It's no offense. I bet under different circumstances, we'd be friends

I've never been to Milwaukee (with the exception of a wedding I was at, but I don't think it counts because it was dark when I got there and we went right there and back). I've not had the desire to really go to Milwaukee, because I'm not the type of person who right now is desiring much more than maybe a nap? A cheeseburger with extra ketchup? I'm not asking a lot.

Dave loves cities and he'll tell you so if ever you so vaguely mention the name of a bigger city. I think Milwaukee would provoke that in him, but I won't let him talk about it because I don't want to go.

It's no offense to Milwaukee. However, until last year, I didn't know Milwaukee was like, this real place that people went to and loved and made memories in. I read Play in the City when Erin did it, and I remember thinking "What? Milwaukee? People do things in Milwaukee? Wait ... I thought it was a joke? I thought they had beer and that was it?"

I guess that'd be like someone saying "Toledo? What do they have there, anyhow? Jeeps and a lot of nothing?" Yeah, but it was home.

So, while I can admit Milwaukee's more than I thought it was, I'm not looking forward to my trip there tomorrow. For one, I'm going alone to the conference, and driving's not my forte. Directions, not my forte. Stress behind the wheel? Also not a strong point. I'm what you would call dreading it, actually. Public parking, no one to yell at when I don't know where I'm going and could you kindly hold the map open a little -- no, so I can see it -- hold, hold -- God dangit, I just missed it, did you see that? I just missed my frickin' turn. I told you, no, here. I'm getting out. YOU drive. I'm not doing this.

That, I don't get to do tomorrow.

I'm hating life a bit right now. So forgive me if I don't have any feeling of excitement over this ... And I know I'm being slightly hormonal right now, and I apologize.

Wake me up when October ends

I was going to go watch the Packers game at the bar, but I napped.

I was going to pass out candy on Halloween, but I'll be at a conference in Milwaukee instead.

And just like that, it's November, and I did nothing this month that I've shared.

Notice I've not blogged about much in about a month. Some would say it's because my life's boring at the moment. I'd like to say "slow" and leave it at that. I'm sure November'll change. I mean, come on. The holidays. Cold weather. Dave's new windows.

Maybe I'm wrong.

I married him for a reason ... So I wouldn't starve

After passing and not buying a jug of apple cider (always smells better than it tastes), ripe, red apples and apple pies in the grocery store earlier in the day, I couldn't get the phantom aroma out of my memory.

I had to have apple something. Preferrably not a healthy apple, by itself. No, I was more in the mood for sugar, cinnamon and something bad for me, with an apple mixed in there somewhere.

My mom's apple crisp ... My God, I had to have it. Problem was, we had two apples (you need like, eight) and another trip to the store would've proven a bad idea, cost-wise.

Casually I mentioned to Dave sometime while he was at work that I wanted apple crisp. When he got home at midnight, obviously it was too late. But then I heard the bowl being set down on the countertop. A knife cutting something. The lid of the flour twisting off and back on. The door of the microwave. The beep five minutes later.

And from my perch in bed upstairs, I could smell it.

The man made me a single-serving size of apple crisp at midnight.

And it tasted quite awful.

But let's look beyond that. The man. Made me. Apple crisp. One serving. For me.

If I could go back to the dramatics of every "BUT I LOVE HIM" break-up I'd ever had and tell myself one thing, it would be this: "Put down the cell phone. Go wash your face and throw away those stupid love letters. There's this guy -- you don't know him yet -- but he's going to make you dessert at midnight one night just because you mentioned it in passing. Seriously, this guy who says he can only see you on Wednesdays because he needs his 'guy time' isn't ever going to do that. Woman. Listen to me."

See Dave run. Run, Dave, run.

The last time Dave ran, I wasn't there to see it.

I'm not quite sure where it was, or when. I'm pretty sure he was wearing football pads and we were still in the '90s, maybe 2000. The Dave I know and love just doesn't run. He walks. He drives. He surfs the Internet. He cooks, shops and cleans.

Well, now he's going to be running, too.

Over his beer and our friend's margarita, munching on chips before our Mexican food came out, he decided to take up our equally not-a-runner friend on his offer to join him in training for the Oshkosh Half Marathon in April.

Did you read that right? I'm not sure if Dave realized while drinking his beer and eating those chips that 13.1 miles isn't really a small feat since, well, he doesn't run. Period.

