Stapling Jello

How a Magazine, a Sweet Tooth, and a Couple of Murderous Psychopaths Unintentionally Saved Me 40 Bucks

2011-11-20T16:42:00.001-06:00

Forty-Dollar Biscotti.

That's what I'm going to call it if it's good enough to add to my permanent recipe collection.

I found the recipe (under the unpretentious name of "almond biscotti") in the most recent issue of Real Simple a few days ago. I'd never made biscotti but always wanted to try, so yesterday, on my weekly trip to Target, I grabbed some ingredients as well as a new comforter to replace the white one that was beautiful until we started letting the dog nap on the bed.

This afternoon, I started mixing biscotti ingredients only to find that the almond extract I purchased yesterday had a broken seal. Being a true crime fan too familiar with a) the Tylenol murders, and b) stories of the smell of bitter almonds, I thought better safe than cyanide and took the bottle back to the store.

After picking up a new, sealed bottle, I was making my way to the customer service desk when I spotted a big red sale tag on a display of comforters. Looking down the aisle, I saw all the comforters were on sale, even the one I bought yesterday. For $39.99 less than I paid.

The customer service lady exchanged my almond extract no problem and quickly offered a price adjustment when I mentioned the comforter sale to her. I'd never been so happy to return faulty merchandise. It was truly by chance that I'd walked that aisle and saw the sale. I've had some good luck in my life, but it never seems to apply to buying things, so this really brightened my day.

I think I'll celebrate with some hot tea and biscotti. Not in bed though—I wouldn't want to mess up my new comforter, even if I got it on sale.

So Delicious? So Awesome!

2011-09-20T21:01:00.002-05:00

I've shared on this blog many stories of bad customer service, but today, I want to write about one of the best customer service experiences I've had in a long time.

A few months ago, I bought a pint of Purely Decadent Peanut Butter Zig Zag non-dairy frozen dessert. I am a sucker for chocolate and peanut butter, and ice cream is one of my most missed dairy treats. But to my dismay, when I opened the container, it looked and tasted like dairy free chocolate ice cream. There was no peanut butter anywhere.

I took my problem to Twitter, lamenting that my peanut butter was missing. It wasn't long before I received a reply from So Delicious, the maker of the product. It said something like, "We found your peanut butter. Please contact us so we can return it to its rightful owner."

So I did. I sent them an email, thanking them for not only acknowledging my complaint but doing so with grace and humor. And yesterday, I came home to an envelope containing a bunch of coupons, including two for free products.

It was a very cool response from a very cool company. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a reunion planned with some peanut butter.

I'm Gonna Be Alright...Soon As I Get Home

2011-09-11T15:03:00.001-05:00

"Home is a place you grow up wanting to leave and grow old wanting to get back to." - John Ed Pearce

I've been feeling rather homesick lately, which happens every now and then but usually subsides rather quickly. I've been living in Illinois almost a decade now, and even though I spent twice as long in Pennsylvania, where I grew up, I like my life here and think of it as the home of my adulthood.

But with my 15th class reunion coming up next month, I've been thinking a lot about my hometown, Montoursville, and all the people and places I look forward to seeing. I've even been daydreaming about some of the treats I'd pick up from my favorite hometown eateries. What I didn't realize was, as much as I needed my town, it was about to need me more.

On Wednesday, I got an email from my mom telling me it had been raining since Sunday (courtesy of Tropical Storm Lee) and flooding was predicted all over the area. I kept an eye on the Facebook updates of Pennsylvania friends that day, and most people seemed only mildly concerned.

By the time I got up Thursday morning, things had changed. I received a message saying a friend's parents had been evacuated early that morning, that their basement was full of water. Not long after I got to work, I learned that a bridge in the area had collapsed. I quickly realized that this flood would not simply be an inconvenience; it would be a catastrophe.

The water began to recede late on Thursday, giving residents an opportunity to survey the damage. It's substantial. Some people lost all their belongings. Some lost their homes as well. My mom told me one story of a couple who had gone on vacation and returned to find their house gone. Worse, so many roads are so badly damaged that some people can't even get to their homes right now.

I hate having to watch this go on from 600 miles away. I hate feeling like there's nothing I can do to help my friends and neighbors, at least for now. But it warms my heart to see so many people in the area coming out to help each other, donating their time, their money, and their belongings to people who need them more.

It's an emotional weekend all over the country, given the commemoration of the anniversary of 9/11. I've always been bothered by people who compare their personal struggles to the terrorist attacks ten years ago, but in this case, I think the anniversary offers important perspective. This storm has destroyed homes, ruined belongings, and turned roads to rubble. But all that stuff...it's just stuff. That's easy for me to say, of course. My parents' house is safe on a hill with an in-tact road leading up to it. But I don't know anyone who would disagree, especially today.

I'm grateful for my friends and neighbors who are helping their friends and neighbors in their time of need. I am humbled by the concern of my Illinois friends who want to help. And I am more eager than ever to get back to Montoursville. We really need each other right now.

Football...the Rock Paper Scissors Way

2011-08-28T12:16:00.004-05:00

The other day, I was asked to join a fantasy football league at work. Everyone in my department was asked; it's not like the guy who organizes it thought to himself, you know, I bet Erika would really enjoy this. Still, the thought was absurd, and I told the guy so.

"Not watching football is my ultimate football fantasy," I said.

Somehow, that made him determined to get me to participate. He told me that last year, one coworker signed up, did nothing (i.e., took "best available" players rather than participating in the draft, then didn't change his lineup all season) and made the playoffs. I could do the same, he said. Besides, the thing doesn't cost any money; it's just for fun. The "trophy" is a Shake Weight with winners' names written on it.

I then described for him how I approach football if I am forced to watch a game (see my entry on the 2007 Super Bowl). I try to imagine what a football game would look like if the things the team names represent were to play. For example, my hometown team (the Chicago Bears) will play the Atlanta Falcons in its first game of the regular season. If actual bears and actual falcons played football, who would win? Bears are big and would be good tacklers, but falcons are swift and deft. Plus they can fly. I think it would take a lot of keen strategizing for the bears to be victorious.

Surprisingly, this explanation of my view of sports made my coworker even more excited about me participating. He encouraged me to choose my team that way, thought it would be a fun experiment. Since it's free and I wouldn't have to watch any football games, I agreed.

So today, I sat down to take a look at the physical and mental qualities each member of a football team must have and compared those to the qualities of the entities representing the team names. Finding out about the different positions was easy enough, but some of the team names are pretty strange. Cleveland Browns? What is that? I was picturing a bunch of UPS guys running up and down the field until I looked it up and learned the team was named after a coach. And looking up the mascots doesn't help. The Tennessee Titans' mascot is a raccoon. But a raccoon and a titan are not the same thing. (Note to the Tennessee Titans: You might get more female fans if you change your mascot to a shirtless Greek god.)

In retrospect, it would have been easier just to learn about football.

For each position on the fantasy football team (quarterback, running back, wide receiver, tight end, kicker, defense), I wrote down several team names. My coworker has promised that in the draft, which is Thursday, he'll give me the best available player on one of the teams I've chosen.

I have to admit, I'm kind of interested to find out what happens. Not interested enough to watch any games, but I'm always up for a weird experiment that doesn't require much work on my part. Especially one with such low stakes. And actually, considering the burden of winning (having to keep a Shake Weight at my desk for a year, having to explain to people why it's there), I kind of hope I don't win.

More Than Suitable

2011-08-12T15:26:00.002-05:00

I don't know if there's a phrase that means the exact opposite of worlds colliding, but whatever it is happened to me last night.

An old college pal is staying with me while in town for a conference, and when he arrived at my house last night, I opened the door to see him in a suit and tie. I couldn’t hide my surprise.

Today, Rob is a married father of two who just earned his PhD. But when we went to school together, he was the quintessential college drinking buddy; he made a hell of a cocktail and told a hell of a story. Last night at dinner, he told me that as shocked as his friends from his undergrad days are that he’s a responsible grownup, his graduate school friends are just as shocked to hear that that shocks people.

My first thought when he said that was, growing up isn’t all that shocking. Rob was one of the first from our group to get married and the first to have a child. At the time, I guess I was surprised, but I think I’d be more surprised if he reached his mid-30s and was still acting like a 22-year-old. I had a great time in college and feel nostalgic about those days, but make no mistake; I much prefer my life as it is today. I like having a job that allows me to pay my bills and eat. I like having a car my parents didn’t buy when I was in elementary school. I like living in a place that doesn’t have bathroom mold so thick I can scratch my name into it. So while this responsible grown up Rob isn’t the Rob I once knew, he’s a Rob I’m more likely to be friends with today.

But seeing him in a suit made me realize just how different life is now. The last time Rob showed up on my doorstep wearing something unexpected, that something was a towel. His roommate had locked their dorm room door on his way out while Rob was showering, leaving him with just his towel. He went to a friend’s room to borrow some clothes to wear till his roommate returned, but the friend was out, so he walked out of the dorm, across the street, and all the way to the back of the apartment complex where I lived to get some clothes from my roommate Steve. All while wearing a towel.

Looking back, I'm actually not sure which surprised me more, the towel or the suit.

Visiting after all these years was a little strange; we have such different lives now than we did back then, and even regaling tales of the old days would probably embarrass us both a little bit. But when I look at my life and how different I am now, it makes me glad to know I have good company here in adulthood. And even in a suit, he still tells a hell of a story.

What A Duet for a Girl and Goatherd

2011-05-27T13:31:00.002-05:00

I'm playing a German character in a musical this summer, and today, I joked with a coworker that I wanted to learn how to yodel for the part.

I realized my mistake when he said, "yodel? What's that?"

This guy is not originally from the U.S., and although he's been here for years and speaks English as well as a native, I guess this is not a word he's ever had the need to learn. The thing is, it's kind of hard to explain what yodeling is without, well, yodeling. But since I can't yodel, I found a video of Jewel yodeling and showed that to him.

After watching it, I kind of want to learn to yodel.

Facebook Live

2011-04-28T20:45:00.000-05:00

Overheard at my office on Take Your Child To Work Day:

"Wanna be friends?"
"Sure."
"You think we'll see each other again?"
"Possibly."
"What's your name again?"

I Get Political, Or, Politics Gets Me

2011-04-16T08:51:00.000-05:00

I've never been too vocal about my political opinions for a couple of reasons. First, I don't have anything groundbreaking to say about politics, and second, there are enough people shouting their political opinions that one more person shouting would probably just add to the noise.

Like most Americans, though, I am troubled by the division in this country, the stubbornness of legislators on every level. So I was simply delighted to see this video of the Oregon State Legislature working together. It's kind of refreshing to see a government body doing something funny that is supposed to be funny.

And Now a Word From Our Sponsor

2011-03-20T20:26:00.002-05:00

So much fantastic, fascinating stuff has been happening to me lately (you know, like nothing in particular really) that I simply haven't had time to blog.

Strangely, though, Stapling Jello: The Blog has never been more popular with spammers. About once a week, I get a notification that someone has posted a comment on a years-old post, and it's always some "click this link to learn about" something or other. I hear these guys are the best in the business at weight loss, penis enlargement, and meeting red hot singles just like you, so I urge you to click their links--especially if you're a fat, small-penised, red hot single who is not terribly smart.

The Show Must Go On

2010-11-20T09:40:00.002-06:00

A promise is a promise.

As soon as Brynn (a young lady who played my son -- she was 10, it was fine -- in Tommy this past summer) was cast in her middle school play (a comedy called The Curse of the Bard), she asked if I would come see the show. She was so intent on my seeing it that I couldn't even think of saying no.

"I'll be there on Opening Night," I told her. "Front row center."

And so, on Wednesday evening, I headed out for a grand night of theatre at the middle school. I even managed to snag a seat in the front row, sitting with (as it happened), the director of Tommy, the music director of Tommy, and her daughter, who was in Tommy.

As the music director was sitting down, she asked if I'd heard from Brynn's mother that day. I hadn't.

"I don't think Brynn's here," she said. A few moments later, the teacher in charge confirmed it. Brynn was home sick; her part would be played by another student.

To be fair, although I promised Brynn I'd show up, she never promised the same to me.

The show was about to begin, and given where I was sitting, there was no graceful way for me to sneak out. Besides, I wasn't about to be the jerk who walked out on a middle school play. Instead, though, I was the creep-o who sat in the front row for a middle school play in which I knew no one. (Well, almost no one. There were a few other Tommy alumni.)

On the up side, the show was actually very funny. There are certainly worse ways to spend a Wednesday evening. And hey, at least they weren't doing Annie.

Next Time, Just Trust Me

2010-10-23T07:39:00.000-05:00

I went to bed early last night, so when I awoke to use the bathroom, my husband was still up.

"You're up late," I said.

"Yeah, I was looking at Canon stuff." This wasn't a surprise. He often stays up late to check out camera equipment, fantasize about buying it, and then decide against the purchase in case something better comes out soon.

I tell a lot of bad jokes when I'm tired and told one now. But he didn't hear me. I repeated the joke, which wasn't funny enough to have really said even once, and once again, he asked me what I'd said.

"Never mind," I said. "It's not funny enough to say three times."

I should mention, this happens all the time. He says I mumble, and I say he doesn't listen. I'm not sure which one of us is correct, but no one else ever asks me to repeat myself three times. In any case, at this point, exasperated, he asked me again to tell him what I'd said.

"I was wondering if you were going to be a Civil War re-enactor!" I yelled. "You said you were looking at cannon stuff!"

Pause.

"Now, was that really worth waiting for?" I asked. Correct answer: no.

He shrugged. "I laughed."

In Sickness...

2010-10-20T21:19:00.001-05:00

Tonight, I went to visit a friend who broke her back in a freak accident a few months ago. She's been in a nursing facility almost since it happened, doing physical therapy every day and awaiting word on her prognosis, wondering when she will be allowed to go home.

I haven't known Rebecca long -- she was a fellow cast member in Tommy this summer -- but she's one of those rare people who just emanates goodness. One conversation with her, and you know she is a caring, nurturing person who cherishes every day as a gift. Even in her current condition, she has maintained a positive attitude, allowing herself only occasional slips into depression. As a natural complainer, I am humbled by this strong woman, who has every right to complain but rarely does.

Rebecca has befriended many of the folks at the nursing facility, and, as one of the younger patients, has become somewhat of a caretaker for some. She's heard all their stories, and I hope she won't mind me sharing one she told me.

There's a 91-year-old man at the facility whose wife (of a comparable age) resides in the assisted living apartments next door. His window faces her building, and her window faces theirs. So every night at a designated time, they grab their flashlights and flash "I love you" to each other's windows.

In the next breath, Rebecca told me about her own husband, who drives out to see her every night after work before heading home. None of these places are all that close to one another, so it's a considerable amount of driving. It must be a burden on him. But every night, he's there. While she and I were talking, her husband walked in, carrying some clothes and a sandwich for her.

I can't imagine what it's like to have to live apart from one's spouse; I find it difficult to spend even a few nights away from my husband. And while I hope we never have to learn what it's like, I take comfort in knowing if one of us was in that nursing facility, the other would be there every night to share a sandwich. Or at least to shine a light through the window.

Please, Won't You Be My Neighbor?

2010-07-20T21:37:00.003-05:00

When I moved into a house last year, I was really excited about doing neighborly things. Chatting over the fence, going to neighborhood picnics, borrowing cups of sugar.

Apparently, I thought I had bought a house in the 1950s.

In reality, there's very little interaction between our neighbors and us. The kids all play outside together, but we don't have kids. So the only time we ever really notice them is when they're leaving candy wrappers in our mailbox or flicking cigarette butts into our backyard so their parents don't know they were smoking.

So when my doorbell rang the other day, I didn't bother answering. Most of the time when my doorbell rings, it's either a kid wanting to sell me something for a fundraiser or someone wanting to talk to me about Jesus. I didn't really feel like spending money or talking about Jesus on this particular day. And I don't have a good vantage point anywhere in the house for seeing who is at the door, Mr. Rogers-style. So I waited till the person left, then watched out the window.

It was my next-door neighbor, and she had a giant zucchini in her hand. It figures that the first time I don't answer the door, it's someone I actually don't mind seeing, with a present for me. I couldn't exactly go running after her though. What was I supposed to say? Sorry, I thought you were going to try to save my soul?

Well, today, I came home from work, and there was the giant zucchini, sitting on my kitchen counter. Apparently, when my husband had come home, the next-door neighbor (the husband this time) had come out and offered him the zucchini. Wisely, he didn't say, "oh yeah, your wife brought that over the other day, but my wife was afraid she was a Jehovah's witness, so she didn't answer the door."

Truthfully, I have no idea what I'm going to do with the thing. It's huge. I could make six loaves of zucchini bread, a quiche and some grilled zucchini and still have some left over. But I'm still pretty excited to have been the recipient of such a neighborly gesture.

Coffee Talk

2010-06-08T22:24:00.000-05:00

As I mentioned in last night's entry, yesterday wasn't a great day. Between working, being in the play and everyday life stuff like grocery shopping, cleaning and laundry, I am running myself a little bit ragged these days. Yes, it's all what I signed up for, but after working from home and having ample time for everything over the past eight months, it's been a difficult transition back to the real world.

Today, though, I was determined to make better than yesterday. Despite not sleeping well last night, I got up, got ready, and left for work with a smile on my face -- or, at least, an expression other than a frown. I stopped at the Starbucks down the street from my house to pick up a little energy boost, feeling good that the day was starting out so well.

I received a greeting I did not expect. A woman, waiting for her drink and obviously in the midst of telling a funny story, turned to the door and yelled (with a smile) "BITCHEEESSSSSSS!" just as I was walking in. I smiled to myself, and maybe to her a little bit, as if to say: "I don't know what that was about, but it was a mildly amusing moment." She must have felt bad, though, because as I passed her, she said, "not you, ma'am." I laughed and responded, something about it being a nice way to start my day. Whatever I said, it didn't make much sense and probably sounded a bit mean. I didn't intend it that way, but come on, I hadn't even ordered my coffee yet, let alone consumed it.

The woman's friend, or coworker, or whatever he was, smiled at me and said, "you're a lovely person," to which I smiled, and before the pair left, the guy told me to have a nice day, and the lady said the same.

I have to admit, I'm curious what the woman's story was about. She was wearing what looked like a security guard uniform; perhaps she was telling of something that happened at work. But if the universe has a sense of humor, I like to think she was talking about her friend Steve, who works at the expensive gym, and some of the people he has to call.

It's Just a Matter of Good Manners and Good Nature

2010-06-07T22:52:00.000-05:00

When I was little, I had a Paddington Bear record, and on that record, there was a song about the importance of good manners.

"If you've got good manners and good nature, you really will get along. For with those good manners and good nature, everyone will shake your paw and say, 'glad to see ya and have a good day,'" went the song. I couldn't help but think of those lyrics while mulling over a phone call I got earlier this evening.

Note: I tried to find the song online to link to here, but alas, it was not to be. Which means that I actually remember the lyrics from a quarter century ago. Not bad, eh?

Anyway, backing up...I had a really stressful day. I have a lot going on this week, I've been really stressed out, and leaving for work today was sort of like coming to the top of the rollercoaster hill and seeing how scary the ride down will be.

By the time I got to play rehearsal this evening, I was ready to go off on someone for no good reason. But lucky for my castmates, that's when the phone rang.

It was Steve at the expensive gym, so often mentioned on this blog. He was wondering if I might be interested in joining. Rehearsal was starting, but I couldn't resist returning his call right away.

"Hey, Erika! How ya feelin'?" he answered.

It took everything in me to be nice. I mean, I was annoyed that he'd called me yet again, but he didn't deserve the full force of my frustration. So I firmly, yet politely, told him that I've already told him I am not interested in a membership and asked him to please take me out of the system at the gym.

And that's when Steve pulled out his Paddington good manners and good nature.

"Well, all I can say to that is, God bless you, and have a good night," he said.

I'm sure that when he hung up, he added, "you big fat fatty," but given the things I've written about him on this blog, I think he probably owes me an insult or two.

Felt So Funny To Be Free

2010-05-21T21:21:00.002-05:00

I've never blogged much about work, because first, it wasn't interesting enough, and second, well, people who blog about things that happen to them at work often find themselves out of work in pretty short order.

So when I was laid off in September, I made only a quick mention of it here. I wasn't sure what I could say about losing my job that was unique (especially in this day and age), and I wasn't sure what the experience would mean to me. Plus, just like employment, unemployment really was not all that interesting.

But that's the thing about having more time. Suddenly, you have nothing to do BUT make your life interesting. For a few years, I had been working full time and freelancing during my lunch hours, evenings and weekends. I worked a lot, and I enjoyed it, but I also missed out on a lot. So when I got laid off, I found myself with all this time I didn't have before. I continued freelancing, so that kept me from feeling completely useless (and my bank account from being completely empty), but when I wasn't busy, I had all this time. And I wanted to use it wisely.

This week, I was offered a contract position at a company I've been doing some work for since my layoff. I start Monday. It's going to be nice to be back in the professional world (though I will miss shopping for work clothes on the sweatpants rack). So today, as I begin my last I-don't-care-if-it's-the-weekend-because-every-day-is-a-weekend weekend, I thought it would be a good idea to look at how I've used the last eight months. OK, so I haven't cured world hunger or anything, but when I look back on the time, I'm pretty pleased with how I've used it.

Here are some of the things I've accomplished.

I wrote a book -- Truth is, I had started the book (a chick-lit crime novel) while I was still fully employed. But with only a few hours a week to work on it, the writing was slow-going. With my days free, though, I had more time and energy to devote to it. I finished within a month of being laid off. No luck yet getting an agent, but I have high hopes.

I made a year's supply of applesauce and apple butter -- I love homemade applesauce, and I'd been wanting to make some for years, but it's a lot of work. But with a couple of completely free fall days and several dozen apples from a local orchard, suddenly, it didn't seem like such an undertaking.

I experimented in the kitchen -- I made the beef bourguignon that takes hours to make. I learned how to spell bourguignon. I even played with some old recipes to make them healthier. Did you know that you can use applesauce as a substitute for oil in baked goods? And when you do, you can cut the amount of sugar you put in too. My year's supply of applesauce quickly became a three months' supply of applesauce, but it was so worth it.

I discovered Hulu -- Not an accomplishment, you say? Well, yeah, probably not. But it was still pretty cool to watch the series Twin Peaks in its entirety and finally find out what all the fuss was about.

