We The Jury Find The Commercial Stupid

I think the good folks at Swiffer need to rethink their current commercial.

In the commercial, a woman testifying in court is recounting her discovery of a crime, claiming that she saw the evidence "all over the floor." The culprit, of course, is a broom which didn't pick up all a Swiffer would have picked up. I guess it's a clever enough idea for a commercial, but whoever wrote it made a really stupid mistake that makes me not want to buy Swiffer products. I don't want to reward the stupidity.

The attorney questioning the woman tells her to "point to the defendant," and, of course, she dramatically points to the broom, and everyone in the courtroom gasps. Why are these people gasping? Because she knows where the defendant sits? The attorney should have asked her to "point to the guilty party" or something; pointing to the defendant proves nothing except that she knows who is being tried for the crime, not who committed the crime.

I know it's just a commercial, but it bothers me to be exposed to these idiotic errors, because whoever wrote that script is probably a lot richer than I am.

An Open Letter To The Salon/Spa I Visited Today

Dear Salon/Spa I Visited Today,

I have always enjoyed patronizing your establishment, be it for a haircut, manicure or, like today, a massage. Your staff has always been friendly and helpful and done a great job with whatever service I came in to have done. In fact, today's massage was a true highlight to my week.

However, you may want to reconsider the complimentary bonus services. I wasn't expecting a makeup application, so hearing that I was to get one as a complimentary bonus with my massage was a nice surprise. And it would have been a special treat, too, had I actually been able to get it. But after sitting for half an hour waiting -- while one of the makeup people was putting makeup on herself and not actually working -- I finally gave up and left and felt kind of sour about my whole visit.

And I was kind of disappointed that after offering me a free service and then making me sit and wait for it until I didn't have time to wait anymore, you didn't even offer me a certificate to come back and get it another time. It's not like I feel it's owed to me, because I wasn't even expecting it and it was free anyway, but still, since it was offered, it would have been nice it had actually been given to me.

So unless you have someone willing and available to do the complimentary service, maybe you shouldn't include it. That's all I'm saying.

Sincerely,
Erika

Knowing When To Hold 'Em In The House Of God

The church in which my husband and I got married is holding its annual Autumn Fest this weekend, and last night, we stopped by.

It's the typical church fest thing -- food, drinks, entertainment...roulette. Yes, the church festival included a casino. To make it worse, unlike the food and entertainment, which was in a tent outside, the casino portion of the fest was held inside the church. It's not like the priest was dispensing chips from the altar, but even in the catechism classrooms and the hallways, there hung casino-related decorations directly on top of Jesus posters and crucifixes right next to games. I had to wonder if they'd done that on purpose so that people didn't try to win too big. The volunteers manning the casino made it a point to tell the unlucky that the church appreciated their donation.

We both felt a little weird about participating in the gambling, but we had some time to kill, and it was either gamble or watch a bunch of little kids do Irish step dancing, so we bought $20 in chips and headed off to the Blackjack room. I like Blackjack -- there isn't much skill involved. I mean, I suppose if you go to Vegas, you can count cards if you don't mind getting your kneecaps busted later, but generally speaking, the game is simple math, and, in this case, successfully ignoring the poster of the Ten Commandments staring down at you from behind the dealer's seat. And I did OK, coming out slightly ahead.

My husband, however, took the big prize in a game of Texas Hold 'Em. I had to get home to do an interview for a freelance story I'm writing, so he had time for only a few hands, and of those hands he folded all but one. He won that hand, giving us a total of $65 in chips to cash out, meaning a net gain of $45.

We left happy, albeit still feeling a little strange. Gambling in church was weird enough, but winning money felt like stealing from God. Nothing like a little Catholic guilt to liven up casino night.

When we got home, the person I was to interview called to postpone a few hours, so I filled the time by watching Dirty Sexy Money. Somehow, it seemed appropriate.

An Open Letter To Janet Evanovich

Dear Janet Evanovich,

I really enjoy reading your Stephanie Plum series, but there's something that has been bothering me since the first time I saw it in your books. I'm actually curious enough that I plan to go to your Web site after I post this message and e-mail you the link to my blog to invite you to comment.

