Improving the quality of my life for $9.99 a month

Remember the original Nintendo system, and how it used to get all geometric and turquoise and fuchsia on you mid-game, and you'd have to stop whatever it was Mario was doing to take the cartridge out and blow on it and wipe it with rubbing alcohol?

That's how I feel when I watch library DVDs.

And though I can go on and on about my love for all things cheap and library-ious, I've had enough. Free DVD rentals are one thing. Dealing with skipping is quite another, especially when your DVD player can't work through it, and instead spins and makes that errk-err-errk-err sound. It's really relaxing.

Not to mention waiting lists, and "FOR GREEN LAKE HOLDS ONLY" DVDs that I want to see ... But not enough to go to Green Lake. Or wherever.

So I've decided to break up with renting movies from the library in exchange for $9.99 a month. Yes. Dave and I decided that, since renting movies is just as expensive since we never return them on time (and since we're too cheap to get cable), Netflix is the answer to all our problems.

Well, at least this one.

I'm waiting anxiously for my first DVD to come and I'm updating my Netflix queue like it's my new hobby.

I had to convince Dave that he'd have a say in picking out movies, but let's be honest. I haven't told him the password.

That'd explain the following choices: "The L Word, Season 2," "Scoop," "CSI, Season 6," "Borat ...," "Anastasia," "Stranger Than Fiction," and "The Forsyte Saga." I'm addicted and I haven't even watched a movie from Netflix yet.

Outstanding faith in my parenting abilities, and I don't even have a child

"I had a dream you had a baby," my soon-to-be sister in law said when we were at the bar Friday.

"Oh? Weird," I said.

"I had a dream you had a baby, too," Dave's mom said from across the table, straining over Putnam County favorite "Paradise City" coming from the back of the smokey bar.

"What?"

"Yeah, you made him sleep in the closet in that guest room you guys had. I kept screaming 'Erin, let him out!' but you wouldn't and he kept holding onto the crib railing and crying."

"Um. I don't know what to say to that."

How much for that puzzle with "only a few" pieces missing?

When we pass a telephone pole that has "GARAGE SALE" on it, Dave breathes a little faster in anticipation. Deals! Junk! Cheap junk! Come on! Erin! Let's go!

And I usually think about scary clown pictures painted on black velvet canvases that have holes poked in the back for two small red eyes to blink when you plug it in, which would look lovely above that velvet-textured orange, tan and brown couch with the pattern of mills on it.

Whew.

So, we don't usually go garage sale shopping.

But we'd happened to end up in Columbus Grove for its village garage sale this year. I know these people. I know the streets most likely to be trying to pawn off that $2 clown painting. I was pumped. Or at least slightly excited.

I set out to grab the best of the best of the castoffs. I got a book for 50 cents and a lampshade. Dave got cookies and Kool-Aid. Ah, well. Garage sales are still fun, anyhow; people open their driveways to haul out junk that's not seen the light of day since the late '80s, in hopes someone is looking for a set of three seat cushions, moldy on the bottom, for a buck and a half.

And others juxtapose items in weird ways: "Meat grinder, $2. Baby swing, $15. Stack of Parkay butter bowls, 25 cents -- make good storege! (sic) Cookies, 25 cents or two for 50 cents." Uh ...

Brings out the best in people.

(Photos: Me staring in disbelief at the junk people are pulling in a wagon. Dave checking out camera stuff that just wasn't expensive enough for his taste and smelled slightly of tobacco.)

At least it wasn't a cheetah print

The dramatic blog post about trying on dresses was pretty dramatic, but not that realistic.

My dresses fit just fine; both of them. I only had one panicky moment where the pins the seamstress put in the shoulders stabbed my neck as I tried to wrangle my way out of it. I managed somehow to avoid bleeding out on it. The moment passed. The other gave me pause when the zipper was stuck, thinking "Oh, God, it doesn't fit and it's five weeks 'til I have to wear this thing, I'll only be able to eat crackers and water, and then the OTHER dress won't fit," but Mom came in and unfolded the material and it fit just fine.

Whew.

