Get me some snow pants.

This work thing is pretty funny. I mean, it's like, something you just have to do. Every day. Man, when God was passing out silver spoons, I must have been in the bathroom. That's so like me.

And, get this: regular workers don't even have snow days.* ("No way!") Yes. It's true. I listened by the radio for a half hour today, just waiting to hear my workplace's name, but they never said it.**

Snow days were the best when I was in school. My brothers and I would sit by the radio, just waiting: "Ada, Bluffton, Coldwater, COLUMBUS GROVE, Cory Rawson, Delphos, Elida with an 'E,' Kalida with a 'K' ..." Yessssss. That school closing report is permanently stamped in my brain, filed under "happy memories."

We'd go sledding, watch movies all day or talk on Instant Messenger. Sigh. Those were the days.

Then came college. Shffttphst. Yeah. Like I was going to go to class if it were snowing. Or had snowed. Or looked like snow. Or if the sun was shining too brightly off the snow. Riiight. I'd sleep, or watch movies all day or talk on Instant Messenger. Those were the other days.

But, a smart aleck or my stepdad would argue that those days didn't pay the bills. Er, I mean, if I lived like those days now, I wouldn't pay the bills ... uh ... whatever. There's always someone who comes by and snows on my parade.

I suppose the whole world can't come to a stop on account of a little snow. But what if it could? Huh? What. If. I'd have to get me some snow pants.

(*For real.)
(**Not actually true.)

The new urban legend: "... and they didn't even have a Web site." ("Whooooaaa.")

I love instant gratification. Love it. If there were ever some meltdown of communication where cell phones, the Internet and, heck, even (what do they call those things?) landlines all stopped working, so would my heart.

I was a kid/teen in the '80s and '90s. Life sped up from 1980 to 2000, and that's a scientific fact. The Internet changed from telephony to Instant Messenger. Car phones turned in to Zac Morris phones, to cell phones. Letters turned to faxes, into e-mails. And I love it. Every bit of it.

It's like living in a VCR (remember those, ha) where someone's always pressing fast forward. If I have to wait longer than a few hours to hear from someone over e-mail, I panic. Well, first I text message them, and then I panic. The point is, all this is great, but it's made me a pretty impatient person.

Gather 'round, children, by the campfire. Erin has a scary story to tell.

Since we no longer pay rent in Michigan (thank all that is holy), we got a refund for the rent we paid in December. Problem? The money wasn't all there, because the rental company said we didn't pay for rent in October. Uh, yes we did. Naturally, I screamed a bit to no one in particular, then went online to my online bank account to fix the problem.

But the bank's site was down. For like, 48 hours. I'm not even joking. This stuff happens, apparently. Can you even believe it?

So I went to the bank. Yeah, in person. (After I Googled "banks in my area" to find it.) I talked (face to face!) with the bank teller. She gave me proof that I paid rent, and that the rental company had cashed the check at the beginning of November. Erin's right. Score.

So the fiance and I call the rental company. They can't help us. It's out of their hands. It's in corporate hands. We ask for corporate's number. They can't give that info out. They tell us to write a letter. WRITE A LETTER. And mail it. No, that's not a typo. Mail. Not e-mail.

Are they kidding? What company doesn't have an email address, a Web site and an 800 number?

What kind of company are they running, anyhow? Don't they know it's 2005? Almost 2006?

As a child whose generation has never known life before M*A*S*H reruns, answering machines, MTV and CDs, this just can't be happening. It's as if I stepped into a time machine, and can't get out. Where's the "take me to 2005" button?

This can't be happening. It's an urban legend. WHO DOESN'T HAVE A WEB SITE? Who. I want names.

One-way ticket to Mom Jeansville.

I'm kinda finicky about my clothes.

I find a pair of pants I really, really like, and then I go buy another pair just like the first pair (or maybe, if I'm feeling adventurous, in another shade), in case one gets ruined in the washing machine, or I want to wear the same kind of pants a few days in a row.

I don't rewear clothes before I wash them.

I fall into slumps with my clothes. I get one "look," and it's pretty much the only look I'll have that week. Or two. Or month. You get the point. I just realized last week that I have a "Monday" outfit and a "Friday" outfit. I realized I have a routine, and that routine means I must do laundry on Saturdays, with one load on Thursday night if I decide not to rewear a pair of pants.

