Get over yourself, September

I feel safest when I'm a.) not alone at home, and b.) when I'm planning. I love planning because I can effectively remove myself from the current situation and look ahead to when life'll be better.

Like 2008. All of it.

I have a meeting after I get back from my vacation to plan out the next year of Oshkosh Luxury Living magazines. It means before that meeting, I get to come up with a budget of story ideas and concepts, and pillage through other magazines and be inspired by their articles and whatnot.

I was at work for two extra hours just organizing topics, highlighting the TBAs, brainstorming. And OK, I could've been doing other things -- working ahead this week, coming home to facce the mice -- oh, I mean the music, of having to clean and whatnot.

But 2008 is so much friendlier than this hellish Sept. 30, 2007.

I won't be able to sleep

And it's not because of the mouse.

It's for the ring, which I get back tomorrow. I'm so excited to get it back that I think I'm going squeal. I'll probably take a photo and blog about how ridiculously huge it is and isn't it pretty! isn't it pretty! Tell me it's pretty!

And you'll say "yes." And "shut up."

This week is so exciting that I could squeal over a multitude of things. My ring. My haircut. My new clothes. My new cell phone that I get Saturday. The packing I get to do Thursday. The Gallery Walk Dave's showing in Saturday night. The one day of work next Sunday. The seeing of the baby, the moms, the stepdad, the dads, the sisters, the brothers, the Ohio. I am the excited.

Now, if tomorrow would just get here, that'd be swell.

If you're my neighbor, I apologize for the serial-killer-like screams this morning

I've been banished from my own home.

"Ooh, Dave finally showed her the door."

No.

"Ooh, she fled with a hot English bloke named Jude Law."

I wish.

No, no. I just had a minor meltdown. Oo-K. I will be honest. I had a major breakdown. Melt is even too polite for what I had.

Dave and I were having one of those sugar-sweet mornings, where he made cinnamon rolls, we were watching some YouTube comedy with the laptop between us on the couch, saying all those mushy things people get married to say without a hint of irony.

And then Dave had to leave to go cover a midget football game. Only I don't think they actually call the league midget football in Wisconsin. Little league football, midget football, whatever.

He left.

I went upstairs skipping because that was the mood God put me in this morning just to make the following situation that much crappier. Skipping up the stairs, humming, saying "Come on, Mr. Big! Let's get ready." For what? Nothing. Just Saturday! Weee, life is fun!

Halt.

Top stair, Erin has her right leg in mid-air, towel and clothes in hand, and freezes. The right leg comes down with a thud and the object of my OH CRAP moment turns to face me.

A MOUSE is in MY HOUSE. MINE. INSIDE. UPSTAIRS.

I screamed "NOOOOOOOOOOO" and ran downstairs, throwing the pile o' stuff I was carrying, hopping on the coffee table and shrieking. The very to-the-letter definition of shrieking.

I dial Dave.

Voicemail message pops on.

I hang up. Redial.

Voicemail.

I hang up, threaten his life, redial, voicemail.

I hang up, start that uncontrollable breathing problem thing and push "send." He answers. Heaven help him, he answers.

"Hello?"

"Dave. Dave. Dave. (Sobbing hysterically.)"

"What? (Kind of laughing, though the polite kind that won't leave him looking stupid if I'm calling to tell him the dog died or something.)"

Gasping for air between sobs, I scream "Mouse! There's a mouse! Dave, Dave, Dave."

"A mouse?"

"YES." I am angry, because that's what irrational fear does to a person like me.

"Where?"

"UPSTAIRS." Sob.

"Do you want me to come home?"

At this, I stop crying, calmly sit on the couch and say "No, 's all right, dah-ling. I will handle this like an adult."

Or, I said "YEEEESSSSS Help me, help me," I said, panicking because the little rodent found its way down the stairs and was sitting calmly about 10 feet away from my coffee-table perch.

I hung up and expected him to be here already, because hi, I'm having the worst time of my life here and God wouldn't put Dave too far away, right?

Five minutes - or months, if you were standing there watching me jump up and down on the coffee table to thwart any sudden movements in my direction by the mouse - later, he pulls in the driveway to me screaming "NO NO NO NO NO NO NO Not here, not here, not now, I can't do this, I can't do this, I can't do this."

He comes in, walks right past the little sucker and makes sure I'm breathing.

It's the first time I consider what I must look like. Unshowered, in my pajamas, red faced, jumping up on the coffee table, shaking my hair through my fingers because I can feel it in my hair and then hopping on one foot and holding the legs of my pajama pants shut because I can feel it running up my leg. Sweating. Shaking. Hysterical. In other words, hot. Really, really hot.

