What Happened To Miss Independent?

A few years ago, a friend who was engaged commented to me that she was happy she'd found a man who would take care of her, because "all women want men who will take care of them."

I was quite taken aback by those words. I had thought the "knight in shining armor" bit had been driven out of woman consciousness long ago. Hadn't this girl ever heard of Rosie the Riveter? I'd certainly never gone looking for a man who would take care of me. I had a job, I had friends, and while a good relationship could -- and eventually did -- add wonderful things to my life, my happiness wasn't out of relief that I finally found a man who would dedicate his life to the sole purpose of making me happy. One of the things I love most about my fiance is that he hasn't done that; he considers us equal partners, and in my opinion, that's how it should be.

We all lean on others at times. Our friends, our family members. And we're there for them when they need us. It's not just our significant others, and it's certainly not just women; it's just the nature of humanity. But during those occasions when I need to lean on my fiance, I remember what my friend said and realize that, while I didn't go looking for a man to take care of me, I'm lucky that I found one who is willing.

Yesterday, one of the tires on my car looked pretty low. I didn't have a tire gauge (I'd had one at one time, but it was cheaply made, didn't work properly and subsequently fell apart), so I stopped at an auto parts store on the way home from work and picked up a new one. I went over to a gas station with free air and checked the pressure. Very low.

I'd never put air into my tires at this gas station, or any gas station, but it didn't look that hard. You just put the air nozzle thingy squarely on the tire nozzle thingy and it inflates, right? It's just like any other kind of air pump, right? Apparently not, because the only thing I succeeded in doing was taking more air out of the tire. So I called my fiance.

"What am I doing wrong?" I asked him. "I can't get this thing to work." He gave me a few instructions, and I tried again, and this time, I couldn't even get it to take air out of the tire, probably because there was so little left. I couldn't drive home or go looking for another place to get air with my tire near completely flat, so my sweetheart drove over to where I was to see what he could do.

He got the tire to inflate right away. I'd been trying for 10 minutes, and he had it ready to go in about 45 seconds. (I watched him do it; he did the exact same thing I'd done, although I think I just didn't shove the nozzle thingy on the other nozzle thingy far enough. But hey, it was only my first try, and I'm sure I'll have many more chances.)

It was just a little favor, and I'm sure that if I'd gone into the gas station looking for help, or stood there long enough looking pathetic, someone would have given me a hand. But it was great to know that help was just a phone call away.

I still can't say I agree with that statement my friend made back then. We shouldn't go looking for men who will take care of us, unless we know we can take care of them, too, when they need us. I don't want a knight in shining armor; I want a partner. And it's good to know I've got one who can work the free air hose at the gas station.

Songs I Will Leap Over Things To Turn Off

"Big Yellow Taxi" I hate this song, no matter who sings it, although I hate the Amy Grant version the most because of all the "ooh, bop bop bop bop." If you really "don't know what you've got till it's gone," I'd love to find out exactly what I've got in this song.

"How To Save A Life" by The Fray. I used to think this song was nice (even after I found out it was featured on Grey's Anatomy), but after hearing it approximately 50 times within a one-week time span, I was over it, and now, just a few notes of that piano at the beginning is more than enough.

Any song with talking in it. For example, "You're Still The One" by Shania Twain. If I catch it in the middle, it's not that bad, but that intro talking she does is just annoying. Same with Kelly Clarkson's "Walk Away." I actually kind of like the song, but near the end, she screams "just leave!" and I want to.

"Bring Me To Life" by Evanescence. Not only do I not like Amy What's-her-name's voice, there's the shouting again. "Wake me up! Can't wake up!"

"New Shoes" by Paolo Nutini. I love shoes, but I find the song kind of stupid. I don't hate it as much as the others I've mentioned here, but also, the name Nutini reminds me of Nutella.

And garnering an honorable mention, even though it is not a song, per se...

"Hi, I'm here for Verizon Wireless..." Whenever I hear these words, I change the radio station, because I know that in about half a second, that annoying background music will kick in.

Good Friday

Today was one of those days.

No, not one of those days. The other kind. The kind of day when everything goes well, when the good karma you've put out into the world comes back to you. Those days are rare, but when they happen, it's always a wonderful surprise.

I had big errand plans today. Haircut, wedding odds and ends, car wash, cake at my fiance's office to celebrate our upcoming wedding. Not a terribly exciting day, although I do love cake.

I went to get my hair cut at a spa and salon that has several locations throughout the metro area. I'd been to the location in downtown Chicago (four of my six future sisters-in-law get their hair done by someone there; they recommended her to me, and I loved what she did), but I didn't want to spend half the day driving into the city, parking, getting my hair cut and driving home, so I figured I'd try the one near me.

I ended up having a great time. The woman who ended up cutting my hair was fun (although not quite as fun as the one downtown -- but maybe I just think that because that one told me over and over that my fiance's sisters love me), and I'm very happy with what she did to my hair. Then, when I was leaving, on my way to pay, she said, "would you like a complimentary makeup application?"

Uh, yeah I would!

So she handed me off to a makeup person, and I got a new look for my afternoon. It was a fantastic surprise to be pampered like that, especially for free, although I did tip the girl. When she was done, she gave me a coupon for another free makeup application!

I left feeling wonderful (and too pretty for the rest of my errands, but they had to get done). I went to grab a bite for lunch, and serendipitously, I ran into a friend from my old office, picking up lunch for the crew.

"Everyone usually sits together in the cafeteria and eats now," she said. "You should come over." So I did. And I got to have lunch with some pals instead of alone.

But the fun wasn't over yet.

The big wedding chore on my list was to order cookies for the reception (we're not cake people; we're big cookie people). I chatted with the lady, and as I was leaving, told her I wanted to buy a few cookies to take with me. She put a few into a bag and said, "it's on me."

Free makeup, lunch with friends and free cookies...and all of this happened before the cake and gift card we received from my fiance's coworkers.

Sometimes you just have a good day.

An Open Letter To Punxsutawney Phil...Again

Dear Punxsutawney Phil,

It is with great regret that I write to you today; I've been resisting for awhile, but I simply cannot ignore this issue any longer.

It is 29 degrees outside today, and we had snow flurries! In April! Early spring my ass!

"But Erika," you're wood-chuck-chucking in your little rodenty voice, "you live in Chicago, not in Punxsutawney, so you can't blame me for your weather."

Well, it's only 37 where you are, smart guy, and it's supposed to snow tomorrow. What else you got?

I'm sure you're all comfy in your posh little burrow on Gobbler's Knob (or, if there is justice in the world, some cage in a research lab), but I think you'd better recant your prediction and apologize. Or the next shadow you'll see is an angry mob coming to get you.

Sincerely,
Erika

Mall Madness

I've done it again, and I'm not sure if I'll recover this time.

Yesterday, I went shopping at the mall. And as usual, I came up pretty much empty.

Funny the things that make you realize you're advancing in years.

When I was a kid, I loved the mall. Looking back, I'm not sure why. Maybe it was the lure of new stuff. Shopping was always special when I was younger; my sister and I didn't have the kind of mom who bought us new things every other week. When we went to the mall with a real shopping agenda, it was a very big occasion, at least in my mind.

The mall was also one of the first places I was allowed to strike out on my own. There weren't too many kids my age who lived in our neighborhood, and we lived in a semi-rural area that wasn't really conducive to running around or riding bikes freely without supervision, so the mall was a place I could go with my parents and then go off with a friend and spend a couple of hours out from under the nose of authority. This usually meant shopping at the dollar store or getting sundaes from McDonald's, because that was about all we could afford. Later, when I had a job and more than a dollar at a time, but no bills to speak of yet, the mall was a fun place to buy new shoes or clothes or books.

I'm not quite sure when the mall turned into a place I avoid at all costs unless I absolutely have to go there, but I think it was about the time that I realized I'm not the mall's target market anymore. When I go into a mall, I feel like all the teenagers are looking at me and wondering what I'm doing there. And why wouldn't they? Not only do I not bare my midriff (or upper thighs) when I shop, I'm one of the few people there who has driven myself but not driven a carload of kids as well.

And it's not just the other patrons who look at me as a mall anomaly. It's the employees too. Being one of the very few shoppers with an annual income of more than $6,000 per year, I am considered a gold mine or something. I walk past the cell phone kiosks and 19-year-old guys accost me, telling me I must switch my service immediately. I go into a department store and am doused with perfume. And God forbid I actually purchase something, lest I be forced to answer a 10-minute questionnaire.

Employee: Will this be on your store charge card today?
Me: No.
Employee: Would you like to apply for a store charge card and save 15 percent?
Me: No thank you.
Employee: There's no paperwork to fill out; it'll only take a minute. And today, everyone who applies gets a free pair of socks, whether you're approved or not.
Me: No, that's really alright, thank you. I have all the credit cards I need.
Employee: You'll get coupons in the mail every month and flyers about our upcoming sales.
Me: No, really, I don't need it.
Employee: It's up to you, of course, but this purchase could have cost you only (quick tally) fifty cents if you were to apply today and use our scratch off coupon to get up to 75 percent off your total purchase.

I find myself either lying that I already have that store's card or promising that I'll apply next time I come in. Luckily, they don't make me sign a sworn statement on that.

