It's my birthday present to myself

It's not me, it's Blogger.

No, I mean, I just think we should be friends, Blogger.

That's why I'll be over here now: www.erinfrances.wordpress.com.

Follow me; it's prettier over there.

My existentialism never came on prom night.

I stared a little longer than necessary at them because they knew where Mr. Boertje's class was. I watched them because they were done with their gym requirements for graduation. I was intimidated by them because their clothes didn't look like they'd just made it through four years of Catholic school, with their shirts with words on them, and their jeans nicely beaten in.
Then, a few years later, I was shuddering after a new group of people. Those who knew the best places to park around campus. The people who had their elementary algebra classes under their belt. Those who had the bands on their Apples playing over speakers at big parties in houses I wanted to live in, with complicated beats and complex, meaningless band names.

Yeah. They were all the ones a few years older than I was. The cool kids, if you will. Never, ever in my life have I been confused for one of them. The closer I get to their age, actually, the further away they get.

Now, they're the ones with the hybrid cars, the iPods with sleeker designs than my own. They're the ones with clothes that match. Homes that look like they're just sitting around, waiting for dwell to show up. Aaan-y-time now.

See, my clothes fit fine now, but they don't necessarily match. My car gets OK gas mileage, but I'd park Dave's around the block if my dwell-worthy friends got the call about the magazine shoot. I don't remember the last band I found. My furniture comes from seven different places, and relies heavily on you assuming particle board is real wood.

So why can't I ever catch up?

I'm having a bit of a funky crisis right now, as my birthday cake bakes in the oven, because even though I'm where I thought I'd be at this point in life, nothing is as clean or as match-y as I thought. The cool kids are still cooler.

Maybe, I'm realizing, that's OK. Because I don't know if you've read dwell, but it's a lot of work to make a coffee table shine like that, all the time. I think I gotta just let that one go.

I got some medicine with codeine, which seems really hard core to me

My doctor called in sick.

That's when you know it's going to be a good day.

But the cough sounded gross enough for me to keep my appointment to see the physician's assistant.

And, guess what. I'm not dying, it's not ebola. It's not the plague. My baby might be annoyed at my cough, but it's not the first time -- nor the last -- that I will annoy him or her.

It won't be long before I start mispronouncing his or her favorite band. Ahhhh, those'll be the days.

No, the ultrasound's still nine days away

I see where this is going.

I've got this annoying cough -- one of those that doesn't produce anything, if you get what I'm saying -- that started yesterday, along with a headache and sore throat. I went home a bit early yesterday to nap away my life, and today it's 6:55 and I'm in bed, have been for an hour. Yes, I realize this won't happen again in my life. I know. I know.

But I'm worried my cough is scaring the cashew, if not literally driving my baby crazy. Thank God I go to the doctor tomorrow morning for my regular monthly check-up, because I keep reading my pregnancy books and nothing in there says my plague is a real, actual plague -- nothing is confirming my fears. NOTHING. It keeps saying I'm FINE. But I've got too much time to sit and worry that I'm not fine. Not at all. I'm certain that's what it is. I just know it. And my baby in there? She/he's so angry right now.

I need a doctor to tell me I'm not killing my baby.

So, there. That's where it's going. Erin's freaking out about her baby not-dying, and it's not even BORN yet. I'm kind of unreasonable. I know this.

Ooh, snap

There we were, driving through Chicago, when Roosevelt University had some ad on the radio.

Someone looking for a new life calls an operator. She tells him all about Roosevelt. He asks more questions, she gets grumpy. He questions her demeanor. She says something like "Forgive me, I'm stuck in a cubicle in Oshkosh."

Hey, wait a minute. I think we've just been spurned.

Grossed out

You already know I'm neurotic. You already know I overreact and take occurrences out of context and act like they're bigger deals than they really are.

But I can't really stress enough the primal fear and panic that courses through my veins when I hear someone getting sick. When I was younger, it meant I'd grab my blanket and a pillow and run, not breathing, to the car to sleep or hide out, however long it took. Or, if Mom would forbid my sleeping in the garage to avoid the flu, I'd lock myself in my room, holding clothes over my face if I needed to come out. It's no offense, dear Flu Victim, merely my knowledge that puking is contagious, and gross.

