Earn crowd participation points!

The plans are set, my friends.

Ohio. I've got maximum hanging-out and maximum good food. I've got maximum plans to do some laundry so I'll look my, well, maximumness. I am excited to the max. No doubt.

But what would a long car trip be without the perfect CD mix? Boring, that's what.

And, no offense to my fiance, but I am undoubtedly going to totally rock out so much louder to better music now that he's not there to make fun of my music choices. I have about 1,847 burnt CDs (all legal, mind you, just back-up copies, of course); I've got a loud one ("Erin's happiness mix, 2006"), a melancholy one ("The Downers"), a dance mix ("Good Stuff, Vol. 54") and a rock one ("Rock on").

Memorial Day weekend, driving through Chicago .... I may want to burn a few dozen more CDs. Or go buy a car charger for my sweet iPod on my lunch break. Sigh. The latter isn't going to happen. Well, probably not. I guess I bought sweet shoes today during lunch ... Anyhow, back on task.

Because my CD mixes tend to be predictable and boring after the first few plays, I need your help. Yes, America, now that "Idol" is over, you can turn off the TV and answer my plea.

Top 5 best songs for driving in the car (no downers, I fall asleep in no time flat. Like, 0.003 seconds). Go. Talk among yourselves, and then post your answers here. And if you don't, you can never say you partook in creating any mixed CD for me. And someday I'll be famous, and you'll regret it when I start mailing $100 bills to those who replied.

Yeah. "Is she kidding?" Maybe. Maybe not. Wanna bet $100 on it, though? And nothing too obscure. I have to be able to find it on iTunes.

OK. Go, friends. Go. Create a musical masterpiece for me.

Living Well

I'm Living Well right now. You should be too. Yes, that's all the more creative I feel at 8 a.m.

But Living Well turned out ... well. You should check it out here.

Please excuse our dust

I've got a whole new predicament this weekend. We're getting a visitor ... but I won't be here.

Duhn, duhn, duhn. Where are "Unsolved Mysteries" and Robert Stack now??!

It's my soon-to-be mother-in-law. No mystery. She's cooooming. On a jet plane. Flying in and landing when I hope (fingers crossed, my friends) to be somewhere crossing the Illinois state line. (Fingers crossed meaning I hope I get to leave work, not I hope I miss her. I like her, guys.)

But still -- it's like when my mom came. The apartment can't be dirty. Oh, my god -- and my fiance has to keep the place clean all by himself? I cannot completely feel comfortable about him not burning the place down by leaving the oven on or something, let alone keep it clean. Oh, my.

Before my mom came, I was dusting, vacuuming, doing laundry, sweeping, cleaning the bathrooms ... I went pretty crazy. Can't let Mom think I don't take care of my own apartment. Now, I feel an obligation to have the place be even cleaner, but I can't really say I've got that kind of time this week. I've got a lot of work to do ... I want to sneak out of work early Friday. I want to sleep at night. I want to blog. Ha.

But I want the place to smell like lemons and Pine Sol ... And I don't even have Pine Sol ... Wait. There it is. Yes I do. Make that read "Apparently I've not used that bottle since college."

Cleaning, not cleaning, tusting him to clean ... What a conundrum. And I don't even think she'll mind. She's not like that. But I am like that. If I had time, I'd get an ulcer over it. But, let's face it, I'm just not going to get around to worrying like that. It'll be Monday, and I'll come home to a dirty apartment, and remember that I forgot to worry.

(Photo: Funkyfridge.com.)

Dancing like it's sophomore year of college

I'm going to let you in on a secret about me: I'm short, I've got a chubby face, and I've been told I look like I'm 14. This is going to be awesome when I'm 40, I used to think. Not so much now.

Only it is. It's very awesome. Now. This past weekend, my friends and I decided to do the "WE'RE IN COLLEGE" tour of Oshkosh. Basically, it involves going out to local bars, dancing in a mocking way, and saying "Woo hoo -- we're in college" 'til eavesdroppers want to punch us all. Or just me. The problem with our little charade is we're surrounded by people who are actually in college. And we look like we're in college, so we blend in. We're not those 25-year-olds who sit at the kitchen table at a high-school house party. But we don't want to be jerks.

We get our laughs from each other, not from making Frat Boy Joe angry for mocking his girlfriend's "dance" in her stilettos, capris and a tank top (dude, that's so last year).

So there we were, standing in the middle of a dance floor (mostly empty, school's out), half dancing, half stopping and laughing. And then there were all these college kids who looked like they wanted to hurt us. Or just ignoring us. There they were, dancing with reckless abandon.