Don't get me wrong; the mall does have its merits. It's nice not having to drive from place to place if I don't find what I want in the first store I visit (plus stores I couldn't visit anywhere but the mall), and sometimes there's no better treat than an Orange Julius.

But I wish going to the mall still held the same magic wonder of my youth, still was the land of opportunity I saw when I was a kid. Maybe next time, I'll have my mom drive me.

Courthouse of Love, Part II

Yesterday, I wrote about visiting the courthouse to get a marriage license, musing that I was as good as married.

Today, I found a comment from my lovely sister, Jennifer, that in the eyes of the law, I might be better than "as good." I might actually be married.

What? When did that happen?

I questioned her, and she told me that in Pennsylvania -- where we grew up and she still lives -- marriage is officially a contractual agreement. The only thing needed to make a marriage legal are the bride's and groom's signatures on a marriage license; a ceremony is more sentimental than official. Both the priest who performed her marriage and the woman who helped her husband and her at the courthouse told her this when she got married.

I tried to confirm what she'd told me online but couldn't find any official information on the commonwealth's Web pages. I was only able to find this article, which says that it is possible to obtain a "self-uniting" marriage license, but couples need to ask for one specifically before beginning the application process. Furthermore, there is a three-day waiting period attached to marriage licenses in Pennsylvania, so I don't believe my sister got the entire truth.

Nevertheless, I was intrigued. I looked up marriage licensing information for my state, Illinois, wondering if I might actually have gotten myself married without knowing. As it turns out, no.

A legal marriage in Illinois requires that the license not only be signed by the bride and groom but completed by an officiant, who must be a current or retired judge from a court of record, a judge from the Court of Claims, a county clerk in a county with 2 million or more inhabitants, a public official whose duties include solemnizing marriages or a religious or tribal officiant.

So I guess I can't settle into married life just yet. I guess that's for the best. It would have been cool to be able to say we were married already, but at least now I don't have to miss my bachelorette party.

Courthouse of Love

Last night, my fiance and I got licensed.

To marry, that is.

I had never gotten a license to do anything except drive; thank goodness there was no test for this one, just a short questionnaire with questions like "are you already married," and "are you related." Ugh.

On the way to the courthouse, we were listening to the oldies radio station and heard the song "Chapel of Love." It was cute, in a completely cheesy way, and a nice moment in a time when we are stressed out over final details.

Later in the evening, we bickered about seating arrangements for the wedding reception and both ended up grumpy. We still have a ton of work left to do before the actual wedding day, and thinking about it probably didn't do much to make either of us feel better in that moment.

But hey, if it doesn't get done, it doesn't get done. We're licensed; we're set. All the rest of that stuff exists only so we can feel we've been hospitable. We could take our guests out to McDonald's and it wouldn't matter, because at the end of the day, we'd still be married. That's all either of us really wanted out of that day.

That is the whole point, after all.

Snap!

Two people have commented that I made grammatical errors in my Saturday post about being sick, and I feel I have to comment back.

I had been sick for two days when I wrote that entry. For the previous 48 hours, nothing had gone into my body except clear liquids, Pepto Bismol and crackers, but a host of nasty things had been coming out. Forgive me if I wasn't at my best, grammatically.

Way to kick me when I'm down, people. Thanks for the love.

The Quickest Way I've Ever Lost Five Pounds (Not Recommended)

Wednesday night, my fiance and I made pizza for dinner.

Midday Thursday, we both started feeling sick.

I'm not saying the two things are connected, but it's going to be awhile before I eat pizza again. Once you feel last night's dinner come out of your nose, you know it's pretty much over.

The short version (and believe me, you do not want the long version of this story) is, we have spent the past two days inside, lying on the couch, alternately watching bad TV and running for the bathroom. (Thank God we have two).

It was sort of a relationship growth exercise; we have never been sick at the same time before, and we're both big babies when we're sick, but this time, there wasn't one clear patient and one clear caretaker. Whenever one of us needed something, it was pretty much up to whoever was able to stand up at that moment to get it. And even that got tricky, because after 16 hours lying on the couch and the futon, we were both suffering from sore backs.

Yesterday, thinking it might help me to get out into civilization for awhile, I showered, put on some clean sweats and went out to get more supplies -- ginger ale, saltines and Pepto Bismol. I'm sure I looked miserable, too, so there was no doubt as to what I'd been through in recent hours.

As I was paying, I noticed a pin on the cashier's smock -- it was shaped like a dog bone and said "I love my Soft-coated Wheaten Terrier." My mom has two Wheatens and adores them (I could probably start a whole blog about her dogs -- but I won't, because I am bitter that she loves them more than she loves me. She says it's because they never ask her for money, but come on, I never poop in the yard and ask her to clean it up; who's giving her a better deal here? And I'm pretty sure she wouldn't look favorably on me pooping in the yard, but when her dogs do it, they get cheese). I struck up a brief conversation with the lady about her dogs, and she sent me off with a compassionate "take care, honey." It was kind of like the universe sent me a sympathetic Mom-type person to make me feel better in my time of need.

Today, the fiance and I are feeling almost human again. I was even able to get dressed in real clothes. I don't look so hot though, because since Thursday morning, I have lost 5 1/2 pounds, which is enough to loosen my pants to the point where I don't have to unbutton them to take them off. Under other circumstances, I'd be celebrating; even now, I want to go bathing suit shopping while it lasts.

I did run a few errands; I finalized the wedding flowers (one less thing to worry about later, plus if they end up looking bad I can just tell people that I was sick with dysentery when I chose them) and went to the grocery store, where the sight and smell of food did not make me want to vomit, so I think that's a good sign.

I was on my way to the toilet paper aisle (we've used quite a bit this weekend) and noticed a woman handing out free samples. I wasn't really in a try-something-new mood anyway, but I had to laugh when I saw what her samples were -- All Bran. No, thank you. Certainly don't need that today.

I'm not sure if sharing a weekend of food poisoning brought my fiance and I closer together or not, but I hope it did, because that 5 1/2 pound loss is so not worth how I lost it. Well, unless my thighs look smaller. I'll get back to you on that.

Big Airport of Horrors, Or, I Used The Word "Apocalypse" More Times In This Entry Than I Have Ever Used The Rest of My Life, Cumulatively

O'Hare Airport is, to me, a living battleground.

I've been there several times, as a passenger and meeting passengers, and hardly ever do things go completely smoothly. I don't know if any Hollywood film directors read my blog, but I think a good post-apocalyptic science fiction movie would be about the few surviving humans taking shelter at O'Hare as the big bomb destroys civilization, then trying to leave and start a new civilization, but the airport won't let them out. It would be plausible, because, as I have learned even pre-apocalypse, it is nearly impossible to leave O'Hare Airport. It's like Hotel California, without the metaphor.

Yesterday, my friend English Kari (so-called because her name is Kari and she lives in England, and I need a way to distinguish her from my friend Carrie from high school) arrived at O'Hare for a stopover between Manchester and Atlanta. I was at work all day and couldn't make it up to the airport to see her during her mid-afternoon stay, but I gave her my cell phone number and told her that if she got stuck for any reason to let me know. We had some storms yesterday, and I heard there were delays, so I left my phone on. I didn't recieve a call, so I assumed that English Kari had made it to her destination.

I should mention at this point that I have never actually met Kari in person. I know her through an online forum, which is, ironically enough, for people who are afraid to fly. I "met" the guy who started the site while doing research for a story for my former newspaper, and he and his cohorts were so nice that I've stuck around for four years. The site has been instrumental in helping me overcome my own fear of flying, and the people on it are great. Many of them get together regularly, but I've yet to meet any of them in person.

Anyway, about 10 p.m., I logged on and found a message from Mark, the site administrator, who lives in Tennessee and had spoken to Kari. She'd told him she was stuck at O'Hare for the night; she'd tried to call me but couldn't get through. Immediately, I began trying to reach her. I tried her cell phone (some automated lady with a British accent told me that my call could not be completed); I tried paging her through the airline (no answer); I tried calling the airline's first class lounges, to see if they could get me through to the paging system (closed); I tried speaking to someone at the airport's main number, twice (the first time they transferred me to the airline's ticket reservation line, and the second time they gave me the two numbers I'd already tried and said they had no other ones). Finally, I gave up and went to bed, and I'm still not sure whether Kari got out.

Getting stuck at any airport is a bummer, but getting stuck at O'Hare seems almost inevitable. When I was 13, I was stranded there for an entire day. I'd been visiting my aunt in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, and my flight to Chicago got in late, so I missed my connection. I'd never flown by myself before, so my aunt had paid to have someone escort me, and when they came to get me for the next flight I could take, the woman took me to the wrong gate. Since this was well before 9-11, and the gate agents didn't seem to know what was going on, so if I had been more bold, I might have been able to weasel my way onto the plane at that gate -- it was headed for Paris, so I was tempted to try -- but by the time I got the attention of a gate agent, my actual flight -- headed for Washington, D.C. -- had already taken off. Another employee (an old man named Floyd, who had a mole on his face and was really nice to me as I cried during the whole walk) escorted me to another gate for the last flight of the day, and finally I made it out.

But others I know have not escaped spending the night. A year ago, my mom was flying to Iowa (to see that same aunt -- for awhile I blamed her for the O'Hare phenomenon, but I think she's off the hook now) and ended up stuck for the night. She really didn't have to be stuck, though, having a daughter who lives 40 miles away and was driving to the aunt's house the next day; she ended up arriving only a short time before I did.

