Ok, so I have this thing about New Balance shoes. Ok, and I've had a hectic few months now. Ok, and by the end of the day my brain is mush. Ok, and pretty pictures seduce me.

It was last Thursday, the first day of the basketball tournament—oh, sweet lord, I'm starting to relay time to you in relation to sporting events....dang it, Nick!—and I worked a ten-hour day. I was all by my lonesome that night, and found my hands caressing the pages of SHAPE magazine with the hungry mind of a stoner.

I love SHAPE. Love it. Imagine my delight when February's issue was delivered to my home! Masterful! And then March!—it happened again! You're not nearly wide-eyed enough at this double proclamation...perhaps I've left out the most supernatural part: I've never subscribed to this magazine. I've never paid for it. I mean I would, and gladly, but if it's coming for free, why?

So there I am, leafing through a bootleg issue of SHAPE, nursing on my heel the biggest blister I've ever seen and the most painful I've ever conjured, and what do I see but the most beautiful sight these eyes have ever known...or, you know, close to:



Sore feet, pillowy brain, orange shoes...like another path was even open to me. I found an online NB retailer and ordered a pair, making certain to get the orange. There was something about that orange. It just made me happy. Mmmm...orange.

Some people get funny about ordering their athletic shoes without trying them on first, and I hear ya guys, I hear ya...but I've worn NBs for so long that I know my size. I know my width. I knew no fear. I let the drool drip unabated from the corner of my mouth, my face spellbound in the rapture of this shoe and the idea of shock absorption it romanced in my squishy little mind.

I received them the following Monday, smuggling them from my aunts' view, slightly embarrassed by the mental wherewithal I lacked in the presence of that NB ad. I have been that much of a patsy in commercialism since Malibu Barbie...so, I mean, it's been a decent 8 months now. I should be more worldly, less excitable. But, then I opened the outer box of the package, and found streams of hot, white light spotlighting from the crevices of the shoebox...and my breath caught. This was it. My heel still recovering from the most painful of all blisters, I let my hands fall to the package with cherishing hands.

I parted the tissue paper and took in the radiance of the orangest shoes I've ever owned. Embarrassment completely forgotten, I ran to my aunts with my shoes high in the air, showing them off, letting the light refract from their shimmery parts, letting the orange glow. Even Nick thought they were an okay-looking shoe.

Just when I thought I couldn't be happier with my shoes, I ran with them. Like, I tied them so that they encased my feet? Yeah, well, after I did that, I ran. They're like mini trampolines strapped to my feet! I feared a time or two that the ricochet of my foot to the treadmill belt would cause an altercation between my knee and forehead.

So yes, cheaply, I saw a picture of a shoe and then bought a pair in a round trip of about five minutes. I fell for a marketting ploy. Shamelessly. And I couldn't be happier. And, I just wrote about a pair of shoes...my mind is a sad little thing. But, "pillowy", that sounds cuter...pillowy.

My grandmother made this delicious salad last Sunday, and I was fond of it enough to accept the remaining bit from what was prepared, something I don't typically accept because I usually don't get around to eating leftovers.

But it was so good.

Different, but delectable.

It sounds strange, but it had broccoli and halved grapes—green and red!—slivered almonds and pineapple. The dressing consisted of mayonnaise and a spot of reserved pineapple juice. It was a lovely balance of flavors and I found myself quite enamored. I was having dinner with Nick that night, and brought the salad for a dinner-compliment.

Nick, being a sport, spooned a portion to his plate. I knew immediately that his infatuation with the recipe was nothing compared to mine, to the point of possibly being non-existent. I fought my impulse to drop my face to his plate and finish it myself, and won as he delineated what changes to the recipe would nourish his liking of the dish.

"Well, I'd take out the broccoli and almonds," he began, I nodded, encouraging his continuance, "and add melon or something."

Boring. "Nick, that's a fruit salad."

He pseudo-winked at me and hiked up that corner of his mouth, and through his smirk he followed up, "Well, exactly."

Nick does not have what I term a grown up coffeemaker—that is, one that makes entire pots of coffee at the push of a button, quite literally. Instead, Nick owns one of these, which makes sense for the occasional coffee sipper in Nick. That being said, I see the usefulness in this single cup brewer for after-dinner coffees, for mid afternoon coffees, and even for the occasional I'm-bored-might-as-well-drink-coffee coffees. But, coming from an individual who can easily finish two pots on her own, the little red Melitta doesn't quite stand up to the morning-Laura's demands, and I find myself brewing cup after cup after cup...after cup.

Yesterday was cleaning day for the anti-coffee-chugging activist—who used to watch me drink coffee and chant, "BREATH! SIP!"—and his collection of bathroom magazines were thoroughly combed through. Of the stacks of Maxim, there was a single People magazine. Cheap or not, I am rather fond of leafing through People magazine. Dated May of 2005, this old issue belongs to the dark periods of my popless-culture existence—my time in the South offered other experiences...like fried pickles—I'm clawin' mah wah-ay back out to the light, boh-ay, but it ain't easy.

I was looking through the magazine this morning while my third cup of coffee drizzled into the mug. Suddenly, I was flummoxed: when did Rob Thomas stop singing with Matchbox 20? Puffs of smoke billowed from beneath my hands as I feverishly searched for more information...seriously? Rob Thomas exists outside of Matchbox 20? Like his own entity or something? My forehead began to throb as the confusion took hold and my scowl line split my brow. Nick chuckled.

I looked his way sharply, intense on the subject of my find. "I think this is a record," he smirked. What the heck? What's he making fun of me for now? Nick is a serial teaser, you see. He could find a way to play with your mind on the subject of your flossing form if you were stupid enough to let him see you floss. My gaze unfaltering, I watched his eyes shift briefly in the direction of the coffeemaker before returning to me. "I think that's the first time a cup of coffee has waited for you."



(By the way, did you know that Michelle Williams is pregnant with Heath Ledger's baby!?)

So, Nick was sick last night. We were at a restaurant, waiting for our dinners to be served, and you could just tell. See, there's this thing going on with college basketball right now. I guess it's a big deal...everybody seems to be talking about it. Nick put in a lot of extra hours at work last week so he could spend a good portion of Friday watching the marathon of basketball games. I dunno...seems like an awfully good time to catch up on sleep...or eyebrow-tweezing...but that's just me.

But at 7:30 last evening, after starting his day at 3 that morning, Nick looked rough. When our food arrived, he didn't touch it. Kara offered him Midol earlier for his headache...but Nick refused, for obvious, macho reasons. Still, we kept coaxing him to "take a hit", citing a promise land of headache relief. Eventually he relented, taking a half-dose. We teased him, naturally...about the soon-to-be softened state of his sexuality, cravings for chocolate, and constant agitation. Womanhood is comprised of these: read 'em and weep, boys.

Anyway, fast forward to this morning. Let's just dance around the topic a bit and say that I am feeling serious fatigue, probably from the anemia I meet at this time every month. Nick hugged me consolingly, directing me to lean in, advising, "Now it'll be ok: I took Midol."