In the end, they just changed it in the system and I went on my way

Dave's not dying. Whew. Or, if he IS dying, he's doing it at a rate that didn't scare the doctor he went to see today. I'm glad it's just another infection because I'm kind of attached to Dave. I mean, who's going to get me water at midnight when the floor's so cold and the bed's so warm? That doesn't read well in a personals ad. "Widow seeks mate who likes to do minor, annoying things like get me things I can get for myself but am too comfortable to get."

Amen.

So because he gets me water at midnight, I went to pick up his prescription at Wal-Greens tonight. "All you need is my birthday and my address." I'm his WIFE. I know those things! So I confidently waited 20 minutes in line to get it for him. Ah, marriage.

But as I stepped up to the counter and stated his name, I faltered a bit when she found a prescription in the "W" bin and put it back.

"What's his address, again?"

I told her the street name and number once more. It happens to be mine. I'm familiar with it.

"Hmm ... Not on Brookview?" she asked.

I was getting some static from a past life, but ... no. I'm fairly sure the man who gets me water at midnight also LIVES in my house, and I don't live on a Brookview.

"It says 136 Brookview Drive, Apt. 88; Toledo."

OH. THAT.

No, ma'am. I'm pretty sure it's not the same Dave. Because I never would've married someone who had a shower curtain so dirty that if you took it off the rod, it'd stand on its own. I'd never marry someone who had a pile of dirty? -- maybe dirty? let's smell and see -- clothes in his living room, while all the drawers of his dresser stood open, empty, a few feet away. Nope. I never would've married someone whose apartment I was in for exactly seven minutes before my warming feelings toward Dave started to cool. Or gag me.

So, no, ma'am. I'm pretty sure that's the wrong Dave Wasinger. Brookview Drive Dave is dead. I killed him with my sweet looks and my "no, you'll have to clean up or move out, because I'll never come hang out there. It's SCARY."

Working on New Year's Day rocks

And I'm not even kidding.

While all you suckers are nursing hangovers or watching football, I'm getting my holiday out of the way for 2008. It's a lame holiday, anyhow. Obviously, all the fun was had last night.

And because I'm a nice person who likes to share my good foresight, Dave's here too. See who's laughing on Memorial Day now, suckers.

Oh, wait. Maybe you still will be. I will be seven days away from giving birth, provided it happens on that day. Oh, right. Well. Still. Amazing foresight.

Hello, 2008

Well, we're officially less exciting than my parents, who celebrated the new year.

Unfortunately the $150 copay plus the prescription we got after going to the emergency room on Saturday was all for nothin', as Dave now feels worse a day after taking his last antibiotic. WebMD.com is telling him he's got everything from a teeny, tiny case of cancer to SUDDEN DEATH, PLEASE REPORT TO THE MORGUE NOW.

Sooo, my romantic, last-New-Year's-Eve-before-the-baby was spent with Dave on the couch after he got home from work, listening to him go "ughhhhhhhhhhhh" and "But what if I AM DYYYYing?"

He didn't die. As a matter of fact, he's quite alive, quite ably doing the front page right now, as I take a short break from working on New Year's Day.

His death was narrowly skirted, and we went to bed by 10 p.m., and slept 'til 10 a.m.

The most special part of the whole night? Getting to explain to Dave that just because the thermometer said his temperature was 95 degrees didn't mean his temperature was 95 degrees. Ahh, sigh. It just means, sweet Dave, that you can't take a drink of water before you try measuring body temperature. Really. Yes, that cold water? It affects the temperature in your mouth. It's science. You can't argue.

Next time I'll tell him about how to take a baby's temperature. I would've last night, but ... well, he was already in a fragile state.

So Dave was in pain

I'm going to write this so Grandma doesn't blush. Or, I'm going to try.

Dave was in pain Friday night. He came home from work, grunted for hours, kept us both awake, then moved downstairs to the couch to grunt in peace.