And it's not just passengers who have trouble. Just before my mom's incident, I made plans to meet up with a friend who had a layover at O'Hare. Hailing from Germany, she was an exchange student who stayed with my family when I was in high school, and this time, she was passing through Chicago on her way home from a visit to Kansas, where she'd spent some time in graduate school. I headed up to the airport to see her, and just as I reached our designated meeting spot, my cell phone rang. It was her, telling me she was stuck on the plane in Kansas City with no idea when she'd be taking off. I went home, although not before paying for the 10 minutes I was parked, because in the city of Chicago, nothing is ever free. One could argue that her story was about being stuck in Kansas City, not Chicago, but the point is, every time anyone I know has made O'Hare part of their travel plans, something weird happens.

I have plans to meet up with English Kari on Sunday (we plan to line dance -- she has a rule that whenever folks from the forum get together, they have to line dance, and I like that rule), when she stops at O'Hare on her way home from Atlanta, but part of me wonders if I should even bother. That airport has been no friend to me, and given past experience, I have doubts as to whether we'll actually be able to make it happen.

But really, that makes me all the more determined to go. It's not just about visiting with Kari; it's about conquering O'Hare Airport. Chicago mayor Richard Daley has been fighting to expand the already-gargantuan O'Hare, and if he succeeds, I fear the airport will just start growing on its own and take over the entire city, "feed me, Seymour" style. We must fight back before it's too late, or O'Hare won't just be the threat of the post-apocalypse; it will bring about the apocalypse itself.

So bring on your best, O'Hare Airport. Come Sunday, English Kari and I will be line dancing on your face!

Notes From My Corner, Or, Nothing All That Interesting Has Happened To Me Lately, But Something Important Did Happen Two Years Ago Today

Two years ago today, my fiance and I went out on our first date. The items below really have nothing to do with that, but I thought it was worth mentioning, especially considering I find things like the below items interesting enough to blog about.

* I bought a new microwave oven on Saturday. I wanted to get the one that had a pizza oven built into it, but it cost $100 more. Marla admonished me for even considering the pizza oven microwave, but the truth is, I make pizza often enough to find it handy. Well, I would if I had a pizza oven anyway. Plus there was a fun little handle and a tray you can take right out.

* Keebler now makes a "Right Bites" (their version of the 100 Calorie Pack) of Grasshopper Cookies. Man are they tasty.

* Didn't-Bother-To-Brush-Her-Hair-But-Did-Take-
The-Time-To-Put-On-Tights-Yes, Tights Lady from my gym must be a Stapling Jello reader, because she's started brushing her hair. Mind you, that makes it pretty frizzy and actually look worse than it did before, but I do have to give her a thumbs-up for her effort. She looks like she's gotten some highlights, too, which astounds me. Why spend the money on highlights on hair that looks like that? I know I'm being mean, but come on lady, let's be just a little practical here.

* I've resumed my practice of buying only pants that are sized "long," even if they are too long when I put them on in the store. High water pants do not look good, especially on someone who has big feet.

* I had a dream one night last week that I walked out of my office and my car had been stolen from the parking lot. The next day, I went shopping, and when I walked out of the store, it took me awhile to find my car because there was a big van parked next to it. Eerie, huh?

Springing Ahead, In The World's Largest Way

The clocks have changed, and all of a sudden, my time is no longer my own.

This past weekend was my last free one before the wedding. From now till after my name changes, I have something going on every single (pun intended) weekend.

As fate would have it, my last free weekend as a free woman coincided with a professional conference my fiance attends every year. It was also a three-day weekend for me. I didn't want to spend the whole weekend alone, and I had a free frequent flyer trip due me, so I decided to get out of town.

I called up my old college roommate, Miranda, in Fayetteville, NC, and invited myself down to her neck of the woods. She eagerly accepted my self-invitation, and I booked a flight. It was the perfect thing to do.

Miranda has always been one of my favorite people to hang out with -- she's fun, quirky and gets amused by the same random things that amuse me. In the good old days, we laughed constantly, usually about nothing at all. For the two years we were roommates, hardly a day went by that we didn't come up with some new silly inside joke. It was pretty annoying to the people around us, but we had a blast.

I hadn't seen my pal in more than a year, and both that visit and one before it had been at weddings (one of them hers, to a man I am happy to say shares her goofy sense of humor), so we didn't get a chance to just hang out. It makes me kind of sad sometimes that our friendship has evolved in this way; we used to be so close, and now we never see each other. She hasn't even met my fiance yet. It's just so hard to find the time and money to get together. It's just how life goes, I guess, and I think we would be pretty pathetic figures today, had we not gone on to find lives and friends beyond college.

But I still really appreciate it when we are able to hang out and laugh like we used to, and I'm glad I took this weekend to do just that.

During my stay in Fayetteville, Miranda and her husband, Jeremy, showed me some of their favorite North Carolina hot spots -- the nature trail they like to walk, the Mexican restaurant they patronize for great chips and salsa, their favorite dollar store, the theatres they volunteer in and the area's best place for some tasty North Carolina barbecue. They even took me on a little side trip to a winery an hour or so away in Rose Hill, NC, so I could taste how the South does grapes.

But the most exciting destination was not on the agenda -- a fact I can prove, because I took a picture of the agenda. As we approached the winery, we passed a bright red and white pavillion. When I read the sign on it, I couldn't believe my luck. What a wonderful unexpected discovery! I suddenly understood how the first Texan to strike oil must have felt.

It was hard to believe, but there I was, within spitting distance of the World's Largest Frying Pan.

Being a lover of all things quirky, I had always wanted to see the world's largest something. I had been to the World's Largest Truck Stop before, and according to Jeremy and Miranda, Fayetteville is actually home to the World's Largest Wal-Mart, but this was different. Those places were made large to make large amounts of money. The World's Largest Frying Pan -- although most likely built as part of a publicity stunt that I'm sure brought money to some cause or business (I was too excited to read any of the information while I was there) -- now exists simply for the sake of being large.

Oddly enough, it was the perfect thing to see while visiting Miranda -- a silly, random, goofy thing that we just happened upon. We could never in a million years have thought to look for something as weird as the world's largest frying pan, and if we had, we'd never have found it. We'd have had better luck searching for a cat in a cup full of nails*.

I suppose it is also strangely appropriate that my last weekend as a single gal was the weekend we changed our clocks and were hurled an hour into the future. With six weeks till the wedding, things seem to be moving faster and faster each day. Before I know it, the big day will be here.

Before this big leap into tomorrow, though, it was nice to take a trip down Memory Lane. It was even nicer to know that the good times don't have to stay there. Over the weekend,we did a good bit of laughing about the old times, but we had quite a few new laughs as well**. We'll probably never again live in the same state, and I'm sure that as the years pass, we'll have more and more going on in our own lives that has nothing to do with each other. But I hope we'll still make an effort to see each other.

We'll just have to take the time.

___________

*See what I mean about the inside jokes? That cup full of nails thing made no sense to you, did it?

**More laughs than a cup full of nails. See? Annoying as crap, isn't it?

As The Countdown Continues, Each Day Has Its Due

Countdown: 46 days.

If you have been paying attention, you know that the event for which I am counting the days is my wedding. In 46 days, I will walk down the aisle, take the hand of my sweetheart and become a missus. I've been counting down pretty much since we set the date, and I keep track by marking the number of months and weeks on my home calendar, and months, weeks and days on my pocket calendar.

You know, in case I forget.

Honestly, though, I highly doubt I will forget, also having written on the big day, "get married, 4 p.m." and the name of the church.

It's not really that I'm excited (although I am) or impatient (I am that, too). I just like to keep track of dates. I journal pretty regularly, and I have for half my life, so I have records of many significant dates that, otherwise, I might have forgotten. Because of my habit of writing things down, my memory for dates is freakishly good. So I don't even have to look to know that today is the four-year anniversary of the day my fiance and I first met, on assignment together for the newspaper where I used to work and he still works. We didn't start dating for two years after that, so I probably wouldn't have remembered that had I not written about the assignment (and yes, I did write about the assignment, not the person with whom I had the assignment).

But even the insignificant dates become significant when they are centered around a big event, and by marking them off, in my journal, in my head or on the calendar, I feel I give them their due. Fifty-four days ago, I sat eating dinner in a Greek restaurant with my fiance, telling him this, as he laughed at me for being excited that it was exactly 100 days until our wedding.

"You may not think it's a big deal now," I told him, "but just wait until our wedding day. We'll be sitting at our reception, eating dinner, and I'm going to say to you, 'do you remember what we had for dinner 100 days ago?' You'll say 'no,' but I'll know that we ate here, and you had chicken kebabs, and I had a vegetarian plate." I went on to say that I would tell him this at the wedding, recount all the events of this day and of the party we were headed to that evening.

"I will even tell you about this conversation," I said, "and I will remind you that you didn't believe I could remember all of those details. But I will."

And as the date for the wedding gets closer, I find myself noticing something significant in every single day. Last Thursday, March 1, I realized that for the first time I could officially say "I'm getting married next month." This past Monday, when I saw the mid-season cliffhanger for NBC's Heroes, and the voice-over guy announced that the show would return on April 23, I turned to my fiance and said, "that was the last episode until after we're married." I do that with work projects, too, thinking, oh, the next time I'll talk to this client, I'll be married, or, I'd better not copy too many of these fax cover sheets, because I'll have to change the name on them in a few months.

