Do stuff for me

We discovered I'm what our pre-cana leader called a "do things for me" person. See, when they were explaining marriage and what a long complicated time "forever" is, the leader said there are certain types of people in marriages. There are "do things with me" people. "Do things for me." "Touch me." "Buy things for me." Etc.

It basically means that instead of buying me something nice or hugging me before I've brushed my teeth in the morning, I'd prefer to be "told" "I love you" by having Dave switch over the laundry. Shovel the driveway. Empty the dishwasher. Take out the trash. Yup. That's the key to making me happy. Just do stuff for me.

So, it can be deduced by that and my cold mental state that I just don't like to be touched. I'll hug Dave, Mom, family. I'll cuddle with the dog. But when anyone other than my specified few come at me with hands extended toward my belly, I'm going to freak out. I'm not a touch-me person. Just because my belly is cute and growing doesn't mean it's an open invite to touch. No one is proclaiming that everyone -- yes, everyone -- should touch my belly!

So far no one's been in direct violation of this as they've all been family, but the first stranger in the grocery store who touches me is going to get karate-chopped, right there by the bananas. Don't they know? They could so much easier have asked me if I needed anything. Maybe a bag of dog food in my cart? Anything? And I'd feel much better.

Goodbye, 'Journeyman' (maybe)

As one of three fans of this show, I feel it necessary to comment on its finale -- ooh, wait, did I say that outloud? I meant "little break before it never comes back or starts anew on the SciFi channel."

NBC, replacing something with a plot with a reality TV show or something will not grant you access to TV heaven.

---
Two hours later, I should add ... They just said there's another new episode next Monday. Right. Okee.

I don't really know myself

I don't like pickles, nor do I ever crave ice cream. But meat. Now, I can't stop. Scary, bad-for-you meat, red meat, a damn hamburger, spaghetti sauce so thick with meat chunks that it's not quite sauce. Pepperoni, even. Beef sandwiches, with ketchup.

I don't even know myself.

I was a chicken woman. Nuggets, legs, sandwiches, patties. Chicken. Healthier, lighter. Soy, even. Yum.

Now, unless it's covered in hot sauce, I don't want it.

Mmm, that or just plain green olives. I eat them like I used to eat M & Ms, and olives are unfortunately not much healthier.

Somewhere, my doctor is crying and my sodium levels are soaring. I promise. I'm also drinking my milk and eating fruit and the occasional veggie. I promise.

Written Oct. 22

Just say no. Or at least "not before work"

My doctor recommended I take half of this one pill and a whole one of a certain kind of vitamin to make me feel better, to make me feel like a real person instead of one a bed-ridden woman with greasy hair, a bad complexion and smelly pajamas. I'm much too big of a neat-freak for that mess.

So, like a sucker, I bought them.

And wow. It worked -- the odd combination, the seemingly illegal mix of blue and white pills, it worked. Only, next problem ... that one half pill? It's a sleeping pill. And she recommended taking them two or three times a day.

If you've done anything like met me, crossed the street in front of me, glanced at me from across the room, you wouldn't think "that woman needs a sleeping pill." I assure you, sleeping is not the problem. I can sleep on command. Five seconds flat, zing, I'm in REM. Dreams, pillow lines on the face and all.

Standing in front of the mirror this morning, I held the half pill and the whole pill in my hand and decided one frying pan looked a lot less warm and full of oil than the other. I jumped. An hour later, I was walking around in a NyQuil-like fog at work. It was like everything I touched tingled my fingers a little -- ooh, magical highlighter! -- everything I heard was preceded by and followed with a "whooosh, whooomppsh" -- "whooosh, whooomppsh, We have a make-your-own-case on 41 Northbound, whooosh, whooomppsh." When I walked, my eyelids flirted with staying closed 'til I wondered if I was already asleep? And this was just my dream, this work thing?

A lot of people fail those pee-in-a-plastic cup tests because of drugs that produce lesser effects. Too bad for me, I wasn't one for trying drugs. Nancy Reagan and I, we're like this (crossing fingers, white man's overbite).

If I had cable TV, I wouldn't ever have to leave my house

I've become that woman.

