I'd call it "Can you hear me now," but that commercial is so 2003.

Kids, you're going to really love this.

Here's the deal, for all of you lazy link-haters: Teens are downloading this new ringtone to their cell phones so they can use them in class, or wherever, without adults knowing. How? They ring in a super high-pitched tone that the New York Times says most adults can't hear.

I'd say it separates the cool kids from the old kids if, well, I didn't have trouble hearing the mp3 myself. My left ear's broken. I held my laptop up to my right ear and heard it, so I guess that means I'm half cool. Right? Or half old ..? Or half deaf. I've heard that before.

Anyhow. Go to the link above and check it out. The audio file's under the photo of the kid on the phone (with a Windows screen behind him, with no icons. Whose computer doesn't have icons?).

(Photo: Motorola)

Because you're DYING to know about our wedding, I just know it.

Because I know you're all DYING to know what the latest wedding plans are, I will tell you. Stop asking, you crazy mob. It should be noted only two people have actually asked me. ...

Anyhow.

1. We got our rings. And mine is gorgeous. Well, OK, we picked them out and get to pick them up from the store Saturday. But it's gorgeous. I considered going to the courthouse to get hitched now just so I could wear it, but I'm not sure how Mom'd like that. I'm guessing not much.

2. T minus four months (almost to the day, thankyouverymuch), and still no sign of invitations.* We were going to make some, but this whole job thing got in the way.
*See also: Erin has no veil, Erin has no shoes, Erin has no cake picked out, Erin has no idea what to do if she's getting married out of state, and Erin has no transportation from the church to the reception (make that Erin and Dave and wedding party, as I'm sure I won't be getting married, then bumming a ride with Grandma while all my friends and Dave chill in some van).

3. I'm starting to care less. I got the big stuff. I'm not so worried anymore. Now, I'm just excited. As in pumped. As in I will probably squeal a bit if someone mentions that -- holy crap -- I'm getting married in four months. Four months to the day TOMORROW. Holy COW.

4. We still don't know what our song is going to be ... We like music too much to just get to pick one. We don't have a "song." We have a never-ending soundtrack. Whoa. That's deep. We had picked out an Iron and Wine version of a Postal Service song, but I'm not sure it's not about hating people; and then we thought about a Damien Rice song. Rice's song is all sweet and romantic and "Can't take my eyes off you," and then, right when you're like "THIS IS THE ONE," he goes and whispers "'Til I find someone new" right at the end. Jerk.

Suggestions?

5. Not sure how to handle that whole parents/step-parent thing. Do I dance with just my dad? Can I split the time and dance with my step dad? Why can't I dance with my mom? Come on. Why not?

6. Good news: I've nixed the dollar dance. BO-RING. I've also nixed the hokey pokey, chicken dance and all line dances. There will be no "Electric Slide" played at our wedding. If so, I am grabbing Dave and leaving. THAT'LL teach 'em. Jury's still out on the Cha-Cha Slide, as it's a hit with the under-10 crowd. And me. I have no shame.

7. Best meal ever: Mashed potatoes, beef, pork, rolls, corn, noodles. No one outside of Putnam County would understand just what that means. It means Putnam County (Ohio) wedding food. It means no scary chicken-like blob on your plate. It means no crazy "mashed potatoes with parsley and (whatever else you may want in it)." It means when Dave and I leave, we'll have Ziploc baggies filled with noodles that we can take home and freeze and live off for at least a year. BEST WEDDING EVER.

8. Honeymoon: Set. Quebec. Yesss.

9. Hair: My soon-to-be sister in law's doing it for me. Yesss.

10. Bachelorette party: Really?

And there you have it. And that's how Erin and Dave got married.

The end.

(Photo: It says "Jewelry may be enlarged to show detail." No kidding? Dang. And I thought I'd be walking around with a ring the size of my fist. DANG.)

I'm the reason we can't have nice things

When I was a wee one, I used to think librarians kept running tallies of who ALWAYS had overdue fines, who returned books with bent corners and who checked out the Danielle Steel books.

Well, OK, part of that came from my actually working in a small-town library (we had like, 34 books) and listening to the librarians gossip. "Suzanne checked out 'Wanderlust' like, two months ago. What is her problem?" "I know, her son came in and sneezed right in 'World Full of Monsters' and then put it right on the shelf."

Something like that.