"Shhh, shh, Erin, it's all right. It's all right. Shhh."

And I proceeded to remind him how long the rest of our lives together would be if he continued to try to calm me down and NOT kill the object of my affliction.

To sum up his heroic act, he threw an empty laundry basket over the thing, chased it around the dining room for a while, then captured it in a Tupperware container and threw it in the garbage in the garage. Ta da.

But that didn't calm me down. He had to carry me upstairs to take a shower. I begged him, literally begged him, to take me with him when he left. I made him buy four mouse traps, four noise-deterrent things (that I am well aware don't work, but make me feel better) and enough poison for the attic to stink up the whole house if it works.

I know, I know. It's only one mouse in one year we've lived here. I will strangle the next person who tells me all homes have mice. Hear that??

Still. I am creeped out. Dave's never home at night when I am -- he's working. So, yeah, I am a freaking out over this. Big time.

I've not been inside all day. Right now, I'm on the deck, enjoying our wireless connection. Before, I was shopping, enjoying nothing but maybe the fact that I wasn't at home.

I don't think I can do this. It's God's way of saying I need to move. Or have Dave here all the time. Or maybe invest in a couple cats, seeing as my DOG was sitting on the couch watching ME instead of KILLING the damn thing. Ugh.

Want to know a backstory? I used to stay at Dave and his roommate Rob's house in college, til one day I walked in the living room and saw two mice*. I more than freaked out. I clawed my way up Dave like a scared cat in a tree. He carried me to the car and I never -- never, not once, not even to move him out -- went back in that house.

But I pay for this house. What a conundrum.

And what the gel, it's not even October yet. I thought I was home free til November, at least.

*Two mice is slightly debatable. Dave says I saw the same mouse in two places. I think that's crazy talk and the reason people get put on medicine for life.

They don't have bowls of soup so I get two cups; what's it to you

I won a gift certificate at work because I knew some random, too-stupid-for-"Jeopardy!" trivia question. The certificate bought me two cups of the best tomato soup I've ever had in my life, a glass of red wine and a whole hour-and-then-some with my husband.

In a row. An hour-and-then-some in a row.

I should've tipped that waitress more for being so slow with our service. This was me tonight, getting off the couch, NOT watching NBC, not reading some french-fry-for-the-brain book, not breaking in the middle cushion on the couch in sweat pants. This was me in public. This was new to us.

Two nights in a row of Outness. Wednesday we watched the Brewers game with a real, live, breathing friend at a real, actual bar.

Tonight, date night, baby. Water City Grill-ing it.

It was incredible. We had a tiny seat by the window, we had sweater weather, I had wine, he had his tea (workin' man, ya know), we had our paid-for meal ... Sometimes I forget how much I like Dave (half-kidding), til I'm with him alone, in a situation where I don't have to hear "I don't know, what do yoooou want for dinner?"

Cuz I swear, that line will ruin my marriage.

And as we sat there and reprimanded each other for bringing up work, it reminded me of our honeymoon. We had a little restaurant in Quebec where we had meal vouchers for five nights, and we were the only two people in the whole place, for all we cared. Oshkosh, ya still feel that way to me, too. Strange, aggravating, a little exciting.

I just don't go in places and expect to see anyone I know. Tonight, it was actually kind of nice that way.

Photo: Honeymoon, Dave ... le sigh.

You're so ... you're so ...

"Does my face look bad?"

"No."

"Does it look good?"

Nods. Slowly, and without eye contact.

"'Cuz I did my makeup a different way."

"You put purple under your eyes."

"No I didn't."

"Yes, you did. Right here (pointing to his under-eye, right by his bottom lashes)."

"No. I didn't."

"It looks --"

"That's a Niese gene. You KNOW that. What, you going to ask me about my dark undereye circles next? It's the Niese genes, I can't help it!"

"What? No, it's purple!"

I don't own purple. I shall stop asking him to look at my face from those point on. Unless I'm trying to shoot him a mean, Drop Dead stare.

Look at this! It's the deep end, and Erin just went off the edge

"I'll do dishes now if you change the oil in my car tomorrow," I said.

"So does that mean I'm taking you to work tomorrow?"

"Well, it's not a bad idea. You do have a lot of stuff to do tomorrow. And if I don't get you up early, you'll be in bed til 10 o'clock and I'll get home after work and you won't have any of the pictures edited and you'll want to cuddle and I'll say no and you'll say 'five minutes, 10 minutes, just 10 more minutes,' and I'll say 'no, no,' and you'll say 'after this show' and 'one more hour, I'll start it at 8:30,' and then it'll be 8:30 and you'll say 'I'll do it tomorrow, I'll have time tomorrow' only you won't have time tomorrow, you never have time tomorrow and you need to just get it done. And then we'll fight and it's your only day off and I don't want you to waste it and --"

"Are you done?"