You know. That woman. The one who, yes, did see that episode of (some lame TV show) last night. Yes, I did. Want to talk about it? No? OK, let's talk about (some other lame TV show) instead. No? Oh, no, I didn't see that one. I only have NBC. No, that's Fox. "Law & Order." That's how I roll.

This week is season and series premiere week. Nerd-like beyond belief, I physically typed "nbc.com" in my browser window, clicked enter and checked out the schedule for this week.

THIS WEEK. On my COMPUTER. On purpose.

I am one step away from collecting those TV inserts from the Sunday newspaper to circle shows, plotting my whereabouts a week out. "Tuesday, I need to get done with work on time to make it home before 'Biggest Loser.' And I'll be damned if I'm going to miss 'Law & Order: SVU.'"

And then I'll start collecting salt-and-pepper shakers shaped like geese and gnomes with cities' names handpainted on the side. "Ooh, dear, hand me San Diego. I'd like to flavor this meatloaf quick before 'Life' comes on. Tomorrow? Oh, no, I can't go out. It's 'The Office.'"

I need more hobbies or friends or something.

So many exclamation points

"I was cleaning out my iTunes 'cuz I like to listen to it on shuffle, and I kept getting stupid songs on there," I said.

"Like what?"

"Like all that Tom Waits."

"You deleted Tom Waits?!"

"Yes. I don't like him."

"You deleted all of Tom Waits? But you like that one album!"

"No, I liked just one song."

"So you deleted everything?!"

"Yes."

"Uuuugggghhhhh! I didn't have those!"

"I thought you had those on your computer!"

"I didn't put them on my computer because they were on your computer!"

"But I didn't like it!"

"You can press the 'next' button!"

"But it's so ... annoying! I don't want to push it!"

"Uuuuughhhh!!!!"

Whoops.

I'm going to watch some Disney movie next. "Fantasia" maybe.

I love "Dateline" more than words can say. It's what I call Poor Woman's Court TV, and since I don't have cable, that's all I've got.

But tonight's was about that case in Connecticut where the doctor's wife and two daughters were terrorized in their house for seven hours and then tied to their beds and the girls were burned alive and the mom was strangled and ... You know. It happened in July.

Anyhow, I'm now scared to leave the living room.

Downstairs, I'd left the dryer on. So that became someone breaking in. The car door across the street is obviously a sociopath coming over to hang out. The dog barking at nothing like he does, was him telling me Doom was near.

God, Erin. I tell you all I can't have cable because we're broke, but in reality, it's because I can't handle it.

People pick me to be on their Trivial Pursuit teams, but I was always one of the last chosen for anything in gym class

I didn't think it was going to be this bad again ... Dragonboating. But it was. And it was worse.

Last year, Dave and I missed the practice because of that marriage license overnight trip to Ohio. So the shock of spending 10 minutes in a boat three times on race day wasn't as bad as the 50-minute "PADDLES UP," "We'll do sets of eight-twelve-five" practice The Northwestern's dragonboat team had today.

At the 30 minute mark, the only thing that kept me from jumping ship and swimming to shore and running away and never coming back was the green stuff and the taste of that water as it splashed in my mouth. I felt a bit trapped. I forgot the claustrophobic feeling I had last year in the boat, as if I were stuck and the only way out was a wet, gross mess.

But anyhow. I didn't freak out over anxiety this time (hi, prescription drugs work! Side effects may include dry mouth and signing up for a second year of dragonboating). Nope. Just sore muscles and utter annoyance of hearing "OK, let's do it again."

I have to say, too, that I was slightly loving being in the front of the boat this year, though they kept saying the paddlers had to watch me and my seatmate for rhythm. Dude, I have no rhythm. But, whatever. Leadership, see? I'll put that moment on my resume someday: "Co-led team of 22 amateur dragonboat paddlers under extreme duress."

But you know? I'd do it again. Which is good, since we have to do it again at the real dragonboat races in two weeks. It's fun, I say through gritted teeth because my muscles hurt and I'm exhausted.

And this time? We won against the other team that was practicing. Did you read that right? WE WON. It's not often any team I'm involved with in any athletic shape or form is associated with the word "winning." And even though it didn't count, I'm still quite pleased with my ability to not-die on the water to accomplish that.

I can feel us getting rounder. Ooh. But it was sooo good

We are horrible, horrible people.