But he's determined now, if only so people who said "Dave? Dave Wasinger? You're kidding" when they heard he would be running in it will get to say "Oh, huh. Look at him go."

I think it's cool; he's finally going to have someone to train with who isn't as keen to sleeping in and as averse to sweating as I. But, it should probably be noted that it's Oct. 27, and the race is probably going to be in early April, and that leaves plenty of time for Dave to say "5K is long enough" or "Ow, my shins, I quit." We'll see. We'll see.

Just some more about my trainwreck-of-a-yawn life

JK on that title.

Anyhow, this highlight of my 20-some years is that we're .... getting windows.

Well, I do have more exciting things going on right now. But if you talked to Dave, you wouldn't think so.

It's all he's been talking about. He carries samples of window sill colors and styles in his murse. He has the pamphlets from all those who've come bearing measuring tape and clipboards, who pull back our dusty blinds to measure our rotted out, nasty old windows.

"Which do you like?" he asks, holding out a ring of eight or so types.

"Uh, this one?" I held out a mahogany-colored one.

"No, this one. I like this one." No? Like, it's not an opinion?

No, Erin. This is serious window shopping. Rolls his eyes. Mahogany? Who are you kidding?

And here, three months ago, it was just an idea I had. I've taken that idea, given it to a reluctant Dave and walked away, brushing my hands off. Now I get new windows. He gets the credit.

But he really does try to convince me that buying windows is THE BEST thing that'll EVER happen to us. It'll like, cut costs! It'll look nice! It'll help us sell our house when we do! It'll change our entire outlook on life! Everything will be clear and seen through double-paned windows!

Gloria! Hallelujah!

Just say no. Or at least "not before work"

My doctor recommended I take half of this one pill and a whole one of a certain kind of vitamin to make me feel better, to make me feel like a real person instead of one a bed-ridden woman with greasy hair, a bad complexion and smelly pajamas. I'm much too big of a neat-freak for that mess.

So, like a sucker, I bought them.

And wow. It worked -- the odd combination, the seemingly illegal mix of blue and white pills, it worked. Only, next problem ... that one half pill? It's a sleeping pill. And she recommended taking them two or three times a day.

If you've done anything like met me, crossed the street in front of me, glanced at me from across the room, you wouldn't think "that woman needs a sleeping pill." I assure you, sleeping is not the problem. I can sleep on command. Five seconds flat, zing, I'm in REM. Dreams, pillow lines on the face and all.

Standing in front of the mirror this morning, I held the half pill and the whole pill in my hand and decided one frying pan looked a lot less warm and full of oil than the other. I jumped. An hour later, I was walking around in a NyQuil-like fog at work. It was like everything I touched tingled my fingers a little -- ooh, magical highlighter! -- everything I heard was preceded by and followed with a "whooosh, whooomppsh" -- "whooosh, whooomppsh, We have a make-your-own-case on 41 Northbound, whooosh, whooomppsh." When I walked, my eyelids flirted with staying closed 'til I wondered if I was already asleep? And this was just my dream, this work thing?

A lot of people fail those pee-in-a-plastic cup tests because of drugs that produce lesser effects. Too bad for me, I wasn't one for trying drugs. Nancy Reagan and I, we're like this (crossing fingers, white man's overbite).

I saw another of my doctors today, is what

It wasn't until I made a joke about it to one of my prior doctors was that awkward, uncomfortable moment turned just awkward.

When you're in a grocery store and your doctor walks by, is she totally looking at you and thinking, "Oh, God, now that was one horrible case of the eebie-jeebies." Or whatever technical term is hot now.

"So, what do you do?" she asked a few months ago, putting on a glove. Snap.

Always at this moment of the exam I consider lying. I will talk about my embarrassing symptoms and I will be completely honest about it. But my job? People either hate their local newpaper or think it's utterly cool to work on something that lands on other people's porches and lines bird and hamster cages. It really is that cool.

"I'm, uh, a journalist," I say, putting my cold hands under my paper-gown-covered legs.

"Oh, really, where?"

"The Northwestern." (Like how I plugged our Web site there? I'm relentless. Ha.)

"Reeeeally." The doctor never says if "reeeeally" is good or bad, or if they don't actually work in Oshkosh and thus have no idea what I'm talking about. Also likely.

