in college. Deeee-stroyed.

But I've never been quite so nervous as when this column was going to be published.

I'm a little superstitious about some things. That, and I have a couple people who write me about every two or three months just to tell me how much they'd prefer it if I dropped off the face of the earth. Please. Someone spit in their Cheerios in 1976 and they're STILL angry about it. I'm a logical target. I'm OK with that; it's just I don't want to hear it when there's a third party involved. As in my third party. Ah, well.

This blog brought to you by soy farmers

I thought I was doing really well with mood swings, til Dave came home for his dinner break tonight.

I saw the dishes in the sink and was so paralyzed with feelings of overwhelming stress at the stack of dirty dishes that instead of rationally washing them, I turned the light off and ran away.

So when Dave got home, he got me on the couch, angry for no good reason other than I had eaten today, and that had created dirty dishes, and couldn't he SEE what was WRONG with that?? It doesn't stop. It NEVER stops. As soon as you have the sink clean, you get hungry. I will be 98 and still angry about this.

He trepidly asked what I wanted for dinner. Easy. I've been craving ravioli and homemade garlic toast. Easy enough. Only we don't have garlic salt.

We went through our timid dance of I-don't-know-what-do-you-feel-like-eating began, and we settled on cream of mushroom with soy crumbles and instant mashed potatoes.

Only he didn't tell me we didn't have cream of mushroom. But! But! Erin! We have cream of chicken! Tastes the same! Only, no, it doesn't. Because you don't put chicken and beef in one pot, so you shouldn't put cream of chicken in something that's supposed to resemble beef. And there weren't enough mashed potatoes for us both. And the sympathy soy chick'n nuggets were overcooked and couldn't be chewed through.

So I did what anyone would do. I grabbed my napkin, held it to my face and bawled. Uncontrollably. Because nothing's going right! And it's almost Thanksgiving and I want to see my mom! And the pile of dishes is bigger! And I have to go to work tomorrow! And none of my pants fit! And the mashed potatoes are getting cold! And I can't taste them because I'm crying too hard! And Dave wasn't helping!

Probably because he was scared to death. Hi, his wife just fell apart over her chick'n nuggets. He'd touch my shoulder if he weren't afraid I'd bite his hand off. He'd hug me if I hadn't put the kibosh on that for reasons you probably can only appreciate if you've been pregnant.

Poor Dave. He did an awkward side shoulder hug and a "shhh, shhh" thing, probably praying for the phone to ring or for a meteor to hit the house. It didn't, but I calmed down and ate and he grabbed his scarf and coat and kissed me goodbye sweetly, and then it was over.

I think he'll come back ... I hope so, anyhow. Cuz I'm not doing those dishes.

Written Nov. 17

Yay, Dave

Morning sickness is a weird occurrence, because I get it when I'm hungry, tired or otherwise standing still. In the morning, I find it hard to get out of bed -- remember that time you were so tired you thought you'd lay down and never, ever get back up? It's that feeling, plus vomiting.

Now picture yourself at 6:45 a.m., leaning over feeling like that, wondering if you already asked Dave to get you toast or if you were just hoping you did.

He doesn't move. You assume you just thought you did.

"Dave?"

"I'm going," he says, eyes closed, mouth barely moving.

Though you didn't ask, he knows what to do. Why? Because he's Dave, the poor sucker stuck lying next to you night after night, waking up to your "I'm thirsty"s and "Could you get me some toast?"s. And he's the kind-hearted guy who goes and gets them without much complaining.

Everyone should have a Dave.

Written Oct. 29

I can't think about anything else

Right after I got engaged, I thought family, friends and random strangers would come up to me just to punch me in the mouth to get me to STOP talking about my STUPID wedding already, God! No one CARES.

But you guys. This is a BABY. As I write this, I'm 7 1/2-weeks pregnant, and my baby looks like a little half-inch alien. He/she has a heartbeat. A brain. A liver. This is serious stuff. And I'm responsible for this. When I post this, he/she will be three months not-born-yet-but-old.

He/she's not even here and already I'm having a complex about my ability to help this child not-die, and maybe even succeed. It's scary.

So it's no wonder that I've got that one thing on my mind right now, and only that. And I don't think anyone would blame me for only talking about my little cashew.

Plus, it's like the "don't think about puppies" thing. I say "don't blog about the baby" and all I can blog about is my baby. I'm laying out pages at work and thinking about he/she. I'm reading copy and going over names I might like in the story. I'm reading pregnancy books where I used to read Joyce Carol Oates or Jodi Picoult. I'm giggling. Over nothing. Everytime someone says excitedly "You're going to have a baby!" I just giggle and say "I KNOW!"

What's happening to me?

Written Nov. 1

I don't really know myself

I don't like pickles, nor do I ever crave ice cream. But meat. Now, I can't stop. Scary, bad-for-you meat, red meat, a damn hamburger, spaghetti sauce so thick with meat chunks that it's not quite sauce. Pepperoni, even. Beef sandwiches, with ketchup.

I don't even know myself.

I was a chicken woman. Nuggets, legs, sandwiches, patties. Chicken. Healthier, lighter. Soy, even. Yum.

Now, unless it's covered in hot sauce, I don't want it.

Mmm, that or just plain green olives. I eat them like I used to eat M & Ms, and olives are unfortunately not much healthier.

Somewhere, my doctor is crying and my sodium levels are soaring. I promise. I'm also drinking my milk and eating fruit and the occasional veggie. I promise.

Written Oct. 22

Telling my mom

"Mom, we have a bunch of gifts for you," we said on our vacation last month.

"Ooh!"

"Here, your jelly container back."

"All right."

"And here -- magazines."

"Sweet."

"Aaaaand, Dave got you this for early Christmas -- a 7-foot crossword puzzle."

"Oh, man."

"Aaaaaand, Dave framed this photo of you and Bernie. Isn't it cool?"

"Oh, baby!"

"Oh, speaking of babies -- I'm pregnant."

Silence.

"AH! YES!"

