"Let him go, you'll disrupt his flow."

No, not some great American writer penning that next great novel.

My dad, shopping.

We go antiquing like it's a sport. You all who run? That's cool. But it's no speed-shopping. I mean, talk about real sport. Pushing past slow shoppers, racing up and down the aisles. Yes.

We went to a couple antique shops; if you've never been, they're usually set up in long aisles crammed full of little cubicle-sized booths split up by vendors. Dave and I like to go through and look through most booths, picking up items and digging for treasures.

Dad goes in, does a little hamstring stretch (jk) and then he's off, speed-walking (not kidding), quickly looking left and right and left and right in each booth, stopping two booths up if something in another booth interested him (little bit of a time delay).

It takes us two hours. It takes him 15 minutes. Tops.

"Randy, you don't have to go that fast. I don't have to work 'til 2."

But he didn't hear.

"No, Dave. This is just how he shops." Now move out of his way or he'll push you into a stack of 45s.

Whoops

I've never really had a problem writing my name as "Wasinger" instead of "Niese." Never really thought about it. Just one day, I'm Erin Niese. The next, Erin Wasinger. OK.

But last night at Bw3s, when they handed me the controller to play the trivia game on the TV screens, I quickly typed in "EFN" and pushed play.

"Eff-en," Dave asked. "What's that?"

"My initials," I said. Duh.

Then I took a drink.

Wait. Head snapped back toward him. "Waitaminute -- that's not my name anymore. Ha! Whoops!"

I thought it was funnier than he did.

OK, logged out, logged in as Erin. Easy enough, that part doesn't change. Ha.

Not exactly plane-legal

Handing me items out of his car, I got loaded down with a pizza box, a Gatorade bottle, a carry-on bag and a jar of salsa.

I was eying this Life magazine from Jan. 6, 1961 sitting on top of another bag in the trunk, which next to the one in which he was rooting. The magazine had an illustration from the Civil War on the cover.

"Cool," I said.

"Well, I went shopping today," he said. See, Idiot, that is exactly 100 years after the start of the Civil War, he meant to say.

"Oh, cool."

"I saw it and just had to have it. And I got this shower mirror, this drain thing for the bathtub at home ..," he continued.

Then he started digging around a little deeper in the bag.

"Here, take this, too. I might have you bring this home with you when you come in August," he said.

"Why?" Looked like a Target bag to me.

"Well," he said, unwrapping it to reveal an antique dagger. "I got this antique dagger." Yes, a dagger, he said. "I don't think it's exactly a good idea to bring on the plane. I don't even want to try packing this."

"Not exactly plane-legal," I said, wondering what one does with an antique dagger while holding it gingerly by the handle-through-the-plastic.

"Yeah, I can just see them, 'Mr. Niese, please step over here a second.'"

So, that explains the double-bagged object sitting on my kitchen counter, waiting for its car ride to Ohio.

I'm glad I'm not having marital problems.

Sooo hot

"And this is the upstairs ... the bathroom, the office. The spare bedroom," I said, pushing open the door to let out a gust of hot, humid air. (We close the door during the day so Big doesn't get to the needles, drugs or Rolaids).

"Oh, nice," my dad said.

Downstairs, he asked me for my computer. (Flashback!)

"You're looking for a hotel, aren't you?" I asked.

He said he had to wake up early, and ...

"And it's too hot here?"

"Well, that's part of it."

And you have to know my dad to know, that's just my dad. If that makes sense.

So, after eating at BW3s and watching "North by Northwest," he carried his bags out from the kitchen where he'd put them a few hours before, headed toward his hotel in Fond du Lac. Ah. "History," History said. "History."

What should you do if you want to become a newspaperman or woman? First, learn how to use a typewriter

While cleaning the house trying to find a sense of cleanliness underneath this pile of everything-bagel crumbs and dead plant leaves brought to submission by Fearless Big, I found this book of ours, "Your Career in Journalism."

Distraction, yesss. I don't like the smell of everything bagels - they make me gag both because their name is ridiculous, because how can you have everything on a bagel?, and because they smell like everything bagels - so I sat to thumb through the book.

Chapter 9 of this 1965 book: "... a metropolitan editor may balk at hiring you because you are a girl. Here are the main reasons: ... He's afraid you'll get married and quit just when you've started to be of some use to him. If you are married, he figures you will become pregnant and quit."

Really? You mean I should've quit in October? Now I can quit when I'm going to have a baby?! Well, hot dang. I'm out. I've got a cake in the oven and a pot roast thawing in the sink and I simply MUST do my nails. Uh!