"Yeah."

"I always think that someone's going to write about their doctor visit."

"I'm always afraid you'll think of some weird symptom I had when I see you in public."

Touche, we both thought.

"I promise I won't write about it. It doesn't make for very good breakfast topics."

"And I promise I see enough of these that I'm not even thinking about who you are."

Still, when I saw my latest doctor/nurse today, I walked by with my head down. Just in case this one has a great memory.

It's like the Civil War series, only it's a different war and Lincoln wasn't there and most of the people are still alive

I've been watching "The War" on PBS, and as they get closer to Japan circa 1943, '44, I get a little more interested; I pay a little more attention to the people.

My grandpa was there, in Japan, which I always found kind of cool because everyone else I knew had a grandpa in France or Germany. Yeah, it's like a WWII snob. "Oh yeah? Well MY grandpa ..."

I talked to my grandpa about the war once that I remember. He showed us ball bearings he got somehow, somewhere. He showed us a whip, of all things; he slung it around on the deck while my cousins and brothers and I stared on, waiting for him to hit himself in the face. He showed us a shirt of his from his uniform. Later, we saw pictures in an album. A copy of one photo is hanging in our office at home; he's standing in his uniform in front of a big flowering bush; in another of mine, he's got his head stuck through two friends' elbows in a comical pose.

But show and tell's one thing, and talking about it is another. I don't know if he ever really tried, or if we ever asked. But I've never heard. It's just this thing now that the guys on the boats in the Pacific are doing in a kind of technicolor show on PBS. I keep looking a little closer, watching for him. And I have no idea what he did.

Still. It's interesting that Ken Burns did something that had more in common with my life than a few history lessons in high school. And no, baseball doesn't count. Nor does jazz.

How we had to watch a fuzzy "Seven Years in Tibet," which is making both of us slightly irritated

Last night I blogged about how nice it'd be if Dave were here.

I miscalculated football night.

"No football."

"It should be over by now," he said, flipping on the TV. "Until the 7 o'clock games start, anyhow."

"No pre-games, then."

"OK, OK."

Yet NBC comes on and wow, men are yelling about calls and games long over.

"Good thing this is the post-game. I'm home free."

"Dave. I'm going to bed."

"Can we watch baseball?"

Dude. We don't even get sound on Fox. Knock yourself out.

Hey, Jude

Dave starts his new schedule tomorrow, which means my life should be 17 percent better.

Doesn't sound like much, but after months of nothing but sports, late, late nights and dumb work schedules, I'll actually see him two nights a week instead of one. I won't be in R.E.M. sleep when he gets home. I won't have to listen to sports stuff; did I mention that?

I loathe not seeing him like normal people see their spouses (you know, eating supper together, watching stupid TV shows, etc.), but I like my schedule and it works ... So what can ya do. Well, funny you should ask. You can sit around and curse life. It's a popular choice. Or, you can sleep a lot. Maybe blog a little. Or read. Sometimes you can even like it, like when you want to watch "Bridget Jones" or anything with Jude Law in it. Yum.

Um.

But most of the time that's not really the case. I have more fun with Dave in real life than with Jude Law, most of the time. An aunt asked me if I thought this whole separation from him would inevitably make us stronger.

Because I probably newlywed-naive and I don't think about the status of my relationship with Dave -- It's just my life; he's so much a part of it that I don't make plans; we do. He doesn't talk about his life; he talks about ours. It makes strangers gag, but honestly, why should I care what strangers think of my marriage -- I didn't know what to say to her. "Yes? I guess I enjoy him more when he is here?" yet NO, because it's less that we get to do together. Stomping foot. Retreating to room. Slamming door. Listening to emo.

Since it can't be helped, I guess my answer is sure, because not seeing him isn't hurting anything but my day-to-day fun index. My marriage is fine. Dave's fine. I'm OK. The dog's fine.

Anyhow. Dave moves to the news desk again Tuesday, which means Sunday and Monday, he'll be here. Two nights in a row. Wow! Instant life improvement. Ha ha aaaaaaaah .... Ahh, it's funny cuz it's sad and true.

Whining for a moment, followed by a moment of pure ecstacy

After you come back from vacation, it's always a sigh, a shrug, a looong drive home, a quick night's sleep, a short shower, a nano-second's drive to work, followed by eight or nine long, grueling hours.

