Smells like laundry detergent

My dog eats more socks than any dog I know. I don't know how he gets to them, other than going the kitchen to get the step stool, then carrying it upstairs on his back, where he gently sets it down in front of the dresser and pulls out the drawer quietly with his opposable thumbs and grabbing my favorite pair. Or Dave's.

There's no other explanation, because Dave always puts all the laundry away as soon as it comes out of the dryer. Always. He doesn't ever let it sit on the loveseat, all forlorn and in messy piles. He doesn't wait until it's technically "laundry day" again and the baskets are full and we need towels and I'm asking him "have you seen my green pants? How about my yellow shirt? My brown shirt? Pink pants? Anything resembling anything I would wear to work?" at 7 a.m.

Never. That never happens.

But today, I got home and the loveseat was a loveseat. A real, actual "sit on me" loveseat. I mean, it was always a loveseat, wink wink.

No, enough lying.

There is a silver lining if you believe that silly saying, in this: he waits so long to bring clothes upstairs, and the piles are so daunting on the loveseat that I don't go digging for missing clothes, that when he carries them upstairs a week or two later, it's like we've been shopping! "Wow! Look! Pink pants! And green pants! A yellow shirt! It's just what I wanted! Thanks, Dave!"

It's pretty exciting, this married life.



And I don't want to hear that I should stop complaining and do my own dang laundry, because it's this arrangement we have worked out, see, and since it's 2007 and not 1957, that makes this OK. I wear pants and make money. I do dishes. I dust and clean the bathroom. He also makes money, and he mows or shovels and does laundry and carries heavy things. Oh, he wears pants, too. Of course.

It's not the heat, you know. It's the humi- ... Never mind. Sorry.

We have central air conditioning, but we refuse to turn it on.

Actually, that's not true. We do have air conditioning. But Dave refuses to turn it on, and I guess, wow, yes, it is making me a better person. I realize that it won't be June until Friday, and that for some reason, 94 in June is much more legitimate than 94 on May 29.

Our neighbors, on the other hand, have had the AC on for days. Days. And like a taunting, cruel joke, I can hear it run when I'm sweating in the kitchen, eating cereal because eating anything warm makes me want to die. I can hear it kick on as I climb the stairs, literally feeling the 45-degree temperature difference by the time I get to the landing. (That means, my upstairs must be somewhere around 145 degrees. It's pretty stuffy.)

Dave even complains: "UGH, why is it so HOT in here?" he'll say as he turns on both fans in our bedroom.

Living in a 100-year-old house, I think that may be a reason for the stuffiness. That, and we have spiders the size of serving platters that hang out on our siding and sills, so I don't want to open windows. Sigh.

When we win the lottery, thousands will be put into a "cool fund" at the bank, and its sole purpose will be to cool the house from May to October. And to hire an exterminator. Who will come live with us. Year-round.

Remember last year, when I was wearing a sweatshirt inside just to spite my landlord, who footed the whole bill? Well. That sure worked out for me in the end.

If you guys don't hear from me by Tuesday night, send someone in. You'll find our skeletons engulfed in sand, reaching for a water glass or something like we're in those mummy or Indiana Jones-like movies.

Not dead!

It's been a week and a half, right, and I've not killed these plants. Yet. And I won't! Some of them even have new blooms.

I thought that was noteworthy enough to post.

And the thought has crossed my mind that now I'm no better off than my dad, who used to walk around taking video and photos of the landscaping.

Sigh.

But really, that whole area you see (and the other 3/4 of the space that you don't see) used to be filled with nothing but big rocks and sandy dirt. Really. Then I moved some rocks. Dave moved bigger rocks. And now you have that one "decoratively placed" rock that's covering up a larger rock that I couldn't budge. Improv gardening. Fab.

And don't judge us by the mud. We're not done mulching yet.

"Take a look, it's in a book ..."

When I was in high school, I briefly dated a guy who thought that road signs, billboards and other signs were considered "reading material." We didn't last long.

Dave, on the other hand, likes to read; it's one of the traits I like about him. I can say it's purely for unselfish reasons, like "he's more well-rounded" and "it makes him more interesting to talk to." And those things are nice.

But it's also nice that we can go to the oft-mentioned (and I feel badly about that) used book sale, spend $10 on books we've wanted to read or have just discovered - and, hey, it's $1! Let's get it! - and not feel guilty about it. Thank God Dave is more of a compulsive shopper than I am. I think this is about the only situation where I'll be able to say that and mean it.

Bets are higher when cheap books are involved

"Put periods after that."

"But it's not a complete sentence," he said.

"It's our style. Do it."

"I don't remember that," he said.

"I'll bet you $5."

Silence.

"Come on, $5."

"No."

"Come on, $5."

"No," he said laughing.

"$2?"

"It's our money, anyway so what does it matter?"

"There's a used book sale tomorrow."

