A compromise would be an suv or something, but I'm not much for compromising myself on my own blog.

Now, he wants a truck.

A truck. A truck. To haul things, he says. Because we're heavy-duty people. Yes, we need something to haul all our ... books? To and from the library? Or maybe we need something to accomodate Mr. Big on all those road trips we take? Or maybe it'll just look reeel guuuuud next to our grain bins.

(For the record, I like trucks, but do not see why we need one at this present time.)

OK, now about this truck.

One day in the Wasinger household, Dave and Erin decided they were going to get a new car.

"I get to drive it," Erin said. Because that's what women do. They come along and grab up all the good stuff.

"No, no," Dave said. "I get to."

And similar hands-on-hips battles began.

"You got that last car." "I'll be the one hauling the babies." "I'm the one who drove the crappy car since high school." "Don't talk crappy cars to me, I had a GEO PRIZM that used to be a driver's ed car and had a hole in the passenger's side floor where the instructor's brake used to be, and it didn't even have a tape player 'til Bernie ripped one out of a wrecked car!" "Right! And then you got the new car!"

And so on. Mainly, because Erin had more estrogen, she won. But, to put it over the edge, Dave once said if Erin let him sleep in at least 15 more minutes on a Saturday that he would let her drive the new car. She let him sleep 30. These are the mature discussions they have.

So, Erin wins.

But Dave counteroffers and says oh, this vehicle? It's going to be a truck.

"So what happens when we have to get a couple car seats in the truck? Cuz, you know, we're going to have this next vehicle a while," Erin pointed out. Hand on hip. For good measure. (I'm aware you can have both a truck and babies, but this is the logic I was working with. Go with it.)

"Then we'll trade in your car for something that can carry more people," he said. Hand on hip. Mockingly.

Right. So they'd have a truck and a MINIVAN?? Erin gasped. What?? No. Erin stomps her foot. Dave says "What? It's perfect!" and that's where they are today.

The end.

In conclusion, he wants a truck because he doesn't think I'll drive it.

Oooh, Dave, how wrong you are, my friend. I drove my step-dad's Dodge a few times and loved it. And I can blare cuuntry mew-sick out the win-duhs for gud measure. Don't make me put on the "Remember Ohio? I remember Ohio" playlist. I'll do it! You're one Rascal Flatts away from driving an Alero, buddy. Ah, ah, ah! Don't move. I've got you right where I want you!

Jailbreak: Oshkosh

Big hasn't really gotten the hang of not being tied up when he goes outside anymore. I'll open the door to our newly fenced in back yard and say "Run, Big! Run!" And that little man'll look at me like, "Tie me up. I can't handle all this unrestrained fun." Which is a little frightening.

But when he noticed the fence was there, putting him and Freedom an inch away from each other, he immediately started testing the barrier.

He inched his head through the bottom slots, peeking out. Then he poked one paw out under his chin. Then another. Then ... oh! so close. I think he's going to try dislocating his shoulders next time, see if that helps.

Don't tell him to dig a hole. He's not figured that part out yet. Yet. I know. After that, he'll be asking to borrow our car keys, dating that trashy girl from the other side of the tracks and chain smoking between classes.

The way to a woman's heart ...

I got you something, he said, reaching above my head to the top of the kitchen cabinet.

The plastic gleamed on the rectangular package. Angels sang. The background faded behind him in a mixture of heavenly pink clouds.

Could it be? No, it couldn't, I thought. But yes! Yes. In one second, it was confirmed. He bought me cereal.

Dave! I said, looking at the variety pack.

I know, he said. I figured you were having a bad day so --

You got me cereal! I interrupted. Frosted Flakes, Apple Jacks, Corn Pops, Cocoa Krispies ... all in tiny single-serving packages. Cute little packages Grandma used to tape back up and put in the play kitchen for the grandkids. I hugged the variety pack to my chest. I think I swooned, too, thought I'm not sure what swooning looks like.

Most women would have similar gushing reactions for diamonds or sappy cards. But I just prefer items that make my milk slightly chocolate-y or apple-cinnamon-y when I'm done with it.

