This is life.

It's my birthday present to myself

noreply@blogger.com (Erin) — Mon, 14 Jan 2008 01:10:00 +0000

It's not me, it's Blogger.

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

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

Follow me; it's prettier over there.

My existentialism never came on prom night.

noreply@blogger.com (Erin) — Fri, 11 Jan 2008 01:23:00 +0000

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

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

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

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

So why can't I ever catch up?

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

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

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

noreply@blogger.com (Erin) — Thu, 10 Jan 2008 03:14:00 +0000

My doctor called in sick.

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

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

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

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

No, the ultrasound's still nine days away

noreply@blogger.com (Erin) — Wed, 09 Jan 2008 00:54:00 +0000

I see where this is going.

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

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

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

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

Ooh, snap

noreply@blogger.com (Erin) — Mon, 07 Jan 2008 02:08:00 +0000

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

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

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

Grossed out

noreply@blogger.com (Erin) — Mon, 07 Jan 2008 01:16:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Erin) — Fri, 04 Jan 2008 02:54:00 +0000

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

Amen.

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

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

"What's his address, again?"

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

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

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

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

OH. THAT.

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

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

Working on New Year's Day rocks

noreply@blogger.com (Erin) — Wed, 02 Jan 2008 00:56:00 +0000

And I'm not even kidding.

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

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

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

Hello, 2008

noreply@blogger.com (Erin) — Wed, 02 Jan 2008 00:48:00 +0000

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So Dave was in pain

noreply@blogger.com (Erin) — Mon, 31 Dec 2007 00:05:00 +0000

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

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

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

"No, I'm too embarrassed."

"No, what if it goes away?"

"No, it's too expensive."

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

"No, I hate hospitals."

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

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

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

"Cool."

Nice.

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

"I got a CAT scan."

"Oooh. Neat."

"Yeah."

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

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

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

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

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

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

noreply@blogger.com (Erin) — Sun, 30 Dec 2007 23:57:00 +0000

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

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

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

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

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

I'm so neurotic

noreply@blogger.com (Erin) — Sat, 29 Dec 2007 00:38:00 +0000

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.

Never was much for waitin'

noreply@blogger.com (Erin) — Sat, 29 Dec 2007 00:19:00 +0000

I know it's early. I know I don't know the s-e-x yet. I know I won't be giving anyone birth 'til about June.

But my showers are coming up -- as in February*. Yes, I know I have time. Plenty of it, actually.

But ask anyone who's lived with me longer than five seconds and you'll be told "Erin's crazy." And Dave and I don't get days off at the same time (where we're not driving to Ohio) more than like, what? Once every three or four full moons? And I took two semesters of hard-core astronomy. I know moons.

So that's why tomorrow, provided we don't die first in this snow -- Wisconsin snow, something no one with a career in broadcast journalism here has ever heard of, ever -- we'll set out to register for some of this baby thing.

And ohmyGod. Registering for the wedding was one thing. We walked around the store, gun in hand, pointing out all the necessities we could ever ask for, and a few of the items I'm not sure why I needed (our coffeemaker's more space age than my astronomy classes were ... really).

But this is like registering in a foreign language for something like ... how can I compare the alien feeling? Uh ... A cannon ball hitting your house? Something you have no idea how it works, what it'll do, whether it'll have "puke issues" (Mom's words, not mine) like I did, whether it'll have GERD like Dave does, whether it'll sleep, ever ... Just. I've been babysitting half my life, I went to school for two years for child development, yet I can't tell you what a person should register for.

They don't teach that in school. Not even at the community college. Weird, I know.

So anyhow. They'll probably hand us the gun and we'll be standing quietly in the megastore with a sheet of paper in front of us that I tore out of Fit Pregnancy magazine, going "OK ... they say four sleepers ... But it'll be June. Who wants to be wrapped in June? Oh my God. I quit."

Wish us "Godspeed." Hey. At least the stuff's cute. I mean, come on. Have you seen this? This? This? And yeah, this, too.

*Ah. It should be explained my showers are so early because a.) Dave's sister's hosting one and she's due with her baby in March, b.) I don't want to travel eight hours at eight months' pregnant, and c.) we were going home anyhow because I'm that awesome wife who got Dave those Foo Fighter tickets.

Hallelujah -- We've been saved

noreply@blogger.com (Erin) — Fri, 28 Dec 2007 01:04:00 +0000

Here's how the money works in our house.

I make some, he makes some, I collect bills in a slot for our envelopes, he pays bills at the very last second, every time, like he's surprised that -- oh my God? Erin? This one's due on the 1st too! Again! Every time. Dang.

Admittedly, I have little idea how much those bills are unless I open them; he has little knowledge what day of the month it is, so we often pay bills RIGHT on time. Exactly on time.

