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.

The 30th anniversary isn't for pearls anymore

My dad celebrated his 30th anniversary at his work Thursday, and for his years of dedication and traveling and hard work, he got something he wasn't convinced would ever leave the box.

He got a freakin' 80 GB iPod. An ay-tee gig iPOD. I'm pretty sure that's ridiculous. What happened to a cake? A watch? He gets an iPod? Really?

"Maybe when you come home you can show me how to use it," he said.

Or I'll show him how I'll steal it, is what I'll do.

Imagine how it must've been for him in 1977, walking in that flooring company.

"Hi Randy. Here's your desk. Your coffee mug. The restroom. Now, just think ... sure you'll install floors for a few years, then you'll sell some stuff, you'll travel so much your kids'll hate it, you'll work at home cuz you're on salary ... huh (pat on the shoulder)! But seriously, Randy, you just wait! It'll all be worth it! In 2007, we'll give you something that can fit 20,000 songs on it! And it'll fit in your pocket. Yep. That's right. We're getting you an iPod ... Just keep your eyes on the prize, Randy. All right. Get to work."

Dear Dave: I want a maid for Christmas. And I want that maid to be you. And I really just mean stop leaving your shoes under MY side of the bed.

A normal person would brag about Dave's cousin being in the NFL, and how his family's coming up this weekend to see the Raiders play the Packers, and yay, football.

But I'm not going to the game because I'd rather poke my eye out with a stick than watch football, especially in snow. And "special teams" doesn't mean much to me, despite it being neat knowing that I sorta, kinda know someone in the NFL. Wow.

What's stressing me out is my messy house. And my inability to stay awake past 8 p.m. And the fact that when I say "messy," I mean messy for real this time. Not "Erin's being crazy about that book not being in the library bin again." No, this time I really mean "my mother would be so angry if she saw this."

So as I swept today, fully knowing I was going to leave a note for Dave saying "Dave's to do list for Wednesday: Sweep/ mop, laundry, vacuum, fold laundry, dishes, put away laundry -- all of it," I got so tired I actually had to sit down.

Loooooser.

Which is why I'm blogging with the broom beside me. Ha. I live so scandalously.

Noooooo, don't make me goooooo

I'm all about home improvement (the act, not the show), and I'll admit that nothing quite brightens my day like the smell of paint drying. Paint that I didn't put there. Paint I wanted there, and ordered Dave to put there. See, I'm very specific about the scent of my drying paint.

Since Lowe's opened in Oshkosh last week, a mere five minutes from our house, Dave's been a madman.

"Let's go tomorrow after you get done with work."

"Wow, I call that incentive."

"To get done earlier?"

"No, to get lost on the way home."

"Come on! It'll be great."

"I'll bet!"

He's decided that tomorrow, just because!, we're going to pick out molding for the kitchen, new toilet paper holders for both bathrooms (because the ones we have are jiggly beyond repair, and he wants fewer moveable parts), a towel holder for the downstairs bathroom, and the mower we'll be getting next spring.

Wooooooooeeeeeeeeeehhhhhhh! A new mower! All right! Let's go now! Let's go tonight! Let's talk about weed control! Let's talk about blades! Let's talk about oh-my-God-I'm-so-bored.

I had a penchant for home improvement-type stores right after we bought our house, but since, oh, October of last year, that kind of returned itself to the "boring" pile of my life. He's going to ask me to pick out the siding we'll get when we're rich, or the type of windows we'll get in our next house, I just know it. God, wake me up. I must be having a nightmare.

No, she doesn't have the mullet anymore. I still have that crazy hair, though.

All weddings are fun, but weddings that are held around home with your family, with Putnam County wedding food, with wine, with a bride you used to stay up late playing Barbies with at Grandma's by the closet light until you started giggling so loud that you got yelled at for not trying to sleep ... those weddings are the best. The weddings with the bride you used to spend hours on the phone after school with dissecting what The Boy said to you that day in school -- does he still like me? I think that's him! On call waiting! Oh my God! What do I say??