I'm that woman who considers stays in hotel rooms "vacation"

I could've opted to stay at a friend's house, but I didn't want to. One, because I was that annoying little girl who said "yes" to sleepovers then said "MOM" at midnight and cried until my mom or dad picked me up from my friend's house, saying "If you keep doing this, no one's going to ask you to come over anymore." And that was OK with me. Why spend the night at other people's homes when you had your own perfectly comfortable bed at your house, complete with cereals you knew you liked??

And two, because I like being alone sometimes.

Thus, a hotel room idea was born. Dave can't make it because of work, so I'm going to be watching cable TV until midnight and taking long showers and hogging a king-sized bed with nothing but my 5 foot 2 frame. Heck yes. I am so excited about my short stay in a hotel room (outside of sleeping, I'll be there for about, oh, five hours that matter) that I'm looking to that Friday as a vacation all in itself.

Sure, it'd be cooler if Dave were there. But maybe you didn't hear me. Cay-ble. Tee-vee. In my room. I have the remote. I am surfing all night. All night. I'm turning the air conditioner to 60, I'm eating breakfast all over the continent and I'm throwing wet towels on the floor just for fun. I'm using the shower cap while I brush my teeth and wasting the whole bottle of shampoo on one wash. Wonder if my hotel has postcards ... Hm. If so, I'll send one to myself. It could be the best memento of a not-vacation I've ever had.

"Dear Erin: Right now, I'm having fun! It's so cold! The TV's on a 'Law & Order' from 1999! Wish you were here again. See you soon, Erin."

Now I'd never know how Spot ran, or seen him run. Run, Spot, run.

I grabbed four books from the shelves at the library Saturday morning, and by 9 p.m., I'd had one completed. I am a total loser. The book, which wasn't even that good, had me on the couch, standing by the counter, on the back deck, in bed, obsessed. Not even with the content or the plot (cliches abound; rich women in a fake Ohio suburb complain about their husbands and designer clothes -- what can I say, it's beach reading without the beach). Just with, well, contents.

I freaking love reading. Much more than life. Even if books about women who scoff at the idea of getting a job make me want to kill myself.

I love reading so much that I yanked a tooth out once because Mom wouldn't let me walk to the bookmobile until it was out. Oh, logical, Mom. It's not like we didn't live in Kentucky and our oral health wasn't already questionable. "Erin, if that tooth isn't out by the time the bookmobile gets here, we're not going."

Not going? Gulp. I cried. I gathered my books in a pile and hid behind the rocking chair and pulled and pulled and cried and had that watery, little kid throat whine goin'. I was like, 6, by the way. This wan't last week or anything. I remember distinctly hearing my mom yell from the kitchen "Er-un, we're not go-ing unless you pull it 0ww-ut."

Yeah, like it's hard to see why I love books. With memories like that ... It's a wonder I don't have a drinking problem. Kidding.

E-aa, E-aa, uh-oh (that's late '90s rap, for airplane conventions)

Other friends and coworkers are running marathons and 5ks and looking like they could generally beat me up, or at least outrun me, and I am exhausted after walking around a bit at EAA AirVenture today.

As I said, I go purely for the free stuff, and though we missed the Canadian booth (which had me bummed out for a good 15 minutes), we got some cool stuff.

I mean, I got a pen. Not just a regular old ballpoint. It's from the Air Force. In a pouch. It's shiny. It's dark blue. It's the kind that you'd see on someone's desk and immediately wish they'd turn around long enough so you could pick it up and doodle on the edge of your notepad -- just for a moment -- because it just writes so well. Oooh. Good find. I didn't even have to enlist! I just put my brother's name and phone number on the card and handed it to the nice gentleman behind the booth, and they gave me the pen! Wow! What a country.*

I also think I drove Dave a little bit nuts today, too, calling out the Ohio license plates I saw. "Montgomery! Dave, look, Montgomery!" "Sandusky!" "Licking!" "Hancock!" "Dave! Dave! Look! Butler!" And that was just on the way in.

"Are you still counting them out?" Dave asked as we pulled out of the parking lot, both of us exhausted and sticky from the humidity, fanning ourselves in front of the vents in the car.

"Phsft. No." ("Ooh! Lucas!" I thought to myself. "Greene!") Nerd!

*Didn't really happen that way.