Once, before a vacation to Chicago, my two brothers both got sick at the table (the horror!) while I was trapped between their two chairs and the wall. I started screaming, pushing Derrick's chair up with him still in it, as I ran toward the garage door, shrieking, "MOM! Make them stop! I want to go to Chicago! Mooooooom!"

And to further make myself feel like I have an immune system of steel, my brother and I would talk out all the reasons we couldn't get sick, or that the other person did. "He probably ate something from a dish that had dish soap residue on it. That can make you sick." "I didn't talk to him after he threw up so he's not contagious." "She sleeps on a different floor than we do, so her germs are mainly downstairs."

Just like "Oregon Trail," I will leave you for dead if you throw up, too. I love you, but this is for the best. Now get off my wagon.

And unfortunately I learned this weekend that none of that's really changed as I've grown up.

Saturday morning around 6 a.m. I heard my mom in the bathroom in her house, as Dave snored lightly beside me. I plugged my ears, groaned, and thought about waking him up and making him drive me away! Away! To Oshkosh! To a hotel! To anywhere! Just get ME OUT OF HERE!

And I felt guilty about that. It's not like she MEANT to get sick. But later that day, my brother and I continued our age-long tradition. "She had one of those red wine coolers. Sometimes those sugary drinks get to you. You know." "I didn't hug her goodnight, so I'm OK." "It was probably something she ate for lunch, before we got there." Even though I know this is a lie.

I held my breath til I was out of the house and at my second Christmas party for the weekend. I kept my distance last night when we got home and showed off our presents. And all during this, I felt really guilty. It's my MOM. I love my mom.

But still. I keep thinking, If I get sick, I'll be so pissed. And is that a pain in my stomach? Oh, God, do I feel warm to you? Oh, God.

In the end, they just changed it in the system and I went on my way

Dave's not dying. Whew. Or, if he IS dying, he's doing it at a rate that didn't scare the doctor he went to see today. I'm glad it's just another infection because I'm kind of attached to Dave. I mean, who's going to get me water at midnight when the floor's so cold and the bed's so warm? That doesn't read well in a personals ad. "Widow seeks mate who likes to do minor, annoying things like get me things I can get for myself but am too comfortable to get."

Amen.

So because he gets me water at midnight, I went to pick up his prescription at Wal-Greens tonight. "All you need is my birthday and my address." I'm his WIFE. I know those things! So I confidently waited 20 minutes in line to get it for him. Ah, marriage.

But as I stepped up to the counter and stated his name, I faltered a bit when she found a prescription in the "W" bin and put it back.

"What's his address, again?"

I told her the street name and number once more. It happens to be mine. I'm familiar with it.

"Hmm ... Not on Brookview?" she asked.

I was getting some static from a past life, but ... no. I'm fairly sure the man who gets me water at midnight also LIVES in my house, and I don't live on a Brookview.

"It says 136 Brookview Drive, Apt. 88; Toledo."

OH. THAT.

No, ma'am. I'm pretty sure it's not the same Dave. Because I never would've married someone who had a shower curtain so dirty that if you took it off the rod, it'd stand on its own. I'd never marry someone who had a pile of dirty? -- maybe dirty? let's smell and see -- clothes in his living room, while all the drawers of his dresser stood open, empty, a few feet away. Nope. I never would've married someone whose apartment I was in for exactly seven minutes before my warming feelings toward Dave started to cool. Or gag me.

So, no, ma'am. I'm pretty sure that's the wrong Dave Wasinger. Brookview Drive Dave is dead. I killed him with my sweet looks and my "no, you'll have to clean up or move out, because I'll never come hang out there. It's SCARY."

Working on New Year's Day rocks

And I'm not even kidding.

While all you suckers are nursing hangovers or watching football, I'm getting my holiday out of the way for 2008. It's a lame holiday, anyhow. Obviously, all the fun was had last night.

And because I'm a nice person who likes to share my good foresight, Dave's here too. See who's laughing on Memorial Day now, suckers.

Oh, wait. Maybe you still will be. I will be seven days away from giving birth, provided it happens on that day. Oh, right. Well. Still. Amazing foresight.

Hello, 2008

Well, we're officially less exciting than my parents, who celebrated the new year.