I bonded with Stella -- Many days, I wouldn't have anywhere to go, so Stella and I started taking daily walks together. We both enjoyed the fresh air and exercise. And in the days when I had no work to do, no money and felt positively beaten down by life, Stella was always up for a puppy snuggle.

I started acting again -- Many people who are interviewed about being laid off say that having the extra time allowed them to get back into something they had missed out on. For me, it was acting. I'd been thinking about auditioning for a show for a long time but hadn't wanted to give up on the freelance money I could make while working in the evenings. But after landing a lead in Tommy and rediscovering my love for the theatre, I now know that acting is something I will always make time for.

I defied gravity -- This is probably something I would have done whether employed or not, but the experience was, by far, the most rewarding of the last eight months, so it absolutely merits mention here. After years of thinking about it and not doing, I finally got involved as a volunteer with ACCESS, AirCraft Casualty Emotional Support Services, a non-profit organization that provides grief mentoring to people who have lost loved ones in air disasters. To attend the volunteer training, I had to fly all the way to San Francisco, alone. Given my fear of flying, getting on that plane was one of the hardest things I've ever done. But I did it. And the people at that training conference gave me so much hope, so much joy. Because now I know, no matter where I go -- on a plane or in life -- I know I will never fly alone again.

So there it is. My last eight months, in a teeny, tiny nutshell. I won't say it hasn't been difficult at times, but looking back, there was a lot more good than bad. But now, it's on to new places, people and adventures.

Don't expect me to tell you much about it though. I don't really blog about work.

The Tweet of a Beautiful Friendship

2010-05-11T17:13:00.000-05:00

I'm not a big Twitter follower of famous people, except for the ones who actually put out information I need or who are funny and relevant. The ones who just tweet about their fabulous lives and expensive stuff I can't afford aren't worth my time, even at 140 characters.

One of the people I follow is Michael Hitchcock, who falls into the funny category. And well he should -- he's one of the regulars in Christopher Guest movies, several of which are prominent in my top ten favorites of all time.

I never thought I'd have much in common with Michael Hitchcock as a person, but today, on Twitter, he proved me wrong when he tweeted this message: If there's an Apocalypse and I'm the sole survivor, I hope that there's still Lactaid left in some of the abandoned stores.

It was nice to see I'm not the only one who has had that thought. Perhaps he and I could be real life friends after all. As long as he was willing to share the Lactaid.

Pardon Our Dust

2010-05-05T08:38:00.003-05:00

I'm not sure why the font here is all screwed up, and why there is now a mile between each paragraph. I'm trying to figure it out. I have not been successful thus far, so please bear with me while I screw around with the settings and make the problem worse.

Try to Remember, and if You Remember, Then Follow (Follow Follow Follow Follow Follow Follow Follow Follow Follow)

2010-05-05T08:29:00.007-05:00

Two more friends of mine have started blogs recently, and both are intriguing.

First up, my friend Josh has started working to lose weight and run next year's Pittsburgh Marathon. He contends that "fat people don't run marathons," and while I know this isn't exactly true, I like the way he thinks. Some weight loss blogs might be boring, but Josh is a very funny guy and drops witticisms like they were excess pounds, so you'll enjoy the ride. You can find him at http://freshmutton.blogspot.com.

Second, my friend Crystal is going on a very different journey. A lifelong Christian, she is working on gaining a deeper understanding of God, and of herself. I think anyone who has struggled with questions about God and religion can relate to her story. Read it at http://365daysclosertogod.blogspot.com.

And as a bonus (if you want to call it that), I am now blogging in another location as well as this one. As part of marketing the musical I'm doing this summer, I have started a blog specifically to chronicle the rehearsals and performances, to give a behind the scenes look at the blood, sweat and tears that go into a production. Read all about it at http://tommyonthehill.blogspot.com.

Please read, enjoy and comment. Goodness knows there's not much to read around here lately.

From Here on in, I Shoot Without a Script

2010-05-01T08:31:00.003-05:00

My good friend Stephen has recently done something I've always wanted to do -- he moved to New York.

Jealous as I am that he is having NYC adventures while I am living the suburban life in the Midwest, I was excited when he announced that he had started a blog about the big move. It's a fun read, especially for anyone who knows what it's like to be the fish out of water, looking to find your place in a new place.

So head on over to www.nycifyoucanmakeitthere.blogspot.com and check it out!

Hanging on the Telephone

2010-04-27T11:48:00.001-05:00

Last night, I got a phone call from Steve at the expensive gym.

"Hey, Erika, I just wanted to know if you'd made a decision yet and if you're ready to come on in and sign up."

My first inclination was to be annoyed, but then I realized it would make a funny blog entry. It's been a long time since a man has pursued me this heavily, even for money.

Still, I knew I had to be firm.

"As I told you before, I can't afford your monthly fee." I was on my way out the door when the phone rang, so I probably sounded more annoyed than I actually was. Which probably worked in my favor, because rather than tell me it would only cost me $8 for the rest of the month if I signed up today, Steve simply told me to call him if I changed my mind.

I'm not likely to change my mind. But ten bucks says that Steve will call again, just to check.

The When

2010-04-18T08:35:00.004-05:00

Tommy and I don't know each other very well, but we've never really gotten along.

Just to clarify, this Tommy isn't a person. I'm talking about the musical, based on The Who's 1969 album.

Yeah, didn't see that one coming, did you?

See, it all started when I graduated college and moved to Pittsburgh in May of 2000. I was the only one in my tight-knit group to graduate that semester, and when I moved away, my loneliness was made worse by the fact that all my friends were still together up at school.

It was a bad summer. I had a job and a few friends in Pittsburgh, but things didn't really come together for me there like I'd hoped they would. Meanwhile, most of my friends were spending their summer on a production of Tommy. Two hours away and lonely, I was very jealous that my friends were having such a good time working on a show. Whenever "Pinball Wizard" was played on the radio, I would scowl and change the station.

Funny how things can change in ten years. But we'll get to that in a minute.

It's been a long time since I've done any theatre, for various reasons. But as someone who used to do show after show after show and love it, I've felt the acting bug come back to bite me more than once. There is a theatre near me that puts on great shows, and every time they have auditions, I think about going but always think of some excuse to back out.

The other day, though, when I learned about auditions for this theatre's summer musical, for some reason, I knew I had to go. Despite the fact that I only had a few hours to prepare. Despite the fact that doing a musical is a huge time commitment. Despite the fact that I wasn't sure if I'd get stuck with a role I didn't want.

Despite the fact that the show is Tommy.

Alright, so the fact that the show is Tommy wouldn't really have deterred me. I mean, it's been ten years, and I've experienced worse things in life than a lonely summer. But I did think it was pretty funny that I was auditioning for a show I was once very bitter about missing out on.

Even funnier, I managed to score a lead role.

I'm actually really excited to get back into theatre. And after my first rehearsal yesterday, I think this will be a great show. It's been too long since I've done a great show.

I guess it's all in the timing.

Gonna Make You Sweat Till You Gag

2010-04-15T20:06:00.003-05:00

Confession time: Blogging isn't the only thing I've been slacking on for the past year plus.

I haven't been to a gym in nearly as long. And while I'd like to believe my jaunts around the neighborhood with my dog are enough, I probably burn more calories going to Target. I tried to go running once, but I hate running. Absent of opportunities for fun physical activity, like hiking, I need a gym. And I can't find a suitable one where I live now.

When we lived in our condo, my husband and I belonged to a gym that was a five minute drive away. It had all of the amenities we wanted (good classes, a pool, the place didn't smell like feet), and it was affordable. When we moved into our house a year ago, I was excited to learn that the gym had not one, but two, locations close to us.

The excitement was short-lived. The locations were close, yes, but not really convenient. Thanks to traffic, either one was at least a 20-minute drive each way. That was enough for me never to use the pool or take a class, and enough for my husband never to step foot in either location. Once our yearly commitment was up, we cancelled our membership.

Lately, though, I've been wanting to get back into a workout routine. I feel better when I exercise -- if not physically, at least morally. (I don't want to be the last straw in the obesity epidemic, after all.) I tried to do some of the free workouts on Comcast, but I couldn't find too many that I liked. And the gyms that are close enough to my house are either bare bones or way too expensive.

Then, last week, my friend JG sent me an e-mail saying that her gym -- the way too expensive one -- was having a sign-up special. No registration fee, no "convenience fee," or whatever they call the thing they slap on you for extra money. And it's a month-to-month commitment. Hoping maybe they'd cut their monthly fees a little too (bad economy and all), I dropped in the other day.

That's when I met Steve.

Steve isn't his real name, by the way; I just call him that because he looked a little like Steve Buscemy. And to be perfectly frank, that's kind of an insult to the actor. He was this little, weaselly looking guy in his 20s, wearing a short-sleeved dress shirt, unbuttoned far enough that the white wife beater was clearly visible underneath. He had intentionally greasy hair and uneven facial whiskers...and he reeked.

I don't know if this particular gym has a corporate partnership with Axe body spray or what, but by Steve's look and demeanor, I was pretty sure he had doused himself in something awful in the hopes of capturing the attention of some of the ladies.

Note: I actually have no idea what Axe body spray smells like. But I'm pretty sure a product that advertises with the phrase "double pits to chesty" can't smell good.

Anyway, Steve told me about the pricing, scribbling it illegibly on a piece of paper for me to take home. He explained that if I signed up that day, I would be charged a pro-rated price of $36 for the rest of the month, then the full amount ($60) starting on the first of next month. There was a discount if my husband signed up too, but for me, it really wasn't enough to justify the steep monthly fee. It's a super nice gym, with a spa and juicebar and everything. But as an underemployed freelance writer, I just can't afford it right now.

I knew Steve wouldn't let me say "no thanks" and leave, so I tried to use my husband as a scapegoat.

"Alright, well, let me talk to my husband and see if he's interested, and I'll let you know," I said.

"You can sign up today without him," Steve said, his desperation reeking as much as his cologne. "You can still get the couple rate if he signs up within two weeks. And it's only $36 for you for the rest of this month, so really, that's your best deal."

I wasn't sure how that was my "best deal" unless I had taken workout gear with me that very day (I hadn't), but I wasn't about to argue semantics with him.

"Sixty a month is really more than I can really pay right now," I told Steve, picking up my purse. "Thanks anyway."

"Alright, then, I'll call you Thursday and see what you've decided."

Again, it wasn't worth my time to argue. My husband had pork chops on the grill; I wanted to get home.

So today, Steve gave me a call, asking what I had decided, helpfully letting me know that my pro-rated charge for the remainder of this month would now only be $32 if I signed up today. I told him again that it was just too expensive.

"Thirty-two dollars is too expensive?" Steve asked, and I was pretty sure I could detect a slight sneer, even over the phone.

"That's only for the next two weeks," I told him, as if this was new information to him. "It goes up to $60 on the first. That's not money I have to spend right now."

He told me to call him if I changed my mind. I rolled my eyes and hung up.

Tomorrow, I just might go sign up at the crappy gym down the road. Even if it smells like feet, it would be an improvement over the stench of Steve.

Baby Don't Mow...Pretty Baby Please Don't Mow

2010-04-05T07:53:00.003-05:00

Spring has sprung; my flower bed is proof of it. And unfortunately, so is my lawn.

Until last year, I had never had the opportunity to mow. The yard at the house where I grew up is hilly, so my dad always took care of it with his riding mower. Believe it or not though, last year, I was pretty excited to cut the grass at my new house for the first time. There was something satisfying about the idea of cutting nice little lines in the yard. The novelty wore off quickly, but I still kind of enjoyed the chance to get outside.

Last week, I noticed that all the rain and sunshine we've been having has the grass getting longer. I commented to my husband that we would have to start mowing again soon, and yesterday, the grass in the back yard was almost high enough to tickle my little dog's belly.

When I told my husband that it was definitely time to fire up the mower, he resisted. It wasn't that he didn't want to do the work; I'm generally the one who does the mowing. He just didn't want to be that guy, the first one on the block to cut the grass, he said. This must be a part of mowing culture that no one ever told me about; I didn't know people paid attention to that.

When I mentioned this to my mom, she had an idea for us both to get our way.

"Maybe you two should get one of those manual lawnmowers," she said. "It'll be hard work, but you can go out after it's dark. He can mow, and you can hold the flashlight. Then no one will know."

Somehow, this wasn't the kind of compromise I envisioned when I got married.

In any case, the Gas Gods decided for us. We didn't have any fuel on hand for the lawnmower, and what was in there already wasn't quite enough to do the whole yard. So I just did the part where the grass had gotten really long and then stopped.

I don't think anyone saw.

And You Can Tell Everybody That This Is Your Song

2010-03-29T17:05:00.004-05:00

I blame the new car.

On Saturday, my husband traded in his eight-year-old Toyota Corolla (with almost 200,000 miles on it, by the way) for a shiny brand new Honda Civic. Yesterday, we took our first more-than-a-few-minutes-away trip in the new car, using the time to tinker with the buttons and program the radio stations.

While we were scanning for stations he listens to, the radio landed on the local light listening station, which was, at that moment, playing Enrique Iglesias' "Hero." For half a second, I waited for him to turn to a new station. And then, horrified, I realized he was not only going to leave the song on but sing along.

Now, let me just say that this song has long been on my "do not like" list. First of all, the whispered "let me be your hero" sends shivers up my spine, and not the kind you get when your work crush brushes past you on the way to the water fountain. More like the kind you get when the guy who picks his nose and wipes it on his desk brushes past you on the way to the water fountain. And besides that, the whole song is just a little too sickening sweet for me.

It was such a weird moment. My husband and I have been together five years, and while that's not exactly forever, I figure it's long enough that I know most of his quirks. Still, every once in awhile, I learn some random factoid that just stuns me. I didn't even think he listened to that station. And I certainly didn't think he'd know the words to an Enrique Iglesias song.

"Well, what song would you rather hear?" my husband asked when I told him this. "That 'Bailamos' one?"

"Sure," I said. "I mean, it's not something I would purchase from the iTunes store, but unlike 'Hero,' I wouldn't list it as one of the songs I will leap over things to turn off."

Well, the gods must have been listening, because not two hours later as I stood at my grocery store's deli counter, I heard "Bailamos."

Side note: My grocery store has the most amazing music selection. Every time I go in there, it is guaranteed I will hear at least one song that reminds me of middle school dances. In fact, during this same shopping trip, I wheeled to the checkout to New Kids on the Block's "I'll Be Loving You Forever."

Strange as it was to hear two Enrique Iglesias songs in one day, I had a chuckle and forgot about the whole thing until a few minutes ago. My husband called to let me know he was on his way home from work and brought up the incident.

"You remember when you were in high school and a boy who was in love with you called you and held the phone to the speaker to play you some romantic song that was, like, your song?" he asked.

Actually, no. I never really dated anyone long enough in high school to have "a song." So if a boy ever played a song for me over the phone, it was more than likely not a romantic gesture but instead something that would make me laugh.

"Well, anyway," he went on, "I almost did that today because I turned on that light station and they were playing 'Hero' again."

"Oh my god, you don't think that's our song, do you?" I asked, panicked. "Please don't make that our song."

He insisted that he wouldn't, but just in case, I might try to have "Bailamos" playing next time we're in the car together.

She Likes Me! She Really Likes Me!

2010-03-04T17:03:00.004-06:00

I feel like Meryl Streep has just handed me an Oscar. Or Cesar Millan has just given me a puppy. Or Rod Blagojevich has just appointed me to a Senate seat, no charge.

Because today, my dear friends, Grammar Girl has bestowed up on me a thesaurus.

If you don't know Grammar Girl, you should. Her real name is Mignon Fogarty, and she's written books like The Grammar Devotional. She also offers "quick and dirty tips" on her website and Twitter, and does podcasts about grammar questions. She's knowledgeable and interesting, and she makes grammar make sense. I consult her site quite often when I'm writing and really admire the way she's brought good grammar to the masses.

She's pretty much my hero.

So here's how the thesaurus thing happened. Last night, Grammar Girl announced that she would give away one book every hour today, in honor of National Grammar Day. All you had to do to enter is tweet about National Grammar Day. So I did.

I'm not sure which entry won me the book, because I posted two. The first one said: "I am glad our language is English, not Math, because I would not then be a fan of National Grammar Day." It's true. It actually occurred to me today that I am lucky the one subject I know a lot about is the one thing everybody uses every day -- language. If we spoke in mathematical calculations, or math was something people had to do in public every day, I would be constantly ridiculed for my lack of skills. (It is no coincidence that Count Von Count has always been my least favorite Sesame Street character.)

The other tweet occurred to me about a minute after I posted the first, so I went ahead and posted it, too. It said: "Tonight, Grammar Girl will rise out of the most sincere pumpkin patch and take books to good children." For some reason, posting my little tweets and hoping Grammar Girl picked me made me feel like Linus Van Pelt, awaiting the Great Pumpkin on Halloween night.

A few minutes later, I received a message from Grammar Girl that I had won.

I know it's just a small thing, and kind of silly. But in a world where disappointments are constant, and victories are rare, it feels pretty cool to win one.

To Me, It Was Perfect

2009-11-24T19:40:00.002-06:00

Last November, my dear friend Anna departed Chicago for a year in Taiwan, teaching English to youngsters. She returned yesterday.

This past summer, another dear friend, Carly (who was at one time roommates with Anna) departed Chicago when her company moved her to Connecticut. She also returned yesterday, for her first visit since the move.

When I learned that their flights would be arriving within a short time of each other, I quipped on Facebook that it would be cool if they ran into each other, and Carly replied that it would be "quite Love Actually." I had to agree.

Well, guess what.

Carly's plane was late; Anna's plane was early. And not only did they run into each other, but their respective flights were directed to the same baggage claim area.

When I hear stories like that, I have to agree with Prime Minister Hugh Grant: Love actually is all around.

Unsigned, Unsealed, Undelivered, (Unemployed)

2009-10-16T11:30:00.003-05:00

My blood feud with UPS is now extended to include FedEx as well.

On Sunday night, the video card in my husband's computer went out. I'm not exactly sure what that is or what it does, but he seemed to be pretty upset about it. After a visit to the Apple store to confirm the problem, he ordered a new part, breathing a sigh of relief that it was covered under warranty.*

The part was scheduled to be delivered this morning, and we'd been told they'd require a signature, so I steeled myself for a mad dash to the front door. In my experience, you have about 2.2 seconds to open the door before these folks stick a post-it to your door and high-tail it away in their trucks. The window in my home office faces the front of the house, so every time I heard what sounded like a delivery truck outside, I checked it out so I could be sure to reach the door in time. As it happened, though, FedEx never came to my door.

Around 10:15, I saw a FedEx truck pull up to the house next door. The driver got out, took a package to the door, then left. The garage was blocking my view, so I couldn't see if she rang the bell or if anyone was home, but in any case, I thought it was strange that FedEx would deliver something to my neighbor's house and leave without delivering my package too. I called my husband and had him track the package, and the report said it had been left on the front porch. Sighing, I headed over to my neighbor's house, where a nice lady handed me the box and told me that the delivery person had not asked for a signature; she simply rang the bell, dropped the package and left, in a ding-dong-ditch delivery.

So to sum up, FedEx was supposed to deliver a package to my house and get a signature upon delivery. What they did was deliver a package to my neighbor's house and not get a signature. The only thing I can really say they did right is take the box to the nice neighbor's house, and not the house with the juvenile delinquents, who the other day turned around our downspout so water would flow into our garage instead of into the yard.

Does anyone know if the Pony Express is still in business?

*This is very important these days especially, because I was laid off a month ago. I haven't blogged about it yet because I can't think of too much to say about it that's funny or poignant, and I've been too busy looking for jobs. But if you are interested in my thoughts on laid-off life, check out my new Twitter page, twitter.com/findyourgrail.

Dog Day Afternoons

2009-09-10T14:12:00.008-05:00

It's hard to believe it's already been five months since we moved into our house.

By now, we've gotten to know the area fairly well and discovered its pluses and minuses. For example, on the minus side, there's no great grocery store, and the restaurants leave much to be desired. On the plus side, the library is great and there is a Starbucks within spitting distance of our house. But the thing I love the best is my dog walker, Elisabeth.

Back when we first hired her, I wrote on this blog that I was a little nervous about leaving my little Stella in the care of a stranger, not to mention handing over a key to my home. But except for feeling a little embarrassed when my kitchen is dirty (which it usually is), the arrangement has been wonderful. Stella gets a potty break and playtime during the day, and I get regular updates about Stella's activities and behavior.

What's more, I know Stella really loves this lady. The little pup told me herself, the day I came home early from work and Elisabeth was still there. We made chit chat for a minute, and as soon as Elisabeth left, Stella ran to the door and started whining.

Guess my husband and I don't have to argue anymore over who she loves best. Clearly, her favorite is her babysitter.

The best part is, Elisabeth is totally on my wavelength. Just before the 4th of July, she let me know that Stella had been scared by some fireworks they'd heard on their walk, so the two of them had had a talk about how fireworks sound scary but won't hurt you. After Stella ate a piece of chocolate off the ground when my husband and I took her to a cruise night in the area, Elisabeth gave her a talk about how chocolate is bad for her and that even though rabbit poo isn't a great choice, it's a better one than chocolate if she feels compelled to eat something brown.

I love that she and Stella have these talks. I think it's very important for Stel to have several strong female role models in her life. Which is why I especially loved the report about the conversation the two of them had today.

Elisabeth had written in an e-mail to me that Stella had gotten mad yesterday when Elisabeth wouldn't let her eat a piece of mulch she had picked up. My little dog retaliated by chewing angrily on her leash and shooting dirty looks Elisabeth's way all during their walk. She ended her message by saying she hoped Stella didn't take her frustration out on us when we got home.

I told her not to worry, that I had heard Stella barking at my husband a little, but I assumed that was a dispute over her allowance. Ever since Stella started cleaning up the dead flies around our house, I said, she's been asking for a raise.

Side note: It really grosses me out that Stella eats dead flies. It's bad enough when she eats the live ones, but scavenging is just uncivilized. We are thinking about sending her to charm school.

Elisabeth's reply was priceless.

"She was in a great mood today," she wrote. "I told her I thought Halle Berry had been a fly girl at one time, so she was in good company. Not sure how much Halle got paid for it, but it was worth a shot at an allowance raise."

Indeed.

Going Postal

2009-09-09T18:26:00.002-05:00

I am feuding with my mail carrier.

And just so we're clear, I intend to win.