Written Oct. 20

In my head, I made a lot more sense than I did aloud

"Ugh, I'm so tired. My back hurts."

"YOUR back hurts? You're tired? I carried around a fetus all day!"

"Wha?"

"Yeah! YOU try being pregnant!"

And I'm not even really "showing." Dave's probably got an escape plan for months seven to nine. Sucks to be Dave. I'll track him down. He won't get far.

Written Oct. 29

Good luck, suckers!

"Dad? Erin's pregnant."

Pause.

"No foolin'? Well, wow, good luck!"

Pause.

"I mean, uh, good job!"

Written Oct. 21

Baby Cashew

I was five weeks pregnant, skinnier than I'll ever be again and aware of it for the first time, and buying baby name and pregnancy fact books at Meijer (it's like Wal-Mart, with a conscience, and Wisconsin desperately needs one here).

That night, sitting on my mom's couch, Dave and I picked out girls' names we liked, narrowing it down to about five. Olivia. Emma. Isabelle. Tegan. Abigail.

It was all perfect. People said "awww," and gave their opinions on each. But a few weeks later, I checked the oh-so-addicting Social Security Administration Web site's baby name page and found all but Tegan were in the top 10 or 15.

Then I found a name somewhere in the top-hundreds. Lucy. I asked Dave and he said "I've never thought about that name ... Now I can't get it out of my head." Lucy Wasinger. Lucy, Lucy. I thought we'd found it. We could stop calling the baby our little cashew -- she could have a name!

But the next morning, while brushing my teeth, I stopped mid-brush and stared at myself in the mirror. Lucy. No. I can't. WHY didn't I think of this? I thought. Calmly finishing and sitting at the table moments later, I said "It can't be Lucy."

"Why?"

"Carly's dog. Her name is Lucy."

"I thought it was Lou-Lou."

"I think that's the nickname. Call your brother."

But his brother confirmed his girlfriend's dog's name was, indeed, Lucy.

"So ... Joe. If you could, you know ... 'off' that dog, you know ... I'm just saying."

Great. Now we have attempted murder on our hands. Lucy's out. The dog lives.

And yes, we have a boy's name. But that's secret for now. I'm hormonal, and likely to get angry when strangers scrunch their noses up and say "Ewww, you want THAT name? What are you naming, a goldfish?"

Written Oct. 19

Why I had to tell you now

I wrote about 12 blog posts and saved them, carefully selecting "Return to list of posts" instead of "Publish post," afraid I'd tell you all and then jinx the whole thing. That I'd go to the doctor and they'd do the blood tests and say "Well, the good news is, you're not anemic. The bad thing is, you're not pregnant."

But no.

I am. And it's still early. The good news is, I'm pregnant, I'm not anemic, I don't have hepatitis, HIV, Rubella or anything else they took four vials of blood for at my nurse's visit in mid-October, two days after our one-year wedding anniversary.

I won't feel OK about being pregnant until Dec. 4 when I enter the second trimester of my pregnancy. My pregnancy. It sounds weird to say it, and I walk around all day thinking "I'm pregnant, and you don't know. She doesn't know. She doesn't know, either. I'm having a baby. I'll have a baby this time next year. This is my last October as a woman without a child."

But I'm not going to lie. Dooce had a missed miscarriage right after Dave and I told our immediate families and I told my bosses, and I thought I didn't have the nerve to share it yet beyond that because I didn't know if I would be strong enough to, like Dooce, blog about it, should anything -- God forbid -- happen with my pregnancy.

Of course, I went through how many weeks of not having anything to blog about because I wasn't doing anything but being pregnant, and I realized I missed being able to talk about real life.

But what can you do? I kept my mouth shut. And DANG it was hard.

Written Nov. 9

So hot

Old wives are rarely right in all their tale-telling, but sometimes, they can be right on.

I guess morning sickness is one of those things they got head-on.

Of course it was named by an insensitive man who never had it, because if he were able to experience it, he would've insisted it be called all-day kill-me-my-mouth-is-watering-oh-God-I-think-I'm-going-to-puke-oh-wait-false-alarm. (Now, Nov. 27, it's pretty much gone. But dang, it was a long month.)

And I'm not sure there is a sexier feeling than being not-quite-showing-but-still-bloated, nauseaus and tired like you've never, ever experienced. Ever. And I know tired. Then you add on top of that the heightened sense of smell -- of which I come with a sensitive sense, anyhow -- and you've got yourself some burpy being with your pants unbuttoned and held together by a hair tie looped through your button hole. Hot. Hooootttt.

I think it's nature's way of making you not sleep around. Cuz, man, did I have a problem with that before! Whoooo. (Just kidding, Ma.)

Written Oct. 18

Also, the first time you blame a mood swing on being pregnant, you get a punch in the face

"Let's lay some ground rules."

"Ohhh-K."

"First, there is no fruit in my womb. I hate that."

"OK."

"Second, WE are not pregnant."

"What?"

"I am pregnant. WE are not."

"Oh."

"We are having a baby. We are starting a family. We have one on the way. But WE are not pregnant."

Written Oct. 17

What I've been up to and hinting at for about two months now

The two lines sprung up within seconds. First the variable, then the control. The clock ticked as the blue lines grew darker, the variable slightly lighter than the control line. It was 7:16 a.m. on a Thursday in early October. By 7:18, my heart beat once in my throat where three beats should have been in my chest and I hesitantly called for Dave. "Daaaave?"

Holding the paper with the idiot-proof directions and the wand out in front of me, I just looked at him and watched as he looked at the key. "Two lines ... positive ... One line .... nega--"

Pause. He looked at me and smiled, slowly, rubbing his bed-head.

"We're having a baby?"

"I think so?"

I mean, yes.

And later that day, I took two more home pregnancy tests. Positive. Took one more - a different brand, just to make sure - the next day. Positive.

I guess I should clear my calendar for early June.

Written Oct. 16 - It should be noted the blue lines I'm talking about are from the first test. This picture was the third test. Can you say paranoid?

