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.

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.

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.

Wasn't so, so bad. Just bad.

I found out the worst part about working Christmas Day wasn't the fact that I was missing cheesy potatoes and pumpkin pie. Though, yes, now that I mention it, I could use some of that, please.

It was staying up.

I was working about two to three hours after I'd usually be sleeping. It didn't hit me til I got home and started to whine, or until this morning when I thought about poking my eye out so I wouldn't have to go to work. Or at 2 p.m. today when I wanted a nap.

Dave. You second-shifter, you. There's a reason I only see you at work. Days are so long, man.

Merry stinkin' Christmas

I'm not the only one who has to work on Christmas. Doctors, nurses, Wal-Mart cashiers, gas station attendants, the poor guy in the toll booth on I-80/I-90 ... I know, they do it, too. But it doesn't mean I was looking at the cup as half full as we drove back from the promised land of Ohio to the lonely, cold, snowy land of Wisconsin tonight. It was more like I saw the cup had some water in it and I kicked it over out of spite. Kind of like that.

Christmas Eve is usually the night my mom and stepdad and my brothers would open presents. Christmas Day is the Schroeder Christmas party in the church basement in New Cleveland. Dinner is always leftovers from lunch's big meal. But instead of that, I'll be at work here in Oshkosh. Ugh.

The problem with working on Christmas is you go in to work when it's bright out, the roads are clear because people are at Grandma's or home, eating turkey and cookies. When you leave work, it's dark, radio stations have stopped playing the Christmas songs already and the only ones on the road are the ones heading home after a long day of nothing. Jerks.

Last time I worked Christmas Day, I served food to folks and did dishes in a nursing home (I was a dietary aide, not a volunteer ... that'd be different). By the time the hair net came off at 8 p.m., Christmas was pretty much over, and all I had to show for it was a glob of pureed peaches crusted on my white pants and the onset of strep throat. That was awesome.

If I picked up that half-empty cup and put some water back in it, I'd say at least Dave's there this time. At least we'll both be working. May as well both be miserable.

Sixteen-and-a-half weeks

Pregnant women are especially easy to Christmas shop for -- gift cards, baby clothes and baby books. How can you go wrong?

So that's what my Christmas was like -- full of onesies, Cincinnati Ben-girls bibs and socks (I was raised a Browns fan, ya know, this is hard to handle) and even a sweet changing table. We got "Goodnight Moon," a "Baby's First Christmas" ornament for next year and a set of animal books. So cute.

And now that our Christmas is basically over, and as it gets closer to Jan. 18, I'm getting less "it'll get here ... patience, woman" and more "OHMYGOD I'll never make it." Because after finding out the sex, what's there to look forward to but the whole birth thing? Not that that's the process you look forward to, so much as the end result. You know what I mean.

Anyhow, all these baby items that are lying on the spare bed upstairs and all the unsent baby shower invites at my mother in law's and my mom's houses -- they're just little baby-powder scented reminders that I'm not even halfway done yet with this pregnacy, and I'm not a patient person.

Though Mom says that when it comes down to June and D-Day, I'll probably panic and say "No! Wait! I'm not ready! One more day, just one more day!" Probably. But that's how I roll -- fickle and anxious and slightly neurotic.

Always thinking

We exchanged gifts already since we'll be out of town before and working during Christmas. It was one of those really romantic evenings with the fireplace going, Harry Connick Jr. on the radio, perfectly wrapped gifts and champagne.

Or, Dave just finished "wrapping" my presents five seconds before he said "wanna open them now?", we flipped the volume off "Clash of the Choirs," and we're not much for champagne. Or having fires, since that'd require burning my house down. Or Harry Connick Jr. since he has a tendency to sound like a herd of elephants if you don't listen, put all your energy into listening to his damn Christmas songs -- and I just don't have the energy for that.

Anyhow.

I got my ring, of course, and "Mr. Big got me" a gift certificate, a couple shirts, a pillow, a CD. I'm so good to that dog.

And because I'm such an awesome wife, I got Dave tickets to see the Foo Fighters in Detroit in February, the same day as my baby shower and Dave's birthday. Convenient, huh? Dave thinks he got the tickets because he's such a good husband, or maybe the hormones swung in his favor for a minute, or maybe I just had a stroke of good planning. Maybe. Or maybe it's my way of saying "This is the last time, buddy. Enjoy it, my friend. En. Joy."