When I moved to Toledo and joined its huge branch of libraries, I should have known no one really pays attention to some random Raymond Carver book from the '80s that some college girl (me) checked and returned a week late. But I didn't think that. I thought they knew I was a late-returns kind of woman.

And that pretty well shamed me into turning things in on time. Good for business, I suppose.

You can imagine my horror, then, when I went online to renew my books tonight and saw I have $1.50 in fines.

Wait. What? Me? Oh, God, they're going to burn my card and kick me out of the summer reading program, I thought. I actually did feel a bit of panic: "You mean I went in there and let Dave check out a book for me, all while the librarian had to have known I was harboring three DVDs and some change?"

I am so ashamed.

It's paid now, too, by the way.

Oshkosh Magazine, back in bl- ... green

How exciting: The new Oshkosh Magazine.

Yeah, just in time for me to start planning the next issue, here comes this one to remind me. I'd go on about how awesome it is, but I'll just let you skim through it yourself instead.

Here's to being a Niese. Or, to not being a Niese.

No one'd asked me really, if I were going to keep my name, or take Dave's last name when we get married in October. That is, until a few weeks ago. Now, everyone wants to know.

I'd kind of grown up thinking "Niese" was only temporary, but now I'm not sure. I still haven't decided, so I wrote a column about it, and you can read it here.

I'm leaning toward taking his name. And, no, it's not because of our miracle wedding classes we had to take.

I still may change my mind. I don't know. Dang, man, don't pressure me.

Speaking of setting the womens movement back, here's a funny drawing from our friends at Married to the Sea that I found appropriate after all this talk of "his" and "mine." I don't think voting and my last name are on the same level, but ... laugh, nonetheless, please.

(Dude, I've warned you before: They get a bit potty-mouthed at times (not hard-core no-no words, but the kind you'd feel funny about saying too loudly in a church). Don't say I didn't warn you.)

Eight years later, the pants story

There are certain moments in a woman's life when she thinks she just may crawl into a pair of yoga pants and never come out.

Yesterday, my friends, I had one of those moments.

After bypassing any semblance of a healthy meal for fast food this weekend, I was well aware my body needed to go through a bit of fruit and veggie therapy. I knew I'd feel blah, I knew my mouth would have that weird greasy-food feeling. But the moment I wanted to grab my stretchy yoga pants was one I hadn't really expected.

Enter moi, carrying a pair of my favorite new, springy, light-weight pants. They're green, they're comfortable, and they dry in no time on a hanger in my bathroom. What more could I ask for in $10 pants? Nothing. Actually, I loved them so much, I went back to buy two more: one in khaki, one in pink. That's three. Then with my one pair of cords and my jeans on Sundays, I had my entire workweek mapped out in my closet. Talk about sleeping in for 10 more minutes each morning.

All those 10-minute snooze periods faded before my eyes, however, when I put on those magical green pants.

They stopped above my ankles. First problem: They're not supposed to. They're pants, not ankle-length cropped pants. They're not capris. They are pants. Regular, long pants.

OK, I tell myself, half hoping this means I've finally had that growth spurt everyone else had in the sixth grade. I've been waiting patiently for years. Why I thought it'd decide to come now, overnight, on some random Saturday, I don't know.

Second problem: I couldn't button them. At all. Sucked in, did the hop up and down dance, stretched them out, pulled at the waistband (no elastic, so it was really a futile attempt). Took them off, put them back on (like "maybe I did it wrong the first time"), shook them out, tugged at the bottom, threw them on the floor, picked them up, tried again, stood in front of the mirror and saw me, looking angry.

Oh, god, I thought. Greasy fries, quesadillas, Arby's, pizza, cheese and crackers: They all came flooding back (pretty literally, as I felt like throwing up). Is it possible? To gain that much weight in four days? So much that my pants no longer fit? No -- it can't be! (Insert "Psycho" shrieking noise here.)

Then ... I heard the dryer ding outside the bathroom door. The lightbulb over my head dinged at the same time: Dave. It had to be Dave. Dave, who avoided doing laundry if I so much as mentioned there were special directions ("This doesn't get washed with this, don't put these towels with these clothes," etc.). Dave, who is pretty much the most forgetful fiance I have.

Dave. Shrinker of favorite pants.

I grabbed other pants, was glad they fit right, and ran out to check the dryer. What do I find inside? My other two pants. Shrunk. All of them. Ruined. No more comfy pants. No more green, springy colors. No more lightweight cotton. No more ... no more.