(Also of note, Chapter 8's opening line: The day may not be far off when a city editor will say to a reporter: "Check your space gear. You're going to the moon." So, uh, when that gig opens up, let me know. I hear it's lovely this time of year.)

Six weeks left ... til a major appliance dies? Gad, no

My ears perked up -- I heard a welcome, familiar sound. A sound of home. An end in sight for this humid, sticky weather. An end in sight to paying for air conditioning.

Locusts. Siiiigh.

You know, six weeks left of summer? Does Wisconsin even have that old wives' tale? They should. Do they have locusts? I don't remember. I lived in a heavily, loudly air conditioned apartment during what would be locust season last year.

But it's June. Six weeks left would be ... August-ish. Way too early for locusts. Hm.

Then the humming stopped. Wait. Now the house is quiet, I thought. Too quiet.

And that's when I realized my fridge sounds like locusts. My fridge, people. Locusts.

This cannot be good. Or cheap.

Of course now she won't tell me neat stories for a while because I've gone and embarrassed her by mentioning her on the blog

Some people call and gossip with their mothers, and bicker about pointless things and whisper complaints about other women, life, work, clothes, money, plans and anything else.

And well ... OK, we're no different, my mom and I.

But she's also still Quirky Mom, and she tends to ignore the boring, petty, daily stuff and instead saves the other unique information for prime story-telling.

She probably stores them all on index cards next to the phone to prepare for our weekly call: "Now ... what else was I going to tell you?? Oh! A skunk got hit last night by the mailbox. And now it's in pieces."

Mom rocks. I don't even mean that sarcastically.

She also passes along tidbits that she should use to make some blurby blog. They make good fodder for my own late-night, "oh, did I tell you what my mom said?" conversations with Dave.

She tells me: There was a funeral this morning for a woman who was buried (in another town), so the procession drove by our house. The hearse beeped at us. Well, (family friend) Tim did. He was driving. I think the body was already out of the car, though.

She goes on: A cow had a chain around its neck at the fair. A fan short-circuited above it and electrocuted the cow. And people were angry because the owners were selling it for meat. But what else are you going to do with it? Let's have steak!

She continues: I won a blue ribbon at the fair for my cross-stitching; I found out Tuesday. I guess they didn't have the ribbons out Monday yet when I was there. Or, someone felt sorry for me and gave me a ribbon that says 2006 on it.

Indeed. She's neat. I think I should write these down somewhere for posterity's sake.

Probably why I'm not the favorite child

During my freshman year of college, my dad and stepmom and my kid half-sister came to visit me overnight in my horrible, no good, very moldy and stuffy apartment in the middle of August.

It was miserable. For them. Not just because I am a poor conversationalist with no cable TV; rather, I was so poor that I couldn't turn on the air conditioner without having to forgo buying food that month.

Factors to consider: We see each other maybe twice a year, and talk a few times more than that. I hate being hot almost as much as ... no, wait. I can't think of anything. (Maybe being hot while listening to people whisper and also having a Michael Bolton song in my head. That'd be worse.) And I get that "it's hot it's hot dear God help me it's hot" chant from my dad.

We spent the days outdoors and shopping, even going on a short tour of the area I lived in. Then we came back and sat down to watch a movie.

My dad was immediately annoyed.

"Can I just give you $20? We can flip that thing on," he said, nodding toward the wall unit air conditioner.

"I guess ..."

"Awww, it wouldn't work fast enough anyhow."

He stood up, checked to make sure my oscillating fan was turning on high. Yup. Of course. He got a pair of shorts out of his car and changed. He paced on the linoleum floor in the kitchenette area, fanning his shirt.

I offered him a drink. No, nothing cold enough. He sat down and wiped his forehead.

"Can I see your computer?" I pointed to my laptop on the table, which he flipped on and pounded "hotels, Perrysburg" into the search engine.

"You guys can stay here," I said, reminding them that I had a spare bedroom since my roommate moved out. I'd planned on it ... I had spare sheets and everything!

"Naah, it's OK." Would I be offended if they just stayed at the hotel?

Well. I guess not.

And they did; so much for family togetherness. They made reservations online, snapped the notebook screen shut and said "Well, let's go."

Just like that, they were gone for cooler sleeping quarters, and I was left watching the credits roll on some TV movie.

Now ... I don't know if you've noticed, but it's 92 and humid here. My dad is allegedly coming up to stay a few days on Wednesday night. But I fear I'll again be embarrassed and left feeling awkward when he sits there sweating, wanting to book a hotel room.

I mean, if he's going to go sit in a room somewhere where it's 65 degrees, the least he could do would be to invite me and Dave along for the evening. Seriously.