And I'm gonna be in one those weddings in September.

My cousin Kristen called me last Friday around 11 p.m. to tell me she got engaged! Finally! Yay, Paul! And Thanksgiving night, she asked me if I'd be in her wedding. Heck. Yes.

She's got what I understand to be 286 days to throw together the wedding she's always wanted. Less than a year. Actually, to tell you the truth, I'm glad it's less than a year, because I'm so excited for it, and for her. But I'm not exactly jealous to have to do all that planning in nine months. But I guess she won't feel those five-months-out, I-swear-to-all-that-is-holy-I'll-never-make-it-to-my-wedding-day, this-is-taking-forever moments.

Siiiiiigh, fun.

You can't help yourself at all

"What should I write about this week in my column?"

"My backache."

"No."

"The broken water heater?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"It's boring."

"The possibility of 40 gallons of water gushing into your basement isn't boring. We're LIVIN' ON THE EDGE, BABY!"

"Oh my God."

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.

New storm door gets the best of Oshkosh man

He's intelligent, but he was surprised -- as in called me to tell me, was bothered by it all night -- when he put a new door in the frame while he backed away ... and it fell.

Who is surprised by this? Who? Let's see ... it's not secured. It's not being held up by magical fairies.

It fell. It wasn't fastened ... Just putting that out there.

Just some more about my trainwreck-of-a-yawn life

JK on that title.

Anyhow, this highlight of my 20-some years is that we're .... getting windows.

Well, I do have more exciting things going on right now. But if you talked to Dave, you wouldn't think so.

It's all he's been talking about. He carries samples of window sill colors and styles in his murse. He has the pamphlets from all those who've come bearing measuring tape and clipboards, who pull back our dusty blinds to measure our rotted out, nasty old windows.

"Which do you like?" he asks, holding out a ring of eight or so types.

"Uh, this one?" I held out a mahogany-colored one.

"No, this one. I like this one." No? Like, it's not an opinion?

No, Erin. This is serious window shopping. Rolls his eyes. Mahogany? Who are you kidding?

And here, three months ago, it was just an idea I had. I've taken that idea, given it to a reluctant Dave and walked away, brushing my hands off. Now I get new windows. He gets the credit.

But he really does try to convince me that buying windows is THE BEST thing that'll EVER happen to us. It'll like, cut costs! It'll look nice! It'll help us sell our house when we do! It'll change our entire outlook on life! Everything will be clear and seen through double-paned windows!

Gloria! Hallelujah!

It's what we call a montage

I've taken more photos in the last week than in the last year. And, similar to last year, I'm posting a photo montage to speed you through my VACATION. My wonderful, too-short VACATION.

You'll have to add your own music to make it a true montage. I recommend a little Van Morrison but Billy Joel is always a good choice, too.

Thing is, looking at these photos, it's really not that exciting (with the exception of the shark attack). But today's conversation summed it up: "It's like God said 'here's Heaven,' and then he saw us and said 'WHACK! Get back to Oshkosh! Git!'"

Sigh.

Newport Aquarium, Tuesday: Dave gets eaten by sharks. Says word that's best left untyped. Erin watches from across the tunnel and half-smiles. "That should make for some good blogging," she thinks.

Newport on the River, Tuesday: "Let's pose like tourists."




Mom's house, Wednesday: Meant to last through the long Midwestern winter, Dave hands Mom a 7-by-7-foot crossword puzzle. Mom stares in amazement and annoyance.



Mom's house, Wednesday night: Not to be outdone by a 7-foot crossword puzzle, Mom brings up Stepdad Bernie's latest find: a 4-foot Santa that sings and dances. Grandparents refuse to take sides over which is better: a 4-foot Christmas decoration or a 7-foot crossword puzzle.

Grand Rapids, Ohio; Thursday: Mom, Dave and Erin go shopping. Find ceramics to paint, books to read, and a metal, randomly placed horse statue. Erin embarrasses herself by forgetting the adjective "well done" and instead using "just do it all the way" when ordering food.