So, rationally, I grabbed my cell phone:

"Dave? We're officially fighting."
"What? What'd I do?"
"My green pants. My pink pants. My tan pants. All. Shrunk."
Silence.
"Dave."
Silence.
"DAVE."
"Sorry, I forgot."
"WHAT AM I GOING TO WEAR NOW?"
"Uh, I'm sorry?"

Men.

I hung up the phone, sat down in my pants that fit, and thought about going to get more pants. But that'd be $30 ... and what if they don't have my size? In my springy colors? What if? What if? War, famine and injustice in the world, and I spent 15 minutes actually plotting out a way to fit "buy pants again" into my schedule.

But, silly me. I didn't have to find time. Dave did. I'd like to report my new pants are now happily hanging in the closet.

And Dave? He's got a list by the dryer:
"Tan pants, Old Navy, cold water, NO DRYER
Pink pants, Old Navy, cold water, NO DRYER
Green pants, Old Navy, cold water, NO DRYER."

Oh, Dave.

(Photo: Right church, wrong pew ... right color, not really the pants, though not too far off: http://store.subcultural.com.)

It's about dang time

I've been trying to post blogs since yesterday morning at 8 a.m., but Blogger (which hosts my blog) had "unexpected errors," and was down all day. Ugh.

So, it's not Thursday, but it's still the weekend, ergo, check out Weekend.

And, it's too late for Waterfest, but if you're interested in just how big of a bore the BoDeans interview was, check out this story.

I'd type more, but you're going to have to wait a hot minute, because I've got some breakfast to eat with the family, and then a day of playing "and this is Oshkosh ..." with the dad, stepmom, and three girls. Whoa.

Baaad music Wednesday

Not to rub it in or anything, but tomorrow's my Friday. And, to celebrate, some happy music (and, please, don't think that this means it's GOOD music. Nope. Just that it's happy, or masquerades as happy, or makes me happy; as a matter of fact, two or three of these I'd be embarrassed to admit to liking if this weren't the free-for-all blogosphere):

No. 1: Hot Chip: Let's not get all confused and think "Erin's into electronica??" No, not really. But Brit boys Hot Chip's sound's so different from anything I have, except maybe the Postal Service. Maybe. Though nothing will ever come close to replacing the Postal Service.

Moving on.

Hot Chip's got this sound that makes me want to either dance around my apartment or clean my apartment. I can't decide. I think maybe if I danced while cleaning AND while listening to Hot Chip, I'd totally be in nirvana. And, if you're into them, too, you should go to Milwaukee on Aug. 5, when they'll be at Onopa.

No. 2: Remember "Lovefool? That horrible song from Top 40 radio circa 1996? Yeah, it's totally track one on my newest mixed CD. Why? Because nothing sings summer like a band from Sweden.

No. 3: "Office." Not "The Office." Not "Microsoft Office." Not that place you get paid to sit in, surrounded by cloth-covered four feet walls. But Office. A band that's got a free download on iTunes this week, which isn't bad, not bad at all. The bad part is their Web site is impossible to find ("impossible": (adj., means "Erin did two Google searches and only came up with business-related stuff, and thus gave up."). I'd link to it, but I think a better idea is for YOU to find it and link to it for me. Thanks.

He's always a woman to me ... Wait, that came out wrong.

I foooound it, I foooound it. OK, so Pop Candy found it. But I found it from her finding it!

BILLY JOEL IS BACK.

And you can hear his new CD here. This really is the best day of my life. (You can stream the music from that site until June 10.)

OK, so there are a few bummer points. None of the songs is new. He rocks live, but it just reminds me I'll probably never see him live. Bring on the tears, etc.

But come on, Billy Joel, man. "Laura"? "Scenes from an Italian Restaurant"? "Vienna"? It doesn't get much better than this. Well, I suppose if he were standing in my living room, singing them to me, that'd be better. But I'll take what I can get.

(Fun Billy Joel fact No. 46: When I was sick once in college, I got out a piece of notebook paper and pulled up my media player to listen to "We Didn't Start the Fire," and then I went through and found out what all of the words he says mean.
You know, "Harry Truman, Doris Day, Red China, Johnnie Ray, South Pacific, Walter Winchell, Joe DiMaggio ..." I memorized it, and felt all proud of myself ... and then I found some site like this one, and it totally made me feel like a loser for having spent all that time looking up why Richard Nixon's in the song twice. I have no shame.)