Your character Lula (one of my favorites, by the way) is always described as a "former 'ho." Why the apostrophe in "'ho?" Perhaps I'm just not up on my streetwalker lingo, but for the life of me, I cannot figure out what synonym for prostitute ends with the letters "ho." The only word that comes to mind is "whore," but if you were shortening "whore," you would need two apostrophes, because the "ho" is the middle of the word, and the whole point of the apostrophe is to replace missing letters. Is there a synonym for prostitute that actually ends in "ho?"

Please explain this to me, because, despite the fact that it is a really dorky thing to be asking about, it's driving me nuts.

Sincerely,
Erika

Someone Saved My Life Tonight

I think there might be a body in the dumpster by my building.

Alright, so probably not, but I can't help wondering if something shady went down in my neighborhood last night. And it's all because of my dog.

At 3 this morning, I got up to take Stella outside, as I do every day in the wee hours (pun intended). When we first went out, it was, as it usually is at that time, dark and quiet. But just as Stel was finishing her business, I heard the crash of something big and heavy being thrown into the dumpster and the dumpster lid slamming shut.

It startled me. Stel and I rarely even see a car pass when we're outside on our nighttime potty breaks. And I thought it was strange that someone would take out their garbage at 3 a.m. I looked over to the dumpster area, but it's not well-lit, and I couldn't see more than a vague shadowy figure.

That's when Stella started barking.

Stel is not a barker, especially not at strangers; she's usually pulling at her leash, wanting to go and greet anyone who comes within 100 feet of us. The only people she has ever actually barked at are my husband and me, when we scolded her for biting us, and even that hasn't happened in weeks. Yet at 3 a.m. in our parking lot, she decided to become my little guard dog.

I wasn't sure what she knew that I didn't, but I wasn't about to stay outside at 3 a.m. with no one but the mystery garbage dumper. So I quickly shushed her and hustled her inside.

Realistically, it probably was just someone throwing out their garbage, someone who works the night shift or something. But the fact that my very friendly dog actually barked at someone had me curious and a bit creeped out. And no matter who it was or what they were dumping, I've always been of the opinion that it's best to err on the side of caution when it comes to meeting strangers alone in the dark and, well, not do it.

I was tempted to look in the dumpster this morning to see if there was anything suspicious in it, but I think that in doing so, I would have crossed over from curious to alarmist, and I didn't want to go there.

In any case, I appreciate the gesture Stella made. It's nice to know that when the chips fall, she'll stand up and protect me. All six pounds of her.

Expanding My Viewing Repertoire

Finally, I've joined the club.

About a year ago, I wrote about wanting a TV show of my own, an appointment-viewing show that I could watch and enjoy from the very first season. Most of my friends watch Grey's Anatomy, a show I can't stand, yet I always felt left out when they started talking about the latest episodes, because I could never participate. So I decided to get myself a show and hope someone I know also watched it.

At the time, I had decided to try Studio 60 On The Sunset Strip and The Nine. These proved to be bad picks. I found Studio 60 pretentious and The Nine boring. Apparently, the folks at the shows' respective networks agreed that the shows were no good, because both were scrapped.

But somehow, I ended up with a show anyway, thanks to my friend Marla and persistence by NBC -- Heroes. I'd seen the commercials for it last summer but thought it looked kind of stupid; however, after Marla told me it was good and I found out there was a marathon of the first handful of episodes on NBC one day, I thought I'd give it a shot. I'm glad I did; I got sucked in. Amazingly, so did my husband, who rarely watches TV that isn't sports, home improvement shows or American Chopper.

It felt good, in a completely dorky way, to be excited for the season premiere of a TV show. And when I turned on my computer and saw that Marla had changed her G-mail "status" bar to read, "erika, i wanna talk heroes!!" I knew I was truly in the TV watching club.