Noooooo, don't make me goooooo

I'm all about home improvement (the act, not the show), and I'll admit that nothing quite brightens my day like the smell of paint drying. Paint that I didn't put there. Paint I wanted there, and ordered Dave to put there. See, I'm very specific about the scent of my drying paint.

Since Lowe's opened in Oshkosh last week, a mere five minutes from our house, Dave's been a madman.

"Let's go tomorrow after you get done with work."

"Wow, I call that incentive."

"To get done earlier?"

"No, to get lost on the way home."

"Come on! It'll be great."

"I'll bet!"

He's decided that tomorrow, just because!, we're going to pick out molding for the kitchen, new toilet paper holders for both bathrooms (because the ones we have are jiggly beyond repair, and he wants fewer moveable parts), a towel holder for the downstairs bathroom, and the mower we'll be getting next spring.

Wooooooooeeeeeeeeeehhhhhhh! A new mower! All right! Let's go now! Let's go tonight! Let's talk about weed control! Let's talk about blades! Let's talk about oh-my-God-I'm-so-bored.

I had a penchant for home improvement-type stores right after we bought our house, but since, oh, October of last year, that kind of returned itself to the "boring" pile of my life. He's going to ask me to pick out the siding we'll get when we're rich, or the type of windows we'll get in our next house, I just know it. God, wake me up. I must be having a nightmare.

No, she doesn't have the mullet anymore. I still have that crazy hair, though.

All weddings are fun, but weddings that are held around home with your family, with Putnam County wedding food, with wine, with a bride you used to stay up late playing Barbies with at Grandma's by the closet light until you started giggling so loud that you got yelled at for not trying to sleep ... those weddings are the best. The weddings with the bride you used to spend hours on the phone after school with dissecting what The Boy said to you that day in school -- does he still like me? I think that's him! On call waiting! Oh my God! What do I say??

And I'm gonna be in one those weddings in September.

My cousin Kristen called me last Friday around 11 p.m. to tell me she got engaged! Finally! Yay, Paul! And Thanksgiving night, she asked me if I'd be in her wedding. Heck. Yes.

She's got what I understand to be 286 days to throw together the wedding she's always wanted. Less than a year. Actually, to tell you the truth, I'm glad it's less than a year, because I'm so excited for it, and for her. But I'm not exactly jealous to have to do all that planning in nine months. But I guess she won't feel those five-months-out, I-swear-to-all-that-is-holy-I'll-never-make-it-to-my-wedding-day, this-is-taking-forever moments.

Siiiiiigh, fun.

Thank you, thank you, tip your waitresses

"There wasn't a lot of dark meat on this turkey."

"No, there wasn't," I say.

"But I guess that's more on the drumsticks. This turkey didn't come with drumsticks; it's more of a guitar player."

I laugh.

"Whoa, I thought you'd think that was stupid."

"It was. That was awesome."

They're crooks, the whole lot of them

If ever there was anything someone could have mentioned to me somewhere along the line about being an adult that would've made me stop and re-evaluate this whole living thing, it'd be insurance.

I'm not going to sit in my recliner with the doilies on the arm rests while I spew hatred on the entire health care system, saying it's full of people with scabies for brains. Nah. I'm much too bored for all of that. Sure, it's a scam. Yeah, someone's getting rich off my measly $1,200 a year. But, well, what can I do. Write my congressman?

Anyhow.

I spent about an hour last night comparing options, checking doctors and facilities between here and my mom's house (just in case!), choosing out-of-pocket expenses vs. out-of-paycheck stabs in the heart.

I hated every minute of it. I ended up doing a cost analysis, something I thought I'd never do after I passed (the second time around!) math for liberal arts majors in college. I was wrong. Kind of. I mean, I didn't have to do it long hand. There was pretty much a calculator right there, waiting for me. And I really just had to look at some factors, then pick the one with the lowest number. But it's numbers. It's luck. It's logic.

It's Dave on the couch going "You did what?" when I tell him which I chose, and then me sitting on the recliner going "But I can't go in and change it! What did I doooo? It was a mistake! Oh nooooooo!"

I'll live. Just, you know, with less control over where I go should I get the shakes and chills and feel impending death coming on. Until next fall, I'll convince myself I made the wrong choice, and should I get in an accident, I'm going to need someone to tell the kind man giving me CPR that if he could kindly drive me to Aurora Medical Center, that I'd be most grateful. No, I do not care that I was hit by a bus in Mercy Medical Center's parking lot. They're blacked out. Sorry.

I'm going to go straighten up my doilies on my TV stand now. Maybe dust off the plastic on the davenport. Watch some "Price is Right."

You can't help yourself at all

"What should I write about this week in my column?"

"My backache."

"No."

"The broken water heater?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"It's boring."

"The possibility of 40 gallons of water gushing into your basement isn't boring. We're LIVIN' ON THE EDGE, BABY!"

"Oh my God."

Holiday mish-mash

We dropped in Limelite Studios before the big tree-lighting ceremony Friday in the triangle that is Opera House Square. The studio had the white tree up, snowflakes were being cut out of white paper by a normal, adult male. A couple others hung sparkly flakes in the storefront windows, and it was at least 80 degrees inside there. I sweat in my winter coat, hat and gloves, and a few seconds later I was shivering outside by the tree.

Those gathered around the tree before it was lit were singing "O Christmas Tree," and when the anticlimactic lighting of the dull white lights on the tree glowed, they pretty much stopped and faded away as the crowd dispersed.

We dined, we had some friends over, we listened to Christmas music on our iTunes, bragging about the 9.2 hours of Christmas music (not all good, admittedly) we have. The trees were all lit in my house.

It's pretty much Christmas, all over.

And yet Dave and I don't know what we're doing for Thanksgiving. I keep forgetting that stupidly placed holiday is still about a week away (who plans a holiday on a THURSDAY? Seriously). I forget that before we get too enthralled with the Peanuts Christmas soundtrack I got, we should probably talk about that whole turkey thing.

