Ooooh, moving pictures

I hate bad smells. So Mom says I'd hate Ohio right now, or at least Ottawa.

The Putnam County Sentinel's Web site used to have a clip art photo of two girls circa 1960 whispering into each other's ears above some purple links for obits and sports schedules. It's a weekly and it's pretty small-town. For all its flaws -- and if you saw the design and read a lot of the copy, you'd know what I'm talking about -- it is local, and it's the only newspaper in the area.

So, I know I talked about the flood before, but still. I didn't know they had video in Putnam County. Just kidding. I did live there for, what, 10 years. Anyhow, here's the shaky video.

My JFK story

... has nothing to do with JFK. This Diana woman, she was my JFK, because like 9/11, I know where I was when I heard (Glandork Park Fest, 1997; skipping Spanish 101 in 2001).

But more importantly, her divorce and messy separation were my first experiences with anyone I knew buying those magazines for a reason bordering on obsession.

My parents were building a house in Kentucky with my grandparents' help. When we got doughnuts at Rehmke's Market each morning, breakfast of champions, my grandma would pick up a copy of People ("because it seems the most trustworthy"), just to get the inside info those crazy Brits were doing. Mom and Grandma would tsk-tsk, saying "Camilla? Really? Have you seen her?" and I'll look at the pictures of William and go "Reaaaally? Tell me more. I'm interested," the I'd squirrel the magazine away for cutting out pictures.

It was the oddest thing, to hear people walking by our little circle at Park Fest, talking about the car crash. I thought my mom was going to cry. I got goosebumps and did that uncomfortable eyes-watering, shivering thing that's really, really attractive and composed.

And we bought People again, and this time I kept the magazines not for William, but just because. I saw the tunnel six months later, in Paris, and I did that eyes-watering, shivering thing again. See, she kinda reminded me of my mom, being the same age, the whole divorce thing, the ever-present paparrazzi. I might have imagined the last part. But still. I hate it, so I watch Dateline and read the wire stories and do my own tsk-ing about Camilla.

I'm a liar

We didn't see Smash Mouth. Not that we didn't want to, but we decided fried chicken and grocery shopping was a muuuuch better use of Dave's first night off in like, three weeks. People? Who wants to be around people? You see them all the time. Dave? Not so often.

Ha.

Everyone should have a Dave

Dave got a day off work today (yay!) and he's spending it doing the following things:

1. Baking zucchini bread.
2. Our laundry.
3. Trash out, etc.
4. Dishes, if he's smart.
5. Or at least wiping the zucchini dough off the counter.
6. DEAR GOD he'd better, because that stuff sticks on there like cement.
7. Please?
8. Then killing me for telling you all that he spent his day off doing househusband things.
9. Then coming to Waterfest with me, to see Smash Mouth. Oooooh yes.

Yeah, you read that right. SMASH MOUTH. You should read that interview Sarah Owen did with them. Kinda weird. In a good, fun, couldn't-publish-it-all-in-a-family-newspaper kind of way.

Books are healthier than cookies

While I have all this free time, I've been trying to be productive.

I did jumping jacks the other night. I don't really know why. It kind of just hit me. One minute I was sitting on the couch thinking about how skinny some woman was on TV, and the next I was doing jumping jacks. It didn't last long. Maybe 45 seconds. But I felt skinnier.

Then last night, conversely, I made cookies. Or, um, I tried. Only something went horribly wrong, because they were like cement. I threw them away.

Tonight, I was feeling luckier. I opted for Grandma Schroeder cookies because they're so baaaaad for you and have 1 cup of shortening in them. I mean, those puppies shouldn't stick to anything except arteries. Only they did. Hm.

I should start studying Portugese or something.

Productivity is really overrated.

Thank God I have the dog. I think I mean that.

Dave's been incredibly busy at work; he works pretty much seven days a week, and when he's not there yet (he works second shift), he's logged onto his work e-mail or reading our Web site or e-mailing me about work. It's all work, all the time. Makes for really interesting dinner conversation. Naaaaht.

That's where I draw the line. We're not allowed to talk about That One Place when we're both at home. I see him at That One Place; I go to That One Place at 8 a.m. and he comes in at 1:30-ish and I go to bed at 10:30 and he comes home at midnight. So. See, that one hour dinner break is what keeps us related. And I mean that literally. I'd divorce him if it weren't for that.

