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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

Let's do some dream analysis

I woke up this morning anxious because I thought I was late for work (first sour grape moment).

Then I remembered this dream I had right before I was so rudely woken up by my panic attack (sour grape numero dos).

I was coming back to WORK (three) and there was all this construction going on outside, all the roads were one-way roads and I couldn't get to the building at first. Then when I stumbled over some construction barriers and holes in the ground, I made it inside only to find every other flight of stairs inside was missing, so I had to gladiator-it or else find another way up. I found some hidden staircase and went to a meeting because it was 3 p.m. and I was really late. Then someone in the meeting asked me if I could sit in another meeting afterwards and I cried.

So, I think that means I either shouldn't go back, OR work owes me three hours more of vacation for ruining this one.

Gosh.

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.

My JFK story

... has nothing to do with JFK. This Diana woman, she was my JFK, because like 9/11, I know where I was when I heard (Glandork Park Fest, 1997; skipping Spanish 101 in 2001).

But more importantly, her divorce and messy separation were my first experiences with anyone I knew buying those magazines for a reason bordering on obsession.

My parents were building a house in Kentucky with my grandparents' help. When we got doughnuts at Rehmke's Market each morning, breakfast of champions, my grandma would pick up a copy of People ("because it seems the most trustworthy"), just to get the inside info those crazy Brits were doing. Mom and Grandma would tsk-tsk, saying "Camilla? Really? Have you seen her?" and I'll look at the pictures of William and go "Reaaaally? Tell me more. I'm interested," the I'd squirrel the magazine away for cutting out pictures.

It was the oddest thing, to hear people walking by our little circle at Park Fest, talking about the car crash. I thought my mom was going to cry. I got goosebumps and did that uncomfortable eyes-watering, shivering thing that's really, really attractive and composed.

And we bought People again, and this time I kept the magazines not for William, but just because. I saw the tunnel six months later, in Paris, and I did that eyes-watering, shivering thing again. See, she kinda reminded me of my mom, being the same age, the whole divorce thing, the ever-present paparrazzi. I might have imagined the last part. But still. I hate it, so I watch Dateline and read the wire stories and do my own tsk-ing about Camilla.

Oh, memories

I threw out the ones of myself that were blurry, stuck together or just undeniably unflattering. Because, ya know, it's my photo box, and I can keep my memories of myself slightly more attractive than they were in real life.

See, some of those photos in that box are good photos, but come with invisible photo credits under them. For example: "Oh, here's that sticky July night when the Ex and I first broke up and got back together. For all that dramatic crying and humidity, my hair looks really good"; "I remember that one, of all those guys filling their red Solo cups in Columbus our freshman year of college. Five minutes later in this photo series comes this one of the Ex throwing up all over himself"; "Ah, yes, I kind of, sort of, maybe blew off some plans with a 'cough, cough' lie to go to this party. But those angel wings look totally awesome."

Good times.

Anyhow, I wasn't sure what to do with all those photos of the College Ex. When I was in high school I had a plastic, gallon-sized bucket full of photos; half of which I could've dumped when I dumped the other halves of the photos' subjects. But someone I worked with stopped me as I piled them up sloppily to toss out; she said I'd regret it later in life.

I'm not really sure what her reasoning was but I listened, and kept most of them.

The College Ex is kind of different; I mean, that's four years of prime, young, photogenic times in my life. Siiiigh. It's not like I display them throughout my house or leave them lying in places where I'd find them often. I only come across them when I'm on one of my three-hour-long organizational binges (some choose food, I choose containers and labels).

So, tonight I segregated them into piles of Him and Me and Him, Me and Others.

I kept The Others' pile. The other pile ... I don't know, what do you do with those?? I ended up putting them in the way-back of the box, under good-times photos. I'll forget they're even there after tomorrow. But still. Next time I need to organize, I'm going to be debating this again.

But I will say one thing. I ripped up the photos of my-uncomfortable-self and His Nearest and Dearest -- all of which portray my smile as less "yay, this is fun" and more "I swear to all that is holy that if I have to come over here one with these schmoes one more night, I will not be responsible for my actions."

And that makes me happy. See?! It's like those hundreds of nights never happened. My 2002 self would've found this moment very comforting. It's too bad I couldn't go back in time and whisper "Erin, woman, hang on. Someday you'll get to stay home and watch reruns like you want to now. I promise. Five years from now is looking up!"

SEAR-EE-usly

Someone pounded on the living room windows from the porch at my mom's house when I was home alone, watching TV. I was 15, living in a town where maybe 2,000 lived and thought that was most decidedly the last moment of my short, dull life.

But I didn't die. Hooray. I heard laughing, then running. Ah, well. Boys.