The Bombshelter, Thursday: Good pizza. Bad football.




Oxford, Ohio; Friday: Nephew likes the dog (pictured) from afar, and Dave blatantly ignores the warning sign from the Equine folks.



Middle of Nowhere, Ohio; Saturday: Dave's parents moved to a place that takes "rural" to a 2007 meaning. That is, they're literally miles from Target. Oh, the humanity.

Cousin Erin's is booooooring

More babies! Or, actually, a preschooler and twin toddlers. In my city. My house. Oh. Man.

My mom is No. 6 in a line of 11 children. I am third oldest of 33 grandchildren. The aforementioned little children are hanging out on the end of this branch of the family tree, and this week, they (and my uncle and aunt) are in Wisconsin Dells.

Monday after work, I'll be at my house with these people. To say I'm excited is like saying a car that takes 10 minutes to start is just a little annoying. I'm going to come right out and admit here, because I have no shame, that I despise not knowing anyone who doesn't have "@thenorthwestern.com." attached to their e-mail address. Those folks are few and far between ... and usually spouses of those Northwesterners. No offense, people, but I'm married to one of those guys, I am one of those guys, I am at that place so many hours a week and talking about it at home against my will so many hours of the week ... Woman needs a small break, ya know?

I think most people would've just called it "homesick" and been done with it, but I thought I'd dramaticize a bit. I feel better, anyhow.

As I was saying before my temporary ADHD kicked in was this: My uncle, aunt and their three kids will be at my house on Monday. I get to show them what it's like to live in the tundra, the central time zone, and in a place where time often stands still.

I'm looking forward to it, even besides my rational fear of being vaguely remembered as "That One Boring Place With No Kids to Play With or Toys to Entertain Us When We Were On Vacation In Wisconsin" to these kids years from now (because, hi, Great-Uncle Harry didn't really have stuff to play with and I was angry about my few hour-long visits there for years).

We'll be walking in Meijers 10 years from now and the too-cool 12- and 11-year-old kids will see me at the end of the aisle and as their mom says "Oh, let's go say hi to Cousin Erin!" they'll cringe and remember .... That woman has ZERO toys. And her dog is psycho. And they'll beg their mom to let them go look at mp3 players instead. God (rolling eyes), this is so lame! I'm so embarrassed, Mom. I hate you! I can't wait til I'm in college.

But Monday, my aunt and uncle will probably ask about work, but I don't have to tell a story with "And THEN guess what he said!" in it. Yesss. It shall be a good evening.

Tuesday'll suck, but that's another blog post entirely.

Erin and Dave: Proud owners of impossibly dark blue carpet and one white dog for about a year now

We've lived in this house one year now, almost to the day. Actually, a year ago now we were driving to Ohio overnight to get a marriage license. Then there was the moving out of the apartment, the mortgage lender from Halifax and the stress that went with planning the wedding.

I don't miss last year (though I'd relive my wedding day and honeymoon in a proverbial heartbeat), but now the stress is just in different forms. I couldn't expect anything less, eh.

I'll give you a hint. It starts with a "w" and ends with an "ork" and the other starts with an "m" and ends in an "oney." Oh, and then there's the part that starts with "n" and ends with "ever seeing Dave as often as I'd like." That one's probably the worst, though the end is nigh. I'll probably see him every night before I go to bed soon, and for dinner again like in the olden days. And then we'll run across the prairie's hill among the wildflowers toward our log cabin and Paw will .... Oh, wait, that's Little House on the Prairie.

Anyhow.

Point, point ... where was it? Oh, it's that I can't believe it's been a year already. Our projects that we're working on don't get done very fast and movies I thought I'd never have an interest in, I'm watching because it's more fun than sanding kitchen cabinets or painting a fence.

It's slightly exciting for me, because we have all these plans for the next year of our lives, and since this parts of this one went at a slightly faster than my average rate, I'm hoping that trend will continue a bit. We've got kitchens to finish, rooms to redecorate, painting to be done to fences and family rooms, furniture to be ogled and not purchased, a vacation to take, lives to rearrange, and all that.