"Oooh."

A little yard work never hurt anyone. But stress about that yard work? It's led to lots of issues.

I woke up at 8:30 a.m. Friday excited -- yes, excited -- about buying some bushes for the yard. We got them home and I didn't even fuss over the dirt in the back seat of the car. I just went to the back yard and got the shovel ... and handed it to Dave.

"I guess I'm planting these?" he said.

"Yes. I'll weed."

Thinking he got the better end of the deal, because who wants to DIG in the DIRT and put bushes in? Not me! Ew. No I shall pluck these weeds.

Then that turned into picking a million helicopter seeds out of the garden. Then sweeping the walkway. Then planting some flowers. Then watering. Then hey, while we're here, let's put that ant killer out. Then hey, while I've got the hose, let's wash the sidewalk. Then that was so clean, what about cleaning the porch! The siding! I would've been up on the roof, spraying the top leaves of the junk tree in our yard because, oh, I don't know, they might be dusty or something, and you never know who's coming over with their 50-foot arm and white gloved hand to show the judgmental world your dirty tree.

Whew.

And this is all related to a visit from my dad. He's not coming for three weeks. But I've got weeding to do. I've got a kitchen to finish. I've got to make this place look nice. He's just practice, though. My in-laws are next, along with Dave's uncle and aunt.

I can't take this kind of pressure. I think I might pray for a lots of rain. You know, to wash those leaves from the tops of my trees. And give me a reason to explain the weeds. "I ... uh, wow! That rain! Like a monsoon! I couldn't get out there like I do, every day. Yup. Every. Single. Day."

Part 2 of my confessions

I should probably apologize to anyone who now has "Confessions" by Usher in their heads after reading that post. Because I know I do.

Grrrr.

Confessions

"I went to the Exclusive Co. and got this," Dave said as he walked into work today, handing me Wilco's "Sky Blue Sky." Awesome. I've been streaming it live and loving it.

"I also got this one." He handed me "Venus" from We Are The Fury. "It was used!"

"OK," I said, stacking them next to my computer. And that was that. Two CDs from the guy who kept up his end of the "no CDs, no purses" buying moratorium for like, five months. I was so proud. And he only bought two! And it was one we both liked! And the other was used -- read: cheap, super cheap!

About four hours later, we walked in the house on our dinner break. I was holding Mr. Big above my head and saying "Mi-ster Biiii-ig!" and generally being my own embarrassing self, when Dave broke down.

"OK, OK, I can't lie to you," he said. I brought Big down from his six-foot high position to rest on my hip. Dave was sounding like I'd caught him cheating on me, and had been threatening to rip his fingernails out with rusty pliers if he didn't confess.

"What?"

"I got two other CDs. I couldn't help it! And, and one was another used one! It's been so long! I'm sorry!"

And really, what I was thinking was not "kill Dave" or even "give him the mean face." Instead, I was thinking "PURSE! Finally! I won the staring contest and now I am rewarded with a guilt-free purse purchase!" (Right? Isn't how that works?)

"It's OK," I said.

"I waited five months!" The man was still hysterical.

"I know. I'm proud of you," I said, letting Big outside.

"So does this mean I'm back to step 8?" he asked, a throwback to my (fake but oft-refered to) Husband Improvement Plan. And all I could think about was "I hope the purse is something summery and big. With a zipper. And inside pockets! Lots of them!"

And this is why this smart couple will never be rich.

I can't help it.

I wasn't going to blog about this. I sat and said "Yes, it is sad that teens in Utah are killing themselves. Let it go, Erin."

But I couldn't just let someone take a Death Cab for Cutie song, put some drawings of some "bad kids" in the background and QUOTE WIKIPEDIA -- all in the name of denouncing evil incarnate, EMO, according to this Utah TV station report.

Just because the band's name is Death Cab for Cutie, it doesn't mean they talk about dark death, cabs or cuties. And have you seen Ben Gibbard? He looks like someone you'd have hired to mow your lawn or something, not leading an "underground culture that's growing on the Internet." Eeee-vil. Eeevil I tell you.

And thanks Dave and blurbomat.com for the link.

Wedding season part 1

My brother and his fiancee get married in not-too-long-at-all, and I am so excited to actually put on the cutest bridesmaid's dress that doesn't look like a bridesmaid's dress, which means I may actually wear it again, and not just to costume parties. (Breath.)

I'm a bit flustered over what to get them. It seems every time I need to buy a gift from a registry, I wait 'til the last minute and I run out of things I can either afford or not look dumb getting:

"OK, Derrick," his new wife would say, "what's next for thank-you notes?"

"Oh, Dave and Erin got us a bottle opener."

"Bo-ttle o-p-en-er," she'd spell. "OK, what else?"

And Derrick would dig around in the gift bag and say "Uh, I think that's it."

