Since we last checked in, Glade Lady really hasn't been up to all that much. She apparently spends most of her time running around in a very MILFy tennis outfit (Julio, the tennis pro at the country club, has simply the most divine "backswing") pausing only to inhale the fragrance from her Glade automatic puff machine with the usual look of childlike joy and psychopathic glee that overcomes her any time the smell of freshness wafts to her nose. Recently, she's ensnared, with the help of the new Glade motion sensor puff machine, her husband into the same web of unwholesome, degenerate nose stimulation. Really, though, she's settled nicely into the bemused fondness one holds for the "crazy neighbor" or the "crazy aunt," the ones you just roll your eyes at, chuckling with a wry smile while saying, "Oh, that crazy [person]!" at their latest crazy escapade.
But in her place has risen a terrible new queen: that freaky Ikea lady! I've been creeped out by her gravelly voice and bulging eyes for some time now, but each new commercial seems to chart the progressive corrosion of the Ikea customers' sanity and/or spiritual wellbeing, since she is either a horrible, vaguely racist, phantasm of the lurking madness within us all, or else a terrible demon of the Pit come to tempt us with stylish, economically priced Swedish furniture. *small voice* I'm scared. Hold me!