The most dramatic moment wasn't about my dress. It was about the girl's dress in front of me at the seamstress's house. We could hear her talking from the other room about the material not quite being the same as "in the picture," so she shouldn't be expecting the same look. There was a lot of energetic confirmation and then the door opened and the girls left.

Walking in, the book was still on the table -- it was a book of prom dresses.

Prom dresses my mom would've committed me to a convent for looking at, had I been the 17 year old begging for one.

You guys. The dress would look good on Kate Moss on a skinny day, maybe. It was that good. The girls who walked out weren't so much Kate Moss look-alikes. That dress ...! Think skin tight. Think open sides, scandalously low back, v-neck to the mid-stomach. Think material of something shiny and prom-like. Think early '90s rap videos.

Then think of this: "Oh, I keep telling her it won't look like that. Especially since she wants me to use this ..." she said, pulling out a bag of material resembling fake brown fur. And not like, rabbit fur coat fur. I'm talking short-haired, cat-that-got-electrocuted-in-a-bathtub fur.

Here's where Moms everywhere should pull their daughters closer and say "honey, you're beautiful. But no one is beautiful enough to pull that off. No one."

Debbie Downer's playlist

I tried creating a playlist for work on my iPod, one filled with songs that I could more or less ignore, but ones I could use to drown out the rest of the noise for when I have 18 Word documents open at once, doing plans for the next two weeks and one magazine.

Woman needs some concentration, ya know?

But I found it funny today, and giggled outloud to no one but my 18 Word documents, when the following songs played in succession. It should be noted that I'm generally a happy person (except for in the mornings, mid-afternoon, that 10-minute period where I don't know what I want for dinner, Sundays, Mondays, February and that whole 2002 thing). I kid. Well. Kind of. But you know what I mean.

Yes, I swear it's a sheer coincidence that these songs sound like I want to jump out a window.

1. "Why'd You Want to Live Here," Death Cab for Cutie
2. "Kill Me in My Sleep," Chad Vangaalen
3. "Close to the Borderline," Billy Joel
4. "Landlocked Blues," Bright Eyes
5. "The World Has Turned And Left Me Here," Weezer
6. "Under Pressure," My Chemical Romance/The Used
7. "Something to Look Forward To," Spoon

And then there was that poppy song to bring it back up.

Obviously I need to put some more thought into making playlists for my mental health's sake when I play "At Work." Someone, get some Polyphonic Spree song in there before I start moping.

It's always too long. Or too tight. Or it puckers under the shoulders.

I don't care what you look like, how cool the dress is or under what circumstances you find yourself in that tiny room with nothing but you, the dress and all those "Oh God" thoughts in your head -- it's never a good time trying on clothes, let alone dresses.

As the bridesmaid, the bride -- either, doesn't matter -- I would rather get my teeth worked on than be stuck in a room, trying on a dress. Oddly enough, I've never been offered that option.

Never does a dress look how it's "supposed" to, or how you wanted it to. Never is it cooler than 97 degrees in the changing room, so you're hot and angry and nervous and hoping, dear God, hoping you don't rip the zipper as you try to get the thing over your head. Or are you supposed to step into it? Ugh! Forget it, it looks fine. So you sit on the stool and stare at it as it hangs on the wall, chewing your gum and angrily having a showdown with a dress and your genes.

(Once, a friend of mine from college got seriously stuck in a shirt in the mall and had to cut her way out of it with a nail clippers she had in her purse. Resourceful, yes; something I think about with not a little bit of fear every time I try something on, definitely.)

Over the next few days, I will have the disctinct pleasure of trying on two of the three dresses I'll be wearing in weddings this summer. I'm pretty sure none of them will fit and I'll be sitting there rocking on the changing room floor with my knees to my chin screaming, "NO I'M WEARING JEANS OR I'M NOT GOING. YOU CAN'T MAKE ME COME OUT."

Or, more likely, I'll say "Oh, no, it's fine. I just won't lift my arms up. It's OK, really. I don't lift them that much, anyhow."

Yikes.