"(BASS, BASS) Some song about hooking up (BASS, BASS)," giggling, spilling beer on the floor, holding a cell phone in one hand, a cigarette in the other, with multicolored bangs in her eyes. And you know what? I was a bit jealous. I'm glad I didn't look too old to be there, but I still felt it. I don't remember the last time I went to a bar and danced to some (BASS, BASS) song about hooking up (BASS, BASS) and danced like that.

Not that I want to start again. I'm just sayin'. It was fun. And now someone else is having fun. And I'm just standing with my friends mocking them quietly, saying "I'm in college!" And I'm thinking about the work I have to do the next day. And rent. And "Is that clock right? I need to get to bed." And laundry. And how out of shape my feet are in the shoes I have on. And "Don't I have the foresight to wear something other than a band T-shirt. Seriously."

And (BASS, BASS) Some song about hooking up (BASS, BASS) won't stop playing.

At least the college kids didn't point and laugh, "Hey, look at all the old people." Because, face it, when I was younger, I was saying that about people my age now. "I hope when I'm that old I don't still come HERE. I hope I have better stuff to do than go clubbing."

Oh, sweet, naive Erin and friends.

(Photo: pretty much how cool we all looked dancing. In our heads. Photo from ftw-designs.com. Incidentally, if anyone knows how to create such a thing in Illustrator, we should be friends.)

Who are those guys? Beach Boys what?

Since I'm sure you already know The Beach Boys are coming to EAA's AirVenture this summer, I thought it was only appropriate to post this link, courtesy of Pop Candy, of like, 13 different versions of "God Only Knows" covers.

I'm sure the majority of my readers are Beach Boys fans. Closet Beach Boys fans? Vaguely remember a made-for-TV movie about them? Know of a Beach Boys fan? I think my dad is ... But I'm not sure. Ha. I am kidding, guys.

I so know who they are. They're the ones who did that song for NBC's "The '70s," right? Kidding again.

But, as an aside, if someone were to show me this photo of the Beach Boys, I would have guessed it to be a photo of a golf outing at a seniors home in Florida. Seriously. Look at those guys' tans. And could they have any more patterned shirts? I know you're the Beach Boys, but coooome ooon. It's like someone dug through the 50-cent bin at the thrift store for those shirts.

OK, enough knocking of the Beach Boys. Sorry, Beach Boys. I apologize. American music staple, classic pop, timeless oldies, etc. Sorry. No disrespect. Word.

This is getting out of hand.

Anyhow, Pop Candy likes the Mandi Moore/Michael Stipes version of the cover. I recommend David Bowie, as well, because he's so opposite of the "quintessential American band." Dude, Bowie, you're so British, and you don't look like the beach bum/surfer/totally groovy type. But I bet Bowie does have a few pattern shirts to wear. With matching orange hair ... Don't listen to Phantom Planet's version, unless you like crappy music. It's a minute and a half you'll never get back.

"WTC" (preview) hits (Erin's small) screen

"I'd comment on his mustache if it weren't a film about Sept. 11."

Admittedly, that was the first thought I had when I pressed play on the press release VHS tape I got of "World Trade Center," Oliver Stone's movie that comes out Aug. 9 about, you guessed it, two policemen on Sept. 11. (I don't usually get movie previews, so I rushed home to watch it ... disappointing.

He tries to be poignant by not mentioning anything (no credits, no "Starring Nicholas Cage, Directed by Oliver Stone," etc., lines), and putting it to this orchestra soundtrack. I was kind of disappointed, though.

Nicholas Cage (who, in my opinion, is pretty much the go-to guy for movies that go right to the end of my brain's "must-see" line, and stay there) stars as one of the two policemen featured in the movie. He lives. Sorry to give away the ending, but that news story pretty much gives it away.

I don't know if I'm ready to see a film about Sept. 11, but if it's like the 2 1/2-minute preview I just got, I think I'll be OK. It's pretty sappy, not as gritty as I'd expect a Sept. 11 film to be. It just seems so fake -- his voice, his lines. If you're on your way to the World Trade Center, you're not saying words of camaraderie, pensively looking at your partner, speaking slowly. "I never was prepared for something this size," he says. No, I think in real life you were probably saying "Oh, s***, this does not look good." But, what do I know. I wasn't there.

The thing that bothers me is it looks like a movie. Like it didn't happen in real life. You're thinking, "Whoa, I wonder how they you order all that dust. Is there a dust company? 'Hello, dust company, I need dust?'", which is precisely what people should NOT be thinking during such a serious movie.

Remember Robert DeNiro's TV special, "9/11"? Now that's kind of how I thought this would be. But it kind of looks like every other disaster movie ... which it's not.