Checking 823 e-mails (true story, I had 823), listening to three confused, weird voicemails and one overly happy one, it's a dark, depressing look at the next 50-some weeks of your life til you get another week's vacation.

Here's where the bright side comes in.

Suckas, I won an extra week's vacation next year in the United Way drawing at work.

Yeah, that means SIX extra days off in 2008 because I donated the $120-some for that one extra day, plus the FIVE I won in that drawing.

Luck's on my side. Of course, I could drink half this glass of sweet, sweet victory and say that Dave won't be able to take off with me.

But, I think I might find something to do.

Yawwwn, my life's one big trainwreck of boring

But who cares, because I'm exhausted.

And I don't mean "Oh, pooh, so tired." I mean I tried to blog yesterday at 8 p.m., sitting the computer on my lap. Thinking, yawn, thinking about something to write, I closed my eyes for a second.

I woke up at midnight, ate some toast, then slept til 7 a.m.

And woke up again, tired.

"You slept too long," you say.

"You should turn off the lights and let a woman sleep," I say.

We got a hint

We didn't get very far out of my mother-in-law's kitchen before she mentioned there were a stack of booklets for me on the living room endtable.

"Over there," my MIL pointed from her kitchen.

I knew what they'd be before I read "Dwellings," "Sibcy Cline" and "Re/Max" on their covers, but I picked them up and flipped right to the mansions and refurbished castles, pretending I was in the market for a home with a sitting room and a walk-in wine cellar.

Ooh, home listings for Ohio. Who'd'a thought?

The magazines got shoved in a box, put in our trunk and sent off with what I'm sure was a wish or a prayer.

We're cold-hearted heartbreakers.

"Why pay for TV? You get three whole channels -- four, depending on the cloud coverage!"

We don't have cable, but after a week in the Promised Land (you know it as Ohio), I've seen the other side.

Like tonight, when NBC won't come in without doing that WRRRSSSHHHHHHHHH sound every time an important sentence is uttered or going to chasing ants whenever the answer to a question is asked in which they don't tell the answer like "And do you know the No. 1 reason women in their mid-20s get cancer? ... (Fade to ants) ... THAT'S WHY. Let's go to commercials."

Seriously. I would pay to see "Journeyman" on my TV instead of my computer a day later. It all makes sense to me now, why people pay for TV.

That, and my roommate from college who's just as frugal as I am has the Dish. Yeah, it's time. Peer pressure.

It's what we call a montage

I've taken more photos in the last week than in the last year. And, similar to last year, I'm posting a photo montage to speed you through my VACATION. My wonderful, too-short VACATION.

You'll have to add your own music to make it a true montage. I recommend a little Van Morrison but Billy Joel is always a good choice, too.

Thing is, looking at these photos, it's really not that exciting (with the exception of the shark attack). But today's conversation summed it up: "It's like God said 'here's Heaven,' and then he saw us and said 'WHACK! Get back to Oshkosh! Git!'"

Sigh.

Newport Aquarium, Tuesday: Dave gets eaten by sharks. Says word that's best left untyped. Erin watches from across the tunnel and half-smiles. "That should make for some good blogging," she thinks.

Newport on the River, Tuesday: "Let's pose like tourists."




Mom's house, Wednesday: Meant to last through the long Midwestern winter, Dave hands Mom a 7-by-7-foot crossword puzzle. Mom stares in amazement and annoyance.



Mom's house, Wednesday night: Not to be outdone by a 7-foot crossword puzzle, Mom brings up Stepdad Bernie's latest find: a 4-foot Santa that sings and dances. Grandparents refuse to take sides over which is better: a 4-foot Christmas decoration or a 7-foot crossword puzzle.

Grand Rapids, Ohio; Thursday: Mom, Dave and Erin go shopping. Find ceramics to paint, books to read, and a metal, randomly placed horse statue. Erin embarrasses herself by forgetting the adjective "well done" and instead using "just do it all the way" when ordering food.



The Bombshelter, Thursday: Good pizza. Bad football.




Oxford, Ohio; Friday: Nephew likes the dog (pictured) from afar, and Dave blatantly ignores the warning sign from the Equine folks.



Middle of Nowhere, Ohio; Saturday: Dave's parents moved to a place that takes "rural" to a 2007 meaning. That is, they're literally miles from Target. Oh, the humanity.

