Felt So Funny To Be Free

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

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

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)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!

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

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.