Because usually the closer you get to a wedding, the more ridiculous expensive items are left. And I'm his sister, so technically I should be allowed to get them something else, right? Right. OK, but that's neither here nor there. That's an ulcer for another time.

I'm mostly excited to go to such a different wedding than my own. I got married at 1 p.m. to maximize the time I could spend in my big dress, and to minimize the nervous stomach I had before the ceremony. They're getting married at night.

We got married in church, went barhopping and then went to the Legion for the ceremony, filled with Seven-Sevens and tap beer and loud music and fun. They're more ... reserved? Only I mean that in a good way. They chose to get married and have the reception at the same place, a country club.

I think it'll be really elegant. I can't wait.

But, I'm not all nice. The selfish older sister in me says, "Thanks for making it so different that they're unique enough to not be compared to our wedding." No one can say "You know, Rosemary's potatoes tasted so much better when she made them for Derrick's wedding than for Erin's."

Yessss. I just can't handle that kind of comparison. Ha!

You are getting veeery sleepy. No? Oh, well, maybe it's just me

Not since the third grade have I gone to bed with such enthusiasm so early.

"It's 9! It's OK to put on my pajamas! Yes! Then I can go to bed! Maybe I'll be asleep by 10! This is incredible!"

Yes, I often think to myself in exclamatory phrases. I do!

But sometime within the last two weeks, I've been waking up every morning at 6:45, and I'm just done sleeping. Like, "Oh, that's it. I'm done. Whew! Glad that's over."

I'm like my grandpa. "Sun's up! Let's go mow." (Only I do not mow. That was part of the prenup I should've made him sign. "No mowing. No watching wrestling on TV. Must get me soft pretzels and cheese when I ask.")

And I could stop this weird, funky cycle if only I could keep my eyes open past 10 p.m.

It's not as if I were having problems sleeping. It's more the dreams. In one, I dreamt it was suddenly Country USA time and everyone was asking me "What should we do? Didn't you think about this?" and I was scrambling going "No! No! It's not time! You guys are wrong!" In another, I was at the prom. And nothing happened. I was just there. You know, promming. Or I relive boring moments of my life, like a math class I had in 2001. Seriously.

I can't even have cool dreams filled with hot actors or crazy scenarios. Just weird ones that make me want to get up. But here I go, getting ready to go to bed, and it's not even dark outside.

Yes. This is my life. Exactly as boring as I'll be dreaming it in five years. Sigh.

I'd give you a gift, too, but I spent all my money on these cards here. Sorry.

I stood in the greeting card aisle for a good 15 minutes, picking out wedding and shower cards for all the events we have coming up.

And you know? Weddings are fun. They're joyous. They are filled with sunbeams and hearts and smiles and all those things.

So why do greeting card companies use the same typeface and ugly background lilies on wedding cards as they do on the sympathy cards on the bottom shelf? Why? No one died. No one got their leg chopped off. It's OK. It's marriage. Thousands do it every year, and no limbs have been lost (directly, anyhow).

Don't get me wrong. I know it's serious. I know it's this monumentous step. But come on. I'm talking about a card someone will read and then toss into a pile. And I'm not looking for a stereotypical marriage-joke card. I'm not even looking for a regular funny card. But the only cool cards I found were $5. I love my friends, but five friends at $5 is $25. In cards.

Seriously.

Before I eventually picked out five of the less-lame cards, I considered doing what I normally do in these situations. I admit to purchasing those 99-cent birthday cards and everywhere it said "You're 8!" I scratch it out to put "You're married!" and on the inside where it says "Happy birthday, tiger!" I scatch that out and write "Sorry I'm so cheap, man!" But I didn't this time. Obviously.

Planting, (the more successful) part two

Today we really did plant. Dave did the topsoil while I was at work. I did the planting and rearranging while he was at work. We stood back and admired our handiwork. Wow. Colorful flowers. I even recognized the old rock garden by throwing a few decorative rocks in there. Of course, it was over an area that had some buried rock underneath, but whatev.

And mulch? And those bushes? No, we don't have those yet. But the flowers are in the ground! Because if we had the bushes and the flowers now, we run the risk of actually doing something right on the first try -- and then what would I have to blog about? I know. Nothing.

Then came the front yard ... Let's say I like the back yard -- no, I love it. It's where I can go and only four people will see me. And one of those people is a dog. It's pretty. It now has new flowers. It has greenery. A patio table. A grill.

The front yard and I have no attachment to each other yet. And I don't like being in the front yard. I like to hide in the back yard.

So Dave volunteered to plant flowers there. Really, it was a volunteer, not a command.

What he didn't know while he was inside getting dinner ready was, I was making a plant map of the front yard. I plugged in the plants we had bought that I wanted there, and then ... wait. No, that looks dumb, I thought. So I envisioned a plant moving. Yes! Those new bushes, let's take them out! Let's put them in the back yard! Let's get those other bushes, and move them -- yes! Here! And then move this ... here. And put these ... uh, here!