I still don't know who it was, but I do know that I still have that slightly annoyed, slightly timid demeanor when I'm home alone because I'm sure those dumb classmates of mine will return just to mess with me. Yeah. In Oshkosh. After watching one of Dateline's murder mysteries.

Anyhow.

So when Dave called me last night at 11:30 to say he was going to the bar to see his friend play a show, and oh, good night, smooches, etc., I expected the next time I'd be consciously aware of him was the next morning when I asked him to iron my pants (because that's how we roll, four days a week).

You can imagine my vomit-inducing panic, then, when he showed up at midnight. I was past dreaming and into not-messing-around sleeping when I heard someone in the room. I opened my eyes and saw a silhouette against the stairwell light, but not before yelling something I can't type here, followed by a defamation of Jesus and a couple saints in a combo with "DAVID EDGAR."

Then I punched him.

"Jeez, what's your deal?" he asked, defending himself.

Um, hello?? Dateline? Boys? Ugh!

I guess the next thing is Thanksgiving. Dang.

After Easter, the Catholic church goes back to what it calls Ordinary Time. Sitting in church as a teen, I'd read that on the cover of the missalette and hate life a bit, because Ordinary Time was like this really long, boring, uneventful time. Nothing'd happen again until Advent and Christmas. God (figuratively). Boring. So stinkin' ordinary.

Well, now I'm staring at a bunch of Ordinary Time again, and I'm bored. I'm glad the wedding season is over for us this year because, I don't know if you heard, but we're broke. But, now I have nothing too major to look forward to. Because of being broke, October'll be spent doing nothing, we think, and that's OK.

I'm the type of person who wants something so bad right now, and I need it yesterday, and I want it more than I can express! I want it! Then I get it, whatever it is. I'm happy for 30 seconds, and then I'm looking to the next thing -- because now I want that too! I want it yesterday! I want it so bad! Now!

It's really American, I suppose. Anyhow. So, that's the story of how I count down to the next best thing.

Now we're broke-er

I forgot my camera this weekend when I left Oshkosh for Illinois to be a bridesmaid in my friend's wedding.

But, as it turns out, there are some images I won't forget. Even the ones I didn't actually see myself.

One being the cars driving by us on the road as we sat in my hot car in Red Robin's parking lot in Rockford, Ill., hearing it go "grr, grrr, grrrrr" as Dave turned the key, 45 minutes before I needed to be at the chapel. Another is the look on my face in the mirror as my makeup got wiped away both because of sweat and tears (no blood, ha!). Another of me, getting picked up to go to the church and Dave staying behind, waiting for AAA.

Then there's the image of Dave carrying a wedding present down the busy road in the sweltering heat in his suit, after the car got towed away because of what we'd wrongly assumed was just a dead battery. Then of him getting noticed by two women I work with, who were on their way to the wedding and drove by him going "That's ... Dave?" before they stopped to pick him up. I'd want to see the picture of their faces as he explained to them how we thought we'd have to come back some other day to get our car, as we weren't spending the night in Illinois.

Memories, man.

If these images were able to be printed, I'd tear up the one of Dave's face as he got the call from the car repair shop as we stood outside the chapel, as he whispered "Brace yourself. They said it's going to be $600." I'd be interested to see anything that happened from that moment onward, because I had tears in my eyes and I don't remember seeing much but persimmon and black blurs as people walked by.

I'm especially fond of the image of Dave trying to make me smile or at least stop throwing daggers at him with my eyes, as he tried to rationalize it with "It's OK, babe. We'll be OK." Even though $630 is a hefty chunk of previously mortgage-bound payments and I thought I was going to throw up.

I'd frame the image of me wondering if I could forget about morals long enough to sign up for that amateur "hot body" contest, so I could win that $1,000 prize. It should be blatantly stated that I immediately decided against it. But it was a good joke for about 30 seconds.

Only the best photographer could've captured the relief that must've been on my face as he told me that it wasn't $630. Just $590. Really. Oddly, that made me feel slightly better. And at the end of the night, I didn't feel like dancing too much. More like curling up on the couch and crying at home. God. Seriously.

Yup. Those are the scrapbook-worthy images from the wedding.

Oh, sure, she looked gorgeous in her dress. And I also cried over other things, like how she was shaking and smiling during the ceremony, the way her dad cried during her sister's toast, or the way she cried during their first dance. Trying to paint those images wouldn't do them justice. Ooh, Krista. So pretty.

And, actually, I have an iPod playlist called "Remember college? I remember college." And yes, Bad Ronald's on there.

We drove home from Target tonight after spending 10 minutes debating the color of new bathroom rugs (we went beige) and what kind of shower curtain would replace the one my germo-phobic self just couldn't handle anymore (we went with a white and green one). We also got a toilet bowl brush.