So now August and September have been glacier slow. It's like staring down a tunnel at a light and thinking it's an end and yet the light never gets bigger ... That's August and September. Coooome on, October. Come on.

Ooooh, moving pictures

I hate bad smells. So Mom says I'd hate Ohio right now, or at least Ottawa.

The Putnam County Sentinel's Web site used to have a clip art photo of two girls circa 1960 whispering into each other's ears above some purple links for obits and sports schedules. It's a weekly and it's pretty small-town. For all its flaws -- and if you saw the design and read a lot of the copy, you'd know what I'm talking about -- it is local, and it's the only newspaper in the area.

So, I know I talked about the flood before, but still. I didn't know they had video in Putnam County. Just kidding. I did live there for, what, 10 years. Anyhow, here's the shaky video.

I asked my mom if they'd gotten the olive leaf back from the dove yet. I think I found it more funny than she did.

My mom and stepdad and the rest of Those Who Share DNA And/Or Memories With Me are living like Noah right now -- or maybe just stuck in that "up a creek without a paddle" saga. They're all underwater. Not like, "Katrina" underwater. Just this kind of underwater. But seeing where all the flooding reached in cell phone snapshots of my uncle "rescuing" my cousin in his canoe, and by listening to my mom talk about her hour drive to work (it's usually 15-ish minutes), it felt really unreal.

And for once, I'm glad I'm not there in Ohio with them.

To add injury back to this insult, in July when I was there, the lack of rain was so apparent that the grass crunched under bare feet in the yards, and running across the lawn kicked up little cartoon-like clouds of dust. My stepdad bought a rain gauge with some sort of beeper on it, so it'd go off as it filled up. "If it ever rains again," chuckle, chuckle, we said.

I'm guessing they disabled that function sometime before they started singing "I'm an Island."

I hate floods. Fires. Tornadoes. Really, anything out of my control. But what can you do? Grab a paddle I guess.

My stepdad told me one Christmas as I held my new firebox that no, Erin, they don't make houses out of that stuff. Hm. Well. They should. And then they should encase it in home-sized life preservers.

My mom and Milwaukee Buckeye are probably the only two who'll get this right away

I forgot the best part of my weekend.*

Dave went to his first real** Waterfest Thursday (I should've taken a picture of him at the gate, holding up his wristbanded-arm) to see Big Bad Voodoo Daddy.

The second opening band sang (while wearing masks that had us saying such phrases like "those things have to stink in this heat" and "I don't get it") Spanish versions of popular songs we all knew, but could only hum along to without looking like jerks. One of those songs was prefaced by a story about a gig they just had in Ohio.

My ears perked up -- Ohio? Hey Band With The Masks On! Did you see my mom? Did she say hi? Never mind.

But, they said they were in Ohio, and they played this song and the crowd went wild.

Then they started.

The opening "duhn - duhn duhn, duhn duhn, duhn-duhn-duh, duhn" (really, that's how it sounds in my head) had Dave rolling his eyes and me going "It's 'Hang on Sloopy,' Dave! It's 'Hang On Sloopy!'"

Oshkosh was indifferent. My Michigan fan husband was gagging. Me? I'm indifferent when the Buckeyes are on TV, unless they're playing Michigan -- then I'm their biggest fan. But Thursday? I was about to do the script Ohio solo.

I didn't, because I didn't want to get arrested for public intoxication after only having had one.

I did, however, throw my arms up for a couple of the "O-H-I-O"s like any good Ohio woman would, and Dave said a few "Let's go Big Blue"s like any Michigan fan would. I responded with a few unprintable, Ohio-leaning versions of that same cheer.

And I wished like H- Harrison that I was back in Ohio for that.***


*Perhaps it's the best because I'm a tad homesick. I promise to try to keep things more in perspective in the future. Yeah. Right.

**The first one was technically Dennis DeYoung and the music of Styx, but we left before Denny Dearest ever got on stage because it was raining and we were comfortably seated at Bob's Trails End, where Dave and our friend Alex ate coney dogs.