We abuse our stomachs with so much food this Saturday that I'm pretty sure if I didn't eat until December, I'd be just fine.

The dish? Oh my God. A box of macaroni. A whole brick of Velveeta cheese. Sixteen ounces of sour cream. Three tablespoons of butter. Oh my God. Salt. Milk. Oh my God.

Why? Didn't we have a box of lower-fat shells and cheese? Actually, yes we did. But his family called, and ... I guess it's Wasinger comfort food. Oh my God. It sticks to your mouth.

The worst part is, we'd hung up a sheet on the fridge from a magazine just that morning. It was one of those newlywed magazines you get when you sign up for the bridal registry at Bed Bath & Beyond (The Nest? I don't remember). The premise was, we'd use this worksheet for losing or maintaining your weight. Dave and I are doing neither currently, so we figured now would be a good time to, you know, get off the couch.

Only I guess we thought "get off the couch" meant "go to the kitchen and make something with 47,000 calories." Oh my God. The guilt. And I was raised Catholic. I know guilt.

---

Coincidentally, you may be wondering what kind of person takes photos of food? Well, my brother does. Last summer, he took out his cell phone and said "Oohh, these were good wings. Look. And this barbecue, that was good too." Seriously. I only have one photo, so I'm clearly not that far gone.

I feel so used

I am angry.

Not only is it Monday and thus a Bad Day by default, laden with computer issues and everything, I get home from work and find this thin little postcard in the mailbox from Jane magazine. I expect it to be a renewal notice.

It's a Dear John letter. I just got dumped by some publishers on a postcard! (Not as bad as Carrie Bradshaw's Post-It note breakup on "Sex and the City," but close.)

Conde Nast isn't going to be publishing any more issues. Seriously. Oh, oh! But "In its place, we will be sending you Glamour. ... We think you'll love Glamour. Like Jane, it's packed with everything smart, sexy women want to know -- about your body, your beauty, your relationships ... and more!"

WHAT. Um, 'cuz I would pick up a magazine with that tagline. I'm feeling really bitter. Sorry.

Ignoring the fact that I'd rather see my $6 subscription left-overs go up in flames rather than get Glamour magazine in its place, they didn't even put the right phone number on the post card to cancel the subscription. What the crazy?

Irrational anger racing through my tired veins, I logged on to the Internet to find out what was up. Luckily, I found it and canceled on the phone, pronto, so I could get all of that $6 back.

But you guys. I (sob) didn't even (sob) get to say goodbye! Oh, the humanity.

The epitome of not-exercising: Watching other people exercise from your comfy couch

What are YOU doing next August? Aug. 8, to be exact? I know what I won't be doing. Watching the Olympics. I'm so sure I just saw that commercial on NBC.

That said, I was so tired after a long week of work following that nightmare car fiasco that I don't think I got off the couch but for a few hours this entire weekend. Kind of reminded me of college and skipping class. Which I never did. Never. Not once. But if I had skipped class, I'm sure the pure good-boredom would've been the same feeling.

And during this self-inflicted banishment from the world, I was left watching TV. Not just any TV. Gymnastics on TV. Gymnastics on NBC. Seriously. I would lie and say the remote was out of my reach, or that I broke both my legs. But no. I was just watching.

OK, God, not just watching. I was reacting. I flinched at mistakes. Called out the girls who looked creepy in eyeliner. Shuddered a bit at the distortions of bodies. Eeek.

It's like watching that early morning PBS woman in the leotard who does jumping jacks and weird stretches before Sesame Street (at least that's when it was aired in Toledo, when I was babysitting) -- You don't get up and do it. Just sit there and go "Wow, exercise. So that's what that is." God, I feel so weak and guilty.

Hypothetically speaking, of course

I don't want us to have any baby in the summertime, Dave said.

Why? Because they'll be either the youngest kid in their class -- the one who can't drive 'til junior year -- or the oldest kid -- who gets facial hair as a seventh grader? I asked.

No, he said.

Because I couldn't have Jell-o shots at the Niese Christmas? I asked.

No, he said.

Because I'd miss AirVenture?

No ... it's because it's hot and humid, he said, half laughing in case I took it too personally and he'd have to whip out the "I was just kidding! Just kidding! Don't give me The Look!" line.

