I'm still standing, and so is the apartment building.

I freaked out a bit today. Only for a few minutes. But I couldn't help it. It was one of those moments where the ol' fight-or-flight response kicks in -- blood pressure rises, cold sweat, heart stops, then beats really fast. Then, you realize there isn't really a threat in front of you, and you calm down, and get really tired.

Yeah. One of those moments.

At work, we hear all the tragic things on the scanner -- like fires.

I am terrified of fire. I wouldn't go running away from a campfire, and I'm OK with fireplaces. It's more the losing everything in a fire that scares me. It happened to my friends. I just can't imagine. Well, I can. But I don't want to.

But, alas, the "fire" call one of our photographers went on wasn't to capture all my possessions going up in smoke.

Nope. It was people putting up drywall. Apparently that causes smoke. Someone panicked. I'm glad I don't know that someone. They'd get punched. Or a dirty look. Probably a dirty look, as I've never hit anyone, and don't think I'd start with a stranger if I were to pick up the habit.

All I know is this: my apartment is standing, and I need to chill out. But come on, how many times can a girl stand having firefighters running through her building?

Not many. I'm guessing about two.

Why do Dec. 25 what you can put off until Jan. 21?

Well, homesickness, you're about to meet your end. At least for a bit.

That's right. I'm going home for a hot minute. A really hot minute. Friday, immediately after work, I'll be on the road to Ohio (don't have to take the long way through Indiana, either, as we're going to northern Ohio, not southern Ohio this time), until Sunday afternoon.

Why? (Trumpets blare) Because it's the annual Christmas-in-January party. Late January. Yes. For a few magical hours, my aunt will pull a three-foot fiber-optic tree from the closet, put on some Bing Crosby and we'll all eat a whole Sam's Club-sized jar of green olives. It's tradition. When we're done, she'll unplug the tree, put it back in the closet, turn off the CD player and call it a ... year.

Why January? Because my dad's family is notoriously late for everything. I'd tell you a true story about my grandma (rest her soul) being late for her own funeral, but I don't think it's as funny typed out loud as it is in my head. You get the idea.

"Why do on Dec. 25 what you can do Jan. 21," that's our motto.

But, for a brief minute, I'll be home. I'll see people I don't see but once or twice a year, and I'll eat more olives and more Jell-o than you'd have thought humanly possible. Provided I don't get sick (Grandpa has ... uh, unique food-storage ideas), it'll probably be good for me. I'm not even dreading the car ride this time. ("Whoa.") Yeah, I know. How can I? It's Christmas. Sort of.

Hey, maybe I can get them to celebrate my birthday again, too. Whoa. Now I'm thinking.

I have a 401(k). I can't be cool. Not even online.

I'm talking online to my cousin right now (yeah, on instant messenger ... I hadn't logged on in so long my program had to be updated from a version that relied mainly on smoke signals). We come from a family of a lot -- there are at least 138 of us cousins, so we're not that close. Plus, he's in college, and he's 20. And he's in Ohio.

Anyhow, I logged on to the forgotten means of communication (oh, the memories), and was looking for someone to talk to. Someone. Anyone. Bueller. I looked through my list ... but everyone was offline or away. They had their witty messages up: "drinking, cavs game and random acts of debauchery," "shaming the downstairs neighbors and buying drink mix," "woo hoo! no school tomarow" (HE spelled that wrong, not I).

Basically, your college/frat boy/editor of a college paper on vacation/do what I want kind of messages.

But my cousin was online and I had a random question to ask, so I asked him, which led to a friendly "how is life" conversation.

What did I learn? I am rusty. Oh, so rusty. And, I forgot how addicting IM is. I was online for "just a quick five minutes, then I have to go to bed," and that became "oh, crap, it's midnight." MAN.

I'm spelling out words. I'm capitalizing. I'm using punctuation. What was "Pr'y be over @ 10 k?" became "Dearest Adam, I shall be over around 10 p.m., if that should suit you."

Not the exact words. But you get the point. I'm out of the loop. I am old.

I didn't even know what to say at first. What were the kids talking about nowadays? Was Weezer still cool? What's the hot "phrase"? Can I say "hot" phrase, or is it "cool" again? Can I still use the word "marinating" to mean "just hanging around", or was that passe?