I've noticed a few things since he's been so busy. For one, I don't see him unless it's that five-minute window between blow-drying my hair and curling it, that I yell down that hall "DAVE! Can you iron my pants?!" and then when I'm done with my hair, I yell "DAVE! Can you move your car?"; or dinner time.

For another, my life's taken on this weird college-like feel to it, in that I feel like when I come home from work, my roommate Becky should be here, and we should watch "Law & Order" and she'd be on the couch with her Notre Dame blanket and I'd be on the floor with my pile of blankets, and we'd eat Jell-o shots from ice cube trays, just like old times. Ah. Then Dave'd call when he gets done at the record store, on his way to hang out with his friend Rob at the bar. Then he'd drunk dial me at 2 a.m. Oooh, those days.

Only Becky's, like, married and in Ohio. I'm here, watching TV. Network TV. "Most Outrageous Moments" on TV. And Jell-o shots are so Christmas party. Awesome.

I feel so rich. And bored.

I've been garage saling my life away, which means the last few weeks I've been dumping things that I don't see a great return on and emptying shelves of their ne'er-watched movies and once-read books. So far, it's made me ... oh, $20.

But I've decided to take it a step further. I canceled that joke of a Glamour magazine subscription they tried to give me in place of Jane. Then I got rid of Domino. Then Real Simple and Cincinnati magazine. Then Netflix. Now I just wait for my $7 checks to come back, and then I'll get myself some bubble gum or something, and wonder what I'm going to do with my guilt that I used to feel over not being able to read magazines fast enough.

I'm sure I'll find something. Plus I've got like, $50 to invest. That should take some time.

If you don't get a card that you thought we should've sent you, just assume it's in Dave's back seat

I had a package and two cards that needed to be mailed last week, and Dave generously said he'd take them to the post office for me. What a swell guy.

So, Saturday when I asked him if he wanted to take the dog on a walk with me, the shifty look on his face made me question his sincerity.

"Why not?"

"I, um, sort of have to um, go to the post office."

Hm.

"The post office? Why?"

"I kind of didn't mail those packages yet."

"The ones I thought you'd mailed Wednesday?"

"Yeah. Those."

"Dave, one was a card for my dad. His birthday was YESTERDAY."

"I know! I'm sorry. They're in my car ..."

"Why didn't you just tell me? I could've gone to the post office myself."

"I didn't want to get yelled at."

"How'd that work out for you?"

"Not so well."

Oh, he's so cute. I could just scream he's that cute.

So my mom's birthday's next week. I think I'll just take the card to the post office myself, because, well, what fun is getting a card a week later, after I'm already worked back out of the Circle of Trust. There are jars of jelly and cookies in it for me, ya know.

Put this on that list of things I will laugh about later in life

"Don't let him sit down!" I heard Dave say as Big jumped up on my body, horizontal on the couch and two seconds away from dreaming. The back door slammed and Dave's footsteps awoke me from my coma.

Dave ran in the room, Big jumped back down on the floor and Dave pointed out Big's major hygiene issue as the dog ran around the coffee table, then the living room like "Weeee! Hi-Jean what? Weeee!" Around and around the kitchen, back in the dining room, back in the living room, all while Dave yelled "Big! No! Stop! Don't sit! NO DON'T SIT!"

"Come on, he needs a bath," Dave said, trying to get my leaden body off the couch to catch a rabid dog.

"What?" I may have been slightly crabby chasing both of them walking upstairs, Dave holding Big out like you would a toddler with a dirty diaper. "Can't you do it?"

"I have to go back to work!"

"What? Can't you just wipe him up?"

Big plopped down in the bathtub as Dave practiced Teaching Personal Hygiene 101 as I got the towels out of the closet.

"There."

"There."

"OK, got to go."

And that's how I ended up with a wet, shaking rat in the tub. God. Gross.

I asked my mom if they'd gotten the olive leaf back from the dove yet. I think I found it more funny than she did.

My mom and stepdad and the rest of Those Who Share DNA And/Or Memories With Me are living like Noah right now -- or maybe just stuck in that "up a creek without a paddle" saga. They're all underwater. Not like, "Katrina" underwater. Just this kind of underwater. But seeing where all the flooding reached in cell phone snapshots of my uncle "rescuing" my cousin in his canoe, and by listening to my mom talk about her hour drive to work (it's usually 15-ish minutes), it felt really unreal.

And for once, I'm glad I'm not there in Ohio with them.