I suppose you can't judge a movie by a 2 1/2-minute preview, but that's why they sent it to me, is it not?

Long story short, will I go see it? Yeah, probably. I think I'm just being a little hard on it because I don't think people want to watch a sappy Hollywood "World Trade Center." We want it to be more real. I don't think anyone could have made this movie without some criticism. How do you document one of the worst tragedies in my lifetime? Well ... I don't know. But I don't think Nicholas Cage would be in it. Just my two cents.

Short story long ... Erin hates drive thrus.

Mama I'm comin' home. Maaaybe. I can't think of a single thing I'd rather do than drive eight hours by myself at night on a holiday weekend, but I'm fairly sure I'm gonna do it. Yup. I'm going home. Probably.

I'm going to make a confession, though. The trip, which may take a bit longer anyhow because it's Memorial Day weekend, is going to take longer than that because I'm not exactly what you'd call lucky. "No, I didn't see one cop." I'll see 15. "No, traffic wasn't bad." I'll sit in Chicago for four hours. Sigh.

And Mom didn't raise no fool. I still get goose bumps every time I hear Robert Stack's voice and that creepy "Unsolved Mysteries" music. I still hear it whenever I'm home alone, it's storming, and the aliens stop by. Kidding.

But I've watched enough "Law & Order" and "Cold Case Files" to know creepy people like to hang out around gas stations and McDonalds. (That's why I'm going to Wendy's.) I'm aware of the danger. I'm careful; I lock my doors and wear pointy-toed shoes and practice my screaming. I'm not really worried about that. It's the stuff you can't really protect yourself from that I'm really afraid of. You know what I'm talking about.

Drive thrus. Good god, that's got to be the worst part of traveling. There are so many opportunities to mess up, on both sides:


You pull up, struggle to get the window down (if it's sunny) or, later, to roll it back up (if it's raining).

"MMmwhaaammffff--shhhhhhh, (scratchm, bing!)."

You sit there, wondering whether you should speak. "Uh, I'll take a chicken sandwich, but --"

"Mmgghgsifsssshhhhtttt, one minute, shffhhhttttppp ma'am." (Yeah, "ma'am," which makes you want to throw up all over the place.)

Seven-and-a-half minutes later, you cough. "I said go ahead, ma'am."

"Oh, sorry. I'll take a chicken sandwich, but I only want ketchup on that, and--"

"What? Speak up, ma'am."

"I'll take a chicken sandwich, but I only want ketchup on that, and--"

"We don't put ketchup on that, ma'am," the drive-thru attendant has to argue. In that snobby, drive-thru manner. That "I have a visor that matches my shirt and loafers" kind of way.

"Well then I don't want anything on it; and I want fries," you yell.

"You want tomatoes on that?"

You stare at the screen. "Uh, no."

"No tomatoes? How about onions? Lettuce? Mayo? GGGhmmmmsfff."

"No, nothing. Please. Nothing. Just the plain sandwich. And fries."

"You want a drink with that?"

"Apple juice."

"Do you want the meal?"

"No. Just the sandwich and the fries and the juice. Can you read that back to me?"

"(Unintelligible) Sandwich-two-fries-and-a-drink-that'll-be-$4.47-at-the-first-window-please-pull-up."

"No, I only want one french fry," You stammer. People behind you honk and yell. Some scary, drunk looking guy peers in your passenger side window.

"You said two." Snobby. Loafers. Matching visor.

"FINE."

You pull up, try to dig around for change, and don't have it. She's standing there at the window, taking someone else's order with her hand out. You hand her the money, dropping some. She looks at you like "I ain't gonna get it, ma'am." So you have to get out of the car, and of course you pulled too close to the building because you're only 5'1" and can't reach out of the window otherwise, so you hit the door against the brick, leaving a good couple layers of paint behind. And the stupid dime's under the car, anyhow. So you get back in and pay with a $20, and of course she'll only have ones and nickels, so you end up weighing down your purse with nickels.

She takes your money and doesn't say anything, until she looks at you a few seconds later. "PLEASE PULL UP MA'AM."

Then you ease forward, and notice the drunk guy's staring in someone else's window behind you, and you think "Ah ha! I'm just about done!" and you reach for your drink as the second-window man hands it to you, and the lid comes off, and you look like you wet yourself. And the cup won't fit in the holder. And she hands you stuff too fast so you get all discombobulated and don't know whether to mop up your messy lap with the single napkin he gave you or grab the straw and bag he's practically jabbing you in the eye with.

You ask for ketchup, and he gives you one. And it's sticky. And you ask for napkins. And he gives you one. And it's sticky.