"Yeah."

"OK. I got to go back to work."

"OK, bye."

I think that means he'll change the oil in my car. I keep going over it in my mind, and I think that's what he said. I think so ...

I play TV reviewer for a second

Did you SEE "Journeyman"?

If I could have any superpower, second to teleporting, I'd like to time-travel (comments on my present situation, doesn't it?). I'd sit and think about where I'd go, what I'd do; my first stories I wrote in junior high were about going back in time. I couldn't figure out how -- where -- what would I do?? Where would I go?? What if I saw myself? What if I made one tiny change and ruined everything and couldn't get back?

I think people take drugs to feel this way. I just take long car rides and think about it as I stare out the window.

So, I got "Time Traveler's Wife" for Christmas or my birthday this year and LOVED it.

And now "Journeyman" on NBC ... He goes back in time. I think I have a new favorite show. Though Dave says I should wait to proclaim that.

Anyhow. You can watch it for free before next week here. Consider it 43 minutes well spent.

Stupid, stupid, stupid

I think cell phone companies are a notch above homicidal maniacs on the ethics scale, and each month when we pay our outlandish cell phone bills I shake my angry fist at the sky and curse Verizon.

Yeah, I said it. I have Verizon.

It's not just them, though. I had AT&T for a little bit. I had a really sweet cell phone -- it was white, it had a big display screen, cool ringtones, a GPS thingy. Too bad I could only make phone calls while standing in the middle of a parking lot at the University of Toledo on a clear day. And I still have an $8 credit on my account that they send balance statements for almost monthly -- and they won't just pay me back. Some nimrod is up in his AT&T office, trying to paint over his Cingular sign again, and pushing the button that prints my statement, ignoring the "payout" button that would give me my stupid $8 back.

The worst part about cell phone companies is the stupid two-year plans, the stupid expensive phones, the stupid inflexibility. Two years is a long time. I've had Them for like, six years now; that's three ill-advised two-year contracts. And the stupid imbecile a couple cities away from here who told Dave and I when he renewed his two-year contract that it was cheaper to keep our plans separate because we used a lot of minutes, sadly overlooked the fact that we are losers who really only call EACH OTHER.

And, duh, you don't need to have the IQ of a gorilla to know Verizon has "In" calling.

"Oops! Overlooked that fact. Well, it's OK. In a year and a half, you two can just combine them."

Anyhow.

So, here's what's up now. My contract ends next week, and I'm not renewing. Yeah. I'm not. So take that. TAKE THAT!

Of course I'll just get added to a family plan. And I'll get a sweet pink phone if everything goes OK. But still. It gives me a special warm feeling knowing I will singlehandedly take $30 away from Them each month. Muuuoooohh-ha-ha.

(Phone image: Amazon.com)

If I had cable TV, I wouldn't ever have to leave my house

I've become that woman.

You know. That woman. The one who, yes, did see that episode of (some lame TV show) last night. Yes, I did. Want to talk about it? No? OK, let's talk about (some other lame TV show) instead. No? Oh, no, I didn't see that one. I only have NBC. No, that's Fox. "Law & Order." That's how I roll.

This week is season and series premiere week. Nerd-like beyond belief, I physically typed "nbc.com" in my browser window, clicked enter and checked out the schedule for this week.

THIS WEEK. On my COMPUTER. On purpose.

I am one step away from collecting those TV inserts from the Sunday newspaper to circle shows, plotting my whereabouts a week out. "Tuesday, I need to get done with work on time to make it home before 'Biggest Loser.' And I'll be damned if I'm going to miss 'Law & Order: SVU.'"

And then I'll start collecting salt-and-pepper shakers shaped like geese and gnomes with cities' names handpainted on the side. "Ooh, dear, hand me San Diego. I'd like to flavor this meatloaf quick before 'Life' comes on. Tomorrow? Oh, no, I can't go out. It's 'The Office.'"

I need more hobbies or friends or something.

Dragon boats, annee deux

Dragon boating follows this pattern for me:

Round 1, 9:36 a.m.: "OK, OK, I can do this. I can do this. Ooh, see, when the water goes like that it reminds me of tubing at the lake in Michigan, what, 15 years ago?? Fifteen!? What? HEY -- yo, pay attention .... OK, I can't do this. Ooh! A buoy! Must be the end. Oh, God, no, there are TWO MORE of them! Oh, God. So thirsty."

Round 2, 11 something?: "Oh my God, they tipped! That boat tipped over down there! Look!" someone says. "I don't want to do this. I don't want to do this. I don't want to do this," I say.