Overreact? Don't be silly

Dave'e managed to get pretty far along with the fence; I'm talking about a gate and some leveling off of posts to work with yet. It's awesome.

And between you and me and him when he reads this tomorrow, I'm pretty surprised. I mean, we've been working on our kitchen for like, seven months now. All that's been done? Well, it's green. And in a fit of "we don't have time for this," he put on the new hardware on the cabinets and drawers.

Like I said we should do.

When we moved in.

But that was a dumb idea then. Of course.

Anyhow. Moving on.

The fence. It's almost done. That means I'm precious few days away from letting Big outside and not worrying about him running down the street again, like he did Saturday, leaving me to scream "BIG STOP" and having a mild heart attack when a car drove by and he took off for the corner, four houses down.

Children cowered in fear of my screaming. A coworker was cowering in fear of my screaming, standing in the driveway. And Dave? He was standing in the driveway with a couple cucumbers in his hand saying, Oh, these? Our neighbor gave them to us! Wasn't that nice?

Later, he said, "What, you overreact. How was I supposed to know it was for real this time?"

"I do not overreact," I said. "There was a car coming."

"Hm. I didn't see it."

It was blue. You guys. I don't overreact. I just happen to think that the car was going to speed up when it saw Mr. Big, jump up on the sidewalk and make Big really small and pancake-like while screaming "That's 50 points, baby!" out their window.

That is not overreacting. It's Oshkosh Vice, the video game. In my front yard.

Hypothetically speaking, of course

I don't want us to have any baby in the summertime, Dave said.

Why? Because they'll be either the youngest kid in their class -- the one who can't drive 'til junior year -- or the oldest kid -- who gets facial hair as a seventh grader? I asked.

No, he said.

Because I couldn't have Jell-o shots at the Niese Christmas? I asked.

No, he said.

Because I'd miss AirVenture?

No ... it's because it's hot and humid, he said, half laughing in case I took it too personally and he'd have to whip out the "I was just kidding! Just kidding! Don't give me The Look!" line.

You're grumpy when it's hot outside and we're not even having a baby, he added.

"Nice." That, spoken really curtly and in half-seriousness, was my initial reaction. Then I realized ... yeah.

God, he's so right. I'd need one of those window air conditioners to strap to my back like the Ghostbusters' back pack things and a really long extension cord. And Dave would need a helmet.

Who cares what I do. Five days of nothing is great, too.

I'd had two days planned to take off in August. I was going to go to Cincinnati and see family, and send my Wisconsin self postcards from Ohio, and bring back Skyline chili dip for Dave. But then something came up. I suddenly had two days of vacation that I didn't plan on. Two. Whole. Days.

I debated whether to take them anyhow, just for fun, or to save them for a rainy day. But my first year of work, I let a couple vacation days expire (my reward is in heaven, I'm sure) because, well, it just didn't rain.

But then ... it hit me. I could have what I've been whining about all year. I could add them on to my long-ish weekend I'd planned for October. Eureka.

All my moping was not in vain. I now have a week's vacation this year -- and I don't even care what I do.

I'm going to be counting the days until I can lay on the couch for three days straight, or go stay in some cookie-cutter hotel with a continental breakfast and CABLE TV, or go shopping at Ikea, or eat pizza and go to bed at 3 a.m., only to wake up at noon to eat more cold pizza.

Who am I kidding. I'll be in bed by 9. THAT'S a vacation. October rules. And, coincidentally, it's on our anniversary. So, there's that.

Last year, my favorite find was a felt sticker of the Canadian flag that I put on my iPod. I'm so cool, eh

AirVenture starts tomorrow at EAA, and I'm so excited I could giggle audibly.

I don't think I'll be able to go until Friday, but I'm looking forward to that day with anticipation known only as "annoying" to other people. Besides my whole space camp-eating astronaut ice cream-watching space movies-"I want to be an astronaut -- wait, what do you mean 'calculus'?? OK, how about journalism?" years and all those trips to the Air Force Museum in Dayton, Ohio (oh, and who can forget the Neil Armstrong Space Museum!), I'm mostly excited because you get FREE STUFF.

You get plastic bags to put free stickers in, free waterbottles, free magnets, free notepads, pens, coolie-cups, pins, maps, model airplanes made of styrofoam and photos of the moon that inevitably find their way to the fringes of my life before making a dive into the trash can a few weeks after the convention's over.