At 3 a.m., and once an hour for the next 15 hours, I asked him if it was time to go to the emergency room.

"No, I'm too embarrassed."

"No, what if it goes away?"

"No, it's too expensive."

"No, it's getting better, I think."

"No, I hate hospitals."

Well. I won, eventually, because I sat watching two episodes of "Cops" last night in the waiting room of an emergency room that looks happily nothing like that on "ER."

"Erin? Would you like to go back to see Dave?" a nurse asked. "Oh, Dave said you work at The Northwestern, too."

I gulp, never knowing what that means. "Yes."

"Cool."

Nice.

She leads me back a quiet emergency room to find Dave sitting on a bed, arms above his head, watching the History Channel.

"I got a CAT scan."

"Oooh. Neat."

"Yeah."

We waited for word. Dave thought he was dying. I thought he was a dummy for waiting. But, either way, 20 minutes later, we left with a new understanding of Greek history, a feeling of being violated on Dave's part, and a prescription for a low-grade infection.

So what did we learn? One, I show my love for him with an irritated "WHAT? For God's sake, if you're dying, I will be so PISSED" at 4 a.m.

Two, I show my rational thinking at 4 a.m. by thinking "I swear, he's probably dying and I'll have to go to that financial thing to find out how to be a single mother."

And three, he must have a low threshold for pain -- you know the sound of men grunting as they're lying, bleeding on a battlefield after being shot by a musket or something from old history shows?

He sounds just like that. YOU try to sleep through that.

Hallelujah -- We've been saved

Here's how the money works in our house.

I make some, he makes some, I collect bills in a slot for our envelopes, he pays bills at the very last second, every time, like he's surprised that -- oh my God? Erin? This one's due on the 1st too! Again! Every time. Dang.

Admittedly, I have little idea how much those bills are unless I open them; he has little knowledge what day of the month it is, so we often pay bills RIGHT on time. Exactly on time.

Saving? Well, yeah, we have one of those accounts. I don't recall ever putting money in it since we opened it. But see? I'm SAVING it. And checking account? Yup. Retirement fund? Uh, I have ... something set up through work. I couldn't tell you what it is, or what it means. Or what those student loans have left on them. Or what Dave's do, though I know he has more than me, and even though we're married, that's all the same headache.

My credit card's paid off. His isn't. I have a car payment. He doesn't. But we will soon. No, it won't be a minivan.

That about covers it. Oh. The mortgage. I've got one of those.

So. We've got some money stuff.

And now? We've been SAVED.

Remember that pre-Cana thing I just mentioned the other day? (Here's my original blog about the marriage class ...)

Well, one of the presenters/ counselors/ speakers from that whole thing just called. Apparently, the free financial counseling session we all were entitled to for going to the pre-Cana class is still good. And, what's that? Our number just came up? YESSS.

He told us in June 2006 he'd call in like six weeks, so after we didn't hear from him after that, I kind of thought he hated us, or maybe noticed we were unmarried and shared an address? That's OK. He's over it now, and thank God.

We need some help. I picture myself dumping my money stuff from a shoebox onto his desk, and him saying "No, no, don't do that!" and "Yes! That's what I call saving!" And there will be singing! And rejoicing! And counting of coins in tall stacks with green visors.

I don't know if you knew, but babies cost money, and we have 23 weeks and five days (according to my online pregnancy calendar) to find some money. I'm so ready for this money thing. Help me, man.

This was almost as good as finding his old love letters to an ex

I've talked before about how Dave's mom's saved everything from Dave's first dental X-rays to a sheet of wallet photos from his junior prom, but the bin of treasures she dug out of their basement went so far above that expectation that I couldn't do anything but shake my head.

I'm not sure why anyone would keep items they weren't sure what they were or where they came from. Posters. Cereal boxes. School notebooks. Avon cologne bottles.

And now's not the time to talk about "Antiques Roadshow." I'm not talking about "AR"-type finds.