By the time Dave came out, he didn't recognize my map. It was glorious. Genius. And probably not what any Master Gardener would tell me to do.

"Can you do this tomorrow?" I held it in front of him -- See! See how easy it would be? Come on, Dave!

He looked at me like I was nuts. "Yeah. I'll trrryyyy."

And that's when he decided that next year, he was going to take a long trip all through planting season. And probably have a talk with my doctor about trying some new medication.

Planting, or lack thereof, part one

We went to the Festival of Spring, ostensibly to enjoy the nice weather and maybe pick up a plant or two.

We went home with two box lids full. Yup. 'Twas a good, successful time. Carrying them home with our friends (because we'd walked, as parking would've made it pointless to drive), I was already planning how I'd organize them in the newly demolished rock garden that was my back yard. We ran inside and changed, coming back out in our yard work best.

But when we got outside and saw the plants we'd set on the deck it was "wow, look at that! Lunch time." And you know, we agreed, these plants would look so much better if we had some bushes!

So we did what any procrastinating couple would do. We called our friends. Would we like to lunch? Yes. We'd like to. So we spent an hour eating outside a restaurant downtown before following them to a flower nursery outside of town.

And it was ... incredible.

I wanted to keep grabbing left and right and putting plants on the cart. Finding the plants was easy. (Planting was that messy part.) We told our friends we'd all go home, plant and then meet up for dinner or a drink. Because that was the plan. Work. In the yard. Yard work. It was supposed to be done.

Then Dave and I went searching for those bushes that, oh yeah, we still wanted. But it looked like rain, so we ran to the car and got home to plant the flowers.

We weeded a section that had previously been called the Dandelion Garden and then dang, it looked like rain. We put the flowers by the house and ran inside. Dave collapsed (not literally of course, or this blog would have a far more dramatic title) on the living room floor. I curled up on the recliner. And we didn't get up.

"It's not raining that hard," I said, pulling back the curtains.

"Yeah, we should go out and start again," he said, not moving.

"Yeah."

Minutes passed.

"Well. I'm going to go take a shower," I said.

"All right," Dave said as he headed toward the couch.

When we met back with our friends later, they asked if we'd gotten everything planted. We laughed. Did we get everything planted? No, but we thought about it. And in our minds, it looked really, really good.

Something to brag about

"I feel really floaty and weird and drowsy," Dave said in the car on his break.

"Why?"

"I don't know. I took one of those sinus pills before I came into work."

"What color was it?"

"Blueish green."

"That would be a nighttime pill," I said.

"Who says?"

"The orange ones are daytime and the blue ones are night."

"Says who?"

"Well, blue is dark, like night and orange is like the sun, so it's day. Everyone knows that."

"So I know I can withstand a nighttime pill."

Because that's something to brag about. Hey, guys, I can run faster than you, my car can go faster than yours, my muscles are stronger than yours, and I can STAY UP ALL DAY on Nyquil! Woo! Someone put my face on a T-shirt!

I've not killed anything in a while.

I sold my first big item on Craigslist.org today -- the table I set on fire around the holidays. The fire damage is minimal and I totally posted a photo of it, so no one should be surprised when they come to pick it up tomorrow. It doesn't even stink like burning wood anymore, so there's that.

We started posting about $250 worth of stuff online about three weeks ago in the hopes of using that money and money we've been hiding in jars in the back yard* to get a new car soon, or getting a little entertainment center-ish thing that doesn't have those round white and brass knobs and beveled edges in that nice garage-sale, beat-up, pop-stained untreated pine.

But now, I'm really hoping to get flowers and a couple bushes instead. Cars ... they're expensive and they look nice, but not that nice. Flowers, they look better. And I don't leave home that much, anyhow.

I've not killed the greenery we have that sprouted up that the previous owners planted, and the boxwoods we bought a couple weeks ago are still green.

(Don't get me started on the house plant I've been killing since November, which was in the basement for a while and thrived, and now that I lovingly put it in sunlight and watered it, it's dying.)

Maybe this is a new leaf for us. A green one, unmarked by death and dried-out roots. Or maybe the thought of another car payment just made me get an ulcer.

*Not actually true. So don't come digging up in my yard.

Just to clarify: I demand Jude Law by my side if I'm departing this earth.

I was handed a Very Adult Packet of Documents on Friday by my doctor, which both creeped me out and excited me.

It gave me goosebumps for a few seconds because of what it is: A living will and power of attorney for health care packet. That's heavy, man.

Excited me because I love filling out forms. I'm serious. Especially when it's about me. It's like a test I know all the answers to. Look at me filling in the blanks! E-R-I-N F W-A-S-I-N-G-E-R. Female! Yay! Ask me more! Date of birth? I thought you'd never ask! (I'm that person who fills out surveys and warranty slips for mundane items such as the DVD player and the vacuum. I can't help it. And yes, I am on medicine for that. Ha.)