It's a science. And it's pathetic. I am old. I am old before my time.

I am supposed to be on top of my fashion game. It's only a matter of time before the waistline of my pants creeps up and I have the "mom jeans" look: high waist, straight through the thighs, tapered at the ankles. I'm heading toward mom jeans faster than I should. And it scares me. I don't ever want to end up in Mom Jeansville.

Why? Because once you lose your sense of fashion, that means you've crossed the line of no return. It means you're no longer hip. I'm scared of losing my cool factor. How am I supposed to hang out with my friends back home if what I've become is a 9-to-6 worker with a 401(k)? What will happen to my well-deserved "street cred"? ("I'll tell you where it'll go, Erin. It'll go out the window if you ever use the term 'street cred' again.")

You may think it's no big deal. "Just don't buy mom jeans."

It's not that easy. Mom jeans aren't a fashion choice. They're a lifestyle. It starts with "I have a Monday outfit and a Friday outfit," and it ends at a minivan.

I'm just not going to be that grown up.

So, for the record, you will not see me in my Friday outfit this week. I'm shaking it up. And if you notice I'm falling into a pattern, would someone please intervene?

Comfy as a big sweatshirt. A Febreezed sweatshirt.

Comfort is a big thing to me. I need to be comfortable in relationships. I need to be comfortable in my job. I need to be comfortable in my apartment. With people. With friends. In my clothes.

Basically, it's a big deal. It takes me a while to feel comfortable. When I started living with my college roommate, I wasn't comfortable until all the firsts were out of the way: the first disagreement, the first paying of the bills, the first cleaning of the apartment, the first witnessing a fight between my then-boyfriend.

When I started living with The Fiance, I wasn't comfortable until he'd seen me cry, until we'd had our first disagreement, and until we turned the air conditioning on. Then I was comfortable.

But there's a line, and it's fuzzy. On the right side of the line is the "I think this is still kind of weird" phase. You're polite. You're clean. You do nice things. You go out of your way to not bump into each other in the hall. At the line, it's "This feels right." And on the left, "You really, really, really need to get acquainted with the clothes hamper. Now. And by 'clothes hamper,' I don't mean 'Febreeze.'" On the left is spills on the carpet. On the left is leaving a mess in the kitchen. Not taking out the trash when it starts to smell bad. Not remembering there are clothes in the washer .... for a few days.

When the line gets crossed, I'm immediately quiet. An angry quiet. I can only imagine being 75 and still picking up dirty socks. (I'll housetrain him yet.)

But, the comfortable part about it is (read: why I don't kill him), after that angry quiet, it's OK. And happy. And laughable. It took a while to get to that point, but I'm here. I'm lounging. I'm gellin'. I'm comfy.

"Home, home in the frozen tundra that is Wisconsin," or "A lot of unanswered questions"

It's official.

I am a Wisconsinite. Or Wisconsonian. Or Wisconsiner. (Whatever.) I have a Wisconsin driver license and license plates. I have figured out what a frontage road is (silly Wisconsin roads), and I like cheese. Yessss. I got it down, pat.

I've not been an "official" resident of any other state but Ohio since 1993, when I hailed from Kentucky. Northern Kentucky. In an area they call "Greater Cincinnati." I'm NOT talking Appalachia, here.

We're getting off track. Point is, my whole center-of-my-universe has shifted. Where is my home?

Wisconsin is my new residence. Oddly enough, or perhaps this is normal and it just feels strange to me, it doesn't feel like home yet. I haven't had the sense of "home" since I was in high school, living at "home." When people ask me where I'm from now, where am I supposed to say? Ohio? Wisconsin? Anyone?

How long do I wait before I can tell people I'm from Wisconsin? I'm not a fan of the over-explanations. "Where are you from?"
"Well, Ohio, originally, but I moved to Kentucky for seven years, then back to Ohio for 12, then to Michigan for six lousy months, then to Wisconsin..." It's supposed to be small talk. It's not a life story. So when can I drop the backstory? When do I tell people I'm a ... uh, whatever Wisconsin people are, instead of a Buckeye?