Round 3, 2:36 p.m.: Can't even talk. Just can't. Must ... conserve ... energy. Can't ... paddle any ... more.

And that's when I knew ... This is fun, but I don't think I'll be signing up next year.

Anyhow, the periods in between the races was actually the worst, as everyone had family there or knew people or had the ability to walk upright while I sat in a chair and thought about how I wanted to be on vacation at that exact moment. Ma! Yeah. I coulda gotten up and walked around and talked to people, but ... so much energy.

Dave, who was also fearlessly paddling on the boat, had to go to work afterward, which my pessimistic self was clearly aware of even as I woke up at 7 a.m. I'm tired. Tired of waking up early. Tired of work. Tired of Dave going to work til late. Tired of having "Most Outrageous TV Moments" on NBC be the highlight of my weekends. I can't wait til October ... I just need that one small week off. Waiting is like getting two football fields into a three-football-fields-long dragon boat course. You'd get off right there if you could. But that water! It's so green and so impossible.

Happy almost-anniversary

I got my anniversary present early from Dave ... and it came with an agreement.

Meaning it would not only satisfy the anniversary thing, but also a few other things. See, it was kind of expensive. A bit more than I expected, actually.

And I've got some guilt. So I created a list of holidays and special events that Dave has a free pass for. Terms and conditions apply. See store for details.

The list? Our anniversary, of course. Sweetest Day. St. Nick's Day. Christmas. Hanukkah. My birthday. Groundhog's Day. Valentine's Day. Easter. May Day. Memorial Day. Fourth of July. Labor Day. Our anniversary 2008. Sweetest Day 2008. Labor Day 2008. St. Nick's 2008. The birth date of our first born.

Notice I left Thanksgiving out. And next Christmas. Boo-ya. Wine for everyone!

See .... Add up the flowers and gifts from those babies and clearly this is a cheaper option.

Sounds like a horrible idea, but trust me. I won out. Who needs more sweaters, movies and lotion? I've got a new riiiiiiiiiing. Or, I will in a couple weeks.

(And what, you ask, will I get Dave? ME. Oh, and maybe a tie or something.)

So many exclamation points

"I was cleaning out my iTunes 'cuz I like to listen to it on shuffle, and I kept getting stupid songs on there," I said.

"Like what?"

"Like all that Tom Waits."

"You deleted Tom Waits?!"

"Yes. I don't like him."

"You deleted all of Tom Waits? But you like that one album!"

"No, I liked just one song."

"So you deleted everything?!"

"Yes."

"Uuuugggghhhhh! I didn't have those!"

"I thought you had those on your computer!"

"I didn't put them on my computer because they were on your computer!"

"But I didn't like it!"

"You can press the 'next' button!"

"But it's so ... annoying! I don't want to push it!"

"Uuuuughhhh!!!!"

Whoops.

Furthermore

Furthermore, I hate car lots like most people hate a bad case of the flu. Give me the chills, aches and nausea, baby, if it means I don't have to talk to those guys -- the ones who in high school would've shoved me in my locker but now suddenly! are just plain nice guys who want to sell me a quality automobile, ma'am.

I'm sure there are really cool car salespeople around. I know so for a fact, actually. My ol' friend Darby. You don't know him, but he's a car man. And he's a good egg.

But when Dave mentions going to a car lot -- just to see what they have! just for fun! -- I make him promise he'll do all the talking, that we won't get out of our car unless we absolutely love some other car on the lot, and that when I've had enough "knock your socks off!" and "wheels and deals" and all those other annoying car ads, we can go home.

You know, I really like walking. It's so ... free.

And, yes, I realize how irrational I'm being.

This coming from the woman who goes through catalogs, circling items. But hey, at least my items don't smell like motor oil and rubber.

We've been looking for a car for a while, but wanted to make sure the other car that we'd keep -- the newer of the two that's cost us hundreds in the last few months -- was going to, you know, turn on. Work. Have functional bits and pieces.

Now that it -- knock on something hard and woodlike -- seems to work OK, we're tentatively looking through Auto Plus magazines and circling cars we like.

Check that.

Dave's looking through Auto Plus magazine and yelling out cars he likes.

"Let's look through that magazine tonight," he said.

"No."

"Why not?"

"It's boring."

"It's boring?"

Yes, did I stutter? It's boring to me to look through a magazine to pick out cars you never will have in order to spend thousands on something you have to go to the stupid car lot to pick out anyhow. We never seriously buy cars from those freebie magazines. (I say it as if we've bought many cars before as a couple, and have them stored in our back yard on blocks or under bright blue tarps with cement blocks and yellow rope holding it together.) It's like looking through an issue of Vogue. I hate it. I will never be that skinny and tall. I will never look that angry all the time like the models do. I will never wear that thing -- plaid? Seriously? No.