Teeny, tiny problem of overreacting

I had a stomachache, I took some Rolaids, I took a nap. I felt better. Woo.

Two hours later, Dave walks in the dining room and finds wrapper foil on the ground. Chewed.

I do not normally chew my Rolaids with the wrapper on, so I immediately went into freak-out mode.

"Oh my God, Mr. Big, whatdidyouDO?" He'd eaten the whole roll, that's what he did. Crumbs were all over the couch. Any minute he'll be on the floor, having convulsions, I thought, and In frantically marched heavy-heeled around the room going "Dave, Google 'dog ate antacid,' not 'dog ate Rolaids.'"

We broke down and called the vet's afterhours number because, as we were on our way out the door when Big attempted suicide, I didn't want to come home to him ... not so well.

I could hear Dave in the other room, the voice of calm, steady explanation, as I sat on the coffee table, staring at Big laying on the couch. Any moment, I thought, and he'll start throwing up. Or foaming at the mouth. Or dry heaving. Something. Anything resembling death by Rolaids.

"Sure, yeah," Dave said. "She can call me at ..."

Great, I thought. They're calling in backups. They're calling the humane society. I'd be arrested for leaving my Rolaids in a place he could grab them. I'd be dragged kicking and squirming out of the house in handcuffs, screaming "Don't! Stop! I love him!" in a really too-twangy-to-be-real Southern accent.

I went upstairs and waited for the death call. "Big. Why? Why did you do this to us?" I thought. My heart thumped in my chest, my palms were dripping sweat.

"He'll be fine," Dave said repeatedly, sighing and half-laughing. "He'll be FINE."

Then the phone call: I heard not Dave's shriek of fear, but laughter. Laughter? I heard his cell snap shut.

"Did they tell us to just make the most of these last 10 minutes of his life?" I asked.

"She said he'll be fine. And, if he had any heartburn, that should be taken care of, too."

Hm. And also, maaaybe I should chill out a bit. Just a tad.

Cancel the landline, I don't need it

"Matt. This is Dave," the message said. "I've got that storage space for you. Call me."

Beep. So, great, Mrs. Dithers didn't dial wrong. Some dude named Matt gave out our number for a storage space, apparently. THANKS, MATT. I was just wondering where I was going to keep my stuffed unicorn collection.

Three hours later, in an unrelated moment (I think, for I hung up too early), the phone rang.

"Hello?" I say.

"Is your mom or dad home?"

I fake-laughed to hide the sting, slammed the phone down and whimpered.

I'm not answering that thing anymore.

Wrong number from a grouchy, conspiratorial-sounding caller

We never get people to call us unless it's Sallie Mae wanting to let me know that someone requested their password be reset on the Web site -- again (and I hear the voice recording roll its eyes), and if it's not me, please call us at ... Either that, or my mom.

But this ...

"This is Mrs. Dithers," the gruff voice said in a not-very-friendly way on our answering machine. "Listen. I've got that space. Just one, though, if you guys want it. It's 10 by 10, and it runs $30 a month. OK. Goodbye."

Is that not the creepiest message? She made it sound like it was for storing bodies or something. And I'm sure Mrs. Dithers is really a nice woman, but she seemed about as happy to offer someone that 10 by 10 space as she would offering a glass of water to someone who'd just killed her beloved cat, Fluffy.

It was like a scene from a horror movie. I ransacked my brain to make sure I wasn't forgetting about Dave mentioning his moving out and taking the couch to a storage unit with him. When I felt pretty confident that that would be something I would indeed remember, I started to get creeped out. I swear, I heard the "Unsolved Mysteries" song.

And then I hit delete and decided to blog about it, just in case (in case what? I don't know ... I hadn't thought that far out). But I need witnesses, man.

"Ah, what a perfect night," Erin thought. BANG POP POP POP BANG. "(Beep)! Great, it must be, oh, June 19th."

I love fireworks -- I love the sight, smell and sound of them. They ARE summer, and every time I hear them, I can close my eyes and pretend I'm back at my grandparents' cottage in Michigan (back when Michigan and I were BFFs) watching them explode over the lake, around a campfire ... sigh. I love July 4th.

FireCRACKERS on the other hand? Firecrackers in mid-June? I can close my eyes and count to 110 and STILL feel like storming out my door with the TV blaring behind me, hair in curlers, waving a cane over my head from the steps of the deck, yelling "SHOO! You brats! You no-good hoodlums! STOP IT!" Then I'll mutter under my breath, "Playing with fire, those monsters. They'll wet the bed!"

(Sidebar: Why did my grandma say that to me? That playing with fire makes you wet the bed?)