Teary woman

A coworker didn't mean to make me cry, but I about did when she sent me a picture of her sister's ultrasound. I don't know her sister; I am just the token pregnant woman who, yeah, enjoyed looking at it. The baby (a girl, if you were dying to know) at 19 weeks is just about how mine will look (if all goes well, ya) Jan. 18. God. I was doing that breathing deeply, looking at the ceiling thing so I wouldn't embarrass myself.

Then today, I got to do it all over again when I opened my gift for the work exchange. I saw this bib and wanted to crawl away and cry. I love, love, love it. It's so freaking cute. But no, I didn't cry. I think I squealed or something. Just wait til my shower in February.

Zee baby

Well, I broke down and got two more pairs of maternity pants, and wore one to work today.

I know this isn't a big deal to anyone who's not had a drastic change in body shape, but I was nervous and worried about how I'd look in them for an irrationally long time last night while I was trying unsuccessfully to sleep. I like the belly, but I don't like how the short-waisted Erin looks with the pants that come up so far in the back and the shirts that cut me at just the wrong point ... But that's not what you're here for, to hear about my expanding stomach.

In summary, I wore them. I felt comfortable. I need to deal with the fact I'll never look the same as I did. Whatever. I hear there's a reason for this -- apparently I get a baby at the end of all this. And they let me KEEP IT. So, moving on.

Back to this not-sleeping thing ... I keep reading in my bible of pregnancy (this one is the best, courtesy of my doctor) that sleeping doesn't get easier as you get bigger. But I can't get comfortable NOW. I can't stop thinking about work, the baby, Dave, in-laws, holidays, traveling, money, work, foods, memories that mean nothing, songs in my head, work ... And this is me, the Olympic medal-winning sleeper. I don't get it. I can't stop thinking. And I can hear myself breathing. UGH.

I blame it on not sleeping on my back, as that book also says like a harsh German dictator, that you MUST NOT DO, because we don't want to huurt zee baby!, and that's annoying only because I am still 3 when I want to sleep. Tell me I can't do something? That's the ONLY thing. I want. To do. And if I could, I'd throw myself down on the floor and stomp my feet about it. But, I don't want to hurt zee baby. Ah, well.

Pregnant lady at a liquor store

I like getting little "pretend" presents for people to go with their "real" presents. Most call them "gag" gifts, but since I'm talking about buying cheese curds as jokes, I don't like to use the word "gag." Mainly because yeah, when you explain to someone what a cheese curd is, and why they're called curds, they really do gag ... and that's not my intention. I just wanted a little laugh.

Anyhow.

Besides those cheese curds I'm going to be throwing on top of real presents, I'm officially DONE-ish with Christmas shopping. I add "ish" because in a bit I'll be wandering around the wine section of the grocery store for a gift -- a GIFT -- as I hold in my belly behind my winter coat so I'm not the one people are whispering about behind the reds, what with their "can you believes" and "lush"es on their lips.

See, I may as well light up a cigarette mid-belly scratch and drink right outta the paper bag.

I plan on kindly escaping past them with an apologetic "but I just love wine .. they're made from grapes, right? Fruit? It's gotta be safe for the baby. It's just gotta be. Right?" Hack, hack, smoker's cough.

Yeah. After that fun experience, I'll be done with Christmas shopping for the year. Then comes the fun part ... getting the presents. Whooooo!

No Christmas spirit, no Christmas spirit at all

I know that stress sometimes can be transferred to animals, but I didn't think it'd come in the form of chewing through a strand of Christmas lights.

Idiot.

Luckily, it wasn't plugged in. But I could've lit that dog up when I walked in the room to turn on the tree and found -- what's this? -- the plug lying across the living room, copper wire exposed from its green plastic, the caution tags irresponsibly ignored and wet with dog spit, balled up on the rug.

What? Who DOES that? What a tool. And of course the strand was on the tree, the tree he pretty well ignored til this point, so Dave got the merry job of buying another strand and re-decorating our tree so we could light it again.

