The Battle of the Spouses

Spouses fight about different things. Kids... money... and whether the man was lying or just being nice when he said you didn't look fat in your new dress.

Blair and I are currently engaged in the reoccurring passive-aggressive "Who Will Be The One To Empty The Kitchen Trashcan" battle. The rules are simple:

1. Never admit you've actually noticed the trashcan is full to bursting and needs to be emptied.
2. Instead, earn points by continuing to fold, stuff, and tuck garbage into every available nook and crevice.
3. However, you LOSE points if your significant other catches you folding, stuffing, or tucking instead of emptying.
4. Strategy is employed if, while stuffing, you are able to convince your spouse that a) "There's still room for more," or b) "I'll take care of this in just a minute," and then walk away.
5. The game is won when your opponent either breaks down and takes the trash out due to there being no more room or when they pass out over the trash due to the toxic fumes created by the mixture of old Windex bottles and banana peels. (Note: Upon awakening, the passer outer must still admit defeat and be the one to empty the trash.)
6. Bonus points are available if, when the trash is being taken outside, you can sneak into the kitchen and place a fresh bag in the can, thereby earning the right to claim that "we emptied the garbage together."

My road today is fraught with danger. Blair left for work and the can is close to spilling over. Well-played, my love. However, I am the master stuffer, so the game is not over yet.

And even if it is, I am very close to winning the "I used the last bathroom tissue but I'm going to wait until you break down and replace the box" war.  So there.

Stroke of Good Luck

The middle grade novel I'm working on has an 11-year-old bee-keeping girl as a side character. I've been reading books on honeybees in order to add realistic details to the story and hoping to be able to find someone who keeps hives so I could observe.

BINGO. Thank you, fate. Friday as I'm sitting in a cofeehouse typing, I hear a customer at the counter talking to the shop owner about her honeybee hives, and how they only have one now but are getting ready to introduce four more boxes (or hives).

I grabbed a business card, popped out of my chair, and ran up front to introduce myself. The outcome being that this woman said they had an extra netting and if I wanted to observe them with the hive, I was welcome to. She's going to call me to arrange a time.

SO EXCITED. And a little nervous. I have a huge fear of bees. Never been stung. But I'm willing to suffer for my art. Or at least run screaming in an unncessary panic up a stranger's yard. ;)

Isn't it amazing how the Universe will so often deliver exactly what you need? Now I'm thinking of a large chocolate milkshake... let's see what comes my way.

Ban TV's In Restaurants!

No. No, no, no. TV has invaded my cute little hometown coffeehouse. I packed up my laptop this morning, eager to warm myself with a cup of coffee and hot buttered scone while I spent some time novel writing. The coffeehouse has a slow but steady trickle of regulars in the AM and I enjoy half-listening to conversations about the weather, local gossip, and debates over national politics as I do my work. 

Instead, I walked in today to find a huge flatscreen TV set up on a sideboard and the three customers in the store staring, hypnotized, at the screen. Fox news anchors brayed headline news and commercials screeched in the background as I half-heartedly ordered my coffee and slunk to a table in the far corner of the room, as far away from the shouting box as possible. 

Do we really need to never be more than 50 yards from a TV? They're in Wal-Mart, Pizza Hut, the local Mexican restaurant we love, and now in my beloved coffeehouse. I don't want to hear, listen to, or watch TV when I'm out. We can all stay home and do that. When TV's are in your face, as they are this morning, it's almost impossible not to pay intermediate attention to them. And the chattering and laughter of locals? Sadly missing this morning as I type these words. 

The thing is that I don't think anyone here really wanted TV. People seemed happy to come in and chat or just sit in companionable silence. I think merchants think they're adding a service when they provide TV. They are mistaken. Stores and restaurants have personalities and quirks all their own that customers are delighted to discover.

IF there's no TV to distract them. 

Here's Hoping Jog Bras Come Into Vogue

So that's it. I give up. I cave in completely to the fact that from now until eternity I will spend the majority of my waking hours in workout clothes. Which is fine with me. I'm not a dress-up kind of gal. I turn a bit hostile anytime I'm forced to wear heels or restrictive clothing. But in doing 4 loads of laundry the other day I realized that a good 80% of it was workout gear. In addition to my 4-5 days a week of running, I'm doing 2-3 days of yoga and I just added a Tuesday night session with a trainer. I may be wearing torn, ugly, slightly foul-smelling clothes but the ideal is that I'll look buff in them.

Quick update on the trainer: my friend Kay sent an e-mail around about a month ago asking if anyone wanted to go in with her for a 10-week session with a trainer. I was the only taker. Last night was our first visit and about halfway through the session I had to laugh at myself for paying someone to shout at me, "Dena, get that booty down there girl. C'mon now." 

I think this training will be great though. I am not one to push myself when it comes to resistance work. I'd rather run a mile than do a sit-up. And apparently the only way I'll ever lift something heavy is when I pay someone to stand by my side with a stopwatch and shout, "Keep breathing! Thirty more seconds! Don't you dare drop it."

I am seeing a LOT of wicking fabric and jog bra's in my immediate future. Sexy...

Dena