Ah, but that doesn't happen. As I checked out Christmas CDs from the library today, the librarian told me she's trying to live in the moment and enjoy the seasons and holidays in their correct order; she's right, ya know. I'm the reason people cringe the day after Halloween. I'm the reason early shopping days were invented. And maybe that's a bad thing. Probably.

But I don't want to live in this moment. I'm not so thankful for this exact moment. Christmas? I can pretend it's Christmas. I can see family. I can leave this city, for which the honeymoon's over and now we're just ... comfortable. So maybe if I have Harry Connick Jr. singing about Rudolph, it'll make Christmas come faster and we can be done with this whole boring waiting game.

Or maybe it just drags out. I dunno.

I also hated how "Who Let the Dogs Out" was played at every pep rally. We get it. We're the Bulldogs. ENOUGH ALREADY.

I was that annoying girl in your senior class who thought everything was stupid.

I hated having three study halls and not being able to leave the building. How stupid. I hated having classes with freshmen. I hated being forced to go to pep rallies. Stupid. I couldn't wait til I was 18! I was so out of this stupid town! I was going places! I hated everything and everyone! Insert slamming the locker door shut and stomping to government.

But now I'm missing a few things. Just a few, though. Let's not get too excited.

Like the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, when the cafeteria would serve two globs of boxed mashed potatoes with shredded turkey on top, and Nickel's Bakery rolls with butter, and a little heap of peach crisp? Sigh. We stood in line for 20 minutes for that stuff. I've never spent a better $1.50.

Then there were the movie days; I guess it was pointless to try to teach us stuff right before the holiday, so here! Let's watch a movie. Yer teacher needs a smoke, so sit down and shut up and watch the movie.

And the days off ... Not that there was much to do in a town of 2,000-some people, but still. It FELT like freedom. No school, man! No one's here to hold me down! Except my mom, she's making me sweep and dust. GOSH, no one UNDERSTANDS me.

Still don't miss the other things. But I'd sell my dog for a tray of that turkey-mashed potato stuff and a few freebie days off. OK, maybe not my dog.

I think she can thank my brother

"So I clicked on your Facebook page tonight," I said.

"What's a Facebook page?" Mom asked.

Guess that answers that question.

I know I'm lucky he cooks. That's not the issue here.

Our marriage is a good one; we laugh, we share secrets, we stay up late painting each others' nails. Dave promised me I wouldn't tell you that (oops!) -- I'm always doing that, ha, putting my perfectly manicured foot into my mouth.

But I've mentioned before that if he asks me what I want to eat for dinner one more time, I'll chop up his body and put it in the wall, and then calmly call to order pizza. (That's a lie for three reasons -- one, I only commit murder never, so that's out; two, I only order pizza online because I hate talking to them on the phone; and three, we have plaster walls. Messy to work with.)

The other night, we came to a point in the conversation where our fighting over what we were going to eat for dinner escalated to almost-death. I don't KNOW what I want, DEAR, and you standing there with the freezer door open doesn't HELP. And the fact that he gets an hour to eat leaves us with quick! Hurry! Make up your mind! options. This is why we eat macaroni so often.

"I'll just make something myself," I said after 10 minutes of "No ... No ... What do YOU feel like eating?"

"No, come on. What do you want?"

"I DON'T KNOW."

"Chicken?"

"No time."

"Tuna pasta?"

"I don't LIKE tuna pasta."

"Well I don't know ..."

"I SAID I'd feed myself!"

Growl, divorce lawyers on the phone, cereal bowls hitting the countertop with see-I-mean-it force ... Oh, yes. Even I felt uncomfortable with all the loud noises.

Luckily, Dave has the good foresight to see we can't live like that. So sometimes, like tonight, he grabs something he knows I hate (pork in this case), and says "I think I might just eat this ... is that OK?" Asking nicely so as not to tick off the crazy lady! She's batty! Crazy lady!

And the suddenly, without fighting, I get choices. So many. I get waffles. For dinner. And no one had to die.

I'm serious. A Monday can be made or broken on our 10-minute supper conversations. This is why God invented second shift for Dave, Crock Pots and toaster waffles. Because I love Dave ... Just not while I'm in the kitchen, too much.

But see, then we eat and the fight's gone and my belly's full of waffles and life's good again. Funny that.

(Your Mom) has added you as a friend! Would you like to confirm?

Facebook is the last bastion of my college years. No, there's nothing scandalous on there; just some old fashioned photos, a list of books I like, that sort of mundane thing that all my exes probably are dying to know. I mean, that's why people have those pages, right? Just kidding.

So, as I said, no scantily clad Erin, beer cup in hand standing over a keg, has made it to my Facebook; I don't put anything on there that I wouldn't want my mom to see.

Which is good, now that my mom joined Facebook.

I'm not really sure where the idea came from or why she thought she wanted a page, but I'm guessing my college-aged brother talked her into it. Or, went behind her back and did it himself. Either way.

My mom's cooler than your mom. She's on Facebook.

She's so out of my top friends list the second she puts up embarrassing photos of herself, though. I draw the line there.

Seems like less fun, more work this year for some reason

A city that welcomes the man in red down Main Street before we've even carved our Thanksgiving turkey can't judge me for what I'm about to say.

Our Christmas trees are up. Dave's valiantly come through in setting them up, I've been diligent in my lighting and decorating ... And voila, you have Christmas all over the place. We've finally amassed enough ornaments to fill all our trees (and then some ... some didn't make the cut this year) -- a "pre-Dave" tree, a "pre-Erin" tree, a blue-and-silver tree, a Santa/red tree and "our" tree.

Feel free to go get a tissue now.

But see, then you leave the house and no one else knows it's Christmas! fabulous Christmas! in your living room! in your dining room!

Instead, it's just November something and that woman in front of me in the grocery store's countering the cashier's pleasantries with her diatribe about how she hates the holidays, and the cashier nods and smiles and scans her savings card and suddenly, life's just mundane again.

Woman, she just asked how you were ... she didn't mean it! I think to myself. Take your raincloud and be a hater somewhere else. I'm trying to have CHRISTMAS over here.