To add injury back to this insult, in July when I was there, the lack of rain was so apparent that the grass crunched under bare feet in the yards, and running across the lawn kicked up little cartoon-like clouds of dust. My stepdad bought a rain gauge with some sort of beeper on it, so it'd go off as it filled up. "If it ever rains again," chuckle, chuckle, we said.

I'm guessing they disabled that function sometime before they started singing "I'm an Island."

I hate floods. Fires. Tornadoes. Really, anything out of my control. But what can you do? Grab a paddle I guess.

My stepdad told me one Christmas as I held my new firebox that no, Erin, they don't make houses out of that stuff. Hm. Well. They should. And then they should encase it in home-sized life preservers.

A little birdie told me

My youngest brother started his first day of college today and my mom, whom I talk to on Saturdays, called me tonight.

"I just got off the phone with Derrick," she said about the middle brother. "I told him now that I'm an empty nester I need to check up on my little birdies more often."

And we chatted for a while ... Then when my stepdad came home, she immediately said "I have to go! My big bird's home!"

I wonder if that's hereditary?

I kid.

I'm so sure

When I was a child care teacher, when one kid got pink eye, everyone panicked, grabbing toys and jumping out windows. Or something like that. Maybe my memory's a little off. Maybe we just freaked out and cleaned all the toys in bleach and sent kids home and washed our hands 'til they were chapped.

And now, my dog has it.

Yeah, my dog has pink eye.

Dave sent me a photo on my phone of him on the exam table this morning, and tonight when I came home I found Big's tube of cream that I'm supposed to rub over his eye at 10 p.m. I look forward to that intimate moment.

I mean, what's this? Pink eye? In a dog? How does that work?

I feel so used

I am angry.

Not only is it Monday and thus a Bad Day by default, laden with computer issues and everything, I get home from work and find this thin little postcard in the mailbox from Jane magazine. I expect it to be a renewal notice.

It's a Dear John letter. I just got dumped by some publishers on a postcard! (Not as bad as Carrie Bradshaw's Post-It note breakup on "Sex and the City," but close.)

Conde Nast isn't going to be publishing any more issues. Seriously. Oh, oh! But "In its place, we will be sending you Glamour. ... We think you'll love Glamour. Like Jane, it's packed with everything smart, sexy women want to know -- about your body, your beauty, your relationships ... and more!"

WHAT. Um, 'cuz I would pick up a magazine with that tagline. I'm feeling really bitter. Sorry.

Ignoring the fact that I'd rather see my $6 subscription left-overs go up in flames rather than get Glamour magazine in its place, they didn't even put the right phone number on the post card to cancel the subscription. What the crazy?

Irrational anger racing through my tired veins, I logged on to the Internet to find out what was up. Luckily, I found it and canceled on the phone, pronto, so I could get all of that $6 back.

But you guys. I (sob) didn't even (sob) get to say goodbye! Oh, the humanity.

The epitome of not-exercising: Watching other people exercise from your comfy couch

What are YOU doing next August? Aug. 8, to be exact? I know what I won't be doing. Watching the Olympics. I'm so sure I just saw that commercial on NBC.

That said, I was so tired after a long week of work following that nightmare car fiasco that I don't think I got off the couch but for a few hours this entire weekend. Kind of reminded me of college and skipping class. Which I never did. Never. Not once. But if I had skipped class, I'm sure the pure good-boredom would've been the same feeling.

And during this self-inflicted banishment from the world, I was left watching TV. Not just any TV. Gymnastics on TV. Gymnastics on NBC. Seriously. I would lie and say the remote was out of my reach, or that I broke both my legs. But no. I was just watching.

OK, God, not just watching. I was reacting. I flinched at mistakes. Called out the girls who looked creepy in eyeliner. Shuddered a bit at the distortions of bodies. Eeek.

It's like watching that early morning PBS woman in the leotard who does jumping jacks and weird stretches before Sesame Street (at least that's when it was aired in Toledo, when I was babysitting) -- You don't get up and do it. Just sit there and go "Wow, exercise. So that's what that is." God, I feel so weak and guilty.

On to step two of the process ... Making dollar bills with construction paper and markers

The DVDs we're getting rid of on Craigslist seem to be selling well, but I'm getting paid and not really seeing the benefits of it.

I see the holes the missing on my alphabetically arranged shelves, but it seems like I'm not really making money ... just getting rid of stuff. This isn't working out lik I planned it at all. Where's my bank account balance? That can't be it, way down there.