Dooo-dooo-dooo doodo doo doo, Dooo-dooo-dooo doodo doo dee ... (That's the 'Unsolved Mysteries' music)

I'm not going to come right out and say I'm brave. I'm not. I admit it.

That dot on the wall? It's gotta be a bug, and that's why I'm sitting in the other room. If there's a dog barking, he's obviously got rabies and is coming after me. It's dark, I'm listening for a serial killer. It's all quiet at home, I'm alone, and I hear something, my first instinct is to look at the floor because I'm certain a mouse will scamper by. Brave? No. Not really.

But I did take pride in being able to stand "Unsolved Mysteries" as a kid. That music, Robert Stack ... I mean, it's creepy. And, much like making yourself stand on hot cement barefoot, it's uncomfortable, but putting on shoes would just make Mom too happy.

Later in life, I was happy that I was able to make it through hours upon hours of "Cold Case Files." Bill Kurtis isn't really that creepy. Is he?

Fast-forward to two nights ago. Dave's working late. Erin's home, curled under a blanket, watching the DVD of "Cold Case Files" she got from the library. First four stories are creepy, but don't cause much alarm. The fifth ... Oh, goodness.

Suddenly, not only was I expecting mice and bugs to go racing across the floor, I was worried about the Zodiac Killer sneaking up behind me. I was worried about it being so dark in the apartment, and so cold. Clearly it was so chilly because I was being visited by the Angel of Death, right? Right. It was so bad that I had to shut off the DVD. Shortly thereafter, Dave came home, and I made him sit and watch it with me. But it was too late. I was already freaked out.

"Get out 'Mr. Blandings,'" I said. "I can't even stand this." They hadn't caught the guy! The guy shot young people as they were making out, or having picnics or other scandalous affairs that everyone's done. He had a flashlight taped to his gun! He wrote letters the the newspaper! He said he made deaths look like accidents so no one would question it! OH MY GOD.

I tried to make myself feel better, like "the guy's gotta be dead now. That was 1967." But no. he's no older than my grandpa. Obviously, he's in Oshkosh. In my apartment. Ready to jump at any time.

That's it. I'm taking the DVDs back to the library.

Fun in the sun ... except it's raining now, and not really all that warm

It may seem that all I do is have visitors or go home myself, but ... OK, yeah, it does seem like that.

This time, it's my dad and his wife, Linda, my two stepsisters and my half-sister. They're showing up tomorrow night (yeah, a Wednesday), which is cool because it gives me a reason to hurry up a bit more at work to go see them. That, and I finally get to try out my new bathing suit when I pretend I'm totally staying at their hotel.

This also means I have to figure out something for them to do while I'm at work Thursday. I'm thinking of sending them to the EAA Museum or something. The kids range from 10 to 17, so they don't want to do anyhting, like, gawd, totally uncool.

Speaking of swimming ... tomorrow's The Northwestern's big water park preview tab for the opening of the new Pollock Water Park. I'm not ashamed to admit that my friends and I have already decided we're going. That big slide? It's not going to ride itself. I've got to be there. And it's in Oshkosh. Holy cow. It's no Beach (Cincinnati's contribution to my summer fun when I was 15), but hey, it's wet. It's new. It's in Oshkosh. Etc.

This blog is a long one. It'll take commitment to read it. I hope your love tank's full.

I've been through the marriage course, and am now a wiser person. My marriage toolbox is full, my marriage box is empty and my bank of corny phrases is overflowing.

Before I begin crackin' your side with all this marriage class goodness, I must first say I know it's important, yeah, yeah, yeah, I know marriage is a big deal, and all that. I know. But come on, this is pure goodness. You can learn something and laugh at the same time.

The class's big problem was the time: 8:30 a.m. When my alarm went off at 6:45, I briefly considered calling the whole marriage thing off so I could sleep in, but figured I'd regret that when I woke up (refreshed) at noon. I crawled out of bed, got ready and sulked the whole drive to Appleton.

Once there, we walked in and stood in line to find our names on the table. We signed in, got color-coded name tags and a glossy folder that said "Preparing for your marriage" in italics around a pair of clip-art hands and a levitating heart. Ugh. The muffins were sticky. The orange juice was warm. My mood didn't improve, until we walked in the theater of the high school for the opening address of our marriage course.

"Marriage: The Great Adventure."