I've begun to see my life lately in terms of "before the wedding" and "after the wedding." It's not that I feel my life will be all that different; it's just a way I'm framing events these days. It's sort of like leaving work on December 31 and realizing that you won't be back until the new year.

The fact of the matter is, when I walk down that aisle in 46 days, I probably won't care much about what I did today. I won't care what the weather was (cloudy and drizzly) what I wore (jeans and a black sweater), what I ate for lunch (Trader Joe's three-bean chili). But whether it matters or not in the long run, it's nice to know that this day was given its due.

Where Fashion Sits

Some nights are just meant to be bad.

My sister is having a bridal shower for me this Saturday, and I realized the other day that I don't really have anything suitable to wear. I have some skirts and dresses, but the bulk of them are summery, and the others are black. I like black; I look good in it, but it's not really very wedding shower bride-like.

Besides, as spring prepares to reveal itself, I want to wear clothes in varying colors and sleeve-lengths. I am so tired of brown and black sweaters.

So last night, I set out to buy a dress for the shower. I'd seen a dress I liked in black at one store, so I stopped somewhere else to see if I could find something similar in a better color. The first place had nothing that looked good on me, and the second place had no better selection. I tried on a blouse, but as usual, the button-down top failed not-flat-chested me. My choice was either walking around with the front of my shirt gaping open or wearing a shirt that was way too big.

I really wish clothing manufacturers would take chest size (and waist-to-hip ratio) into account when making tops and dresses. I'm tired of wearing things that are made for girls who are shaped like boys.

At this point, I should have just gone home. It was obviously not in the cards for me to find anything new to wear to the shower, and I have a skirt and top at home that are fine. But I'd been shopping long enough -- and seen enough of the colorful spring selections -- that I was even more determined to buy something that wasn't black.

So I did something unthinkable. I went to the mall.

Straight off, I found the perfect skirt. I couldn't believe my luck. It was flouncy enough for a bridal shower but not too summery for a February event. It was perfect. But, of course, the store had no tops to match the skirt that fit me (buttons, again, and a large petite selection, which doesn't work for me, since I'm 5'9" and appropriately proportioned as such). I was tempted to buy the skirt and look for a top somewhere else, but the colors were tough to match, so I left without it and kept looking.

And looking.

And looking.

The only other promising thing I found was a skirt in the same colors as the first one, yet again with no tops to match it. And this time, they didn't even have matching tops that didn't fit; they really had nothing that matched.

What is up with these stores?

The highlight of my experience in this place, however, was the dressing room. First off, it took a full five minutes to find someone to unlock one for me. Then while I was in there, an employee came around to open a room for another customer, knocked on the door of the room I was in, and although I called out to her, then reached out to hold the door shut, still protesting that the room was, in fact, occupied, unlocked and opened the door while I was changing.

The bonus came a few minutes later, when some children who had been waiting nearby for their mom while she was in a dressing room began discussing the incident, and one whispered, "I saw the lady's underwear."

I guess I should just be happy that he didn't say, "I saw the lady's underwear and big fat thighs."

I went home annoyed and empty-handed -- oh, except for one item I got on clearance.

It's a black sweater.

Show Me That Smile Again

Last night as I got ready for bed, I was hit with a fierce stomach ache.

I tried to ignore it and go to sleep anyway, but the pain was terrible, and lying flat made it worse, so I went into the living room and turned on the TV, figuring that if I had to be awake, I might as well be entertained for awhile.

I hit the jackpot. Nick at Nite was having a marathon of my absolute favorite TV show from the 80s, Growing Pains. It was exactly the comfort I needed.

When I was a kid, the Seavers were my TV dream family. What could be better -- the journalist mom, the psychiatrist dad, the wild boy, the brainy girl and the kid who loved to eat. I wanted to live in their house (15 Robinhood Lane, thank you very much) and be friends with their friends (who didn't love Boner?). I wanted to have wacky adventures like the ones they had.

Even now, I think I would have fit in pretty well.

Growing Pains was my favorite show back then. I loved it. New episodes were appointment viewing, and when reruns started playing in syndication, I would watch them every weekday afternoon at 4. It was a welcome respite from my tumultuous middle school life. Whatever adolescent drama I was suffering, I could find escape on Growing Pains.

The episodes airing last night were the very early ones, and when I turned on the TV, I was instantly taken back to 1986, to my parents' basement, with its tree wallpaper, barn board and furniture with scratchy upholstery. I could almost see my sister, Jennifer, age 13, swooning over Mike Seaver.

Jen had a fierce crush on the dashing Kirk Cameron back in those days. She had his pictures -- ripped out of Superteen, Tiger Beat and other 80s teen staples -- all over her bedroom wall. She had pictures of other teen heart throbs as well, but I think Kirk was her favorite. She once wrote him a fan letter and enclosed a cookie recipe for his mom, who she had read liked to bake.

Surprisingly, she failed to win his affections.

I had a celebrity crush on that show, too, and I'm not ashamed to say it. Kirk Cameron -- dreamy though he was -- was too old for me, so I went for his TV brother, Jeremy Miller.

It's true. I had it bad for Ben Seaver.

I still don't know why I liked him so much. Maybe I wanted to follow the lead of my big sister and her TV crush. Maybe I liked that Ben was always eating; I remember one scene in which he was putting Nestle Quik into a glass of milk, not being satisfied with the chocolate content, so instead pouring the milk into the Quik box and drinking it that way -- I think I might have actually tried that once. Maybe I figured a fake TV boyfriend would never let me down, unlike my second grade crush Kurt (who, inexplicably, failed to be impressed when I told him I'd lost a tooth) or my fourth grade crush Dana (who bit me). Or maybe I really thought he was cute. Who knows?

Whatever the reason, I was crazy in love.

I am a little embarrassed to admit, my Jeremy Miller crush lasted well into the late years of the series. Sure, he was in that dorky teenage phase, but I was too, so really, we were perfect for each other. My affections weren't even swayed during the Leonardo DiCaprio episodes, so it must have been true love.

Alas, things never worked out between ole Jeremy and me. My crush ended pretty much when the series did. But watching last night reminded me of the good old days, when Ben Seaver was my one and only, and when just 30 minutes could mean the difference between the end of the world and a happy new beginning.

And what do you know -- after just one episode, my stomach ache was gone.

You'd Think That People Would Have Had Enough of Silly Love Songs

I'm pretty indifferent about Valentine's Day.

When I was a kid, I loved it. In elementary school, we all made little paper envelopes that hung around the classroom and exchanged those fold-over cards taped together with heart stickers. It was a nice break from education, and sometimes, we got candy. And I could usually look forward to some little gift from my parents, chocolates or jewelry or some such trinket.

In later, single, years, I became one of those anti-Valentine's Day people, partly because I was bitter, and partly because I failed to see the romance in buying the same bouquet of roses and box of candy for someone on the same day, year after year, simply because the calendar says one should.

Nowadays, the bitterness is gone. I'm getting married, in 67 days, to the man of my dreams; I have no reason to complain about my love life. But I still don't see what's so romantic about getting flowers and candy on February 14. In fact, I think it is one of the most unromantic things in the world -- in my opinion, a gift like that says, "I got you this because there was a big display in the store, not because I think you will like it." Luckily, my fiance has similar feelings about the whole thing, and last year, we both had other things to do on Valentine's Day, so we didn't even see each other. He did make me some chocolate-covered strawberries, which I will admit is more Valentine-y than I am used to, but I appreciated the work he put into it, and I always appreciate good chocolate.

This year, I had all but forgotten V-Day until a few nights ago, when my beloved asked me what I wanted to do to celebrate. I was shocked.

"I thought we didn't do Valentine's Day," I said, puzzled.

"I know, but I thought we could do a little something," he replied, and he seemed genuinely sad when I told him that I had a meeting to attend tonight.

I suppose it would be nice to somehow commemorate the occasion. With the wedding coming up so soon (and most of the hard work done), we are in high romance mode these days. This is our first -- and last -- Valentine's Day as an engaged couple; that ought to mean something, right?

When I started writing this entry, I wasn't so sure that it did. I felt like the fact that we are engaged almost makes the day obsolete. I don't need a day to remind me that we are in love. Putting our wedding invitations in the mailbox yesterday meant more to me than any bouquet of flowers or heart-shaped candy box ever could.

And maybe that's the key here. Maybe the whole point of today is that it is no different from yesterday, no different from tomorrow.

So this Valentine's Day, I do plan to celebrate. I am celebrating the thrill I get every time my sweetheart walks into the room, the smile he gives me when he says "I love you." I'm celebrating the little things we do for each other, the things that make us laugh, the kisses, the hugs. I am celebrating those things today, because I celebrate these things every day.

And because of that, I hope I am always indifferent to Valentine's Day.

An Open Letter To Puxsutawaney Phil

Dear Punxsutawney Phil,

For many years, I have trusted your weather predictions, and this year, I was thrilled to learn that you had predicted an early spring. The news was very welcome, as the month of February began with a cruel vengeance.

Sure, it's below zero now, I thought to myself, but that groundhog knows what he's talking about.

