Rock on, Weekend

Happy days are here again. It's finally Thursday.

We've got another week of local music goodness. Some local favorites are coming out with CDs ("finally" for some, "oh. neat" for others): Wandering Sons, Boxkar, Verona Grove. You know, that old chestnut. We've got the inside info, man.

Note: Anyone know of any 20- or 30-something Oshkosh area comedians for a possible Weekend story? Oh, and they have to be funny. None of this SNL stuff. OOOOH burn!

E-mail me if you have any recommendations.

So this is what "scatter-brained" feels like.

I thought I had everything under control for this whole wedding thing.

I thought I was done with the headaches and hassles of planning a wedding; then Dave reminds me that, hey, we don't have PROGRAMS. And Dave says we simply must have PROGRAMS. Because otherwise, who will know who's singing the opening songs if we don't have PROGRAMS. Who will know what the relationship between "Bridesmaid 4" and the bride are?

Um.

I never really thought about that part. I kind of just assumed people asked. Or figured. Or made up their own little stories in their minds to keep from falling asleep: "Oooh, Mary (not a real bridesmaid's name) and the bride were best friends in college, 'til that one night when Mary got friendly with Jake (not the real groom), whom the bride had her eye on since like, junior high. Since the Mary-Jake thing didn't work out, it's awkward for Jake and Mary to have to stand up there - see how they're not making eye contact? And the bride is totally loving it because she's passive-aggressive."

Or something.

But, no. Mr. Etiquette, who you know as "Dave," says programs are a must.

So I guess tonight, I have one final headache. And one would think it'd be easy to just throw this all together.

It's not -- I've had all the songs and particulars in the "nice to know, glad it's planned, now forget it" folder in my brain, and now it's MIA. A lot of things happen to be MIA this week, all of which were stored in that folder.

Hm. Yet another reason I will never, ever divorce Dave. No, not because he knows etiquette. Rather, by divorcing him, I open myself up to the possibility of getting married again. Planning another wedding is something I don't think I can stomach twice in my life.

Once, I have this feeling, will be enough. Lucky Dave.

And someday, my grandchildren will ask "Grandma, is something burning?"

I listen to the police scanner all week at work, sometimes chuckling at the looney situations people find themselves in. Raccoons in garages, that sort of thing.

Last night, I almost became one of those calls.

Dave got a more stable second job, so we decided to celebrate by being lame and watching season five of "The Twilight Zone" from the library and drinking some wine. Dave thought -- sober, mind you, the wine drinking we do is never really scandalous -- it'd be nice to make some popcorn.

He put the bag in, set it for three minutes (because that's what it was in the apartment, in the microwave that was provided to us there) and we sat back down. We hadn't gotten past the opening sequence when Dave jumped up from the couch and ran to the kitchen.

Smoke -- real smoke, not buttery vapor -- filled the kitchen (I was still on the couch, thinking he just burnt the popcorn, ready to shake my head at him and tell him to light a candle). He started screaming "MY EYES! I CAN'T SEE!" and I heard him run outside. I figured if the outdoors were a solution to whatever problem he was facing, I should check it out.

I hesitantly peeked around the corner to find the kitchen, my blue, beautiful kitchen, well, not there. It wasn't blue. It was filled with smoke. My eyes burned, my throat burned, it was just like like one of those moments in the Fire Safety Mobile when the fire fighters are telling the 8-year-olds "get down! You'll never make it out of this controlled situation if you don't GET DOWN."

I didn't get down. I instead started waving my arms in front of the smoke detectors, praying it didn't go off. (On a side note, the dang thing never went off. I'm pretty sure it's dead.)

Dave opened all the windows and doors, turned the fan on high, and ran around going "I'm sorry!" as the smoke filled the entire first floor. As the smoke in the kitchen dissipated, we tiptoed over to the smoldering microwave to inspect the damage. It was black. If you've ever stood over a hot fryer at a Dairy Whip for five years, you can imagine how the burnt grease dripped from the top and sides of the microwave.

