Turtle Power is overrated

We've discovered that Big loves his sweatshirt this winter ... And hates his sweater -- the embarrassing argyle one that I swore I'd never buy, then bought and blogged about in December or so? That one. The one he probably thinks the other puppies will beat him up for on the playground and then steal his lunch money over.

He hates it so much that it's become like a punishment.

We don't make him wear it much. We do love him, and all. But tonight, after I chased him around in a foot of snow, calling the little jerk's name (I use "jerk" fondly), I put his sweater on him and shook my finger in his direction.

He sat on the rug and stared at me like he was thinking of 87 different ways to kill me and hide my body. (And you thought only cats thought about murder all day.)

Now he's sitting on the loveseat, staring. I'm not that mean. I'll take if off right after I hit "Publish." But not before I e-mailed Dave to let him know: "I'M EXERCISING SWEATER POWER!"

They're all gonna laugh at me

I love getting little "gifts" for free.

In college, I'd scour Web sites and sign up for every free bottle of shampoo and conditioner, every lotion, every coupon, every "buy one, get one" offer I could find -- relevant to my life or not. This would explain the ProAge lotion I have in my closet, which I may have to hand over to an older relative, as my fine lines aren't showing yet. Yet. Just wait.

I stopped looking for all the samples because it takes a lot of time. But now I'm out of shampoo samples. I have no face wash packets to take with me on vacations (you know, the less-than-one vacation I take a year). And I'll be danged if I'm going to spend actual money to buy a small bottle from the Dollar Store or the Target $1 bins, as tempting as they are.

So tonight, I went and found all these useless samples, wasting time I could've spent ... OK, so I really didn't have anything better to do. But I was feeling really great, like "Wow, look at all this cool, new, free stuff!"

And then the fear hit me, and caused me to stop my frugal search and close my browser windows.

I'm going to be that person. You know the one. The one who collects coupons like it's my job. When I die, people will go through my bulging purse and discover coupons that expired 25 years before my death. And they will point and laugh.

Well. I suppose it's slightly better than collecting, like, moth balls or something. Oh, God. I'm so ashamed (so I'll just tell the Internet all about it).

Ugh.

Recommend something

If you've not been to The Northwestern's forums, you should totally check them out.

I recommend them not only because they're cool, but because I posted this one topic and it's improving my life. Or at least making my life's soundtrack sound better. Ha. I've found a few cool bands and I've been reminded of new albums I forgot were on the horizon (Arcade Fire!).

I spent 45 minutes at the library the other day and all I came away with was one CD. Talk about feeling like I've sorted through all the stacks for nothing. Sigh.

I'm looking for new music. So you can make your recommendations here. I will listen to almost anything once ... No Hanson reunions or free jazz, though. Sorry. I draw the line there.

Well, that's one way to start a week

My stomach hurt and I was sweating in a snowstorm. My ears were ringing and I kept getting distracted by the sound of blood pulsing in my ears. Can't explain it. Then I thought about the work I had to do today, and my stomach hurt worse. But I couldn't stay. I left work around 11:30 and went home to be sick.

Happy Monday.

I didn't think I was that tired, but after eating a cracker unsuccessfully, I slept a bit. A bit? OK, I fell asleep around 12:30 and by the time I woke up, it was dark outside.

"I can't believe Dave let me sleep on the couch all night," I thought. Seeing that the clock above my feet read 5:45, I thought I still had a good hour and a half to sleep.

Only my mouth? It tasted like crackers and was all dry? And my dog was down here with me ... Not up in bed where he likes to sleep. I was so confused. I sat up and noticed I was wearing socks (can't sleep in 'em), and there were crackers on the table. Time to get up? Why was the TV screen blue? Why was the humidifier on? We don't leave that on all night.

I didn't know.

What day is it? My heart beat faster. I felt as if I overslept for something, or was supposed to be somewhere, or maybe that I slept right through to 2029. Then a car drove by and beeped (probably at a neighbor), and my palms started sweating.

Monday. Ah. Still Monday. I didn't miss anything. It was 2007. February. Right. Got it. Sick. Ahh.