It all began when I received a postcard notifying someone of my new address. Yes, you read that right. It was a notification that I had moved, meant, as it happened, for Edinboro University of Pennsylvania, but delivered to me because my address was on the card. No matter that it said "To Postmaster of Edinboro." It was strange, but hey, everyone makes mistakes. I dropped it back in the mailbox.

A few days later, it was redelivered, my scribbled "not at this address" note still prominent on the face of the card. This time, I took advantage of the white space on the back of the card and went to town.

"This card is clearly addressed to the Postmaster of Edinboro," I wrote. "The postmaster of Edinboro does not live in Romeoville. Please redirect to the Postmaster of Edinboro."

The card was not in my mailbox the next day, but there was a note from my mail carrier, admonishing me for writing on the mail and explaining that she had a substitute who hadn't quite learned the ropes yet. Fair enough, but if the substitute doesn't understand what "to" means, she's got a tough road ahead.

There's also the matter of the rubber bands. My mail carrier rubber bands every envelope and postcard we receive. Since April, I have collected enough rubber bands for a rubber band ball the size of a golf ball. (I intend it to be her Christmas tip.)

Of course, it doesn't help that since I told my friend Marla about the rubber band thing, she sends me mail addressed to "Erika Grotto, Rubber Band Lover" and writes postcards that say "I hope no one puts a rubber band on this. That would be dumb." That last piece came face up, wrapped in a rubber band with my water bill.

I'm trying to be nice. Sometimes this lady brings me checks; I don't want to piss her off. On the other hand, though, I really sort of hate her. Not that I've ever met her -- in fact, I only know she's a woman because my mother-in-law chased her down the first day we moved in to ask her when she would start bringing mail for us and to ask where the nearest Catholic church was.

I'll leave it to my readers to make of that what they will.

In any case, the misdelivery is happening again. Last week, we received in our mailbox the latest issue of American Baby, which was clearly not for us. In fact, it was for a Rob Martin. There was a sticker attached that said if the addressee didn't live at this address, to return the piece to the mailbox without writing on it. So we did. And today, we got it back.

Side note: I refuse to believe this is a sign of any kind. And poor Rob Martin is out there somewhere, helpless, wondering what new play groups are hot and where he can get affordable crib bedding.

Not wanting to get in trouble again, I did not write on the re-misdelivered mail, but I did leave a very polite note in the mailbox with the magazine. I'm hoping this is the end of the misdeliveries, but something tells me that two days from now, that magazine will be back in my mailbox.

Probably with a rubber band on it.

It's Not Easy Being Queen

2009-08-16T16:29:00.006-05:00

A friend recently told me she had described my pickiness on proper use of the English language to someone else by telling him: "If there were a Grammar Island, Erika would be queen."

I don't mind saying it's true.

I was always a good student in English class, and naturally, with a degree in English writing, I have a good grasp on the language. In the past few years, however, I have become somewhat obsessed. When I read something like, "I want to loose weight," or "their going to the store," I want to scream and throw things.

To be fair, I make my living as a writer and editor, so on some level it's one of those things I just can't turn off. Everybody has their talents and abilities; I'm sure that personal trainers cringe when they see people doing an exercise wrong, and fashion experts fantasize about doing a "What Not To Wear"-style ambush on anyone sporting a muffin top or a camel toe. I try not to correct individual people on their poor English unless they ask (or are my husband), but all bets are off when it comes to companies. (Which is why, on Grammar Island, every CEO would draw Hitler mustaches on pictures of me.)

A few months ago, I noticed a particularly bothersome error in a local store that is part of a major international chain. I suppose it would be bad form to mention the place by name, so let's just say the error was so upsetting that not even the store's bright blue and yellow logo and whimsical, Swedish-inspired product names could cheer me up.

I was shopping in the children's area, looking for a tunnel (or Speja, as this not-to-be-named store calls it) for agility training for Stella. (They have pet tunnels, but they're too small for dogs.) I was having trouble locating the item I wanted, though, and I couldn't find anyone to help me, so I tried my usual tactic of standing there looking confused, hoping someone would approach me. While I was waiting, I looked around the children's area a bit, but since I don't have children, I wasn't all that interested in much. I started reading the signs on the walls for entertainment.

And that's when I saw it. A big sign inviting shoppers to "Bring the kid's."

I couldn't believe it. I had seen plenty of errors on business signs before, but most of those signs were homemade, some even hand-written. But this sign here was in a huge corporate place with professional looking signage. I would have thought this company would have people to check these things before they were sent out.

It was a good thing no employees ever approached that day to ask if I needed help; they must have seen in my eyes that anyone who offered to help me would get a lecture in proper punctuation. I left the store without a tunnel but with a good first draft of an e-mail to the company. I knew that I would probably get the brush-off, maybe an auto-reply form letter thanking me for my feedback and nothing else. But I simply had to tell someone.

The truth is, most people probably wouldn't even read the sign, let alone notice an error on it. From my own observations, I believe that adding apostrophes where they don't belong is probably in the top three common mistakes people make when writing. How people got the idea that a punctuation mark was necessary to make a word plural I'll never know, but apparently, it looks right to some, including the folks at this unnamed retailer known for furniture you have to put together yourself.

So I drafted that e-mail. It was very polite and matter-of-fact; I refrained from saying anything offensive, like, "I wouldn't bring my kids to a store that displays such egregious punctuation errors on its signage." Even though I might have had that thought privately. A few weeks later, much to my surprise, I got a real response. A man in the store's graphics department (each location has one, I am told) wrote to tell me that he and his colleagues usually catch mistakes like that but missed this one, and he thanked me for pointing out the error. He never said for sure that he would change the sign, and on return trips to the store, I was always in a hurry and didn't get to check whether he had.

Today, I made a quick trip into the unnamed store to pick up a lamp to replace one that had broken (and perhaps take in a few whiffs of those cinnamon rolls whose heavenly smell permeates the whole place). I walked right by the children's section and looked for the sign in anticipation.

"Bring the kids," it said. No apostrophe.

I smiled in satisfaction. They really did care.

I may not be queen of Grammar Island yet, but if ever I am crowned, I know where everybody will buy their furniture.

If McCrochety Could See Me Now

2009-07-28T10:07:00.004-05:00

It's been a long time since I've blogged, for many reasons, none of which are interesting enough to blog about, so let's move on.

I felt moved to write today because it would seem an old character, well-known to every one of my readers (and you both know who you are) is back in my life. In spirit, anyway. If my life were a television show, this episode would be called "I will not become McCrochety, I will not become McCrochety, I will not...."

Since moving to our house in early April, we have enjoyed a McCrochety-free existence. We can now live our lives as we see fit without having to worry about someone banging on the ceiling downstairs. We can do laundry at midnight, we can use the meat mallet when we cook...it's freedom at its finest. Even Stella seems more relaxed; she hardly barks at all now, which makes me think she probably barked before just to irritate McCrochety. (Good girl.)

I knew the moment we pulled up in the moving truck that life would be different in our new house. We live in a cul-de-sac on a short street, and a gaggle of neighborhood kids had gathered right outside our house for a game of softball.

"It's gonna be a long summer," remarked one of the movers. Secretly, I was afraid he might be right, especially when they were there the next night, and the next, and the next. They seem to spend most warm evenings outside, actually, playing softball or basketball or practicing their skateboarding tricks.

It hasn't been bad, though. Our new town has a curfew, so the kids always go back home before I go to bed, and most of the time, they're not that loud anyway. Occasionally, someone will leave a candy wrapper on my front lawn, and there's one kid who I wish would either stop singing "Beat It" or learn more words than "beat it, beat it," but otherwise, they seem to be good kids. It's actually kind of nice to live among kids who would rather be active than hole themselves up inside playing video games all day and night.

But of course, there is always bad to be taken with good.

This past Friday night, my next-door neighbors had a party. Or, rather, the kids in the house had a party. I don't know if the parents were out of town or what, and I'm not even really sure who all lives in that house besides the owners and their teenaged son. (There seem to be a few 20-something siblings or maybe cousins in the mix.) So I'm not sure where this party idea began, but where it went was not good.

On the surface, it wasn't all that bad. No one was really outside, though there might have been some people hanging out in the garage. It was normal party noise, nothing upsetting. But then it carried on into the night. And into the wee hours of the morning. I closed my bedroom windows (which I hate to do when there's a nice, cool breeze outside), but then at 6:30 Saturday morning, I was woken up by drunk teenagers wrestling between my house and the one next door.

My husband and I decided not to make a big deal of it (although around 10 a.m., after they'd all gone inside, presumably to sleep, he decided it was high time to take care of all those pesky loose nails in our deck). It was one party, one time, and it wasn't like they were blasting music and shooting off fireworks at 3 a.m. -- they just should have taken it inside earlier and closed their windows. Which is what they did on Saturday night when they had people over again.

On Sunday, one of the obscure we're-not-really-sure-who-she-is residents of the house came up to my husband while he was washing his car in the driveway.

"I hope those parties didn't bother you," the girl said. Never one to make an issue of anything, he mentioned casually that he had heard the 6:30 a.m. wrestling match, and she reported that the police had been called at 11 p.m. Friday and 6 a.m. Saturday. So I'm sure her question was really not about concern for us but an attempt to find out whether we had been the ones who called the police.

We hadn't been...though I thought about it when bloodcurdling screams woke me up at 12:35 this morning. I'm still not sure there isn't someone lying dead over there. But during the loud parties anyway, I was glad someone else was willing to pick up the phone so I didn't have to be That Guy who knocks on the door and says to keep it down.

So while I'm glad McCrochety isn't my neighbor, I guess I wouldn't mind having him for my neighbor's neighbor.

And People Wonder Why I'm Always Reading Labels

2009-05-22T14:48:00.003-05:00

Not Quite Ready for the Evil Plan Laugh

2009-05-14T10:36:00.004-05:00

My husband and I have been singing the praises of the "free" section of Craigslist ever since it helped us quickly get rid of the swing set the previous owners of our house left in our yard. But the other day, he shared with me an article that talked about the dark side of the section.

Apparently, some folks are not only advertising their own stuff, but their neighbors'. They get tired of seeing the dirty old couch on the porch or some such thing, so they post an ad saying, "even if no one's home, go ahead and take it, it's free."

He meant to tell me this as a cautionary tale, i.e., in case anyone shows up at the house saying they want to pick up whatever we listed for free on Craigslist, and he hasn't told me that he's listed something, not to give it to them.

I think I missed the point, though. Because my first thought was, what of McCrochety's can we advertise for free? Unfortunately, the only thing he keeps outside is his minivan, and I don't think anyone would just take that. And even if they tried, he watches out his window, so he'd see them.

I guess I'll have to go back to my original plan of sending a drum set to the new owner of my old condo.

If You Don't Know How To Do It, I'll Show You How To Walk The Dog

2009-04-15T11:15:00.003-05:00

Twelve days into house ownership, we have made, well, not as much progress as we would have liked. New carpet is down, appliances are in and some rooms have been painted, but the house still isn't what you might call move-in ready. So we haven't quite moved in.

Oh, we live there. But most of our belongings are still boxed up in the garage. The only room we have fully unpacked is the kitchen.

Stella, for her part, is settling in fairly well. She had a rough first week, made rougher by the fact that there were carpet tacks and painting materials all over the place, so she wasn't allowed to run free in the house. But I gated off the dining room for her and took time out of each day to walk or play with her, and after being in the house for awhile now, she's getting used to the new routine.

Today, her new routine gets an added element -- a pet sitter. When we lived in the condo, my husband was able to stop in on his lunch break to visit with her and take her out, but now, neither of us works close enough to home to do so. And 10 hours with no potty break is a long stretch for my little dog; she can make it, but she has a tough time.

I feel a little strange about having someone in my house, taking care of my dog, when I'm not there. (And embarrassed about the house's current state of disarray.) But I feel pretty good about Stella's new babysitter. She was very nice and quite professional and answered all of our questions before we even asked them.

And since I left a full treat jar on the table this morning before I left, I am sure Stella and her sitter will be best pals in no time.

Regretfully They Tell Us, But Firmly They Compel Us, To Say Goodbye To You

2009-04-06T13:59:00.003-05:00

Farewell, condo; hello, house.

We closed bright and early on Friday morning, had most of our things moved in by early evening and began the long, arduous cleaning process on Saturday. The move went pretty smoothly, all things considered -- that is, until I returned to the condo with my mother-in-law to retrieve the last few items the movers couldn't take. I was secretly hoping for one last chance to annoy (and possibly tell off) McCrochety, but the universe had other plans.

As we were pulling up to the building, I noticed a man with a beagle, off-leash (the beagle, not the man, though come to think of it, the man wasn't on a leash either) and peeing on the front lawn (this time just the beagle). I hadn't seen that dog in the neighborhood before, but other than the fact that she was not leashed, it didn't strike me as all that strange.

When we got out of the car, though, the man came up and asked me if I knew whose dog it was; he had seen her wandering around and was worried because she was alone and close to a busy street. He couldn't get close enough to look at her tags; he pulled out his cell phone and said he might try to call the police department's non-emergency number. A few minutes later when I came out with some things to load into the car, the man was gone. But the dog remained.

After another few minutes, when the man hadn't reappeared and no one had shown up to retrieve the dog, I started getting concerned. The pup seemed friendly, so I cautiously approached her to see if I had better luck reading her tags. She was wary of me, but with a little smooth talking, I was able to get her to stand still.

She was definitely skittish, but she seemed to be a sweet girl, and definitely a runaway (as opposed to a throwaway). She was well fed and well groomed; in fact, I thought she must have just had a bath, because she smelled clean and flowery. I called the number on her tag (the Animal Welfare League) and was told there was no one available to pick the dog up, but I was welcome to bring her in or hold on to her until someone could come to get her.

Holding on to her wasn't an option. I was smack in the middle of a move -- the condo was no longer mine, and I wasn't going back to the new house till the next morning. But taking her in was a lot to ask. It was 10 p.m., I'd been up since 5:30 a.m., I had to get my things out of the condo and drive to my in-laws' house, an hour away, to stay the night, and the Animal Welfare League was 25 minutes in the opposite direction. Not to mention that I had my own dog and a jam-packed car full of stuff.

But I couldn't just let this poor dog roam free. It was a chilly night, and there was a very busy street just a few feet away; the chances of something bad happening to this poor animal were just too great. I thought of my little Stella, at that moment sitting in her carrier in the car. How would I feel if she got out and no one did anything to help get her home? Somewhere, this little beagle had a family who was missing her, and if I could help, I had to help.

I decided to try the police, even though the man who had found the dog apparently had had no luck. I'm glad I did; they said they hadn't gotten a call that she'd been found. They had, however, received a report from the dog's owner that she was lost. I gave the dispatcher my address, took Stella's leash out of the car and walked the dog around a bit until her owner showed up.

As I waited, I began to wonder how I would know the owner. One would think that a person wouldn't try to claim a dog that wasn't theirs, but these days, you never know. Luckily, the beagle took it upon herself to let me know everything was OK; as soon as her owner was within view, she sat. And while she had been skittish with me, she very obviously knew -- and liked -- this lady, so I felt comfortable sending them on their way together.

So while I may not have gotten a chance to say a proper goodbye to McCrochety, it felt great to reunite this sweet girl with her owner. All in all, I'd say it was a very satisfying end.

And The Sign Said Anybody Caught Trespassing Would Be Shot On Sight

2009-04-02T20:01:00.002-05:00

We have one night left in the condo, and I'm pretty sure I'm not going to get a chance to tell off McCrochety.

Stella, however, wanted to make sure she had her say.

I'd Like To Thank My Fan

2009-03-26T20:56:00.004-05:00

Earlier this evening, I was on the phone with my friend Marla, who was making plans for a visit. Not only was I excited that I'll be seeing her soon, I was thrilled that she still wants to see me after all of the venting I've done this week about the upcoming move. (And, to be fair, the venting I do just about every time I talk to her.)

During the conversation, she mentioned that she'd told an acquaintance about some of our home-buying woes, because he bought a condo not long ago and would understand the headaches we're having. But the conversation didn't launch into a discussion about real estate, like Marla possibly thought it would.

"Wait a minute," her associate had said to her. "Is that the friend who lives by McCrochety?"

Apparently, Marla had, at some point in time, shown him a blog entry I'd written about her, and he decided to keep reading the blog because he liked my style. It may seem like a little thing, but after the crazy couple of weeks I've had, it was nice to get a compliment.

So thank you, guy-who-reads-my-blog. You brightened my day.

Of course, it wouldn't take much to improve upon the last review I got for my writing.

Several months ago, I took a fiction writing class and have been trading chapters with a few of my classmates, even though the course is long over. One of them e-mailed me the other day to say she had read the latest piece I sent but couldn't offer her comments, because she'd thrown up on the pages. She said she'd caught some stomach virus and gotten sick on the bus coming home from work -- with her only choices being the floor of the bus or her tote bag, she chose the bag, which, sadly, contained my work.

I really hope I will someday get a book deal, so I can get her to write a jacket blurb for me. Something like, "Erika's writing brings things out of a person that they'd never expect."

Say Goodbye To The Freak Show

2009-03-19T10:40:00.004-05:00

I haven't blogged much lately, partly because I have been busy, and partly because what has been keeping me busy has me tearing my hair out.

About a month ago, my husband and I put our condo on the market, and, miraculously, it sold in just one day. Since then, our lives have been consumed with house-hunting and planning for the big move.

I do feel a bit sad to be leaving the home we've known for three years (almost four for him, as he bought the place not long after we started dating). It was our first home together, and we have so many great memories there. But, of course, we are looking forward to moving into a house, an actual house, with a fenced-in yard for Stella, a two-car garage for us and enough bedrooms to allow each of us to have our own office.

And it won't have McCrochety.

As glad as I am to be leaving him and his crochety ways behind, I can't help but want to make his life miserable until we move out. My husband and I are tired of being the bigger person; we have been the bigger person for years, and it's gotten us nothing but a banging broom handle. And even now, less than two weeks before moving day, he continues to take every chance he gets to complain.

Yesterday morning at about 5 a.m., Stella woke me up, whining to go outside. When I took her out, she began barking at a dog who had beat us to the yard. I lead her to a different spot to pee, and after taking care of business, we went back in. The whole affair took about three minutes but did not go unnoticed by McCrochety. When my husband stopped home for lunch, McCrochety took the opportunity to ask what the early morning barking was all about. My darling husband, who says about one catty thing a year and never looks crosseyed at anyone, simply shrugged and said, "don't know."

I can't be too upset with him for taking the high road. One day last week, I ran into McCrochety outside and said, "good morning" and smiled at the jerk. Ashamed as I am of the incident, in my defense, it was the first warm and sunny day in a long time; I was thrown off balance by nice weather.

But with yet another entry to the McCrochety logbook, I can't help but feel like my time is running out. We move out in approximately 10 days, and I have yet to get a chance to make any of those great speeches I have worked so hard to prepare. The best I've been able to do is stomp up the stairs extra loud and laugh when Stella spit out a twig she was chewing in front of his door.

I want my chance! I want justice! I want to be able to march right up to McCrochety and let him know exactly how miserable he has made us. I want him to realize what a complete jerk he has been.

Alternatively, I want to throw a week's worth of Stella poo at him and run away laughing.

I'm not sure if I will get the opportunity I've been waiting for. I may actually have to knock on his door on purpose, or leave a note (taped to a rock that I throw through his window? Tempting, but probably not altogether a good idea). But until moving day, I'll be ever hopeful for the opportunity to have my say. If anyone has any poitnant but legal ideas for me in the meantime, I will gladly take them.

If anyone has any poignant but illegal ideas, well, I can't help what you people do in your spare time.

Are You Gonna Go My 'Way?

2009-03-02T14:07:00.005-06:00

I didn't mean to ruin her day. But to be fair, I think she was teetering on the edge to begin with.

Here's what happened. I went to the Subway near my office to pick up a sandwich for lunch. The lady who helped me was obviously new; she kept checking her chart to make sure she was slicing the bread correctly, putting the right amount of meat on it, etc. And everything was fine -- I never order anything too complicated, so I gave myself a mental pat on the back for being an easy customer.

Then she pulled out the knife.

I don't know if it's standard procedure at all Subways or just this one, but sometimes, when a sandwich has a lot of stuff in it, they'll shove the contents in with a knife as they close it up, to make sure everything stays in when you unwrap it. The thing is, they don't wipe off the knife every time, so you're getting traces of the toppings of everyone else's sandwich too. And being lactose intolerant, I can't have that. The last time that happened, I ended up ingesting some creamy sauce and was sick for an entire weekend. So when I saw her go for the knife, I spoke up.

What I said was "wait! Please don't use that," but the way her face looked, it was as if I had yelled "Help! The Subway lady is stabbing me!" She was totally thrown off guard. Her face was a mixture of confusion and annoyance. I explained the whole dietary thing and apologized for startling her, but nothing I said got the "get me out of here" (or was it "you get out of here"?) look off her face.

Most likely, she was embarrassed that that had happened in front of her new boss, and I feel bad about that. She didn't do anything that the boss herself doesn't do. Still, I had to speak up; I wasn't about to resign myself to tummy trouble for the next three days just to make her feel better.

Five bucks says she's gone within the week. Or at least finds an excuse to go on break next time she sees me walk in the door.

I'll Always Remember That I Had A Swingin' Time

2009-02-17T10:10:00.003-06:00

What happens in Vegas...must not happen to me.

My husband and I headed to the so-called Sin City last Thursday to have a weekend of fun and attend the wedding of a couple of his old friends. Neither of us had been to Las Vegas before, so we were looking forward to seeing what it was all about. We'd heard a lot about the bright lights of Vegas, the glitter, the tacky overdone-ness of it all. And we were looking forward to being a part of it, or at least observing it.

It wasn't to be quite what I expected.

I got my first clue as soon as I boarded the plane in Chicago. Stepping into the cabin to find my seat, I flashed immediately to a Sex and the City episode in which Carrie and Miranda take a bus to Atlantic City with a bunch of old ladies. The first ten rows of the plane were packed full of senior citizens.

That's strange, I thought. These are the people you see at the casinos in Indiana and Joliet. Why do they need to go all the way to Nevada to gamble their money away? Isn't Las Vegas a little too happening for the seniors?

Short answer: Nope.

I guess I thought of Las Vegas as the place I'd seen in the movies, a city where winning too much too fast will get you busted kneecaps, where you could practically get a prostitute through a drive-up window -- where they wouldn't let you leave before you'd done something completely out of character.