Preview of coming distractions

Now that the Waterfest lineup's out (however disappointed I am that the Gin Blossoms won't be back ... dang*) and it's getting warmer for Gallery Walks and we have a grill for when I don't want to go out -- I'm getting a bit antsy. Bad music aside, it's still something to do, being outside, downtown, out with friends ending this self-imposed "bad weather, bad mood" exile.

That is getting old.

Now I'm growing impatient at April and May, yet at the same time I know when June comes, I'll have something to do almost every weekend. Then I'll be hiding under the couch -- too many people? That doesn't do Erin any good at all. Much like speaking in the third person.

But that's a new feeling from Friday, when Dave and I were sitting on the deck.

"This is awesome, with the grill and the sunshine," I said, eating a hamburger because that's how American we are. The apple pie was in the oven (at Pick 'n Save).

"Yeah it is."

Three minutes of silence.

"It's too quiet. I wish we had friends," Dave said, laughing.

"Yeah. That'd be neat."

Three more minutes of silence. If you added in a set of dentures, a flyswatter, orthopaedic inserts and Geritol, you'd be looking at Erin and Dave: 2079. It was a scary six minutes.

Yes. Summer needs to be here right now. I don't look good in Velcro shoes with inserts.


*Though, seriously, so what if I only remember one song Smash Mouth had? (It was that one ... that walking on the sun thing? Right?) Anyhow, Waterfest nights will probably still be more fun than the other Thursday nights of the year. Woot, woot.

Because if Justin Timberlake only knew me, I'm sure he'd love me, too

"Justin Timberlake's on my top three list, yeah," I said, refering to that list couples have that allow the other to believe he or she actually has a chance at getting close to a celebrity without warranting a restraining order.

"Top three? I thought it was a top five list? Or have you been married too long?" Best Friend said.

"Top three, yeah. We're getting older and less attractive, and so we had to cut it to three to be reasonable."

"Makes sense. Zach Braff and Harrison Ford're on mine," she said.

"He's old."

"A hot old."

"Well, I'd pick Robert Redford in 1980," I said, though I wasn't really born then.

"You can't go back in time, can you? Doesn't that defy the rules?" she asked.

"If I had the ability to be with Robert Redford at all, I think that's as likely as being able to time-travel."

"Good point."

I love you, iPod

With the warm weather and outdoor activities, we sat outside most of the weekend. It became unnecessary to try that fake tanning spray, because for once we had real, actual sunshine.

And as we were sitting outside eating dinner, it hit me.

We're outside.

That's something I've not done in years, literally. It's hard to just sit outside when you have an apartment.

And I enjoyed it, reading a book outside for once.

Then I also realized that everyone else was outside, too.

That "how many times do I have to tell you" dad. That dog over there that's been barking all day. That child screaming.

Yeah. It's nice outside, but it still pays to have an iPod.

I wrote this blog obsessively, too

That gardening book I'd gotten from the library about a month ago was still on my library card's "checked out" list. I'm borderline obsessive. Library books are in two places in my house -- in my hand, or in the basket. And it was in neither.

I swore I returned it, and I checked under the bed, in my car, in Dave's car (because he might've wanted to check out the latest in perennials, too, ya know), in the kitchen ... You get it. It was nowhere.

And the thing that kept popping into my head, besides the fee I'd have to pay if I didn't find it, was "Oh my God. And I just blogged that people who don't return things to the library are those brats from the playground. I wasn't a brat. I was a victim! He pushed me under the merry-go-round! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Here, here's my lunch money!"

I was about to post about how I'd recanted, changed my story, forgiven all those who took that disc from the TV show "The L Word" in 2005 and hid it under your bed instead of returning it for me to watch years later.

I was just getting around to forgiveness.

But I swore I brought that book back. And I'm cheap. Frugal, sorry. Frugal.

And don't get me started on the library staff, who'd never remember but would make me think they did, that I, in 2007, forgot to return a book. No, LOST a book.

(At least it wasn't that JoJo CD I got for Dave as a joke last year. I prayed I wouldn't get in a car accident on the way to and from the library with THAT one.)