(Sorry. Back to the regularly scheduled post.) I don't understand firecrackers on June 19th (or ever, with the exception of July 4th, when it's OK to make explosions in your driveway) ... They don't make pretty light displays. They just make bangs and pops.

And those bangs and pops, to myself and my chicken dog, sound like bombs or gun shots, depending on what kind of firecracker the neighbors on the next street over have their grubby hands on.

For the record, I don't know these neighbors, or even which house it's coming from. So if it's you, you can just pretend I'm talking about the street on the OTHER side of my house. Because your firecrackers probably sound like angels singing. And yes, I said that so you don't shoot them at my house.

If this were your 8th grade English class, you'd have to find a common theme in my search for "Big Fish" and the "fish that got away" anecdote

I get on these kicks where I want one thing, just one thing, and it's all I can do is to find it. About a year ago began my hunt for an amber, antique hen dish thingy (which really is as grandma as it sounds, but I don't care). It had to be amber (duh). The medium size. Not cracked or chipped. No more than $30. No stickers. No bad smell.

At every antique store Dave and I looked and found white ones, red ones, clear ones. Big ones, tiny ones. But I wanted one that looked like this. It was all I could do to not find it on eBay.com, because that wouldn't be nearly as fun.

I remember when I did find it -- for $10, in Ohio -- I sort of held it in my hands and considered putting it back, because I wasn't even looking for it, and Dave wasn't there. Where was the fun in that? (I changed my mind about the lack of fun when I did buy it and called Dave to tell him ... and as a guy, he didn't really have that same emotional attachment to our chicken hunt.)

And just like that, I had nothing else to look for.

Until now. All I want is "Big Fish." I know a million, trillion Web sites have it; I know. But stores I've been in don't have it. (With my antiques-shopping partner working and shooting weddings, I don't so much have higher goals; though I do have my eye open at all times for postcards from Cincinnati from early last century ...). Anyhow.

An older woman said to me once that she hoped I didn't get whatever it was my 16-year-old self wanted. She said it'd make me a better person to always have something to want.

(Of course, this is the same woman who said to that 16-year-old self at church -- in front of God, my friends and everybody -- that I was filling out nicely. I went home and cried. ... So maybe I should reconsider this self-imposed ban on eBay-ing.)

Hope you like metal!

So metal rockers Stone Sour are coming to the Leach, according to a press release we got late this afternoon.

I, being Out of Touch with any music with the word "metal" in the genre or press release synopsis, had heard of them of course, but Dave was the one who claimed to know more about them, being the Ex-Record Store Employee.

When we got home from work, I logged on to Stone Sour's Web page and was quickly reminded that I was wearing pink, that I have Elliott Smith on my iPod, that I find Billy Joel the quintessential rock 'n' roller and that I was eating Hamburger Helper. Clearly I was closer to those screaming "egads" than the "ROARRRR" crowd they were going for.

What instrument makes that noise like steel being grated? Oh, wait, that was a vocal line. Right.

Anyhow. So I closed that window and went where I felt safe -- iTunes. I selected "Bother," because I'd heard of it, and said "BINGO, there's a song broadcast (and satellite) radio have grown to love." It's a mellow song. I can handle it.

Hearing it, Dave got out of his mortgage paying hat and put on the elite record store clerk hat.

Yeah, that song got talked about when it came out because it was so different from the Slipknot stuff the lead singer did, he said.

I don't like Slipknot, I said, going back to the 30-second audio sample to cut it off at 15.

That song also won them some Grammy nominations, he added.

Wait a minute. "You read that on the press release."

"OK, yeah I did. But it sounded good, didn't it?"

"Yes, it did." Meaning, it's OK, Dave. I won't tell anyone you had to quote a press release about music to impress your wife. Not even my blog. I won't even post it there. Oops.

It now smells "not as bad," which is three steps up from "Check your shoes, I think someone stepped in something -- oh, wait, no, that's just the car"

I like to keep items of meaning. Items I'm not done with. Items I'd like to get around to using. Items that look good. Smell good. Are useful.

Dave likes to keep items. Period. Just items.

I was unprepared for June 11th. So sue, I was caught off-guard; it's a fake anniversary of a fake event, so I didn't think I'd actually need to have something to give.

And, OK, what follows also has a little to do with my hiding from Dave, who was carrying 25-lbs. bags of stone to the back yard and was soon to yell "Hey, can you come'mere for a second?"

I decided the nicest gift I could give him would be my gift of obsessive compulsive cleanliness.

Yes. I cleaned out his car.

Wait. Make that read "I gutted his car."