Over the last few years, though, from our moving to Dave's having to carry items from the top floor to the basement, I've convinced Dave that a good rule of thumb is, if you forgot you had it, you probably don't need it. I've trained him, my words like a shot of water in a squirt bottle, poised for him to say "Should I keep this?" ZAP, ZAP, "NO -- ROOOOOAAARRR" ZAP, ZAP. He's drenched on the floor, one hand extended to the garbage can by the time I'm done shooting him my looks.

But standing in his mom's living room, it was different. He hovered over the black garbage bag, pitching 75 percent of the treasures his mom had lovingly saved as she and I watched from our seats near the fireplace. Yet in came his dad, reaching for an Avon cologne bottle amid the garbage. "Hheeeyyyy, what's this?" he asked, holding it up.

"Erin's not letting me keep it."

"Why not? This is probably worth something." And that's how the Avon bottle ended up on top of their fridge. And how my life was rid of it.

Now, watch. It'll be the ONE bottle that's worth something, and when his brother or sister realize it's on top of the fridge, there will be an all-out war over who gets to show PBS the coveted item.

Say what you will, but people don't realize that gobs of wallet-sized, one-pose-only, professional prom pictures of Dave and a girl named Jamie lead to happiness that can't be measured in money alone.

Always thinking

We exchanged gifts already since we'll be out of town before and working during Christmas. It was one of those really romantic evenings with the fireplace going, Harry Connick Jr. on the radio, perfectly wrapped gifts and champagne.

Or, Dave just finished "wrapping" my presents five seconds before he said "wanna open them now?", we flipped the volume off "Clash of the Choirs," and we're not much for champagne. Or having fires, since that'd require burning my house down. Or Harry Connick Jr. since he has a tendency to sound like a herd of elephants if you don't listen, put all your energy into listening to his damn Christmas songs -- and I just don't have the energy for that.

Anyhow.

I got my ring, of course, and "Mr. Big got me" a gift certificate, a couple shirts, a pillow, a CD. I'm so good to that dog.

And because I'm such an awesome wife, I got Dave tickets to see the Foo Fighters in Detroit in February, the same day as my baby shower and Dave's birthday. Convenient, huh? Dave thinks he got the tickets because he's such a good husband, or maybe the hormones swung in his favor for a minute, or maybe I just had a stroke of good planning. Maybe. Or maybe it's my way of saying "This is the last time, buddy. Enjoy it, my friend. En. Joy."

What dog whimpering? I don't hear anything

Sleeping's my favorite. I can do it anywhere, anytime, no advance notice, no darkness, no quiet. Just give me five minutes and I'll be out. Bam. I'm GOOD at it.

Or, I was. Now I tend to not get comfortable. And when I do, I havea few things on my mind. I never understood when my college roommate or my mom would say they had trouble sleeping, or slept like crap, or had so many problems or issues on their minds that they couldn't sleep. Now, I get it.

I fall asleep fine. But I'm painfully aware that I won't be sleeping like a champ that much longer. When Big wakes us up whining at 4:45 a.m., or throws up in his crate three feet from my bed, I'm reminded that another human being will be doing similar miracles. And then I can't get to sleep.

Sometime around 6 a.m., I'll give up and fall asleep .... til my alarm goes off at 7:45. I hate it.

But it is giving me plenty of practice time -- practicing my pretending to be REM-ing. REM-ing accompanied by sharp, unconscious jabs in Dave's back; jabs that lead him to get up and take the dog outside. At 4:45 a.m. Marriage rocks.

This blog brought to you by soy farmers

I thought I was doing really well with mood swings, til Dave came home for his dinner break tonight.

I saw the dishes in the sink and was so paralyzed with feelings of overwhelming stress at the stack of dirty dishes that instead of rationally washing them, I turned the light off and ran away.