But for those three minutes, I was confused and panicked, about to wake up and get ready for work, take a shower, get my lunch ready. Because 6 a.m.? Yes, it must be a.m. I don't nap. And I certainly don't nap for five hours ...

Green Christmas, white February ... Whatever.

I don't feel like part of a bigger picture a lot, so when you're sitting in a bar, waiting for the snow to start and everyone's really, physically creating this buzz about the weather, watching The Weather Channel and listening to a "cover band" do Simon and Garfunkel and Neil Simon, it's almost reassuring. Look, everyone else is talking about the snow, too. Aw.

Then you get to wake up and plow your way through the foot of snow in the driveway, just like the rest of the neighborhood.

Kind of makes you want to stop, wipe a tear from your eye and sing the national anthem.

Or, curse at Mother Nature and her unfailing ability to give me exactly what I want three months too late.

Caution: Might cause you to lose faith in my music tastes

When I was dating this other guy in Toledo during college, I lent him some CDs, and he promptly moved into what he loving called the ghetto and had his car broken into.

They stole his console change and his CDs -- including mine -- and I haven't gotten over the anger-slash-annoyance toward these strangers over losing the CDs, no matter how craptastic they were.

I've been looking for these awful CDs ever since -- at the library. I put a hold on a few of them, and when they came in from libraries in cities I've never heard of, I snuck them off the holds shelf and hid them behind movies I'd check out (but sometimes never watch). You can't just walk out of the library holding a Blink-182 CD and keep your dignity, too.

It's like I'll stand there, staring at the CD cover and be physically sweating, going "What if I get in a car accident on the way home, and everyone laughs at my poor choice in music?!"

Yet I check them out and sneak them home. But the real problem starts here. When I get some of these CDs back, the dang things won't let me import them into my iTunes library.

The green check mark appears next to songs ... But not all of them. When it gets to any random track, usually the only one on the whole CD I like, the program just quits. It only happens on library CDs. It's not scratched. It's not dirty. It had no problem with the first nine tracks on the CD. Seriously.

I think it's my iTunes. It's like "No, Erin. No. I will not let you do that to yourself. 1997 was 10 years ago. Let it go."

About as creative as I get in the kitchen

I snuck out of bed and tiptoed down the stairs to the kitchen, grabbing a bowl and pouring some cereal in it, then the milk, setting the spoon inside ever-so-quietly.

Bringing it back upstairs to the bedroom, I held it out in one hand and shook Dave awake with the other.

"Look! I made you breakfast in bed! Happy birthday!"

"You can't handle the truth!"

I always stress out over gifts for Dave.

I can't lie, the man buys good gifts for my birthday and Christmas. An almost-one-of-a-kind sweater (it's not from the mall) from Stella & Finn, or chocolates from Oaks. A book he noticed I thumbed through, hesitated to buy, then put back on the shelf. A "Carrie Bradshaw-like" purse from a "vintage" store downtown. A cool ornament from another store in Oshkosh.

The man does well.

And then there's me.

Everything he wants is expensive (hello, newlyweds can't afford a large format camera, sorry, Dave), and I expressly set out to avoid getting him an iTunes gift certificate this time, as cool of a gift as that is. And with a guy, it's hard to say "Oh, wow, he'd love that purse." Because he only has one purse -- I mean, murse -- and that's all he needs, thankyouverymuch.

We have varying tastes in clothes guys should wear. He likes books, but if he doesn't get into it right away, it sits next to the bed for a few months until I sigh, dust the cover off and put it back on the bookshelf. He likes music, yes, but you can't buy the man with hundreds of CDs anything like that because, duh, what do I know about music? I am a Dixie Chicks fan, he'd say. Oh, the nerve.

Which leads us back to iTunes gift cards.

No, no, no.

I set out to get him something tonight at Target of all places, and I came away with three really unoriginal things; variations of which I've gotten him in holidays/birthdays past. But, dangit. I really, really did put thought into it this time. I swear. (His birthday is Saturday. I can't reveal what they are, because he monitors my blog like a hawk.)

Disappointed. As if I expect that someday I'll have to tell my grandchildren that I got my husband a useless present for his first married birthday.