When does that warm, cozy sense of home sink in? You know, the one that makes you feel like your home belongs to you and whoever you're living with, and you can put your dirty clothes in a pile and have them be just that -- dirty clothes -- and not like, another reminder that you (or your fiance) are the only ones in the whole world who will wash that pile of dirty clothes. Boy, the world is a scary, lonely place. Ha.

Do you have to live in a place a certain number of years for that sense of home to hit, or is that something you just "know"? Or, sadder yet, is that cozy sense of home just a place we thought we had, but was actually just an illusion?

I'd like to think Wisconsin will start to feel like home soon. I plan on sticking around a while. I'll be married soon. I'll get a dog soon. I hope I won't be renting that much longer. Then will it feel like home, when it's ours, and not a landlord's?

So many questions. So few answers.

I hope this isn't something that adults spend their whole lives chasing -- that sense of belonging. I belong here because I am making myself belong here, and I'm happy here. But I have no strong emotional attachment to Wisconsin yet. A little attachment. But not a big one. I'd defend Wisconsin on the playground, but when push came to shove, I'd be hiding behind Ohio's back all day.

Give me time. I think it's time I need. (Or is it?)

I have an $18 license that says I already look like a Wisconsonian. Wisconsinizen. Wisconsinun. Whatever. I have an $18 license that says "hey, kid, you live here." Here in Wisconsin.

Getting lost is an everyday thing for me now.

I don't think I can stress enough how much I miss really knowing a city. Take getting lost, for instance.

There's the whole map thing. I'm horrible with them. I can map out a trip just fine, but when I get behind the wheel, suddenly my internal compass goes awry and I'm turning left to go right. Does that make sense? No? Well, it doesn't when I'm driving, either. I can't hardly get to the grocery store without a big hassle (read: someone in the seat beside me). I can drive to the mall 20 minutes away like nobody's business, but that's a whole 'nother story.

But "getting lost" also means "getting lost in conversation."

When you're with people you know well, talking about subjects you know well, you feel so in control. At least I do. But I can't talk politics or "Did you see that thing that ran in The Blade?" I can't do it. There is no Blade. And I don't know who anyone is. I don't know the backstories. I haven't followed any 200-part "Coin-gate" series on anyone like The (Toledo) Blade has been running for the last century. (Sidebar: Please don't, under any circumstance, put "-gate" behind any old scandal. Let's reserve it for Watergate. Seriously, Blade, it's not creative. It's lazy. And annoying. End sidebar conversation.)

I feel lost.

When people talk about mayors or politicians, congressmen or the local police chief, I am already in over my head. Ask me about Ohio Gov. Bob Taft (who has the lowest approval rating of any governor in Ohio history, and in most states' histories)! Ask me about Carty Finkbeiner (Toledo's soon-to-be "let's try this again" mayor who has his own Trivial Pursuit question ["Which controversial Ohio city mayor suggested moving deaf people to live near the airport to reduce air traffic noise complaints? CARTY"]!

This is stuff I know. Granted, there's no big election I need to be studying up on, and I'm not really all that into voting ("Huge Democracy Geek Even Votes in Primaries" -- not I).

But mostly, I'd just like to be able to follow a conversation, and get all the jokes.

Or, I'd like to be able to get to a grocery store without someone going "turn left. No, I said 'left.'" Riiiight. Left.

"Grocery Shopping," the epic struggle featuring Erin and The Fiance, only on DVD

I am neither old, nor am I a mother or a hubbard, but my cupboards are baren. I'm talking one box of macaroni. A can of ravioli. Some pineapple (for the boy, not for me). Some bread. And meat, c/o the Stepdad.

But because I don't cook meat (The Fiance does the cooking) and the leftovers are gone, it's about time for another round of "Erin and The Fiance Get Groceries" (you'll find it in the straight-to-DVD bin at your local Family Video).

We're horrible grocery shoppers. We walk in, list in hand (and by "in hand," of course I mean "I wrote a list by hand and conveniently left it at home"), into the store, telling each other "we're only spending 'x' amount of dollars" (and by "x" we mean "x + y + z = a lot more than x" -- neither of us is very good at math).

We start at the back of the store and make our way up to the register and, lo and behold, everything just looks so good -- to him. "Let's get this." "No." "How 'bout this? Will you try this?" "No."

I'm a real pleasure to grocery shop with, let me tell you.