Anyhow.

The best part was, I got to put all these online with Dave's sort-of blessing; that basically meant I said "Dave, I'm going to sell these," and he said "OK" and went to work. And when he came home, his "Boondock Saints" was gone and so was my innocent charade. Whoops. It's all fun and games 'til someone loses their "Princess Diaries," isn't it.

Oh, memories

I threw out the ones of myself that were blurry, stuck together or just undeniably unflattering. Because, ya know, it's my photo box, and I can keep my memories of myself slightly more attractive than they were in real life.

See, some of those photos in that box are good photos, but come with invisible photo credits under them. For example: "Oh, here's that sticky July night when the Ex and I first broke up and got back together. For all that dramatic crying and humidity, my hair looks really good"; "I remember that one, of all those guys filling their red Solo cups in Columbus our freshman year of college. Five minutes later in this photo series comes this one of the Ex throwing up all over himself"; "Ah, yes, I kind of, sort of, maybe blew off some plans with a 'cough, cough' lie to go to this party. But those angel wings look totally awesome."

Good times.

Anyhow, I wasn't sure what to do with all those photos of the College Ex. When I was in high school I had a plastic, gallon-sized bucket full of photos; half of which I could've dumped when I dumped the other halves of the photos' subjects. But someone I worked with stopped me as I piled them up sloppily to toss out; she said I'd regret it later in life.

I'm not really sure what her reasoning was but I listened, and kept most of them.

The College Ex is kind of different; I mean, that's four years of prime, young, photogenic times in my life. Siiiigh. It's not like I display them throughout my house or leave them lying in places where I'd find them often. I only come across them when I'm on one of my three-hour-long organizational binges (some choose food, I choose containers and labels).

So, tonight I segregated them into piles of Him and Me and Him, Me and Others.

I kept The Others' pile. The other pile ... I don't know, what do you do with those?? I ended up putting them in the way-back of the box, under good-times photos. I'll forget they're even there after tomorrow. But still. Next time I need to organize, I'm going to be debating this again.

But I will say one thing. I ripped up the photos of my-uncomfortable-self and His Nearest and Dearest -- all of which portray my smile as less "yay, this is fun" and more "I swear to all that is holy that if I have to come over here one with these schmoes one more night, I will not be responsible for my actions."

And that makes me happy. See?! It's like those hundreds of nights never happened. My 2002 self would've found this moment very comforting. It's too bad I couldn't go back in time and whisper "Erin, woman, hang on. Someday you'll get to stay home and watch reruns like you want to now. I promise. Five years from now is looking up!"

SEAR-EE-usly

Someone pounded on the living room windows from the porch at my mom's house when I was home alone, watching TV. I was 15, living in a town where maybe 2,000 lived and thought that was most decidedly the last moment of my short, dull life.

But I didn't die. Hooray. I heard laughing, then running. Ah, well. Boys.

I still don't know who it was, but I do know that I still have that slightly annoyed, slightly timid demeanor when I'm home alone because I'm sure those dumb classmates of mine will return just to mess with me. Yeah. In Oshkosh. After watching one of Dateline's murder mysteries.

Anyhow.

So when Dave called me last night at 11:30 to say he was going to the bar to see his friend play a show, and oh, good night, smooches, etc., I expected the next time I'd be consciously aware of him was the next morning when I asked him to iron my pants (because that's how we roll, four days a week).

You can imagine my vomit-inducing panic, then, when he showed up at midnight. I was past dreaming and into not-messing-around sleeping when I heard someone in the room. I opened my eyes and saw a silhouette against the stairwell light, but not before yelling something I can't type here, followed by a defamation of Jesus and a couple saints in a combo with "DAVID EDGAR."

Then I punched him.

"Jeez, what's your deal?" he asked, defending himself.

Um, hello?? Dateline? Boys? Ugh!

I tried for the TV and fridge in his place. She laughed at me.

The day he was born, I immediately hated him because, hi, Wonderful World of Disney was on, and they were showing "Bambi," and I didn't even get to watch it because I had to go to the hospital to stare at him in his stupid bassinette.

Well. I've since came to own "Bambi" and thus could overlook that minor scheduling inconvenience on his behalf.

And now he's going to college.

And he's hilarious.

Mom offered to buy him a mini-fridge, she said. He didn't want it, she told me, incredulous. He won't need it, he says. How about a TV? Nope, he won't need that, either.

