crimmles.com

Since I have too much free time, I’ve decided to delve into some of the more pervasive commercials of this time. Issue one- the Glade lady. She started out innocently enough- throwing a gathering for a few girlfriends, it’s during the holidays, she has a gorgeous house, the perfect LBD, it’s the picture of early 90’s Chris Columbus perfection. But there’s something missing…maybe the dog rolled in mess outside and tracked it in. Maybe hubby is slacking on garbage duty, and they had flounder for last night’s dinner. Or maybe she’s a real estate stager, and is all out of cookie spray. Whatever. Enter Glade candles. But what lurks beneath the slightly quirky surface of our domestic doyenne is far more sinister than a love of over the fence gossip.

She lights the candle. The doorbell rings. This candle isn’t Diptyque! Hell, it isn’t even one of those White Barn Candle Co. candles from B&BW. It’s Glade…from the cleaning supplies aisle in Wall Banger’s. Its closest neighbors are those 98 cent jelly cones and Toilet Duck. This will not do, even though the scent makes everyone want pie. So, off goes the label, into the trash (or so we thought.) Door is answered, greetings all around, “is that pie?” No! It’s a candle…from France. What’s fancier than candles from France? Nothing, and don’t you forget it. Oh you mean Glahday?? Hens cackle, candle is described, candle lady finally admits that yes, the candle is Glade, end scene.

So. What can we tell about our heroine from this ad? And from all subsequent ads? That she’s got caviar taste and a catfish budget? That perhaps there is little to suburban fulfillment beyond having all the right things? Yeah, that’s what Glade wants you to think. What I think is that she’s got sociopathic tendencies and is a compulsive habitual liar. Why else would she lie about being at the spa while soaking in her own tub? Or lie about cleaning all day after a few spritzes of a new Febreze-like product? Because deep down, she is the new girl in 7^th grade, with a bad perm and buck teeth, and all the wrong clothes. And the only thing in this world that will keep the queen bees of this world off the gawky outsiders is flashing the “right” item before they hit. Thank you, Glade. Ok, so it’s not as serious as all that. Sometimes, a candle is just a candle. Unless it’s from France Please join me next week, when we discuss the deeper meaning of improv in a drive-in.

This town is pretty sleepy, in a Mayberry way (not that that’s a bad thing). But in the last 2 weeks, I’ve had a small herd of cows moving through my yard, to and fro. It’s funny to watch the cats freak out in the windows when these behemoth bovines walk through. Fuzzed tails are always funny. I’m not at all afraid of cows, and if only the camera would appear to me, I’d make friends with them, and have an impromptu photo shoot in the yard. Which is kinda funny, b/c if my mom knew, she’d freak. Nevermind the fact I’m 27 years old; she thinks all cows are killer beasts whose only purpose is to be served on a bun or with A-1. They may be tasty but they are pretty cool. How many other animals do you know can touch their noses with their tongues?

So, the camera hunt of ‘08 has begun. And I’m hoping that when that stinking garden plot I keep threatening is finally dug, that they will be nice cows and leave.it.alone. Maybe I’ll tell them I was a vegetarian once, and I’ve always thought cows were noble and stoic, and chickens taste better, anyway. If not, then…well, summer’s coming, and I love a good bbq