Not my proudest moment

I was putting up certain festive items that shall remain nameless but may or may not include tiny lights, bulbs and tree skirts. From the living room, I could hear Big get off the couch and start sniffing around one of the less stable festive items; decorative lights tinkled against each other and I saw the lights from the corner of my eye, swaying back and forth.

Big? In the festive artifact?

No.

My dear. My son, my apparent manly, dominant son with four legs but no manly parts of his own, was showing Frosty who was boss under the festive artifact, and looking up at me as if to say, Mom could you KNOCK before you came in, because I wasn't done?

And Frosty, the foot-tall stuffed festive decoration that he was, lay with his plastered-on smile, screaming "help, help" in his jolly, booming voice.

How do you tell a dog that straddling a stuffed object is no way to treat a holiday artifact, no matter how threatening you find his demeanor?

I'm so ashamed. I think I'll start carrying around a water gun so I can just shoot him to get him to stop, and not have to make eye contact with him while he defiles such cheery objects. I can't take it.

It wouldn't be so dismal if we got the Charlie Brown Thanksgiving special on TV

We've not been alone together for Thanksgiving ... ever. Yet.

It's like that one last frontier; that last "first" day we've got to share together. Or maybe it's not that dramatic.

For the sake of blogging, let's say it is that dramatic. Because it's a holiday -- pre-Christmas, if you want to get Erin-Technical -- filled with mashed potatoes, gravy, mashed potatoes, pumpkin pie, a little turkey, mashed potatoes and cranberries. Oh, and family. It's supposed to have that, too. And we'll be sharing it here, in our quiet house, probably eating take-out or ordering pizza from some lonely pizza place that has a skeleton shift on for all the losers like us who order out instead of waiting four or five hours to cook some bird.

I'd say I was excited about it if it weren't so anticlimactic. Nothing feels like a holiday when you don't get to go anywhere for it. The good news is, I like Dave, so I guess that part won't be so bad. I guess. Gooooosh. Bring on the Trivial Pursuit and KFC mashed potatoes. Yum.

The light at the end of the tunnel just disappeared

I've been calling my mom for stupid, meaningless reasons lately, in increasing amounts.

It used to be our Saturday or Sunday night thing; now it's our Monday afternoon, Wednesday night, Saturday morning, Sunday evening thing ... And I am so homesick it's not even funny.

I realize outside circumstances might have led to this neediness to talk to someone about something like their personal preference for window sill types, their thoughts on my Saturday afternoon plans, what they're having for dinner, what I'm having for dinner, what I'm doing at that exact moment ... But who cares.

I overheard someone at work talk about the time they spent with their mom over the weekend and instead of my calm, so-what attitude I usually have on from 8:30 a.m. to 5 p.m., this was total jealousy. Ugly, smoke-coming-out-of-my-ears jealousy. Kind of makes ya want to quit your job and move back to your parent's basement, doesn't it?

Only then I remember we'd be broke, we're just now getting those new windows, she eats meatloaf for dinner a lot and I have Dave to cook for me; and she has cricket and spider problems in her house ... And I see the wise response is just to hate her boss for making her work the day after Thanksgiving, hate The Man for making me work at all, hate the man (for surely it was a man) who made weekends just two days to a five-day workweek, and to loathe all 500 or so of those miles between us. Especially the Indiana portion of them.

Ugh. Sorry. Back to be reasonable now.

New storm door gets the best of Oshkosh man

He's intelligent, but he was surprised -- as in called me to tell me, was bothered by it all night -- when he put a new door in the frame while he backed away ... and it fell.

Who is surprised by this? Who? Let's see ... it's not secured. It's not being held up by magical fairies.

It fell. It wasn't fastened ... Just putting that out there.

I should find more instructional books

While antique shopping, we found this great book for $1; "Better Homes & Gardens Baby Book," from 1951. Of course we got it. It was $1, and much like "Teen Guide to Married Life," these books can't be passed up, child in the house now or no.

I've heard your unasked concerns, and I've found answers you didn't know you needed. Yes, I'm here to share with you the realities of child-rearing and pregnancy, circa 1950. You can thank me later.

Concern No. 1: How will I know I'm pregnant?
Answer: Well, funny you should ask, because "it's not at all uncommon for a bride, thought she isn't pregnant, to skip a period ... because the possibility of pregnancy is in her thoughts." If you're pretty sure -- like, three months into missed period-land -- there's the rabbit test which is about 95 percent accurate. (But only if she's a bride. If she's single, Jesus in 1951 wouldn't let that happen. It's probably just gas.)


Concern No. 2: I'll never be skinny again.
Answer: "You'll be sylphlike again." It says that -- "sylphlike." I don't know what it means, but it sounds refreshing. "Many of the lovely figures you see going up and down the street belong to women who have had one or more babies. Follow instructions about not getting heavier than necessary and don't worry!" Easy enough. Put down the cupcakes, fatty.

Concern No. 3: You won't be able to do anything when you're pregnant.
Answer: "If you're a working woman: If your appearance is important in your work, you'll want to quit." This is especially important if you're, say, a Victoria's Secret model or a waitress at a restaurant that gets its name from jokes you heard over a beer pong table.

Also, note you shouldn't climb stairs "more than is absolutely necessary" and you shouldn't become chilled. Because, you know, it's uncomfortable and goosebumps on pregnant ladies accentuates those extra pounds, right? You also shouldn't swim, but if you are accustomed to driving, you can probably do so in moderation. To like, the store to make your husband a meatloaf -- but that's it.

Don't you feel better already? I'd share more but I don't want to give away the ending.

Made my heart skip a beat for a minute

It's November now.

You know what that means ... Because I'm a sick, twisted person, I will have a Christmas tree up in 14 days.

Fourteen. I just gotta get Dave to check all the boxes for mice and rats and bats and other creatures that ruin my yuletide glee. Because that's what this all is. Yuletide glee. Has nothing to do with being ca-razy.