Because that's what it felt like. In the 90-some degree heat, I stepped out onto the driveway, an empty plastic grocery bag in one hand, and a cloth "keep" bag in the other. I got in his grimy Cavalier and went to work ... And almost gagged. There were items in there that predated me. Insurance cards from 1999. A letter from the University of Toledo welcoming him to another semester of classes. CDs that were so scratched beyond repair that they could be used to sand gritty wood. French fries. Half-worn-away Rolaids. Chips. I hope they were chips.

Basically, if you could fit it in a car, it was there. And old. And covered in coffee, mud or sometimes both.

"I really appreciate you doing this," Dave said as he handed me the Dust Buster that weighed what felt like five pounds more and rattled like a cheap musical instrument when I was done with it.

"I couldn't stand it anymore. I was so embarrassed," I said, which probably went over his head. Why, I'm sure he thought, would I find nine pine tree-shaped air fresheners hanging from the rearview mirror embarrassing? "Here," I said, handing him a scarf, a jacket and a window scraper. "Put these in the trunk, will ya?"

I popped open the latch from the driver's seat and heard him throw the items in there. "Whoooa," he said. "I'll do the trunk some other time. I won't make you do that."

And because I'm pretty sure they don't make vaccines to save people from whatever could be found in the trunk, I just agreed. What? It's not like I can see it, anyhow.

My stepmom, whose daughter is Stacy, doesn't really find that song all that funny

But Fountains of Wayne were actually pretty dang good at the Leach last night.

I woke up excited to go to Waterfest, not because I'm a huge Fountains of Wayne fan, but because it's Waterfest, and that's what summer's for. Gosh. I stubbornly refused to go out of protest for a couple hours when Dave suddenly couldn't go, but going was better than pouting on the couch.

Apparently, a bunch of high schoolers though so, too, because when I was knocked out of my state of staring at the spacey guitar player, one grabbed my arm and kept yelling "YEAH! YEAH! Jump up! Come on! YEAH!" and pulled my arm up and down as he was, as he called it, "moshing."

Moshing. To Fountains of Wayne. YEAH! Stacy's mom!

I guess when Dave's warm, then it must be REALLY warm

If I'm on the computer, Big wants to play fetch. Obviously, if both my hands are on the keyboard, it means I've still got a free hand to play fetch, right? Right.

So I toss the ball over my shoulder and yell "Yay, go get the ball! Go get it!" and Big'll go get it for 20-minute stretches on end. Weee, isn't this fun!

But today when I tossed it, it hit the wall and rolled in front of the big grate we have on our dining room wall, right when the air conditioner -- the first time we've used it in this house, ever -- kicked on.

He stopped mid-reach and hunched down like he was going to do the army crawl. He turned his head to look at me, like "Are you seeing this?! Can you even feel this? It's COLD."

"Yes, Big, that's the air conditioner. Sometimes Dave breaks down and lets us turn it on."

And I swear I heard him say "Air conditioning. Right on. Amen." And I nodded in agreement.

Oooh, yes, Our June 11th

About a month ago some Dave and I and our friends were joking around about missing birthdays and other important dates.

Her birthday's right around Christmas, Dave said, and our anniversary's in October. That's the most important part, he added. Valentine's Day is easy enough. Christmas ...

Oh, and June 11, too, right? our friend asked, testing Dave.

Uh ... What is that? It's something important, isn't it?, Dave was sweating now. Probably scanning all possible dates of significance in his mind for something, anything, that may have been June 11.

So after the required one minute of uncomfortable shifting in his chair we laughed and said, "No, no, just kidding!" as in ha, ha, see, there's nothing on June 11. But it's become this joke that June 11 -- Our June 11 as we called it -- was something special.

"I want this for Our June 11th," I'd say if I saw something cool.

"Oh, OK."

"Here, I picked you this daisy for Our June 11th," I said, handing Dave some flower I got from our side yard.

"Oh, thanks."

And that was that.

Only last night, Dave was late coming home from work. "Had some things to catch up on," I believe was his phrase. And that guy, he wasn't catching up on anything. Except maybe his June 11th plans. Because I got an iTunes gift card for Our June 11th, the holiday that really isn't anything at all, but the one Dave thought "Better safe than sorry."

So it worked out so well that I'm going to ask him what I'm getting for Our Aug. 7th. Or our Sept. 23rd. Our Nov. 16th. You know, random enough dates that'll make him think, "No, really, isn't that something? Isn't that date important?" Ha.

"Mr. Big, I told you to stop wasting all your time on that Internet thing. You kids and your Facebooking. Tsk."

Now instead of wasting hours playing Tetris and Mario Kart, I can be making Mr. Big his own Dogbook page.

Seriously.