You're grumpy when it's hot outside and we're not even having a baby, he added.

"Nice." That, spoken really curtly and in half-seriousness, was my initial reaction. Then I realized ... yeah.

God, he's so right. I'd need one of those window air conditioners to strap to my back like the Ghostbusters' back pack things and a really long extension cord. And Dave would need a helmet.

In which I reveal I have maaaybe a few insecurities

Maaaybe you're aware, but I suppose a new Harry Potter book is coming out -- and dare I say it's the last (unless she pulls some Garth Brooks-like move) in 'er successful lit'ul series (that's my British accent for ya)?

And Oshkosh, apparently, loves it (hi, we made CNN). They love it big time. I could prove it with more links, but I won't.

Hi, remember me? I just graded 465 Harry Potter trivia contest entries for The Northwestern's contest. Hello. And much like my similar-boat-ed colleague who's covering the event tonight, I had no freakin' idea what a Muggle is. And I'm aware that that makes me an uninteresting person. It's OK. I've moved on with my life.

I just never got around to reading them, and I'm afraid if I picked the books up now, I'd be like that person who started listening to Death Cab AFTER their song became the "Laguna Beach" commercial-or-theme song.

Anyhow.

Here's where I make a more startling confession. I don't like crowds, being shoved into one alone or, by God, being shoved into one where I'M really the one standing out like a non-Potter-reading woman because I'm not wearing Potter glasses.

And yet ... Dave. I like him, OK? And because I like him, I took his memory card reader to him downtown, where he's presently shooting photos of people standing next to Potter creatures whose names mean little to me. (Or should I say "lit'ul"?)

So I bring my dog because I'm "well into" my 20s and still don't like the thought of going alone. And my dog? He's not only not a Potter fan. He's scared of Harry Potter, apparently. That, and city buses.

I purposefully took him outside before we went downtown because not much is worse than picking poo out of dry grass in front of thousands. But whatever, says Mr. Big, as he sees a bus coming toward him, and "DEAR GOD MOM WHY AREN'T YOU FREAKING OUT TOO?" and he promptly expels another round into a patch of dry grass before cowering behind my legs, pulling me back away from the crowd.

Awesome.

So I grip him and walk on to bring the memory card reader to Dave at Limelite Studios, and there's a line. I call Dave to come get it, all while Big's tugging at my arm on his leash, saying "let's get the heck away from here and all these oddly-dressed creatures, maaaa!", and the guy doesn't answer his phone.

I call again. No answer.

I call again, no answer. No answer. I'm about to pull a dramatic, not-so-much-like-Erin moment, cuz I was feeling like I was lost someplace where I didn't speak the language, thinking I like Dave a teeny bit less than I did five minutes ago.

Then he calls. "I'm not there, just leave it inside," he says. And the lobby is full of people. People Big would rather "expel upon himself" than go near. Riiight.

I hang up, ready to die, and someone I know walks by. "Here," I say, handing out my memory card reader like I'm fleeing the Nazis. "Raise him to know that his mother loved him." Or maybe I said "Could you take this inside and say it's Dave Wasinger's?" and then left.

In the car, I felt as if I'd just swam in a dark pond and accidentally went under a raft, where I couldn't find the beginning or the end, and thought I was going to die. Whew. And that desire I had to read those books? Not so much there anymore.

And now you know all about my present mental conditions. Ha.

Once, I also dissected a worm and held its skin back with pins in wax. I wanted to die.

My Saturday was supposed to include picking up my mother-in-law and, I guess you'd say aunt-in-law, from their hotel. Shopping! Shopping! My heart was aflutter. Or something. I was excited; I wanted shoes! Jeans! A shirt! A bag! Something! Dave's on the water! His "No, get it, it's OK" couldn't guilt me into not getting something.

A day of beautiful, beautiful unrelenting shopping. Wonderful womanly stuff.

Then Dave called, mid-dream at 8:15 a.m.

"I need you to do me a favor," he said over the phone from his perch on the lake, in his uncle's boat with his dad.

"OK."

"I need you to tell me what kind of fish this is," he said.

Uh, yes. Erin. Me. Fish. Over the phone. I am to identify. God.

