Yesterday my boss brought in several jars of local honey. Apparently an employee’s daughter is a bee keeper, and because some of the hives are at his house, he gets a lot of honey. And I’m all, “ooh, locally sourced honey, so much better than the grocery store crap…blah blah blah.” Please. I buy the grocery store crap all the time. Ok. Not the point. I’m thinking I’m gonna bring a couple of jars home to my hubby. He eats a lot more honey than I do. And he’s been a little irritated with me lately. Nothing serious, but we’ve been arguing about nonsense a lot. He’s an easy-going guy, but there are times when he’s 100% sure his is the right way, and I’m such a stubborn ass that even if it is, I’m gonna argue about it. So I put my peace offering in my bag and I head for the train. I get home and he’s already a tad cranky because his back hurts, but I’m gonna make him so happy when I reach into my bag and pull out…two half empty jars of honey. You can imagine where the rest of the honey is. So now we’re yelling. He’s shouting about bolsas and plástico. I’m shooting back that obviously a plastic bag would have been a good idea, but these are canning jars, for @#%* sakes. He’s rinsing off the jars and I’m attempting to rescue what I can from the sweet swamp that is my purse. And there is honey all over the house. Literally. One bag and my favorite Vera Bradley wallet later, (don’t judge me, this is the perfect wallet!), things have settled down. Until this morning, when he wants to move the honey into a “clean” salsa jar and I tell him he’s crazy and we’re off. We stomp around a little, stepping into missed sticky spots on the bedroom floor. And when it’s time to say goodbye, we still swap a little sugar. Sweet.