I'd go back. I just don't want to be the one driving

I made it!

OK, I got lost, I may have shed a tear as I turned onto yet another one-way street away from my destination, away from the haven of a parking garage and the sterile serenity of a hotel room, onto another street where people walked in the middle of the street and looked at me like, what woman? What? You expect me to walk on the sidewalk? You must not be from here.

But then Dave answered his phone and he saved me from eternal circle-making, and I actually saw Milwaukee, the part you're supposed to see and not the part that's so out-of-the-way that you think the only way out will be to stop, hold a tree and whistle for help like they taught you in elementary school.

Milwaukee's cool. You win. Actually, it made Toledo look quite junky. (And you know what else is junky?)

And of course the best part was the hotel room, the king-sized bed, the cable, the throwing-wet-towels-on-the-floor-because-I-can't-do-it-at-home. Yessss.

It's no offense. I bet under different circumstances, we'd be friends

I've never been to Milwaukee (with the exception of a wedding I was at, but I don't think it counts because it was dark when I got there and we went right there and back). I've not had the desire to really go to Milwaukee, because I'm not the type of person who right now is desiring much more than maybe a nap? A cheeseburger with extra ketchup? I'm not asking a lot.

Dave loves cities and he'll tell you so if ever you so vaguely mention the name of a bigger city. I think Milwaukee would provoke that in him, but I won't let him talk about it because I don't want to go.

It's no offense to Milwaukee. However, until last year, I didn't know Milwaukee was like, this real place that people went to and loved and made memories in. I read Play in the City when Erin did it, and I remember thinking "What? Milwaukee? People do things in Milwaukee? Wait ... I thought it was a joke? I thought they had beer and that was it?"

I guess that'd be like someone saying "Toledo? What do they have there, anyhow? Jeeps and a lot of nothing?" Yeah, but it was home.

So, while I can admit Milwaukee's more than I thought it was, I'm not looking forward to my trip there tomorrow. For one, I'm going alone to the conference, and driving's not my forte. Directions, not my forte. Stress behind the wheel? Also not a strong point. I'm what you would call dreading it, actually. Public parking, no one to yell at when I don't know where I'm going and could you kindly hold the map open a little -- no, so I can see it -- hold, hold -- God dangit, I just missed it, did you see that? I just missed my frickin' turn. I told you, no, here. I'm getting out. YOU drive. I'm not doing this.

That, I don't get to do tomorrow.

I'm hating life a bit right now. So forgive me if I don't have any feeling of excitement over this ... And I know I'm being slightly hormonal right now, and I apologize.

Wake me up when October ends

I was going to go watch the Packers game at the bar, but I napped.

I was going to pass out candy on Halloween, but I'll be at a conference in Milwaukee instead.

And just like that, it's November, and I did nothing this month that I've shared.

Notice I've not blogged about much in about a month. Some would say it's because my life's boring at the moment. I'd like to say "slow" and leave it at that. I'm sure November'll change. I mean, come on. The holidays. Cold weather. Dave's new windows.

Maybe I'm wrong.

I married him for a reason ... So I wouldn't starve

After passing and not buying a jug of apple cider (always smells better than it tastes), ripe, red apples and apple pies in the grocery store earlier in the day, I couldn't get the phantom aroma out of my memory.

I had to have apple something. Preferrably not a healthy apple, by itself. No, I was more in the mood for sugar, cinnamon and something bad for me, with an apple mixed in there somewhere.

My mom's apple crisp ... My God, I had to have it. Problem was, we had two apples (you need like, eight) and another trip to the store would've proven a bad idea, cost-wise.

Casually I mentioned to Dave sometime while he was at work that I wanted apple crisp. When he got home at midnight, obviously it was too late. But then I heard the bowl being set down on the countertop. A knife cutting something. The lid of the flour twisting off and back on. The door of the microwave. The beep five minutes later.

And from my perch in bed upstairs, I could smell it.

The man made me a single-serving size of apple crisp at midnight.

And it tasted quite awful.

But let's look beyond that. The man. Made me. Apple crisp. One serving. For me.

If I could go back to the dramatics of every "BUT I LOVE HIM" break-up I'd ever had and tell myself one thing, it would be this: "Put down the cell phone. Go wash your face and throw away those stupid love letters. There's this guy -- you don't know him yet -- but he's going to make you dessert at midnight one night just because you mentioned it in passing. Seriously, this guy who says he can only see you on Wednesdays because he needs his 'guy time' isn't ever going to do that. Woman. Listen to me."

See Dave run. Run, Dave, run.

The last time Dave ran, I wasn't there to see it.

I'm not quite sure where it was, or when. I'm pretty sure he was wearing football pads and we were still in the '90s, maybe 2000. The Dave I know and love just doesn't run. He walks. He drives. He surfs the Internet. He cooks, shops and cleans.

Well, now he's going to be running, too.

Over his beer and our friend's margarita, munching on chips before our Mexican food came out, he decided to take up our equally not-a-runner friend on his offer to join him in training for the Oshkosh Half Marathon in April.

Did you read that right? I'm not sure if Dave realized while drinking his beer and eating those chips that 13.1 miles isn't really a small feat since, well, he doesn't run. Period.

But he's determined now, if only so people who said "Dave? Dave Wasinger? You're kidding" when they heard he would be running in it will get to say "Oh, huh. Look at him go."

I think it's cool; he's finally going to have someone to train with who isn't as keen to sleeping in and as averse to sweating as I. But, it should probably be noted that it's Oct. 27, and the race is probably going to be in early April, and that leaves plenty of time for Dave to say "5K is long enough" or "Ow, my shins, I quit." We'll see. We'll see.

Just some more about my trainwreck-of-a-yawn life

JK on that title.

Anyhow, this highlight of my 20-some years is that we're .... getting windows.

Well, I do have more exciting things going on right now. But if you talked to Dave, you wouldn't think so.

It's all he's been talking about. He carries samples of window sill colors and styles in his murse. He has the pamphlets from all those who've come bearing measuring tape and clipboards, who pull back our dusty blinds to measure our rotted out, nasty old windows.