"Uh, Ohhh-Kay ..."

"See, if it's one kind, it's good eatin' (yes, with a Southern accent); and the other is jail time," he said. "S-A-U-G-E-R or walleye."

I said I'd call him back, and then hit Google.

Honestly, he should've given me a calculus exam. I was Googling like it was no one's business, and all I got were diagrams and university Web sites that gave me post-traumatic stress disorder-like symptoms about sophomore biology and working solid magic to avoid taking biology in college.

Retinas. Elliptical body shape. Eye film. Good Lord, I thought, I'm going to tell him something and he'll end up in jail, over some stinkin' fish. I'd have to hire a lawyer; I'd be up to my arms in fishiness for years. Dang him, dang him.

I called back. "It says a DNR agent will have to tell," I said. Not a lie. But it also said a bunch of biology stuff. "And there's a third kind -- a saugeye." (I used the word "saugeye." God.) "It says something about body shape." Biology class! Nightmares!

"I don't know; I don't want to do this," I said.

And that was it; I was thanked, and then spent the rest of the afternoon alternatively shopping and hoping I didn't have to bail anyone out of jail. Because taking that money and bailing out a husband is not how I want to spend it. Buying unreasonably cute jeans? OK. Yes, that's better.

Bob Villa who

I remember the trail of blood in the kitchen on our brand new light oak-colored table and the wood floors. I remember Dad hopping up and down, telling me to get out of the way. I remember the cop car, staying at the neighbor's house for one of my parents to come get me and my brothers. And I remember thinking that my dad was most certainly going to die.

No, he wasn't shot. And he didn't die. And the cop car? It was my neighbor's.

I was about 6. Dad cut off his finger with a circular saw while making molding for our hallway at 15 Bluffside Drive. For weeks after they reattached it, he'd hold it up in the air like he was at an auction; the worst part was playing in the basement while he watched TV. Every so often, the nerves in his finger would spaz and he'd jump up and scream that manly "raaahhhhhhhhh" in pain.

It's why he doesn't watch Bob Villa. He was following Bob's directions when he lost his ability to feel in his finger.

And why I think maybe he hates Dave. He bought Dave a circular saw last week when he was here, so Dave could do the molding in our kitchen and the fence in the back yard.

The Fourth of July didn't bring trips to the hospital for Dave, but just to prepare him for the inevitable, I made him take a picture. I called it the "before" picture -- he's just holding up all 10 fingers and smiling. Yup. If there's an "after," I'll share it. Half the fence is up already, though, and he's still sporting 10 digits. We'll see how long that lasts.

Someday, I'll share the "gawddammit, I just glued my eye shut!" story. But enough making Dad look silly for one day. Let's talk about Dave's family instead. Jaaay-kay.

Thoughts on network TV before I switch the DVD player on

If you're doing a "reality" TV show on a man picking a woman in her 40s versus a woman in her 20s, it'd help if the 40-year-0lds looked like any 40-year-old I know, and not better than most 20-year-olds I know. And they all have the same hair.

That's all. OK, Erin, turn the DVD player on. Now. Erin. Now. Did she just ...? Oh, no she did-uhnt.

Great, now I care. God.

Not exactly plane-legal

Handing me items out of his car, I got loaded down with a pizza box, a Gatorade bottle, a carry-on bag and a jar of salsa.

I was eying this Life magazine from Jan. 6, 1961 sitting on top of another bag in the trunk, which next to the one in which he was rooting. The magazine had an illustration from the Civil War on the cover.

"Cool," I said.

"Well, I went shopping today," he said. See, Idiot, that is exactly 100 years after the start of the Civil War, he meant to say.

"Oh, cool."

"I saw it and just had to have it. And I got this shower mirror, this drain thing for the bathtub at home ..," he continued.

Then he started digging around a little deeper in the bag.

"Here, take this, too. I might have you bring this home with you when you come in August," he said.

"Why?" Looked like a Target bag to me.

"Well," he said, unwrapping it to reveal an antique dagger. "I got this antique dagger." Yes, a dagger, he said. "I don't think it's exactly a good idea to bring on the plane. I don't even want to try packing this."

"Not exactly plane-legal," I said, wondering what one does with an antique dagger while holding it gingerly by the handle-through-the-plastic.