So I went to the library and yes, there it was. O! glorious book on the shelf, just not scanned in. No big deal, it happens. When it happens to me, I get a little more afraid than others. Because that's how I roll. Obsessively.

Oh, Mom

Springtime fun:

"Ooh! We got a few bushes and we bought a patio table and chairs and a grill," I told my mom on the phone.

"Oh? Cool!"

"Yeah. Now we're broke."

"At least you look good."

"Yeah, that's what we said. When they come to foreclose on our house someday, we'll at least LOOK like we've been payin' the mortgage," I said.

"I raised you right."

Planning is half the fun. Or something like that

A coworker's on vacation through next week, and I'm pretty sure everyone at work is passive-aggressively expressing their feelings every time one of those out-of-office replies comes back when we e-mail him.

See that whiny child? Waaa. Yes. My thoughts exactly.

I want a vacation. But I'm taking my mini-vacation in October, because if I take it before half the year is over, I feel like I have nothing but a long, slow death 'til I get a new, shiny stack of vacation days next year. You don't get that kind of foresight without the hard work of many years in therapy and taking antidepressants.

Just kidding.

But since it's warm and sunny, and since we like torturing ourselves, we started to think about where we'll go in October last night as we were reading in bed.

"Hey, it's only four months away," he said, book in hand. All he needed was a pair of drugstore glasses to complete the vision I have of us in 30 years.

"No. May-June-July-August-September-"

"Oh, crap. I skipped August and September."

"Yeah, I don't care for them either," I said.

"Where should we go? Europe?" He laughed at himself.

"Right."

"Canada?"

"No passports."

"New York?"

"Too far away."

"Iowa?"

"What?" That got me to put my book down. "How about Minnesota? We could go to Ikea!"

"How about Appleton?" Ikea hater.

"How about we just go to the park."

"OK."

And that's how we saved hundreds on vacation bills.

(And, no, that's not me in the photo. That'd be my mama.)

Vegetables taste like ... vegetables

"We need to eat more green things," he said.

"OK. But I like white things too," I said.

"Riiiight. But, a lot less sugar, though. No more potatoes for every meal. No more light bread."

"But I like potatoes and sugar and bread."

"I know. That's why we're getting fat. No more Grandma Schroeder cookies every day."

BLASPHEMY.

"Or, we could start running. You know, before you go to work," he tried.

"No. No, my day's already ruined by then. I don't want to run, too. How about two cookies a day?"

"Two?"

"Yeah, I usually eat four. I'm cutting down," I said.

"Oh my God."

Moving on to "stay," since "roll over" isn't happening

The only thing more frustrating than a Tuesday is a Tuesday full of teaching a puppy to "stay." How do you teach a dog to stay? Seriously. If anyone looked in the window tonight, they'd see me pleading with a 8-month-old puppy, who's got the "sit" thing down, but just can't stay sitting.

Big, sit. Sit. Good. Now stay. Stay. Sit. Yes, NO, stay. (Putting his butt back on the floor while pointing to him.) Stay. (Backing away.) Stay, good boy -- no, stop, stay. Sit! Stay!

Wait, don't tell me how to teach him. This is much more fun, chasing each other around the center wall that makes a circle around the bottom floor of our house.

I'm the crazy old lady, aren't I? God.

What did I expect ...

I'd tell you about how I got the material all laid out for the skirt I'm sewing, how I cut out the pattern and ironed everything and read through the directions, saying "Uh huh," and other such optimistic expressions.

I'd also mention that I got to pinning the pattern to the fabric and stared at it, pulling and tugging, for 20 whole minutes while I muttered obscenities under my breath. How I gave up and said "You know what! I just CAN'T DO IT" and folded everything up nicely and said "I need help" to no one but the dog. And he's not much help.

But I'm too much of a woman for that, so I'll just say "Hey, I started that one skirt project thing. Look at me go."

The sad part is, at the time, I thought I looked too young.

While going through the closet looking for items we don't need anymore, I ran across this old camcorder I had in college. Nothing scandalous was on the tapes that were with it, but I got caught up in watching a half hour of wasted nights of my youth (ha) -- hanging out with my friends and an ex-boyfriend and a couple one-on-one diary-like entries from yours truly, rambling and giving a boring tour of an apartment I lived in freshman year.