"Which do you like?" he asks, holding out a ring of eight or so types.

"Uh, this one?" I held out a mahogany-colored one.

"No, this one. I like this one." No? Like, it's not an opinion?

No, Erin. This is serious window shopping. Rolls his eyes. Mahogany? Who are you kidding?

And here, three months ago, it was just an idea I had. I've taken that idea, given it to a reluctant Dave and walked away, brushing my hands off. Now I get new windows. He gets the credit.

But he really does try to convince me that buying windows is THE BEST thing that'll EVER happen to us. It'll like, cut costs! It'll look nice! It'll help us sell our house when we do! It'll change our entire outlook on life! Everything will be clear and seen through double-paned windows!

Gloria! Hallelujah!

Just say no. Or at least "not before work"

My doctor recommended I take half of this one pill and a whole one of a certain kind of vitamin to make me feel better, to make me feel like a real person instead of one a bed-ridden woman with greasy hair, a bad complexion and smelly pajamas. I'm much too big of a neat-freak for that mess.

So, like a sucker, I bought them.

And wow. It worked -- the odd combination, the seemingly illegal mix of blue and white pills, it worked. Only, next problem ... that one half pill? It's a sleeping pill. And she recommended taking them two or three times a day.

If you've done anything like met me, crossed the street in front of me, glanced at me from across the room, you wouldn't think "that woman needs a sleeping pill." I assure you, sleeping is not the problem. I can sleep on command. Five seconds flat, zing, I'm in REM. Dreams, pillow lines on the face and all.

Standing in front of the mirror this morning, I held the half pill and the whole pill in my hand and decided one frying pan looked a lot less warm and full of oil than the other. I jumped. An hour later, I was walking around in a NyQuil-like fog at work. It was like everything I touched tingled my fingers a little -- ooh, magical highlighter! -- everything I heard was preceded by and followed with a "whooosh, whooomppsh" -- "whooosh, whooomppsh, We have a make-your-own-case on 41 Northbound, whooosh, whooomppsh." When I walked, my eyelids flirted with staying closed 'til I wondered if I was already asleep? And this was just my dream, this work thing?

A lot of people fail those pee-in-a-plastic cup tests because of drugs that produce lesser effects. Too bad for me, I wasn't one for trying drugs. Nancy Reagan and I, we're like this (crossing fingers, white man's overbite).

I saw another of my doctors today, is what

It wasn't until I made a joke about it to one of my prior doctors was that awkward, uncomfortable moment turned just awkward.

When you're in a grocery store and your doctor walks by, is she totally looking at you and thinking, "Oh, God, now that was one horrible case of the eebie-jeebies." Or whatever technical term is hot now.

"So, what do you do?" she asked a few months ago, putting on a glove. Snap.

Always at this moment of the exam I consider lying. I will talk about my embarrassing symptoms and I will be completely honest about it. But my job? People either hate their local newpaper or think it's utterly cool to work on something that lands on other people's porches and lines bird and hamster cages. It really is that cool.

"I'm, uh, a journalist," I say, putting my cold hands under my paper-gown-covered legs.

"Oh, really, where?"

"The Northwestern." (Like how I plugged our Web site there? I'm relentless. Ha.)

"Reeeeally." The doctor never says if "reeeeally" is good or bad, or if they don't actually work in Oshkosh and thus have no idea what I'm talking about. Also likely.

"Yeah."

"I always think that someone's going to write about their doctor visit."

"I'm always afraid you'll think of some weird symptom I had when I see you in public."

Touche, we both thought.

"I promise I won't write about it. It doesn't make for very good breakfast topics."

"And I promise I see enough of these that I'm not even thinking about who you are."

Still, when I saw my latest doctor/nurse today, I walked by with my head down. Just in case this one has a great memory.

It's like the Civil War series, only it's a different war and Lincoln wasn't there and most of the people are still alive

I've been watching "The War" on PBS, and as they get closer to Japan circa 1943, '44, I get a little more interested; I pay a little more attention to the people.

My grandpa was there, in Japan, which I always found kind of cool because everyone else I knew had a grandpa in France or Germany. Yeah, it's like a WWII snob. "Oh yeah? Well MY grandpa ..."

I talked to my grandpa about the war once that I remember. He showed us ball bearings he got somehow, somewhere. He showed us a whip, of all things; he slung it around on the deck while my cousins and brothers and I stared on, waiting for him to hit himself in the face. He showed us a shirt of his from his uniform. Later, we saw pictures in an album. A copy of one photo is hanging in our office at home; he's standing in his uniform in front of a big flowering bush; in another of mine, he's got his head stuck through two friends' elbows in a comical pose.

But show and tell's one thing, and talking about it is another. I don't know if he ever really tried, or if we ever asked. But I've never heard. It's just this thing now that the guys on the boats in the Pacific are doing in a kind of technicolor show on PBS. I keep looking a little closer, watching for him. And I have no idea what he did.

Still. It's interesting that Ken Burns did something that had more in common with my life than a few history lessons in high school. And no, baseball doesn't count. Nor does jazz.

How we had to watch a fuzzy "Seven Years in Tibet," which is making both of us slightly irritated

Last night I blogged about how nice it'd be if Dave were here.

I miscalculated football night.

"No football."

"It should be over by now," he said, flipping on the TV. "Until the 7 o'clock games start, anyhow."

"No pre-games, then."

"OK, OK."

Yet NBC comes on and wow, men are yelling about calls and games long over.

"Good thing this is the post-game. I'm home free."

"Dave. I'm going to bed."

"Can we watch baseball?"

Dude. We don't even get sound on Fox. Knock yourself out.

Hey, Jude

Dave starts his new schedule tomorrow, which means my life should be 17 percent better.

Doesn't sound like much, but after months of nothing but sports, late, late nights and dumb work schedules, I'll actually see him two nights a week instead of one. I won't be in R.E.M. sleep when he gets home. I won't have to listen to sports stuff; did I mention that?