Let's do some dream analysis

I woke up this morning anxious because I thought I was late for work (first sour grape moment).

Then I remembered this dream I had right before I was so rudely woken up by my panic attack (sour grape numero dos).

I was coming back to WORK (three) and there was all this construction going on outside, all the roads were one-way roads and I couldn't get to the building at first. Then when I stumbled over some construction barriers and holes in the ground, I made it inside only to find every other flight of stairs inside was missing, so I had to gladiator-it or else find another way up. I found some hidden staircase and went to a meeting because it was 3 p.m. and I was really late. Then someone in the meeting asked me if I could sit in another meeting afterwards and I cried.

So, I think that means I either shouldn't go back, OR work owes me three hours more of vacation for ruining this one.

Gosh.

To: You.

Dear Wisconsin,

The weather is here. Wish going back to you were nicer. Time always goes too fast here in the Eastern time zone. Dave touched a shark yesterday. I pet a horseshoe crab. Will share photos when we return. Big ran a cat up a post, then ran from a 1-year-old child. Lots o' surprises going on. Seven-foot crossword puzzles included. Really.

See you all too soon,
Erin

I feel the need to be nice-slash-apologize for a second

We went to the Oshkosh Verizon Wireless to renew our plans, and we actually didn't get ignored.

A store in the city north of us never treated us like we were the ones paying them for service. More like we were interrupting them having fun, and we clearly weren't invited to the Cool Kids' Table so could we KINDLY move out of their line of sight??!

But this time, I got a cool phone (this silver one). We got a plan from someone who told us how to make it cheaper than the way we thought we wanted to do it and Dave got a new phone to fix the one he smashed without having to pay for a new phone, even though we didn't have insurance.

So. OK, I'm sorry for calling all cell phone companies "a notch above homicidal maniacs on the ethics scale." Maybe that was a little over-the-edge. Most of them are. We just hit them on a good day or something. Ha, ha.

That's how we do Gallery Walk

Dave's Gallery Walk was a success, actually.

I say "actually" because I was kind of nervous about having to stand there while I was tired, hungry and "blech" from all the crackers and cheese, while looking halfways intelligent as Dave talked about his photos and walked around; but actually, we knew people there.

Yes, they were people from work. OK, you got me. But they didn't all come at the same time, so we looked interesting.

Furthermore, people recognized me from my column in The Northwestern -- all good encounters except one. Hey, six out of seven isn't bad.

The "ew"-sayer stood on the other side of the table that was lined with an assortment of wine and cheese, and discreetly pointed at me to her husband while I pretended to be listening to the couple standing to the right of the point-and-whisper couple.

"She's that one," she said in a half-whisper. "She writes about herself and her life and being married." But she didn't say it in a way that meant she used my column for anything short of lining hamster cages and washing windows.

Tough crowd.

Oh. Better news. Dave sold five pieces. Now we can afford to pay the person we had frame and mat the pieces. Ha! He also had a couple "let me have your number"s (not from eligible women, either -- I mean to inquire about the art), and one inquiry from a man who wants him to possibly stage a home on a tour of homes coming up. Tres cool.

Tres glad it's over, so next time I can eat cheese for the enjoyment of it, and not just to keep my hands busy. Blech.

"Rikki, don't lose that number, it's the only one you own."

In preparing for getting this new, hot cell phone, I've been going through my old cell phone's book of names and trying to delete the ones I don't need anymore.

Like this Sara character.

She's got an Ohio number. She's not my cousin. She's not Sarah from work (as duh, it's an Ohio number). She was probably from some class I had in college, but I'm not sure why I'd transfer her number in 2005, after I'd moved to Wisconsin.

I thought about calling the number just to see who it was, but I didn't want one of those "Ooooh, Sara. (Rolling eyes, remembering she's from that women's and gender studies class in college who never did her fair share of work but wrote her name first on the reports and projects we handed in.) Wow. Long time. No talk. I've got to go now, Sara, bye bye."

Deleted it instead.

My husband, the messy artist

Dave's been running around town to make new prints, get photo enlargements and pick out new, artsy (expensive!) frames before the Gallery Walk on Saturday.

He's driving me crazy a bit.