The Vegas I found was quite different. It was touristy. It was tame. It was Disney World with slot machines and booze. The craziest things I did were drink a $13.50 martini and watch TV in the bathroom of our hotel room. (Side note: There was no remote for that TV. I don't get that. I mean, if you're just doing your hair or something, fine, but otherwise, wouldn't a remote be a necessity for a bathroom television?)

The casinos were full of the same old people I'd seen on the plane. (Now I know why the Viagra folks went with a jingle that played on "Viva Las Vegas.") There were tons of parents pushing strollers up and down the strip. There was a Gap, for cryin' out loud.

That's not to say there weren't a few smarmy elements. In the cab to our hotel, I picked up a travel guide which included a $10 off coupon to a show called Bite, which, from what I gather, is some sort of porno vampire rock opera. There were scantily clad girls dancing on gaming tables in one casino. And there were guys on the street wearing tee shirts that said something like, "Girls Direct To You, Fast" and handing out cards with pictures of nearly naked women on them. But they were more of a curiosity than anything. I wondered about their tactics, standing shoulder-to-shoulder in groups of about 10, slapping the cards on their wrists and waving them in people's faces. I openly mocked them every time we went by one of their groups, but the only time they didn't persist in trying to get me a live girl was when they saw me walking down the street with a Starbucks.

Despite the lack of obscene and over-the-top craziness, I had a good time in Vegas. I gambled (and lost, but that's to be expected), oohed and aahed over the decor of the various hotels and considered purchasing a light-up sign that spells out Elvis. I even got to experience one of those famous casino buffets, the only place in Vegas where you'll truly get your money's worth. And, of course, I witnessed a Vegas wedding.

They say that Vegas is a place people either love or hate, with no in-between. I wouldn't say that's true. I had a great time, and I'd like to go back, but I wouldn't say I'm in any huge hurry to do so. I think for my next trip, I'll head to Orlando. I hear it's pretty seedy there.

Careless Whisperer

2009-02-05T14:14:00.005-06:00

I have a bone to pick with Cesar Millan.

Well, that's not really true. I have a bone to pick with fans of Cesar Millan.

Since the day we brought Stella home, people have asked us if we watch Dog Whisperer. It's meant as a friendly question -- we have a dog, and the show is about dogs. And I have seen it a few times. I liked it; the guy is great at what he does and helps a lot of people with their problem dogs.

What bothers me is this idea that Cesar Millan is the one and only authority on canine obedience. If I so much as casually mention to someone that Stella has misbehaved, the first words I hear in response are inevitably, "Cesar says...."

It's nothing against Cesar himself. He's very gifted. And I've no doubt that if he happened to come over for coffee and Stella barked at him, he'd know exactly what to do. But it seems to me that he's becoming the Oprah of the dog world -- the one everybody hopes will solve all of their problems.

The worst part is, my husband has become one of those people. Ever since he watched his first Dog Whisperer episode two weeks ago, he's been trying Cesar's methods on Stella when she barks inappropriately. And hey, I'm willing to give anything a try.

But the thing is, it's not working. Maybe it's user error, or maybe it's just that this particular method doesn't work on this particular dog for this particular problem. In any case, after two solid weeks of trial and obvious error, I think it's time to try something else.

We have taken Stella through a great deal of training, and except for a few social issues (barking included), she is a pretty well behaved dog. For that, I credit our wonderful obedience trainer. Thanks to the trainer's guidance, Stella will sit, lie down, stay, walk nicely on a leash and come when called -- things she previously had no idea how to do, and things we had no idea how to get her to do. She's even excelling in agility class after only two sessions.

So my thought (and call me crazy, but I think it just might work) is that instead of watching a TV show for help, we should ask one of the experts in our area. One of the people who knows us, who knows our dog and who can actually see the problem first-hand and show us how to correct it. In other words, get help from a trusted local professional.

Anyway, that's what Cesar Milan says to do.

An Open Letter to Mr. McCrochety

2009-02-02T09:20:00.002-06:00

Note: Last night, my downstairs neighbor, known on this blog as Mr. McCrochety (not to protect his true identity but because I hate him too much to learn his real name) banged on his ceiling with what I presume was a broom handle when my dog was running around. She wasn't barking, mind you. She was running up and down the hallway, making little pitter patter sounds with her feet. I honestly don't know how he even heard it.

When he banged on the ceiling, I was so angry that I wanted to storm downstairs, pound on his door and give him a piece of my mind. My husband stopped me for a few reasons. First, it wouldn't do any good, and second, the guy is scary. I mean scary. He watches out his window when we go outside and looks in the dumpster after we throw things away so he can see what we're getting rid of. The guy is going to go after someone with a tire iron someday, and we don't want it to be us.

But just in case I run into him in broad daylight when there are witnesses around, I worked up a little speech. I don't often run into him, though, and I think it's a pretty good speech, so I'm posting it here in case he happens to know any Stapling Jello readers. I'm sure he is not one himself -- he doesn't even have a TV, so I'm pretty sure he doesn't have a computer either.

Dear Mr. McCrochety,

Because of your complaints about the excessive noise in our building, my husband and I have stopped doing laundry after 10 p.m., wearing shoes inside, speaking in the hallway after dark, using a meat mallet when we cook dinner and allowing our dog to bark, even when it is appropriate for her to do so.

We have gone above and beyond what neighborly politeness dictates, living our lives as quietly as possible simply to avoid yet another confrontation with you.

So if you want to bang on your ceiling with a broom handle every time you hear signs of life in the unit above, that's just fine. But I'm here to tell you, the next time it happens will mark the end of our courtesy.

Sincerely,
Erika

You May Think There's Nothing To It, But I Simply Cannot Do It Alone

2009-01-22T11:59:00.003-06:00

In case I needed another sign that I probably shouldn't have children, I got a taste this week of what it's like to be a single parent.

My husband left Saturday morning as part of a coalition of photo- and video-journalists heading to Washington, D.C. to chronicle the inauguration of our new president. It was a very exciting opportunity for him, so I was glad, albeit a bit jealous, that he got to go. But I was also pretty apprehensive about being left behind.

At five days, this trip would be the longest amount of time we've spent apart since getting married (and probably the longest since we started dating, since we worked together at the time). It seemed like an eternity!

I felt a little silly for feeling that way. Just a few months ago, my sister was alone for seven weeks when my brother-in-law had to go out of town for job training. Five days is nothing compared to that.

Truly, it wasn't so much the days that bothered me; it was the nights. I had plenty of work and activities to keep me busy every day, but when the sun went away, the loneliness set in. There was no one there to have dinner with me or discuss the events of the day, and I got ready for bed every night knowing no one was there to say "goodnight" or "good morning."

And then there was the matter of Stella. For five whole days, I would have sole custody. I was the only one who would be around to take her out, feed her and play with her. I was the only one who would be around to make sure she wasn't chewing up the rug or grabbing pieces of laundry to hide with under the bed.

Alright, so maybe it wasn't exactly like being a single parent. Truthfully, it wasn't that big a deal except for the potty schedule. Stella is a little dog; she can hold it for several hours, but I'm sure she gets pretty uncomfortable after awhile. So as her only caretaker, I had to stay up a bit later than usual, get up a bit earlier than usual and leave her at daycare when I went to work (meaning leaving earlier and getting home later). And even three days of it took a toll on both of us. At the end of the day, we'd come home and collapse on the couch together, practically comatose until it was time to get tucked in for the night.

But somehow, those hours, the hours that would have been the most lonely, ended up not being so bad. Sure, Stella didn't ask how my day was, but she was always thrilled to see me when I picked her up at day care. She didn't help clean up the kitchen after dinner, but she licked the tile floor companionably while I wiped down the counter. And she didn't say "goodnight," but she curled right up in her crate without argument when I told her it was bedtime. So the dog I thought would be a burden to care for by myself ended up being the one who kept me company and got me through that five days.

So maybe having kids wouldn't be as difficult as I think. Not because it's not difficult, but because in the end, the return is worth the time and effort. Maybe I wouldn't mind the responsibility, because children are their own reward.

Maybe.

As long as my husband never leaves town again.

A Hunka Hunka Birthday Cake

2009-01-08T12:57:00.001-06:00

Hey, Hey, Hey.* Let's all take a moment, please, to commemorate the 74th birthday of the possibly late, undoubtedly great Elvis Presley.

Don't Be Cruel, please Help Me send a Happy Birthday To You to the king of rock and roll.

I know, many of those with Suspicious Minds think this Sweet Spirit is in Heaven, having Just A Little Talk With Jesus, but I Just Can't Help Believing he is having Fun In Acapulco, on an Island of Love with Petunia The Gardener's Daughter -- or even having a Harem Holiday. After all, he always was Girl Happy.

Elvis, I Ain't About To Sing, but I just want to wish you a Happy Happy Birthday Baby. You may have been gone before I was born, but I Feel Like I've Known You Forever. So if you are out there, I know You Don't Know Me, so You Don't Have to Say You Love Me, but please, Write to Me From Naples.

*List of Elvis songs graciously provided by Wikipedia. Contrary to popular belief among my high school classmates, I really don't know all that much about Elvis. Except his birthday.

An Open Letter to Google

2009-01-07T16:42:00.003-06:00

Dear Google,

Like many people, I find your site helpful. Furthermore, I enjoy the whimsical logos you put together on holidays. I do, however, find one feature on your site annoying and not at all helpful. And it's the kind of annoying that makes me want to throw things.

I really hate it when I start typing my query and you offer suggestions of what I might be seeking. I set my preferences to not receive those suggestions (a preference that somehow got turned off after a few weeks, so I had to set it again and hope it sticks this time). But even with that preference in place, every time I do a search for something, your system logs what I searched for and suggests it to me when I go to do another search. So the suggestions are fewer, but even so, I am constantly reminded of the time I searched for the phone number of a hair salon or the recipe for chicken fried steak. I hope I never have to search with terms like "itchy butt rash" or "extra large thongs."

I said no query suggestions, people. I meant no query suggestions. At all. Not even suggestions of things I have already searched.

I tried to find an e-mail address to ask about how I turn off this really annoying and stupid feature, but I found myself stuck in a we-don't-want-you-to-find-us holding pattern, where I didn't find what I needed on one page, was referred to another, which referred me back to the first, etc. Some search engine you have there when I can't even find the information I want about your search engine.

So I am stuck writing to you via my blog. You'll be able to find it easily though. Just type "Stapling Jello" in your query box. But before you get to it, you'll have to make sure you don't follow your own advice to look for Starbucks, Sting or office supply giant Staples.

Sincerely,
Erika

Foot-ball Follies

2009-01-07T13:57:00.004-06:00

A few weeks ago, my husband and I were out shopping and stopped in a shoe store so he could look around. Once he'd made his selection, I was browsing the boots, and he balked at the name on one of the boxes.

"Did they really name a brand of shoe after a football player?" he asked.

My first thought was that it wasn't so strange -- after all, there were basketball shoes named after Michael Jordan. My second thought, however, was that we were nowhere near the athletic shoes and that he must be confused. So I asked.

"Which brand is that?"

"Steve Madden," he said. "Seriously, what's up with that?"

"Steve Madden is a shoe designer, sweetheart," I said. "The football guy is John Madden."

I think he was a little taken aback at my correcting him but impressed that I knew who John Madden was. Or at least what sport he was associated with.

Coffee, Tea, And Me

2009-01-07T10:01:00.004-06:00

Years ago, newly out of college and on my own for the first time, I worked at a law office in downtown Pittsburgh. Next door to the building was a Bruegger's Bagels where I would pick up my daily breakfast, and often lunch.

As a lover of all things edible, I've often thought the lactose intolerance I developed as an adult must simply be the Gods telling me, "alright, Erika, you've had enough." If that is true, Bruegger's was a great help in making sure I got my fill. Their cream cheeses were so excellent that, if I had one day to eat dairy without any consequences, I think I would go there first.

Of course, I needed something to help wash down all those bagels with cream cheese, so each day, I'd grab a mug of coffee as well. In December or January of the year I was there (and I think probably every year), Bruegger's began selling special travel mugs. They cost $100 each, but the proceeds went to a charity, and the buyer would get free drinks in the mug for the entire year. Seeing as I went there every weekday, often more than once, I decided to buy one for myself.

Before I tell the next part of the story, I want to make two points. One, the office where I worked was not that busy, and two, I have always been a sucker for a dorky, useless project. So...I sat down and figured out what a cup of coffee would cost in my $100 mug, depending on how many times I refilled it. If I only used it once, for example, the drink would cost $100. If I used it twice, each refill would cost $50, and so forth. I wanted to know how many times I had to use it before I paid less per cup than what I would have paid just going to Bruegger's and buying a drink. (Full disclosure -- I had a chart and everything.)

At the time, Bruegger's had a punch card you could buy for $5, and it entitled you to 10 refills of a drink of your choice. Hence, each refill would cost 50 cents. So I was hoping to refill my $100 mug enough times to get my price per cup at 49 cents or less. I think I made it to 63 cents a cup, and then I moved out of Pittsburgh and away from any bagel shops where I could continue my mission. (Full disclosure -- In the last few weeks before I moved, I went to Bruegger's at least three times a day so I could keep chiseling at that price per refill to get it as low as I could.) So my $100 mug turned out to be a bust. (Though I think the price per cup without the punch card was about 65 cents, so not that much of a bust.)

But now, I have a chance to redeem my beverage-loving self with the Starbucks Gold Card. For $25, I get a year of benefits such as 10 percent off of my drink purchases (merchandise too, although I never buy anything at Starbucks but drinks). And with my online registration, I am entitled to a free drink on my birthday, plus other discounts such as free soy milk.

It was that last thing that sold me on the card. Starbucks charges 40 cents for soy milk, and as a lactose intolerant person (Note to self: Come up with a catchy name for people who are lactose intolerant.), I have always been a bit put out by that. I don't really have a choice what kind of milk I get; I don't think it's fair that I have to pay 40 cents more. Be that as it may, with the free soy milk, if I buy just one drink per week for a year, my Starbucks Gold Card has nearly paid for itself. Add in the 10 percent discount, plus the cost of the latte I got for free with my card purchase, plus the cost of the drink I'll get free on my birthday, and it's more than paid for itself.

Am I going to make a chart this time? No. I really don't have that kind of time, and besides, what a geeky thing to do. That kind of thing might have been fun back when I had an entry level job and no real responsibility, but come on, I'm an adult now. I have a full, busy life to lead.

Yeah, okay, I might make a chart. But I probably won't type it and save it on my computer.

I might type it.

The point is, I'm glad that Starbucks has given me this second chance to score drink discounts and redeem myself from the shame of not taking full advantage of my $100 coffee mug. As God is my witness, I'll never be thirsty again.

Tell Me Sweet Little Lies

2008-12-30T13:37:00.004-06:00

A few months ago, I wrote in this entry about a story I'd read about a couple that had met during the Holocaust. He was imprisoned in a Nazi concentration camp; she was posing as a Christian in a village nearby. Each day, she went to the fence surrounding the camp and tossed him an apple. He called her his "angel girl."

As the story went, eventually he was moved to a different camp, and the two pretty much forgot about each other until years later, when they were set up on a blind date. He proposed marriage that very night, and today, many years later, the two are still married. The couple has told the story for many years and recently wrote a book together.

Usually one to listen to anything with a healthy dose of skepticism, I believed the couple's story because I wanted to believe it. What's wrong with believing in something beautiful and poetic once in awhile? But even I can't deny that truth is only occasionally stranger than fiction. And neither can the man who told the story: CNN reports today that he now admits it was made up.

Fake memoirs seem to be a growing trend these days, and I find it very disappointing. I almost feel pity for the people who think so little of their own personal stories that they need to make up fake ones so others will be interested. Call me a journalist (go ahead, I dare you), but I think we all have a good, true story to tell.

The man who told the story of the girl with the apples says now that he only wanted to bring hope and happiness to people. And, I suspect, to himself -- he is quoted as saying that in his dreams, the story will always be true. So while part of me feels angry at him for lying, the other part of me sort of understands. Especially now, when we are just winding down from the Christmas season (ironic as that may be, since the man is Jewish). It was only a week ago that, for the umpteenth time, I read and enjoyed a reprint of the classic letter proclaiming, "yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus."

So why can't there be an angel girl too? Things don't always have to be true to be believed. Besides, I think it is almost more poetic that the story that ended up being a lie has such an Adam and Eve-like quality to it. Maybe truth is stranger than fiction after all.

I'm a Little Bit of Everything, All Rolled Into One

2008-12-29T11:41:00.001-06:00

It took me awhile, but I came up with 50 more facts.

51. My first published work was a movie review of The Secret Garden in Penny Power magazine. I think I was about 10.

52. I've often thought Live Bait would be a great name for a band. Especially one that performs in rural areas. Imagine the free advertising!

53. The mascot of every school I've attended has been a person. Growing up, I was a Warrior, and in college, I was a Fighting Scot.

54. My car is missing a hubcap on the right front tire. It fell off the car on August 13, 2007, the day Stella moved in.

55. My toes are almost always polished, even in the winter, because I hate the look of my feet and think the polish pretties them up just a little.

56. I would like to learn some obscure sport and get an obscure country to send me to the Olympic games, just so I could say I am an Olympic athlete.

57. I have never read a book by Stephen King.

58. Although I love to make lists, I hesitate to compile a list of things I want to do "before I die." I feel like if I finish completing all the tasks, I'll have no reason to live. And if I don't finish, I've failed.

59. I hated my first name when I was little, but now I love it and can't imagine myself being called anything else.

60. Despite the fact above, I have always been a little put out that my name can't easily be shortened into a nickname. My mom has a cousin named Ericka who is called Ricky, but no one has ever thought to call me that. I don't think I would make a very good Ricky anyway.

61. I hate Times New Roman font. This comes from an English class my freshman year of college. I hated the class and hated the professor, who insisted that everything we do be printed in this font. So I therefore hated the font. My first job out of college was at a law office where my boss also insisted on the use of this font. I hated that job. It seems that the Times New Roman font is a representation of bad memories for me.

62. I do not know my blood type.

63. I was almost an exchange student to Russia the year after I graduated high school. Because of red tape and finances, I decided against it. I have mostly not regretted it.

64. I have kept a journal since the age of 14. I think I have filled more than 70 books.

65. Earlier this year, I submitted a play to a festival, and although it was not chosen for production, it was a finalist.

66. My locker combination in fifth grade was 32-16-38.

67. When I played Clue as a kid, I was always Mrs. White.

68. I have a thing for novelty songs and novelty tee shirts.

69. I hate volleyball. My eleventh grade year, thanks to a team of really athletic girls (with the sole exception of yours truly) for our school-wide gym class tournament, I had to play in front of the entire school. I won a tee shirt with a graphic of hands making the triangle to hit a volleyball, which, when I put the shirt on, looked like hands on my boobs.

70. I received my SAT scores in the mail the same day as that volleyball tournament.

71. My first 45 record as a kid -- besides the story ones ("when you hear this sound, turn the page") -- was Culture Club's "Karma Chameleon." Eventually, it got a skip in it, and to this day, I still sing it, "lovin' would be easy if your colors were like my dreams, like my dreams, like my dreams...."

72. I love office supplies. The Staples catalog is like porn for me. Okay, I don't love office supplies that much. But close.

73. My favorite work of art is Edward Hopper's "Nighthawks."

74. I always wanted to go to a party where there was a big sandwich (you know, like a three-foot sub). My sister fulfilled that desire at my bachelorette party.

75. I wore a wedding dress to my bachelorette party but not to my wedding.

76. I love containers almost as much as I love office supplies.

77. My parents planned to name my sister Erika. I sometimes wonder what I would have been called had they done so, especially because my mom has told me she was surer than sure I would be a girl and that Erika was the perfect name for me.

78. I knew the very moment I laid eyes on my husband that I would marry him, but we didn't start dating for two whole years after we met.

79. I wrote the obituary of the priest who baptized me.

80. I once received a callback for the part of a prostitute in a play. I was not offered the part, but when the director called to let me know, he thanked me for coming to the callback dressed for the part. I had not done so. Not intentionally anyway.

81. December 23 is my favorite day of the holiday season.

82. I hardly ever sleep through the night without waking up.

83. I can list all of the United States in alphabetical order and name their capitals. I can also list all of the U.S. presidents in chronological order.

84. I missed my class reunion two years ago because I had to perform that night in Grease, which begins at a class reunion. Another reason I missed that event was because they'd sent the invitation a week before, to my parents' house. Because, you know, I still lived there after ten years. Or at least lived close enough to get in time an invitation sent so late. Yeah, not so much.

85. The only famous person I have ever approached is Barry Williams. (Though it wasn't on the street -- he was signing books and CDs at a store one day when I lived in Pittsburgh, and I went there on my lunch break.) I even got a picture taken with him, just so I could say, "and here's me with Greg Brady."

86. I am not a patient person. Oh, I'll wait. But I won't be quiet about it.

87. My favorite donut is peanut butter cream-filled with chocolate frosting on top. I can't eat them anymore, but when I could...mmm boy.

88. I don't like ankle boots. I don't mind them on other people, but they feel funny to me. So I almost always wear the knee length boots, even with pants.

89. I don't care for fireworks. I don't mind watching them, but I won't go out on purpose to see them.

90. My mom thinks I look like Kate Winslet. Most other people say Brooke Shields or Joan Cusack. I don't think I resemble any of those people enough to really look like them.

91. I had a temp job working in the office of a Pop Tart factory for a couple of months.

92. I enjoy asking people random questions like, "if you had a person from each country of the world over for dinner, what would you serve so that everyone would feel welcome?" I find they are good conversation starters.

93. I love music from the 50s and 60s and would rather listen to it than the stuff that's out today.

94. I am not competitive, but I am a very sore loser. Just ask anyone who has ever played miniature golf with me.

95. Whenever I see a license plate from Pennsylvania (unless I am in Pennsylvania), I wonder if the driver is someone I know.

96. One of my favorite things to do when I was little was get the mail. Even now, when my mail is hardly ever that exciting, I still like to get the mail.

97. There are certain songs that will make me smile, no matter what, when I hear them.

98. I have never mowed a lawn.

99. I purposely didn't get too serious on either half of this list, because I find when I start speaking seriously about serious things, I go overboard.

100. It took me about two weeks to compile this entry. Kind of goes to show that even I can't think of that many interesting things about me.