But I'm in my mid-20s. I don't want to think about what I want around me when I die. Music I want playing? People I want there? Items I'd like to have? Let's see ... the Postal Service, Jude Law and a box of those Hostess cupcakes with the white swirls on top. Because I get what I want then, right? That's what that means? Oh, so weird.

Now, if this were a conversation about what to do with my stuff? That'd be another thing. When I was younger, my brother and I overheard someone talking about what a will was, so we got out our notebooks and started making one of our own. Cassette tapes: To Derrick. GI Joes: To Matt. My piggy bank: To Mom. It was fun, and slightly disturbing that at 8 and 6 we felt the need to clarify where our stuff should go. I'm sure Mom was beaming with pride.

But that kind of will, I'm not talking about. I assume if, God forbid, something should happen to Dave and I, that people will take turns raising Big. Because who wouldn't want him? And ya'll can share my debts. Hope you like writing checks! You're welcome!

The doctor said I'm to fill these living will and power of attorney for health care forms out with Dave and to talk to him about it, and then have him fill one out as well. Few things are awkward with Dave; this probably won't be either. But it's not really one of those conversations we'll be having over any candlelight dinners.

Because we do that ALL the time. All the time.

And then we spent part of it on tacos

I was sorting through mail and getting myself a glass of water, and suddenly Dave puts $40 in front of my face.

"What's this?" thinking he's going to want me to go change the oil in the car or something. We don't regularly just hand each other $40.

"It's for you."

"Why?" Question or not, I grabbed the bills and curled them into my hand.

"I found it."

"From what?"

"It was in my bag, from the wedding," he said, pointing to the one he took to Tennessee that he hadn't used since the honeymoon in October.

Awesome, I thought. Money we didn't know we had! What is this, the best Sunday ever? Then ... wait. "How much did you find?"

"Don't worry about it," he said, quickly Velcro-ing his wallet shut and trying to put it in his pocket. I grabbed for it, and he ran around the kitchen, the dog at our heels.

"How much do you have? Let me see!"

And because my pleading can beat his running in circles around the kitchen any day, he stopped. "I have $40." He smirked.

"Let me see."

"No."

"Dave."

"OK, fine," he said, revealing $40, plus an extra $10 bill and seven ones. "It's mine!"

"It's ours -- why do I get $40 and you get $57?"

He sighed and offered me the seven one-dollar bills.

I grabbed the $10 from his wallet.

And then we laughed, because us finding money or having cash at all isn't what we do. Our money? We spend it or we rub the change in our pockets against other coins, hoping to make baby dollar bills. "Come on, little dime! Gimme a $5!"

Don't even get me started on the chiming clock, either. I heard every one of its 24 chimes. I shoulda ripped the batteries out

I'm not really sure if it was the spider in the towels I was folding on the bed Thursday, or the one that crawled out from under the dresser. Maybe it was the centipede in the empty laundry basket in the basement, or the one I found later when I returned with the can of Raid; the thing was just chilling on the lid of the washing machine, like "Hey, dude in the basket, come up here, the view's great."

I'm not even sure it was the way I made a puddle of Raid over one of the spiders in the bedroom and it ever so eerily got up and walked out of it unscathed like it was some mutant spider creature, brushing that Raid off its shoulders.

I'm pretty sure it wasn't the, um, sickness that Big had mid-walk. I'm equally sure the temperature of the house or the uncomfortable sagging on the couch that I slept on for fear of spider retribution wasn't why this weekend was so long and dull.

I was just ... bored? Lonely? Tired?

I was looking forward to Dave being in Tennessee because it meant I could watch those movies that are usually reserved for junior high sick days -- Lifetime afternoon movie-viewing -- I'm talking "Terms of Endearment" type stuff. I want to see tears. Leg warmers. I want to hear synthesizers in the soundtrack. I had books from the library, a stack of DVDs and two magazines. I was set.

But it stunk. And not just because that movie should never have won an Oscar.

It was the longest weekend of my Wisconsin life. It was so quiet. If it weren't for the friends who invited me over to watch a movie on Friday, I would've had no more human contact than a "yeah, cut it short" to the hairstylist all weekend.

And of course, when Dave came home last night, the weekend immediately sped up. By the time I had put away my postcards from him, it was Sunday and I was at work.

Three days alone in a house is a long time, especially for someone who has not spent a night alone here. It's a creepy house, this place is. Creeeee-p-y.

And I'm a strong, independent woman here, but let's get realistic. Nothing with more than four legs should be allowed in my house. And next time, I'm going with Dave.

Celebrating Mother's Day by cursing the mother of a recorded voice from my insurance company

The last 15 minutes of my life:

Annoying recorded voice that sounds like a creepy psycho killer: Hello. Wel---come to (insurance company). Press one if you are a health care provider. Press two if you are a customer.