I need to chill. Or, I need to stop freaking out about getting old.

So I asked him what the college kids were up to, half being facetious, half serious. He said he was doing something with a highlighter and a black light (uh, OK), listening to Fall Out Boy, and he said something called drinking was still popular, from what he heard.

Sugar, we're growing up. But I have Fall Out Boy on (the older version of) my iPod, and that still sounds normal -- as in, I'm out of college and listening to bands he knows. (Though if he reads this, I'm sure the CD will turn into a coaster.)

But, after talking to him for a half hour, I was talking/typing just like the kids do. Or trying. Faking it. Dang it. I feel as if I've been had.

But, oh, the memories of the wasted nights spent talking on IM.

Isn't ... this ... one? Uh ... (cough).

As Big as it gets. As in, Mr. Big.

So, it's over. I'm officially another year older, and what do I have to show for it? Not much. But I don't have even a smidge of a hangover, which must mean I've either grown up or I just know when to stop. I think a little of both.

It was a nice birthday: the fiance got me flowers, books by authors I like, a subscription to Jane and Elle, which is just awesome. He got me chocolates, always good, and made me cupcakes. Oh, and he also left his manhood at home and went out and bought me a Carrie Bradshaw purse -- Carrie Bradshaw, as in "Sex and the City" Carrie Bradshaw. And he actually went out and said to the lady at the store, "My fiance likes 'Sex and the City;' I want to get her a Carrie Bradshaw purse." So I got this vintage, fabulous, gold clutch purse. For a Midwestern girl, this is as Big as it gets.

And a friend from work got me balloons and a gift bag full of goodies. And people said happy birthday. And Mom and my stepdad sent me flowers. And Dad and my stepmom called. A friend from work made chocolate cheesecake. I went out for chicken wings with people from work.

But what was missing? The phone calls.

There was this awful "Dear Abby" letter I read in high school that made me about want to die. It was the Debbie Downer "Dear Abby" to beat all Debbie Downer "Dear Abby"s. It was about this grandpa who was alone on his birthday. He had to go to the store or something, but didn't, in case someone stopped by. He didn't eat because someone might come over and take him out to eat. He didn't go out of the house because he didn't want to miss any phone calls, he stayed up really late in case someone stopped over, he went to bed with the door unlocked in case his kids happened to drop by. I mean, dang, Dear Abby, that's a hard core letter.

But that letter made me call people on their birthdays. Parents. Friends. Brothers. My widowed grandpa.

But this was the first year I didn't get those phone calls in return from everyone. And I'm not talking about people I don't keep in contact with. I was fairly sure college friends wouldn't call, and they didn't, and I'm OK with that. I don't think I called them, either.

But others whom I thought would call didn't. I'm kinda upset about it, dang it. I didn't sit at home and dwell on it; it didn't ruin my birthday, and I don't want pity; it's not that big of a deal. I realize people have lives and those lives don't revolve around Jan. 13 being my birthday.

I had a great time last night. Hung out with great people, took some great pictures, had great chicken wings. But, to be honest, because I think that's the point of blogs, I have to say I'm homesick, and that didn't help. There, I said it.

But, because I want to end on a happy note, the fiance and I are pretending today is my birthday. Ergo, today will be fabulous. I'll live it up, or something less nerdy-sounding. 'Cuz, dang it, I have a dry apartment, a Carrie Bradshaw purse and 22 cupcakes left.

I've been tagged, and I didn't even have to run.

I've been tagged, which apparently is like my least favorite playground game (next to Red Rover) brought to life online. I'm OK with it though, because no one can tell how out of breath I am (unlike when we play tag outside).

Here you go, Internet. Five random things about Erin. And I'm calling no tag-backs now.

No. 1: I have a rare form of obsessive compulsive disorder.
I don't think they even invented it yet. It's the "get really, really excited about one thing, and don't let go and do it a million times, then throw it down after a bit and don't touch it again" kind. Luckily, I'm not really that way with people. But it is kind of difficult; I go through phases, and then they're just over, just like that. I'll eat Apple Jacks 176 days in a row, then not touch them for years. I'll listen to one CD for six months, then never be able to go back and listen to it again.