I found it on Facebook.com while I was stalking -- I mean, reading up on -- old friends, classmates and nemeses.

Dogbook is just like Facebook, only ... Yes, it's for your dog. You can search for other dogs in the area, make friends with others' dogs, and, I don't know, leave dog-like messages to go with your dog photos. (There's also a Catbook, I saw, if you're interested.)

I was sitting here creating of all these witty, insightful thoughts and social commentary to go with this whole Dogbook thing, but the truth is, this is the only reason I got a dog. Period.

It's friend bait! Finding friends -- online, no less -- is much easier with a dog, I'm guessing. I mean, who knows? Maybe I can make a Dogbook page for Big and his ad could draw the puppies in: "SNM (single neutered mutt) seeks SNC (single neutered companion) with FNSO (friendly, non-scary owner). Must like chewing socks, eating the ends of hot dogs and letting me be the center of attention at all times." It could happen.

And on the 11th day (of June), God gave me Buffalo Wild Wings

And I was happy.

I'd started with the Lost Levels but I never make it past the second level. I don't mean world. I mean second level. I'm that bad at it.

I've been pretty sure I have arthritis of some sort since the day I was born, but whatever, it's not gotten in the way of anything. I'm not one to whine about joint pain when it's about to rain.

Until last night. And it wasn't raining.

While Dave was off shooting the most expensive wedding of his life, of the two most photogenic bride and groom at the most pristine location in the area -- not that I'm jealous or anything -- I was at home. The night before, when Dave was at work and my dusting was finished, I read for eight hours. Eight. Ocho. I read on the couch, not moving for eight hours. That's an entire book. Looo-ser.

Anyhow. So Saturday I thought I needed some more excitement in my life. I pulled out the Nintendo. Isn't that what all early-'90s children do? Yes. It is. And Mario Kart was calling my name. I've never, ever in the history of "Mario Kart and Erin" been able to keep my Princess or Mario on the path, so this is big news: I won the first round. Won. No. 1. Me.

I cheered. Big gave me a high five. Music played. It was triumphant. Then I pushed "start" and was in first place again when the pain started in. It's like an ache in my thumb, right, and it quickly escalated into me driving Mario off the ledge of the ghost house level. Dang. I was soon after pulling the cord outta the machine because my thumb hurt so bad.

That, and I don't like losing after being No. 1. Mom always said "if you can't play without getting angry then I'm going to unplug it!" And she did. At level nine of "Super Mario Brothers." April 1993. The home at 739 Vincent Drive in Kentucky. A day that lives in relative infamy in my short video game history.

And here's the part where I tell you I took some Aleve and then tried out for their commercials.

Only instead of taking Aleve and trying out for their commercials, I took some generic ibuprofin and went to bed angry. No Mario Kart!? What is this life rolling downhill toward? A life without Nintendo? What's next, you're going to tell me I can't listen to my New Kids on the Block cassette anymore? God. I'm going to my room. You guys are so uncool.

It's back to work I go

Dave was working Friday night and gone all day Saturday shooting a wedding, so I had a grand total of 18 hours or so by myself over the last two days. I had planned on being productive. I was going to go through clothes for Goodwill; the thought of weeding crossed my mind, as did laundry (fleetingly). I'd even said aloud that I should finish sewing that skirt I started like, 18 months ago.

But instead, I read and watched two movies. If you do the math, it adds up to "Oh my God, it's over," and "I waste time." Oh, and also "I hate Sundays."

From angelic patience to SHUT UP in two minutes.

"Am I a bad photographer?"

"No."

"'Cuz I'm not too impressed with these wedding photos."

"You're not a bad photographer."

"Are you sure? You're not just saying that?"

"I'm sure."

"I don't know, it seems like I think I have good pictures 'til I start laying them all out."

"They're fine."

"Does this look too magenta?"

"No."

"This one's too cyan."

"SHUT UP."

You know the buzz in the air right before a big snowstorm? And the letdown of blue skies? Yeah, it was like that.

Yesterday, I was pretty sure we were all going to die. That the day had come; 'fess up to your sins because we're getting to the end, no more, etc. The "grandaddy of all supercells" was allegedly on its way to Oshkosh, destroying everything in its path.

Dave even put our cheap little grill in the garage, because someone said "80 mph winds." We decided not to go to Waterfest because dying at a has-been band's show wasn't how I wanted to go out -- I mean, I'd at least die at a concert I LIKED.

And Dave? He had other plans to save the evening.

"OK, I've got everything we need -- I've got seven DVDs, food --" he said on his cell phone from the car as he was driving back home.

"Dave, someone said in the forums that five years ago when it was like this, they didn't have power for three days."