Mom's stressing out about it because her baby might not be able to watch Comedy Central or that MTV when all the other kids are. I think he'll learn. Doesn't want them. Ha.

Isn't he cute?

I remembering moving in to my first apartment, I scoffed at the idea of having to buy a shower curtain. Not that I thought I wouldn't need it; more like I didn't think about it. "A shower curtain? Really?"

But a TV? A fridge? Seriously. When someone hands you a cable line in your dorm room, you should take that TV and make beautiful, beautiful TV viewing nights outta it. Geez.

Yum

"This is so good. It's like a surprise in every bite!"

"What??"

"Seriously! One bite is chicken, one bite is potatoes and the next is cheese! It's awesome," I said.

"If I had a blog, I'd post that."

You're welcome, Dave.

I guess the next thing is Thanksgiving. Dang.

After Easter, the Catholic church goes back to what it calls Ordinary Time. Sitting in church as a teen, I'd read that on the cover of the missalette and hate life a bit, because Ordinary Time was like this really long, boring, uneventful time. Nothing'd happen again until Advent and Christmas. God (figuratively). Boring. So stinkin' ordinary.

Well, now I'm staring at a bunch of Ordinary Time again, and I'm bored. I'm glad the wedding season is over for us this year because, I don't know if you heard, but we're broke. But, now I have nothing too major to look forward to. Because of being broke, October'll be spent doing nothing, we think, and that's OK.

I'm the type of person who wants something so bad right now, and I need it yesterday, and I want it more than I can express! I want it! Then I get it, whatever it is. I'm happy for 30 seconds, and then I'm looking to the next thing -- because now I want that too! I want it yesterday! I want it so bad! Now!

It's really American, I suppose. Anyhow. So, that's the story of how I count down to the next best thing.

Oh, Mom

I called my mama last night to commiserate about my car troubles over the weekend.

You know what that woman did?

She laughed.

Laughed.

About $590. I was really, honestly thinking "OK, Erin, try to see the humor in this," but she obviously saw something in this situation that I didn't. Namely, anything worth laughing about.

"Those things happen," she said. "It could've been worse."

Annoyed, I scowled quietly. But, eureeka, there's a reason for her insane optimism.

She just had a week's vacation from work. OK. Yeah, if I didn't work last week, maybe I too would be laughing.

Nah. That'd probably be worse.

Then, just like that, I felt better.

You'll never again hear me say this

I got a new computer at work today and, like a nerd, I can't wait to go back in tomorrow to play around with it.

Though I think by 8:05 a.m. I'll be feeling differently, and it'll just be Tuesday. But that 8 to 8:04 a.m. time frame is going to be incredible.

I'm working my way back to $600

"Hello?"

"What are you doing?"

"Oh, ha, I'm making us money!" I said, signing myself out of his e-mail account as he interrupted.

"I just got this email from Craigslist and ..."

"Yeah, I posted some stuff and five minutes later, some guy already bought two DVDs!"

"And -"

"And I used your e-mail account. I was going to ask you first but I figured you'd talk me out of it and I hate dealing with people so I thought you should."

"Oh, ha ha, I see."

"And I canceled my magazine subscription, so I get $12 back."

"Wow."

"So I just made $24 an hour. I don't see you making $24 an hour."

"Keep it up for a year and --"

"I can quit my real job? OK, come here, Mr. Big, I need to take your picture to sell you online."

Now we're broke-er

I forgot my camera this weekend when I left Oshkosh for Illinois to be a bridesmaid in my friend's wedding.

But, as it turns out, there are some images I won't forget. Even the ones I didn't actually see myself.

One being the cars driving by us on the road as we sat in my hot car in Red Robin's parking lot in Rockford, Ill., hearing it go "grr, grrr, grrrrr" as Dave turned the key, 45 minutes before I needed to be at the chapel. Another is the look on my face in the mirror as my makeup got wiped away both because of sweat and tears (no blood, ha!). Another of me, getting picked up to go to the church and Dave staying behind, waiting for AAA.

Then there's the image of Dave carrying a wedding present down the busy road in the sweltering heat in his suit, after the car got towed away because of what we'd wrongly assumed was just a dead battery. Then of him getting noticed by two women I work with, who were on their way to the wedding and drove by him going "That's ... Dave?" before they stopped to pick him up. I'd want to see the picture of their faces as he explained to them how we thought we'd have to come back some other day to get our car, as we weren't spending the night in Illinois.

Memories, man.

