I retrieved the pack from my pocket and tapped it forcefully against my opposite palm. Two emerged and I grabbed both, admitting that I would need the second in no time at all. My mother looked on, disapprovingly.

"You're hitting those kind of hard today, aren't you Sweetie?" I was the only in the vehicle who had this particular craving, so it was only natural that it should make them uneasy...or, so I told myself.

"I've cut back a little," I soothed. My habits, though none of her business, ought not to cause such concern. "I'm down to a pack and a half a day." It was apparent almost immediately that this information soothed most inadequately.

"I just don't know where you picked that up!" she huffed. "It's such a disgusting habit...people just throw the ends wherever they happen to be at the time, with no regard for the rest of the population!"

"I always take care with my disposal."

"OH? You never throw it out of the car window while you're on the highway?" Busted. She's seen me do that.

"Just once in a blue moon...settle down."

"No, I'm concerned. And do you know that there is nothing more offensive than hearing somebody do it over the phone? I HATE that! It makes me want to smack the person until it falls right out of their mouth!"

"I'm not much of a phone person."

"Don't get smart with me—I just don't understand how you developed such an addiction! Your father doesn't do it! I only do it socially!"

"Oh, Mother, please. Enough, already. I have no plans on quitting. Besides, it helps me keep my weight in check."

"Laura, Laura, Laura..." she sighed, defeated. She cringed outwardly and expelled her exasperation just loud enough for me to hear. "GUM!"

Toward the close of a beautiful day, my family sat beside the charcoal grill as hunger-inducing aromas billowed from beneath the reflective black dome. I sat with them, enjoying the last of the evening's sun, when a frisky bee took interest in my reposed form. He flew close to my ears with a miscreant's zeal, trash-talking his game in an immature buzz of speech.

I ignored him for the most part as he zoomed my head in patience-wearing constancy...but then he got personal. Really, really personal. His attention turned elsewhere on the map of my body while my legs clamped together in response, and if you can't guess where his attention was newly focused then I guess you're just not thinking hard enough.

I bit my lower lip and whimpered. Debbie looked over and laughed at the bee's rapt attention. No good. I looked at Mom, my eyes darting between her and the now fiendishly cackling bee. "You must be sweet," she surmised on a grin. I blinked rapidly and smartly declared to my audience, my audience who clearly did not understand the severity of my plight, that I did NOT desire a bee sting, much less a bee sting THERE. They all giggled and and made merriment of my situation. The difficult part to accept in this story of seeming cruelty, is that I think they were all perfectly sober at the time.

"Must be that damn honey mask..." I muttered in jest, and more to myself than anyone. Laughter halted and the small voice of my aunt Debbie asked why I would apply a honey mask THERE. I looked at her like she was mad, had grown a second head, and was doing cartwheels in harlequin dress. "I wouldn't!" I cried with indignation. I could feel the blush burning across my face, even though I was joking about the honey in the first place. Seriously, though! Honey...THERE! Why, it's terribly absurd!

Then, my embarrassed haze thinned and my thoughts rang true, on course. These poor sober fools have no idea the discord of my mind, the inequity between a thought pattern and its verbal mate. "I would have applied it to to my face," I clarified. From the perplexed looks, I could tell this was strike two.

Obviously needing the dots connected, and who wouldn't, I finished, "...and I practice Yoga?"

Brenda barked her laughter to the tree tops, trying to cloak a snort, as she rocked hyper-actively in her chair. My mother made to hide a smirk of her own and forced decorum as she snickered, "Too much information." And yet, for it being stated as such, the topic did not drop all evening, and certainly not by her hand.

Oh, and for those that care, I managed to survive the evening unscathed, leastwise by bee.

I sat at the table this morning, enjoying the steam rising from the gulf of my coffee cup. I leaned forward to let its tendrils curl about my face and heard the menacing growl emanating from my stomach. Dubiously, I looked to my oatmeal and knew the coffee would have to wait.

While I spooned the nourishing porridge between my lips, I had a brilliant idea—SPECTACULARLY BRILLIANT! They should make a coffee oatmeal! Coffee and oatmeal together! Get it? It's like having coffee and oatmeal...IN THE SAME BOWL. Talk about magnificence manifested! I eagerly shared my idea with Brenda, the words jumping one over another as they vaulted from my mouth, fresh ideas forming on the spot.

"...AND WE COULD CALL IT COFF-MEAL!" I nearly screamed.

Brenda, who had indulged my enthusiasm until that point, made a V with her eyebrows. "Eh..."

Ok...so the name needs a little work.

We are there now, sitting across the table from one another. Miles is in heaven, slightly kid-in-a-candyshopish. I admit to my own rapture upon seeing the Google search screen illuminate my screen. The sad part? We'd scarcely been bereft of cyberspace twenty-four hours.

That first taste of internet-honey mellowed me, my shoulders rolling back in euphoric ease. This contained the symptom-set befitting a potent fix—oh the power of the world's information at your fingertips! It is a rush, to be certain.

Miles, obviously [only to me] less than content last night, took several, solemn, long walks. This is a stark change of pace for him...and forced relaxation when you have a million things on your "to do" list is almost never pleasant. Guilt rarely is...unless, that is, it tastes like chocolate.

He was brighter this morning, perhaps the promise of the World Wide Web ignited his enthusiastic flame, and he had a bounce to his step. Here we sit. We've been here over 3 hours, and they close shop in two more. I am bored stiff. The internet is tasting less like honey and more like stale pastry as the moments pass, yet, Miles is smiling. He looks lighter, freer...happy about the progress inflicted upon his task list.

So, I wait and hope that we aren't causing a rift in the plans back at the base, and let him indulge. Meanwhile, life's little quandaries have begun to occupy my mind. For instance, How do they tell caffeinated beans from decaffeinated beans?

Do the caffeinated beans jump around as if on a trampoline while the decaffeinated ones recline in front of mini TVs with bowls of potato chips balanced on their little tummies? I suppose I could look it up, but it is more entertaining to think of couch potato beans than to know the truth.