No. 2: Secret (only it's not anymore, since I'm telling you) guilty pleasure: Watching shows such as "Three Wishes" and "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition."
OK, now, come on, I don't sit there and like, TiVo them (I don't have a TiVo), but I can't stop looking when I see it's on. It's not like I sit there and go "awww"; I pick on them, and go "Oh, I am SO sure that really happened, I am SO sure," but the truth is, I cry at the end. Almost every time. And I hate myself for it a little bit.

No. 3: I carry around scraps of paper with cryptic notes on them.
They're story ideas. I write short stories. I'll get a good idea, usually when it's not convenient for me to brainstorm and write, and write "Garage door: neon sign with blue burnt out: his great aunt," on a napkin or gum wrapper, which makes perfect sense to me at the time. Later, I go "man, that was dumb." I end up using only the parts I can read.

No. 4: I can't do math. Like, at all. And that's why I'm here.
I failed elementary algebra. I just can't do it. So I went to the University of Toledo instead of Bowling Green State University, because UT doesn't require any math above elementary algebra for journalists. I'm a journalist partly because I was an education major and then a psych major, and they both required calculus. I go to extreme lengths to not do math.

No. 5: I read Joyce Carol Oates.
A deep dark secret in itself, it is not. But I do it for two reasons: 1. She's pretty good. And I could live to be 87 and not have all her short stories, plays and novels read by the time I'm 45; 2. I feel smarter when I can pick out all the places and things she uses all the time -- rivers, towns, landmarks, she's big on recycling.

You asked for it. That's the scary truth about Erin.

And, I'm going to do a general tag. Mainly because I don't know too many people yet. Yet. So, uh, tag.

I'll have a blue, blue, blue, blue chicken wings experience (sing to the tune of Elvis' "Blue Christmas")

One of the funny things about moving to a new city is comparing its "constants" to the old city.

We, the fiance and I, decided to check out one of our old college classics tonight (or, rather, its Appleton counterpart). The first thing we said was "It's so tiny!", then "What's with the Elvis music?" "Does this taste funny to you?" "Toledo waitresses were much prettier," "This isn't mild sauce ..," "It smells like smoke in here," "The menu's different."

We seriously sounded like senior citizens comparing the good ol' days to the horrible times we're living in now. It was pretty pathetic.

And, truth be told, it wasn't bad food. We enjoyed it. Elvis, not so much. But there's something about going to some chain bar or restaurant that makes you realize they're not ever going to be the same as the place you call the original. No matter what. It had the same menus, the same food, same employee uniforms, same look, same motto, same floor mats. But it's not the same.

Sure, that sentence is sad in some ways -- our friends won't be there, the waitresses we know won't be taking our orders and seriously, what is up with Elvis? Seriously. And, yes, I can look at the good side of it too; the cheesy "we'll always have Toledo" moments, and the "thank God we won't be seeing that one guy here. Ever" times. But mainly, it just feels weird.

It feels like we don't really belong there; or at least not yet. I prefer to think "not yet." Or "we'll find a new place."

But chain restaurants are different from the usual bars and restaurants. It's almost like we should have chosen a Wisconsin original; that way we could have just pointed out what's new to us, instead of what's weird to us.

And, seriously, bar and restaurant managers, before you decide to play 17 Elvis songs in an hour, look around. See a bunch of people under 30? Elvis isn't your man.

It's decided. I'm staying in Oshkosh for my birthday. Rejoice. Rejoice.

I'm going to tell you something you won't believe.

I was happy to go to work today.

Yes. Happy. As in, "What happened to Erin? It's a Monday; she hates Mondays."

After this weekend, I wanted nothing more than to be able to leave my apartment. Work was a break from torn-up, pulled back, wet, stinky carpet, and the huge fans ballooning the carpet up, "drying" it out.

But, I also was interested in participating in life today because it's one day closer to my birthday. Birthweek. Ha. And I've decided I'm not going home. Tearfully, I decided I'm not. You know why? Well, logically, because the fiance can't go and I don't want to drive by myself all that way, but also because I've had x number of birthdays in Ohio (all but one; one was in Paris). I haven't had one in Oshkosh yet.