Last week, it was "I saved 20-some photos on your laptop desktop. Can you put them in either the 'yes' folder or the 'no' folder?" and "Why did you put THIS one in the 'no' folder? What's wrong with this one?" and "If you're going to second-guess me, why don't you just pick your favorites in the first place?"

Then it was "this print looked better on the computer screen," he said, holding up this photo.

Now it's "I'vegottogetallthisdonetodayorelseI'mgoingtopanic." So Big and I have been forced out of our own air-conditioned home into the mugginess that is global warming -- oh, I meant October -- because of the mess he's created. A line of photos, frames, framed photos, measuring tape, mat board, backboard, pencils, plastic wrapping, tape, a drill, some wire and hooks, and a cup of coffee stretches from our front door to our back door, enveloping the kitchen table.

It's kind of ridiculous how anal I can be about messes. It's more ridiculous how I pretend that mess doesn't exist! It's just not there! Because behind the back door's curtains, I can't see a thing.

Dear God, it was just a joke. Please don't send lightning.

Since we moved our antenna to the bedroom, we get PBS -- which means, hello, "Antiques Roadshow."

I love that show almost as much as a Ken Burns documentary. I lost sleep over it, actually. Usually I'm out by 11. One o'clock rolls around and Dave and I were still giggling over our own interpretations of the antiques.

"Wow, look at that armoir."

"She doesn't have any teeth."

"Maybe the armoir is worth a bunch and she can buy some ... Come on, look at that fine German craftsmanship -- Mama needs some new molars!"

Bad, bad people.

He's so fun

Instead of just enjoying my ring too, Dave decided that we should really celebrate our anniversary.

See, we're all about celebrating. Gives us a reason to do the things we feel guilty doing otherwise -- eating out at a restaurant that doesn't advertise during Inside Edition.

We're rarely in public together and when we are, we're with people from work, which means Dave's Work Dave and holding hands with someone you plan stories and centerpieces with is about as exciting as it sounds. So when we're alone, out of the house, I savor that moment.

Anyhow, Dave's "mushy" and "cuddly" and all those manly adjectives, more so than me. He's a hand-holder initiator, a random I love you-er and a "You look nice" kind of guy. I'm more of a too person. Yes, let's hold hands. I love you, too. You look nice, too.

Tonight, he initiated a trip to a restaurant in Neenah and we had wine and pasta and laughed and didn't even talk about That One Place once. It was like leaving Oshkosh gave us this sense of leaving everything -- all that stress and life -- and since Dave was the only one I knew (and wanted to know at that moment, to be honest), it was like ... like ... nice.

And yeah, I liked his dish better. His mama raised him to be a gentleman, he said "I'll switch you, if you want." And I wanted. And then I had everything perfect for a good hour-and-a-half.

Then I came home. But whatever. He's still here. That's the best part.

Mushy, everywhere.

Picked last in gym class

So apparently I've been tagged.

The rules:

1. Post these rules before you give you the facts.
2. List eight random facts about yourself.
3. At the end of your post, choose (tag) someone and list their name (linking to their page).
4. Leave them a comment on their blog letting them know they’ve been tagged.

1. I love documentaries. I'm watching Ken Burns' WWII one right now. (Yeah, we moved the antenna to the upstairs TV and, suddenly, we get PBS clear as anything. Choices! My God!) The New York series, the Frank Lloyd Wright one, the Civil War. Nerdy stuff, man. Nerrrd-y.

2. I have a weakness for red wine, but I'm embarrassed when my teeth and lips turn purple because of it.

3. I rock at keeping secrets. I like to hold on to them in my back pocket and come up with comebacks in my head. Saying them out loud cheapens the moment.

4. I like some country music. Le sigh.

5. I'd rather listen to the sound of nails on chalkboards than the sound of whispering. Probably goes back to junior high. I whisper because I know it's annoying.

6. I miss having a close friend who lives close to me (or me to her, if you want to be technical) -- the one who saw me making a jerk of myself at parties in high school and college and liked me anyway, the one I grew up with and still likes me despite my nerdy stages, the ones I can talk on the phone with every so often for an hour-and-a-half and still feel like I didn't miss anything. Sob.

7. I get more angry over how big of Neanderthals people can be rather than what they actually say/ type/ comment on my blog/ say with their eyes/ call me at work to tell me/ do to berate someone else in front of me.