Unfortunately the $150 copay plus the prescription we got after going to the emergency room on Saturday was all for nothin', as Dave now feels worse a day after taking his last antibiotic. WebMD.com is telling him he's got everything from a teeny, tiny case of cancer to SUDDEN DEATH, PLEASE REPORT TO THE MORGUE NOW.

Sooo, my romantic, last-New-Year's-Eve-before-the-baby was spent with Dave on the couch after he got home from work, listening to him go "ughhhhhhhhhhhh" and "But what if I AM DYYYYing?"

He didn't die. As a matter of fact, he's quite alive, quite ably doing the front page right now, as I take a short break from working on New Year's Day.

His death was narrowly skirted, and we went to bed by 10 p.m., and slept 'til 10 a.m.

The most special part of the whole night? Getting to explain to Dave that just because the thermometer said his temperature was 95 degrees didn't mean his temperature was 95 degrees. Ahh, sigh. It just means, sweet Dave, that you can't take a drink of water before you try measuring body temperature. Really. Yes, that cold water? It affects the temperature in your mouth. It's science. You can't argue.

Next time I'll tell him about how to take a baby's temperature. I would've last night, but ... well, he was already in a fragile state.

So Dave was in pain

I'm going to write this so Grandma doesn't blush. Or, I'm going to try.

Dave was in pain Friday night. He came home from work, grunted for hours, kept us both awake, then moved downstairs to the couch to grunt in peace.

At 3 a.m., and once an hour for the next 15 hours, I asked him if it was time to go to the emergency room.

"No, I'm too embarrassed."

"No, what if it goes away?"

"No, it's too expensive."

"No, it's getting better, I think."

"No, I hate hospitals."

Well. I won, eventually, because I sat watching two episodes of "Cops" last night in the waiting room of an emergency room that looks happily nothing like that on "ER."

"Erin? Would you like to go back to see Dave?" a nurse asked. "Oh, Dave said you work at The Northwestern, too."

I gulp, never knowing what that means. "Yes."

"Cool."

Nice.

She leads me back a quiet emergency room to find Dave sitting on a bed, arms above his head, watching the History Channel.

"I got a CAT scan."

"Oooh. Neat."

"Yeah."

We waited for word. Dave thought he was dying. I thought he was a dummy for waiting. But, either way, 20 minutes later, we left with a new understanding of Greek history, a feeling of being violated on Dave's part, and a prescription for a low-grade infection.

So what did we learn? One, I show my love for him with an irritated "WHAT? For God's sake, if you're dying, I will be so PISSED" at 4 a.m.

Two, I show my rational thinking at 4 a.m. by thinking "I swear, he's probably dying and I'll have to go to that financial thing to find out how to be a single mother."

And three, he must have a low threshold for pain -- you know the sound of men grunting as they're lying, bleeding on a battlefield after being shot by a musket or something from old history shows?

He sounds just like that. YOU try to sleep through that.

I sound really grumpy here ... Dave was a saint

I handled registering for the baby just as I thought I might.

I was crabby. Overwhelmed. Angry at all the choices of some items -- who needs a whole aisle of nipples and bottles, for God's sake? -- perturbed at the fact that there are gobs more of the important stuff like cribs and high chairs on their Web site but no mention of that in the registry booklet, disappointed in the registry woman's lack of a personality, upset at being hungry already, at the weight of the registry guide with its lists of necessities, at the man waiting on God knows what sitting in the chair I wanted to see ... Sigh. It was great.

And seriously, I love babies. I love my baby in particular. I'm psyched about being pregnant. I love registering. I just can't stand the annoyances and ohmygod is that a hair in my mouth? I WANT TO STOP LIVING.

We scanned through a few items, but Dave was in pain (see next blog post) and I was hungry, so we said "screw it" and turned our gun back in. Later that night, I happily registered online for a few more items, and will finish the rest later this week.

I just can't do it in person. I can't. Too many gaudy teddy bear patterns. Too many "for mom's comfort!" Too many. It's just too many, man.

I'm so neurotic

As I took down the Christmas decorations today, I was extra careful in my wrapping of the glass bulbs, the removal of the hooks from the strings and the securing of the tops to the boxes.

Because, maybe I've mentioned this before, but when I get these boxes out again, there'll be a six month old crawling around. Or scooting. Or whatever.

See? Look at me. Safety first.