Pause. I heard the radio in his car and his almost-silent "uh" sound.

"Well, I also got a bottle of wine," he said.

"Well then! We're saved!"

... At work everyone ran around and made nervous jokes about being blown away and talking about the worst storms they've ever seen. I and my anxiety attack sat quietly and waited for imminent death, picturing myself, Dave and Mr. Big huddled in our basement crawling with bugs, huddled together under floorbeams that surely wouldn't hold up to 50 people standing in one room above us, let alone hurricane-force winds.

But then I got home, and our Steve Carell-lookalike meteorologist was saying "threats to personal property (long pause) and lives! (feign excitement) were at stake" in Menominee County, Mich. My death was nowhere near now.

So Dave and I sat on the couch with his homemade pasta dish in the oven, enjoying his day off and my Friday, and marveled at how everything the Green Bay weatherman said sounded like we were watching "Anchorman."

"A big hook, that super-cell, is heading right toward Green Bay! And we have a -- what? -- (hand to earbud) -- OK (nodding), OK, yes, the severe thunderstorm warning for (some county I forget) has expired? Yes? OK, the graphics are a little behind ... OK, there we go. And this supercell, it ..."

Hilarious. More so because of the wine and the blue skies outside.

Hey, Dad! Look what I can do!

My dad and I have this weird relationship; my parents got divorced when I was 10 so I haven't lived with him since. He has a wife and new kids. They're all neat. But I feel this urge to impress him every time I see him. It's a kid thing, maybe. So his upcoming trip has been giving me pause. It's messy. It's small. It smells like recycling. The fridge has a spot of orange juice I've been meaning to clean ...

"I'm looking forward to coming up there in a few weeks," he said. Business trip in Milwaukee. Our house is the pit stop. Not that I mind.

"Me too," I said. Gulp.

"But nothing's done," I thought, not saying this out loud or giving it away with my "OH MY GOD" face I'm so famous for. "The cabinets, the deck, the molding, the floors, the mulch ..."

"It's the first time I'll be at one of my kids' houses, where it's THEIR house," he added. "How cool is that!"

"And it is mine! I bought it as a single woman."

"Really?"

Oh -- did you hear that "really"? Score! Just like that, I AM impressive -- without even trying. Dang, I'm good. And what's it cost me? A mortgage. Toch! I'm so on that.

He doesn't need to know Dave'll be on the deed shortly. I've got a good three weeks left to act impressive. No need to diffuse that sense of pride just yet for Dad.

Big's reprieve

"Bii-Ig?" I said in that sing-songy way that makes people want to punch me.

"Mr. Big?" Silence.

"BIG."

Then I hear "ka-thunk, ka-thunk, ka-thunk." And it's not Big falling down the stairs. It's my high-heel shoe from the wedding I was just in -- the one I was planning on wearing twice more because it fits the requirements for weddings two and three -- falling down the stairs ahead of the dog. Then came the dog around the corner on the landing, where he sat with his tail between his legs and his ears drooped down.

"BIG." I made a mean man-growl from the bottom of the stairs.

Then I looked at the clock -- 8:45. "Never mind. Let's go to bed." And suddenly, I was 8, apparently, as my bed time moved up. Big, on the other hand, will live to see 8. Probably. As long as the other shoe doesn't drop. Get it ... Never mind. It's almost 8:45; I can go to bed soon.

I must preface this post by saying how much I love and adore my mother in law ...

But sometimes, she can be just downright funny. And I'm not even talking about the time she pushed Mr. Big under the water in their back yard pool when he swam to her to climb out. Nope. Not even talking about that moment, which Dave coincidentally caught on video.

I'm talking about the two large boxes of food in my kitchen. The boxes of food I didn't buy.

When my MIL wanted to go through her overstocked pantry, Dave and his sister and her husband and I stood up with varying levels of gusto and grabbed a box to "go shopping." I stood back because, well, it's not my mom's pantry. But I was there to nod that "yes, we need those eight boxes of Jell-o" and shake my head no to the ketchup bottle that was best if used by my high school graduation.

And it's not just just MIL. Everyone has that one cupboard. My mom had it for medicines. Before she got married and we packed to move into our new house, I took a few bottles down from the medicine cabinet. "Expires 08/93." "Best if used by JAN 91." Spray antiseptic for cuts with rust on the bottom of the can and graphics that predated the usage of the word "graphics" like we know it today.

And MIL's collection of past-due items just happened to be food. Lots of it. Yeast packets from 1985. More cans of beans in more varieties than most could've named on "Family Feud."