He went back outside to grab the popcorn -- it hadn't even popped. It just burnt in the bag. Little black pebble-looking kernels sat in the bag, looking more like he cleaned out the bottom of a charcoal grill than tried to make himself a snack.

We slammed the door shut and tried to forget about it. It's a stained microwave, all yellow with shame.

And it stinks in here, 12 hours later. We can air out this house for 65 years, and on rainy days he'll still turn to me and say "Erin, I'm sorry. No more popcorn."

Spooky.

Weekend is pretty creepy this week. We've got a guide to the area's haunted houses (with more listed online if you're holding the print version right now).

I'm so comfortable right now.

We have a couch.

It really doesn't look like this couch at all, except for the color.

But that's not important.

You guys, we have a real, actual, three-people-can-fit couch. I bet you could even put a fourth person on this couch, provided you had all showered that day.

Our one-and-a-half person (and even then it's not really comfortable) loveseat has been demoted to the living room, where it sits, looking all odd and green in front of our red curtains. We really didn't think that one through.

But, nonetheless, this couch also means that instead of being restricted to the upstairs spare bedroom (because who wants to sit on an uncomfortable loveseat), we are finally given the opportunity to sit. In. The living room.

And what do I do? I watch TV. Because I haven't in months, and man. It's "Friday Night Lights" and I am watching it. It's about football. Football, people.

That's it. The couch goes back. I don't even know myself anymore.

Woot! Woot! (That's a good-humored cheer)

For all of 2006, it was all about our wedding. In 2007, it's going to be about three other couples -- and I can't wait.

As of this moment, I appear to be in two if not all three of the weddings set for next year: June, July and August (the "maybe three" part reflects one that is a sibling who made a mention of it in passing, and there was wine involved, and so I'm not really sure even if he knew he asked, or if it was a joke ... um. I should look into that). Seeing as weddings are always a good time, I am so in.

And, not to get "mushy" on you or anything, but I'm really, really excited about all these weddings, as it reminds me of belonging to bigger things. OK, enough mush.

But, as Dave's a wedding photographer, and we're getting married, and I've been in three weddings and weddings, weddings, weddings are coming out my ears, I think I shall list myself as the go-to woman for all wedding advice-giving.

I mean, I've been to a few weddings and I've planned one, and in the world of reality TV and the Internet, that makes me a bonafide expert. I've done everything but cook and handle the men's side.

Oh, and the bachelorette party. I've never actually been to one of those, though I've seen them in bars. Hmm. But I bet that, in a pinch, I could handle myself well. And I wouldn't be one of those girls with the T-shirt with the Jolly Ranchers on it. Yikes. Mothers and dentists unite against that.

So, starting now: Anyone need any help? Anyone? If this takes off, I may start charging.

Hey, it'd pay for the bridesmaid dresses! Ha.

(Photo: I am wearing this dress to the August edition of "Erin Is a Bridesmaid." Stay tuned for more.)

Hi, Reality. I'm Erin.

With the exception of the two (2) GIANT millipedes that refused to die even while being sprayed with Raid by a woman with a hammer in her hand, and then decided to split up, thus leaving said woman with one (1) millipede and one (1) hammer. And hi, I have wooden floors. So no. Hammer, you were just for looks.

ANYWAY.

With the exception of that one horrible 15-minute period of my life (though the trauma of allowing the other millipede to scatter and leave alive but probably with the same case of emphysema that I just gave the three (3 -- two of them, one of me with my hammer) of us will keep me awake tonight), my October is going fabulously.

We're down to the last few seconds (exaggeration) before this wedding thing, and all I can think about (besides bugs and how much I dislike Dave working second shift at this exact moment) is work.

And that makes the time fly, mainly because I will die at the wheel of my computer (because journalists have wheels on their computers. They come standard on any model) before I admit that there's no way I can possibly cram 10 days of work into two.

So I have to let go.