Saving? Well, yeah, we have one of those accounts. I don't recall ever putting money in it since we opened it. But see? I'm SAVING it. And checking account? Yup. Retirement fund? Uh, I have ... something set up through work. I couldn't tell you what it is, or what it means. Or what those student loans have left on them. Or what Dave's do, though I know he has more than me, and even though we're married, that's all the same headache.

My credit card's paid off. His isn't. I have a car payment. He doesn't. But we will soon. No, it won't be a minivan.

That about covers it. Oh. The mortgage. I've got one of those.

So. We've got some money stuff.

And now? We've been SAVED.

Remember that pre-Cana thing I just mentioned the other day? (Here's my original blog about the marriage class ...)

Well, one of the presenters/ counselors/ speakers from that whole thing just called. Apparently, the free financial counseling session we all were entitled to for going to the pre-Cana class is still good. And, what's that? Our number just came up? YESSS.

He told us in June 2006 he'd call in like six weeks, so after we didn't hear from him after that, I kind of thought he hated us, or maybe noticed we were unmarried and shared an address? That's OK. He's over it now, and thank God.

We need some help. I picture myself dumping my money stuff from a shoebox onto his desk, and him saying "No, no, don't do that!" and "Yes! That's what I call saving!" And there will be singing! And rejoicing! And counting of coins in tall stacks with green visors.

I don't know if you knew, but babies cost money, and we have 23 weeks and five days (according to my online pregnancy calendar) to find some money. I'm so ready for this money thing. Help me, man.

Wasn't so, so bad. Just bad.

noreply@blogger.com (Erin) — Thu, 27 Dec 2007 00:53:00 +0000

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.

This was almost as good as finding his old love letters to an ex

noreply@blogger.com (Erin) — Thu, 27 Dec 2007 00:18:00 +0000

I've talked before about how Dave's mom's saved everything from Dave's first dental X-rays to a sheet of wallet photos from his junior prom, but the bin of treasures she dug out of their basement went so far above that expectation that I couldn't do anything but shake my head.

I'm not sure why anyone would keep items they weren't sure what they were or where they came from. Posters. Cereal boxes. School notebooks. Avon cologne bottles.

And now's not the time to talk about "Antiques Roadshow." I'm not talking about "AR"-type finds.

Over the last few years, though, from our moving to Dave's having to carry items from the top floor to the basement, I've convinced Dave that a good rule of thumb is, if you forgot you had it, you probably don't need it. I've trained him, my words like a shot of water in a squirt bottle, poised for him to say "Should I keep this?" ZAP, ZAP, "NO -- ROOOOOAAARRR" ZAP, ZAP. He's drenched on the floor, one hand extended to the garbage can by the time I'm done shooting him my looks.

But standing in his mom's living room, it was different. He hovered over the black garbage bag, pitching 75 percent of the treasures his mom had lovingly saved as she and I watched from our seats near the fireplace. Yet in came his dad, reaching for an Avon cologne bottle amid the garbage. "Hheeeyyyy, what's this?" he asked, holding it up.

"Erin's not letting me keep it."

"Why not? This is probably worth something." And that's how the Avon bottle ended up on top of their fridge. And how my life was rid of it.

Now, watch. It'll be the ONE bottle that's worth something, and when his brother or sister realize it's on top of the fridge, there will be an all-out war over who gets to show PBS the coveted item.

Say what you will, but people don't realize that gobs of wallet-sized, one-pose-only, professional prom pictures of Dave and a girl named Jamie lead to happiness that can't be measured in money alone.

Do stuff for me

noreply@blogger.com (Erin) — Tue, 25 Dec 2007 19:21:00 +0000

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.

Merry stinkin' Christmas

noreply@blogger.com (Erin) — Tue, 25 Dec 2007 03:32:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Erin) — Tue, 25 Dec 2007 03:17:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Erin) — Thu, 20 Dec 2007 02:39:00 +0000

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."

Correction

noreply@blogger.com (Erin) — Thu, 20 Dec 2007 02:31:00 +0000

There's a correction I'd like to make.

The 80 GB iPod has been on back order, so instead of being rational and waiting for it, my dad's bosses said "Hey, remember that day back in '87 when Randy was all like 'Bill, I'll do that report'? Yeah ... Let's upgrade." And that's how Dad ended up calling me to ask me if 160 GB was anything special.
Seriously. If he could just turn it, yeah, just a little bit? To the left? Yes, there. I think the knife's in deep enough now. My 20 GB iPod from college is hiding behind its black-and-white screen out of shame now.

Teary woman

noreply@blogger.com (Erin) — Wed, 19 Dec 2007 01:49:00 +0000

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.

Grocery shopping

noreply@blogger.com (Erin) — Tue, 18 Dec 2007 01:26:00 +0000

"Did you see those boots?"

"Oh my God, yeah!"

"How many Muppets lost their lives for those?"

"Fozzie's definitely no longer with us."

Zee baby

noreply@blogger.com (Erin) — Tue, 18 Dec 2007 01:10:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Erin) — Sat, 15 Dec 2007 20:19:00 +0000

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!