At the time, though I can't remember, I probably thought I was preserving some important moment of life snapshot for the grandkids, presuming they'd have the technology to watch it.

But instead of feeling nostalgic or anything, I just realized how tired, bad complected and older I look now, after five years.

Now I'm torn between taping myself now so I'll feel more confident about how I look today compared to five years from now, and selling it so I won't have to feel like this again in five years when I re-find it.

This is kind of depressing.

Had to stop to blog before I got the urge to vacuum in high heels

I don't know why, but I had the urge to sew these last few weeks. Somewhere, Grandma Schroeder is beaming with pride that -- finally! -- her middle daughter's child picked up where Mom left off. I've got more of a feeling of confusion. As in, here I hold this pattern, where shall I go from here, and omigod, I remember how to thread this bobbin. And I remembered that it's called a bobbin.

Oh, dear God.

I took two years of home ec in high school and actually, surprisingly, I liked it. But after I was done with my final project (a pair of red and gray boxer shorts that I wore about three times -- blame the unisex, unflattering pattern), I meant to forget all that.

But, here I am, about to make a skirt. I'll let you know how it goes. Unless it doesn't go anywhere, in which case I'll be over here, embarrassed.

Oh, and to top it all off, I baked cookies tonight. What is this, 1950? Dave's at work and I'm baking cookies and sewing. What's next, darning socks? I've got to go vote or own property or something; I'm feeling really out of touch.

Annoyed

To celebrate my 500th blog post, I thought I'd start out by sharing 500 anecdotes you didn't know about me.

1. Juuust kidding.

However, I will share this one annoying little tidbit, just because it's Saturday and I'm already feeling despondent like some do on Sunday nights.

After shopping for a couple hours for clothes for warmer weather (wishful thinking), I started feeling angry. Really angry. Like unnaturally angry toward inanimate objects and store displays.

Not everyone can wear tank tops -- ugh. And those who choose not to wear tank tops probably don't want to wear tube tops either. And those who can't wear either don't care for all the deep-neck/V-neck shirts that would require us to buy a tank top to wear underneath it. And no, I don't want to wear a jacket over that tank top.

After the tank-top-a-rama, I was feeling a bit too senior for the juniors departments. But as I wandered around the women's and petites departments, I noticed I was the only one who didn't have some shade of gray in my hair somewhere. I lasted about 2 minutes over there.

What, am I a "tween" again? Ugh. That would explain the bad complexion, I suppose.

At least none of the dresses are magenta with a big bow on the hip

I thought when I'd get my younger brother's wedding invitation that I'd feel something special, like pride or sentimental or maybe I'd have a moment of "oh my God, I'll be pulling from Social Security soon."

Instead, I just felt glad he included a stamp on the return envelope for the RSVP and thrilled that the wedding season's almost here. When you're a bride, the only thing that matters is your wedding, and if you're not careful, you find yourself annoyed that the cashier at the grocery store doesn't congratulate you because IS SHE BLIND? there is obviously a ring on your finger missing a wedding band.

When it's others' weddings, it's just like a big family holiday; you look forward to it, but at the same time you're left hoping you don't break your ankle in those heels and you hope that dress you haven't tried on yet is comfortable (or fits, period), and you just want it to be here. Not that I dread the weddings; not at all. They'll be a blast, they'll be romantic. They'll be sweet. I'm happy for all three couples.

But that's a lotta bridesmaidin'. Yes. That's a verb.

Irrational anger toward someone who probably lost the DVD while helping an old lady cross the street

Dear Person Who Checks Things Out of the Library and Doesn't Return Them:

You're that person who broke the tips off my new markers in second grade. You're the one who didn't care that you ruined the extra minutes of recess option for everybody with your stupid ape-teacher impersonation. And it wasn't even funny. We didn't even fake-laugh.

You're the one who walks around town without knowing you ruined a good 10 seconds of my night. How do you sleep at night, knowing in December 2005 you had a DVD checked out, the third in a series of five, "for Oshkosh holds only," when the others are "for Neenah holds only," and YOU KEPT IT.