But one of the things I like about Dave is his unfailing ability to make me feel like I just bought him exactly what he wanted. He's such a gentleman. Which is good, because I can't handle the truth.

Newww Yorrk Ciiity! (read like the guy from the salsa commercial)

She has a hot boyfriend. A job at a big newspaper that she got right out of college. She lives in a sweet condo.

But now, she's got a hot fiance. A need/desire to look for a new job. And, oh, yeah, she called last night to say she's moving from the Toledo suburb of Maumee, Ohio, to New York City with said fiance.

I'm so sure.

I'm so sure she got engaged last weekend in Las Vegas with a story that'd make directors get Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan on the phone. Or, Hugh Grant. That's just my two cents.

We don't get to see each other too often, but the thought of her moving to a Big, Bad City where both she and I acknowledged only murder and mayhem happen, usually graphic in nature ("CSI" and "Law & Order" fans ...), is a shock.

You mean, she won't be in Toledo next time I pass through? (OK, so that doesn't happen a lot ... But still.) She'll have a different area code. Well, different than everyone else's I know there. She'll be riding subways. I just eat there. She'll be over there. I'll be right here.

But, she sounds happy. So, whaddya gonna do?

Dave: "Go to New York on vacation!"

Then there's that.

Coming back from the Twin Cities ...

I had the tiredness. The dry eyes. The mismatched, wrinkled clothes. The morning pillow lines on my face. The not-washed hair-do kicking. The uncomfortable feeling of eating a greasy hash brown on an empty stomach. The backache from sharing a twin sleeper sofa with an borderline-insomniac husband.

We had the disoriented feeling of being late for something, then the panicky feeling of noticing we'd set the alarm clock for the wrong time -- not in our favor. We had the scramble to the highway and the quiet, long ride back to Oshkosh at 7 a.m.

All I needed was a hangover and it'd be sophomore year of college all over again.

Yeah. Minneapolis was fun. But I don't want to come back from it ever again. So I don't know if that means I'm moving there, or if I won't be going there for a while.

Well. I can't afford to live there. Ikea. The Mall. Restaurants.

Hello, materialism. Goodbye, growing up 20 minutes from a mall that sports a JC Penney and a parking lot.

A story for the grandchildren

I don't wake up early on Fridays for just anything, but this was a special occasion.

Minneapolis/St. Paul was calling.

Dave's dad was there on business, and we went up to see him and Dave's mom. We'd never been west of Madison together, and Minnesota was all new. It was supposed to be this really cool road trip with cool scenery and a fab end destination, the Mall of America.

But when I suggested one route, Google Maps suggested another, leading Dave to cry "But Google says!" like we were 5 on a playground and I was telling him to eat dirt. We ended up taking Dave's route.

Fine, right?

Well.

We were supposed to take a giant left turn in Wausau. We didn't so much. Click on that link. See Wausau? See how it's just a straight shot to St. Paul? Well, we decided that was too easy. Rhinelander ... Now that's where it's at.

What "it" was, was a scene from any bad horror movie that involves a 2002 map with pen and highlighter all over it, a rustic road with salt residue on it, blinding sunlight, Erin singing Justin Timberlake, an urge to go to the restroom, cobweb gas stations and a wolf. Yes, there really was a wolf. Dave saw it.

Our getting lost was humorous at first. But then the urge to see anything that looked like civilization as we knew it (i.e., an interstate, a highway, or a McDonald's) took over, and I kept waiting for the Bates Motel, or at the very least a chain-saw wielding man.

Instead, we found Highway 29 in a very anticlimactic moment. Not nearly as exciting as a chain saw, but we had some serious Malling of America to do. I couldn't afford to be chopped into pieces.

Well, we couldn't really afford to go shopping much, either, but that is another story.

But see, we saved a whole dollar

When I grocery shop, I buy frugally.

I check prices per unit. I opt for the lowest amount, even if it's a penny difference. I am cheap, annoyingly so.

When Dave goes forth and fetches groceries for us, he shops by looks, which often leads me to calling him "king of marketing ploys," because if something looks prettier, is shaped in a funky way or is a "buy one, get one free" or "save 10 percent," chances are he'll buy it.