You sigh and pull away, and have to make a left turn, and after five minutes of waiting you finally get out, and pull on the interstate, and reach in the bag, and of course it's not chicken at all. It's a Whopper. And it's got mayo and pickles. And the fries are cold.

And that, my friends, is what I'm truly afraid of. And that's why I'll be packing PB&J sandwiches.


(Insert "Unsolved Mysteries" theme here.) ROBERT STACK: "And that's how, somewhere in Indiana, Erin lost it. If YOU know ANYthing about the story you just saw, please, call our hotlines at ..."

Maine splits in two, everyone else copies, and suddenly we have 178 states.

Civics pop quiz:

How many states are there? If you answered 50, you are right. If you answered "51," you live in Maine.

Those nuts, I mean, concerned citizens, want to split into two states. Maine, the conservative, rural half (whose symbol is a moose); and North Massachusetts, the liberal city-dwellers of the south (the lobsters). (I don't really think you need me to make fun of the moose versus the lobster.)

OK, Maine, just because you want to "keep your heritage" and "maintain your conservative front," you really shouldn't go messing around with trying to quit your statehood.

And besides, "North Massachusetts" won't fit on a license plate. And where would we put that odd star on the flag? And there are a lot of tiny states over there that no one can remember which is which. One more is just going to ruin the lives of every fourth grader.

Seriously, Maine. I don't think this is going to fly.

However, if it does fly, I think we should take a look copying off them. Ohio, you should make southeastern Ohio break off to become ... East Ohio. Michigan, I don't know why you maintain your "one state" thing if you're really two. If I were the UP, I'd so start calling myself North Wisconsin.

And, besides, I'd be angry if Maine Junior called itself "North Massachusetts." How do you think that makes Massachusetts feel?

"Get your own name, GOSH."

Sigh. Oh, Britney.

Baby, learn to read, then take my advice: Get up late at night and start practicing walking in your crib. Pace back and forth, develop those motor skills while your mom is sleeping and your dad is nowhere to be found. Sean Preston, if I were you, I'd get up and walk out of that house.

Britney has waited six days to report a head injury, she's driven with the baby in her lap, she's put the baby in the carseat facing backwards, and now she's almost dropped him in front of the whole world.

Sean Preston, call Grandma.

That joke I was telling you about

Let me tell you about how awesome today is.

It's not raining at this exact moment (though my living room just got disturbingly dark, so I may have to retract that statement by the end of this post), it's kind of warm, so I got to wear my new skirt, and I don't have to work today. I cannot think of anything grander. Except ... everyone else is working. Dang.

Seriously, guys. Dave's working his other job. My friends are all working. My dryer is working. You guys are bunch of downers, man.

But, as promised, that hilarious joke about the fire alarm. Ha. This is a good one.

We stayed up late on Wednesday night to watch "Match Point" (and it is the best movie I've seen in a long time), because, hey, who needs more than six hours of sleep if they only have one work day left of the week, right? But just as I was getting to REM, EEEERRRR EERRR woke me up (I don't really know how to spell out the sound, but remember elementary school? Remember those fire alarms with the lights and the mechanical duck sounding alarm? It was like that, lights included, only no teachers going "single file, single file!").

And so I did exactly what firemen everywhere tell us not to do ... I got dressed, I grabbed some stuff just in case the apartment burnt down, and we calmly ran downstairs, at 2:30 a.m.

I don't think I should endorse the grabbing of stuff, but ... Mom didn't raise an idiot. I like my stuff, ergo, I'm taking it with me. Plus, after the last run-in with the fire department, I already had all my favorite stuff moved into the bedroom-to-front-door path, for easy grab-and-go. I can tell you this now, because it's no longer true, but I was pretty much convinced that our building was going to burn down after the first alarm thing in January, so I had a suitcase packed under the bed for a while with my favorite things in it. But it turns out that's not really practical, as your favorite things soon become "things inside that embarrassing suitcase that you forget about."

And we waited outside for an hour. Coincidentally, we got to meet the new neighbors (who smartly decided to leave the yipping dog, Charlie Barkley, upstairs). Turns out they're pretty normal after all. They have a cute 2 1/2-year old kid, too. Maybe I'll get a babysitting gig outta this. That'd be sweet.

Anyhow. Turns out something in the equipment room was sparking, according to the alarm company's remarks. That was great, except no one -- building manager included -- knew we had an equipment room, so the fire department wandered around for a while before finding it in the basement. We live in an old hospital, so we assumed basement = morgue. So if you do believe in ghosts, this may add fuel to your fire. No pun intended. Myself? I live in an old hospital, so in order to sleep at night, I do not believe in ghosts.