I hope you're happy, "Long Overdue." Scoff.

Sincerely,
Erin

After this, we'll have the talk about the birds and the bees, and about not leaving your bike outside in the rain

Train of thought: I hate snow in April. Especially eight inches of it; or whatever amount we're unreasonably up to now. I wanted our kitchen project to be done by now. We even got a sander and everything. We've got everything we need. We have new shiny handles. But we can't use them yet, because the doors to all the cabinets are standing up in neat piles in the dining room.

"It looks so trashy -- so junky -- in here."

Ah, junky. A word with special meaning. Gather 'round, children.

What: Life lesson learned from Mom.
Where: Taylor Mill, Ky.
When: 1987-88.

Details: Erin and her younger brother Derrick are playing "Barbies and GI Joes" in the garage (Barbie had a thing for smaller, machine-gun wielding men back in my day). GI Joe was about to drive Barbie's Corvette down a makeshift ramp we'd created.

"Give me that. It's mine," I said, or something to that nature. I'm sure I said "please" and "thank you." "Drive YOUR Jeep."

"No, it's too junky," my brother said of the Jeep, which was kinda junky looking, as GI Joe never could take care of his toys.

"And you know what else is junky?" asked my mom, suddenly appearing for this after-school special moment, with the "The More You Know" music playing in the background. "People who do drugs."

I think we stared at her, dolls suspended in mid-air.

And Mom probably went back in the house, calmly grabbed a pencil from the drawer and her Mom Notebook from on top of the fridge and neatly wrote "Talk to kids about drugs -- DONE."

That's a life lesson for ya.

I refuse to switch back to my "winter" purse

... even though it's supposed to snow like, 4 to 8 inches Tuesday to Wednesday.

I swear. I already moved all my stuff from the black bag to the blue one. That stuff'll stay there 'til I can convince Dave that since he gets to buy a $900 lens, I get to buy a $20 purse. And that purse too will be spring-like.

But, back to this $900 question that's been on my mind since he asked "Can we talk about something?" right before dinner.

Dave shoots weddings and other such fun events through "Dave Wasinger Photography" (sounds so official, like he has his own embossing stamp and an ad in the Yellow Pages), and that means Dave Wasinger gets to pay for all expenses. And if photography were one of those careers like, say, writing, he could buy a computer and be done with it.

But they keep coming out with bigger and better lenses. And of course, he has to have them. I am educated enough to know better lenses take better photos, but I'm prone enough to ulcers and anxiety attacks to know that $900, that's a lot of money. A lot.

We're going to have to put off having children until 2015 so we can feed them. Either that, or join one of those envelope stuffing pyramid schemes. Those seem to work out so well, judging by those ads you see on telephone poles. ...

Good thing I hid the matches

We're testing Big, leaving him out of his crate while we're gone for longer periods of time now -- an hour here, two hours there. Today, we left him alone for what was about four hours of being cage-free. If he were an egg, we could charge a buck more for him now.

He's not for sale.

But, anyhow. We puppy-proof the house each time before we leave, making sure to not leave doors open upstairs or balled up napkins on top of the computer table. We'd heard the horror story of a dog who'd jumped on a counter and ate a bag of Kisses candies. Food was all but locked up.

We even hid the nails, the guns and the thumb tacks we like to have lying around the house. We're talking really, really safe here.

So why, someone tell us, would the dog jump from the couch to the coffee table in search of a candle, a decorative candle we've had since before he was probably conceived and has until now never even acknowledged? Why, tell us, would he eat it and leave the candle screaming for help in a trail from the living room to the back door?

Why?

It doesn't appear he actually ate, ate it. More like tore it apart and left it for dead. But I was Googling "dog poison control" for about 10 minutes while he acted like, "What? I eat wax all the time, woman. Chill. You must chill."

I love the hollow bunnies, because I can scoop peanut butter in them. It's really healthy, I'm sure

When the rest of your family's getting together for Easter some eight hours away and you have to go to work, it's really hard to be optimistic about anything.