Dave and his sister kept pulling out bottles and cans, saying "So THIS is why we didn't take vacations! All these groceries ..!" And Dave's dad shook his head at the trash cans by his feet. Just shook his head ... "All these groceries. All this junk."

But see, once the closet was cleaned out and the boxes put in our back seat for the long drive back to Oshkosh ... it hit me.

She didn't rid her life of anything. She just moved it. To our house. Ooh, she's good.

I sniff the flowers because when the wind blows it smells like someone needs some Teen Spirit

The air was so sticky that every time you bent your arm, your inner-elbow-skin stuck to itself momentarily. The little hairs by my ears curled up into spirals, and the straight hair on the top of my head frizzed up. The backs of mens' shirts stuck and left wet marks, and women had drops of sweat at their hair line.

And my brother decided, "Yes! Hot! Let's get married under a tent that blocks all air flow and bakes in the sunlight. Come, wife-to-be, let's don black tuxes, navy dresses and that big white dress and go stand outside! Love! It's in the air! And it feels just like humidity!"

My brother, who has more of an overheating problem than my old Geo Prizm did one hot summer, and his then-fiancee-now-wife chose June because they'd be between semesters in college. It'd be nicer weather. Right?

Yeah. It didn't work out that way.

At the rehearsal, my brother showed us all up with his shorts and T-shirt combo, electric fan-and-water bottle combination and utter inability to concentrate on anything unless he was standing like he was in the middle of doing the robot.

"This is the worst mistake of the year," he said to the wedding party on the afternoon before his 5:30 p.m. ceremony. We looked around uncomfortably. For the man who had just gotten sick (not to be confused with the dog) and was having problems doing anything but concentrating on breathing and not-passing-out, was saying -- aloud -- that it was the worst mistake? Because I paid good money for this dress. And my hair? It looked good.

"No, not the marriage. That part's OK. But June? God, this is the worst mistake of the year."

And we nodded. Because yes. Tuxes and plastic shoes stink in the heat. And that sun? It wasn't going anywhere. Ay-ch. Oh. Tee. Hot.

Probably not your favorite blog post

We left Friday at 5:30 a.m., which I was pretty dang proud of, considering I don't usually like to acknowledge that there is such a thing as 5:30 a.m. But then I quickly wanted to jump from the car while it was going a healthy 65 mph on Hwy 41, all in the name of "MY GOD HE JUST KEEPS THROWING UP."

The dog. That animal! We weren't in Milwaukee when he decided to lose the few pieces he'd scrounged for while we were packing the car. Then again, twice, while we were on 94 in Chicago (because Dave, oops!, got off the toll road too early. Way too early -- downtown during morning rush hour, anyone?). I don't know if you know this, but stopping on I-94 in Chicago only happens because of traffic. Not dog puke. And it does not happen beside a trash can, a water fountain and a stack of absorbent napkins.

"Can't you clean it up with some napkins?" Dave asked from the driver's seat. I turned around in the passenger seat to check out the mess Big'd made in his crate in the back seat.

"Yeah, hold on ..." Enter bile. "NO. DAVE NO NO NO NO." I turned to face the front of the car, tossing a few napkins from the McDonald's bag into the dog's crate.

If you're eating or if you have a stomach that prefers stories about butterflies and unicorns over stories about messes involving canine liquids, maybe you shouldn't read on.

The bile came because I'd lifted the top off Big's crate so I wouldn't pull him through the mess. But it was too late. The mess, it'd crept to him. It was in his tail. On his paws. I wanted to die. So I did, momentarily.

"Are you OK?" Dave asked, sensing that the heavy nasal inhaling I was doing wasn't to breathe in the fresh Chicago air.

"Just. Stop. When you can. Stop. I can't. I can't do it," I said, admitting defeat.

"Is this how you're going to be when we have a kid?" He laughed.

"Yes." I didn't laugh. Not even a little bit. Naa-sty.

And that's why, after consulting my veterinarian uncle at the wedding we were at Saturday, we decided to drug Mr. Big before the eight-and-a-half hour car ride Sunday. We love us some Dramamine.

Who wouldn't want to buy gas for my car? Exactly.

"Why are you parked on the street?"

"Because, look, I've got this ingenious idea."

"Ohhhh-kay."

"See? You take my car back to work, and then when you come home, you pull in behind your car, and when we get up tomorrow you won't have to move your car!"

"OK."

It seemed to him that I'd finally taken that Common Sense Pill that has to do with one skinny driveway and rules against parking on the road after a certain time at night. Could it be! Intelligence? he's thinking.

Yes. Intelligent, is what I am: "Oh, and could you please get gas for my car, too, while you have it? Come on! It'll be fun!"

"Man."