I know what I want, and I know I want mass quantities of it. Macaroni. Grapes or kiwi or whatever fruit I'm into that month. Chicken. Fruit 'n grain bars. Juice. Soy meat crumble thingys. Cheese. Eggs. You know, the basic "get me through the week" kind of food, and the occasional "bad day" food (when I'm having a bad day, to cheer myself up, I make Velveeta Shells & Cheese, as a sort of hug to myself). That's it. No fish. No weird vegetables. No weird dinners. I can't handle new food. It's gross. And, because we're semi poor, gross food = wasted food = wasted money.

It's a no-win situation for The Fiance, who has to feel like he's on a bland diet. Yet every week, we keep going back to the store, going through the same motions. I can't send him by himself. We end up with off-brands that aren't preapproved by me (par example, Kraft and Wal-Mart macaroni is OK, Roundys is not), or he spends too much money, or he forgets stuff.

I can't go by myself. I just ... don't like to. So what is a young, poor, starting-out couple to do?

Keep writing the lists. Keep going to the store. Keep buying a mixture of his and her things.

Or else starve.

You spelled that wrong - EXPOSED

As I've been telling people about my blog, I realize my Web address actually has (seemingly) little to do with my actual blog. Or does it? The plot thickens. **Cue lights, music.**

In school, spelling divided people from the two or three who could spell words such as "ostentatious" in sixth grade from those who'd heard a rumor about hard words, but didn't quite believe such words existed until their fragile 12-year-old egos were frying under the bright lights on the stage in front of the whole school, and parents and grandparents. Eek.

I was the kid who knew how to spell it, but misspelled it on purpose. I hated being on the stage. I was terrified of having to go on to county, then districts. I didn't want to be one of "them."

But I was one of them. I just didn't know it. The principal would say (mockingly, I swear) "I'm sorry, that's incorrect." And there'd be whispers. But I'd blush and sit down, heart pumping, and be glad I was done.

And spelling bees weren't the first time I missed out on something. I'd been asked to spell some easy words in first grade for my teacher, Scary Ritchie (there was an urban legend that she had rags to wipe the boards because she used to throw the erasers at kids and someone died). I was in a split class; half the class was in first, the other in second. I misspelled the words on purpose because my friends in the first grade got to play, while I was reading with the second graders. Come on! That's not even fair!

And then there was the time I didn't want to go to the "smart kids" school every Wednesday so I failed the test, in case something happened with my mom (or my belly or my ears or my clothes) and I had to go home immediately. I felt claustrophobic because I wanted to be at the school by my house, not on a bus out with smart kids.

If I had spelled those things right, would I be in the same place I am today? I don't know. Maybe they weren't tests so much as insignificant times in my life that I choose to hang a lot of "what ifs" on. I'm just about to the point where I am completely happy with my life. (I need a dog, and in a few years, some kids.) Will I let go of the "what ifs"?

Will I keep spelling things wrong because I'm scared? I don't no. I gues wu'll sea.

Getting to know youuuu, getting to know all about youuuu

Another Monday has come, and I don't have anyone here to make me talk.

Look, it's nothing personal, but before 9 (really, before noon, but I understand that I have to be able to deal with people in real life) I just don't feel like talking. To anyone. The Fiance will try to make jokes. I'm not jovial. He'll ask me questions. I don't want to answer. I want to scowl, pout that I have to be awake and yawn a bunch. It's what I do.

Today, he had to work early. Now it's kind of quiet here. I kind of miss the noise. But only a little bit. Is this part of the "getting to live with you" phase, or is this just me being a moody person? I think a little of both. The College Roommate gave me 20 feet each morning, Monday or not, because she, too, isn't a morning person. It was nice. We'd dance around each other, avoiding eye contact until she'd had her coffee and I'd had my Apple Jacks. Then when I started to work at the college paper, I'd work until 4 a.m. and not wake up until noon (tough life, i' twas), so she'd already have four hours of life under the proverbial belt before I'd even showered. She'd walk in from her morning classes, and I'd be laying on the couch, skipping one of mine. But I'd be in a good mood by then. It'd be past noon. I miss college.

I guess I'm going to have to put on a cheery face in the morning and be nice about it. But why do I have to pretend? I'm a nice person. I pay my taxes, I hold the door for strangers, I don't even get road rage. Is it too much to ask for a little alone time in the morning?

I hate Mondays.