Gimme Shelter

2008-12-18T11:06:00.003-06:00

I often comment to my husband that we make good partners. We complement each other well and are both relatively reasonable people, which makes compromises a little easier when we are faced with conflict.

Usually, we have a calm discussion and come to a mutually agreeable arrangement for whatever is happening. There is one topic, however, that my sweet darling has simply refused to discuss.

The garage.

With our condo, we have one garage space and one outside parking space. He bought the place when we were dating, so he's always used the garage. When I moved in, the outside parking space became mine. I had previously been living in the city and parking on the street, so at the time, I was content to have off-the-street spot. I didn't care whether I had a garage.

Last winter, however, was rough. Nearly every day, it seemed, I was scraping or brushing my windows before I could leave for work. The roads had never been thoroughly cleaned, which made the commute stressful, and then, at the end of the day, I would have to brush and scrape at the office before making the trek home to park in my outside spot, let the snow and ice pile on and do it all again the next day.

This winter hasn't even officially begun, and it's already been brutal. On Monday, there was so much ice on my car that I couldn't open the doors without help, and once I got in, I had to let the car warm up for a good 10 minutes before I could even think about scraping. On Tuesday afternoon, we had snow, which meant a two-hour, 16-mile drive home (or, more realistically, slide home, since there wasn't really exposed pavement to speak of), where my husband was waiting, warm and dry, after his own commute...of four miles.

I hadn't mentioned the garage thing much, because, as I saw it, my husband had squatting rights. Sure, it would be nice to have a garage space, but he's the one who laid down the money for the place. But after nearly three years living there, I figured I had enough tenure to bring it up. He was extremely hesitant to discuss the subject, saying he wasn't sure if my car would fit, as it is larger than his car (albeit slightly) and the garage also contains his motorcycle, two bicycles and a myriad of other stuff.

I took the hint. He wasn't ready.

But on my two-hour drive home Tuesday night, I had some time to think. Why shouldn't I have a turn? I leave for work earlier, get home later and have a longer commute. Isn't that enough? Should I really have to be the one who scrapes and brushes every day too? Is that fair? I worked up a speech, which I presented calmly (no, really) over the phone while traffic was at a standstill. Once again hesitant, my husband begrudgingly agreed to give me a turn. Or at least to consider it. He also shoveled out the outside parking space before I got home, and brushed all of the snow off my car before I left for work yesterday.

I could tell, he really didn't want to get rid of that garage space.

But when I got home last night, I found his car parked in the outside spot, and the garage waiting for me. I called him from my cell phone to ask what was going on, and he told me the garage space was now mine. I could tell he was nervous -- he offered three times to come out and help me get my car in so I wouldn't hit his motorcycle. I refused the offers and parked (quite easily and without coming anywhere close to hitting anything, thank you very much) and went inside, where my husband was, I think, hoping I'd tell him the car wouldn't fit.

I know how much he loved having a garage space; his resistance to hand it over made that clear, as he is not at all a selfish person. I thanked him profusely and let him know how much it meant to me, hoping he would at least feel good about having done something nice. I almost felt a little bad about taking the spot away. And then he opened his mouth.

"Remember, you're going to have to make sure to shovel out all the snow and water that gets on the floor from your car so it stays away from the walls. And don't forget, the pedal for my motorcycle comes way out, so make sure you don't hit it. And don't hit your bicycle."

Nice try, dude. That spot is mine.

Then Came You

2008-12-14T11:52:00.005-06:00

I could not let my Georgia weekend end without telling the story of my celebrity sighting.

On Friday, Marla took me to a mall in Atlanta, where we did a little Christmas shopping and had lunch (Panera's chicken salad sandwich is dairy-free, by the way). We were walking toward a store she wanted to visit, and she was in the middle of telling me a story. Suddenly, I spotted him, in a cool leather jacket, walking toward me and laughing with a group of friends.

Emmanuel Lewis.

That's right. I totally saw Webster at the mall.

I took a good long look to make sure it was him, though I would think it would be kind of difficult to spot a guy who looked like that and wasn't Emmanuel Lewis. As soon as he passed us, I couldn't help cracking a smile, and Marla stopped in the middle of her story to ask what was wrong.

"I don't know if I want to say, because I might be wrong, and then I'd feel kind of bad," I said. After all, if the guy I'd seen had been someone else, I didn't want to make the generalization that any four-foot-tall-but-fully-adult black man who was not Gary Coleman must therefore be Emmanuel Lewis. (A quick Google search today let me know that Emmanuel Lewis does, in fact, live in Atlanta, and is often spotted out and about, so now I am positive it was him.)

Eventually, I told her who I'd seen, making Marla chuckle, though I am pretty sure that more than anything, she was annoyed that I had tuned out her story. Or she was just jealous that I had spotted an eighties television icon and she hadn't.

But I wouldn't worry if I were her. I'm willing to bet he'll hit the town again soon.

Georgia On My Lips

2008-12-14T11:02:00.002-06:00

On Thursday night, I left on a 6:30 p.m. plane to Georgia to visit my friend Marla. (I might have considered a midnight train, but that would have taken a lot longer, so I chose the less musical option.)

Marla and I are both lovers of food; two years ago, she took me on a comprehensive eating tour of the greater Detroit area. So she had a big weekend of eating planned for this visit. She had called her favorite dining joints and checked on what they could offer me that was dairy free, though she already had a pretty good working knowledge, since she had a vegan stint last year. Unfortunately, thanks to my fear of flying (and related violent stomach flips) returning with a vengeance this week, I wasn't very hungry for much of my visit, but I did manage to sample some of Atlanta's finer fare.

I have to say, I was sort of expecting to find only treats smothered in butter (you know, the whole comfort food thing). But I was really impressed with the eagerness of Georgia's eating establishments to accommodate me. Part of it was Marla's pre-visit scouting, but everywhere we went, people were happy to tell me how things were cooked and what I could eat off of their regular menu. It was fabulous. During my visit, I consumed a massaman curry (naturally dairy free and wonderfully delicious), a toasty bagel and latke and an amazingly good piece of apple pie from a bakery that has, on their regular menu, several vegan options.

But the weekend wasn't all about eating. It was also about relaxing, something I needed more than I would like to admit. Thanks to work, getting ready for the holidays and other things going on, I have been crazily busy for the last month (or, you know, year). Add to that the return of my panicky fear of flying, and I was in major need of some therapeutic activity.

Enter Marla. She knows how stressed I've been (and knows even more what an uptight control freak I am), so she planned out a weekend that was nothing but fun. The first thing she said when I told her I was coming down was, "your ass is going to the spa." (Which it did, yesterday, for a mud wrap and massage.) The second thing she told me was to bring comfy lounge pants. Between the shopping, lounging, eating and spa goodness, Atlanta, for me, became a stress-free zone.

It's a good friend who invites you to visit, but it's a great friend who customizes the visit to exactly what you need without even having to ask.

Set Up Your Microscope and Tell Me What You See, You'll Still Know Nothing About Me

2008-12-08T10:43:00.004-06:00

A few of my Facebook friends have made lists like this, of facts about themselves. I wanted to try for 100 things, but that's a lot of stuff, and I'm barely interesting enough for 50 things. Maybe I'll add more later if I feel a surge of fun factness.

1. I am a complete grammar snob.

2. I am always cold. Physically, I mean. Though sometimes emotionally as well, I'll admit. I don't think many people would describe me as a warm, loving person.

3. If I could hire just one person to do just one thing for me, it would be someone who would pick out my clothes. I have no fashion sense whatsoever.

4. I once got a funny anecdote published in Reader's Digest. And I got $300 for it.

5. My husband and my sister's husband were born on the exact same day. Same year and everything. The funniest part is, they have very little else in common.

6. I would love to live in my old hometown, if my old hometown could be picked up and plunked somewhere an hour or less from a major city.

7. I love reading advice columns.

8. The only dairy foods I really miss are ice cream and pizza.

9. When I don't have to drive anywhere, I love a huge-ass snow. I love a hard rain almost anytime.

10. The thought of having children scares the bejesus out of me.

11. I never want a surprise party thrown for me, because I hate the idea of being intentionally left out of something everyone else knows.

12. I hate spending the night in a house by myself. Always have. It's alright if I'm in the bed alone, but I like having someone else close by.

13. My favorite season is Fall.

14. I would love to have a piano in my house and learn to play again.

15. I would also love to have a house.

16. It drives me up the wall when people use "hun" as a term of endearment.

17. I love Starbursts and at one time not so very long ago would eat them until I felt ill. I've toned it down a bit now and only eat them in manageable doses. Mostly.

18. I once dressed up as a Spice Girl to dance for a guy on Valentine's Day. And it wasn't even my boyfriend; it was the boyfriend of an acquaintance. She dressed up as Ginger, and four of her friends rounded out the group. In a stunning display of my acting talent, I portrayed Sporty Spice. However, that was nothing compared to my very white friend Miranda who dressed as Scary.

19. Every single time I watch the last scene of Dead Poet's Society, I cry. I don't even have to watch the rest of the movie.

20. I once played a lady-in-waiting at the Pennsylvania Renaissance Faire. It wasn't a great experience altogether, but someday, it will be novel fodder, so not for nothing.

21. I hate weddings. I don't mind attending them, but I don't care to hear about the planning.

22. My mother has told me that she thinks I am her mother reincarnated. Given what I've heard about my grandmother, this could have been a compliment, an insult, or a little of both.

23. I was a live-in nanny for about seven months. The little girl I cared for is the one and only child who has ever made me think having kids might not be so bad.

24. The other thing on my pro list for having kids is the fact that lactose intolerant women often eat dairy without problems when they are pregnant.

25. I care nothing for celebrity gossip, but I will read about true crime all day long.

26. I didn't like Napoleon Dynamite or Edward Scissorhands, and so many people I know love both of those.

27. If I could have designed a man for myself, my husband looks exactly like that man.

28. He has none of that man's hobbies.

29. Birds freak me out.

30. When I was a little kid, my dream job was to be a "storekeeper," which basically meant grocery store cashier. I fulfilled that dream at 17 with a six-month stint at Greco's Market. It would have been longer, but alas, that was the entire time Greco's was open for business.

31. I can't stand Seinfeld. If I even hear the little twangy guitar noise come from my TV, I will leap over things to get to the remote so I can change the channel.

32. Growing up, I never wanted to go into journalism or writing of any kind. Funny how things change.

33. Even though I live in the Central Time Zone, I start my new year at Midnight in Eastern Time.

34. I have a sewing machine, but all I have managed to sew are wobbly-seamed blankets for Stella.

35. I think it would be fun to sing in an Abba tribute band.

36. Sometimes I think it would be fun to go back in time, Peggy Sue Got Married style. I'd like to try my high school years again knowing what I know now, just to see what would happen.

37. I never liked sweet potatoes until this year.

38. If I ever do have kids, the words of wisdom I plan to make them remember me by is "never pass up the chance to use the bathroom."

39. Unless it is horribly inconvenient, I always always take the stairs instead of an elevator.

40. When I was little, I had an imaginary friend named Pigeon. She lived in my mailbox with her family and grew to regular size when she came out of the mailbox. When my sister's best friend and our neighbor, Dani, moved to Massachusetts, Pigeon moved there too, to live in Dani's mailbox.

41. I love board games.

42. I think I would have fit in great in the 1950s and think it would be fun to time travel there.

43. My handwriting and memory were both a lot better before I got a job as a newspaper reporter.

44. In my acting days, I performed in a toga not one, not two, but three times.

45. If I had to choose a sitcom house to live in, I think I'd pick the Seavers' house on Growing Pains. I'd decorate a little differently though.

46. I've been hanging on to my Doc Martens for years in the hopes that everyone will start wearing them again.

47. I love the Golden Girls.

48. If I could have a famous friend, I would want it to be Christopher Guest.

49. If I ever become super wealthy and start a charitable organization, I'd like it to be a foundation that promotes literacy.

50. I don't care for crass humor, but I truly enjoy a good That's What She Said joke.

When There's A Will

2008-12-03T09:22:00.008-06:00

As of last night, I have another new trainer at the gym. Jeremiah has left my gym for one in another town.

When he told me he was leaving, I had mixed emotions. I liked working with him from an exercise standpoint, but he was way too quiet. I really need someone who will chat with me while I work out. So when, after our last session, he offered to make me an appointment with someone new, I asked him who was the most fun. He suggested someone named Will and pointed to a guy who was presently sitting on top of the overhead leg press apparatus while one of his trainees strained to move the weights and him.

Perhaps I should have elaborated on what I meant by fun.

But as it happened, Will turned out to be a nice guy, and definitely chatty. When we started the first exercise, he asked me why I'd signed up for training, saying I didn't really look like I needed it. I was flattered, although I took the compliment with a grain of salt. Though I'm sure he was at least somewhat sincere, he reminded me a bit of those guys in movies who are introduced to a girlfriend's mother and, smiling slyly, admonish the girl for not mentioning having a younger sister. We continued working, and at one point, he lowered the weight I was using, commenting that he "prefers form over weight."

"You could use that on your online dating profile," I joked.

"Nah," he told me. "That's not really true. I like a big girl." He elaborated that he likes a girl with "a 60-inch waist and an ass you can rest a coffee cup on."

No wonder he didn't think I needed any training. I'm surprised that he didn't send me out for a double cheeseburger instead.

An Open Letter to The Writers of "The Office"

2008-11-18T09:52:00.002-06:00

Dear Writers of "The Office":

Thank you for making Angela's favorite song "Little Drummer Boy." That has always been my most hated Christmas carol, but now that it's become a joke your show, when I hear it, I simply think of Dunder-Mifflin and all its hilarity instead of how much I hate the song.

Thank you for making my most hated Christmas song bearable.

Sincerely,
Erika

P.S. Nice job on the rest of the show too. It's top notch. One thing though: I'm kind of tired of the Jim and Pam drama, and actually all the drama, period. The show was, in my opinion, much stronger when it was just funny and not all soap opera-y. Bring back free pretzel day!

Pet Sounds

2008-11-13T14:30:00.006-06:00

Once again, this week, we had to take Stella to the vet.

Like many small dogs, she has been afflicted with a luxating patella, which basically means that her kneecap slips out every once in awhile. Sometimes it slips back in on its own, and sometimes we have to move it back for her. She's been limping around, picking up her right hind leg, for the last several weeks* and though we put her on crate rest for the majority of that time, it didn't seem to help.

The doctor prescribed an anti-inflammatory, and we've started giving her supplements that should help strengthen her joints, so we're hoping we'll be able to avoid surgery. Stel is not overweight, so that should work in her favor as, obviously, excess weight creates stress on the joints.

Nonetheless, the last several weeks have been stressful on all of us. Poor Stella hasn't been allowed to run and play, and my husband and I have been wondering about the what ifs. Throughout her life with us, we have spent more time worrying about Stella than I care to say. When we first got her, she had a long, rough bout of kennel cough. Then when we tried to switch her from puppy food to adult food, it took a good six months before we found one that agreed with her sensitive Boston Terrier tummy, and about a week after we did, she caught a parasite. As soon as that cleared up, this happened.

I love her to pieces, but lately, I've been feeling sad that I can't simply enjoy having her around instead of spending every day wondering what's next.

Then this morning, one of my coworkers came in late, telling the story of how his daughter threw up in his car. I couldn't help but think of the time Stella threw up in my car. It was an unpleasant ride for sure, but, being a dog, she was in her Terrier Carrier. Thus, all vomit was easily contained and washed away in the laundry room sink. I'm pretty sure my coworker can't say the same for his daughter's incident today.

Lesson learned: Be grateful for the dog. It may be stressful to take care of her sometimes, but a kid has to be way worse.

*She's still too fast for me to catch her. But in my defense, she's still running on three legs to my two, and she's only 16 pounds, where I am considerably heavier.

The Soundtrack of My Life

2008-11-07T10:08:00.002-06:00

Stolen from a Facebook friend who probably stole it from someone else....

I did take away some of the categories I thought were dumb or weird. But that was before I did the exercise, so it still counts.

1. Put your iPod on shuffle. (Or you can write whatever comes on the radio.)
2. For each question, press the next button to get your answer.
3. YOU MUST WRITE THAT SONG NAME DOWN NO MATTER HOW SILLY IT SOUNDS!

WHAT WOULD BEST DESCRIBE YOUR PERSONALITY?
Home I do tend to hole up in the winter.

WHAT DO YOU LIKE IN A GUY/GIRL?
I Never Loved A Man (The Way That I Love You) I don't know if that answers the question, but at least it has to do with love. And let me just clarify that I am not a lesbian.

WHAT IS YOUR LIFE'S PURPOSE?
The Scotsman If you know this song, you'll know that my life's purpose is apparently looking under kilts. Sweet.

WHAT IS YOUR MOTTO?
I'm Walkin' Could be worse I guess.

WHAT DO YOUR FRIENDS THINK OF YOU?
She's Always A Woman To Me Thank God, because I'd be pretty upset if they thought I was a man.

WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT VERY OFTEN?
Wide Open Spaces This was more true 5-10 years ago, but I guess it's sort of true now.

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR BEST FRIEND?
Hiphopapotamus vs. Rhymenoceros Hell yeah!

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
Born in the U.S.A. This is funnier than you can imagine, because I am always telling my husband that he is American, not Italian.

WHAT IS YOUR LIFE STORY?
The Seer's Tower A bit poetic, and also reminiscent of my list of 30 things I wanted to do before I turned 30.

WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP?
She Came in Through The Bathroom Window I guess it could be worse. I get to be a Beatles song, and at least it's not "Piggies."

WHAT DO YOU THINK WHEN YOU SEE THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
O Little Town of Bethlehem So not what I think.

WHAT DO YOUR PARENTS THINK OF YOU?
Girl, You'll Be A Woman Soon Dear God.

WHAT WILL YOU DANCE TO AT YOUR WEDDING?
Bitch I left this question on even though I already got married. I did not dance at my wedding, but this would have been a great one if I had.

WHAT WILL THEY PLAY AT YOUR FUNERAL?
O Tannenbaum It's the instrumental Charlie Brown version. I guess I'm alright with that.

WHAT IS YOUR HOBBY/INTEREST?
You Were Mine Um, yeah, not so much.

WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST SECRET?
Like A Virgin The secret is out! I have Madonna in my iTunes.

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR FRIENDS?
Atomic Some of them, yeah, probably.

WHAT'S THE WORST THING THAT COULD HAPPEN?
Lonely Teenager Been there, done that.

HOW WILL YOU DIE?
In the Flesh Hey, there are worse ways to go.

WHAT IS THE ONE THING YOU REGRET?
Yesterday I guess that's all I can regret, right?

WHAT MAKES YOU LAUGH?
Should I Stay or Should I Go Only when I try to play it on Rock Band.

WHAT MAKES YOU CRY?
Chicago Poetic, no?

WILL YOU EVER GET MARRIED?
Karma Chameleon I did marry a man whose colors are like my dreams. He is not, however, a man without conviction and a man who doesn't know.

WHAT SCARES YOU THE MOST?
Adia I guess this makes sense when you consider that the last time I went to the dentist it was playing. The dentist is scary.

IF YOU COULD GO BACK IN TIME, WHAT WOULD YOU CHANGE?
Upon Those Stones This song is from Les Miserables. I guess I would change the French Revolution if I could, but something tells me other things might be on my list.

WHAT HURTS RIGHT NOW?
One Week Ah, yes, but which one?

An Open Letter To Barack Obama

2008-11-05T15:14:00.002-06:00

Dear Mr. President-Elect,

I'm sure you're hearing from many people today who want to tell you congrats on the whole White House thing, so I'll make this note brief. But I wanted to talk to you about that puppy you promised your daughters last night.

I don't know if you and the missus have looked into it at all, but if you haven't decided on a breed yet, I want to cast my vote for the Boston Terrier. If you research the breed on the American Kennel Club's Web site, you'll find that BTs are described as "conveying an impression of determination, strength and activity." Which is exactly what you want to do as president, so I think getting a Boston would make a nice statement.

Plus they're really cute, and I think people would really like seeing a little BT chasing a ball on the White House lawn.

I know you're busy preparing to run the country and stuff, but if you have a second, please peruse my posts about my own Boston Terrier, Stella, and make sure you look at her pictures. You can't have her, of course, but if you get a BT and want to have Stella come over for play dates, I'm sure we could work something out.

Sincerely,
Erika

Stage Mother

2008-11-03T09:50:00.009-06:00

It's true. My dog is adorable.

It is also true that since we don't have children, my husband and I have turned into Those People With The Dog. You know. The people who love their dogs just a little too much. The ones who announce that our dog earned her AKC Canine Good Citizen certification the way parents would announce that their kid made the honor roll. And yes, the ones who tell people that she has already chosen what she wants to be when she grows up (a model).

In our defense, look how cute she is! Way cuter than a lot of kids. And way better behaved (sometimes). And as of the other day, it turns out that she is well on her way to becoming a model, just like she wanted.

Awhile back, my husband, who happens to be a professional photographer, took a Christmas-themed photo of our girl and uploaded it to a stock photo Web site. The other day, he checked the site and found out that it had been purchased by someone for use!

Unfortunately, there's no way to find out who purchased the image. Still, it sure is exciting to know that my little girl's face will be out there for the world to see. I'm sure it won't be long till she has her own TV show.

Valerie Harper Will Not Hide In The Fruit Cellar

2008-10-28T17:58:00.004-05:00

A coworker who recently returned from a trip to Ireland told me today about an awful B&B where she stayed while there. It was a long, sordid tale, but the gist is that the owners (a shirtless farmer and his butcher-apron-clad wife) were inattentive, the rooms were full of mosquitos (but no heat), the curtains in the bathroom were see-through and there was a machete underneath one of the bedroom windows.

I was relaying the story to my husband this evening, and when I got to the part about the machete, he said, "boy, it's like Jason Bateman lives there."

"Um...Jason Bateman?" I was sure he had to mean someone else, unless Bateman's performance in Teen Wolf Too was really that scary for him.

"Yeah, from Psycho."

Yeah, he'd been thinking of Norman Bates.

Here Comes Suzy Snowflake

2008-10-28T10:58:00.002-05:00

I had to scrape frost off of my windshield this morning before leaving for work.

I am so not happy about this. It's a good thing I love Christmas so much, because I've had to get out my holiday music just to make myself feel better about the chilly temperatures. I figure maybe I can fool myself into thinking it's December if I listen to Bing Crosby for awhile. On the up side, though, maybe I'll get my shopping done early.