He buys off the list, which is fine in most cases ... But sometimes, it's waaaay off the list. I try to make him understand that if you buy something you don't need just because it's 10 percent off, you're not really saving any money. You're spending money you wouldn't normally. It's how we end up with dollar-bin DVDs, among other things.

But it's just not worth the exasperated sighs anymore. Now, it's kind of a game of anticipation to see what he brings home from a store across town (which is "neater," though more expensive). See, this is me, trying to be fun and flexible.

This past week, the health-conscious husband of mine proudly slammed a glass bottle of thick, creamy chocolate milk down on the counter.

"Look what I got." The liquid was still sloshing around inside, coating the bottle, as I watched it, trying to think of something nice to say.

"Why did you get chocolate milk?" I'm picturing him diluting juice because it has a high-sugar content. And here he buys sugar in liquid form.

"Because, look, it comes in a glass bottle. And it was on sale."

"But we don't drink chocolate milk."

But then I poured a glass. Lactose issues aside, this stuff is good. It's milkshake thick, and it leaves a film of sugary goodness in your glass as thick as ice cream.

"Never mind." And I poured another glass.

Plus, you really should see this bottle. It has a little heart on it. It says "Wisconsin's best." Mom is so getting one for her birthday.

Not that I'll have Dave go back to get it. Lord knows we have enough DVDs that come in cardboard sleeves.

Not really cute at this exact moment

Dave and I are getting ready to go away for a day, and we had to get a "dog sitter." Luckily, we know her, and she's totally cool about it.

But I think I know a fraction of the embarrassment I caused my mother on occasion when I set my puppy down on said dog sitter's apartment floor tonight during a "get to know you" date, and he relieved himself right then and there on the carpet, as we stood and watched, mouths agape.

Dave squealed, grabbed the dog and held him over a trash can ...

I'm so embarrassed.

This post rated R for disturbing imagery

When we were married, Dave's family sent us home with all sorts of gifts, well-wishes ... and an ugly, disturbing fertility statue.

Why my home needs a fertility statue at this moment is beyond me; I'd been married about 10 minutes when it found its way to me. It's like a nightmare.

It looks like a nightmare, too, with its face contorted and primitive and its legs all hunched up. It has ... it has ... Mom. I can't say it. Please look away. (It has a baby, um, mid-birthing process.)

GUYS. It's DISTURBING.

Over the last few months it's been in an Erin-enforced exile to the bottom of Dave's sock drawer. When I'd put away his clothes from the laundry, I'd specifically put the socks on the right side, pushing the others to the left, because I knew it was on the left, and God forbid my hand brush the ceramic statue. I might catch fire, or a case of the babies. Ahhh.

The premise is that the blessed statue will bring the fertility gods over to sit around and go "Ohh yeah, it's baby time." At least that's what my mother in law says. To me, it says "RUN. HIDE."

Today, maybe because it was Valentine's Day, or maybe just because Dave likes to think of himself as cruel, it made its way to work. How, good God, how?! How does this happen? It's tormenting me.

It was a joke, put on someone else's desk. Then it was laughed about, forgotten about, until it was put on my desk chair. PLEASE, get it OFF MY CHAIR was my initial reaction. And my second reaction was one of rage. I can't really publish what I said then.

Then it was at home, on the table, waiting for me to sit down and eat my dinner. I was on alert by this point and snatched it up, screaming "DAVE HIDE THIS THING IT'S UGLY AND I WANT IT GONE." And when I scream, you know it's bad. I'm telling you. Uuuh-gly.

I don't know where it is now. But I will sleep with one I open tonight. No one is safe until that thing is promptly delivered to one of Dave's other siblings. Even if I have to take it there myself.

It's like you cook it, and four hours later, it's DONE

Every night Dave and I have the same "discussion." The dialogue doesn't change from night to night, with the exception of who "starts" it.

"What's for dinner?"

"I don't know. What do you feel like?"

"I don't know. What do you feel like?"

"I. Don't. KNOW. Just pick something."

"I don't know, what do we have?"

"Check."

"What? I don't care, just pick something."