Erin: Presses two.

Psycho: Press one for claims. Press two to speak to a nurse. Press three for questions regarding your benefits. Press four for all others, or to enroll in the maternity care program.

Erin: Uh ... Presses three.

Psycho: Enter your customer care code, followed by the pound key.

Erin: OK.

Psycho: Enter your eight digit date of birth, followed by the pound key -- that's month-month, date-date, year year year year. Pound.

Erin: If I could bottle your voice, I'd sell it on Halloween.

Psycho: Here are the benefits: (Reads off something that'd be helpful if maybe I were looking for Most Useless Information That I Already Know). To return to the main menu, press star.

Erin: Star key.

Psycho: Hello. Wel---come to ...

Erin: ARGGGGG. Presses four.

Psycho: Please enter your customer care number followed by the pound key.

And this went on for 10 minutes. To change your address, to request a booklet, to speak to a nurse about your condition, to, to, to, to, to do nothing that'd be helpful to you in any way, to give you absolutely no help and never the chance to talk to a real, live person, to never give you an alternative number, to, to, to.

Only about eight things in the world can make me this irrationally angry. Doing math. Closed-minded people. That wood carver guy on PBS. Banging my shins into something metal. You know, painful things.

I need it to be next week.

And Big went around the first floor barking because he's got pit bull blood in his 15-pound frame

Last night, in true "I'm so sure" fashion, we were watching TV on the couch when -- I swear -- someone threw bricks at our back door.

Only it just sounded that way. There wasn't really a brick.

But we both jumped up and ran to the door (because running to the source of someone throwing bricks at you is the smartest thing to do in this situation, I'm sure of it), but saw nothing. So we walked around the bottom floor, looking for broken windows or rabid dogs or anything, ANYTHING that would look like it could create the second-scariest sound after teeth being drilled. We cautiously opened the closet doors upstairs, checked all the rooms, and on the way to the basement, we found it.

A stupid, large metal-and-thick-glass picture frame had fallen from the bathroom wall onto the toilet.

Relieved it wasn't actually bricks, I shared that nugget with Dave in a fit of nervous laughter.

"I won't tell you what I thought it was," he said.

So of course I made him tell me.

"I thought it was some kind of animal that got caught in the air ducts."

And that's how I lost sleep for the third night in a row. Thank you, Dave. Now my dreams are filled with possums and raccoons.

At least it was 'Birds,' not 'Psycho'

In order to appreciate the danger I put myself in to bring you these posts today, I think you should be aware that about 10 minutes ago when I was typing the previous post on my deck -- because it's 89 degrees in my house -- I was nearly killed by a low-flying, corner-cutting bird.

I felt the thing brush against my hair and I leaned way back in my chair, and then Alfred Hitchcock walked by and it all started to make sense.

I'm going to go inside now.

New meaning to 'making it work'

I met Dave at work in Toledo when we were both in school, so the "first Dave" I knew was "Dave, my pseudo-boss." Then I was Dave's boss. Then we got jobs at other newspapers, until last year, when Dave started working where I do.

Beyond that whole "Let's not have you tell me about Work Dave, because I'd like to pretend I'm not really married to Work Dave" part of the situation, it's not that bad. We don't work together-together, so that part is totally kosher. And when I forget my lunch, he brings it to me when he comes in for second shift. When I need a ride home for dinner, he can bring me.

And I don't mind seeing Dave that much. (You may vomit when reading this sentence and I apologize) Dave's my best friend, and he's really two different people to me: Dave Dave and Work Dave.

Still, it's hard when I wake up in the morning and go to work at 8, and he comes to work during the afternoon, and then we leave work to go home for dinner and we talk about work, and then he goes back to work while I think about work, and then he comes home from work and wants to talk about work after I've already forgotten work. Work? Work? No, I don't know what you're talking about. That's my state of mind at 11 p.m. Denial:

"Dude, guess what happened at work toda-"

"Stop."

"Just one thing. Let me tell you one story."

"Fine. One."

"OK, well (insert story that actually leads to me responding with another story)."

"Dave? Stop. Movie? Want to watch a movie? Let's watch a movie."

That's a lot of Dave and a lot of work. And in a way I like it. But a break? I could use a teeny tiny one. So when Dave goes away for a weekend soon, maybe I'll be watching chick flicks and not thinking about work and not doing anything but nothing.

Of course, by the time he gets home, I'm sure I'll be bored with that, and then it'll be time to go to work. Ha, ha.

Bad choice

I thought I'd be lazy and unwind by watching a movie last night, so I went to the library (yeah, that is the bad part about Netflix) to get one: "Road to Perdition." I got it because it seemed like a good thing to do. I mean, people know about that movie, right? It's like "The Green Mile" or "Shawskank Redemption," right? You don't have to particularly enjoy it to appreciate it.

