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.