No. No magazines. I prefer my escapes from reality to be in a slightly less moring form.

"Hi, Mom. It's Dave and Erin. We're in the driveway. Do you mind if we crash in the guest room?"

"Does the schedule I have for the vacation work?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Will it be cool to have the dog at your mom's house?"

"I don't know, I didn't ask her."

"Oh ..?"

"She doesn't exactly know we're coming."

"At all?"

"Yeah."

"Call her. Now."

Seriously.

Just, just, just, just, just, just, just, just a half a mile awaaaay, oh, don't you understand it's just a half a mile away

I've been hating most things lately.

Traffic. Loud noises. The sound of whispering. Dropping things. Clothes that don't fit right. Cars that don't flip on their turn signals. Alarm clocks that have the audacity to ring -- period.

And you know what that means ... It must be dang close to my vacation time.

While I was looking at my calendar today at work I noticed it was right there, just weeks away. Less than a month. And, like a nerd, my heart started beating really fast and I sat up a little taller at my desk. I'd start counting down the hours, but my heart couldn't take the pressure.

It's so close that my micro-planning's taking off. Because planning what I'm going to take with me and when I'm going to go where is much more exciting than watching reruns of "Heroes." Vacation's so close. So close. Billy Joel would argue it was just a half a mile away. Or maybe he wouldn't. I would.

No, Millie and Mom, I'm not pregnant. I'd find a much more creative way to tell you than to blog about it. I'd send a fax or something.

I don't think it's any surprise we like children. I mean, I've only mentioned it seven or eight times on here. In the last month.

Dave and I always said we wanted to be young parents; our parents are, his sister is, we married young, we have bad luck and will probably be struck by meteors at the age of 37 ... That sort of thing.

We've been married about a year now. So. Yeah, the topic's come up.

Because I'm that neurotic woman -- the one who was reading Bride magazine before I started dating Dave, the one who was getting college application packets my sophomore year of high school just to be ready, the one who buys bread two loaves at a time just to be sure I have a loaf when I need one, the one who pays bills the exact day she gets them in the mail -- I've been Googling.

And it's fun. Some Web sites are really creepy (I mean, seriously, I don't remember having to ask this question when I was a teenager); some are just stupid. Others are cutesy. Ever sat in a gynecologists' waiting room? Some are like that. Rose-y colored and full of cut-away, 5-foot-tall WOMAN'S REPRODUCTIVE SYSTEM posters. (In all capital letters.)

The most entertaining part isn't on the Internet.

It's Dave. He's not the pre-engagement-Dave anymore. Maybe the wedding gave that part away. Before he asked me to marry him, if I brought up marriage even as a joke, he'd spit up his coffee and stammer and find something to go buy from the grocery store. Now, he brings it up himself, and he's not even laughing. At first, I expected him to turn red and look at his feet, the ceiling, my shoes, the wall, all while saying, "Oh, and uh, we need um ... Drano! Yes, you can never be too prepared for a clogged drain! Do we need bread? I'll get two loaves. Yes! I'll be back. You, uh, stay here. With my cell phone. I, uh, don't need it."

So, it's something new and different for me. In a couple ways.

That's all. I am done talking about it. I'm closing the subject.

Cousin Erin's is booooooring

More babies! Or, actually, a preschooler and twin toddlers. In my city. My house. Oh. Man.

My mom is No. 6 in a line of 11 children. I am third oldest of 33 grandchildren. The aforementioned little children are hanging out on the end of this branch of the family tree, and this week, they (and my uncle and aunt) are in Wisconsin Dells.

Monday after work, I'll be at my house with these people. To say I'm excited is like saying a car that takes 10 minutes to start is just a little annoying. I'm going to come right out and admit here, because I have no shame, that I despise not knowing anyone who doesn't have "@thenorthwestern.com." attached to their e-mail address. Those folks are few and far between ... and usually spouses of those Northwesterners. No offense, people, but I'm married to one of those guys, I am one of those guys, I am at that place so many hours a week and talking about it at home against my will so many hours of the week ... Woman needs a small break, ya know?

I think most people would've just called it "homesick" and been done with it, but I thought I'd dramaticize a bit. I feel better, anyhow.

As I was saying before my temporary ADHD kicked in was this: My uncle, aunt and their three kids will be at my house on Monday. I get to show them what it's like to live in the tundra, the central time zone, and in a place where time often stands still.

