To Me, It Was Perfect

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)

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

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

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

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

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

Not Quite Ready for the Evil Plan Laugh

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.