I decided to try a couple of other new shows this year as well; I'm kind of enjoying this TV watching thing. I'm not sure about this season's prospects, however -- I caught the premiere of Journeyman last night but got a little bored with the copious exposition. I might try out Dirty Sexy Money as well, but that one almost seems like it's going to try too hard to be edgy and sexy and end up getting stupid pretty fast.

Oh well. At least I'll have my Heroes.

Skinny Jeans And Soy

I love new jeans.

I know that most people say their most comfortable jeans are the ones they've had forever that hug their curves and whatnot, but to me, the most flattering and good-feeling jeans are brand new. They aren't hugging the bad curves yet, nothing has frayed and the color is just right. I'm wearing such a pair today.

The new pair is doubly perfect for me, because not only are they new and nice, they're a size smaller than the last jeans I bought, even though they're the same brand and fit. So not only am I feeling new-jeans-fantastic, I'm feeling skinny!

I guess I can't be too surprised. Since I gave up dairy a little over a month ago (due to severe lactose intolerance and an icky feeling that I was doing something awful to myself by eating dairy), I've lost 10 pounds. The weight loss is a bonus, really, but to me, it's pretty telling as well. What in the world was I doing to my body by eating all that stuff? Granted, much of the dairy I was eating was stuff like ice cream and butter and other fattening items, so it's not a huge mystery why I lost weight, but even so, on some level, I feel that dropping the weight is my body's way of saying thank you for losing the lactose.

It's been weird, not eating dairy. I miss cheese and butter, and while I don't miss real milk (never liked it much, and once you get past the fact that soy milk is slightly gray, it's fine), I do miss butter and sour cream. It's a pain in the butt having to ask for special consideration at every restaurant I go to, and whenever I'm at a party or something and offered ice cream or some other dairy-laden item, I have to go through the whole spiel, because people just don't get it. ("You aren't dieting are you? Come on, just have some. Oh, you're lactose intolerant. Well, what about those little pills? Come on, you can have a little piece; it won't hurt you.").

But in the end, I'm satisfied with my choice. I feel better than I have in years, and on the rare occasions I do allow myself a small amount of dairy, I can feel it going through my body like a lead weight. So even if I have to eat my corn on the cob with tasteless soy margarine forevermore, I won't be sorry, 'cause I'll be doing it in my skinny jeans.

That Face, That Face, That Fabulous Face

After hearing about the site myheritage.com, where you can upload a photo of yourself and some "state of the art" software tells you what celebrities you most resemble, I couldn't resist trying it out.

I uploaded this photo of myself and my husband from his sister's wedding last week and eagerly awaited the results, hoping it would tell us we looked like Catherine Zeta-Jones and George Clooney or something.

Verdict: The computer said I look like Christina Scabbia, who is apparently some Italian pop singer, and my husband looks like former Polish prime minister Leszek Miller. What a cute couple those two would make.

I'm not sure if it's funnier that I was matched up as a hot young woman and he was matched with an old man, or that he's so proud of his Italian heritage and it was I, not he, who got matched with an Italian person.

But I guess I shouldn't laugh too much, in any case, because my number two match was Hillary Clinton, and apparently, the celebrity that comes in third for looking like me is Roger Federer.

An Acorn/Tree Moment

My mom e-mailed me this morning, asking how to start a blog.

I was surprised, to say the least. I never thought my mom would be the blogger type. I asked if she was actually starting to think of one, and she said, "from time to time, I feel like complaining, so I thought a blog might be a good place to do it."

I'd make fun of her for becoming a crochety old lady, but one quick look at my own blog would pretty much prove that age has nothing to do with it.

And Wii're Back!

A few weeks ago, lightning hit our building, killing or maiming a couple of our electronics, including the Wii.

As I blogged then, we were lucky; unlike our neighbors, we only had a few small things fry (although I'm pretty sure our subsequent fridge failure was a result of the lightning as well). Still, I was pretty bummed about the Wii and not looking forward to paying for a new one, or even dealing with fighting for warranty coverage.

Well, my husband called Nintendo, and they promptly sent him a new power cord. They said that often times, it's just the cord that gets fried, and the actual unit is fine. Well, the new power cord arrived the other day, and the Wii started up right away.