So when Dave got home, he got me on the couch, angry for no good reason other than I had eaten today, and that had created dirty dishes, and couldn't he SEE what was WRONG with that?? It doesn't stop. It NEVER stops. As soon as you have the sink clean, you get hungry. I will be 98 and still angry about this.

He trepidly asked what I wanted for dinner. Easy. I've been craving ravioli and homemade garlic toast. Easy enough. Only we don't have garlic salt.

We went through our timid dance of I-don't-know-what-do-you-feel-like-eating began, and we settled on cream of mushroom with soy crumbles and instant mashed potatoes.

Only he didn't tell me we didn't have cream of mushroom. But! But! Erin! We have cream of chicken! Tastes the same! Only, no, it doesn't. Because you don't put chicken and beef in one pot, so you shouldn't put cream of chicken in something that's supposed to resemble beef. And there weren't enough mashed potatoes for us both. And the sympathy soy chick'n nuggets were overcooked and couldn't be chewed through.

So I did what anyone would do. I grabbed my napkin, held it to my face and bawled. Uncontrollably. Because nothing's going right! And it's almost Thanksgiving and I want to see my mom! And the pile of dishes is bigger! And I have to go to work tomorrow! And none of my pants fit! And the mashed potatoes are getting cold! And I can't taste them because I'm crying too hard! And Dave wasn't helping!

Probably because he was scared to death. Hi, his wife just fell apart over her chick'n nuggets. He'd touch my shoulder if he weren't afraid I'd bite his hand off. He'd hug me if I hadn't put the kibosh on that for reasons you probably can only appreciate if you've been pregnant.

Poor Dave. He did an awkward side shoulder hug and a "shhh, shhh" thing, probably praying for the phone to ring or for a meteor to hit the house. It didn't, but I calmed down and ate and he grabbed his scarf and coat and kissed me goodbye sweetly, and then it was over.

I think he'll come back ... I hope so, anyhow. Cuz I'm not doing those dishes.

Written Nov. 17

Yay, Dave

Morning sickness is a weird occurrence, because I get it when I'm hungry, tired or otherwise standing still. In the morning, I find it hard to get out of bed -- remember that time you were so tired you thought you'd lay down and never, ever get back up? It's that feeling, plus vomiting.

Now picture yourself at 6:45 a.m., leaning over feeling like that, wondering if you already asked Dave to get you toast or if you were just hoping you did.

He doesn't move. You assume you just thought you did.

"Dave?"

"I'm going," he says, eyes closed, mouth barely moving.

Though you didn't ask, he knows what to do. Why? Because he's Dave, the poor sucker stuck lying next to you night after night, waking up to your "I'm thirsty"s and "Could you get me some toast?"s. And he's the kind-hearted guy who goes and gets them without much complaining.

Everyone should have a Dave.

Written Oct. 29

Noooooo, don't make me goooooo

I'm all about home improvement (the act, not the show), and I'll admit that nothing quite brightens my day like the smell of paint drying. Paint that I didn't put there. Paint I wanted there, and ordered Dave to put there. See, I'm very specific about the scent of my drying paint.

Since Lowe's opened in Oshkosh last week, a mere five minutes from our house, Dave's been a madman.

"Let's go tomorrow after you get done with work."

"Wow, I call that incentive."

"To get done earlier?"

"No, to get lost on the way home."

"Come on! It'll be great."

"I'll bet!"

He's decided that tomorrow, just because!, we're going to pick out molding for the kitchen, new toilet paper holders for both bathrooms (because the ones we have are jiggly beyond repair, and he wants fewer moveable parts), a towel holder for the downstairs bathroom, and the mower we'll be getting next spring.

Wooooooooeeeeeeeeeehhhhhhh! A new mower! All right! Let's go now! Let's go tonight! Let's talk about weed control! Let's talk about blades! Let's talk about oh-my-God-I'm-so-bored.