This is the part that some '80s song comes on, played by a jazz flute. On one hand, I want to walk away from it all at 5 p.m. on my last day there as a single woman and not look back, and get in my car and make that long, boring trip alone. But then again, I know it's going to be more like I leave a little later than that, to get in my car and freak out all the way home because HOLY CRAP I AM GETTING MARRIED and What is this?! A wedding dress?! In my backseat!? Is this for real?!

I will speak out loud and insert the ? and the ! as if I were typing.

And it will be for real.

Don't confuse this with cold feet. My feet are slightly above 98.6 degrees. It's just ... I'm not going to work the next day, and I have a big dress in my car, and ... oh, look, the dog sweater.

Reality's sinking in. Whoa. This is awesome.

(Photo: No, it did not snow. This is from the vaults of Erin's life.)

"Winnebago County is under a severe thunderstorm warning. Your house will be knocked down."

I'm naturally a worry-prone person.

If I have any amount of control over a situation (and "miniscule" is "any amount"), I tend to panic for split seconds about all the mistakes that could've been made, things that could go wrong, worst-case scenarios and the like.

Tonight, it was "oh my god, if I'm not torn to pieces by this impending storm, I will most certainly regret buying a house, because I'm sure it's laying in messy piles all over the county."

Because this is how a rational person would react to seeing an approaching thunderstorm.

I know, I know, it's not like we don't have insurance. It's not like it's the worst thing that could happen to me (I could find out I had some terminal illness, and then get hit by a bus -- but not killed -- on the way back to pick up the pieces of my broken house, after all). But I realized: I care for this house like I care for ... well, most of the belongings that are irreplaceable.

You can buy a new copy of Billy Joel's complete catalogue (and I would), but you can't replace the house. You just can't. It smells like old house. It's been painted in colors we like. It has a big dirt pile outside that we'd take care of if, well, we had the time to go buy a shovel and some grass seed.

And insurance just can't buy that kind of stuff.

So when said storm rolled in, my stomach was in knots thinking that, obviously, my basement is flooded and some electrical shortage will cause my house to catch on fire, or else it'll be struck by lightning.

And where did all of this worry get me? Listening to sirens outside (not at my house!) and a problem complexion. My sheer worry must have scared away the storms. I'm sure of it.

FUN FACT: When I was in Ohio (and probably here, too, but I don't remember the last time I listened to a radio station), the recording that would read the weather was (allegedly) from the '80s, and legend had it that the man who lent his voice to the National Weather Service was actually murdered. To add insult to an unlikely murder, we would laugh at the man in the recording for talking like he was getting punched in the stomach: "There is. ... A seVERE thuu-uhn-derstorm wahr. ning. In effect. For Putnam .... County and Allen .... County uuuhn-til (deep, slow voice:) 9 (quickly:) o'clock. P. .... M."

Creepy.

(Photo: Look! I made lightning in Photoshop. Now I too can be lumped into that "why, oh, why" category.)

Actually came out of my mouth: 'I just want to get out my protractor and measure some angles'

Don't choke on your coffee, but ... I bought a sweater.

For my dog.

I am sorry. But I cannot resist argyle when it's on a human being, so how can I resist when it's on a dog? I can't. That's the answer.

The pattern! The colors! The geometric shapes! I can't take it! I just want to get out my protractor and measure some angles when I see argyle. And that's a compliment.

Besides, it was on sale. I couldn't buy argyle socks for myself as cheap as we got the sweater for Mr. Big. And it's Wisconsin, so obviously he needs it. I don't know if you know this, but it gets kind of cold here. And I'm a sucker for a man (Dave) who doesn't mind that I don't turn the heat on until the pipes are at risk of breaking. I'm cheap (see also: Erin turns off all the lights compulsively, Erin buys off-brand everything, Erin loathes fees and hidden costs).

Let the record show I didn't buy him bows for his hair, toenail polish or any sort of "bling." I'm not that crazy. Come on. He's a male dog, guys.

J'aime le Weekend.