I still suck at half of the games, but it's nice to have the opportunity to play them again.

My Dog Is A Badass

To give Stella a little more freedom, my husband and I bought a couple of baby gates to put on the entrances to the kitchen, and we let her hang out in there sometimes, rather than in her crate, when we can't be watching her every single second. The other night, I put her in there while I did some things in the living room. After a few minutes, it got strangely silent, so I went in to see what she was up to, and I found her in here.

I had a little talk with her about making good choices, and the fact that she is underage, but I don't think it sunk in, because this morning when I took her outside, she tried to eat a cigarette butt.

Better Never Than Late

Last year, I sent an inquiry to a local hotel about reserving a block of rooms for my wedding. Today, I got this response.

Thank you for your interest in (name of hotel withheld out of respect for dummies who read and respond to these inquiries) for your upcoming event. We appreciate your consideration; unfortunately, we are unable to accommodate your request due to the following reason:

Guest rooms unavailable.

We hope that you will consider us again for any future functions.

Unavailable, huh? I would guess so, seeing as the wedding was four months ago.

Season of Mist and Mellow Fruitfulness

Even though it's 90 degrees outside today, I can't help reveling in the fact that Labor Day is over, and it's almost fall!

My mom always says that fall depresses her, that it reminds her of death. But to me, it's a season of newness, of rebirth. When I was in school, fall was a time to reinvent myself -- new clothes, new classes, new activities, new friends and a chance to begin my studies on the right foot -- a clean slate.

Even though I haven't been in school for quite some time, I still think of fall as the beginning of my year. (And really, it is, considering my October birthday). I buy new clothes, set new goals and feel generally refreshed, as I enjoy the changing leaves and the crisp-but-not-yet-cold weather.

The clothes are, I think, my favorite part. I love sweaters and boots, and although I'm probably in the minority on this, I love new jeans (once they're worn in, they just don't have as nice a shape). Plus, fall clothes just look better, not just on me but on everyone. Fall colors are so much more flattering than the summer ones that usually leave everyone looking washed out, and the sturdiness of fall clothes is much preferable over the flimsy stuff people wear to keep cool in the summer, too often forgetting to buy what looks good on them. (I know it sounds mean, but seriously, if I see one more of those ultra-short skirts on an obese person, I swear, I'm going to start handing out coupons for free clothes that fit).

Fall is also the time for new TV. In the past, this hasn't always meant a lot, since I catch most of my TV in syndicated reruns, but this year, I'm chomping at the bit awaiting the Heroes season premiere. I'm going to try to pick up another show this year, to add to my watching repertoire, since my summertime addition, Flight of the Conchords, is done for the season.

And let's not forget the food (as if I could). Fall is the season for so many of my favorite foods. Some are truly seasonal, like apple and pumpkin items, some are things I've missed during the too-hot-to-eat-them summer, like pot roast and chili, and some are simply foods I associate with fall because of fall events and circumstances. For example, today I am craving some hot french fries covered in malt vinegar, like I used to enjoy at school football games, and chicken fingers and waffle fries with ranch dressing, like I used to order from my favorite place in my college town.

Fall also provides a lovely transition into the end of the year and holiday festivities. Once the pretty leaves have fallen and the light jacket weather has given way to sweater and heavy jacket weather, it's time for Thanksgiving, then Christmas.

So while others I know are bemoaning the fact that they will soon put away their flip flops and shorts, I say, bring on the fall!

Laboring

Last year for Labor Day weekend, my parents rented a condo in Ocean City, Maryland, and they, my sister, brother-in-law, then-fiance and I spent a few days there.

We had intended to soak up the sun but instead got soaked, as Tropical Storm Ernesto was rolling through, and most of the time we were there, it was too cold and wet to do many beachy things. Mostly we just ate, drank beer and watched the green go by on The Weather Channel. This year, we thought about doing it again (the beach, not the tropical storm stuff), but for various reasons, it didn't happen.