But, Phil (may I call you Phil?), as of today, February has only gotten worse, and I am wondering when this early spring you have predicted is scheduled to show. At this very moment, snow is coming down and blowing all over the place. We've only had a few days all month in which the temperature went above 20, and just last week, we got dumped on with snow.

It makes me wonder if I can really trust you. Furthermore, it makes me wonder if you haven't just gotten sick of people booing you when you predict six more weeks of winter. I know it must be tough to endure the negative publicity, but Phil, you've got a job to do.

Don't give in to the pressure, Phil. Don't predict an early spring just because you know people will cheer. We count on you to tell us the truth, good or bad; do not let us down again.

Sincerely,
Erika

The Stupid Bowl

Another Super Bowl has ended. The final score is in the history books. Indianapolis Colts: some score. Chicago Bears: some score that was lower than whatever the Colts' score was.

Believe it or not, the Bears' loss upsets me greatly. Not because I care about football (which I don't), or because the Bears are my hometown team (which they are) or because I actually watched the entire game (which I did, believe it or not -- second time in history, folks). I didn't even have any money riding on this game.

But I was emotionally invested. Very greatly so. And that's all because of one thing: a cookie.

My fiance and I spent the evening at a Super Bowl party, as many folks do, and as I have already mentioned several times in blog entries, the only way I'm going to go somewhere to watch a sporting event is if I'll be fed, and fed well. I was lured to this party by the promise of homemade guacamole.

When we arrived at the party, there was no guacamole anywhere in sight. The host informed us that the avocadoes he had bought were not yet ready to use, so homemade guac wasn't possible.

I demanded that my fiance drive me straight home but was immediately assured that pizza would arrive shortly. Well, pizza sounded pretty good, and there was some homemade salsa on the table, so I was mollified for the moment.

And then I saw it. A big cookie. A big, beautiful chocolate chip cookie, decorated with orange and blue icing. It seemed to be calling out to me, begging to be eaten.

Suddenly a night watching the big game didn't sound so bad.

Eventually, the pizza arrived, and the game started, and everyone settled in to watch. I didn't understand what was going on, so I couldn't really yell at the TV like everyone else was doing. (I'm not really a yell-at-the-TV person anyway; I barely talk to people who are in the same room with me half the time). Generally speaking, though, it wasn't so bad.

But all the time, I was thinking of that cookie. That beautiful, delicious-looking cookie, just sitting on the table, waiting to be eaten. At halftime or so, someone asked when we'd be cutting the cookie, and the host broke the news to us.

"That's a celebration cookie," he said. "We don't cut into it till the Bears win."

I couldn't believe my ears. At this point, the Bears were trailing, and during the second half of the game, it only got worse. Could it be that that big, beautiful cookie would not fulfill its destiny of deliciousness on Super Bowl Sunday?

Well, we all know now that the Bears went home crying while the Colts celebrated their Super Bowl Victory. (Side note: In a football game between actual bears and actual colts, I wonder which team would win. I think bears would be pretty good at the tackling part, but colts might be better kickers).

After the game, someone else asked about the cookie again, and the host threw it disgustedly on the coffee table, telling everyone, "fine, eat it if you want." No one went for it; I'm not sure if this was in grief or out of respect for the distraught host or perhaps just because they were waiting for him to bring a knife, but I never got to taste the cookie. My fiance had an errand to run, and we left pretty quickly. I briefly considered taking just one big bite out of the cookie before we headed out the door, but I thought that might be bad manners.

So now, like everyone who rooted for the Bears yesterday, I am left with a yearning that yesterday could have turned out differently. Perhaps this was life's way of telling me, "you can't enjoy the perks of the game unless you learn to enjoy the game as well." If that is so, I'll be the first in line next year to cheer the Bears to victory, because as God is my witness, I'll never leave a Super Bowl party hungry again.

In The Midst of Sub-Zero Temps, The Promise of Deliverance

Each year on this day, the eyes of the nation -- and, indeed, the world -- turn to a small Pennsylvania town, as people seek to answer the burning question, how long will this cold winter last?

For the first time in eight years, the world's foremost weather authority, groundhog Punxsutawney Phil, gave us all an answer we can be happy about. He failed to see his shadow, thereby predicting an early spring. Had he seen it, that would have meant six more weeks of winter, according to German small-mammal folklore.

Since 1886, weather-predicting groundhogs have only failed to see a shadow 15 times, so this outcome is quite exciting, especially to those of us living in the thick of winter right now. Lately, I don't even turn on the weather forecast, because I know it will only be bad news. I don't mind the snow, because at least that's pretty, but I could certainly do without the single-digit temperatures, particularly when combined with wind chills that take us into the negatives. I haven't felt my feet in about four days.

But today, Phil gave me hope for the future. Hope that I may soon be able to stop wearing a hat inside the house, that I may someday be able to put non-sweater shirts back into my clothing rotation, that I may actually spend an entire day without shivering.

It's a nice thought.

Then again, the only thing Phil guaranteed with his prediction of an early spring was that we would have fewer than six more weeks of winter. He didn't give specifics, and based on the nearly-as-reliable predictions of my local weatherman, I think the next five weeks could be tough.

So just in case, I think I'll go out and buy a new sweater.

Yet Another Sign I Am OK With The Fact That I'm Approaching 30

I think I am settling into responsible adulthood (not to be confused with on-my-own-but-living-in-a-dump-and-barely-surviving adulthood) a little too comfortably. Lately, I notice myself doing things my parents would do, and what's more, I don't even mind.

For example, I am blogging today about installing a new kitchen faucet. Oh yes, I find this interesting enough to write about.

A few weeks ago, my fiance decided he wanted a new kitchen faucet; the one we had sat kind of low, and it's a pain to wash big pots and things. He wanted one that sat a little higher, and I said while we're at it, we should also get one with a sprayer.

We spent an evening searching for that perfect faucet and finally found one we both liked. My fiance tried to install it the next day, and much to our mutual disappointment, the water filter we have -- which screws on the end of the faucet -- didn't fit.

We can't not use a water filter; our water tastes disgusting without it. So back out we went, with the filter in tow, to find one it would fit. We found one we both really liked and took it home, but when my fiance went to install it, he realized that it actually sits much lower than the old one did.

Determined not to end the evening without a new faucet, we immediately returned the one we'd bought and chose another, hoping the third time would be the charm. And it was. The new faucet looks lovely, fits perfectly and serves us fine, filtered water.

But it's things like this that make me realize just how much of a grownup I really am, because the only reason this feels like a sad way to spend an evening is because I didn't get to put on my sweatpants for an extra two hours.

Bear Down...Or Is It Hunker Down?

As anyone who has ever attempted to make "how 'bout them (insert sports team name here)" small talk with me knows, I don't really care about sports. At all. I have no interest in sports whatsoever and often find sports fans annoying.

Note: I don't discriminate there; I find most kinds of fans annoying. And while you may rightly say I am easily annoyed, don't even try to tell me that people are generally welcoming of fans of something they have no interest in. Old ladies screaming at an Elvis impersonator concert, those stupid teenagers on TRL (if that show is even on anymore), mulleted NASCAR-watching rednecks shouting "git r done!." All annoying. But I digress.

Despite my aversion to sports, I have to admit, I enjoyed living in Chicago when the White Sox won the World Series two years ago. I was also excited yesterday to watch the Bears beat the Saints to earn a trip to the Super Bowl. Alright, so I only watched the last two minutes of the game, but still. That's about as much as I watched of last year's Super Bowl. That's all I really need to see, honestly; I get to see the moment of victory, but I don't have to watch the actual game. (I watch a lot of TV like that -- I also tune into Trading Spaces in the last five minutes to see the before-and-after and the reactions, but I don't watch the actual work part of it).

But now I am most certainly going to have to watch the Super Bowl. It was appalling enough to people last year when I chose not to watch the Steelers, since I lived in Pittsburgh for the blink of an eye and should therefore be a huge fan, or something. But now it's the team in the town where I currently live, the team everyone I know is rooting for. And since Rex Grossman is the only NFL quarterback I can name, I guess that makes me more a fan of the Bears than any other team.

I like the idea of a Super Bowl party, for sure. There's always good food. But I found out the hard way that people get upset if you just come to eat and try to leave before the game starts. Some people like the commercials, but I don't really care about those. And since the average length of a Super Bowl game is approximately 400 hours, I get kinda bored.

So what am I going to do when Super Bowl Sunday rolls around? I imagine I'll be at some gathering or another; I've already been invited to one, but the invitation didn't say whether there would be chili dogs or cheese dip, so I'm not sure I want to chance it. Or maybe I'll just go shopping. The stores are bound to be empty during the game.

In any case, I'm rooting for the Bears. 'Cause I'm not even sure who the other team is.

Brown Has The Last Laugh

UPS did indeed send me a fruit basket.

They sent ME -- a person who never eats fruit unless it is part of a pie -- a basket of FRUIT!

I do appreciate the gesture, but I appreciate the irony even more.

What Brown Is Doing For Me Now

Apparently, the squeaky wheel does indeed get the grease.

Angry about the mess UPS made of my Christmas package from my mom, I wrote the company a letter detailing, and I quote, "the absolute worst customer service experience I have ever had with any company." The letter was as concise as I could make it, yet telling the story still took three pages. I even went so far as to enclose a copy of the tracking information, highlighted for their easy reference, and not very nicely demanded a refund for my mom, telling UPS to "please be sure to send it to the correct place this time."