But it's like going trick-or-treating, for adults! YES!

Oh, and they have an airshow and the Goodyear Blimp and some other planes and stuff, too. That's pretty cool too.

Juuuust kidding, 'Topher

"Don't put this on your blog."

"I won't. You didn't say anything interesting enough."

In which I reveal I have maaaybe a few insecurities

Maaaybe you're aware, but I suppose a new Harry Potter book is coming out -- and dare I say it's the last (unless she pulls some Garth Brooks-like move) in 'er successful lit'ul series (that's my British accent for ya)?

And Oshkosh, apparently, loves it (hi, we made CNN). They love it big time. I could prove it with more links, but I won't.

Hi, remember me? I just graded 465 Harry Potter trivia contest entries for The Northwestern's contest. Hello. And much like my similar-boat-ed colleague who's covering the event tonight, I had no freakin' idea what a Muggle is. And I'm aware that that makes me an uninteresting person. It's OK. I've moved on with my life.

I just never got around to reading them, and I'm afraid if I picked the books up now, I'd be like that person who started listening to Death Cab AFTER their song became the "Laguna Beach" commercial-or-theme song.

Anyhow.

Here's where I make a more startling confession. I don't like crowds, being shoved into one alone or, by God, being shoved into one where I'M really the one standing out like a non-Potter-reading woman because I'm not wearing Potter glasses.

And yet ... Dave. I like him, OK? And because I like him, I took his memory card reader to him downtown, where he's presently shooting photos of people standing next to Potter creatures whose names mean little to me. (Or should I say "lit'ul"?)

So I bring my dog because I'm "well into" my 20s and still don't like the thought of going alone. And my dog? He's not only not a Potter fan. He's scared of Harry Potter, apparently. That, and city buses.

I purposefully took him outside before we went downtown because not much is worse than picking poo out of dry grass in front of thousands. But whatever, says Mr. Big, as he sees a bus coming toward him, and "DEAR GOD MOM WHY AREN'T YOU FREAKING OUT TOO?" and he promptly expels another round into a patch of dry grass before cowering behind my legs, pulling me back away from the crowd.

Awesome.

So I grip him and walk on to bring the memory card reader to Dave at Limelite Studios, and there's a line. I call Dave to come get it, all while Big's tugging at my arm on his leash, saying "let's get the heck away from here and all these oddly-dressed creatures, maaaa!", and the guy doesn't answer his phone.

I call again. No answer.

I call again, no answer. No answer. I'm about to pull a dramatic, not-so-much-like-Erin moment, cuz I was feeling like I was lost someplace where I didn't speak the language, thinking I like Dave a teeny bit less than I did five minutes ago.

Then he calls. "I'm not there, just leave it inside," he says. And the lobby is full of people. People Big would rather "expel upon himself" than go near. Riiight.

I hang up, ready to die, and someone I know walks by. "Here," I say, handing out my memory card reader like I'm fleeing the Nazis. "Raise him to know that his mother loved him." Or maybe I said "Could you take this inside and say it's Dave Wasinger's?" and then left.

In the car, I felt as if I'd just swam in a dark pond and accidentally went under a raft, where I couldn't find the beginning or the end, and thought I was going to die. Whew. And that desire I had to read those books? Not so much there anymore.

And now you know all about my present mental conditions. Ha.

Phone call from Dave

Dave: Can I wear stripes and stripes?

Erin: No. Absolutely not.

Dave: Why?

Erin: I don't know. I'd have to see it.

Dave: It's my white shirt with the blue stripes, and I was going to wear the striped tie --

Erin: Dave. I'm on the phone. What do you want me to do? I don't know what you're talking about. (And it's true, I don't.)

Dave: But I was going to wear the tie you gave me, and ...

Erin: I can't believe I'm having this conversation right now. I can't be having this conversation right now. I have to go. (Thinking, my God. This man. Wants me to match clothes on the phone, without seeing it.)

Dave: Fine, but if I show up to work in checks and stripes, it's your fault.

Erin: I'll take a chicken sandwich.

Dave: OK.

Erin: OK. Good-bye.