8. The perfect day is watching old movies on the couch when it's chilly and rainy outside. Or, riding in the convertible my stepdad has on a mild summer day with my mama and Dave and Bernie, and eating pizza that night. Hooray for Friday afternoons and vacation.

And I tag Christoph! and Kristen. And posting here's fine, you secret bloggers, Facebookers and onlookers. Or not. Whatever.

Take Me There

I have no shame. Want to hear the most embarrassing thing of Sept. 30-Oct. 1? OK, twist my arm.

I bought the new Rascal Flatts CD.

I know, I know.

Country, yeah. I bought it. And not only did I put money down on the counter (figuratively, who actually uses cash, seriously) and walk out of the store with my first CD in about a year (I heart iTunes), I loaded it on my iPod and listened to it. All day.

When you saw me in the car this morning? I was listening to it. When you saw me laying out pages? That was Rascal Flatting, too.

It's good. Shameless. OK, maybe a little shame.

It's preeeeetty!

I picked this little thing up tonight. Just, you know, thought I'd share. After all, it is my annivers-mas-day-valen-sweetest-ary gift for 2007 and 2008.

It's my blog and I'll write long posts if I want to

I've been married one year, give or take 13 days. And coincidentally, I have been working on this list of items that I like about being married, and there are 13 today. I think it's a sign. I'll post here.

1. During the good times, it's really, really good. It's home-y. Comfortable in a good way; "moring" even. And I like moring. There's wine and laughter and games, movies, books, trips, grocery shopping, cheese omelets, napping, taking walks ... All that. And that stuff's pretty easy with Dave, because he's (grab a bucket) my best friend. Tear, tear.

2. During the bad times, we don't die like I thought I would. Life doesn't stop. There are no dramatic stomps down crummy apartment hallways made in a drunken haze at 3 a.m. with friends holding your hair back as you simultaneously vomit and scream "But I love him! Why does he have to be such a jerk!"

Let the record show, I've not actually been that girl. Right hand. Scout's honor.

Anyhow, I may not see him more than an hour or so some days, he may want to hide my body in the attic when I politely nag him to PLEASE put away the laundry he said he'd put away LAST Sunday. We have had exactly one real stomping-upstairs, "I don't want to talk about it," "Fine, me either," bump-into-each-other-in-the-kitchen-and-scowling argument (which, for the record, I'm blaming it solely on not seeing him*). And after said argument, he went to work, I went to bed, we woke up and kept living. You don't die. It just keeps going.

*See, if he's not here a lot, then I should be really moody when he is here because he's just going to leave again in 45 minutes, right?? Remember that woman? I'm sure you dated her in college. Anyhow, she made a brief appearance a few weeks ago. And remember that "FINE!" guy you dated in college? He was here, too. It was awesome. We were a few teeth too-many for a trailer park fight, unfortunately.

3. I like how we have a new five-year plan every year. And how when we're either really angry or really happy, we make it either a one-year plan or a seven-year plan, respectively. And, no, the plan does not include divorce. Ha. I'm such a planner that I mentally jot these things down and use them to get through the weeks. "It's OK, Erin! Three years, one month and two weeks to go!"

4. He used the B word, the K word and the P word last month, and it wasn't an "as if" joke. Think about it.

5. Sure, I'd give him a kidney. Maybe even one of mine.

6. I like his family, they seem to like me, and mine likes him. That was something new for me.

7. He doesn't make plans and tell me what he is or we are doing. There's no "Oh, Friday, I'm going out with (three guys who can burp the alphabet)." There's "should we call (two people who maybe could burp the alphabet, but stopped doing so in public when they hit 25)?" and "What do you feel like doing?"

8. If someone passes me wearing Dave's aftershave or Axe stuff, I do a mini-gasp because I expect it to be him.

9. When we eventually, someday leave Wisconsin, we can reminisce and say "We'll always have Oshkosh." Not too many people could say that with a straight face.

10. When we're in bad moods, one of us will sing to the other "Lydia, the Tattooed Lady" (Groucho Marx's song). Lydia, oh Lydia, say have you met Lydia? Inside jokes are cool.

11. I think he likes me. I mean, I know he loves me, but I think he likes me, too.

12. I don't really like people. He does. This means when someone needs to make a phone call or order a pizza or talk to a salesperson, he does all the work while I stand off to the side, looking intelligent and aloof. We're a good pair.

13. He's mine.