I admit, I really laid into them. No mercy whatsoever. It had just been such a terrible experience that I thought the head honchos at UPS headquarters in Atlanta should know about it. Mostly I wanted to get it off my chest; I did not really expect a response, and I certainly didn't expect UPS to refund my mom's money, if for no other reason than the request had come from me and not her. (My mom was actually pretty forgiving about the whole thing: "You got the package eventually; what's the big deal?")

But surprise, surprise, last week, I got a voice message from a woman named Connie at the UPS distribution center in my area. I was almost afraid to return the call. My letter had been really nasty; I mean, I used the words "abhorrent" and "deplorable." When I did return the call, I felt the need to try to sound as sweet as I possibly could so that Connie wouldn't think I was a total bitch.

Anyway, she apologized profusely and promised that my mother would get her refund, and she told me that UPS is sending me "a little something special" for my trouble. I'm not sure what it is, but I'm hoping it's a little miniature truck or something. That would be cool.

So there you have it. You really can get results by putting your complaints in writing. I have to say, I'm impressed with how quickly and easily UPS owned up to causing a huge mess and took steps to appease me, particularly because the person complaining was not the person who actually paid for their service. I wonder if perhaps they have been losing a lot of business lately. Everyone I told about this incident immediately chimed in with, "oh yeah, UPS is terrible; I only use FedEx now."

In any case, I am satisfied with the outcome, unless, of course, my "special something" turns out to be a box of poisonous snakes, or a fruit basket. I'm not sure when I'll find out, though; according to Connie, it should have been delivered on Friday, and it has yet to show up.

I guess some things never change.

Thrifty Zoe

Some people will do anything to save a penny on gas.

Fuel is expensive these days; anyone who is even a little bit aware of current events can tell you that. Old folks tell stories of the days when a five dollar bill could fill your gas tank and buy you dinner, and even I can remember the days of 98 cents per gallon.

I'm sure that even back then, people shopped around for the best gas prices; why pay more than you have to for the same product? Nowadays, however, it's a necessity. Fueling our cars has become so expensive that companies like Shell and Citgo offer us credit cards to use to buy our gas. We shop for the lowest gas prices as a survival tactic now; what good is a full tank if you can't afford to go anywhere?

I'll admit, I got caught up in it for awhile. The first time gas prices went over $3 per gallon, I never stopped anywhere but the one place that had it for $2.99. Sometimes, I went out of my way to get there. Somehow, I felt the ten cents I saved was worth the dollar's worth I spent driving to the place.

Lately, though, I don't pay much attention to gas prices. Sure, I'll stop at the least expensive places in my area; that just makes good sense, but I don't drive out of my way to get there, and if the price goes down two cents per gallon a day after I fill up, I don't let it bother me. Sometimes you get a good price, sometimes you don't.

My car, however, apparently disagrees with this practice.

Zoe Zoom-Zoom, my 2002 Mazda Protege (yes, I named her, and she loves it), is a fantastic little automobile who has been with me since May 2003, about 75,000 miles ago. She's never let me down, but today, she made it known that she wants me to spend as little on gas as I can.

I was down to about a quarter tank, so I stopped at the gas station on the way to work. It was priced at $2.29 per gallon, which is about the lowest one can find in my regularly traveled area these days. I pulled the lever that opens the gas door, and it didn't pop open. Sometimes it sticks a little, but it's usually open enough to get my fingers in to open it completely. Not today.

I pulled the lever again, and...nothing. It was stuck, completely closed, and no amount of lever-pulling or prying could get the thing open. I stood there for 10 minutes, wind whipping my hair all around, alternately prying and pulling, all to no avail.

Defeated, I got back into my car and headed to work with plans to call the service department at the dealership where I bought Zoe, hoping they'd have some words of wisdom, or at least an open time slot when I could bring her in, hopefully soon, since a quarter tank doesn't last all that long.

When I got to the work parking lot, I tried again. This time, after a couple of pulls and no prying at all, the door opened completely. Even though I was already 15 minutes late, I made a quick trip to the gas station across the street, and I ended up paying a penny less per gallon than I would have at the first place.

Could it be that Zoe didn't want the gas at the first place? Did she purposely hold the gas door shut, knowing I would try to open it again when I got to work and end up getting a better price? Is it possible that, while I don't care much about the price of gas, Zoe does? It's as plausible an explanation as any, I think.

I don't know if I consider the annoying events of the morning worth the few nickels I saved. But Zoe seems happy with herself for helping me save money, so I guess in the future I should go out of my way to buy the cheapest gas to appease her.

My Grown-Up Kitchen

I like coffee. In fact, I love it.

Alright, I'm an addict, I'll admit it. I need a heavy dose of caffeine to get me going every morning, and I'm not ashamed to say it.

My fiance, however, is not a coffee drinker, and except for the weekends, I never drink my coffee at home; I always make it and take it to work with me. So I have a coffee maker that brews right into thermal travel mugs. I love it; it's so convenient, and there is less to clean at the end of the day.

It does present a problem, however, in the rare instances that I have company. My coffee maker only brews two travel mugs' worth at a time, and one travel mug doesn't even hold two standard mugs' worth. When my parents -- who, like me, want more than just one small mug of coffee in the morning -- came to visit in November, we had to run the thing two or three times every morning.

It was then that I decided I needed a regular coffee pot for those times when two travel mugs just won't do it. I am an adult now, and I want to pour my guests a cup of coffee from a pot, like an adult. Gone are the days when I'd just toss them a Pop Tart and one of those nasty bags that are like tea bags but with coffee in them. I want to be able to offer them homemade waffles and pour them a nice, hot cup of freshly brewed java from a real, grown up coffee pot.

I didn't want to spend a lot -- this is an appliance I'll use maybe once or twice a year, and there are so many other things that I need for everyday use. So when my friend Marla called me yesterday to tell me there was a certain brand of kitchen appliance on sale at Target for five dollars each, I knew I had to stop there on my way home to pick up a coffee pot, and possibly a waffle maker, because I don't actually have one of those either.

Well, they were out of the waffle maker, but I did get my coffee pot. As you can see from the photo below, my kitchen has finally grown up.

A Lesson In Parenting

Today at work, we were talking about parents and children out in public places (in addition to the whistler at Target yesterday, I encountered a kid at Ikea whining for 20 minutes straight, "I wanna go to Oberweis...I wanna go to Oberweis...I wanna go to Oberweis." And let me tell you, "Oberweis" sounds kind of whiny even just when spoken normally, so from a whiny kid, it's even worse).

My boss mentioned an incident in the grocery store years ago with her daughter that I mention here so I'll remember it when I have children. She always does her grocery shopping with a list and rarely ventures away from that list, and on this trip, they were cruising past the dairy case when her daughter piped up and asked, "do you think maybe sometime you can put chocolate milk on your list?"

She could have explained to her daughter that you are in fact allowed to pick up whatever you want at the store and don't have to write it down before going to be able to buy it. And she might have been tempted to, because it was probably pretty cute. But instead she just nodded and said, "yes, I suppose I could" and kept going.

Smart move. I'll bet that kid never made a scene in the middle of Ikea.

A Brief Note

I really don't want to turn this blog into "Erika's Ranting Place" but feel I must comment after an experience I had while out shopping today.

There's not much of a story, but the bottom line is, some people at Target just want to look at microwaves. I can't imagine many of them want to listen to another customer whistling while they look. I know I don't.

I Can Take My Hands Off My Ears...But Now I Have To Put Them Over My Eyes

Ding Dong. She's really gone.

The Shrieking Machine has left the gym. I wanted to make sure before celebrating, but after seven blissful shriek-free weeks, I think it's safe. I can't express how wonderful it is to go to the gym to relieve some stress and actually accomplish that rather than getting more edgy by the minute with shouts of "knee! knee! knee!"

There is, however, one character I wouldn't mind going the same way The Shrieking Machine did. I feel bad for even mentioning her, because while The Shrieking Machine did something that was a real disturbance, this lady annoys me for no real reason except my own cattiness.

But if I could post a photo of her, I don't think anyone would disagree with me.

I call her Didn't-Bother-To-Brush-Her-Hair-
But-Did-Take-The-Time-To-Put-On-Tights-Yes, Tights-Lady. The title is pretty self-explanatory. Why in the world would anyone wear tights to the gym? They're not any sort of athletic tights; they're just regular black tights that she wears under shorts. If she's afraid her legs will get cold, why not just wear pants? Seeing her makes my legs feel hot and itchy. And yeah, her hair always looks awful, and I have the feeling that she never actually does anything with it. I mean, I never look all that put-together at the gym -- why bother when you're just going to sweat and get gross -- but if the gym isn't the first place I've been that day, I at least have my hair brushed. Not so much with this woman.

I know it's mean of me to say, but I can't help it. She's there every time I go to the gym -- every time -- and inevitably she ends up on a machine directly in front of whatever machine I'm on, so I have no choice but to look at her. I still feel bad for getting annoyed with her, though, so I'm kind of hoping she joins a kickboxing class and starts shrieking so I have a good reason to dislike her.

What Brown Did For Me, Part II

Surprisingly, I received my UPS package today, and although I haven't opened it yet, it actually looks like the right package.

I've written UPS a belated Christmas card to thank them for the impeccable treatment I was given. The only thing I can't decide is whether to send it by U.S. Postal Service or FedEx.