We usually have this conversation while holding hands and looking into each other's eyes, you can bet.

Because Dave works second shift and I work first-ish, and because he cooks and I burn food, he ends up making dinner 99 percent of the time during his break. He doesn't mind; it's just that we never, ever know what we want to eat. Or we do, and it's not in the cupboard. Or we do, and it's expensive. Or we do, and it's at Fazolis.

Ah.

So for Valentine's Day, Dave got me a cookbook. Two, actually. One is a "real" cookbook; my mom has it and it looked safe and familiar.

But the other? It will save our marriage.

"Fix It and Forget It." Crock Pot recipes. It's like ... like a gift from heaven. I thumbed through the book and picked out recipes I might like (daring!) and he picks one he wants to make and when we get home from work, it's done. Like magic.

No conversations about "I'll say three things, you pick" or "You pick, but I have veto power." No "I don't knoooooooooow." Seriously. I think a small percentage of divorces could be avoided because of Crock Pots.

It's odd; we now may prefer the small appliance that cooks food in four or five hours, instead of our high-powered microwave. Figures.

We also like eight-tracks, telephony and car phones with spiral cords.

Why he gets iTunes gift cards every year

"What do you want for your birthday?"

"A large format camera?"

"In real life."

"Oh. I don't know."

Ooh, dang.

Sometimes it's hard to live in Wisconsin when everyone I'm related to claims themselves as Buckeyes.

But then, there's this blizzard warning. And suddenly it's a lot easier to live here where it didn't snow.

Blizzard Warning for Columbus Grove, Ohio

Turn around, bright eyes ... Every now and then, I fall apart

If you've read this blog for more than a second, you already know I have a certain quota of unreasonable cleanliness and orderliness in my life that I feel the need to live up to weekly.

But this week, cleaning the house wasn't about to fill my orderliness need (mopping, seriously, could there be any less rewarding job in the middle of a wet, muddy winter with a puppy and a husband?).

After listening to my iPod on shuffle, I noticed I had more "various" artists on my iTunes list than I did Billy Joel songs. Unlike normal people, this is disturbing to me. I have all of Billy Joel's songs on there. All his albums. All the repetitive songs.

The "various" artist labels is an example of me being lazy circa 2005, when I uploaded some songs from every "Erin's Greatest Hits Vol. 23" and "I'll Dazzle Them With My Wit" mixed CD I owned. I was too bored or lazy to look up who sang "Roll Out," a song I'm sure only made it to the "keep" list because it reminded me of a party in college, and not because I actually knew who sang it and praised it for its rap-tasticness.

Last night, I uploaded a new CD and started putting titles and names on my "various" listings while I waited for the disc to load. But the "various" artist listings kept going. So I got out all my mixed CDs, and loaded the other songs on my iTunes. Looked up titles, artists, albums.

Besides the sheer joy of having 9.3 days of songs on my iTunes, all perfectly organized, I felt a bit of sheer embarrassment. I have some baaaad songs on there. And is it my fault the soundtrack of my life includes "Dancing Queen" by ABBA and "In Da Club" by 50 Cent? No. I'm just an innocent American here.

But when you open iTunes, it's all organized so the embarrassing ones are at the top ...

A light bulb went off above my head somewhere around Eminem ... If I put a Z or ZZZZ in front of names they, well, hide. Perfect! I can listen to them in the privacy of my own car, through my own iPod, without anyone knowing.

Which means I'll have to hurt anyone who wants to check out my iPod. But losing friends is a small price to pay for having "Total Eclipse of the Heart" on your iPod.

You've gotta see these

The Video Valentines to soldiers that the video team did at work. Seriously. But don't watch them at work if you don't like crying in public.

Home improvement update 54

The "here, throw up in this" blue color is banished from my life forever.

Dave called me while I was away this weekend to tell me he'd finally gotten around to painting the kitchen. It's what I call a hip, cool, calming green. But it took Dave some time to warm up to it.

Because the green was supposed to be a bit darker than it turned out. Now, it looks, well, just like the bathrooms. Both of them.