What did Big get? He got to wear the sweater. And when he wears the sweater? He pouts on the couch for hours. YEAH. TAKE THAT, DOG.

Holiday mish-mash

We dropped in Limelite Studios before the big tree-lighting ceremony Friday in the triangle that is Opera House Square. The studio had the white tree up, snowflakes were being cut out of white paper by a normal, adult male. A couple others hung sparkly flakes in the storefront windows, and it was at least 80 degrees inside there. I sweat in my winter coat, hat and gloves, and a few seconds later I was shivering outside by the tree.

Those gathered around the tree before it was lit were singing "O Christmas Tree," and when the anticlimactic lighting of the dull white lights on the tree glowed, they pretty much stopped and faded away as the crowd dispersed.

We dined, we had some friends over, we listened to Christmas music on our iTunes, bragging about the 9.2 hours of Christmas music (not all good, admittedly) we have. The trees were all lit in my house.

It's pretty much Christmas, all over.

And yet Dave and I don't know what we're doing for Thanksgiving. I keep forgetting that stupidly placed holiday is still about a week away (who plans a holiday on a THURSDAY? Seriously). I forget that before we get too enthralled with the Peanuts Christmas soundtrack I got, we should probably talk about that whole turkey thing.

Ah, but that doesn't happen. As I checked out Christmas CDs from the library today, the librarian told me she's trying to live in the moment and enjoy the seasons and holidays in their correct order; she's right, ya know. I'm the reason people cringe the day after Halloween. I'm the reason early shopping days were invented. And maybe that's a bad thing. Probably.

But I don't want to live in this moment. I'm not so thankful for this exact moment. Christmas? I can pretend it's Christmas. I can see family. I can leave this city, for which the honeymoon's over and now we're just ... comfortable. So maybe if I have Harry Connick Jr. singing about Rudolph, it'll make Christmas come faster and we can be done with this whole boring waiting game.

Or maybe it just drags out. I dunno.

I also hated how "Who Let the Dogs Out" was played at every pep rally. We get it. We're the Bulldogs. ENOUGH ALREADY.

I was that annoying girl in your senior class who thought everything was stupid.

I hated having three study halls and not being able to leave the building. How stupid. I hated having classes with freshmen. I hated being forced to go to pep rallies. Stupid. I couldn't wait til I was 18! I was so out of this stupid town! I was going places! I hated everything and everyone! Insert slamming the locker door shut and stomping to government.

But now I'm missing a few things. Just a few, though. Let's not get too excited.

Like the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, when the cafeteria would serve two globs of boxed mashed potatoes with shredded turkey on top, and Nickel's Bakery rolls with butter, and a little heap of peach crisp? Sigh. We stood in line for 20 minutes for that stuff. I've never spent a better $1.50.

Then there were the movie days; I guess it was pointless to try to teach us stuff right before the holiday, so here! Let's watch a movie. Yer teacher needs a smoke, so sit down and shut up and watch the movie.

And the days off ... Not that there was much to do in a town of 2,000-some people, but still. It FELT like freedom. No school, man! No one's here to hold me down! Except my mom, she's making me sweep and dust. GOSH, no one UNDERSTANDS me.

Still don't miss the other things. But I'd sell my dog for a tray of that turkey-mashed potato stuff and a few freebie days off. OK, maybe not my dog.

Seems like less fun, more work this year for some reason

A city that welcomes the man in red down Main Street before we've even carved our Thanksgiving turkey can't judge me for what I'm about to say.

Our Christmas trees are up. Dave's valiantly come through in setting them up, I've been diligent in my lighting and decorating ... And voila, you have Christmas all over the place. We've finally amassed enough ornaments to fill all our trees (and then some ... some didn't make the cut this year) -- a "pre-Dave" tree, a "pre-Erin" tree, a blue-and-silver tree, a Santa/red tree and "our" tree.

Feel free to go get a tissue now.

But see, then you leave the house and no one else knows it's Christmas! fabulous Christmas! in your living room! in your dining room!

Instead, it's just November something and that woman in front of me in the grocery store's countering the cashier's pleasantries with her diatribe about how she hates the holidays, and the cashier nods and smiles and scans her savings card and suddenly, life's just mundane again.