Flattery Will Get You

2008-10-23T10:08:00.005-05:00

Last week when I went to my training session at the gym, Megan dropped a bomb on me.

She was leaving. She got a new job at a new gym and would be starting this week.

I was excited for her, especially when she told me about the significant boost in pay she'd be getting. She's fun, upbeat and a great motivator, so I know she'll do well at the new gig. But of course, I was sad for myself. I'd been working with her for two months, and under her tutelage, I have seen results.

As her last act as my trainer, Megan offered to schedule me a session with a different trainer for this week. I asked her to recommend someone who was fun and entertaining, and she gave me a guy named Jeremiah. I had my first session with him last night.

Jeremiah is a nice kid. (He's 20, and now that I'm 30, I figure it's alright to call someone who is 20 "kid"). He really wasn't that fun and entertaining at first though, and I kind of need someone who will chat with me; otherwise, I will realize I'm doing squats and suddenly want to leave.

So I asked him about his background, where he lives, what he enjoys. I found out that two months ago, he smashed into a fire hydrant while running down the street, and I saw the huge scar that pretty much encircles his entire right knee. But the jury was still out on whether or not I would like working with him.

Then he mentioned that he's going to be 21 in a few months, and I told him I just turned 30. He was genuinely surprised and told me I looked like mid-20s to him.

Have I mentioned that Jeremiah is awesome?

Lessons From the Angel Girl

2008-10-13T13:31:00.006-05:00

Ever since I took a History of Nazi Germany class in college, I have been fascinated with stories of the Holocaust. While part of my interest is certainly the horror story factor (the same thing that draws me to books about serial killers), and some of it has to be biological (my dad will devour any book he can get his hands on about World War II) I think what keeps me drawn to this period over and over again are the happy (or, rather, bittersweet) endings for those affected by the Holocaust. The tales of triumph over evil, survival in the worst of conditions and forgiveness of unforgivable acts.

A few years ago, I interviewed a Holocaust survivor for the newspaper where I worked. Born in Poland in 1932, he spent his formative years in a ghetto and then a concentration camp. He eventually emigrated to the United States and spent years hiding from his past, bottling his feelings deep inside (and turning instead to The Bottle for solace). It was only when he began telling his story that he began to find peace.

While I was listening to him that day, all I could think was how amazing it was that this man was sitting in front of me. He was a living, breathing piece of history, and I was having a conversation with him. I had lunch with him a week or so later, and he asked about me -- where I grew up, my education, my goals -- and I couldn't help thinking that nothing I had to say could be all that interesting to this man who had known such incomprehensible suffering.

Talking to him made me feel very privileged, though not in a good way. I am ever grateful that this man's suffering is incomprehensible to me; his life is not one I want to understand from a first-hand perspective. But at the same time, sitting at lunch with him, I felt the age-old urge to clean my plate because people are starving elsewhere, an almost guilt-like feeling, because I grew up in such relative privilege.

But today, I read a Holocaust story that made me realize there are two sides to that coin.

He was a teenager living in a death camp; she was posing as a Christian and living in the village nearby. Every day, she would come to the camp's fence and throw an apple to him; he would catch it and run away before he was seen. He called her his "angel girl."

When he got word that he would be moving to another camp, he bade her farewell, and the two forgot about each other until, years later and an ocean away, they were set up on a blind date. They got to talking about their wartime experiences and realized they had met before. He proposed marriage to her that very night. The couple, now of Florida, has been married for 50 years.

It sounds like something out of a movie. But Holocaust experts who have studied the man's memoirs believe it to be true, and so do I, if for no other reason than that I want to. I'm willing to bet there are no adjectives strong enough to describe the horrors of what these two experienced back then, and so should their joy of finding each other and falling in love be likewise indescribable. And just like I could never fully understand the suffering, I don't think I could ever fully understand that kind of happiness.

I'll take what I have. But I am glad to know that those who suffer the most often have the greatest joys as well.

Pick A Little, Talk A Little

2008-10-13T11:06:00.005-05:00

Yesterday, I was shopping at an establishment I don't really frequent, but visited because I had a coupon. I don't really like shopping there unless I can get something cheaper there than somewhere else. And the reason can be summed up in four little words.

"You finding everything alright?"

I spent about 10 minutes in the store, and I was asked this four times. I don't know if I looked particularly confused, or if the employees were particularly bored, or if they're just supposed to ask every customer they come across if they need help. But after the third time, I had the urge to stand up on a chair and yell, "I'm finding everything just fine! No need to ask me again!"

But it wasn't the over-helpfulness of the employees that turned me off yesterday. (And I grant you, I'd rather over-helpfulness than employees who are nowhere to be found when I actually do need help.) Nor was it the fact that the store's server went down, making it impossible for them to verify credit card transactions till they rebooted and forcing a long line of people to stand there for 10 minutes. These things happen; they're annoying, but they happen. No, what turned me off was the conduct of one particular employee during that wait.

This girl, talking to another girl behind the register, told the story of Wendy, who had requested the day off and not gotten it. She had called a couple of her work friends, including the storyteller, the day before to say she planned to call in sick. The girl told Wendy she'd better not; it was going to be really busy, and they needed her. Well, whaddayaknow, Wendy had a friend of her dad's call in for her, saying she was very ill, then had the audacity to text a friend at work and ask how things were going. (And obviously, with the server down and all, things were not going well.)

I know all workplaces have their gossip, and the story of Wendy is probably one repeated in every retail establishment across the country. But that doesn't mean the place to tell it is in front of a long line of customers.

What I don't think the girl realized is that telling that story made the whole store look bad. There was a sign in the window asking for holiday help, but if I'd been considering applying, I would have changed my mind right there. Who wants to work at a place where you know you could be talked about in front of customers? And who wants to work at a place where employees feel it is OK to call in sick when they are not sick, and brag about it to coworkers? Not to mention how bad the telling of the story looked to customers, who I think I can safely say were all wishing the girl would call her manager for help rebooting the system instead of talking to her neighbor. (And now that I've blogged the story, I have an urge to go back to that store on a day this week when Wendy is working and ask her if she's feeling better.)

The experience wasn't quite as bad as my Labor Day excursion to Hobby Lobby, but it still left a bad taste in my mouth. Maybe I can't appreciate either situation because I have never worked retail (unless you count six months in a grocery store that hardly ever got customers other than the moms of the part-time employees). And maybe I am expecting too much. But I do sort of hope that the next time I go shopping, I won't have any reason to remember the store employees.

Human Good Citizen

2008-10-10T09:58:00.005-05:00

Last night, as I was drifting off to sleep, I got to thinking about all the work we've put into having Stella certified as a Canine Good Citizen. We went through 30 weeks of obedience classes and hours of working at home, not to mention socializing her everywhere we could, taking her to doggie daycare and spending quite a bit of money in the process, all to help Stella learn good manners.

In addition to being proud of my dog, I was proud of myself and my husband for getting her to this point. When we first brought Stella home, we had no idea how to train her; we just kind of hoped that if we said "sit" enough times, she would. And many times during obedience class, I thought to myself, what if we ever have a child? Who is going to teach me obedience for kids?

I think of my downstairs neighbor, Mr. McCrochety, who complains constantly about my husband's and my noisy habits (such as walking up the stairs and doing laundry). He's so quick to point out what he sees as flaws in other people, so quick to complain about the smallest annoyance, yet he has never shown one bit of courtesy or kindness to my husband or me. I always greet him with a friendly "hello" when I see him, yet last week, I was walking out the door right behind him, and he let it slam in my face rather than holding it for me. If you ask me, he's someone who could use some obedience training.

And why don't we have good citizen training for people? Stella had to take a test; why shouldn't McCrochety and all the other people of the world? Why shouldn't we all have to prove that we are fit to be a part of society? And why shouldn't we take our children to classes where they learn good manners? I'm sure that going to regular school helps, but my high school psychology teacher always said that two-thirds of a person's personality was formed by the time he or she turns five. So wouldn't it help to start those good habits early? And wouldn't it help to have some way to measure how we're doing?

And so, here is my test for becoming a Human Good Citizen.

Accepting a friendly stranger. To successfully complete this item for Canine Good Citizen certification, a dog must sit or stand nicely by its owner. If the dog barks or growls, jumps up on the person or shies away from the person, the dog doesn't pass the test. I don't see any problem with the qualifications for a Human Good Citizen being pretty much the same. Any person who makes a rude remark or catcalls, or doesn't at least acknowledge that the other person is there, will be disqualified.

Appearance and grooming. The American Kennel Club says that Canine Good Citizens should be clean, groomed and generally well cared for. I don't think that's too much to ask of people.

Walking through a crowd. The person must walk nicely, taking care not to shove others out of the way, and always saying "excuse me" when having to get past someone.

Sitting on command and staying in place. For people, this would more commonly be known as "shut up and wait your turn." I think a good place to do this test would be the mall on Christmas Eve or a doctor's office during flu season.

Coming when called. For a dog, this means literally coming to you when you tell him to do so. For humans, I'd say it would mean making onesself available when needed. A child ignoring the parent who asks him to clear the table or a call center person who reads a response off a monitor without listening to the question would receive an immediate failure.

Reaction to distraction. For dogs, this means they have to sit or stand nicely in place and not freak out when someone drops a book or bounces a ball or drags a walker nearby where they're standing. For people, I think this should mean not answering one's cell phone while sitting down to dinner or in public places, diligently doing one's work without screwing off all day and turning off the TV when someone has something important to say.

Supervised separation. For dogs, this means being out of the sight of one's owner for three minutes without whining, barking or otherwise show agitation or nervousness. It shows that the dog can be left with a trusted person and still maintain good manners. For people, I think this test should show independence. It would have to be given at adulthood, of course, but I think a person should be left alone for three weeks and would have to demonstrate the ability to take care of onesself without relying on a parent or spouse. A person would have to cook his or her own meals, do his or her own laundry and generally take care of himself or herself without having someone standing by either giving orders or serving the person.

Canine Cum Laude

2008-10-10T09:14:00.005-05:00

Last night, my little girl became a Canine Good Citizen!

For those not familiar, the Canine Good Citizen program is something created by the American Kennel Club to promote responsible dog ownership and obedience. To become certified, a dog must successfully complete a 10-item test.

It's almost hard to believe she was able to do it. Less than a year ago when we started puppy classes, little Stel was so afraid of other dogs that she would whine and hide behind my husband and me whenever they had playtime. Now, thanks to class and doggie daycare, my little girl is a social butterfly who can't wait to meet new people and puppy dog friends.

Stella still has some challenges to overcome. She still jumps up on people, and that's a really tough habit to break with a small dog; people tend to immediately bend over to pet her and reinforce the bad behavior. And she does get a bit barky when she's on her leash, although she's starting to grow out of it a bit and getting more selective about who should be on the receiving end. (For example, she no longer barks at the nice lady who lives upstairs and always pets her and says hi, but she still barks at McCrochety, who does nothing but complain about her and everything else. Smart girl.)

Still, she's learned enough to pass the test, and it's not an easy one. I do have to admit, a big part of me is just relieved that we don't have to repeat this class; we've been doing obedience since the end of last December, and I think the whole family is a bit tired of the routine. But when I think of how far we've come, I know all the time and effort was worth it. I'm so proud of my girl!

As for what's next, Stella plans to take a well-deserved break for a little while and then jump into therapy dog training, maybe early next year. Someday, she hopes to become a full-fledged service dog. Or a model, she can't decide.

After last night, I know she could do anything she puts her mind to.

My Own List of 30 Skills

2008-10-09T11:34:00.003-05:00

After reviewing the list of 30 skills to have before 30 (according to thefrisky.com), I thought I'd put together my own list. Because when it comes right down to it, I don't think it's really important for me to know how to hard boil an egg.

I kept these from thefrisky's list.

1. Ask a man out
2. Send a thoughtful thank you note
3. Say "no" gracefully
4. Balance her checkbook
5. Read a map
6. Apologize when she's wrong
7. Dress for her body type
8. Feign interest

And here are the rest, according to me. Be it known that I am not proficient at all of these, but again, I've got 10 days.

9. Craft a well-written letter (be it a complaint letter to a company, a cover letter for a job or a letter to the editor of the local paper)
10. Bake a cake or cookies from scratch
11. Gracefully give and accept compliments
12. Gracefully give and accept criticism
13. Seek professional help (be it plumber, psychologist, lawyer, whatever)
14. Navigate a party full of strangers
15. Foster a new friendship
16. Make a clever joke at exactly the right time
17. Walk away from an argument with dignity, not parting shots
18. Find fulfilling ways to spend a free day
19. Special order something in a restaurant
20. Take a great photo
21. Defend herself, both verbally and physically
22. Cook a fantastic holiday meal
23. Clean everything in her home
24. Stand up for a good cause
25. Knowledgeably choose a candidate for public office
26. Laugh at herself
27. Put together a great outfit
28. Know how to do at least one thing no one else she knows knows how to do
29. Navigate a new city
30. Genuinely celebrate a friend's successes when faced with personal challenges

10 To 30

2008-10-09T10:45:00.005-05:00

With 10 days to go before my 30th birthday, I read with interest this list of 30 Skills Every Woman Should Have Before Turning 30, according to thefrisky.com.

Let's see if the frisky folks would think I'm ready. Here are the skills I either have or need to acquire in the next 10 days.

1. Hard boil an egg
I know how to do this, but I never eat hard-boiled eggs, so I have only ever used this skill when making Easter eggs to color or potato salad for my mom.

2. Diplomatically tell Mom to butt-out
My mom doesn't really butt in too much, but if she did, I would use the same policy for her as I use for others who do butt in: I just wouldn't tell her things.

3. Ace a job interview
I need to work on that one. I'm much better on paper than in person.

4. Ask a man out
I wouldn't say I've ever been good at this, but now that I'm married, it's easy: "Honey, should we go to the movies Saturday? Yeah? Cool."

5. Send a thoughtful thank you note
I don't write thank you notes as often as I maybe should, but I do write them, and I think I do a decent job.

6. Listen to a friend in need
This is tricky. I'm not really the shoulder-to-cry-on friend. I'm the already-cried-and-now-I-need-a-sarcastic-comment friend. But if all of the friend's shoulder-to-cry-on friends are all busy that day, I do alright as long as I don't have to say anything caring and supportive.

7. Ask for help
I'm about 50/50 on this one. Sometimes I ask for help on things I could really do myself, but then other times, I refuse to ask when I should. But I'd say I get it right about half the time.

8. Effectively end an unhealthy relationship (romantic or platonic in nature)
This is a skill I only recently picked up in the past few years. I still don't find it easy, but luckily, I don't have to do it very often.

9. Beautifully wrap a gift
Hmm. I might be able to do this if I actually tried. I can wrap OK if I take the time and effort, but I've never really done the curly ribbon and all that jazz.

10. Say “no” gracefully
Sadly, this is one skill I have not yet learned at all. Guess I've got 10 days to pick it up.

11. Whip up a great dinner with the five items in her fridge
I guess I could do this. I don't know if I'd want to have company over that night, though.

12. Forget pleasing him, by 30 a woman should be able to tell her man exactly how to please her
Um, my mom reads this blog, so I'm just gonna ignore this one.

13. Sew a button
Learned this at age 10.

14. Mix a kick-ass cocktail
This is along the lines the cooking with five items thing. I could probably make a cocktail I like, but I don't know if anyone else would like it.

15. Take off her bra without removing her shirt
Yeah, I can do this.

16. Apply lip gloss in the dark
I guess I could do this, but I don't know why I ever would.

17. Balance her checkbook
Yeah, I can do this too.

18. Create a budget
Can I? Yes. Do I? Not so much. At least, not in written form.

19. Find the best deal
I'm insanely cheap, so yes, this is a skill I have. For me, the bigger lesson was knowing that "deal" doesn't always mean cheaper, that sometimes, paying more actually gets you more.

20. Negotiate a salary and/or pay raise
I can't do this, but then again, I've never really felt the need.

21. Read a map
I have a terrible sense of direction, so this is something I can and must definitely do.

22. Hail a cab
I don't think I've ever had to do this, but I could, I guess.

23. Say something in French just for the hell of it
Voulez-vous du beurre?

24. Apologize when she’s wrong
I'm not sure I spelled that French thing right. If I didn't, I'm sorry. Does that count?

25. Dress for her body type
Eh. I don't do great, but I think I avoid the worst pitfalls most of the time. I do this by dressing boring.

26. Change a flat (or know who to call to come change it)
In theory, I know how to change a flat, but I haven't ever done it when not under the watchful eye of my dad. But in case it's ever an issue, I have my husband on speed dial.

27. Spot a fake (handbag, diamond, potential friend…)
Handbag? Possibly. Diamond? Maybe. Potential friend? Absolutely.

28. Feign interest
Are you kidding? My entire professional life is based on this skill.

29. Know what to tip on a $25 dinner bill
Yes, and if I ever forget, some lady once gave me a little wallet card with a chart on it.

30. Hold a baby
I can do this, but don't tell my mother-in-law.

An Open Letter To CNN.com

2008-10-09T10:02:00.003-05:00

Dear CNN.com,

My boss says that when giving criticism to someone, you should open with a compliment, then give your criticism, then close with a compliment, so the person or party doesn't think you're being too harsh. That said, I'd like to tell you a few things.

1. You're pretty good at taking a news story from a few years ago and making it look like a new one by putting a current-sounding headline on it.

2. I read this on your website today:

After his father was diagnosed with dementia in 1996, Anthony Lazzara Jr. faced a difficult decision: He either could place his father in a facility, or him and his wife could care for him themselves.

Him and his wife? Are you kidding me? Did a third grader write this? I can't believe such a glaring and ugly grammatical error would be committed by a major news source like you. Do you not have proofreaders? Or are they third graders too? I overlook a lot of dumb stuff on your website, but this makes me want to stop reading it altogether.

3. I like your hair.

Sincerely,
Erika

My Favorite Stuff I Had As A Kid

2008-10-03T12:57:00.005-05:00

I felt a little bad about mentioning all that stuff my parents denied me as a child. So I figure it's only fair to talk about some of my favorite things I had. Because, you know, people totally care about that stuff.

My Earring Tree -- It looked like a rainbow, and it was sparkly. I think it mostly delighted me because having it meant my ears were pierced, and everyone knows you're nobody till you get your ears pierced. (Erika trivia -- I got my ears pierced on October 19, 1985, my seventh birthday. Or was it my sixth birthday in 1984? I must check with my mom to see if she remembers. I know for sure it was the same year she got the blue drapes for the living room, because she took my picture modeling my new earrings in front of her new drapes.)

Albert the Running Bear and Violet the Exercise Bear -- In second grade, Mrs. Gilvary had an Albert and a Violet that everybody took turns taking home for a night or a weekend. We all loved them. For Christmas that year, I got an Albert as a present, and then I won Violet in a class raffle of some sort. Mrs. Gilvary's class was the best. (Erika trivia -- I was so mad when I found out that Kurt Knott said that my Albert wasn't a real Albert because his sweatsuit was blue and Mrs. Gilvary's Albert wore a red sweatsuit. I'd really liked Kurt Knott before that, and that just ruined my whole opinion of him.)

My Chalkboard -- My parents probably got it for me thinking it might be a fun way for me to learn things. But mostly I remember using it to play school and yelling at my imaginary students. And coloring it by turning the chalk sideways and scribbling with the whole side of the piece.

My Pencil With The Replaceable Points -- I have no idea what they are actually called, but it was, as I remember, sort of a precursor to the mechanical pencil. They had a bunch of plastic tips inside them, with lead points, and once you wore down the lead, you'd take that tip off, push it down through the top of the pencil, and a brand new one would come out! You never had to sharpen your pencil! That is the one and only thing in my life that I had before anyone else I knew.

My Books -- At one point, I owned every book in the Baby-Sitters Club series and every book in the Sweet Valley Twins series. The former was my favorite; I can still remember the thrill I felt every time I opened a new one to read. I don't know what's wrong with kids today that they need Harry Potter as an incentive to read. I was happy with the stories of a bunch of dorky girls with after-school babysitting jobs. (Erika trivia -- I only had up to #41 in the BSC series and don't think I read anything after that. So if anyone wants to get me the rest for my birthday, I think that's a very appropriate gift for someone who is turning 30. I don't remember where I stopped collecting the Sweet Valley Twins books, so obviously, I was not as much of a fan as I thought at the time.)

My Phone -- My favorite thing about it was that it had a "hold" button. I thought that was very grown up. (Erika trivia -- In middle school, Krista Shellenberger gave me a diary as a present. There were two keys with it, and I dropped one down into the phone through a little space by the hangup button. It remained there until the phone stopped working in college.)

My Roller Skates and My Skate Case -- Oh, the days of Saturday mornings at Great Skate. (Erika trivia -- my seventh birthday party was held there. Among my gifts was a Derek Barbie and the Rockers doll from Darcey Mesaris.)

My Caboodles -- Ever since Kelly Leiter got one, I wanted one of those things so bad. Snoopy Snowcone Machine bad. Partly because they were so darn cool, and partly because having one meant I would probably also have some makeup to put in it. And for my 12th birthday, I got three. A little one (from Steph Moulthrop) a medium one with two trays that slid out from the middle (from Darcey Mesaris) and a huge one with a mirror and two trays that lifted up from inside (from my mom). And funnily enough, they all matched. That was the best birthday ever. (Erika trivia -- That was the year I had a joint birthday party with Steph Moulthrop, and I got really mad about something and ended up going upstairs to sleep in my bed. I went back down eventually.)

Things I Always Wanted When I Was A Kid But Never Got

2008-10-03T12:13:00.003-05:00

A coworker of mine came in to work today with a hat that looks like a Hungry Hungry Hippo. She plans to wear it as part of her Halloween costume. When I was little, I always wanted that game but never had it. Seeing that hat got me to thinking about some of the other stuff I wanted but never got, and since my birthday is coming up, I thought I'd compile a list.

Snoopy Snowcone Machine -- I can't even tell you how much I wanted one of these. I don't know why; I don't even like snowcones. But even now, I think if I got one as a present, I might cry tears of joy...and then put it in the back of my kitchen cabinet, because I'd never, ever use it.

Cowboy (or Cowgirl) Boots -- In first grade, Krista Smith had a pair I coveted. They were gray. That is all I remember about Krista Smith.