Though one of them is soon going to be pale lavender/blue (thanks to the paint in the basement the former owners used to paint our bedroom -- Oh, hi, Dave, I kind of forgot to mention that to you), and the other can be painted red for all I care. But it's really bothering Dave that three rooms (though I'd argue it's more like two-and-a-half) rooms in our house are the same color, on accident.

And it's green.

He's not a green person. Look in his closet. What do you notice, other than that I take up the majority of the space? That everything is blue, black or white. You will find one green thing, if I remember correctly, and that's just because he couldn't find a blue army shirt at the thrift store when he was there that day.

Green makes Dave nervous. It's so ... not blue.

"You don't like it, do you?" he asked, staring at a half-painted kitchen.

"Yes I do. I thought it'd be darker, but this is cool."

"Like you want me to go get darker paint?"

"No, cool. Like I like it," I said. "You don't like it, do you?"

"No ... I ... do. I just thought it was going to be darker. And it bugs me that the bathrooms are the same color as the kitchen."

"Because everyone's going to laugh at us. Oh, god, I never thought of it like that."

"Shut up," he smirked. Then he put on a second coat of paint and later admitted he liked it.

Funny how attachments develop for a color when it comes down to "live with green or repaint."

Up next: Sanding and painting the cabinets.

Also cost more than $29.99 a night. But it was worth it.

When I stood up in the bathtub, the water (had I filled the tub all the way) would have touched the bottom of my knee. The bed was tall and had a soft top with five faux-feather pillows on it. "Law & Order" was on the TV.

I love hotels; new ones, clean ones.

I love being away from home in a place that smells and looks better than mine, whose sink shines brighter than mine does, whose TV gets more than NBC and the churchy channel.

I went to the Kalahari Resort in Wisconsin Dells this weekend for a Wisconsin Newspaper Association convention (something someone described as "the next nerdiest thing after 'Star Trek' conventions") -- and the hotel was ... wow. People, real people (not journalists, families), actually pay hundreds a night to stay and play on the indoor waterpark and eat, shop and mingle in a bubble of Africa-themed gotcha-spending.

Kind of made past collegiate hotel experiences in Tennessee and South Carolina look really ... um, shady and trashy. I didn't even have to wait until the manager looked away to duck in the room with my six other friends. I actually had a room that was legally mine. I didn't find one cockroach. I didn't see vomit on the carpet. (Ah, college.)

We didn't pay hundreds a night to stay here, and I didn't surf on the indoor wave pool. It was just nice to be in a nice hotel, watching a Weather Channel show on tornadoes and floods and other cable gems like "Law & Order," all evening long in a quiet room, where I got to adjust the room temperature. I kept getting up to nudge the digital number from 70 to 68 to 69 to 71, trying to feel a difference.

I missed Dave and the dog, but they don't have to know that I kind of enjoyed not hearing "Turn it to ESPN real quick, come on, real quick, we don't have cable at home!"

Big is really, really bossy like that.

What the random ..?

I snack a lot; nibble on small things like crackers or grapes or, OK, cookies, because if I don't I have problems with hypoglycemia. Do not be alarmed. I do not have diabetes. I just get this anxious feeling, sweaty and hungry and tired and ... static-y. Floaty? Like blinks wake me up in a jolt?

I don't know how to explain it, other than some people take illegal substances to feel this way, and here I get to feel like this for free. I really am quite lucky.

And Dave, he compares this to his phantom spells of the bubonic plague and the black death. As if the three were comparable.

Hello, Dave, mine can be proven by science. Your diseases have been pretty much eradicated among our population.

But, regardless.

"My throat is killing me," he said.

I say nothing, as I'm staring off into space thinking about where I put my cell phone.

"What? Don't look at me that way! I do! I don't say that all the time!" he says.

"I didn't, what? I didn't say anything."

"You gave me that look like 'here he goes again.'"

"I did?"

"I don't look at you like that when you say you have to eat something or lay down and you get crabby."

"What? Wait, what just happened? What does your throat have to do --"

"Whatever. You don't believe me. I am dying of (what did he say? bird flu?) and you don't believe me."

My eyebrows scrunch together.

"So I'll see you in a few hours," he said, snapping out of his black death mood, kissing my head and then walking away to go back to work.