I mean, this is the kind of stuff Thursday nights are made of.

On Wisconsin Street by the university, we passed a group of college kids carrying a set of Polish horseshoes and another dragging what I'm betting was a sticky-topped makeshift beer pong table from a typical college house. In college, I would've been jealous of that house, comparing it to my economical apartment. Now, I'm kind of annoyed by it.

My heart sank.

I don't want to play beer pong. I don't want to play knights of the round table or kings or even ride the bus. I don't want to listen to loud crappy music or drink flat beer in a stuffy house.

But I just wish I didn't feel so much joy out of having a new shower curtain and a bathroom rug. It's kind of jarring, because a few years ago, I was that girl tripping on her flip flops in the yard with a red Solo cup between my teeth while I threw ping pong balls into other cups across the table, listening to Bad Ronald. Seriously.

Furthermore, I've rarely felt too incredibly old til that moment, when I looked at Me A Few Years Ago stumbling in the yard, because my old-lady thoughts weren't "wow, remember college? Sigh. I remember college." They were more like "I'm glad I don't live by such hooligans now. I don't want their Fergie and empty red Solo cups in my space."

Sigh.

Now I'd never know how Spot ran, or seen him run. Run, Spot, run.

I grabbed four books from the shelves at the library Saturday morning, and by 9 p.m., I'd had one completed. I am a total loser. The book, which wasn't even that good, had me on the couch, standing by the counter, on the back deck, in bed, obsessed. Not even with the content or the plot (cliches abound; rich women in a fake Ohio suburb complain about their husbands and designer clothes -- what can I say, it's beach reading without the beach). Just with, well, contents.

I freaking love reading. Much more than life. Even if books about women who scoff at the idea of getting a job make me want to kill myself.

I love reading so much that I yanked a tooth out once because Mom wouldn't let me walk to the bookmobile until it was out. Oh, logical, Mom. It's not like we didn't live in Kentucky and our oral health wasn't already questionable. "Erin, if that tooth isn't out by the time the bookmobile gets here, we're not going."

Not going? Gulp. I cried. I gathered my books in a pile and hid behind the rocking chair and pulled and pulled and cried and had that watery, little kid throat whine goin'. I was like, 6, by the way. This wan't last week or anything. I remember distinctly hearing my mom yell from the kitchen "Er-un, we're not go-ing unless you pull it 0ww-ut."

Yeah, like it's hard to see why I love books. With memories like that ... It's a wonder I don't have a drinking problem. Kidding.

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.

Probably why I'm not the favorite child

During my freshman year of college, my dad and stepmom and my kid half-sister came to visit me overnight in my horrible, no good, very moldy and stuffy apartment in the middle of August.

It was miserable. For them. Not just because I am a poor conversationalist with no cable TV; rather, I was so poor that I couldn't turn on the air conditioner without having to forgo buying food that month.

Factors to consider: We see each other maybe twice a year, and talk a few times more than that. I hate being hot almost as much as ... no, wait. I can't think of anything. (Maybe being hot while listening to people whisper and also having a Michael Bolton song in my head. That'd be worse.) And I get that "it's hot it's hot dear God help me it's hot" chant from my dad.

We spent the days outdoors and shopping, even going on a short tour of the area I lived in. Then we came back and sat down to watch a movie.

My dad was immediately annoyed.

"Can I just give you $20? We can flip that thing on," he said, nodding toward the wall unit air conditioner.

"I guess ..."

"Awww, it wouldn't work fast enough anyhow."

He stood up, checked to make sure my oscillating fan was turning on high. Yup. Of course. He got a pair of shorts out of his car and changed. He paced on the linoleum floor in the kitchenette area, fanning his shirt.

I offered him a drink. No, nothing cold enough. He sat down and wiped his forehead.

"Can I see your computer?" I pointed to my laptop on the table, which he flipped on and pounded "hotels, Perrysburg" into the search engine.

"You guys can stay here," I said, reminding them that I had a spare bedroom since my roommate moved out. I'd planned on it ... I had spare sheets and everything!

"Naah, it's OK." Would I be offended if they just stayed at the hotel?

Well. I guess not.

And they did; so much for family togetherness. They made reservations online, snapped the notebook screen shut and said "Well, let's go."

Just like that, they were gone for cooler sleeping quarters, and I was left watching the credits roll on some TV movie.

Now ... I don't know if you've noticed, but it's 92 and humid here. My dad is allegedly coming up to stay a few days on Wednesday night. But I fear I'll again be embarrassed and left feeling awkward when he sits there sweating, wanting to book a hotel room.

I mean, if he's going to go sit in a room somewhere where it's 65 degrees, the least he could do would be to invite me and Dave along for the evening. Seriously.