While I'm confident midnight will come around and I'll feel exactly the same as if it were an Ohio birthday, I'm also a teeny bit excited I get to do more than the usual Ohio birthday stuff (you know, your standard Ohio birthday stuff -- singing, dancing, wining, dining, cake, a movie, etc.).

Apparently there's this bar in Oshkosh that gives you a mug on your birthday. I can use another mug, I guess. And a few people from work have already said they'd come along. OK, two. But I haven't really told anyone else yet. And it's different. Look, Mom, I'm trying something completely new!

I cannot tell a lie; I will miss my mom, I will miss Rediscover and We Are the Fury at their concert in Toledo (oh boy will I miss them -- come to Wisconsin when you go on tour in March, lazy rock-'n'-rollers). I will miss my friends. But Ohio, it's not meant to be. February, baby. February. Or March.

I only hope people miss me and come to Wisconsin to visit. I'm not THAT OK with staying. I may be almost another year older, but I've still got feelings. Heart. Soul. Wet carpet.

"The Great Flood of 2006," or "How Erin and her fiance almost lost everything because of some drunk guy"

Some days I wonder if I'll ever run out of things to talk about in my blog. I'm not out of ideas yet, but what's to say when I'm 37 I won't just wake up with nothing to say?

But, anyhow. I have something to say. Multiple things to say.

1. When you are drunk, it is an extremely bad idea to cook.
2. When you are drunk, it is an extremely bad idea to cook with grease.
3. When you are drunk, it is an extremely bad idea to cook with grease when you live in apartment 403, which is directly above my apartment, and it's incredibly idiotic to put the grease fire "out" with water. That's fire safety 101.
4. I am going to punch you in the face, 403.

Last night, the Fiance and I decided we were going to stay in, have a nice quiet night at home. We did. We watched "Alfie," or at least we tried. We were in our pajamas, I was ooh-ing and ahh-ing over Jude Law, when suddenly, the fire alarm went off. I'm not talking "smoke detector" alarm. I'm talking the big alarm. I didn't know what was going on, but it sounded like the tornado drill alarm my high school had. I decided a tornado in January was unlikely, so I put shoes and a sweatshirt on, grabbed my coat, a blanket I've had since birth and a tiny cedar box my mom and stepdad gave me, and we ran outside.

A good friend of mine in college lost everything in a fire. I kept thinking "what did Sarah say she missed the most? Grab that!"

And I'm not sure if people thought it was a joke, and thus no one called the fire department, or if the fire department was just taking its good ol' time, but we stood outside for 20 minutes, freezing, waiting to see if our building was going to burn to the ground, or what, before they showed up.

I guess you could say it was a good way to meet the neighbors. We met the guy next door, the girls down the hall, the old lady below us, and a guy from Michigan (he seems nice, but I didn't tell him about my hatred of that state). We even hung out in our next door neighbor's apartment for a little bit, hours later. (I didn't just give away the ending, the best is yet to come.)

The fire department came, and the landlord hadn't left a key for the fire department to get in the building. Illegal. Or at least a really bad idea. No one was inside, we were all in the rear of the building, so the building manager ran inside to open the door for them. It was another 45 minutes before the alarm turned off and we were allowed back inside (and I thought I'd escaped fire drills, having not lived in a dormitory in college). The landlord never left a key for them to turn the alarm off. (They also did up all the fire escape routes backwards, rendering them useless, and didn't have any plans for fire watch, etc. All in all, the building manager saved the day, and the landlord ... uh, is not around.)

Then the worst part: I had face cream, white face cream, all over my face and no one told me. Ha. True, but no, it gets worse.

Yes, it gets worse: our apartment was flooded. The (insert your favorite explicit word) upstairs' sprinkler system had come on, and flooded his apartment, which leaked to ours, which pretty much ensured we weren't going to sleep much that night.

Our carpet, our nice, new carpet, is soaked. Our precious aparment -- water poured down from light fixtures, air conditioning ducts and covered hole thingys in our ceiling. Our couch is saturated on one side. Our washer and dryer are in standing water. Our bathrooms were flooded. We have buckets all over, but it's no use. It smells so bad in here.