I'm looking forward to it, even besides my rational fear of being vaguely remembered as "That One Boring Place With No Kids to Play With or Toys to Entertain Us When We Were On Vacation In Wisconsin" to these kids years from now (because, hi, Great-Uncle Harry didn't really have stuff to play with and I was angry about my few hour-long visits there for years).

We'll be walking in Meijers 10 years from now and the too-cool 12- and 11-year-old kids will see me at the end of the aisle and as their mom says "Oh, let's go say hi to Cousin Erin!" they'll cringe and remember .... That woman has ZERO toys. And her dog is psycho. And they'll beg their mom to let them go look at mp3 players instead. God (rolling eyes), this is so lame! I'm so embarrassed, Mom. I hate you! I can't wait til I'm in college.

But Monday, my aunt and uncle will probably ask about work, but I don't have to tell a story with "And THEN guess what he said!" in it. Yesss. It shall be a good evening.

Tuesday'll suck, but that's another blog post entirely.

Oo la la! Le bébé!

When I found out I'd be babysitting my nephew while my in-laws go watch the Packers play in December (like I said here), I squealed.

So when Dave suggested we take Jack off his babysitter's hands for a day on our vacation next month, I stopped and stared. "Really!?? For real? For a whole day? And we can feed him and play with him and --"

"I think that's the idea," he said. "And you get to change diapers."

"OK! Awww, I'm so excited! Dave, we can play with him!"

"Yeah ... I know." He laughed.

Normal people do not exclaim like that over diapers, I realize that.

I also realize that photo of him is more than a year old, so he will be walking and whatnot. But come on, he lives eight hours away. You get the point. Aww.

I guess I'm going to sink battleships now

Dave's home now for a few hours, and we're enjoying our time together by watching "Dateline" (of course) and sitting on the couch. He's heeere. He's sitting right beside me. Say hi, Dave.

Hi.

See? Wow, he's here.

But he wants to hang out like it's 1992 and I'm at home on a school night with my younger brothers. Dave bought Battleship at the thrift store the other day, and he's been begging me to sink his battleships all day.

I kept trying to fight time.

"Are all the pieces there?"

"They are! I checked."

"I bet they're dirty."

"I'll wash them!"

I'm running out of excuses. I'll, uh ... blog! I'll take a bath? I'll eat waffles? Go to bed early? Read? Anyone? How about some Trivial Pursuit? Someone? Help.

I'm going to watch some Disney movie next. "Fantasia" maybe.

I love "Dateline" more than words can say. It's what I call Poor Woman's Court TV, and since I don't have cable, that's all I've got.

But tonight's was about that case in Connecticut where the doctor's wife and two daughters were terrorized in their house for seven hours and then tied to their beds and the girls were burned alive and the mom was strangled and ... You know. It happened in July.

Anyhow, I'm now scared to leave the living room.

Downstairs, I'd left the dryer on. So that became someone breaking in. The car door across the street is obviously a sociopath coming over to hang out. The dog barking at nothing like he does, was him telling me Doom was near.

God, Erin. I tell you all I can't have cable because we're broke, but in reality, it's because I can't handle it.

What?

"I need ideas for Christmas gifts," Dad wrote. "Please get back to me by September 15, if possible."

Christmas list.

By Saturday?

In September?

I think I read that right. I mean, I did copy and paste. The thing is, I need to think of things that I won't get for myself or forget about 'til December. As I get older, that's more difficult, because if I want it, I probably already have it. Or, it's $300. I mean, did you SEE those new iPods? I don't think that's what he's talking about. But maybe I'll slide it in there between two $5 items, just to try it out.

If I decide on a life of crime, someone else must provide my getaway car, because mine takes 10 minutes to start.

Let me tell you how awesome my car is.

It's sooo awesome. It's got an anti-theft system, so no one can start it if they sneak in and decide to take the Alero on a joyride.

Even me. With the key in my hand, turning it in the ignition. Begging, "Please start. Please start. I just want to go hooooome!"

When my car wouldn't start last month before my friend's wedding and last Wednesday as I tried to leave work, I hated life in larger and larger increments. The first time was a fuel injection/ fuel injector/ something with "fuel" and the root word "inject" problem and it cost us about $600. The second time, Dave went online and Googled "Alero" and "something else that got him a link that said it was a fluke with the car."

I was quietly plotting how I'd set the car on fire for the insurance money (just kidding!) when I realized this fluke, this cute little fluke, may have cost us money to fix something that wasn't even broken in the first place. But there's no way of knowing now. I guess when I get to heaven, I'll just ask Jesus for my $600 back.