"Yeah, I can just see them, 'Mr. Niese, please step over here a second.'"

So, that explains the double-bagged object sitting on my kitchen counter, waiting for its car ride to Ohio.

I'm glad I'm not having marital problems.

What should you do if you want to become a newspaperman or woman? First, learn how to use a typewriter

While cleaning the house trying to find a sense of cleanliness underneath this pile of everything-bagel crumbs and dead plant leaves brought to submission by Fearless Big, I found this book of ours, "Your Career in Journalism."

Distraction, yesss. I don't like the smell of everything bagels - they make me gag both because their name is ridiculous, because how can you have everything on a bagel?, and because they smell like everything bagels - so I sat to thumb through the book.

Chapter 9 of this 1965 book: "... a metropolitan editor may balk at hiring you because you are a girl. Here are the main reasons: ... He's afraid you'll get married and quit just when you've started to be of some use to him. If you are married, he figures you will become pregnant and quit."

Really? You mean I should've quit in October? Now I can quit when I'm going to have a baby?! Well, hot dang. I'm out. I've got a cake in the oven and a pot roast thawing in the sink and I simply MUST do my nails. Uh!

(Also of note, Chapter 8's opening line: The day may not be far off when a city editor will say to a reporter: "Check your space gear. You're going to the moon." So, uh, when that gig opens up, let me know. I hear it's lovely this time of year.)

I'd started with the Lost Levels but I never make it past the second level. I don't mean world. I mean second level. I'm that bad at it.

I've been pretty sure I have arthritis of some sort since the day I was born, but whatever, it's not gotten in the way of anything. I'm not one to whine about joint pain when it's about to rain.

Until last night. And it wasn't raining.

While Dave was off shooting the most expensive wedding of his life, of the two most photogenic bride and groom at the most pristine location in the area -- not that I'm jealous or anything -- I was at home. The night before, when Dave was at work and my dusting was finished, I read for eight hours. Eight. Ocho. I read on the couch, not moving for eight hours. That's an entire book. Looo-ser.

Anyhow. So Saturday I thought I needed some more excitement in my life. I pulled out the Nintendo. Isn't that what all early-'90s children do? Yes. It is. And Mario Kart was calling my name. I've never, ever in the history of "Mario Kart and Erin" been able to keep my Princess or Mario on the path, so this is big news: I won the first round. Won. No. 1. Me.

I cheered. Big gave me a high five. Music played. It was triumphant. Then I pushed "start" and was in first place again when the pain started in. It's like an ache in my thumb, right, and it quickly escalated into me driving Mario off the ledge of the ghost house level. Dang. I was soon after pulling the cord outta the machine because my thumb hurt so bad.

That, and I don't like losing after being No. 1. Mom always said "if you can't play without getting angry then I'm going to unplug it!" And she did. At level nine of "Super Mario Brothers." April 1993. The home at 739 Vincent Drive in Kentucky. A day that lives in relative infamy in my short video game history.

And here's the part where I tell you I took some Aleve and then tried out for their commercials.

Only instead of taking Aleve and trying out for their commercials, I took some generic ibuprofin and went to bed angry. No Mario Kart!? What is this life rolling downhill toward? A life without Nintendo? What's next, you're going to tell me I can't listen to my New Kids on the Block cassette anymore? God. I'm going to my room. You guys are so uncool.

Big's reprieve

"Bii-Ig?" I said in that sing-songy way that makes people want to punch me.

"Mr. Big?" Silence.

"BIG."

Then I hear "ka-thunk, ka-thunk, ka-thunk." And it's not Big falling down the stairs. It's my high-heel shoe from the wedding I was just in -- the one I was planning on wearing twice more because it fits the requirements for weddings two and three -- falling down the stairs ahead of the dog. Then came the dog around the corner on the landing, where he sat with his tail between his legs and his ears drooped down.

"BIG." I made a mean man-growl from the bottom of the stairs.

Then I looked at the clock -- 8:45. "Never mind. Let's go to bed." And suddenly, I was 8, apparently, as my bed time moved up. Big, on the other hand, will live to see 8. Probably. As long as the other shoe doesn't drop. Get it ... Never mind. It's almost 8:45; I can go to bed soon.