*** I just wanted to see how many of these I could actually get in one post. Sorry.

I think that man who comes to fix the machine on Monday will be wearing wings and have a halo over his head

I'm outside. My hair's wet. I just ate a grossly unhealthy creme-filled donut because I thought I'd die if Dave turned the stove on, as it's so hot.

It's officially broken. We though that maybe -- just maayyybe -- it was just the power company turning the air off because we signed that thing where they can do that and we get money off our bill. But, well. We were wrong, because now, not even the fan works. The air conditioner is broken. And Dave thinks, to add a punch in the face to injury, our ductwork isn't all that functional either.

But it's OK. Someone's coming Monday. Monday.

Fantastic.

It's not 100 and humid, granted, but still. I'm so sure this had to happen on a couple days when I don't work. I'm so sure. So sure.

Monday. (Also the day the man's coming out to check out why our oven doesn't work. Coincidentally.)

The sun beat in on my face through the rarely opened windows in our house. I winced. Dave tried to give me a hug, as he was all "Aw, it'll be OK," but come on -- it's hot. And 98.6 degrees and 98.6 degrees is obviously 197.2 degrees when two people touch. That's how that works, I'm sure of it.

No one light a match or work up a sweat

My stepdad taught me that if stuff could go wrong, it will. If you're trying to rid your yard of a pest who has been digging holes around the house, and you decide to pour gas down the hole and then light it, you will catch on fire. Just ask him.

That sort of thing.

So when Dave and I had to decide whether to get the home warranty (that thing that covers major appliances that came with the house when you bought it), we figured our luck wasn't on any distinguishable streak. We signed up. And then we renewed just a couple weeks ago.

Thank freakin' God.

Last night, right before the supposedly-tear-jerking moment in "Music and Lyrics," I noticed my french fries in the oven weren't so much baking as they were fumigating. Or, rather, the oven was leaking gas. Sitting in the other room, I smelled it before I realized they'd been in the oven almost 23 minutes, and yet I didn't smell food.

Big got up and walked away from me; when I found him in the kitchen sitting on the rug right in front of the oven, I thought we were going to have to bring back "Rescue 911" to reenact the moment when I realized my dog was saving my life. I was considering which name I'd change Big's to for the TV show when I opened the oven door to reveal wet and cold fries, sitting in a 200-degree oven.

Yeah, 200 degrees. After 23 minutes. That's 225 degrees below normal for those of you who aren't sous french-fry chefs.

I shut it off and tried to remind myself to tell Dave. Turns out hours later, he smelled the gas, anyhow.

Yay, our first homeowner issue. A broken oven.

But wait, my friends! There's more.

I don't know if you heard, but it's hot. I am grumpy when I have to be outside more than 10 minutes at a time. I'm not personable after 2 minutes. I'll stop talking to you after 1 minute. Anyhow.

I came home today, and it sounded like someone'd turned on all the faucets in the house. Or, someone'd used one of those air hoses you find at gas stations, after you unhook the hose from the car? You know, that whoooooooo sound?

And it's hot. It's so hot. Guys, it was 90 today. Outside. And humid. And sticky. It's still 80.

The air coming in downstairs isn't cold. It's not warm. But it's moving. The upstairs? It's not. I'm going to go Google this now. Then, I'm going to go swimming in a baby pool of ice cubes. Then, I'm going to whine a little bit. I didn't have air conditioning with the exception of one year since 1994, til last year. I don't know how I survived.

And now I have to pay for it? This is fun! Weeeee!

Overreact? Don't be silly

Dave'e managed to get pretty far along with the fence; I'm talking about a gate and some leveling off of posts to work with yet. It's awesome.

And between you and me and him when he reads this tomorrow, I'm pretty surprised. I mean, we've been working on our kitchen for like, seven months now. All that's been done? Well, it's green. And in a fit of "we don't have time for this," he put on the new hardware on the cabinets and drawers.