If these images were able to be printed, I'd tear up the one of Dave's face as he got the call from the car repair shop as we stood outside the chapel, as he whispered "Brace yourself. They said it's going to be $600." I'd be interested to see anything that happened from that moment onward, because I had tears in my eyes and I don't remember seeing much but persimmon and black blurs as people walked by.

I'm especially fond of the image of Dave trying to make me smile or at least stop throwing daggers at him with my eyes, as he tried to rationalize it with "It's OK, babe. We'll be OK." Even though $630 is a hefty chunk of previously mortgage-bound payments and I thought I was going to throw up.

I'd frame the image of me wondering if I could forget about morals long enough to sign up for that amateur "hot body" contest, so I could win that $1,000 prize. It should be blatantly stated that I immediately decided against it. But it was a good joke for about 30 seconds.

Only the best photographer could've captured the relief that must've been on my face as he told me that it wasn't $630. Just $590. Really. Oddly, that made me feel slightly better. And at the end of the night, I didn't feel like dancing too much. More like curling up on the couch and crying at home. God. Seriously.

Yup. Those are the scrapbook-worthy images from the wedding.

Oh, sure, she looked gorgeous in her dress. And I also cried over other things, like how she was shaking and smiling during the ceremony, the way her dad cried during her sister's toast, or the way she cried during their first dance. Trying to paint those images wouldn't do them justice. Ooh, Krista. So pretty.

And, actually, I have an iPod playlist called "Remember college? I remember college." And yes, Bad Ronald's on there.

We drove home from Target tonight after spending 10 minutes debating the color of new bathroom rugs (we went beige) and what kind of shower curtain would replace the one my germo-phobic self just couldn't handle anymore (we went with a white and green one). We also got a toilet bowl brush.

I mean, this is the kind of stuff Thursday nights are made of.

On Wisconsin Street by the university, we passed a group of college kids carrying a set of Polish horseshoes and another dragging what I'm betting was a sticky-topped makeshift beer pong table from a typical college house. In college, I would've been jealous of that house, comparing it to my economical apartment. Now, I'm kind of annoyed by it.

My heart sank.

I don't want to play beer pong. I don't want to play knights of the round table or kings or even ride the bus. I don't want to listen to loud crappy music or drink flat beer in a stuffy house.

But I just wish I didn't feel so much joy out of having a new shower curtain and a bathroom rug. It's kind of jarring, because a few years ago, I was that girl tripping on her flip flops in the yard with a red Solo cup between my teeth while I threw ping pong balls into other cups across the table, listening to Bad Ronald. Seriously.

Furthermore, I've rarely felt too incredibly old til that moment, when I looked at Me A Few Years Ago stumbling in the yard, because my old-lady thoughts weren't "wow, remember college? Sigh. I remember college." They were more like "I'm glad I don't live by such hooligans now. I don't want their Fergie and empty red Solo cups in my space."

Sigh.

Yeah, I'm on medicine for this

When I've got a lot of things on my mind, instead of laying on the couch and watching dumb movies like I should, I start picking up around the house. Only this time, my house was really dirty and, well, I'm just not that crazy. I don't want to clean-clean.

See, I like picking up Dave's clothes from the floor and hiding them from my view. Then the bedroom looks clean, even though anyone who peeks around the closet door could see it's clearly not. But I sleep better. And no one's peeking in closets, anyhow.

This time, while throwing his clothes on top of his mountain of previously tossed clothes on his dresser, I got this urge to gogogo cleancleanclean putthingsawaynow. I don't get a lot of sleep this way.

Any other day of the week, it makes. No. Difference to me -- not one iota of difference -- where my socks go. But when I've got stuff on my mind, suddenly, I'm dumping the whole drawer on the bed and I'm folding them and rearranging them by season (like, wool socks in the back, and athletic socks in the "why do I have these" pile in the way-back). I'm pulling T-shirts out of drawers and hanging them up. I'm refolding sweaters. I'm debating on moving where I keep things.

Then, I get even more overwhelmed.

So, this is the last hour of my night:

"My life will be so much more bearable if I could just find these socks in October when I start wearing real shoes again! I can't even bear to think about not being able to find socks to go with that sweater before work this fall! I can't deal!"

Then I wipe the sweat off my forehead, because -- and I don't care if the A/C is fixed or not -- there is hardly any air upstairs coming out of any vent. And it's hot.