Furthermore, this cute little fluke could be fixed now! By untrained amateurs! YOU too could start this car! For free! We like free, so Dave took the crazies' advice from the online forum he'd found and turned the key to "On" and waited exactly 10 minutes. Then he pulled the key out, reinserted it, twitched his nose three times and said a magical chant and voila! It starts!

I thought that was it. It was like a secret handshake with my car, that Alero needed me to prove that I was in fact the titleholder of the car. I didn't think I'd have to KEEP doing it. But apparently I was wrong.

From experience now, I can tell you 10 minutes is a looooong time to wait to start your car, especially in the parking lot on a Sunday as you're trying to leave work when you're hungry and nothing's on the radio and you're so tired you could fall asleep sitting up. A lllllloooooooong time.

According to that forum, by the way, the dealership some chick went to said they're not allowed to fix the problem, because it's too complicated. So we'd have to buy some sort of program to reprogram the car. And well ... that sounds expensive. I guess I have to start keeping reading material in the car.

People pick me to be on their Trivial Pursuit teams, but I was always one of the last chosen for anything in gym class

I didn't think it was going to be this bad again ... Dragonboating. But it was. And it was worse.

Last year, Dave and I missed the practice because of that marriage license overnight trip to Ohio. So the shock of spending 10 minutes in a boat three times on race day wasn't as bad as the 50-minute "PADDLES UP," "We'll do sets of eight-twelve-five" practice The Northwestern's dragonboat team had today.

At the 30 minute mark, the only thing that kept me from jumping ship and swimming to shore and running away and never coming back was the green stuff and the taste of that water as it splashed in my mouth. I felt a bit trapped. I forgot the claustrophobic feeling I had last year in the boat, as if I were stuck and the only way out was a wet, gross mess.

But anyhow. I didn't freak out over anxiety this time (hi, prescription drugs work! Side effects may include dry mouth and signing up for a second year of dragonboating). Nope. Just sore muscles and utter annoyance of hearing "OK, let's do it again."

I have to say, too, that I was slightly loving being in the front of the boat this year, though they kept saying the paddlers had to watch me and my seatmate for rhythm. Dude, I have no rhythm. But, whatever. Leadership, see? I'll put that moment on my resume someday: "Co-led team of 22 amateur dragonboat paddlers under extreme duress."

But you know? I'd do it again. Which is good, since we have to do it again at the real dragonboat races in two weeks. It's fun, I say through gritted teeth because my muscles hurt and I'm exhausted.

And this time? We won against the other team that was practicing. Did you read that right? WE WON. It's not often any team I'm involved with in any athletic shape or form is associated with the word "winning." And even though it didn't count, I'm still quite pleased with my ability to not-die on the water to accomplish that.

Erin and Dave: Proud owners of impossibly dark blue carpet and one white dog for about a year now

We've lived in this house one year now, almost to the day. Actually, a year ago now we were driving to Ohio overnight to get a marriage license. Then there was the moving out of the apartment, the mortgage lender from Halifax and the stress that went with planning the wedding.

I don't miss last year (though I'd relive my wedding day and honeymoon in a proverbial heartbeat), but now the stress is just in different forms. I couldn't expect anything less, eh.

I'll give you a hint. It starts with a "w" and ends with an "ork" and the other starts with an "m" and ends in an "oney." Oh, and then there's the part that starts with "n" and ends with "ever seeing Dave as often as I'd like." That one's probably the worst, though the end is nigh. I'll probably see him every night before I go to bed soon, and for dinner again like in the olden days. And then we'll run across the prairie's hill among the wildflowers toward our log cabin and Paw will .... Oh, wait, that's Little House on the Prairie.

Anyhow.

Point, point ... where was it? Oh, it's that I can't believe it's been a year already. Our projects that we're working on don't get done very fast and movies I thought I'd never have an interest in, I'm watching because it's more fun than sanding kitchen cabinets or painting a fence.

It's slightly exciting for me, because we have all these plans for the next year of our lives, and since this parts of this one went at a slightly faster than my average rate, I'm hoping that trend will continue a bit. We've got kitchens to finish, rooms to redecorate, painting to be done to fences and family rooms, furniture to be ogled and not purchased, a vacation to take, lives to rearrange, and all that.

So now August and September have been glacier slow. It's like staring down a tunnel at a light and thinking it's an end and yet the light never gets bigger ... That's August and September. Coooome on, October. Come on.

It's like Dave KNOWS I would have a bad day. Or else HE broke my car on purpose so I'd appreciate the wine and flowers more.

Today wasn't all a bust, as I got home to THIS. (There, in the photos. YUM.) Dinner was already made. Dessert-ish was on the counter. Potatoes on the stove. (Cookies ... of which I can have eight, because the rest are going to be used to make a peanut butter-cookie-pie thing.) And no I didn't eat eight. Just three. God.