I still have that $50

My dad came in June and tossed an envelope on the coffee table with my name on the front and a smiley-face sticker on the seal.

"It's for your grades," he said, referring to the line I've gotten since kindergarten from my grandparents, when they used to give us money for As on our report cards. Only, they never really asked for report cards.

Anyhow. That's not the point.

It was from my grandpa, ostensibly from Christmas (this is how Nieses roll ... late). $50. Sweetness!, I thought. Because if there was one thing Grandpa told us, it was that we had to spend the money on ourselves, not necessities like electricity or food. OK, twist my arm. I guuuessss I'll spend it on myself. Gooosh.

So I did. I got a book. Two, actually.

Only I kept the $50 with me for a while and spent "it" with a debit card. So there's still that $50 bill lying around. Which means ... to me, in a moment of "should I or shouldn't I?", I vote "I should!" because, hey, it's my money, right? It's what he would have wanted me to do.

But that was more than $50 ago. Oops. I got those two books. And some clothes. And another book. Oops.

Hey, I asked for help, though.

"Dave, remind me when I say 'It's OK, I have that $50,' that I don't have that $50 anymore," I told Dave as we walked out of the bookstore.

"Yeah, that'll be your excuse for everything now. $300 later you'll still say 'It's OK, Dave, I still have that money from my grandpa!'"

And that's how I roll. Broke. But I mean well.

I will make prints of these for each of my children, because who wouldn't want to savor these moments?

I'm sifting through what m' mama would call "gobs and gobs" of photos to make prints. And Witty Erin, that woman I am occasionally behind a camera when I'm trying to make a statement about something, but later I look at the photos and don't know what it means?

I've got that going.

This first one? It's no Andy Warhol thing. I call it "a two work-week supply" of lunch.

This second one? I made Dave do that when Dad bought him the saw. I called it the "before" picture. So far it's still applicable.

And the third? I call it "Mothers Day present when the inlaw shows you up and all you have is a $1 flamingo in your car from God-knows-when, so surprise! Hope you like kitsch!"

Not death by chocolate; saving a life by chocolate

Just when I think I'm going to kill Dave (not literally), he goes and makes chocolate muffins with filling.

And for good measure, he leaves me the bowl in the fridge, covered in aluminum foil, so I can lick the chocolate from the side of the bowl when I get home from work.

Oh, Dave. You just saved your own life. (Jk.)

Wedding numero 2

Becky's married, and I cried.

And that speech I was a bit worried about? I did just fine.

I didn't write it down, and standing out in the hallway before they announced the (rather large) wedding party, I whispered to the other speakers if they'd put a lot of thought into it. "Nope," times three.

Score!, I thought.

I volunteered to go first, so I wouldn't throw up all over myself before the Putnam County wedding food.

And in the back of my mind, I kept thinking "Everyone here -- Mom, Bernie, Derrick, Marianne, AJ, Jason, Jody, Siefker ... All of them ... I can't mess up. I've GOT to be funny. The guys have not seen me in three years ... God, my hair. Is my hair OK?? Is my ex here? God. God. God."

I swallowed, stood up, and told the story about Becky and I and our weird fascination with the NBC weatherman in Toledo -- Blizzard Bill Spencer.

It was unexpected, unexplainable, and something we got made fun of for, because ... let's admit. He's not a good looking or particulary young, strapping man.

But Brian? I came home to our apartment one day to find he'd gotten me Bill's autograph at a Mud Hens game. He asked. The weatherman. For his autograph. In public. For laughs.

"I was like, 'Brian? That guy? He gets it.'" And they laughed. And I toasted the happy couple -- "lots of love and babies," and they laughed. And my nerves were gone.

I freakin' love weddings.

Oh, and about that ex? He was there. And because Dave was there and already knows this, I can say ... It was weird. Living eight hours away means not having to see the guy you dated for four years, dumped one night and then haven't seen for three years. Weird.

But what's more strange is seeing the friends we had in common -- AJ, Jody, Jason, Aaron -- and remembering how we hung out every weekend years ago. And now, half of them didn't know I lived in Wisconsin.

"Ooooh! I live in Oooooosh-kosh," Aaron said, imitating my voice for kicks. "Oooosh-kosh."