"And if I give these sweatshirts and sweaters to Goodwill, I'll have room to put these shirts there ... Or should I put them here?"

I stop to set the wooly things down on the bed to wipe the sweat from my forearms after holding the pile of sweaters too long. Then, I glance down at the pile on the bed.

"Oh, (expletive)." Socks. Pants. Shirts. Shorts I didn't remember still owning. Shirts I probably shouldn't own anymore.

So I open the dresser drawers and just start shoving clothes inside. I throw my socks back in their drawer, in no particular order. I shut the bedroom door and walk downstairs.

Done.

It worked. I mean, for a good five minutes I was feeling stressed about something I had complete control over. It was awesome.

My mom and Milwaukee Buckeye are probably the only two who'll get this right away

I forgot the best part of my weekend.*

Dave went to his first real** Waterfest Thursday (I should've taken a picture of him at the gate, holding up his wristbanded-arm) to see Big Bad Voodoo Daddy.

The second opening band sang (while wearing masks that had us saying such phrases like "those things have to stink in this heat" and "I don't get it") Spanish versions of popular songs we all knew, but could only hum along to without looking like jerks. One of those songs was prefaced by a story about a gig they just had in Ohio.

My ears perked up -- Ohio? Hey Band With The Masks On! Did you see my mom? Did she say hi? Never mind.

But, they said they were in Ohio, and they played this song and the crowd went wild.

Then they started.

The opening "duhn - duhn duhn, duhn duhn, duhn-duhn-duh, duhn" (really, that's how it sounds in my head) had Dave rolling his eyes and me going "It's 'Hang on Sloopy,' Dave! It's 'Hang On Sloopy!'"

Oshkosh was indifferent. My Michigan fan husband was gagging. Me? I'm indifferent when the Buckeyes are on TV, unless they're playing Michigan -- then I'm their biggest fan. But Thursday? I was about to do the script Ohio solo.

I didn't, because I didn't want to get arrested for public intoxication after only having had one.

I did, however, throw my arms up for a couple of the "O-H-I-O"s like any good Ohio woman would, and Dave said a few "Let's go Big Blue"s like any Michigan fan would. I responded with a few unprintable, Ohio-leaning versions of that same cheer.

And I wished like H- Harrison that I was back in Ohio for that.***


*Perhaps it's the best because I'm a tad homesick. I promise to try to keep things more in perspective in the future. Yeah. Right.

**The first one was technically Dennis DeYoung and the music of Styx, but we left before Denny Dearest ever got on stage because it was raining and we were comfortably seated at Bob's Trails End, where Dave and our friend Alex ate coney dogs.

*** I just wanted to see how many of these I could actually get in one post. Sorry.

I went back to get the coat

Yes, that coat. And some other stuff -- of course -- because, like I said, I have no self-control.

Afterward, I called Dave to let him know the damage.

"I kinda, sorta, maybe spent a little too much."

"Uh-oh. How much?"

"A lot."

"How much?" (You have to hear the words to realize just how italicized they are.)

"$200?"

"What??" he angry-whispered over the phone, since he was at work.

"Just kidding. It was way less than that."

It wasn't like, cheap. But if you start out high and then go lower, that seems to help allay his fears of bankruptcy. I wasn't a pychology major for a whole year for nothing.

Happy Birthday ... to my dog

It's probably a good thing the oven was broken, or else we would've been that couple who makes a birthday cake for a dog.

"I think today's his birthday," I said Friday.

But we didn't get him anything, Dave said. And it was late. Hm.

We could say it's tomorrow, I offered. Then we could go pick him up something.

All while thinking, this dog who lays on the couch with his head hanging off the end; this dog who doesn't understand the physics of screen doors and cowers at the mere toss of a Frisbee -- we can't actually believe he knows it's his birthday.

Right?

Well. The next day, standing in the pet store, Dave and I went back and forth about what to pick up for our 1-year-old. Our 1-year-old dog.

I err on the side of cheapskate, picking up the 99 cent ball and the baggie of treats. Dave wanted to buy the whole cow that those shrink-wrapped bones came from, to wrap up and dip in chocolate for Mr. Big. And get that toy. And that bed. Both those dipped in dog-friendly chocolate, too, while we're at it.

As I tugged gently on his arm, trying not to look like that woman who's pulling her toddler away from the candy aisle in the store, I loudly whispered, "He's a dog, Dave. He doesn't even know it's his birthday."