Instead, I am spending my Labor Day weekend cleaning. I mean really cleaning. My housekeeping has somewhat fallen by the wayside since Stella moved in, and there were several chores I'd been meaning to do for awhile anyway, so since I had a four-day weekend, I decided to spend my Labor Day laboring.

Besides normal chores I'd been neglecting, like scrubbing the bathrooms, I decided that this weekend would be a good time to do all of those once-in-awhile chores that I never seem to get to. For example, on Friday and Saturday, I steam cleaned my carpets. I had plans to do every inch of carpet in my home, but after finding out how long it took me to do just the dining room, I decided to stick to the heavy traffic areas; whatever is under the bed or the entertainment center will have to stay there for awhile.

I can't say the carpet looks fabulous, but there has been a noticeable improvement. And just in case I didn't do a great job, I went to Ikea yesterday and bought a new throw rug for the dining room (to replace the one I spilled Kool-Aid on), a new throw rug for the kitchen and a new runner for the hallway.

Today, I scrubbed my kitchen floor with white vinegar and water. My knees are a bit sore, but the floor looks good. I'm hoping it is now sufficiently clean that Stella won't want to lick it anymore. (Stella, by the way, has been taking all of this cleaning in stride, napping quietly in her crate. I feel kind of bad for making her stay in there when I'm home, but I don't quite trust her to roam around when I can't watch her, and besides, she has kennel cough and shouldn't be running around too much anyway). The bathroom floors -- so badly ignored for so very long -- are next. Oh yes, my floors will be looking mighty fine, at least for a few days till they get trashed again.

In case the floors don't wow people enough, I also cleaned my sliding glass balcony doors, and I'm not sure if I'll get to it today or not, but there's a big bottle of Murphy's Oil Soap awaiting its debut on my kitchen cabinets and other woodwork.

I guess this is sort of my spring cleaning, just in the wrong season. It's nice to do a top-to-bottom scrub every few months; I always feel better in a clean house. It's good for the soul, I think.

It's not exactly a weekend at the beach, but all in all, it's not a bad way to spend my four days off. There's not as much beer, but at least I don't have to worry about getting sand in my socks.

Bangled, Tangled, Spangled, Spaghettied...And Carded

Ever since I got my hair cut short in May, I've felt old. And although only my husband was brave enough to say so, I've looked old too, sporting what could only be described as a soccer mom cut.

I hated it with a passion, but since it was so short, there wasn't much I could do to fix it, or even put it up in such a way that I looked like me and not some minivan-driving version of me.

The worst part was that people started treating me differently. They kept calling me "ma'am," and worse, I never got carded when I bought alcohol. I don't have a particularly youthful face, but I usually got the requisite request for identification.

Most stores are supposed to card you if you look like you're under 35, and the fact that long-haired me never got carded but short-haired me did...well, you can imagine the trauma. Once, I even tried to look shady and covert, but...nothing.

I tried to tell myself that cashiers were simply noticing my wedding ring and figuring that most married women are older than 21, but that was little more than a ploy to fool myself.

I wouldn't say I sunk into a deep depression, but I certainly didn't enjoy dealing with my hair in the morning.

Last week, I went to the salon to beg for deliverance, and I got it. When I got out of the stylist's chair, not a trace of my soccer mom look remained; I looked young and sassy. I haven't been able to duplicate the look, however, and now, I look like a young, sassy soccer mom. Oh well, it's an improvement anyway.

Yesterday, after a particularly long day of scrubbing bathrooms, steam cleaning carpets, doing laundry and tending to the puppy, I went grocery shopping to pick up some things to fill our new refrigerator, since we had to throw away the spoiled things from the broken one. I picked up a bottle of wine, and as I rolled up to the checkout counter, I heard those words I had been wanting to hear for so long.

"Could I see your ID?"

The funny thing was that after the day I'd had, I certainly looked at least 35, probably older. Nevertheless, I was overjoyed; I actually thanked the clerk, a move I'm sure most people under 35 wouldn't do...but hey, after my long day of hard housekeeping labor, I wasn't entirely sure how old I was. So I was glad I had the grocery store cashier to remind me.