Yes. The great adventure. A speech given by a woman with a penchant for Scrunchies; and her husband, who started his speech by admitting to having an unhealthy fascination with trains. I don't really know what was so adventurous about them, unless you count the Trekkie convention they talked about going to.

They were nice enough, I'm sure they had good lessons to share, but their speech kind of killed the lesson. "Listen to his heart, not his words," she said. "And I couldn't believe it when she said she didn't want to chase trains with me," he said. "You need to make time together, to keep your love tank full," she said.

Keep your love tank full? After the program, Dave and I told our friends about our day, and we thought it would be more appropriate now if they had more modern examples, such as iPods. You may be a 20 GB pod, she may be a Nano. Together, you have to learn to share music, even if she's not compatible with Macs. Etc. Pope, take note.

iPods are way cooler than "you need to turn the crank of commitment every day."

"Relationship Skills for Newlyweds"

The theater was huge, and after they split us up by colors of our name tags, we went to get some skills (you know, cage fighting skills, numchuck skills, etc.). We thought it'd be another "Keep your love tank full" couple, but instead we went back to our college days and did GROUP WORK. I used to leave class if I knew group work was coming, but they had already shut the doors. We were trapped. We went down to mingle with the other groups while they passed out MORE color-coded worksheets. Our group, which included us and three other couples, were supposed to talk about solving a problem on our worksheet to present to the class.

Ours? "I can tell when you're not listening when ..." Oh, boy.

We ended up spending the whole time talking about the Scan-Tron test some parishes made the other couples take to get married (more on that in a second) instead of our color-coded problem, so by the time the microphone made it around to Dave (who lost the "not it" game), we had one thing written on the paper. He started stammering ... "Uh, well, we thought that first of all, communication is a two-way street ..." We giggled while the presenters smiled. Two-way street. Boy, they loved that one. "Yes, that's exactly it (pause, searching for his name tag), Dave. Good, good work." Whew.

Scan-Trons

Some parishes require engaged couples to take a bubble test before they can sign up to get married. We didn't get one, but I'm almost sorry we didn't. "Do you feel your partner drinks too much?" "Do you think your partner has homosexual tendencies?" "Have you ever had relations with your partners' mother/father?" Uh ... what? I think they ask those questions to throw you off, or maybe to see how humorous you can be with bubbles: "So, Bob, you feel your fiancee is gay, and you have had relations with her mother ... Beth, how do you respond to that?"

"In-laws, Children and Your Marriage: The Unholy Alliance"

I chose this workshop because the others ("Intimacy" and "Interfaith Marriages") didn't really appeal to me. Plus, I like my mom more than Dave does. So, what the heck. We walk in the room (which is obviously a math room, with its trigonometry books stacked against the wall and the eight chalkboards everywhere), sit in the same desks I think I had in my high school, and listen to a speech on putting your marriage first. OK, nothing weird here. Until ... warning lights flash ... "LET'S WATCH A VIDEO."

Please, please, if you coordinate one of these marriage things, do not ever think it's OK to reach in the VHS piles for a video, especially if there are mullets, acid wash jeans and flattops involved. I don't know what the video was about. I was laughing too hard at the mid-'80s 'dos. I felt like I was a kid in a classroom where someone just said a dirty word. I couldn't stop giggling. I was sure the instructor'd taken our certificate and burned it: "Obviously not ready for marriage," she'd say, holding it over a candle.

The hallway display

When you walked out of the theater, you couldn't miss it: a 5-foot tall, 10-foot wide display for (gulp) family planning. Complete with brochures on (if you're under 18, I think I have to tell you to stop reading now) the rhythm method. I didn't know the ins and outs of it, but I'd heard it before, in a joke: "What do you call people who use the rhythm method? (What?) Parents." Ha, ha. We all got a brochure. I would go into details, but I don't want any word that you learned in sixth grade health class to be used here along with "work it into your daily routine," and "observing a woman's changes." I think I just threw up.

The church's stance on ... more giggling

Let me just say this: the worksheet we got says God is a very important part of your sexual intimacy. That's all I'm saying. God's in your bedroom. You can draw conclusions without me going into "oneness" and "celebrations of the mysteries of life."

Certificates

We made it. No burnt certificates: there we were with our names in calligraphy on a "READY FOR MARRIAGE" slip. We all got a parting gift: a DVD called "After the Cake is Gone." We haven't gotten around to watching it, but trust me. We will. You can borrow it when we're done. I hope it's not about the rhythm method.