I felt a bit like I'd been a victim of a drive-by emotional outburst. Like maybe I should check myself for bullet wounds or, more likely, germs. And, wait, is that MY throat hurting? What the.

Sun is in the sky, oh why, oh why, would I want to be anywhere else?

I never watch "Saturday Night Live," because I'm a snob who hates shows that are supposed to be funny but aren't.

I'm such a jerk.

But I watched this weekend because Dave sometimes gets to use the TV remote control. Once a month or so. And that was his night.

This is the one time I was actually kind of glad I did watch. I had no mood-altering moment, the skits weren't all that classic, and yet here's this Lily Allen. Where have I been? I have a feeling Pop Candy blogged about her in like, January 2006 (please don't feel the need to confirm my suspicions), but I've been curled up under this rock over here, and I missed it.

Lily Allen has this angelic voice but she doesn't sing about angels. More like your average pop music lyrics, only more British, more fun and more ... springy? Can a song sound like a season? It's 60 degrees below zero. Ask me in March. Or August.

Anyhow. Check her out. I like "Smile," because it's the song she sang on SNL. I'm so predictable.

Estimated time remaining: 7 hours, 3 minutes and 34, 33, 32 seconds ... Wait, make that 8 hours, 55 minutes, 46, 45, 44 seconds.

I have a birthday card written up, stamped and everything, sitting on the counter with a Post-It note that says "Mail Feb. 21." I am what some people call "the opposite of procrastinating."

Sometimes.

But until tonight, I could not bring myself to walk from this recliner to the shelf eight whole feet away to grab a CD and upload photos of my wedding day, then order and send them to my parents and grandparents like they asked me to. At Thanksgiving.

I promise. I will tonight.

It's not that I didn't want to before tonight. It's the Internet.

Remember 1999? Remember how cool dial-up was? Super-fast, never took longer than 2 or 3 minutes to load a page or anything. Remember how you'd wait, watching the little globe spin in the corner of your browser, watching the blue bar at the bottom get ever-so-close to the right, signaling a freshly loaded page (only to get that annoying "Page cannot be displayed" page?).

Ah. Dial-up. Those were the days.

(Who am I kidding, I had dial-up 'til 2005.)

I can't complain about my Internet connection now; it's not fast, but it's not 1999, either. But these photo upload programs? They're still dancing to (the artist formerly known as) Prince on a cassette tape boom box while the rest of us bob our heads to bands "influenced by Prince" on mp3 players.

I don't want to upload these photos because I have hobbies. They include "eating," "sleeping," and "getting to bed before 11." Photo sites aren't cool with that. They demand all your attention and bandwidth.

I'm perfectly aware that the program I'm using is just slow (but it's so cheap!), or that it's my fault (yeah), or that I could just go down to a photo shop and have them do it (but, but it's so cold ...).

Anyhow, I've waited long enough. If you don't hear from me within a few days, assume I'm still waiting on my fifth or sixth photo to load to the Web site.

(Photo: Getting the most out of my uploading time. And, in case you forgot what our wedding looked like.)

To you, it's just an omelette. To me, it's an accomplishment.

Because I am neurotic, I watch a black cloud roll in every Saturday around 6 p.m., where it lingers a few miles above my head, slowly descending on me as the night progresses. By the time I wake up on Sunday, it's usually down at my level, and I walk around with it looking like Pigpen. A very gloomy Pigpen.

I can't help it too much. I can distract myself, I can sit in a dark room, having absolutely no fun just so the time doesn't fly by. But usually I just sit and am angry that five-day work weeks are the norm.

I'm a lot of fun then, as you may have imagined.

I don't hate my job. Far from it. But I could win the lottery every Sunday and feel the same way (only pout in better clothes, in a warmer house). I just. Want. To stay heeere.

T0day, however, was different. I got up at 9 instead of 11. I went out of the house before it was time to go to work. I ate breakfast 0ut, AND I saw friends. This is an all-new occurance for me. Everyone else in the world says "wow, friends." Dave says "YAY, Erin's out in public! And she's not scowling!"