And it's not even my birthday. It's my car-died-again day. You know, just Wednesday.

"Things" have been kind of weird with Dave and I; with him working so late, when he leaves after dinner, we say "see you tomorrow." Eating dinner -- one that's more than a cheese omelet and toast, my old standby for any of the three meals -- is like an hour of my day that doesn't, well ... you know. And then there's wine and chocolate on top of it? What is this, PARADISE?

No. Dishes still get dirty. The dog still has trouble distinguishing between chew toys and my favorite shoes. My car just broke again. My stupid, stupid car. Somewhere, my bank account is in the fetal position, crying itself to sleep with the rest of my wine cradled under its measly arm.

Off! with their heads

Remember that one time my car didn't start and I was in Illinois for a wedding? I remember. Man, I love spending $600.

Remember that one time my car didn't start and I was leaving work today? I remember. It was about two hours ago.

I could've cried, if I weren't so ANGRY. And I don't even think I'll add in the "irrationally" before the "angry." Because when you spend $600 to fix your car, you don't expect that not even 30 days later you'll be stuck in a parking lot while your car is making the exact same noise.

I was in the passenger seat of my car as Dave turned the key in the ignition. And nothing happened. And I thought he was kidding. I almost said out loud "Wouldn't that stink if our car was broken again?" Then I saw his face. His really angry face. And it was 100 degrees in that car. And it won't start. And I was TRYING to LEAVE WORK. I was SO close. SO CLOSE.

No big deal, though, right? I mean, Pep Boys has that 90-day warranty. Right.

Oh, except the nearest Pep Boys happens to be in Illinois.

My heart is beating in my chest with such ferocity I think I might be having a heart attack. Or else it's just my anger taking a physical form. Either way, this can't be good for my complexion.

I asked Dave to call Pep Boys tomorrow because when I have to confront people, I end up sounding like those truly irrationally angry people who call me when the crossword puzzle answers are wrong. And I don't even do that page, people.

WebMd once made me think I had a multitude of diseases. "Fatigue? Headache? Sore throat? Oh my God! I've got all the symptoms of DEATH"

Dave thinks he's dying. He's got a headache, he says, and he can't turn his neck to the side. And his stomach hurts. And does this look like a brain tumor? Maybe.

I told him facetiously that it was probably meningitis. That, yes, he definitely was dying.

Then he believed me.

So to make him feel better, I Googled meningitis, and found that yes, on the surface, his symptoms did sound like meningitis. But since I think it's stress and that maybe he's exaggerating, I didn't tell him.

But, maybe, if he wanted to, he could call a doctor tomorrow. Just, you know. In case a real MD disagrees with my and WebMd's expert opinions.

I just made up a word because nothing else could describe that quiet, staticy sound of our wonderfully boring lives

After weddings and work and blah weekends, we finally got to do nothing. No-th-ing-k.

And it was wonderful. We went on a walk. We got a second round of "oops, we haven't done this in a while" groceries. We slept in and watched a movie and played a game.

We are incredibly married and boring. Moring. I think I will coin that term here.

Whereas next weekend we will be practicing our dragon boating, and the next I have an aunt, uncle and their three toddlers coming over for a day or two. Then it's the real dragon boat race. Ahh. Yes.

But today, we're moring. Moring.

I can feel us getting rounder. Ooh. But it was sooo good

We are horrible, horrible people.

We abuse our stomachs with so much food this Saturday that I'm pretty sure if I didn't eat until December, I'd be just fine.

The dish? Oh my God. A box of macaroni. A whole brick of Velveeta cheese. Sixteen ounces of sour cream. Three tablespoons of butter. Oh my God. Salt. Milk. Oh my God.

Why? Didn't we have a box of lower-fat shells and cheese? Actually, yes we did. But his family called, and ... I guess it's Wasinger comfort food. Oh my God. It sticks to your mouth.

The worst part is, we'd hung up a sheet on the fridge from a magazine just that morning. It was one of those newlywed magazines you get when you sign up for the bridal registry at Bed Bath & Beyond (The Nest? I don't remember). The premise was, we'd use this worksheet for losing or maintaining your weight. Dave and I are doing neither currently, so we figured now would be a good time to, you know, get off the couch.

Only I guess we thought "get off the couch" meant "go to the kitchen and make something with 47,000 calories." Oh my God. The guilt. And I was raised Catholic. I know guilt.

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Coincidentally, you may be wondering what kind of person takes photos of food? Well, my brother does. Last summer, he took out his cell phone and said "Oohh, these were good wings. Look. And this barbecue, that was good too." Seriously. I only have one photo, so I'm clearly not that far gone.