I had a penchant for home improvement-type stores right after we bought our house, but since, oh, October of last year, that kind of returned itself to the "boring" pile of my life. He's going to ask me to pick out the siding we'll get when we're rich, or the type of windows we'll get in our next house, I just know it. God, wake me up. I must be having a nightmare.

Thank you, thank you, tip your waitresses

"There wasn't a lot of dark meat on this turkey."

"No, there wasn't," I say.

"But I guess that's more on the drumsticks. This turkey didn't come with drumsticks; it's more of a guitar player."

I laugh.

"Whoa, I thought you'd think that was stupid."

"It was. That was awesome."

You can't help yourself at all

"What should I write about this week in my column?"

"My backache."

"No."

"The broken water heater?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"It's boring."

"The possibility of 40 gallons of water gushing into your basement isn't boring. We're LIVIN' ON THE EDGE, BABY!"

"Oh my God."

I know I'm lucky he cooks. That's not the issue here.

Our marriage is a good one; we laugh, we share secrets, we stay up late painting each others' nails. Dave promised me I wouldn't tell you that (oops!) -- I'm always doing that, ha, putting my perfectly manicured foot into my mouth.

But I've mentioned before that if he asks me what I want to eat for dinner one more time, I'll chop up his body and put it in the wall, and then calmly call to order pizza. (That's a lie for three reasons -- one, I only commit murder never, so that's out; two, I only order pizza online because I hate talking to them on the phone; and three, we have plaster walls. Messy to work with.)

The other night, we came to a point in the conversation where our fighting over what we were going to eat for dinner escalated to almost-death. I don't KNOW what I want, DEAR, and you standing there with the freezer door open doesn't HELP. And the fact that he gets an hour to eat leaves us with quick! Hurry! Make up your mind! options. This is why we eat macaroni so often.

"I'll just make something myself," I said after 10 minutes of "No ... No ... What do YOU feel like eating?"

"No, come on. What do you want?"

"I DON'T KNOW."

"Chicken?"

"No time."

"Tuna pasta?"

"I don't LIKE tuna pasta."

"Well I don't know ..."

"I SAID I'd feed myself!"

Growl, divorce lawyers on the phone, cereal bowls hitting the countertop with see-I-mean-it force ... Oh, yes. Even I felt uncomfortable with all the loud noises.

Luckily, Dave has the good foresight to see we can't live like that. So sometimes, like tonight, he grabs something he knows I hate (pork in this case), and says "I think I might just eat this ... is that OK?" Asking nicely so as not to tick off the crazy lady! She's batty! Crazy lady!

And the suddenly, without fighting, I get choices. So many. I get waffles. For dinner. And no one had to die.

I'm serious. A Monday can be made or broken on our 10-minute supper conversations. This is why God invented second shift for Dave, Crock Pots and toaster waffles. Because I love Dave ... Just not while I'm in the kitchen, too much.

But see, then we eat and the fight's gone and my belly's full of waffles and life's good again. Funny that.

It wouldn't be so dismal if we got the Charlie Brown Thanksgiving special on TV

We've not been alone together for Thanksgiving ... ever. Yet.

It's like that one last frontier; that last "first" day we've got to share together. Or maybe it's not that dramatic.

For the sake of blogging, let's say it is that dramatic. Because it's a holiday -- pre-Christmas, if you want to get Erin-Technical -- filled with mashed potatoes, gravy, mashed potatoes, pumpkin pie, a little turkey, mashed potatoes and cranberries. Oh, and family. It's supposed to have that, too. And we'll be sharing it here, in our quiet house, probably eating take-out or ordering pizza from some lonely pizza place that has a skeleton shift on for all the losers like us who order out instead of waiting four or five hours to cook some bird.

I'd say I was excited about it if it weren't so anticlimactic. Nothing feels like a holiday when you don't get to go anywhere for it. The good news is, I like Dave, so I guess that part won't be so bad. I guess. Gooooosh. Bring on the Trivial Pursuit and KFC mashed potatoes. Yum.

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."

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!

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.