Jackpot!

It seems as if all of the hours we spent scanning stuff at Macy's, Williams-Sonoma and Bed Bath & Beyond has paid off. Two of the gifts for which my fiance and I registered have been purchased for us, according to the latter two stores' Web sites.

I cannot wait to receive my dish towels and snack box shaped like a goldfish cracker.

The Taste Of Christmas

So I broke down. Between the UPS debacle and not being home for the first time and not having any time off and having a long week at work, I wasn't feeling very Christmasy. So I baked cookies to get myself in the mood.

I just made a few.

Alright, so I made 12 dozen. But I plan to take half of them to my fiance's family's house and gave a few dozen to neighbors.

But I sure am in the holiday spirit now!

What Brown Did For Me

I'll admit it. One of the things I love most about Christmas is the presents.

It's not so much getting new stuff -- when you're past the age of 12 or so and not getting toys but books and sweaters, the contents of the packages are usually not that exciting -- but the fact that someone thought to buy something special for me, and it's always so exciting to see the tree piled high with gifts on Christmas morning. This year, I will be spending the holiday away from my family for the first time, instead going to my fiance's parents' house to celebrate with them. So my mom sent my Christmas gifts to me via UPS.

This is where the warm, fuzzy story turns sour.

On Thursday, my mom tracked my package and reported that the address had been changed and UPS needed a suite number. I had, the day before, re-routed another UPS package from my home address to my work address, so I assumed UPS had applied the change to all packages going to me. I called to give them the suite number of my office, and I was surprised to learn that the address my package was sent to was neither my home address nor my work address but a place in a town somewhere between the two. I don't even know anyone who lives or works in that town.

I corrected UPS and asked them to route it to my work address on Friday, and I asked if they could give me a range of hours that their driver would be out with my package. My office closed early yesterday, so I wanted to know whether I could expect it before then or whether I would have to stick around or re-route it back to my home if it would be going out late. The lady said she had no idea what time packages go out in the morning and that if my mom had wanted delivery on a guaranteed date, she should have upgraded from ground delivery to air delivery -- at a handsome extra charge, of course. I told the woman I would just wait around at work, and if the package didn't show up in time, I'd go from there.

Imagine my surprise when the UPS delivery guy showed up at my office yesterday with no package for me. I called UPS again to ask what address my package was going to, and they gave me my home address. I told them no, this was a mistake; the address was not supposed to be changed again. The woman I spoke to this time offered to re-route the package back to my work address, but I explained that I was on my way home at this point and would simply hope the driver hadn't stopped there yet.

Yes, I said it angrily. Yes, I hung up on her. I know it wasn't this lady's fault, but considering the fact that UPS had now changed the address on me twice without my requesting or authorizing it, I think I had a right to be perturbed. I had done everything I could to make sure they brought the package to where I would be, and UPS took great pains to make sure the package came nowhere near me.

Holding on to the hope that perhaps it would show up on my doorstep, I sat at home all afternoon, waiting. I had errands to run, so as soon as my fiance walked in the door, I ran out, rushing around so I would be back before he had to leave again and someone would be home to sign for the package.

At 6:45, when nothing had shown up, I tracked the package online again, guessing that UPS had changed the address on me a third time. Bingo! They had. They had re-routed the package yet again, back to my work address.

At this point, I was beyond fuming. It was getting increasingly more difficult to refrain from screaming at the people who picked up the phone at the 800 number. These people refused to do anything to help. Because the package had been sent by ground and not air, it was not important to UPS to get it to me at any specific time.

I understand that they can't guarantee a time, but you'd think they'd guarantee that the package gets to where it should go. And when they had changed the delivery address three times now without my ever asking them to do so, they should have made special accommodations to get me this package the day it should have been delivered. My mom paid what was probably a good chunk of money to get me this package, and she sent it off in plenty of time for it to get to me by Christmas. It was not her fault, and it was not my fault, that the package had not reached me. It was UPS' fault, and UPS was refusing to make amends.

The last guy at the 800 number finally sent a note to the distribution center, and a woman from there called me to explain that my package was not to her distribution center yet but at another distribution center 10 miles away and would not arrive there until Tuesday morning, at which point it was to be delivered to my work address. I called the distribution center where the package allegedly was, and a woman there told me it had already left for the other one. But it would not be there until Tuesday; apparently, sending something UPS ground means that it takes three days to go 10 miles. I didn't figure those trucks went very fast, but I had no idea.

UPS' mission was accomplished. My Christmas gifts will be late, and there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. UPS is the Grinch, and I am Cindy Lou Who, except my attitude is not quite as forgiving as hers.

The worst part is, if my mom had simply sent the gifts late, I wouldn't have cared. I get gifts late all the time, and goodness knows I hardly ever send gifts out on time. (So perhaps UPS was sending some of my late-gift-sending karma back my way).

No, the fact that the gifts will be late doesn't bother me half as much as the fact that I have spent the past two days waiting for them and on the phone with UPS, trying to correct the errors they had made. They're just gifts; I'm sure my mom got me some very nice stuff, but let's face it. I'm way past the age where Christmas gifts are exciting toys, and there's not much I can do with a sweater or a pair of gloves that simply cannot wait an extra day. My Christmas has not been ruined by not having my gifts right away, but the past two days have been ruined while I've dealt with this mess.

So today, even though I had not planned to, I will bake some Christmas cookies to get myself back into the holiday spirit. If I can't be near my family, and I can't get their gifts on time, at least I can eat the cookies made from their recipes.

So what has "brown" done for me? Besides eaten up an hour's worth of minutes on my cell phone and made my blood pressure shoot sky high, not a whole hell of a lot. I am somewhat skeptical about the possibility of the package actually coming to me on Tuesday like it's now supposed to. But maybe I'll get the gifts in time for next Christmas.

Stuffed

Anyone who reads this blog even casually knows that I love food, and I especially love sweets. So what I am about to say is going to seem completely out of character, and, to be honest, even I am surprised to be typing these words. But the fact of the matter is...

I just can't eat any more Christmas treats.

It started very innocently, the day I decided to get a jump start on my holiday baking by making Oreo Balls (smashed up Oreo cookies mixed with cream cheese and covered in chocolate) and chocolate covered peanut butter crackers (two saltines with peanut butter in between, covered in chocolate) and Chex Party Mix (just the regular kind, although I do make a chocolate-covered version of that too). For a few days, I sampled the treats modestly, taking care not to pig out too much.

But then it snowballed.

A visitor to my office brought with him a huge package of Godiva chocolates and a great big tin of chocolate covered cookies, which was put in the kitchen right next to the half-full box of candy a client had sent awhile back. Then our cleaning ladies brought us some cookies, cupcakes and fudge. Today, I went in there and saw a gift basket full of all kinds of holiday treats. Did I mention there are only eight of us in the office?

And at home it was just as bad. Once the chocolate covered stuff and the Chex Mix had been either eaten or pawned off onto someone, I thought it safe to buy a bag of Hershey's Kisses for a candy dish on my coffee table. But then my sister sent me some beef and cheese logs and some petit fours, and I received a stocking full of candy bars and a box of the most delicious shortbread cookies in the history of mankind in a gift exchange. Throw in a couple of get-togethers, and December has made for some snug pants, let me tell you.

It's not like I've been pigging out nonstop, but it has been tough to resist all this wonderful food, especially when it just arrives on your doorstep. I'll admit, the Oreo Balls, peanut butter things and Chex Mix were my fault, but even after I decided to put a moratorium on Christmas cookie baking, my kitchen is still full of delicious, wonderful, tasty food.

I think it's wonderful that people share food at Christmas. I enjoy cooking and baking for people, and I certainly enjoy eating. But I just don't think I can do any more of it this year.

I'm starting to go into a sugar coma.

It Is Less Time Consuming To Give Than To Receive

Today, my fiance and I set up our wedding gift registries. We knew it would be time consuming, but we had no idea just how tiring it would be. Here's a rundown of the afternoon's activities.

1 p.m. -- Arrive at the mall. We go straight to Macy's so that my relatives in Pennsylvania have somewhere to shop for us, because they don't have too many good stores there and some folks are not internet savvy.

1:15 p.m. -- Lady who helps us sent us out into the store with a gun thing to scan what we wanted. I make the mistake of letting my fiance use the gun, and he makes a funny noise every time he scans something and repeatedly tries to scan my butt because he thinks it's funny. We don't find much that we really really want but did find a few fun items. We almost register for a gigantic serving dish that looks like a turkey, but in the fear that someone might buy it for us, we decide not to.

1:40 p.m. -- Finish scanning stuff at Macy's, return to the desk to find the lady who helped us engaged with a customer.

1:45 p.m. -- Apparently the customer's credit card is not going through, so we continue to wait.

1:50 p.m. -- The lady finally pawns off rejected credit card lady on someone else and helps us wrap up. She gives us a free canvas tote bag, which is worth the trip.

1:55 p.m. -- Leave Macy's for Williams-Sonoma.

2:00 p.m. -- Fill out a form for Williams-Sonoma gift registry.

2:02 p.m. -- Give the form back to the lady behind the counter and wait for her to type our information into the computer. Politely turned down offer of free sample of espresso from lady who thought we were standing by the espresso machine because we wanted one.