Woman, she just asked how you were ... she didn't mean it! I think to myself. Take your raincloud and be a hater somewhere else. I'm trying to have CHRISTMAS over here.

Not my proudest moment

I was putting up certain festive items that shall remain nameless but may or may not include tiny lights, bulbs and tree skirts. From the living room, I could hear Big get off the couch and start sniffing around one of the less stable festive items; decorative lights tinkled against each other and I saw the lights from the corner of my eye, swaying back and forth.

Big? In the festive artifact?

No.

My dear. My son, my apparent manly, dominant son with four legs but no manly parts of his own, was showing Frosty who was boss under the festive artifact, and looking up at me as if to say, Mom could you KNOCK before you came in, because I wasn't done?

And Frosty, the foot-tall stuffed festive decoration that he was, lay with his plastered-on smile, screaming "help, help" in his jolly, booming voice.

How do you tell a dog that straddling a stuffed object is no way to treat a holiday artifact, no matter how threatening you find his demeanor?

I'm so ashamed. I think I'll start carrying around a water gun so I can just shoot him to get him to stop, and not have to make eye contact with him while he defiles such cheery objects. I can't take it.

It wouldn't be so dismal if we got the Charlie Brown Thanksgiving special on TV

We've not been alone together for Thanksgiving ... ever. Yet.

It's like that one last frontier; that last "first" day we've got to share together. Or maybe it's not that dramatic.

For the sake of blogging, let's say it is that dramatic. Because it's a holiday -- pre-Christmas, if you want to get Erin-Technical -- filled with mashed potatoes, gravy, mashed potatoes, pumpkin pie, a little turkey, mashed potatoes and cranberries. Oh, and family. It's supposed to have that, too. And we'll be sharing it here, in our quiet house, probably eating take-out or ordering pizza from some lonely pizza place that has a skeleton shift on for all the losers like us who order out instead of waiting four or five hours to cook some bird.

I'd say I was excited about it if it weren't so anticlimactic. Nothing feels like a holiday when you don't get to go anywhere for it. The good news is, I like Dave, so I guess that part won't be so bad. I guess. Gooooosh. Bring on the Trivial Pursuit and KFC mashed potatoes. Yum.

I love the hollow bunnies, because I can scoop peanut butter in them. It's really healthy, I'm sure

When the rest of your family's getting together for Easter some eight hours away and you have to go to work, it's really hard to be optimistic about anything.

It's sunny out and 20 degrees? Whine. Can't find a match to that sock? Let's cry about it. Shampoo in your eye? Someone, call a therapist. Seriously. Ugh. WHY is this shirt so ITCHY. Why am I so TIRED. Why is it SUNDAY. Why is the dryer so LOUD.

Why did I run out of things to complain about! Someone! Do something! Ugh.

Fun!

I don't think hiding Easter eggs in the backyard for Dave to find would be nearly as exciting as spending a holiday with family, even though Easter isn't technically a holiday to anyone but a banker or government employee. I mean, come on. Eating olives right outta the jar. Buttered rolls. Cheesy potatoes. Turkey. Chocolate bunnies filled with peanut butter. Pie. Can't beat that.

Come to think of it, it's probably better for my sodium and fat levels that I stayed here. Hm. Yeah, I'll live longer.

OK. Wow. I feel better already. And five pounds lighter. Bring it on, Monday.

You've gotta see these

The Video Valentines to soldiers that the video team did at work. Seriously. But don't watch them at work if you don't like crying in public.

Let's play 20 questions

Courtney, my half sister: Is Dave spending the night?

Erin: Yes.

Courtney: Are you going to have babies?

Erin: Eventually.

Courtney: I think you should have babies. Is he REALLY spending the night?

Erin: Yeah, why?

Courtney: He's going to see me in my pajamas!

Erin: The outrage!

Courtney: Do you love him?

Erin: Of course.

Courtney: Good because I want you to have babies so's I can be an aunt.

We are what you'd call LAME

Since it's New Years, while you're out doing crazy things, we're here doing lame things. Deal.

It was a nice, quiet game of Trivial Pursuit.


That ended in one kitschy gnome losing his life.