It's sunny out and 20 degrees? Whine. Can't find a match to that sock? Let's cry about it. Shampoo in your eye? Someone, call a therapist. Seriously. Ugh. WHY is this shirt so ITCHY. Why am I so TIRED. Why is it SUNDAY. Why is the dryer so LOUD.

Why did I run out of things to complain about! Someone! Do something! Ugh.

Fun!

I don't think hiding Easter eggs in the backyard for Dave to find would be nearly as exciting as spending a holiday with family, even though Easter isn't technically a holiday to anyone but a banker or government employee. I mean, come on. Eating olives right outta the jar. Buttered rolls. Cheesy potatoes. Turkey. Chocolate bunnies filled with peanut butter. Pie. Can't beat that.

Come to think of it, it's probably better for my sodium and fat levels that I stayed here. Hm. Yeah, I'll live longer.

OK. Wow. I feel better already. And five pounds lighter. Bring it on, Monday.

I think he likes me!

Dave and I work different shifts, which makes seeing each other during the week difficult. We usually sit next to each other and watch Brian Williams on the news and call that "quality time," but then he has to go back to work and I wait 'til it's a reasonable time to go to bed. He gets home after that reasonable point.

I get bored and restless when it's just the dog and I at home for too long (he doesn't have a lot to say, that Mr. Big), so I feel like I just want to do something. Anything. Get me out of here. And the miserable return of winter isn't helping.

"Dave, let's go on a date," I said yesterday, while we were watching Williams. (I said that just to make the alliteration.)

"Huh? Like a real date?"

"Yeah. You have to pick me up and everything. I'll be in the living room and you can be in the kitchen, and you can come tell me when it's time to go."

"OK ... what do you want to do?"

This is the problem. I don't know. I didn't really date. Ever.

I'm from the "let's hang out" crowd; the one who spent all her time with her boyfriend just ... hanging out, for lack of better word. There was no pick up point, no dinner and a movie, no drop off at the front porch. We went to friends' houses or the bar with friends, or we'd go out to eat first, then hang out with friends. Or we'd feel old and married before our time and sit at home and watch Turner Classic Movies ... Ah.

No dates. I feel like I should be picking out nail polish and saying "ohmygosh" on the phone a lot to a girl friend about it. (That is exactly what I'm doing, only they call it "blogging.")

So, this should be interesting. So far, I've come up with "well, we could finish laundry and then grab a drink and some Mexican food. Then we can come home and fall asleep watching Leno." I must be lame, because that actually sounds fun and entertaining and sweet to me. Very Dave and Erin.

Nothin' says "love" like a quesadilla and dryer sheets.

Mom, cheese curds are hunks of squeaky cheese. I promise it's not as spoiled as it sounds

Dave and I love blogger Dooce more than we love our own friends and family (sorry), mainly because she's never embarrassed us in public or left us at any bars. Oops! But we get a tad jealous when she has to go and buy this house that makes ours look like we ate a bunch of paint chips before moving in, and now we have to sleep with baseball bats and use the Club in our own driveway.

Big, beautiful house, they blog for a living, they write, adorable daughter, funny dog, they take photos and design. Sigh.

And I'm just going to come right out and say this ... Right now, this is the most fruitful period of my entire 20-some years on earth -- and I have student loans, a mortgage and everything else everyone else my age has. Money's just always been an issue; but I know it's not everything. Look, we're happy.

But dang. I'd like to have a nice house like theirs. I don't even mean that I need money, per se. Well. A bit. But I don't mean a lot of money. Just 17 or 18 garbage bags full. I could keep the money in large bills and sleep on top of them with my baseball bat. Or something like that.

Of course when I thought about it, I decided with an emphatic "OH NO" when I asked myself, Wisconsin and paint chips, or Utah and that house? Wisconsin, dear God. And I've not ever been to Utah ... But who could give up cheese curds now that I've finally found out what the heck a cheese curd is?

Luck of the draw

When I woke up this morning, I totally forgot about that whole NCAA thing. "Oh, yeah," I said, flipping back to the sports pages. "Huh."