If this were your 8th grade English class, you'd have to find a common theme in my search for "Big Fish" and the "fish that got away" anecdote

I get on these kicks where I want one thing, just one thing, and it's all I can do is to find it. About a year ago began my hunt for an amber, antique hen dish thingy (which really is as grandma as it sounds, but I don't care). It had to be amber (duh). The medium size. Not cracked or chipped. No more than $30. No stickers. No bad smell.

At every antique store Dave and I looked and found white ones, red ones, clear ones. Big ones, tiny ones. But I wanted one that looked like this. It was all I could do to not find it on eBay.com, because that wouldn't be nearly as fun.

I remember when I did find it -- for $10, in Ohio -- I sort of held it in my hands and considered putting it back, because I wasn't even looking for it, and Dave wasn't there. Where was the fun in that? (I changed my mind about the lack of fun when I did buy it and called Dave to tell him ... and as a guy, he didn't really have that same emotional attachment to our chicken hunt.)

And just like that, I had nothing else to look for.

Until now. All I want is "Big Fish." I know a million, trillion Web sites have it; I know. But stores I've been in don't have it. (With my antiques-shopping partner working and shooting weddings, I don't so much have higher goals; though I do have my eye open at all times for postcards from Cincinnati from early last century ...). Anyhow.

An older woman said to me once that she hoped I didn't get whatever it was my 16-year-old self wanted. She said it'd make me a better person to always have something to want.

(Of course, this is the same woman who said to that 16-year-old self at church -- in front of God, my friends and everybody -- that I was filling out nicely. I went home and cried. ... So maybe I should reconsider this self-imposed ban on eBay-ing.)

You are getting veeery sleepy. No? Oh, well, maybe it's just me

Not since the third grade have I gone to bed with such enthusiasm so early.

"It's 9! It's OK to put on my pajamas! Yes! Then I can go to bed! Maybe I'll be asleep by 10! This is incredible!"

Yes, I often think to myself in exclamatory phrases. I do!

But sometime within the last two weeks, I've been waking up every morning at 6:45, and I'm just done sleeping. Like, "Oh, that's it. I'm done. Whew! Glad that's over."

I'm like my grandpa. "Sun's up! Let's go mow." (Only I do not mow. That was part of the prenup I should've made him sign. "No mowing. No watching wrestling on TV. Must get me soft pretzels and cheese when I ask.")

And I could stop this weird, funky cycle if only I could keep my eyes open past 10 p.m.

It's not as if I were having problems sleeping. It's more the dreams. In one, I dreamt it was suddenly Country USA time and everyone was asking me "What should we do? Didn't you think about this?" and I was scrambling going "No! No! It's not time! You guys are wrong!" In another, I was at the prom. And nothing happened. I was just there. You know, promming. Or I relive boring moments of my life, like a math class I had in 2001. Seriously.

I can't even have cool dreams filled with hot actors or crazy scenarios. Just weird ones that make me want to get up. But here I go, getting ready to go to bed, and it's not even dark outside.

Yes. This is my life. Exactly as boring as I'll be dreaming it in five years. Sigh.

Neeeeews radio ssseven-hundred W. (pause) L. (pause) W.

Some of the worst memories of my childhood, besides anything having to do with math or science projects or divorce or chicken pox, have 700 WLW in them.

If you're unfamiliar with all that is 700 WLW, rest assured I'm sure there is a corresponding news-sports AM radio station in your network. This one just happens to reach from Cincinnati, where it's based, to practically all the way across Indiana on a good night (or bad night, in my case).

My dad would refuse to listen to anything else in the car while Marty Brenneman and the rest of them would go on air and yell, uninterrupted by anything except that static FFFSSTTTTSSSFFF sound every time you drove under an overpass on I-75.

Dave, Cincinnati sports fan that he is, doesn't let the good memories stop there.

My dullest moments with Dave, unless you're talking about Michigan, have to do with being stuck in traffic with him on car rides home, unable to sleep, listening to the announcers. They say the same things. Every time. And I, being the witty one I am, will repeat one line, over and over until he turns the station, just to make their point sound like the dumbest thing since French pleated pants.

"Gotta block those runs, Dave! They gotta do that. They gotta block those runs. Block those runs. Why don't the Bengals just do that? They just gotta stop those runs."

It's a wonder he doesn't push the "eject" button on my car seat.

And tonight, it came up again because Dave insists on acting like I know sports.

"The (dang Reds) gave up a three-run homer," he said, or something like that.

"Those dang Reds," I think my response was. "They ... uh (scanning memory for best 700 WLW line) gotta block those runs? Gotta block those runs." Yes. They do.

"Yeah, nice try."

Stupid AM radio.