My Little Pony -- I had a kick-ass My Little Pony game that had a carousel with a ball on top, and when you pumped the ball up and down, it made the carousel spin. Then whatever color came up when it stopped, you got a rubber stamp of the pony that color. And whoever got all the colors first won, or something. But I never had any actual My Little Pony ponies. In retrospect, I'm not sure why I cared, because I've never liked horses.

Leather Pants -- I'm not sure if I really wanted these or just thought they were super cool, but I remember saying once that I liked the ones on the lady in the "99 Red Balloons" video. My sister made fun of me. In retrospect, though, she was right. Leather pants would have a looked kind of strange on a six-year-old.

Pound Puppy -- We didn't have a real dog either. My parents were so mean.

Cabbage Patch Kid Musical Swing -- I totally don't remember wanting this, but a few years ago, when my parents pulled out the old Santa letters (erm, I mean copies of the Santa letters, because the originals obviously went to the big guy himself) I had asked for it like four years in a row.

An Open Letter To The Chicago White Sox

2008-10-03T10:17:00.002-05:00

Dear Chicago White Sox,

I'm sure every member of your team is a loyal reader of this blog, and you've simply been waiting in the wings with your barbecue chips (Nick Swisher), Chief Crunchie ice cream bars (Alexei Ramirez), Sprite (Brian Anderson) and grilling tools (A.J. Pierzynski) for an invitation to a barbecue at my house.

Well, if you'll all just send me your e-mail addresses, I will happily send you that invite now, because thanks to the best e-card website ever, I finally have the perfect thing to send. I look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely,
Erika

P.S. Good luck with the whole playoff thing. If you win the World Series again, maybe I can spring for a cake that says "congratulations." Or a Fudgie the Whale cake.

More Than Words

2008-09-26T08:34:00.004-05:00

Two days ago, I woke up with that bubble-in-my-throat feeling that made me think I might be coming down with something. Yesterday, I again woke up with it, and it stayed.

Today, I woke up feeling mostly alright, but curiously, I have absolutely no voice. And I mean no voice at all. If I drink a glass of water, I can get a couple of words out, but I sound like one of Marge Simpson's sisters.

This rarely happens to me. I can think of only one other time it has when my voice has gone away for longer than the few minutes after I get out of bed. In a way, it's kind of nice to be alone and quiet with me. But on the other hand, it makes it a little hard when I actually have to communicate. I seem to be able to squeak out only a few letters here and there. Stella has been looking at me funny all morning long, probably because she's been hearing me say things like, ".... .... .... g.... f..... g... d...." And even I don't know what that means.

Go, You Chicken Fat, Go!

2008-09-25T09:12:00.002-05:00

Last night during my workout session, my personal trainer, Megan, told me she plans to flee the country in June to backpack through Europe for awhile. She said she figures now is a good time to do it, since she's young and has nothing tying her down.

I'm totally excited for her, and I think it's a great thing. But who is going to get me all buff and fit now? I guess I can work with someone else, but I really like Megan, and I'm seeing results under her tutelage. I don't want her to leave!

I told her she is not allowed to go anywhere until I reach my fitness goals. She then made me do the hardest workout she's ever made me do, sending me home with jelly for legs.

I guess she's really serious about this whole Europe thing.

Stuck On You

2008-09-23T09:25:00.003-05:00

Stella has been having a rough time of it lately.

A few months ago, we began to transition her from puppy food to adult food, and for some reason (an allergy or something), the new food didn't agree with her little digestive system. I won't go into details, but suffice it to say the results were fairly explosive. After a couple of vet visits, a few rounds of "just in case" parasite-ridding medication and a prescribed food that would get things back in order, we tried again with a different brand. This time, things went a little better, but still, the new food did not agree with our girl.

Finally, a month or so ago, someone told my husband about a great food with no fillers or artificial anything and suggested we try it for the next go-round. He picked up a bag, we made the transition, and magically, things seemed to fall into place. Our little girl had finally found a grown-up food she could handle.

Our elation lasted about a week, and then we were back to the, um, explosions. And they were worse than ever. We put her on a bland diet for a couple of days, but I really didn't think the food was the problem this time. After all, she had been eating it with good results for awhile; with the other foods, the change was pretty immediate. Last night, we took her to the vet, and we found out I was right; it wasn't the food at all. My little girl had brought home a pet without permission. Giardia.

For those who don't know, Giardia are one-celled parasites that live in the small intestines of dogs and cats. Animals usually pick them up from drinking infected standing water (or, pleasantly, eating the poo of another infected animal). I've been reading up on the little buggers, and it seems that they can live outside the body for quite some time, so it is recommended that owners wash any bedding and whatnot that pets have come in contact with, disinfect everything, etc., to make sure they're all gone from the home.

And the most exciting news is that humans can get them too. We're not planning on eating any poo, of course, but you can't be too careful. So tonight, my husband and I are going to clean our home from top to bottom with as much disinfectant as we can, just in case.

Now I know how parents feel when their kids come home with a head full of lice. Gross.

Things I've Seen People Do In Movies And On TV And Would Like To Try Doing Sometime

2008-09-18T14:40:00.005-05:00

1. Talk on the phone as if I'm talking to someone other than who I am actually talking to so that someone standing in the same room I'm in doesn't realize who I'm really talking to.

Hello?
Erika, it's me, your husband.
Yes, hello. I'm glad you called.
I know you must have been worried that the kidnappers killed me.
Yes, yes, I was curious about that. But I would like to change my order from the kung pao chicken to the moo shu pork.
Are the kidnappers there with you now?
They are. And please, don't forget the egg rolls this time.

2. Have a shopping montage and come home with bags and bags of new clothes.

3. Have an argument while talking on my flip phone and slam it shut to hang up on the person.

4. Do a spontaneous yet perfectly choreographed dance in the street with a bunch of strangers.

5. Throw a drink in someone's face.

6. Have a madcap day/night in the big city.

7. Go to a wedding where someone objects or runs.

8. Solve a big mystery, even though I have absolutely no investigative capabilities or intuition about that sort of thing.

9. Walk into a grocery store only to find out I am the millionth customer when sirens go off and balloons drop on me.

10. As part of a spa day, get a facial mask and cucumber slices over my eyes, and eat the cucumber slices.

Expressions I Don't Like

2008-09-18T09:39:00.004-05:00

"Staycation" -- Yes, yes, the economy is in the crapper, no one has money to travel, so we're enjoying the pleasures of home, and that's great. But the term "staycation" was only cute the first time.

"On the cheap" -- I don't even have anything to say about this; I just don't like it. I don't think it makes much sense, and anyway, wouldn't it just be easier to say "cheaply?"

"Pain at the pump" -- Another economy-inspired phrase, this one was also clever the first time and never since.

"Le sigh" -- According to urbandictionary.com, this came from Pepe Le Pew. Do we really want to be saying something a cartoon skunk first said?

And a bonus -- I don't mind so much when people say, "it is what it is," but I do mind when people complain about people saying "it is what it is."

United They Stand...For A Minute Or Two (Or, Waxing Politic)

2008-09-11T11:01:00.004-05:00

I heard on the radio today that presidential candidates John McCain and Barack Obama plan to set aside their differences and visit Ground Zero together to observe the anniversary of the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks. The two also plan to pull their attack ads on each other, just for today, in a sort of temporary cease-fire.

We often hear that the aftermath of the 2001 attacks showed the best of this country. There were stories of daring rescues, dedicated volunteers rushing to the aid of survivors and donations of all kinds from across the country. People set aside their political arguments and united with their countrymen, against a common enemy.

I guess McCain and Obama are trying to rejuvenate in all of us that proud American feeling by doing this today, but to me, it isn't touching or heartwarming. It is one day of doing what they should be doing every day. I'm not saying they should begin each morning with a hug and a declaration of "I treasure your friendship," or even that they have to pretend to like each other or agree on anything. They are competitors; let them compete.

But instead of playing nice just for one 24 hour period, I believe it would make a far better statement to stand together today and announce they plan to pull the attack ads permanently and continue the election process in a dignified way. One day of unity is not unity. It is a publicity stunt.

I've wondered lately whether the poor voter turnout that is always being reported is really apathy, or simply a boycott. I, for one, am torn about November's election. Neither candidate is wowing me at this point. And while they saying goes, "if you don't vote in an election, you can't complain about the results," I don't know if choosing randomly, so long as you're choosing something, is a great way to go about picking the leader of a country.

I plan to keep an eye on both candidates for the next few months and hope one ends up standing out to me as the person I would like running my country. In the meantime, though, I plan to spend tonight sitting in front of the TV. A night without attack ads seems like freedom to me.

Too Fat Polka

2008-09-11T09:34:00.012-05:00

Last night, I had an appointment with my trainer at the gym. It's been about a month since I had my first session, so I wanted to check my body fat to see if it had gone down at all. As luck would have it, some semi-beefy dude sitting at a table in the front asked me, as I walked in, if I wanted to measure my body fat. He seemed shocked when I told him, "yes, that was actually on my list of things to do today." He thought I was joking, and I think it threw him off a little. Later, when I did make a joke, he thought I was serious.

As it turned out, my body fat has gone down 1.5 percentage points since last month. My trainer and the head of training both said that's great, but Semi-Beefy Dude didn't seem to think so. He said next month I should try for another three percentage points, which the head of training told me -- right in front of Semi-Beefy -- is way too much. (The two also had differing opinions of ideal body fat. Semi-Beefy said 14-18 percent, the other guy said 18-21 percent. I've looked at a few charts, and it looks like Semi-Beefy is trying to get me into the "athletic" category, while the other guy wants me in the "fit" category. Or, Semi-Beefy thinks I am a man, since 14-18 percent is in the "fit" category for a man.)

S-B also told me that if I want to see better results, I ought to eat more protein. I'm not sure exactly what moved him to make that determination. He asked me, "how is your diet," and I told him, "it's pretty good but not great." Somehow, from that, he gleaned that I was not eating enough protein.

The thing is, he is probably right; I don't eat enough protein. And I'll bet that's pretty common, so maybe it's a natural assumption. But to look at the change in my body fat and immediately say "you need more protein" seemed a little strange. (He worked for the gym; he wasn't a protein powder salesman or anything.) I would have thought a more reasonable conclusion would be "you need less fat" or "you need to do harder workouts" or a half dozen other things besides, if he really thought my body fat loss wasn't enough. (That's when the joke came in. He said most people eat too many carbs, cereal for breakfast, sandwich for lunch, pasta for dinner, when we really should try to eat more chicken. I told him I often eat chicken for breakfast, and he didn't realize I was joking about that. He thought "yes, I'd like my body fat taken" was a joke, but "chicken for breakfast" sounded totally normal. Fitness makes people weird.)

As he lectured me on the benefits of protein, he was talking pretty fast, like he was giving a rehearsed speech. A lot of people at the gym talk like that, so I didn't take it personally. But it did annoy me, because in telling me what he thinks I need to do to get fit, he made me late for my training appointment.

When I was leaving the gym (after a really tough ab workout), a guy who looked like a tan version of Vin Diesel held the door for me and asked me how my workout had gone. I told him it was great and very challenging, and that I expected to see a flat stomach and six pack when I got home and looked in the mirror. (He also didn't realize I was joking. Maybe I need to work on my delivery. I realize these weren't hilarious jokes, but come on, even a polite smile would have been nice.) He proceeded to ask me how often I work out and tell me how often I should work out to get the results I want. (He did not, however, ask me what results I want.) I don't think the guy even worked at the gym; I don't remember seeing him there before. But maybe I looked like I needed the help.

Note to self: Do not wear "Please Give Me Unsolicited Advice" t-shirt to the gym anymore. And probably also do not wear long Nike running pants, as they apparently make me look fat, protein-deficient and possibly like a man.

Come On Along And Work Out To The Lullaby Of Broadway

2008-09-04T11:21:00.003-05:00

I'm really trying to give this fitness thing a go. But after only three weeks, I'm kind of running out of things to do at the gym.

I like the weight training, but for now, I really need my trainer beside me, telling me which machines to use in what order. And I love cycling and swimming, but I don't want to do the same things over and over, lest I get bored with them, or my body get used to them, rendering them unaffective. (The trainers at the gym are really big on mixing it up -- I was told not to do the same workout more than once within three weeks.) I need to try some new things, mix it up a little bit.

In that spirit, last night, I took a sampler class which was comprised of small bits of basic step, kickboxing and Latin dance. I'd done a little of the step and the kickboxing before, but the Latin dance was new to me. And I really liked the small bit we did. Of the three, it was the dance that was my favorite.

I like doing the kind of exercise that makes me forget I'm exercising. For many people, that means playing a sport. But since I am not at all athletic, sports have no allure for me and usually don't give me that great a workout -- why bother trying to chase around a ball I know I have no chance of hitting? (That said, I did sign up for a raquetball clinic. I don't know what I was thinking.) I'm not that graceful either, but with dance, you're not really competing with anyone, and I can follow basic instructions, so even if I look stupid, I can still have fun and get a good workout.

The instructor who ran last night's session said there will be a Latin class starting up next week, but it's kind of early in the evening, so I'm not sure I'd be able to make it in time after work. Still, I'd like to try, because it seems to be the only dance-y class offered there. Plus I think with the music, it would be fun and different. I'm tired of working out to crappy Top 40 hits remixed with a fast beat.

On the way home, I got to thinking what kind of exercise class I'd really like to attend. Since I really enjoy the dance-y stuff (so long as it's not too complicated -- I remember stumbling all over myself trying to do the Paula Abdul dance workout tape in high school), I was thinking a good one would be a workout to Broadway tunes.

Richard Simmons and a few others have put out workout tapes with Broadway music, but from what I can see, the songs are all really old. I can't really blame them for that -- the Broadway shows everyone knew during the workout tape heyday of the 80s and early 90s hardly provided good exercise songs. I can't imagine myself sweating to any of the songs from Les Miserables or anything from Andrew Lloyd Webber. (Can't you just see a room of people trying to do leg lifts to "Do You Hear The People Sing"?)

But I think that the shows that are popular on Broadway and on tour these days would provide some great workout tunes. I could see myself enjoying an exercise routine set to Urinetown's "Run Freedom Run," Hairspray's "Welcome to the 60s" or even the "Fisch Schlapping Song" from Spamalot. And I can only imagine the calorie-burning choreography that could be used for Avenue Q's "You Can Be As Loud As The Hell You Want (When You're Makin' Love).

So how about it?

Clowns To The Left Of Me, Jokers To The Right

2008-09-01T15:00:00.004-05:00

Taking advantage of my Labor Day off, I took lunch to my husband (who, unfortunately, had to work) and then headed to Hobby Lobby to pick up some supplies for a few projects. I was waiting for an employee to cut some material for me when two women came up and interrupted.

"Excuse me," they said. The employee said nothing; she didn't even look up. I thought that was kind of rude, but it was none of my business, so I just waited while she kept cutting. They tried to get her attention again, and I could tell by her face she was purposely ignoring them (she had that same look most people have when they pass a panhandler on the street -- eyes down, pretending not to hear). After a few more attempts by the customers, she told them tersely, "just a minute." One of the women started to ask a question, and the employee told them again, "just a minute," and the customers upped the rude ante by telling her, "'I'll be with you in a moment.' That's what you're supposed to say." The employee and the customers argued for another minute, with the customers ultimately walking away, saying, "you serve the public, honey."

I thought that was the end of it, but as the employee finished cutting and folding my material, she started muttering, "I hate this job, I hate this job." Despite my best efforts to put on the same panhandler face she'd been wearing a minute before, the employee decided to tell me that she's worked at Hobby Lobby for seven and a half years and hates the job, then explain that she was busy helping me and didn't like customers interrupting to ask her a question. Then she told me that she plans to put in her two weeks notice. I'm not sure whether she was planning this before or if she had just decided. I thought it best not to ask, lest I get myself into an actual conversation. I felt it better just to nod and get the hell out of there.

I'm not sure who to side with here, because the customers were pretty rude, but she was rude first, and I really don't think it's good form to tell a customer "I hate my job." Plus, I really don't think counting to one yard and and cutting in a straight line could be all that difficult that she wouldn't be able to at least look up to acknowledge another customer who has a question. Then again, I wouldn't want to acknowledge any customer who tells me what my job is. I like to see customers standing up for themselves, but I have never so much as raised my voice in a store, and I've certainly never resorted to "you serve the public, honey." So I guess I will side with myself, the innocent bystander, who not only had to listen to the altercation but then had to listen to the employee ranting about the altercation.

I listened to her for as long as I could stand while still being polite, and, as soon as she broke for a breath, I said, "I hope your day gets better" and high-tailed it away from her.

Happy Labor Day to all.

The Power of Suggestion: Part II

2008-08-29T14:52:00.003-05:00

I love it when people respond to things I write. Partly because that means someone is reading the things I write, and partly because sometimes it gets me candy.

My favorite piece of mail this week came from my friend Miranda, who, in response to a post I wrote, sent me the package in the photo. There was also a book inside of things to do before you turn 30. Many of them I've already done ("write a complaint letter" was one), but there are some I haven't. Perhaps I'll give a few a try before October 19.

After I finish my candy.

Whenever You're Near, I Hear A Symphony

2008-08-28T10:30:00.002-05:00

I've really been enjoying my new gym.

I've had two sessions now with my personal trainer, Megan, who makes me work but ensures my ability to walk the next day. And I'm loving the pool. I've been swimming more times in the last two weeks than in the last seven years. I'm actually sorry I didn't switch gyms a long time ago.

What I was most excited about was that my new gym holds classes in separate rooms with doors, so that no matter what kind of yelling is going on, you can't hear it on the main floor. Unfortunately, I forgot about what might happen if I actually take a class.

Last night, I took an hour-long cycling class. I'd done the same one (but with a different instructor) last week and left sweaty, hungry and exhausted, so I was looking forward to another great workout last night. It's a good thing I went in so determined.

At the front of the class were three ladies who obviously knew each other and the instructor, at least from class. They bantered with each other, and it was entertaining for a minute, but about five seconds into the warm-up, it got ugly. Ugly and loud.

That's right, they began shrieking.

I thought The Shrieking Machine of my old gym was bad, but here there were three of them, plus the instructor! She would say something, and they would shriek in response. It was as if the instructor was Diana Ross and these three were her Supremes. Except instead of singing delightful Motown tunes, these three were just screaming. They weren't even saying words. I kind of wanted to get up and leave, but I would have felt self-conscious so I rode it out, literally.

Throughout the class, I got used to the shrieking. And to their credit, these ladies at least howled with the beat of the music. But I still don't understand the point. That class was tough; it took a lot of energy to do some of the stuff she was having us do, and all that yelling had to have taken up quite a bit of energy too, not to mention breath.

So I guess I won't let myself be deterred just yet. I got a great workout, so I think I'll continue taking the class. And who knows...maybe someday, I'll learn to accept the shrieking.

Or, I'll just switch to a class where the students are a little more reserved.

Pearly What? (A Confession)

2008-08-25T14:23:00.003-05:00

Until recently, I had a blog with a list of 30 things I intended to do before I reached age 30 and entries about what I did to complete those goals. I deleted the blog when I realized two things. One, I'm probably not going to get them all done by my birthday, which is October 19. And two, I really don't care.

I'm a little disappointed that I didn't finish what I started, but the truth is, there weren't that many things on the list that I really, truly wanted to do. Many of them were just there because I needed 30 things and couldn't think of anything good to add to the list (which I only spent a week or so compiling). That said, I did learn a few things while I worked on ticking off the tasks I cared enough about to complete, or attempt to complete.

1. Donating to charities really does feel good, and what you give comes back to you in the way of address labels and solicitations for more money.

2. It's harder to come up with self-indulgent things to do than you would think.

3. Scrambled eggs with stuff in them is just as good as a well-made omelet.

4. The Montoursville Area School District failed me by not putting "The Catcher In The Rye" on its list of required literature. I should have read that book years ago.

5. The gym is NOT the place to work on learning the words to "Baby Got Back," particularly when your gym is full of ladies who pack much back.

6. There are things I care about a lot more than the things I used to care about, and there are things I want much more than the things I used to want.

That last one makes me feel like maybe I'm not such a failure at having abandoned my project and deleted the blog. I started the whole thing because I wanted to get myself ready for was to be the grown-up stage of my life -- the Summer, if you will. What I found out was that I'm already there. Some of the things I wanted to do were things I cared about a long time ago, but not now, and attempting to fulfill them made me feel like I was regressing, not moving forward.

So now, in the last not-quite-two-months before I turn 30, I plan to complete only the tasks I care enough about to remember what they are. For example, I fully intend to travel to the top of the Sears Tower, and I intend to (brag that I will) perform "Baby Got Back" while at the top (and completely chickening out once I'm up there).

And I WILL make it to Wisconsin. I had a dream last night that I actually got there. I was driving, but I'd missed my exit or something and had to turn around, but first, I decided to stop for fuel. I saw a gas station up ahead and, as I was getting ready to pull into the entrance, noticed a sign welcoming me to Wisconsin. I filled up my tank and congratulated myself on accidentally driving into the Badger State. Somewhere, I even picked up (well, stole from the side of the road, but I can admit it, because this was a dream and not real life) a gigantic three-dimensional Wisconsin-shaped road sign, which I intended to use as a mold for my 30th birthday cake.

Side note: I am thinking a Wisconsin-shaped birthday cake might actually be a fantastic idea, firstly because I've been talking for six years about traveling there, despite everyone I know telling me it's "only OK," and also because I would, in effect, be eating the dairy state to celebrate completing the year in which I stopped eating dairy. That kind of irony is usually only found in great works of literature or on Three's Company.

So I guess it has been a good year for learning life lessons. I am tinkering with the idea of making a 40 Things To Do Before I'm 40 list. With 10 years to complete the tasks, I'll be able to list things that are a little deeper than learning to cook something new or memorizing offensive novelty rap songs. Then again, I wonder if the things I would list today would still resonate with me in two, five, nine years. Still, I like the idea of having a long-term project and a milestone birthday as the day to launch it. So I guess the one big thing left for me to do before I turn 30 is something that wasn't even on my list before -- come up with a new project that I care enough about to complete.

Products I Would Totally Endorse If I Got Famous

2008-08-25T09:32:00.002-05:00

1. Colgate Total -- I have long sung the praises of this fantastic toothpaste that not only makes my mouth feel clean but keeps it feeling clean until the next time I eat. I once wrote a letter to the company telling them how much I liked it (I write nice consumer letters too, you know). I was kind of hoping they'd send me some free toothpaste, but they didn't.