And the whole time, through the running outside, the standing in the cold, the coming back inside, the watching of eight firemen barge into my apartment with squeegies (and then declaring it a lost cause, and walking out), I just kept thinking of the column I'd written for The Northwestern today. I mean it so much more now.

I want my own place. That way, if it burns down or gets flooded, I won't have to punch anyone in the face but myself.

And, if you're wondering, none of our major stuff was ruined, though we're out of towels, and our ceiling is bubbling. The building manager and his wife offered us an air mattress and more towels. We're doing laundry in the empty apartment across the hallway. Service Master is coming to clean our apartment (though the ceiling is still dripping ...). Insurance guys have already been here.

This is ridiculous. Wisconsin, I expected so much more from you. This is Michigan-type stuff.

What have we learned? Getting a new house will be AWESOME. And grease fires are best put out WITHOUT WATER.

Should I stay or should I go now? (Raise your hand if you have that song in your head.)

Next weekend's the big weekend. Yup. The big twentysomething-er turns another twentysomething year older. One could make an effective argument about it not really being that big of a deal. I wouldn't. I love birthdays, almost as much as I love the holidays, snow and macaroni.

But, unlike years past, I don't know what I'm going to do. I have no plans. I'm living like a rockstar, and I'm the least rockstar-esque person I know.

I like plans. I like to know what I'll be doing at work the next day, week, month. I like to know what I'll be wearing the next day before I go to bed. I like to know what I'll be eating at a restaurant before I even go. Choices and indecision are overwhelming, sometimes. Jan. 13 is turning out to be a little overwhelming. Yes, it's a Friday and I have to work, but I usually drag the birthday out a day or two, or week, as was the case last year. Birthweek. Ha. Work's not the problem. It's that weekend that has a big question mark on it. I don't like a whole lot of question marks.

A few friends talked about coming here from Toledo, but that's not for sure. Two of my favorite Toledo bands are playing -- in Toledo. Mom makes good cake. In Ohio. But so does the fiance. In Wisconsin. I just don't know what I want to do. If I had a jet, this would be so much easier. Should I stay? Should I go?

My stepdad says birthdays aren't a big deal. That when you're an adult, stuff still needs to get done, and there's no cake or presents or balloons. By that philosophy, I'm doing just fine. He may be right about a lot of things, but I don't think this is one of them. I'll get done what needs to be finished. But then it's me time.

I'm old enough to not want balloons, but I'm young enough to want a big to-do. Or a smallish to-do. Or at least no question marks. Something. Anything.

I am ashamed ... so I'm going to write a blog about it, so more people know

I wrote a column about it.

I thought if I had the public humiliation of not keeping my new years resolution, I'd be more motivated to follow through.

But, alas. It's happened, just as I predicted.

I am unmotivated. I joined the Y. I went to yoga. I even liked it. Yes, liked it. Genuinely. It wasn't scary, it wasn't too hard, there was good music, it wasn't too hot or too cold, there weren't any shady people there. It was nice.

But I just couldn't get out of the office fast enough to go again tonight. I could have left and came back, as I did last night. I could have just left, and done the work I had to do for tomorrow morning. But instead, I watched the clock, one part of me saying "Oh, you so have time to go," and the other going "Wow, I wonder what I did with that one paper" (when I knew where the one paper was), thus taking up precious time, 'til -- oops, too late. So I thought, well, I'm going to go home and ... uh, blog about not going to the Y.

I am ashamed. If you could see me right now, you would notice my cheeks are blushing. A - shamed.

How do normal people do this? How does one get up off the couch/office chair/whatever and go? I have the desire to feel better/look better (although not that much of a desire, apparently). I have the means. I've been there before, I know I like the class. There are even Christmas lights there (for ambiance, yoga's taught in quasi-darkness) -- what's more to love?

What's my deal?

Dang. I had expected to run out of motivation. I didn't think it would have come so quickly. But I have no excuses on Saturday morning. What else am I going to do, anyhow? Sleep. Oh, right.

But just in case that public humiliation thing kicks in ... I'm making a public statement. I'm going. Saturday. Wish me luck.