(Photo: From gallery.jgdm.com.)

GASP -- Is Oshkosh ... cool?

You know when you're from a small town (or maybe even a medium-sized town, or perhaps, a large town, borderline city, etc. -- you get the point), and you're 17, and you're constantly slamming doors and screaming (or at least thinking) "I HATE THIS RURAL ROUTE/SMALL TOWN/MEDIUM-SIZED CITY/LARGE METROPOLIS! I CAN'T WAIT 'TIL I'M 18 AND I CAN LEAVE."

Well, suckers. I did leave.

But, I came to Oshkosh, which raises a few eyebrows now and then.

"Man, I can't wait to get outta Wisconsin." "Man, Oshkosh is so lame." And other such phrases that begin with "man."

But, my friends, having lived this exotic life (in Toledo, Ohio), I can tell you ... I was saying it in Columbus Grove, Ohio, population 2,000, back when I was a wee one. Six years ago. Then I moved to Toledo, this mecca of awesome local bands (Rediscover, We Are the Fury, etc.), awesome small-show venues, awesome mom-and-pop places to get breakfast at 4 a.m., awesome dirty, industrial, blue-collar, university, dead-but-coming-back-to-life-ever-so-slowly Midwestern city.

But you know what? I had friends there. No, that wasn't supposed to be the unbelievable part. These friends were saying the same thing as I was in Columbus Grove, Ohio, population 2,000, where there are (by my last count) two tractors for every five people.

So what gives? Well, obviously, we all just think where ever we are right now is horrible, and that we have no power to change that, and man, if we were only in ... New York, or L.A., or Florida, or Chicago, or Cincinnati, that it'd all be better. But I bet you 47 cents people in Chicago wish they were in London or something.

I'm feeling a bit long-winded, so I'll wind this up before it gets out of hand.

A friend at work today suggested I do a story later (after all the crazy events of the summer) about how Oshkosh is suddenly cool again.

But is it? I don't mind Oshkosh. I really don't. To me, it's that Midwestern town where I met some cool people and had my first full-time job and lived in an apartment with quarterly fire drills. I didn't go to high school here. I didn't go to University of Wisconsin-Oshkosh. I'm just enjoying making a new life. (Hallmark is now asking me to buy the rights to the sentiment expressed in that last sentence to put on a greeting card.)

But, to me, Oshkosh is pretty darn close to as cool as a small city can get. I have a few reservations about things: I don't understand this liquor ordinance (Ohio people, did you know you cannot buy alcohol in Oshkosh after 9 p.m. except in a bar? Isn't that the weirdest thing you've ever heard?) and I loathe certain aspects of the town. But it's your standard small-city thing, and it'd be boring to anyone.

But, said friend at work pointed this out:
We've got:
1. Gallery Walks (old news, we agreed, but cool nonetheless -- there are really a lot of artsy people here, per capita).
2. That whole Leach Amphitheater thing (waterfest, other concerts, that Viva La Rock thing, etc.)
3. Weekend. I mean, come on, like I wasn't going to throw that one in there.
4. The Grand Opera House getting Jeff Daniels (that guy from "Dumb and Dumber," a guilty pleasure of mine).
5. The lake (I always wanted to live by water ...).
6. Shops coming in downtown ...
7. (Add your own thoughts here)

We're also close to Madison and Milwaukee and even Chicago ... But I don't know if it counts that a city's redeeming qualities is its proximity to other cooler places.

We thought of more, but I don't want to give it away before I turn it into a Weekend cover story for later.

The reason for this long and rambling blog is to ask ... what do you think? Cool? Lame? Oshkosh? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller?

Are we cool? Or are we sitting in the same high school cafeteria, carving our names in the lunch table while casting hateful glances at Milwaukee and Madison's cool kids' tables?

(Photo: I don't know who this guy is, but when you Google "Oshkosh," this is what comes up on the first page of results. HE sure looks happy to be here. That's not the population, anymore, either ...)

Weekend!

Remind me sometime to tell you the story of the equipment room sparking in our apartment. It's pretty funny. It involves a fire alarm going off at 2:30 a.m., and an EMS and two firetrucks, and standing outside for an hour. Ha, ha. Silly equipment room, which the building manager didn't even know we had. Ha, ha.

I'm not laughing at all.

But, not even a little sleep deprivation can keep me from this: Weekend. Because tonight, my weekend starts. Amen. And, here's our Weekend; it's about dancin'.

If you're more of a "summer rocks, except for ..." person, you should check this out. It's Steven Hyden's list of summer bummers. Funny. more funny than an equipment room sparking, I can tell you that much.