2. Tofutti products -- The company's founder, David Mintz, initially started working with tofu as a way to keep kosher, but the fruits of his labor have long benefited the lactose intolerant as well. All of the Tofutti products I've had have been pretty good, close enough to the real thing that in a few years I probably won't remember what the real thing tastes like anymore.

3. Pantene spray conditioner -- For years, I searched in vain for a product that made my hair soft and shiny. I asked a coworker, whose wife had lovely hair, if he knew what she used, and he told me about this product. Since then, even with my worst haircuts and dye jobs, I've had silky locks with a fabulous shine.

4. Mentos -- I don't think I've ever actually had Mentos, but I would like to do one of those commercials where I'm in a tough situation, pop a Mentos and quickly solve the problem, afterward turning to the camera with a triumphant smile.

5. Lion Brand Homespun Yarn -- It's a nice yarn, and since Vanna White has her own yarn, maybe it's time for other yarns to have spokespeople.

Shrieking Machine, I Think I'll Miss You Most Of All

2008-08-22T10:27:00.003-05:00

It didn't hit me until the other night when I was leaving the gym and thought I caught a glimpse of Didn't-Bother-To-Brush-Her-Hair-But-Did-Take-
The-Time-To-Put-On-Tights-Yes, Tights Lady (turned out it wasn't her though) that I realized that the members of my new gym all seem pretty normal.

Sure, there are a couple of guys who wear Speedos in the pool, but they actually seem like athletic swimmer types.

Crap. I wonder if this means I'm going to be the one people make fun of at this gym. Guess I'd better go get myself some tights.

My Name Is Victoria Winters...

2008-08-18T11:46:00.002-05:00

While perusing the Internet this morning looking for useless information, I came upon this tidbit: Johnny Depp and Tim Burton are rumored to have teamed up for a movie based on the 1960s TV show Dark Shadows. In the movie, set (well, rumored) for release in 2010, Depp will play the smooth yet deadly vampire Barnabas Collins.

I couldn't be more excited about this. It's about time Dark Shadows came back for another go-round, and Johnny Depp will make a great Barnabas. I just hope they keep the campy quality of the original show. They could do something about the costumes, though; some of the stuff people wore looked like someone's home economics project.

Stand In The Place Where You Are (Because It Hurts To Move)

2008-08-16T10:31:00.003-05:00

Ow.

Earlier this week, my husband and I joined a gym. We've both belonged to separate gyms for years now, but since my gym was a bare bones women only facility and his had so few machines that he always had to wait for one, we decided to join a gym together that had everything we wanted.

With our membership, we each are entitled to one free session with a personal trainer, and yesterday, I went in for mine. After a brief question-and-answer period (When was the last time you had the ideal body you wanted? As if to say I ever did!) and a body fat analysis, we got to work. The trainer decided to start with my legs and threw me right into doing lunges while lifting weights over my head. From there, we moved on to squats, then squats with a bar, then to leg presses.

Side note: The trainer's name is Buddy. What a laugh that is.

When we sat down to discuss further training, I wasn't sure I would be able to get up. For the rest of yesterday, every time I had to stand up, sit down or go up or down stairs, I had to hold onto something. I went to get a manicure and almost fell out of the chair when I sat down. (In my defense, the chair was on wheels, and the floor was tile.) And today, I can't take a step without feeling like someone has removed all the muscles from my legs and replaced them with tree bark. I try to stay in one position as long as possible; if I'm standing, I stay standing, and if I'm sitting I don't get up till I know there's somewhere to go.

The truth is, I really do need the help. I'm not obese; I'm not unhealthy, but my body fat is higher than it should be, and besides, someday, I'd like to be able to have an answer for that ideal body question besides "infancy." But isn't exercise supposed to feel good? I hope that at some point it does, because my birthday is coming up, and it would really suck if, when people ask what I want, I'd have to say "one of those high toilet seats."

Human Error, Superhero Disgrace

2008-08-05T14:52:00.005-05:00

It's a good thing I'm not really a customer service superhero, because the tabloids would be having a field day right now.

Yesterday, I was out shopping on my lunch hour and decided to buy a shirt. When the clerk rang it up, the price was about seven dollars more than the sale price I'd seen listed on the rack. That happens fairly often in this store, but the clerks never you give you a hard time when you bring it up, so I mentioned the price difference to him and he re-rang it at the lower price.

Today, I went back to the same store and, just for the heck of it, cruised by the rack where the shirt I bought was displayed and checked the price. It turns out, I was the one who had been wrong. The more expensive price had been correct; I must have been looking at the wrong sign or the wrong listed price.

The shirt was kind of overpriced even at what I paid, but I still felt bad. I guess if I felt bad enough, I would return the shirt, get what I paid back, then re-buy the same shirt at the more expensive price, but that would be a little excessive, I think. But I had to clear my shopping karma somehow, so I bought another shirt, this one also overpriced, and paid what it was actually supposed to cost.

The Power of Suggestion

2008-08-04T16:04:00.003-05:00

My friend Miranda was telling me last week that she reads this blog often and started watching Dirty Sexy Money because I mentioned here that I was interested in watching it.

So I just wanted to take this opportunity to say hi to my good friend Miranda and also to point out that I've also been thinking of mailing me some candy, like an extra large bag of Starbursts.

Jobs I Am Glad Other People Are Willing To Do, Because I'm Sure As Hell Never Going To Do Them

2008-07-22T12:27:00.002-05:00

This list was inspired by a photo a coworker's husband, who is an iron worker, sent her today from the top of the not-yet-finished third highest building in Chicago. I got to thinking how they couldn't pay me enough spend day after day up that high -- especially after my coworker told me they often have to climb ladders and scaffolds all the way up -- and decided to make a list (in no particular order) of other things I would never want to do for a living.

1. Police officer
2. Firefighter
3. Colonoscopy technician
4. Doctor of any sort, except maybe eye, because that's probably not too gross
5. Costumed character at Chuck E. Cheese or similar establishment
6. Kindergarten teacher (or basically anything to do with children, unless I could be Santa Claus, because if he outsources the whole mall thing, he doesn't have to see kids at all)
7. Amusement park worker (children again, and the possibility of having to clean up vomit)
8. Personal assistant
9. Nun (though I do like the idea of not having to decide what to wear every day)
10. Trash collector
11. Any math related job
12. Laundress, particularly for an athletic team
13. Gangsta rapper
14. Wedding coordinator (unless I could just do whatever I wanted without having to consult the happy couple)
15. Cab driver
16. Clown
17. Publicist
18. Port-a-Potty porter
19. Racecar driver/mechanic/anything to do with racing or cars in general
20. Clyde Peeling
21. Anyone who works at a mall kiosk and has to chase down unsuspecting shoppers in the name of selling cell phones/hair straighteners/skin care products/rice with stuff written on it/etc.
22. Beekeeper
23. Reality TV show host
24. Mover
25. Traffic reporter

Another Openin', Another Show

2008-07-16T09:24:00.003-05:00

Thanks to social networking Web site (read: time suck) Facebook and its Stage Door application, I now have a running record of all the plays I've ever seen or worked on.

While I was going through the list of shows yesterday, however, I noticed quite a few I was cast in but had never made it to the stage for one reason or another. Since Stage Door has no "almost, but not quite" category, I thought I'd list them here.

Goin' Steady for Naught -- I was cast as the mayor's wife in "Bye Bye Birdie" when I was in high school, but right when rehearsals started, I had an out-of-town choir thing and a vacation pretty much back to back. I don't remember if I quit or was un-cast, but either way, I never got my big moment of fainting.

Farewell, Mein Lieber Show -- One of the shows I would absolutely love to act in is "Cabaret," and I almost got my chance in 2002 when I was offered the part of a Kit Kat Girl Unfortunately, rehearsals began at the exact same time I got off work, in a town 40 minutes away. I had to turn down the part, and while I was bummed to miss out on the show, I heard terrible things about it, so in retrospect I'm not all that sorry.

I Do...Not! -- Before I started hating weddings, I was cast in a production of "Tony 'n Tina's Wedding" in 2002 as the groom's father's girlfriend (who happened to be the star performer at the groom's father's strip club). The script called for me to dance on the bar and leave the wedding with the best man, really classy stuff. I'm not sure what happened, but after one or two rehearsals, the show fell apart. I think it had something to do with the venue falling through. Side note: The next wedding I attended, I actually did dance on the bar, with the bride and other bridesmaids. Not all it's cracked up to be. It was actually pretty scary, as the bar was shaky, and there were like five of us up there. But at least I could say I've danced on a bar. I did not, however, leave with the best man.

Some Doll -- In 2005, a friend and I auditioned for a production of "Guys and Dolls." Once I got to the audition, I found out that the rehearsal schedule conflicted with my work schedule. I auditioned anyway, and I was offered a part of "a Doll" (which I guess they just thought sounded better than ensemble). I'm not above being in the ensemble, but I wasn't going to mess with my work schedule so I could sing one song and walk across the stage a couple of times, so I declined. It ended up being a good thing, as within a month or so, I was starting to date my now-husband and wouldn't have wanted to devote all that time to a show when I could have been making googly eyes at my new boyfriend. It wasn't for nothing, however -- my friend was cast (and performed) as a Hot Box Dancer, and a group of us went to see the show. I told my beau about the whole casting thing, and to this day, he calls me Doll.

Never Before Has A Cast Wanted More -- Earlier this year, I auditioned for a production of "Oliver!" and was offered a part in the ensemble. Again, I'm not above being in the ensemble (goodness knows I'm not a fantastic singer), but for this particular production, I wasn't really interested in rehearsing two evenings and one weekend day every week to stand in the back. I turned down the part and, oddly, was then offered a better one. But I still wasn't interested, so the production went on without me.

I Am The Most Fascinating Person Ever -- Not All That Fascinating Edition

2008-06-29T20:27:00.003-05:00

What is your occupation?
I am an editor for a publishing company and a freelance writer.

What color are your socks right now?
Each pair is the same color it's always been, but if you mean the socks that are currently on my feet, you're out of luck, because my feet are bare.

What are you listening to right now?
My husband commentate on the Sox/Cubs game.

What was the last thing you ate/drank?
Shortbread cookies and lemonade.

Can you drive a stick shift?
I learned how, but I haven't actually driven a stick shift on the road more than once, and that was six years ago, so I'm gonna go with no.

Last person you spoke to on the phone?
I'm going to ignore that that's not actually a question and answer the question it should be. The answer is Marla. I needed a good gift suggestion.

Do you like the person who sent this to you?
Very much.

How old are you today?
29, all day long.

What is your favorite sport to watch on TV?
Yeah, right.

What is your favorite drink?
Iced tea.

Have you ever dyed your hair?
Many times. And I'd like to extend a big thank-you to whoever wrote this survey and spelled dyed correctly.

Favorite Food?
Chicken paprikash.

What is the second to last movie you watched?
Love in the Time of Cholera

Favorite day of the year?
December 23

How do you vent anger?
I whine and bitch. But I know how annoying that is, so I think from now on, I'm going to dance Kevin Bacon style when I'm angry.

What was your favorite toy as a child?
I'd say my stuffed pig, Roger Bacon, but he wasn't so much of a toy as a friend. My favorite toys were probably my sister's. Her stuff always seemed way cooler than mine.

What is your favorite season?
Fall

Cherries or Blueberries?
Blueberries if we're talking actual fruit. But I like cherry flavored candy and prefer it when any liquid medicine I take is cherry flavored.

When was the last time you cried?
This afternoon.

What is on the floor of your closet?
Shoes and my laundry basket.

What did you do last night?
My husband and I went to a barbecue, which was super fun. And the best part was, it was close enough for us to ride our bikes, which was also super fun.

Nails painted or plain?
My toes are always painted, except sometimes in the winter if I'm lazy and no one will be seeing my feet. My fingers are painted probably half the time.

What are you most afraid of?
Being maimed.

Plain, cheese or spicy hamburgers?
Plain, but I enjoy spicy sometimes.

Favorite dog Breed?
Boston terriers, especially my peanut girl.

Favorite day of the week?
Friday, especially because I usually don't have to work.

How many states have you lived in?
Two

What makes you happy?
Stella

Favorite outfit right now?
I'm not at all good with clothes, and since I have a casual dress code for work, I pretty much wear jeans every day. I have nothing cute. So my favorite outfit is pajamas, because they are the most comfortable and I'm always relaxing at home when I have them on.

She Was Erika, A Mighty Consumer, Forged In The Heat of Battle

2008-06-26T10:43:00.004-05:00

I think maybe I should change the name of this blog to The Angry Consumer, because I often find myself fighting the good fight in the name of not spending money on goods and services that were not up to par.

I see myself sort of like Xena, Warrior Princess, except with a pen instead of a sword (and we all know which of those is mightier) battling stores and services providers instead of Greek gods (or whatever it is Xena battled). I know I'm more like the annoying old lady people refund just to get her to shut up, but hey, whatever gets results is fine with me.

Here's a little about my current battle: Earlier this spring, my husband and I signed up for a dog park in our area. It cost $60 -- which seemed steep for the right to enter a fenced-in patch of grass, but whatever -- but we didn't mind paying it because we were really excited to have a safe place to let Stella run off-leash. We really enjoyed taking her there, and she seemed to enjoy going...until we took a good look around and noticed how badly the place is kept.

The problem, in a word, is poop. There are signs posted at the entrance telling dog owners to pick up after their pets, but never once have I actually seen someone doing so; most of the owners are too busy socializing with each other to notice what their dogs are leaving behind. The park district doesn't seem to care much either; I'm sure they would clean up whatever a picnicking family left behind at one of the people parks, but the keep-parks-clean rule apparently doesn't apply when it comes to dogs. Most of the times we've been there, we've spent more time chasing Stel away from droppings than actually playing with her.

I e-mailed the park district and very politely explained that a grassy patch full of dog poop and vomit (yes, vomit) was not what I was expecting for my sixty bucks and nicely asked for a refund, even if it was a partial one. Today (eight days later), they sent a curt reply telling me that the dog park is clean and we will not be refunded.

Well then. Thanks for the kind explanation, park district. I'm glad to know that the huge piles of poo were all in my imagination. I'm so embarrassed to have told you the park was poorly kept when it very clearly was not. I guess I'll just let the thing drop.

I don't know who these people think they're dealing with, but I've won battles against UPS and Sam's Club; I can certainly take down a park district. Yes, yes, it's sixty bucks, not a million, but I am so offended by their response to my (very polite) e-mail message that I'm even angrier than I was before.

Stay tuned for the next installment in this enthralling story.

I Scream, You Scream, We All Scream For Soy

2008-06-16T13:48:00.005-05:00

Since I stopped eating dairy, I haven't missed all that many foods, thanks to fantastic substitutes.

There have been two things, however, that I love too much in the real form to be able to accept in any non-dairy form. The first thing is pizza, because soy and rice cheese tastes like glue, and because pizza without cheese doesn't taste enough like pizza to quell my craving. The other thing is ice cream. There are, of course, fine milk substitutes out there; I use soy milk on a daily basis. But it doesn't quite measure up when you're looking for the creamy, fatty goodness that real milk brings to ice cream.

As the days get sunnier and the weather gets warmer, I can't help but wish I could eat some ice cream. I've had soy ice cream before, and it was alright. It's decent as a frozen treat, but it offers about the same level of satisfaction as real ice cream that comes out of a container boasting "75% less fat."

But ice cream is part of summer, and if I'm going to enjoy my summer, I'm gonna need a scoop once in awhile. So I decided the other day to find out how to make non-dairy ice cream at home. After all, I have a hardly-used ice cream maker that I got as a wedding gift just waiting for its chance to please.

A quick Google search lead me to this blog, which features all sorts of ice cream recipes for vegans. I am not a vegan, of course, but I have become very grateful to those folks who are, because they provide me with some great recipes. The blog ended up being quite the jackpot for me and earned a coveted place among my bookmarks.

I decided to start with something relatively easy and go with cookies and cream. I altered it a little bit; it called for two tablespoons of arrowroot, and I wasn't quite sure what that was or where to find it, so instead, I used corn starch, which the blog owner had mentioned as a possible alternative. I also couldn't find soy coffee creamer, so I used coconut milk, which gives the soy ice cream that thick, creamy quality that you get in the real thing.

I was a little concerned about whether the stuff would freeze properly -- I've had trouble with that even when I've made real ice cream -- but it froze like a dream and tasted great too. My only complaint is that it tastes like coconut, which isn't necessarily what you want when you're eating cookies and cream, so I think I'll have to look a little harder for the soy creamer next time I make a flavor that doesn't lend itself to a coconutty taste.

All in all, however, I am very pleased at the way my experiment turned out, and even more pleased that my Hershey's syrup and sprinkles will not go to waste this summer.

Speaking of Summer Blockbusters...

2008-06-12T11:28:00.003-05:00

I don't begrudge Harrison Ford and the rest of the Indiana Jones gang whatever success they may have, but I really wish that the release of the new movie didn't mean the theme song had to be played on every freakin' commercial.

I can't get the tune out of my head today, and it's driving me nuts. It would be fine if I had a cool, adventurous job, but it's not great background music for someone who spends her day writing letters and copyediting.

Semi-colons! Why did it have to be semi-colons?

Yeah, doesn't work.

My Must List For Summer

2008-06-11T09:38:00.003-05:00

I have a thing about lists. Always have, really. I feel like it's a good way to take stock of things, or to plan things. When you have it all written out in front of you, you can't forget anything.

Every year when summer rolls around, I say I'm going to do wonderful, outdoorsy summer things and then never do. Summers in Chicago are hot, sticky and gross, and once the one week of nice weather is over, all I want to do is sit in an air conditioned room and read.

But if I make a list of things to do, I will most certainly do them. And after this past winter and all its cold and snow, I really need to get out. So here is my list of summery things that I will do this season.

1. Take many, many rides on my new bike. At least two a week.

2. Take Stella for a lot of walks and to the dog park at least once a week. This one will have to depend on weather, though, because with her smooshy face, Stel can't handle too much heat and humidity. Plus she's had a little tummy trouble lately, so she's laying low for a little while at least.

3. Eat at least one meal a month outside. This actually doesn't sound like much, but since I have no space to eat outside at home, it takes a special effort to do so.

4. Sit on my balcony with my husband, just like we say we will every nice day and then forget about when we get involved in doing other things.

5. Go to an outdoor event, like a concert or movie in the park.

6. Use my homegrown herbs in my cooking as much as possible.

7. Go to the local pool. I'm normally not a local pool kind of gal -- a backyard in-ground pool was the one big luxury I had growing up -- but it's half-price in the evenings, and I love to swim, so maybe it's time to get used to sharing water with other people.

8. Go hiking. My husband and I will be spending a week in the woods of Pennsylvania at the end of July, so that one shouldn't be a problem.

9. See a summer blockbuster when the weather gets unbearable.

10. Find a dairy-free alternative to ice cream that I can have as a refreshing summer treat.

I Rode My Bicycle Past Your Window Last Night

2008-06-04T10:00:00.005-05:00

Last night, I bought my very first brand new bicycle.

After my shopping excursion and ride on Sunday, I was more convinced than ever that I should take the leap and buy a bike. I had found a few I really liked, but the price was just a tad high, and I could get virtually the same thing for less. Everyone was out of the lesser model but told me to check back in a few days, so yesterday, I made some calls and made an upsetting discovery.

Apparently, the reason everyone was out of the model I wanted was that a new 2009 model will be coming out in the next few months, and when they're gone, they're gone. (Why no one bothered to tell me that on Sunday, I'm not sure, but that's neither here nor there right now.) One store I called had a men's model of the bike I wanted, but no one had a women's in the right size. Another place told me I was welcome to place an order for the 2009 model; it will be coming out in a month or two, he said, and after that, it will be a five-to-six week wait. Well, by then, summer will be practically over. I decided to go back to the shop where I'd tried the more expensive bikes and simply buy one of those.

I was sharing my findings with my husband, and he asked why I didn't just buy the men's bike. "Don't most women buy men's bicycles anyway?" he asked. I brushed him off, partly because I didn't see any reason it would be true, and partly because I was already on the way to a different place. But out of curiosity, when I arrived at the bike shop, I asked the guy who was helping me.

Turns out my husband was right. Women do prefer men's bikes, the bike shop guy said, because the only difference is that the top bar goes straight across, and because it forms more of a triangle with the other pieces, it is more stable and makes for a better ride. And it just so happened that they, too, had the less expensive bicycle in a men's.

I took it. And I'm so glad I did. As soon as I got home from the shop, I took a short spin around my neighborhood, and I really enjoyed myself. It's much more comfortable than my husband's bike (probably because this one has been adjusted just for me), and it was a really smooth ride.

Unfortunately, there's rain in the weather forecast for the next several days, so I'm not sure how much time I will be spending with my new bike (who, by the way, has yet to be named). But just in case, I'm printing out maps of all the bike trails in my area so that as soon as it's dry, I can hit the ground pedaling.

Whenever I Want You, All I Have To Do Is Dream

2008-06-03T09:42:00.002-05:00

I had the most delicious dream last night.

Every once in awhile, I have a dream that stays with me for a day or so, either because it's just so awful or just so wonderful. This was one of the latter. In this dream, I got to do something that I haven't been able to do for a very long time and may not be able to do again.

I ate thin, greasy pizza.

I know it sounds like a silly thing to dream, but since I cut back drastically on dairy almost a year ago, and cut it out completely soon thereafter, I have found that there's nothing I miss more than pizza. There are acceptable dairy-free substitutes for milk, butter and even sour cream, but I have not yet found a dairy-free cheese that I like. And even if I could find one, I'd have to make my pizza at home; I couldn't exactly take the stuff to my local pizza place and ask them for a large pie with pepperoni and soy.

And eating the real thing every once in awhile isn't really an option. Once a month or so, I'll allow myself a cookie made with real butter or a handful of milk chocolate candy, but pizza was almost too much for me even when I ate dairy regularly. I wouldn't dare touch the stuff now.

But in the dream, I dug right in. I heaped a plate with two gigantic pieces of pizza and took big, cheesy bites with reckless abandon. I kept explaining to people that eating this pizza didn't matter; I think I must have realized I was dreaming, and I'd better take the chance while I had it.

I feel a little silly (if not gluttonous) that a dream of eating pizza is the one I wish would come back. But hey, if delicious dairy is the thing I wish for most right now, I guess life can't be so bad, right?