I don't know why this is funny.

I can't stop laughing. But this is from Toothpastefordinner.com.

Sorry for wasting your time. But if you laughed, you're welcome.

Hands down, second best day of my life.

Yes. That's right. I'm done with Michigan. Holy Toledo. That's a $680 lifesaver, not to pay rent there again. EVER.

And it's Friday, which always makes me happy. I got paid. I picked up the new car today (she's beautiful). The Roommate from College got her first job. That's neat.

But I came home, all excited, and I didn't quite know what to do. If I were in college, I'd run through the door and scream "LET'S GO OUT! NOW!", like I did after a hard test or ... well, like, every Thursday.

How does a twentysomething with a real job act/do? Eat pizza? (Tomorrow.) Shopping? (Tomorrow.) But what about the big night of celebration? Um, I'm doing some laundry, watching some TV, hanging up Christmas ornaments that The Fiance's Mom sent up (which could be a whole blog in itself. I'm cool with sharing a closet, cool with sharing a bathroom, but I am NOT cool with all of his Christmas ornaments. I pick out my ornaments with a 10-point checklist: "Cool? Check," etc.; needless to say, some of his don't match some of mine. How does one decorate a tree (or five) with a significant other's ornaments? I think he'll notice if I put them all in the back, against the wall.)

I admit, I'm a little bummed about not going out. But would it be the same? No. I couldn't come home and eat pizza rolls with my roommate. I couldn't see everyone from school, and know everyone I was with. I couldn't be the loud, fun person I am when there's loud music and fun people around. And when I think "I wish I could go out," I mean to Mutz. You know, Toledo's Mutz. Downtown. Karaoke, smoking ban, people I know, etc.?

Is that part of growing up, too, "settling"? I don't know. But ... a small, adult part of me is really enjoying the scent of clean clothes and, boy, do I fit right into that loveseat, or what?

Or. What.

I'll be cliche to write one in three weeks. Now? Cool.

I'm gonna mix things up a bit. You know how at the end of the year, there are all these "top 20 of 2005" lists? The classic, overdone end-of-the-year lists?

Well, I'm gonna do an "end of 11 months" list. The "11 at the beginning of the 12th month" list. (Gee, that's catchy.) (I had to do this list now, so it wouldn't get lost in the shuffle at the end of December.) At the end of December, I'll be writing regular, intriguing blogs while everyone else will be makin' lists, thus making my blog more interesting. (Erin wins!)

Bear with me.

Here goes. The top 11 moments in the last 11 months, written at the beginning of month numero 12.

1. High moment: I got a job. I got engaged. Those were pretty good, I guess.
2. Low moment: Signed a year lease in Michigan. In April. Look how well that turned out for me.
3. "Ewwww" moment: At my farewell concert, some guy stage dove and almost died. Oh, the blood, sweat and tears.
4. "I can't believe I did that" moment: Saw "Eternal Sunshine" and cried for two hours after that "because (sniffle) it's just so SAD!" Lesson learned? Don't watch "Eternal Sunshine" in front of people.
5. Exciting moment: Question mark. (Hey, I still have a month.)

(pause for dramatic effect)

6. Scary moment: You can either read this or you can just take my word for it: it involved a few mice, the East side of Toledo (scary in itself), and me. Screaming.
7. Sad moment: When Billy Joel said he was going to retire.
8. "Dang." moment: Trying to think of an exciting moment a few minutes ago. Dang, that was hard.
9. Lie-filled moment: When I wrote #3. It wasn't my farewell concert. Just the last show I saw in Toledo. Dang.
10. Cheesy moment: I just ate a whole box of mac 'n cheese. I wish I were witty (and had a big will power) enough to be making that up.

(I think they call this "the kicker"):
11. Moment I realized I thought I'd be in a waaaay different place in almost 2006? Now. I can't believe I'm going to be - ah, ha, ah, I almost gave the age away. I can't believe I'm going to be another year older in about a month. Where's my money? Where's my entourage of "Sex and the City"-esque friends? Where are my six-pack abs? My book deal? My book, for that matter? Dang.

My 16-year-old self would be so angry at me right now. I mean, I have a real job! What happened to the Peace Corps? Speaking Dutch? Marrying someone rich?

Oh. Yeah, real life. Forgot about that one. Dang.