Only "Perdition" was not appreciated by me at all. I immediately regretted the decision.

Even if you overlooked (spoiler!) the fact that James Bond-guy killed the mom and the young boy when they were just having bath time, GOSH, and took it instead for its mob-like qualities, it scared me more than "CSI" marathons could. Talk to me about DNA at a bloody crime scene any day. Tom Hanks doesn't make me feel as protected as Gary Sinise.

I was so terrified that someone was obviously in my house and going to shoot me that I went around after Dave got home and relocked the doors while he was brushing his teeth. Never can be too safe. I turned all the lights on (because shooters are like vampires, I reasoned) and made sure the basement door was shut. God. Erin, seriously.

And Dave just kept asking, "What is your deal?" And how do you explain to your husband that you're not so much afraid of anything as you are crazy?

Neeeeews radio ssseven-hundred W. (pause) L. (pause) W.

Some of the worst memories of my childhood, besides anything having to do with math or science projects or divorce or chicken pox, have 700 WLW in them.

If you're unfamiliar with all that is 700 WLW, rest assured I'm sure there is a corresponding news-sports AM radio station in your network. This one just happens to reach from Cincinnati, where it's based, to practically all the way across Indiana on a good night (or bad night, in my case).

My dad would refuse to listen to anything else in the car while Marty Brenneman and the rest of them would go on air and yell, uninterrupted by anything except that static FFFSSTTTTSSSFFF sound every time you drove under an overpass on I-75.

Dave, Cincinnati sports fan that he is, doesn't let the good memories stop there.

My dullest moments with Dave, unless you're talking about Michigan, have to do with being stuck in traffic with him on car rides home, unable to sleep, listening to the announcers. They say the same things. Every time. And I, being the witty one I am, will repeat one line, over and over until he turns the station, just to make their point sound like the dumbest thing since French pleated pants.

"Gotta block those runs, Dave! They gotta do that. They gotta block those runs. Block those runs. Why don't the Bengals just do that? They just gotta stop those runs."

It's a wonder he doesn't push the "eject" button on my car seat.

And tonight, it came up again because Dave insists on acting like I know sports.

"The (dang Reds) gave up a three-run homer," he said, or something like that.

"Those dang Reds," I think my response was. "They ... uh (scanning memory for best 700 WLW line) gotta block those runs? Gotta block those runs." Yes. They do.

"Yeah, nice try."

Stupid AM radio.

It's that Y chromosome that just changes everything

My brother is getting married in a few weeks, and besides the natural "Oh my God, he's so old. Good thing I didn't get older" thoughts, I'm generally looking forward to it now. Weddings are a blast, and I don't even have to think about what to wear to this one.

lus, it's my brother -- so this is really odd for me. I remember him falling off his bike and sniffing pepper up his nose at LaRosa's Pizza in 1988, and then crying so hard we had to leave. I remember waiting for the bus to take us to elementary school.

But Dave on the other hand is looking forward to the wedding for other reasons. Is it because he'll get to see his family when we visit them? Is it because he gets to take a day off work to go to Cincinnati and dance and party with his wife and their family? Or, perhaps it's that he just wants to wish the happy couple well.

No. Well, at least those weren't the first few thoughts.

Dave glanced at their pretty, elegant wedding invitations and shrieked. "Ooh! At a country club! I can GOLF!" There were definite exclamation points in his voice.

He's so sentimental.

"I'm not sure anyone else is, Dave. And I don't know if it's open to the public."

"It doesn't matter. I'm golfing." Persistence would break down that "not open to the public" rule, should the club have one.

I rolled my eyes and laughed and his revolutionary spirit was gone by the time the invite was hanging on the fridge.

"I mean I wouldn't mind. If someone else is going. You know. If we have time. Or whatever."

Me and my nice self

We've been talking about it for months, with my common canned answer, "Can we talk about this when it gets closer?" or "Can we talk about this when I'm in a better mood?" Two common ways I play dodge-the-question.

But this week in a fit of -- God, what? love? -- I went to him and said sweetly, "So when am I bringing you to the airport that day?"

He laughed. "Uh, let me check Expedia." I waited, thinking "aw, look, isn't this nice? I'll take him to the airport, we'll have one of those movie farewells and music will play --" and just when I was getting to John Denver's typical airport song, Dave broke in.

"Um. My flight leaves at 7:30." Yes, that's a.m. "It says I have to be there two hours earlier."

"NO! Dave! No! No. Are you kidding?" I laughed. "Oh, you're joking."

He shook his head slowly. "No, look."

You guys. I don't think I love anyone that much before 8 a.m. Much less 5 a.m.

"If you bring me to the airport I'll make you a cheese omelet!"

"Not helping."

Gotta make an appointment

"Do you like my hair better long or short? And you can't say 'both' and you have to have one answer, either 'long' or 'short."