Passing the baby, or "I'm glad it's over."

Brace yourselves. This is going to come as a shock to some of you.

I'm glad the holidays are over.

I'll give you all a minute to gather your thoughts. (Twiddling thumbs, whistling, looking at the clock ...)

OK. Yes. It's true.

The girl who starts counting down days until Christmas on the fourth of July is glad it's over. Why? Because I can get back to life. I was just getting used to my "new normal" when the holidays came and shook things up. I want to go back to adjusting to my new normal again.

It didn't take long for me to grow tired of the faster pace at work and the short work weeks. I'll take five days at about eight or nine hours each over two or three 24-hour days (yes, that's an exaggeration). My regular pace seems "normal" now, which is what I want. I feel like being more creative, and I'm not even back in a regular work week yet. I had Monday off. I want to be at my job again. (Whoa. "Who's the new girl?")

In school, missing a day or so of class meant doing homework outside of school. No matter; many can attest I didn't much go to school anyhow, and therefore the hour or two I spent doing homework was nothing to me. Jobs I had before didn't require that much reorganizing -- if I missed a day babysitting, someone else took care of the baby and kids. If I missed a day at the book buy-back, someone else was there. The school newspaper took a bit more shuffling, but worst-case scenario, Erin goes on a long-weekend trip to Cincinnati, someone was there to pick up where I left off.

As you might have gathered, no one is there to take care of my baby now. My job, that is. Not my actual baby, of which there isn't one. Calm down, man. And I like that. I like being in control of something, and it's challenging, blah blah blah. All that good stuff.

Sure the apartment is bare and colorless (gee, it couldn't be the colorless walls, could it? See my column Sunday at thenorthwestern.com for more on that ...), and there aren't any holiday specials on TV, and my holiday cookies are getting stale (I got a lot of them. A LOT.).

But I sleep better. And longer.

Good thing the fiance's worth it.

I like being home. When I'm not at home, I think about how much I'd like to be there, and when I'm there, I think about how much I don't want to leave. It's cozy. It smells like candles. I have a fabulous blanket. There's macaroni here.

This feeling increases on Sundays (or Mondays that seem like Sundays), especially when it's raining (as it is), and dreary. There's nothing more I'd like to do than to sit and read some short stories, watch some old movies and hang out in comfy clothes.

No, this isn't another one of my infamous "Mondays are horrible" blogs. This is worse.

My home has been invaded.

By men.

Wearing shoulder pads and helmets.

It's loud. There are whistles. Crowds cheering.

And static from the TV.

Yes. It's football. On my TV. In my precious living room. My cozy, smells-like-candles living room.

I want to run away. I can't really explain it, but just hearing the sounds of football makes me want to cry. It's a boring sport. It takes forever, and there are like, five seconds, tops, where there's real, actual action. "Let's all line up on this line, OK, now let's run into each other, and then stop! Stop! Everyone, stop! Let's line up again. No? Time out? OK. Let's do the instant replay. Yesss. And make sure the broadcaster uses that 'weee-weee-weee-whoosh' sound to let everyone know it's a replay."

It's a red-light, green-light game gone bad.

Luckily, the fiance is working today, so I don't have to put up with watching it. But it's my day off. I wanted to watch mindless TV. And I can't. We only get NBC. Noooo ....

Luckily, this year wasn't too bad. We're out of our region for most of the Bengals games (hey, the fiance's from Cincinnati), and he goes to "Man Day" on Sundays to watch football with some guys I work with, so I get peace and quiet at home. It's like heaven for a few hours, because I know if he were home, I'd have to listen to the weeee-weeee-weeee-whoosh. I don't like the weee-weee-weeee-woosh.

I thought I had March Madness to look forward to for the first time in my life this year (since CBS has the rights, and we don't get CBS) but, as it turns out, even if you don't get CBS, you can watch all the games you want for free online.

My life is ruined by media.

But, ladies, there is a light at the end of the tunnel. The fiance got me these huge headphones for Christmas. And, good news -- he'll be the one wearing them if he's going to be tuning in to playoff games, or Internet broadcasts. Yesss. Almost heaven.

It's a good thing he's worth it.