I didn't think about having to go to work just minutes after eating my omelette. That's huge. Huge.

When my friend called to ask if Dave and I wanted to accompany him and his wife to breakfast, I laughed inside, thinking "Oh, god. There goes that friendship." But as I sat down in the booth in the local restaurant with my cheesy egg-cellent meal, I didn't feel perturbed at it being Sunday. I didn't even feel annoyed at talking about the "w" word that Dave and I dare not utter in our home before Sunday at noon.

And when I got to work, I was in a good mood. I don't even recognize myself anymore. See, I guess all it takes is some greasy hash browns and some orange juice. Who knew.

This planning thing is getting out of control.

"I hope I don't have to work late. I want to get home so I can get some sleep."

"Oh, did you have a long weekend?"

"No. But I don't get to sleep in Friday or Saturday this week, so I want to catch up."

"Oh. ... Huh."

Everyone's going to see I have a John Deere bowl. How am I going to explain that to ... actually, no one is here to see it but paranoid me.

Our dishes, cups and mugs are an eclectic mix of $1 bin plates, the nice set from our wedding, and items I see in antique stores or in Target. Very cool individually, but not very eclectic looking when they're stark, exposed sitting on Contact-papered particle board shelves in my kitchen. They're dishes for the newlyweds who work opposite shifts, who sit on the couch when they're eating most times, or eat standing up in the kitchen, alone.

Not the kind you show off on purpose.

Dave took the doors off our cabinets to sand them and prep them for priming and painting in our effort to redo our kitchen, cheaper than actually redoing our kitchen.

I try not to make eye-to-dish contact during this process. That Apollo 11 mug was really cool when I found it for $1 at some antique store in Michigan (one of the few good things to happen in Michigan while I was living there ...), not so cool when it's sitting next to the NBC bowl from Mom and the yellow, heart-shaped Cheerios bowl from Christmas three years ago.

My boss said it took him months to do his cabinets. I'm hoping my obsession over hiding the ugly and mismatched will motivate Dave to finish a bit sooner. Please. Please, Dave.

He looks sorry, doesn't he

I love my dog. I won't go on about his brown eyes or all 13 pounds of his cuddly self like I normally could, but I cannot.

I felt like grounding my dog for a week, with no TV and no phone privileges, because that little sonofa can RUN. And that running had better get him a track scholarship, because I did not grab his fur and save his life (not really) for my health (OK, so I did for my emotional health).

We usually let Mr. Big out the back door and watch from our semi-warm dining room. He runs in tiny circles in the snow and runs back on the deck when we call his name. Oh, cute.

But this time, just because I had pajama pants and no shoes on and it's like, 6 degrees, he decides to pick up running as a hobby because "ERIN, LOOK there is a RABBIT in MY yard," he calls as he runs through our yard, down the driveway of our neighbors as I throw open the back door and run, screaming "BIG STOP STOP BIG STOP" and do my best "Wait til your father hears about this" voice.

He stops in the middle of the neighbor's driveway, turns around and -- I swear -- says "NO." That little 13-pound mutt took off after some rabbit twice his size toward the road.

The story would get much more dramatic had there been a monster truck coming down the road with flames shooting out its tailpipe while blaring "Sweet Home Alabama" or something. But it was just a Honda, and it wasn't even going that fast. And just because Big got smashed in my head, because I always think the worst, doesn't mean he actually ever crossed the sidewalk in real life.

Because I said "BIIIIIIIG," in that way that hurts your throat right afterward, and in animal-speak means "I will hurt you." He's lucky I'm an animal lover.

Big put his tail between his legs and stopped, turning to slowly back up on the sidewalk away from me.

I grabbed his fur behind his neck and swooped him up into my arms. "BIG NO, NO NO NO NO." I'm sure he comprehended.

Either way, he's not getting on the computer to play Bookworm tonight. Grounded. Big time.

And all I kept hearing in my head was my dad telling me about the day his and his wife's dog got hit by a car. My sister, who was 6 then, said "Awwwww. ... Can I see him!" Not in a cute "aw, honey, no, he's in heaven" way. I mean in a "I want to see guts" way.

Ah, kids.