"Uh ... I don't know," he said. He probably was mentally checking his life insurance, just in case he gives the wrong answer when he finally got around to it.

"Dave."

"OK. It ... looks ... nice ... uh, short ..?" Like a first-grader, reading aloud for the first time: "And then? Jack ran up the hill? And he ... fell?"

Yeah, so what, of course that was the answer I was going for, because I'd prefaced it with "Maybe I should get my hair cut." But my hair is long now. Oh, poor, trapped Dave.

I toyed with the idea of getting it cut this weekend at one of the no-appointments, pay-extra-for-the-blowdrying places. See, I haven't paid more than $15 for a haircut in years, primarily because I'm broke. But now, because it'd be an actual style, I was considering a real, actual salon. But the price ... Ugh.

Then, last night, I had a thought that made me stop and do that disgusted "hugggh!" sound. And clouds opened up and light bulbs went off over my new revelation.

My dog? Mr. Big - that mutt? His hair gets cut every six to eight weeks at $36 per visit. I'm one of those people. Next thing you know, his sweaters will start looking better than mine, and he'll be less like a dog and more like those Laguna Beach kids. "Dahling, could you fetch me that tennis ball? I don't want to get my fuuuur ruffled."

Gawd.

I didn't even get a chain e-mail

"Wow, I've been so out of touch since last Wednesday," I thought when I logged onto my e-mail account. "I haven't even checked my e-mail since then. Whoa."

Alas, the most exciting e-mail I got wasn't even really intended for me.

"****DOES SHE THINK YOU NEED HELP IN BED*****?" Highlighted in yellow. Text in red. Stars on both ends. In case the all-capital letters didn't stand out enough for ya.

Decidedly, I'm not the target audience on that one.

Endearing habits

When Dave's done with something, it gets plopped down by the window seat. Or on the kitchen table. Or on the bed. Or on the cedar chest. Or on the chair in the bathroom. The couch. Coffee table. Top of the dryer. Etc. It's endearing, I promise.

If it's before 8 a.m. and I have something in my hands I don't want, I also throw things on the chair. But every time I walk in that room, I'll feel overwhelmed 'til it's put away. It's how I am. Nuts. I know this.

If something's out, I want it put away. If it can't be put away, let's put it in these neat, color coordinated baskets and filing sleeves and put those away. And then I'll be able to sleep neat, compartmentalized dreams.

Dave has his own "room," this little office where I let him put things like CDs, scrap paper from last August and dirty, balled up napkins without a word. The door stays shut and it's like it doesn't exist! Oh, that room? No, it's not a real room. This door doesn't open. It's all in your imagination. I would not have a room like that in my house.

But I guess his room is just too full now and those napkins are piling up and the CDs are spilling out into the hallway (not literally, no), because suddenly he's got socks in the dining room, empty CD cases in the living room and the top half of his credit card statement from July 2006 laying around. Around, as in from where I sit, I see it. I see it.

I see it because tonight I went around with a bag and collected all his stuff, and put it all into a nice, neat little pile in the middle of the living room. And that's what it's like living with an obsessive, crazy wife. One day you're living like it's college -- woo! college! -- and the next you're tripping over a pile of junk.

I cannot wait 'til I have teenagers. I will be so good at it. Ha.

(It should be noted Dave reads all these blogs and laughs at them; it's what we do. I am not an evil wife complaining. I am an evil wife blogging. There is a difference. Gosh.)

Bigger savings, bigger umbrella

Dave's all about getting an umbrella for our table and chairs on the deck, and I can appreciate his enthusiasm.

I personally don't think they're all that cool, especially because it's going to end up being "Did you take the umbrella down?" "No, I thought you did," during a hail storm. And then it'll get moldy. If it doesn't make noise and it's somewhere I don't sit every day, I won't be compelled to clean it obsessively like, say, my bathrooms and kitchen.

That said, he called me at work to let me know he was going to buy an umbrella because they were ON SALE. And that means "NEVER will there be a sale on umbrellas EVER AGAIN SO BUY NOW." I talked him out of a red one (we have a blue house, seriously), a black one (hot) and other such lunatic color schemes. He settled on a khaki colored one.

Fine.

But this thing, it's huge. It dwarfs our table and chairs, so it looks like I took a regular umbrella to a Barbie patio set. It's that big.

"Does the umbrella look too big?"

"Um. Well, I guess we could fit the whole neighborhood underneath it," I said.

"Yeah."

"Of course I don't like that many people."

However, taking it back was a painful decision for Dave. He could get a smaller umbrella. But those were $16. This was $20. And the $16 ones were originally $25. The $20 one? It was $79. THINK OF ALL THE MONEY WE SAVED. And really, Erin, how can you not appreciate that kind of savings?

And that's when I rolled my eyes and Dave made the decision to take it back.