Why the Boy Scouts Are Making Me Fat

My doorbell rang yesterday. I opened my door to find two small boys, age 9-ish, on my front porch. 

"Hi guys," I said, stepping outside. "What can I do for you?"

One nervously cleared his throat and stepped forward, clutching a piece of paper in both hands. "Hello. My name is Ryan," he read. "I am a boy scout. I am in troop 5-4-1. We are selling Krispy Kreme doughnuts for--"

"Oh no, not doughnuts!" I said, smiling. 

He glanced up, startled, then went right back to his paper. "--for a fundraiser. Would you like to purchase a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts? They are only $6. We will deliver them."

Spiel over, he let out a big sigh of relief and looked up at me. His friend, a small blond boy, had stood to the side and grinned at me the whole time without blinking.

I glanced at the paper, which was actually an order form with the script at the top. There were no names signed up on the sheet. 

Curses on my sentimental heart. 

"Sure, I'll buy a box," I said. 

"You will?? Cool!" (Is there any better feeling than knowing you just made some kids day by buying the cheap crap they're pedalling?)

I went inside and came out with a ten-dollar bill. "Do you have change?" I asked. 

"Let me ask my mom!" He started to race out to the street where his mom had a Suburban idling. 

"That's okay, that's okay," I said, pulling him back. "Can you take a check?"

"Um..." He scanned the all-powerful, all-purpose sheet. "Uh... hey, yeah! I can!"

Which is how it's come about that I'm having a dozen Krispy Kreme doughnuts delivered to my door on some random Saturday in July. I LOVE Krispy Kreme doughnuts. The chances of me being able to just toss these doughnuts when they arrive are slim to none. My only hope is to gift doughnuts to all the neighbors. 

After I sample one or two.

Cheers,

Dena

Ms. Harris Has Left The Building...

We're car shopping. For the most part, I am holding it together. 

I hate car shopping. Every car rides the same to me. I feel bad for the salesperson in the backseat, leaning forward to say, "You can really feel the difference in acceleration on this model," because no, no I can't. The acceleration on this car feels exactly the same as the acceleration on the other five cars I just drove, from the Kia to the BMW. No difference at all. 

I'd prefer to test drive in anonymity. I don't want to be pandered or sold to. Just let me get in the car, take it around the block, and leave the lot to ponder my decision. 

"I need to be famous," I told Blair as we drove to yet another dealership. "Famous enough so that I can have my people inform the dealership ahead of time that they are not to speak to Ms. Harris unless she speaks to them first."

"Or make eye contact," said Blair.

"Yes! No eye contact," I agreed. "And they can't stand too close to me."

"Grounds for termination," said Blair.

"Absolutely! They need to be told that if they make eye contact with Ms. Harris or in any way acknowledge that they are breathing the same air she breathes, Ms. Harris will immediately leave the lot and ask one of her people to see to it that their ass gets fired, pronto.'" 

"That actually would be an improvement on what we're having to deal with now," said Blair. (We'd just returned from a not-so-fun visit to a Toyota Dealership.)

One more weekend of car shopping ought to do it. Then we'll make our final selection and I won't have to be on a car lot again for another ten years. 

Ms. Harris has left the building...

Cheers,

Dena

Send Help, I'm Nesting

I think I would write better with authentic Turkish spa towels in the house, don't you?Ahem.

I have become obsessed with buying new bath towels, making sure all the crumbs are cleaned out from the silverware drawer, and finding a painting for the blank wall in the hall. Life holds little meaning or value unless and until each of these things gets done RIGHT NOW.

A friend asked the other day over coffee, "What distracts Dena?"

Uh, nesting. Whenever I'm feeling less than self-confident in my work, I battle the strong, strong urge to organize each and every aspect of my life. Somehow, I seem to believe that a tidy bathroom and freshly purged CD collection will bring about the clarity needed for me to get back to my writing. 

The unfortunate thing for those around me (read: Blair) is that I'm a, well... less-than-nice person when I nest. It's frustration. I can't get the dialogue in my scene to sound the way I want it so I channel that anxiety into a migraine over the fact that (sob!) the damn cat hair keeps piling up and the tupperware keeps falling over inside the pantry. 

The obvious answer--and the only answer--is to sit my butt in the chair and write. Write bad scenes, crappy dialogue, cliched plots, doesn't matter so long as it's writing. Writing is the only thing that will calm my racing heart when I see a water glass left out that hasn't been put in the dishwasher or fingerprint smudges on the glass door. 

Naturally, writing is the last thing I feel like doing. It feels more pressing--and useful--to scour overstock.com for deals on Egyptian cotton bath towels. Surely I would write better scenes if only I weren't forced to use threadbare towels each day and instead started the morning with a nice, fluffy cotton wrap. 

Okay, I see your point. Just one more swoop through overstock.com and then I'm going back to writing. 

I really want those towels. 

Cheers,

Dena