"But he's our baby," Dave said. No. Oh, no. I've lost Dave. I've lost him to the crowd whose dogs sit more prominently in Christmas card photos and in cushier chairs at the holiday table. I've lost him to $8 denta-bones. I've lost him to lime green, cheaply made beds for dogs that Big would inevitably chew up and discard.

As if Dave would make him sleep in the floor.

Dave, let's go.

We need to get him a beef stick, Dave said. To lure him away and prove I'm not all bad, I grabbed two. Two 59-cent beef sticks. A bag of treats and a 99-cent ball.

When we got in the door, we stuffed Big's belly full of treats, made him fetch a ball that was almost too big for his tiny jaw, and made him do so many sit-lay-high fives that he eventually tried all three before we'd even asked him to.

So I take it back. He may not have understood he was turning 1. But by the indigestion and overwhelming attention he got, I'm sure he knew. And I'm sure we've created a monster. An attention-begging, whining monster. With the cutest little polka dot collar and tiny little brown and black spots on his soft white fur. Look at those eyes. You'd spoil him too.

I think that man who comes to fix the machine on Monday will be wearing wings and have a halo over his head

I'm outside. My hair's wet. I just ate a grossly unhealthy creme-filled donut because I thought I'd die if Dave turned the stove on, as it's so hot.

It's officially broken. We though that maybe -- just maayyybe -- it was just the power company turning the air off because we signed that thing where they can do that and we get money off our bill. But, well. We were wrong, because now, not even the fan works. The air conditioner is broken. And Dave thinks, to add a punch in the face to injury, our ductwork isn't all that functional either.

But it's OK. Someone's coming Monday. Monday.

Fantastic.

It's not 100 and humid, granted, but still. I'm so sure this had to happen on a couple days when I don't work. I'm so sure. So sure.

Monday. (Also the day the man's coming out to check out why our oven doesn't work. Coincidentally.)

The sun beat in on my face through the rarely opened windows in our house. I winced. Dave tried to give me a hug, as he was all "Aw, it'll be OK," but come on -- it's hot. And 98.6 degrees and 98.6 degrees is obviously 197.2 degrees when two people touch. That's how that works, I'm sure of it.

No one light a match or work up a sweat

My stepdad taught me that if stuff could go wrong, it will. If you're trying to rid your yard of a pest who has been digging holes around the house, and you decide to pour gas down the hole and then light it, you will catch on fire. Just ask him.

That sort of thing.

So when Dave and I had to decide whether to get the home warranty (that thing that covers major appliances that came with the house when you bought it), we figured our luck wasn't on any distinguishable streak. We signed up. And then we renewed just a couple weeks ago.

Thank freakin' God.

Last night, right before the supposedly-tear-jerking moment in "Music and Lyrics," I noticed my french fries in the oven weren't so much baking as they were fumigating. Or, rather, the oven was leaking gas. Sitting in the other room, I smelled it before I realized they'd been in the oven almost 23 minutes, and yet I didn't smell food.

Big got up and walked away from me; when I found him in the kitchen sitting on the rug right in front of the oven, I thought we were going to have to bring back "Rescue 911" to reenact the moment when I realized my dog was saving my life. I was considering which name I'd change Big's to for the TV show when I opened the oven door to reveal wet and cold fries, sitting in a 200-degree oven.

Yeah, 200 degrees. After 23 minutes. That's 225 degrees below normal for those of you who aren't sous french-fry chefs.

I shut it off and tried to remind myself to tell Dave. Turns out hours later, he smelled the gas, anyhow.

Yay, our first homeowner issue. A broken oven.

But wait, my friends! There's more.

I don't know if you heard, but it's hot. I am grumpy when I have to be outside more than 10 minutes at a time. I'm not personable after 2 minutes. I'll stop talking to you after 1 minute. Anyhow.

I came home today, and it sounded like someone'd turned on all the faucets in the house. Or, someone'd used one of those air hoses you find at gas stations, after you unhook the hose from the car? You know, that whoooooooo sound?

And it's hot. It's so hot. Guys, it was 90 today. Outside. And humid. And sticky. It's still 80.

The air coming in downstairs isn't cold. It's not warm. But it's moving. The upstairs? It's not. I'm going to go Google this now. Then, I'm going to go swimming in a baby pool of ice cubes. Then, I'm going to whine a little bit. I didn't have air conditioning with the exception of one year since 1994, til last year. I don't know how I survived.

And now I have to pay for it? This is fun! Weeeee!