2:05 - 2:10 p.m. -- Go through the form with lady behind the counter, line by line, at her request, so that she will spell everything right.

2:15 p.m. -- Look around while waiting for lady behind counter to finish. Espresso lady asks if we are sure we don't want to try an espresso; we politely decline.

2:17 p.m. -- Lady behind the counter hands us a paper that has our registry information and find my name is spelled wrong. Gave it back and asked her to fix it and waited some more.

2:25 p.m. -- Make small talk with espresso lady, who ends up being the most helpful person in that store.

2:30 p.m. -- Finally cave and let espresso lady get us an espresso.

2:35 p.m. -- Lady behind the counter gives us the little gun thingy and we go out into the store. Espresso lady follows us because it's just so exciting. We ask her for help with an item that won't scan, however, and she's not sure what to do, but she does help us find someone who knows.

2:45 p.m. -- None of the items at Williams-Sonoma seem to still have the stickers with the bar codes on them. We have to ask bald guy behind the counter for help, and he finds someone who can figure out what to scan. I kind of miss the espresso lady.

2:50 p.m. -- Having scanned a bunch of stuff, we can't find anyone to help us except the first lady, who couldn't read or type, who attempts to upload our information into the computer.

2:55 p.m. -- Lady returns with a printed out sheet that has none of the items we had scanned and one we had not and goes back to try to upload again.

2:58 p.m. -- Lady apologetically explains that our entire registry is lost. Rather than do it all again, we leave, quietly cursing the stupid lady who screwed up the whole thing.

3:05 p.m. -- Swing by the Auntie Anne's to grab a pretzel, but the line is too long and we are cranky.

3:20 p.m. -- Enter Bed Bath & Beyond. I get in line at the customer service desk while my fiance sits in the demo massage chair to rest his flat feet.

3:22 p.m. -- Listen to girl behind customer service desk try to figure out how to figure out tax by multiplying by a percentage. Guy standing at counter wrongly explains that she should multiply the amount by .8 or something. I consider stepping in but am afraid that in my semi-crankiness and tiredness I might end up either explaining it wrong or being mean, and, thankfully, a nice foreign lady steps in first.

3:24 p.m. -- Once foreign lady is done being taken care of and I ask where the registry is and am directed to the rear of the store.

3:25 p.m. -- My fiance tells me to try the massage chair, and it really does pep me up a bit.

3:28 p.m. -- Find registry area and fill out some more paperwork. Explain to Pam the registry lady that we don't need fine china or crystal; we just want everyday stuff. Pam is nice but kind of balks at the idea that we would have guests over and not have anything nice to serve them on, despite the fact that we tell her that right now we kind of need other things a lot more than fine china.

3:29 p.m. -- We choose a fine china pattern.

3:35 p.m. -- Pam helps us choose crystal and flatware to go with the china. It actually looks quite nice. I make my fiance pledge to have a fancy party soon after we get married so that we have a reason to use fine china and crystal.

3:50 p.m. -- Pam takes us over to the cookware section of the store to meet Josh, who she says will help us there, despite the fact that we have already chosen cookware at Macy's. Josh, who has laryngitis, explains that Pete will be helping us because he does not have laryngitis. Pete is not happy when we tell him we want copper bottom pots and steers us toward stainless steel. We tell him we have already registered at Macy's for copper bottom pots, and he pulls up the brand and tells us it is not as good as the brand we'd been looking at in his store. He's actually right, but we kind of want a chance to register for other stuff that we haven't looked at yet, so we run away from Pete and register for other stuff.

4:15 p.m. -- I make my fiance scan a plastic take-along snack container that looks like a goldfish cracker. This is one of my favorite items on the list so far.

6 p.m. -- After we've been through the entire store, Pam brings us snacks and tells us that we deserve a break. We tell her we're done.

6:15 p.m. -- Pam goes over some other registry stuff with us and tells us congratulations about 12 times. She's actually pretty nice, and I wonder if we should invite her to the wedding so that she can buy us that china with her employee discount.

6:20 p.m. -- We revisit our fine china setting, and I still like it, but I am kind of hoping that we get more of the every day dishes, because I really like them and don't have to have anyone over to use them, plus they are dishwasher safe.

6:30 p.m.-9 p.m. -- We finally leave Bed Bath & Beyond and, having given up any hope of making it to the grocery store and cooking dinner like we'd planned, we come home and order pizza and watch Mean Girls on TV.

9 p.m. - 10 p.m. -- Looking online, I learn that the dumb lady at Williams-Sonoma actually did upload our thing, and we do have a registry. In fact, we have two. One is empty and the other has the stuff we chose today.

10:27 p.m. -- My head hurts. I am going to bed.

An Open Letter To My Fiance, Regarding Mice

Dear Fiance,

I don't pull the girl card very often, but I'm going to have to do it now.

I am sorry that you think it is unacceptable for me to refuse to clean mouse traps, but that's just the way it has to be. I just cannot bring myself to look at or even come close to touching a dead mouse.

I offered to buy the poison stuff that makes them go outside to die, but you were afraid they would die in the walls. So I offered to buy the circular traps that close and kill them so you can just throw the whole thing away and never look at a mouse, but you said they were too expensive for something that was not reuseable.

When you insisted instead on buying the kind that snaps the mouse in half in front of your eyes, you promised that you wouldn't give me crap about not checking or touching the traps, so I hope you will stick to that.

Sorry, but mice are icky, and you need to be the manly man and take care of them all and protect me from the nasty vermin.

Hugs and kisses,
Erika

Fa La La La La La La La La

Christmas is a season of excess, when everything we like to do, we do to the umpteenth degree. We pig out, we spend too much money and we decorate our homes in ways that we would never do any other time of year, with glittery, ostentatious things that light up and make noise.

And it's wonderful! I hope to someday have a house that I can decorate the way that Clark Griswold decorated his, with 25,000 twinkle lights. I think it's grand when people go to Target on December 26th and buy lights, signs and inflatable snow globes for 50 percent off, then pile it all into their yards the following year. Even the tacky stuff is great. The more, the better I say.

I do have a problem with the people who half-ass it with the lights though. You know who I mean. The ones who buy one of those light net things that you can put right over a tree, and then only put one on a big tree, leaving half of the tree covered and half uncovered. The ones who put a string of lights on one tiny hedge in front of their house and leave everything else bare.

If you're not going to go whole hog with the lights, I say, don't do the lights. You can still decorate with inflatable snowmen and wreaths, and your home will look very festive. But unless you're willing to put in some time and effort, don't bother with the lights. No one will fault you if you don't put any lights out, but it looks pretty stupid when you throw up one string and call it a day.

I'm not saying that everyone needs to put out 25,000 twinkle lights, but driving around town would be a lot more entertaining if they did.

Fine

When I was in high school, I took two years of German. My teacher was actually from Germany; she had grown up near Hamburg, so our lessons always contained tidbits about German culture as she had experienced it growing up.

Early on, we learned the phrase, "wie gehts," which means, "how are you?" We also learned various responses, like, "es geht mir gut"(good) or "es geht mir schlecht," (bad), etc. And my teacher made the comment that Germans are more honest than Americans when asked that simple question. If you ask a German person "wie gehts," you won't hear "es geht mir gut" unless it's really true; here, however, you'll almost always hear the same response.

"Fine."

It's as if we feel we will be a burden if we're honest. Not everyone wants to hear, "I'm wonderful; I just won a million dollars in the lottery;" it sounds like bragging. And "my wife left me and took all the toothpaste" sounds whiny.

But now, after years of pondering, I wonder, why would people ask if they don't really want to know?

In my job, I deal with many different people, so I'm on the phone pretty often. My clients are located all over the United States, so I never actually see them face to face. I don't chat with them about personal stuff too much, so I don't really know any of them that well except in the business sense. But every time I call one of them, or one of them calls me, the first question is always, "how are you."

And my response is always "fine" or "pretty good," and then, "how are you?" (They're always "fine" or "pretty good" too).

Why do I say that? I don't care how these people are. I don't care how their days are going. Sure, I hope their lives are in basic balance and they're healthy and comfortable, because they're people, and most of them are pretty nice, but unless it is affecting the business we are doing, I don't care much what is going on in their personal lives. That may sound a little heartless, but they don't really care about my personal life either. They're paying for a service I provide, so they don't want to waste time on chit chat, and I've got other clients to worry about, so I don't want to waste time either.

And it's not just the "how are you." We always say these polite words that we obviously don't mean, just because we think we're supposed to say them. Last night, I went to Target, and as I left, the girl at the register told me, "have a great night." She said it in a completely robotic voice, though, as if whoever trained her told her to say that, and now it just comes automatically. I don't care if she wants me to have a great night, so I kind of wish she wouldn't tell me to have one unless she really meant it.

It just seems sort of counterproductive to say these things. Why ask how someone is if you really don't care? And why say "have a great night" unless you really wish them well? I think the words lose their meaning when they're thrown around like that, and the polite almost becomes impolite.

So I am going to try to always mean what I say. If I don't think a person really gives a crap if I tell them to have a nice day, I won't tell them to have a nice day. Why bother? I doubt too many folks would be offended if I hung up the phone with a simple "goodbye" or "talk to you later." And when I'm asked how I am, I'll tell the truth. I'm not going to go on a whole diatribe about my life up to that point, but the answer will be honest and not automatic.

I think that solution is fine.