See, I'm not much of a participator. This year, I thought I’d go out on a limb and participate in an NCAA basketball tournament. Only this one didn’t require me to actually fill out any brackets or learn about any particular team’s chances of actually winning.

Instead, I pulled names out of a hat and hoped my three random teams did well. Whoever was left holding tickets to Final Four teams was promised at least some money back. I didn’t make it, and it wasn’t even Ohio State’s fault, like Dave had hoped.

I was left holding A&M, Georgia Tech and some other team that obviously did so well that I forgot their name. Oh well. That’s a lot less painful of a pool than filling out a bracket. And look at all the time I saved actually watching the games ... Huh.

Wherever I go, there's Google Maps

I was looking something up on Gmail maps, when I came across the "satellite" images option. I was intrigued. REAL photos of places I see every day! Wow! Amazing, this Internet. Tell me more!

I started looking up our house. Then work. Then my apartment in Toledo. Then my mom's (not a lot of help; apparently only one photo was ever taken of that town, because you can't zoom in any to make it helpful). Then every address I've ever lived, from kindergarten on. 15 Bluffside, 739 Vincent Drive, Road 14, West Street, Road 13, etc., etc. How addicting, to see on screen something I already have dedicated to memory.

I was so caught up in this self-stalking game that I couldn't stop. "This is the way the school bus would go," "Let's see, if I go down here ... yes! Latonia! I totally remember!" "Hands Pike was riiiight ... YES. There. GENIUS."

If I had to estimate the percentage of wasted brain matter I have dedicated to remembering where the ice cream shop was compared to the dance studio I went to for a hot minute back in '89, I would say it's a strong 60 percent.

Just in case it ever comes up, I will be able to point out where the private swimming pool was to which I was never a member in Kentucky. Full of useless information.

The creepiest thought, though, was that someone who lived there now would have no idea some random house in the greater Cincinnati area had so much meaning for some random person in Wisconsin. Makes me wonder who's Googling the address of my house now. ... (Insert favorite stalker song here.) Yikes.

You can go up there, but do it when I'm gone and won't be back for a week, so you have time to find all the escaped bats

I was sitting on the couch the other night, thinking about how much I dislike our family room, which is where we are the majority of the time because we only have one lonesome recliner in the living room. The family room is dark beige. Dark blue carpet (white, shedding dog). Curtains from the 50-percent-off bin on one window; blinds on the other.

So to cheer myself up, I thought of the rooms in the house I like, like our pale bedroom upstairs and our drama queen red dining room with the gold-painted ceiling.

Then I was thinking ... There's a place in this house I've not ventured. That means I'm paying for something that I'm not taking advantage of. I own something I've never seen. It's right above me and I don't know what it looks like.

The attic.

I've not touched the thing. Never seen it. Dave's not seen it, either, though the home inspector told us it was, well, an attic. I'm terrified of my own attic.

I've always wanted a "Goonies" type attic, where I could go and poke around in my grandparent's old chests and discover treasure maps or at least some old love letters tied together by twine or something. Yet the only attic I remember having in all my life is the one in a house I lived in in Kentucky; 15 Bluffside Drive. It was a hot, stuffy attic with light coming through some sort of vent. My armpits hurt from my dad holding me up so I could see over the floorboard, saying "See? That's it. I told you, nothing up there."

But this attic, the one I'm a proud owner of, is probably infested with bats, rats, bees, wasps, centipedes, millipedes, devils, spiders and the like.

That's a shame, because after having been occupied for almost 100 years, I bet this house has seen its share of love letters and Goonies.

Dave suggested we pull down the ladder and just go up there.

No.

"No. Remember when we were looking for a house, and I had that anxiety attack about owning bugs?"

"Yeah."

"You said we could have an exterminator come over."

"I only told you that so you'd stop freaking out."

Oh. Then yes. Let's go up there. You first, and don't mind me when I push this ladder back up. Goonies schmoonies. I'm not going up there.

1997, what??

Dear Abby,

I just need to know why Hanson was on "Deal or No Deal."

Not that I was watching.

Sincerely,
Worried in Wisconsin