Same old jerk. Ah, Ohio.

(Photos: By Dave, their esteemed wedding photographer.)

Like we've NEVER traveled this route before

"MOM," I said angrily on the cell phone in the car, heading to Ohio.

"ERIN." She was mocking me.

"Guess where I was five minutes ago?"

"I don't know ... Where?"

"Michigan."

Silence.

"Michigan, Mom. Dave took us to Michigan," I said to her on the phone.

"Michigan?"

"Michigan. He said we were in Gary," I said.

"If we would've taken MY way," Dave started to say beside me, loud enough for my mom to hear.

"Mom. He SAID we were in Gary. That means we would've been right there to take the RIGHT way."

"I saw a Gary police car when you asked me where we were," he said in his own feeble defense.

"But we were PAST Gary."

"YOU were navigating!"

"I was reading! You didn't ask me where we were until we were past where we needed to be, and how was I supposed to know?"

"I can't wait for you two to be here so I can hear you fight in person," Mom said.

After I hung up, I looked at Dave, thinking about the time we went to Rhinelander on accident. About the time we took an hour and a half to get to my mom's house from our apartment in Michigan, an hour away. All the times we've gotten lost.

"We're just not meant to go anywhere," I said.

"We'll laugh about this."

I laughed. "Ahh. We suck."

Hey, I took out the trash, did laundry and dishes and cleaned the bathrooms. I don't want to hear it, OK? Gosh.

Since Dave got a new job title, he comes home later; around midnight, not too often is he any earlier. I'm asleep by 11. It's how I roll. Or don't roll, actually, as I'm usually out for good by then, and don't remember hearing Dave come home and sometimes I wake up to reach for my cup of water on the nightstand, and have to look over at him sleeping in the blue-clock light to make sure he didn't get kidnapped or carjacked or killed or worse on the way home from work.

So tonight when he got home and I was still awake, I thought mayyybe he'd feel like bonding. And by bonding, I mean making food.

"I'm hungry."

"What do you want?" asked the good husband.

"A cheese omelet."

"What? It's midnight." Like, duh, Erin. Duh.

"I know that."

And that's why I'm in bed, and he's downstairs making me food.

God, I love being married. Or, rather, a newlywed.

I love books, weeeeeee

I had a crazy idea that I wanted to be in a book club, so I started a thread on the newspaper and its sister papers' new Web site, Wismoms.com, and wondered if I could piggyback on someone's else's. But I'm not much for leaving my house to go somewhere where I don't know anyone ... So I suggested, half seriously, that I should start one online.

So I did. Insta-book friends. I am so genius.

And we're voting until Thursday night which two of four we want to read first. My two favorite picks are on top, so I'll be happy almost either way.

The best part is, I get to read for a reason now, instead of crashing into bed and reading for an hour or an hour and a half before I go to sleep every night. I can get books and be lazy and when Dave walks in the room and says "You didn't do dishes? I folded all the laundry and you didn't even do dishes?!" I'll just casually look up from my book and say, with a "duh" look in my eyes, "I'm WORKING."

Thank you, God.

The answers spell out non-words and I found myself reciting them while brushing my teeth. Good Lord.

The Northwestern's doing this Harry Potter trivia contest, and I'm the lucky one who got the stack of entries today on my chair at work. The contest started Sunday, but it took a day for the Postal Service to catch up to me -- and it did. Big time.

I got about 20 entries on Sunday via e-mail. "Wow!" I remember thinking. "This is going well."

Then today, I got about 50 in the mail, and another 10-12 in e-mails.

I brought them all home today to pretend I stuck with that elementary education major I had for a whole year in college.

An hour an 15 minutes later, I emerged from my repetitive grading and realized .... I have the whole thing memorized. I'd prove it, but, well, that's not a good idea. It's the same as not knowing my own cell phone number when asked, but being able to repeat the linking verbs list I learned in sixth grade (be am is are was were being been appear become feel grow look remain seem smell sound taste).

I need a hobby. One without a wizard in it.

I'm social. Just not with a lot of real, 3-D people.

"I wish I could stay home and read," he said.

"Me too."

"I like reading. And I'm so close to finishing this book. It's like I don't want to sleep because I want to finish it so bad."