Octoberfest is here (yes, with a "c"). It's our Weekend cover story this week, along with a band line-up and must-see events.

I also suggest checking out this story on the New York City French-singing band Nous Non Plus. I heard their CD, and it rocks -- even though four years of French have still left me in the dark as to what they're singing about. Some songs are in English. They're going to be at the University of Wisconsin-Oshkosh this weekend, and I may go. Why not. I need to get out more.

That's it. Enough.

I've reached my limit.

A few people close to me have been waiting for this minute, watching the Erin Cracks Up poll to see whose guess came closest to winning the jackpot. Well, whoever bet "Wednesday, Sept. 27 at 7:36 p.m. CST" would be the winner.

Congratulations.

My breaking point? Here's how it went down (my low point of 2006):

"No, I will NOT go downstairs and put the clothes in the dryer," I said to myself. Yeah, to myself ("She's NUTS"). "No. I refuse. They will lay right here next to the door, because I am not going down to the dark, cobweb-infested, musty-smelling, 'probably no worse than any other basement in America but I am exhausted and overwhelmed by the thought of going down there and having to watch for mice and bugs or, God forbid, more boxes that need unpacked' basement."

But they're my BEDsheets. I have to go down there, I reasoned. I have to wash them, or else sleep on a bare mattress.

So there you have it, folks. The perfect recipe for a meltdown. Need versus exhaustion and a tendency for the overdramatic, mixed with a house filled with boxes and probably mice.

Instead of just picking up the dang sheets, I left them lay there, and I stared at them for a good five minutes, kind of zoning out at the same time, thinking "I can't move anything else. I cannot even lift these 1-pound sheets. There's only so much a woman can take in a couple weeks."

Sigh. There were expletives uttered and maybe a tear or something while a violin played in the background (yeah, I want some cheese with my whine, go on, say it) and there was a close-up of the tear rolling down my cheek, and it was all very teen movie. I was just waiting for the John Cusak character to show up with the boom box. Then I snapped out of it, and walked away.

After the initial "I've just lost my mind" feeling I got when I was staring at the bedsheets on the floor, I felt better. Not because they're clean. But geez. That was five minutes I wasn't deciding what would fill the shelf in the living room, or how I was going to carry that heavy box upstairs.

I'm OK with sleeping on blankets tonight. No amount of logic or "stop it"-ness will convince me that my doom is not waiting in the basement for me tonight.

And by doom, I mean "that stack of messy boxes that NEED TO BE STRAIGHTENED UP RIGHT NOW." I just can't let a perfectly good box remain unpacked. I want the box gone. Now.

OK -- I'm going to go stare into space now, thinking about how I WANT to go to work because at least there, I don't have to unpack anything. Whew.

Those pesky belongings

If I have to go back to my apartment one more time, I'll scream.

We've been making these really (to someone staring out the window) shady-looking trips back to the apartment. A night stand here, a floor lamp there, a suitcase full of dishes, all loaded on a cart and dragged out to my car to take back to the house, like a caveman coming to claim his game or something, once a day.

These shady trips are turning into quite the nightmare. It's H-O-T in that apartment, still. It's messy. It's loaded with stacks of random belongings that we swore we could "get in one or two trips with the car, let's not load them in the moving truck."

Wrong.

So, yes, I'm the woman you'll see driving around the city with Christmas trees and laundry detergent in the backseat of my car. I'm probably very angry looking, too. You would be too if you had to carry three Christmas trees, five pots and pans and a load of unfolded laundry back to add to the pile o' stuff at the house that you have left to unpack.

But, out of sheer joy (and with a bit of help from people who know some basic laws), I can scream for joy that, no, I will NOT be charged $75 for each carpet I do not shampoo. Why? Because it is eee-legal for me to be charged.

FLASH FORWARD: Hi, it's Erin, and it's 2076. I've just got the last box unpacked, which is fortunate for me, as it was a box of cereal, and that was 70 YEARS AGO.