I loathe not seeing him like normal people see their spouses (you know, eating supper together, watching stupid TV shows, etc.), but I like my schedule and it works ... So what can ya do. Well, funny you should ask. You can sit around and curse life. It's a popular choice. Or, you can sleep a lot. Maybe blog a little. Or read. Sometimes you can even like it, like when you want to watch "Bridget Jones" or anything with Jude Law in it. Yum.

Um.

But most of the time that's not really the case. I have more fun with Dave in real life than with Jude Law, most of the time. An aunt asked me if I thought this whole separation from him would inevitably make us stronger.

Because I probably newlywed-naive and I don't think about the status of my relationship with Dave -- It's just my life; he's so much a part of it that I don't make plans; we do. He doesn't talk about his life; he talks about ours. It makes strangers gag, but honestly, why should I care what strangers think of my marriage -- I didn't know what to say to her. "Yes? I guess I enjoy him more when he is here?" yet NO, because it's less that we get to do together. Stomping foot. Retreating to room. Slamming door. Listening to emo.

Since it can't be helped, I guess my answer is sure, because not seeing him isn't hurting anything but my day-to-day fun index. My marriage is fine. Dave's fine. I'm OK. The dog's fine.

Anyhow. Dave moves to the news desk again Tuesday, which means Sunday and Monday, he'll be here. Two nights in a row. Wow! Instant life improvement. Ha ha aaaaaaaah .... Ahh, it's funny cuz it's sad and true.

Whining for a moment, followed by a moment of pure ecstacy

After you come back from vacation, it's always a sigh, a shrug, a looong drive home, a quick night's sleep, a short shower, a nano-second's drive to work, followed by eight or nine long, grueling hours.

Checking 823 e-mails (true story, I had 823), listening to three confused, weird voicemails and one overly happy one, it's a dark, depressing look at the next 50-some weeks of your life til you get another week's vacation.

Here's where the bright side comes in.

Suckas, I won an extra week's vacation next year in the United Way drawing at work.

Yeah, that means SIX extra days off in 2008 because I donated the $120-some for that one extra day, plus the FIVE I won in that drawing.

Luck's on my side. Of course, I could drink half this glass of sweet, sweet victory and say that Dave won't be able to take off with me.

But, I think I might find something to do.

Yawwwn, my life's one big trainwreck of boring

But who cares, because I'm exhausted.

And I don't mean "Oh, pooh, so tired." I mean I tried to blog yesterday at 8 p.m., sitting the computer on my lap. Thinking, yawn, thinking about something to write, I closed my eyes for a second.

I woke up at midnight, ate some toast, then slept til 7 a.m.

And woke up again, tired.

"You slept too long," you say.

"You should turn off the lights and let a woman sleep," I say.

We got a hint

We didn't get very far out of my mother-in-law's kitchen before she mentioned there were a stack of booklets for me on the living room endtable.

"Over there," my MIL pointed from her kitchen.

I knew what they'd be before I read "Dwellings," "Sibcy Cline" and "Re/Max" on their covers, but I picked them up and flipped right to the mansions and refurbished castles, pretending I was in the market for a home with a sitting room and a walk-in wine cellar.

Ooh, home listings for Ohio. Who'd'a thought?

The magazines got shoved in a box, put in our trunk and sent off with what I'm sure was a wish or a prayer.

We're cold-hearted heartbreakers.

"Why pay for TV? You get three whole channels -- four, depending on the cloud coverage!"

We don't have cable, but after a week in the Promised Land (you know it as Ohio), I've seen the other side.

Like tonight, when NBC won't come in without doing that WRRRSSSHHHHHHHHH sound every time an important sentence is uttered or going to chasing ants whenever the answer to a question is asked in which they don't tell the answer like "And do you know the No. 1 reason women in their mid-20s get cancer? ... (Fade to ants) ... THAT'S WHY. Let's go to commercials."

Seriously. I would pay to see "Journeyman" on my TV instead of my computer a day later. It all makes sense to me now, why people pay for TV.

That, and my roommate from college who's just as frugal as I am has the Dish. Yeah, it's time. Peer pressure.

It's what we call a montage

I've taken more photos in the last week than in the last year. And, similar to last year, I'm posting a photo montage to speed you through my VACATION. My wonderful, too-short VACATION.

You'll have to add your own music to make it a true montage. I recommend a little Van Morrison but Billy Joel is always a good choice, too.

Thing is, looking at these photos, it's really not that exciting (with the exception of the shark attack). But today's conversation summed it up: "It's like God said 'here's Heaven,' and then he saw us and said 'WHACK! Get back to Oshkosh! Git!'"

Sigh.

Newport Aquarium, Tuesday: Dave gets eaten by sharks. Says word that's best left untyped. Erin watches from across the tunnel and half-smiles. "That should make for some good blogging," she thinks.

Newport on the River, Tuesday: "Let's pose like tourists."




Mom's house, Wednesday: Meant to last through the long Midwestern winter, Dave hands Mom a 7-by-7-foot crossword puzzle. Mom stares in amazement and annoyance.



Mom's house, Wednesday night: Not to be outdone by a 7-foot crossword puzzle, Mom brings up Stepdad Bernie's latest find: a 4-foot Santa that sings and dances. Grandparents refuse to take sides over which is better: a 4-foot Christmas decoration or a 7-foot crossword puzzle.

Grand Rapids, Ohio; Thursday: Mom, Dave and Erin go shopping. Find ceramics to paint, books to read, and a metal, randomly placed horse statue. Erin embarrasses herself by forgetting the adjective "well done" and instead using "just do it all the way" when ordering food.



The Bombshelter, Thursday: Good pizza. Bad football.




Oxford, Ohio; Friday: Nephew likes the dog (pictured) from afar, and Dave blatantly ignores the warning sign from the Equine folks.



Middle of Nowhere, Ohio; Saturday: Dave's parents moved to a place that takes "rural" to a 2007 meaning. That is, they're literally miles from Target. Oh, the humanity.