"I do that too. But with people," I said. "Is it bad that sometimes when people are talking to me all I can think about is the book I'd rather be reading?"

"I don't know ..."

"Because I'm like that a lot. Like, most times."

Oh.

Speaking of the state of Ohio ... True story

Dear Thee Who Has Not Cashed That $7-and-some-odd-cents Check From 2004:

Your personal information was on a computer that was stolen. Your Social Security number, birthday and full name are now "out there." Sorry about your luck. I'm sure it'll be OK. I mean, it's not like anyone would want to be you, anyhow.

Have a nice life.

Sincerely,
Ohio

That's not really a direct quote. But it is a true story.

That'll teach us for not cashing small checks. And for paying our taxes in the first place. And for being born and living. In Ohio.

I'm a high roller

I got a check in the mail today that I'm considering not even cashing.

Like that check from your roommate in college for their half of the rent that said "for drugs" in the memo line (I totally did that). Or the one from the state of Ohio three years ago for $7 and some odd cents.

This one, folks, was for 32 cents. Thirty-two. That's one quarter, one nickel and two pennies. While it's enough for, say, an ear of corn at the grocery store, it's not going to help me much in the whole Living thing.

Moreover, it gives me pleasure to think of some man squirreled away somewhere in a corporate office building, refreshing his company's online bank statements going "WHERE is that 32 cents? I'm 32 cents too rich! I don't understand! Why doesn't she CASH it??!" while pulling his hair out. That'll show him. Not to mention it cost the company more to mail it than it's worth.

Besides, does it make sense to go to the bank, a place I never visit, to cash a check for 32 cents when it will inevitably end up in my cupholder?

Maybe, though, I'll pull my car through the drive-up window, dramatically place my check into the cup and snap the lid shut, boasting to the teller: "How you doin'? Put that in savings. Yeah. All of it." And then wait for my receipt while playing the cool face. Yeeeaahh.

Once, I also dissected a worm and held its skin back with pins in wax. I wanted to die.

My Saturday was supposed to include picking up my mother-in-law and, I guess you'd say aunt-in-law, from their hotel. Shopping! Shopping! My heart was aflutter. Or something. I was excited; I wanted shoes! Jeans! A shirt! A bag! Something! Dave's on the water! His "No, get it, it's OK" couldn't guilt me into not getting something.

A day of beautiful, beautiful unrelenting shopping. Wonderful womanly stuff.

Then Dave called, mid-dream at 8:15 a.m.

"I need you to do me a favor," he said over the phone from his perch on the lake, in his uncle's boat with his dad.

"OK."

"I need you to tell me what kind of fish this is," he said.

Uh, yes. Erin. Me. Fish. Over the phone. I am to identify. God.

"Uh, Ohhh-Kay ..."

"See, if it's one kind, it's good eatin' (yes, with a Southern accent); and the other is jail time," he said. "S-A-U-G-E-R or walleye."

I said I'd call him back, and then hit Google.

Honestly, he should've given me a calculus exam. I was Googling like it was no one's business, and all I got were diagrams and university Web sites that gave me post-traumatic stress disorder-like symptoms about sophomore biology and working solid magic to avoid taking biology in college.

Retinas. Elliptical body shape. Eye film. Good Lord, I thought, I'm going to tell him something and he'll end up in jail, over some stinkin' fish. I'd have to hire a lawyer; I'd be up to my arms in fishiness for years. Dang him, dang him.

I called back. "It says a DNR agent will have to tell," I said. Not a lie. But it also said a bunch of biology stuff. "And there's a third kind -- a saugeye." (I used the word "saugeye." God.) "It says something about body shape." Biology class! Nightmares!

"I don't know; I don't want to do this," I said.

And that was it; I was thanked, and then spent the rest of the afternoon alternatively shopping and hoping I didn't have to bail anyone out of jail. Because taking that money and bailing out a husband is not how I want to spend it. Buying unreasonably cute jeans? OK. Yes, that's better.

Bob Villa who

I remember the trail of blood in the kitchen on our brand new light oak-colored table and the wood floors. I remember Dad hopping up and down, telling me to get out of the way. I remember the cop car, staying at the neighbor's house for one of my parents to come get me and my brothers. And I remember thinking that my dad was most certainly going to die.

