We had day-after-Thanksgiving dinner at my mother-in-law's house today. This woman can COOK. I was diving into a baked sweet potato when I heard her dismayed gasp, "you eat THE SKIN!?"

An organ at the neighboring church groaned "duh-duh-duuuuuuuuuuuuhm."

*silence*

"Y-yes..." I answered meekly, a subtle question mark materializing at the end of the syllable.

She shook her head at me. Shook. Her. Head. She was so taken aback; you'd think I was gnawing on tree bark. I aim to please. Between the bark skin consumption and passing on the butter, it's a wonder I haven't forfeited my membership in the family! I'm grateful for small favors and small flavors!

I will not eat my weight in mashed potatoes this year.
I will not eat my weight in mashed potatoes this year.
I will not eat my weight in mashed potatoes this year.
I will not eat my weight in mashed potatoes this year.

I feel his expression is a very turkey-esque expression for a turkey to have during the Thanksgiving season.

I "drew" him almost a month ago during a tidal wave of boredom. Proudly, feeling like a child who colored inside the lines for the first time, I showed Miles and Jason my creation. They really have mastered that eye-rolling trick.

They appreciate me...deep, deep down inside. Maybe it's so deep that they don't even realize that the appreciation is there...but oh boy!—is it ever!

Still, I am fond of my turkey, in all of his anxious glory. I feel the need to offer him a leather couch, listen to his concerns, then inquire,

"Interesting. Veddy Interesting. Do you feel this way about all side dishes, or just stuffing?"

I think I should have stayed in bed this morning. My last memories from the previous night involve Miles picking on me for falling asleep in the car on the way home from the office. I remember vehemently denying the absurdity—which usually means that he hit the nail on the head. He volleyed, "C'mon, your head was lolling side to side at every turn!" I shrug and reply, "It's a new form of yoga." He shook his head, laughing, but he let it drop.

This morning we arose later than usual. I was groggy. And my neck hurt for some odd reason. *clears throat*

I stumble to the bathroom to wash my face. And, I do mean stumble. Into the wall. I feel as though I'm portraying myself as drunken and disorderly, picking fights with the drywall—but I swear to you that the wall started it.

After the scuffle, I exit the scene. I reenter, remembering that I still need to wash my face. The wall distracted me. I glare at it, its tongue wagging at me mockingly. I proceed to grab my toothbrush.

After exiting the bathroom again, with the nagging feeling that I possibly brushed my teeth twice this morning, I begin to get ready. Miles calls from downstairs, "Just so you know, I'm ready to go, but no rush! I'm just relaxing on the couch!" I sigh, frustrated. I don't like people waiting for me. My face! Goodness! I still haven't washed my face! Where was my head!?

I finish getting dressed, faltering only a handful of times before realizing that I slipped a tennis shoe on my left foot and a high heeled boot on my right. Only a handful, though. Ten at the most. Gosh my neck feels stiff...whatever did I do!?

Shoes in order, I unsteadily navigate the stairs. I add oatmeal and water to a bowl and place it in the microwave. I'll have to bring my breakfast into work with me today. I feel rushed, cranky. I feel like I need to wash my face. Egads, I DO. I rush upstairs while the microwave does its dance. In the bathroom, I stare at the Noxzema for ponderous moments, my brain cells singing a chorus of, "uhhhhhhh?"

Eventually my limbs go into autopilot, deeming my mental capacity as unworthy to complete the morning's ritual.

I pick my way downstairs as Miles retrieves my bowl of oatmeal from the microwave. "Uh, Laura, your oatmeal exploded."

Very cranky now, I snap, "Yeah, and my neck is stiff too but by God my face is clean!"

I bet that stung. He'll be licking his wounds for days.

We seem to have fallen in a chasm of time wherein we have no beginning, and we will have no end. My father drinks coffee throughout the day. He drinks it black. Black and strong. It's the Norwegian in him, all 100% of it. My grandfather was the same way, yet I never pursued a liaison with coffee while living at home. College introduced me to Java, but it was of the programming language sort. This Java was not so enjoyable first thing in the morning.

Then, I moved in with Miles. Miles was not a coffee drinker. Our roommate and friend was not a coffee drinker either—but she had a coffeemaker. She picked up a carton of mocha creamer one day, and we made coffee to sip while watching The Golden Girls. We both loved watching The Golden Girls. (It seems as though every major female friendship I've garnered has held a special place for The Golden Girls.) If we were to mimic adulthood for one morning, barring all unsavory possibilities, it might as well be during The Golden Girls.

We went through 2 pots in an hour. I fell hard. It was love; I knew the signs.

It became our morning ritual, and one I looked forward to as soon as I awoke. I would shoo Miles out of the house so our coffee time could commence. Those mornings of being melancholy with his absence were a thing of the past now. I had coffee, coffee that would always be there for me when I needed it. Miles laughed at my giddy puppy love. He couldn't understand. He thought I was just being silly, as some Lauras are wont to be.

Our relationship progressed to the point where I felt the need to acquire a larger coffee mug. I saddled up with a 16-ouncer. It was a gift from Miles, a means to cloak his increasing jealousy.

The months passed, the seasons stayed the same. (I live in a state that has summer and a sort-of prolonged spring) Miles and I would be moving into our own home soon—away from the roommate; away from the coffeemaker.

I was consumed by my grief. WHY!? Why, after discovering something so precious did we have to part ways?

My beloved Miles discovered me at my lowest point late one night. I was in the kitchen downstairs while everyone was sound asleep upstairs. Eyes bloodshot, tears unchecked, nose sniffling, I sang brokenly,

Thank you for being a friend,

Traveled down the road and back again,

Your heart is true, you're a pal and a confidant.


And if you through a party,

Invited everyone you ever knew,

You would see, the biggest gift would be from me,

And the card attached would say, "Thank you for being a friend."

Miles rushed to me, unshed tears transforming his eyes into glistening pools. He comforted me then. "We'll get a coffeemaker for the new place. I promise."

He was totally marriage material.