11:40 a.m. - 2006-01-04
Glade Plug-ins
Today at the bookstore Cora was already upset and excited (and LOUD!) when I walked in. She'd been checking her Yahoo mail on the Internet--we're not supposed to do this at work--and read one of those mass mailing e-urban legends that some friend had sent to her. It was a warning that Glade Plug-ins can suddenly burst into flame, and there was an anecdote from some woman about her house burning to the ground and the fire inspector tracing everything back to Glade.
Cora had left two Glade Plug-ins on in her house when she left for work, and she was desperately trying to reach her boyfriend Jim, so he could go over and turn off those scented little fire bombs. She couldn't reach him, either on his home phone or cell phone. Every time she tried she made a (LOUD) announcement of her failure to get through.
Between customers I explained to her calmly and with great patience that Jim had probably gone to her house already and perished in the Glade Plug-in fire which was no doubt raging even as we spoke. Mysteriously my theory did not lessen Cora's distress, and she continued talking and making intermittent calls to Jim's various phones throughout the day. She even followed me into the bathroom, where she ranted on about Glade Plug-ins while I peed in the stall.

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