No, he wasn't shot. And he didn't die. And the cop car? It was my neighbor's.

I was about 6. Dad cut off his finger with a circular saw while making molding for our hallway at 15 Bluffside Drive. For weeks after they reattached it, he'd hold it up in the air like he was at an auction; the worst part was playing in the basement while he watched TV. Every so often, the nerves in his finger would spaz and he'd jump up and scream that manly "raaahhhhhhhhh" in pain.

It's why he doesn't watch Bob Villa. He was following Bob's directions when he lost his ability to feel in his finger.

And why I think maybe he hates Dave. He bought Dave a circular saw last week when he was here, so Dave could do the molding in our kitchen and the fence in the back yard.

The Fourth of July didn't bring trips to the hospital for Dave, but just to prepare him for the inevitable, I made him take a picture. I called it the "before" picture -- he's just holding up all 10 fingers and smiling. Yup. If there's an "after," I'll share it. Half the fence is up already, though, and he's still sporting 10 digits. We'll see how long that lasts.

Someday, I'll share the "gawddammit, I just glued my eye shut!" story. But enough making Dad look silly for one day. Let's talk about Dave's family instead. Jaaay-kay.

Nah-nah-nah-nah-naaah-nah

2 p.m.: "We got our DVD burner in the mail today. And the Fed Ex woman said she saw our name and was like, 'Oh, I know some Wasingers,' and it turns out she was friends with those Wasingers whose pictures I saw that one time on DC5," Dave said, referencing some obscure photo on our archive system at work he came across while searching for himself.

"Cool."

"Yeah, weird, huh?"

4 p.m.: "Oh, my DVD burner came today," Dave said.

I looked at him like "duh."

"I mean OUR DVD burner," he said.

"No; the look wasn't for that. I know this. You just told me this."

Look of confusion spread across his face.

"You told me. About two hours ago. Remember, there was that Wasinger thing?"

"Oh. Well. I don't remember."

"You know who you're like?"

"Don't say my mom," he said.

"Your mom! That's exactly who! I'm going to call you Little Mil."

"Don't!"

"Little Mil! Little Mil!"

And he fled.

Every playground relationship I ever had followed similar patterns.

How I knew I was destined for a great Fourth

"I don't have to work tomorrow, Mr. Big!" I said out loud. Enthusiastically. To my dog. Punctuated with a "wooo hoo!" "Let's go lay on the couch and watch a movie!" And he sat down by the back door like, "Woman. Seriously. I got outta my warm cardboard box to come live THIS life? I want to see my lawyer."

And now I'm verbalizing what I think the dog is saying. Dear God, someone help me.

Thoughts on network TV before I switch the DVD player on

If you're doing a "reality" TV show on a man picking a woman in her 40s versus a woman in her 20s, it'd help if the 40-year-0lds looked like any 40-year-old I know, and not better than most 20-year-olds I know. And they all have the same hair.

That's all. OK, Erin, turn the DVD player on. Now. Erin. Now. Did she just ...? Oh, no she did-uhnt.

Great, now I care. God.

You and me goin' fishing in the dark; only really, I don't get to go fishing. I get to go shopping.

I get homesick frequently, as I've said before, but sometimes home just comes to me.

Take for instance, Thursday.

Dave's mom, dad, aunt and uncle are coming up. I'm genuinely excited because I am a sucker for uncomfortable silences and awkward moments. And that's just as they watch to see if I grab a beer or a pop -- "and is it just that shirt, or is she getting pudgy? And I think she got sick this morning!"

Juuust kidding.

I am genuinely excited. Mainly because I sometimes dread the thought of our puppy growing up not knowing who his human grandparents are. Well, that, and our circle of friends who don't count The Northwestern as one of their or their spouse's Most Common Destinations is miniscule. Family's neat.

But Dave, his dad and his uncle are going out fishing on the lake. I'm to entertain the "wimmin." Shopping. BW3s. The library. Gallery Walk! Thus concludes my entertainment options. Oh, oh, wait! Sawdust Days. Oh, thank God. Redemption.

Just when I thought I had all my antique weapons down ...

I didn't say "dagger." It's a bayonette, he said.

Oh. Silly Erin.