Like I said we should do.

When we moved in.

But that was a dumb idea then. Of course.

Anyhow. Moving on.

The fence. It's almost done. That means I'm precious few days away from letting Big outside and not worrying about him running down the street again, like he did Saturday, leaving me to scream "BIG STOP" and having a mild heart attack when a car drove by and he took off for the corner, four houses down.

Children cowered in fear of my screaming. A coworker was cowering in fear of my screaming, standing in the driveway. And Dave? He was standing in the driveway with a couple cucumbers in his hand saying, Oh, these? Our neighbor gave them to us! Wasn't that nice?

Later, he said, "What, you overreact. How was I supposed to know it was for real this time?"

"I do not overreact," I said. "There was a car coming."

"Hm. I didn't see it."

It was blue. You guys. I don't overreact. I just happen to think that the car was going to speed up when it saw Mr. Big, jump up on the sidewalk and make Big really small and pancake-like while screaming "That's 50 points, baby!" out their window.

That is not overreacting. It's Oshkosh Vice, the video game. In my front yard.

Wedding numero 2

Becky's married, and I cried.

And that speech I was a bit worried about? I did just fine.

I didn't write it down, and standing out in the hallway before they announced the (rather large) wedding party, I whispered to the other speakers if they'd put a lot of thought into it. "Nope," times three.

Score!, I thought.

I volunteered to go first, so I wouldn't throw up all over myself before the Putnam County wedding food.

And in the back of my mind, I kept thinking "Everyone here -- Mom, Bernie, Derrick, Marianne, AJ, Jason, Jody, Siefker ... All of them ... I can't mess up. I've GOT to be funny. The guys have not seen me in three years ... God, my hair. Is my hair OK?? Is my ex here? God. God. God."

I swallowed, stood up, and told the story about Becky and I and our weird fascination with the NBC weatherman in Toledo -- Blizzard Bill Spencer.

It was unexpected, unexplainable, and something we got made fun of for, because ... let's admit. He's not a good looking or particulary young, strapping man.

But Brian? I came home to our apartment one day to find he'd gotten me Bill's autograph at a Mud Hens game. He asked. The weatherman. For his autograph. In public. For laughs.

"I was like, 'Brian? That guy? He gets it.'" And they laughed. And I toasted the happy couple -- "lots of love and babies," and they laughed. And my nerves were gone.

I freakin' love weddings.

Oh, and about that ex? He was there. And because Dave was there and already knows this, I can say ... It was weird. Living eight hours away means not having to see the guy you dated for four years, dumped one night and then haven't seen for three years. Weird.

But what's more strange is seeing the friends we had in common -- AJ, Jody, Jason, Aaron -- and remembering how we hung out every weekend years ago. And now, half of them didn't know I lived in Wisconsin.

"Ooooh! I live in Oooooosh-kosh," Aaron said, imitating my voice for kicks. "Oooosh-kosh."

Same old jerk. Ah, Ohio.

(Photos: By Dave, their esteemed wedding photographer.)

You and me goin' fishing in the dark; only really, I don't get to go fishing. I get to go shopping.

I get homesick frequently, as I've said before, but sometimes home just comes to me.

Take for instance, Thursday.

Dave's mom, dad, aunt and uncle are coming up. I'm genuinely excited because I am a sucker for uncomfortable silences and awkward moments. And that's just as they watch to see if I grab a beer or a pop -- "and is it just that shirt, or is she getting pudgy? And I think she got sick this morning!"

Juuust kidding.

I am genuinely excited. Mainly because I sometimes dread the thought of our puppy growing up not knowing who his human grandparents are. Well, that, and our circle of friends who don't count The Northwestern as one of their or their spouse's Most Common Destinations is miniscule. Family's neat.

But Dave, his dad and his uncle are going out fishing on the lake. I'm to entertain the "wimmin." Shopping. BW3s. The library. Gallery Walk! Thus concludes my entertainment options. Oh, oh, wait! Sawdust Days. Oh, thank God. Redemption.