Reading Lists

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Bibliophiles typically keep a list of books they would like or intend to read. This is normal. 

I'm a bit backwards. For the past sixteen years, I have kept not a list of books I want to read, but rather a running list of every book I've ever read. 

I no longer remember what started this cataloging obsession, just that in the early part of 1996 I opened a file in Word, called it "Books," and listed the 8 or so books I'd already read that year. Then I kept going. For sixteen years. Textbook, comic book, fiction, non-fiction... short of recording the nutrition label on cereal boxes, if I read it, it made the list.

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Smug Marrieds: Don't Toss The Bottle

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I mentioned a few days ago that Blair is coupon king. What I failed to mention is that he also prefers to buy in bulk. It amazes me we don't belong to Costco. I used to attribute it to the fact that we live too far away from one for it to be practical, but I'm beginning to suspect it's intentional on Blair's part. Kind of like how an alcoholic avoids going into bars. 

That still doesn't stop Blair from coming home with 24 rolls of paper towels at one time, or 10 boxes of tissue or--and here we get to the heart of today's post--an industrial sized bottle of Woolite. 

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Sunday Chef

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Somewhere in the last two months, I have morphed into a Sunday chef.

Where the goal used to be to serve a hot, home cooked meal fresh out of the oven each and every night, the goal is now to serve a hot, home cooked meal and not burn my fingers on the microwave bowl as I remove the plate at the "ding!" and scream, "DINNER!" to Blair. 

There's a different mindset that comes with Sunday cooking. While I enjoy the cooking itself, there's a definite lunch lady production line technique behind the process.

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Smug Marrieds: Wake-Up Call

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I am blessed in that--having married the God of Dawn--I don't have to wake up to the blaring sound of an alarm clock. Instead, each morning my beloved tip-toes into the darkened bedroom (even at 5 am, he's been up well before me), turns on the light and lightly rubs my back to awaken me to a new day. 

Except this morning.

Today, I woke up to a light scratch on my back followed by, "Suuuuuu-eeeeeyyyyyy! Pig-Pig-Pig!"

"I'm not sure what's going on," I said, my voice muffled as I was still facedown in the pillows. "But if you want a divorce, I'd rather you just come out and say it. Let's not play these demeaning games." 

Attention Men: This is not an invitation to a hog hollering contest"Oink, blog, tweet," said Blair. 

"What--" I began.

"It's on your shirt," said Blair. "Oink. Blog. Tweet."

It all clicked in. The shirt was a free give away at a conference I'd attended months ago. In my world, free t-shirt = new nighttime lingerie. 

"I get it," I said. "I'm not sure the hog call was entirely appropriate, but I get it."

"You're awake, aren't you?" said Blair climbing off the bed. He patted himself on the back as he walked out of the room. "Well done, Blair. Well done." 

One hog call versus 10 years of back rubs and no alarms. 

I'll live with it. 

Cheers,

Dena