As 2006 wound down, and the office supplied fertile fields for the cold virus to grow, she showcased her supply of Zicam©, a peddler beneath shady fedora, spreading her trench coat to sell her wares. She pressured us all as she stalked along the latticework of sleepy streets in our cubicle neighborhood. I heard the shaky, almost shy refusals as she continued along. She was persistent, but we stood strong, all of us, and someone eventually cried in desperation across the department, "NO MEANS NO!" She settled back with a neat pout on her lips and we breathed a sigh of relief. We heard no more on the subject.

Yet, days and weeks later, I, scheduled for surgery in fewer than seven days and sniffling mightily with a clot of crud sitting in the base of my throat, found myself stumbling blindly to her desk, pleading for a hit with an addict's desperation. I couldn't get sick—I would have sold my soul to the devil himself (or best offer) to prevent a delay in my scheduled procedure. Eyes dancing as though filled with fireflies, she dug in her purse for her makeup bag, in her makeup bag through her army of lipsticks, eyeliner, and vials of perfume to find the lone remaining medicated cotton swab.

The packaging was wrinkled, creased, and had seen its share of neglect. I wondered at its effectiveness at such a telling age, but marched bravely, nonetheless, to the privacy of my easily scrutinized plot of office space. As I walked past my comrades, they all asked quietly amongst themselves against the oppressive drone of a pirate's dirge, "Laura's going to try it?" Yes. It had come to this. With a hand so steady as to not betray my jumbled nerves, I inserted the swab in both nostrils and waited for it to kill my virus. My nearest neighbor leaned from her cubicle to mine to ask how it went. My eyes were teary and I think I stuck it too far up, but I gave a watery smile and a thumb's up.

And so began my abuse of zinc gluconate. Peer pressure and the weak-minded: the yin and yang of addiction. She won, and I never got sick. (Of course, I also followed the advice of my surgeon's staff and coaxed myself towards extra sleep when not consuming orange juice like it was the keystone to my very existence, but that's neither here nor there.) She will find an easier sell next time she seeks to traffic. I'm easy like that.

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And, at Nick's request (we are watching a very close basketball game):
GO BADGERS!

Granted, it's probably the green thing to do, but I'm a resource glutton and have caused to deteriorate my own little sheet of the ozone layer—St. Peter will just have to add it to the list of grievances to be read at The Pearly Gates, along with my tendency to steal a sip of orange juice straight from the carton in the refrigerator.

I have serious issues with reusing my bath towels day after day. It just ain't right. Not how I was raised.

In a house where shower-time was monitored and dishes were done with a sink of water that was about two inches in depth and more Dawn than water, we still had standards: septic system or not, a new towel was used every day. My mother drilled this into me, and quite graphically.

The woman, obsessed with cleanliness and originator of the word "cackaroni" in relation to everything below her standard of immaculacy (and whom I am bringing into this only because, well, who can argue with the deceased?), painted for me a picture of dead skin cells, dust mites, and many other organisms whose names I'm sure she invented on the spot—a picture that drove me to, as I'm sure she intended, shun a used towel almost immediately after it has served its purpose—approximately five minutes after the completion of a shower, bath, or naked run through the sprinklers.

She scrunched her sweet little nose and shuddered whenever she heard tales of people (even family members!) who reused their towels. As though it was a religion all of her own making, she sat us kids down and gave us a talking to—she would not tolerate that sort of behavior in her household. And rightfully so. Of course, she smoothed over the fact that as a little girl, all five of her sisters used the same bath water—a bath that they all took only on Saturdays, "Whether we needed it or not," she'd say. Um, yeah, cackaroni.

I have crossed those in adulthood who were not raised so stringently nor in the throes of such arrant anal retentiveness...and I pity them so. Do they not care about the dead skin cells? Nick argues with me—as countless others have (I can think of two right off the top of my head!)—that he's clean when he uses the towel, why not reuse it when he's clean again? Why not!—why not!? Well, if for no other reason, unless you've got one of those fancy schmancy towels that clearly delineate the butt-side from the face-side, you never know when you're matchmaking counterpointed coordinates of the body, now do you?

I've marveled over the past month how I seem to have finally taken that leap from mourning to remembering with great fondness...and as the end of this month began to draw ever nearer, I marveled more still that the anniversary of my mother's death didn't have me huddled in a pathetic, sobbing mess...my father scheduled dinner for this coming Friday...he wanted to do something with his family on that day, easily the saddest in all of our lives.

But as the time ticks down, I find myself with strange visions that I had somehow buried all these months—I have a very visual memory: I see snapshots, memories captured forever in color and light—the living room at my father's house, the hospital bed situated near the window, the light pouring in, the Christmas tree discarded on the deck (visible through the French doors that we just hadn't had time to properly dispose of)...and I remember that a year ago yesterday, two days before she died, was the first time in days that she seemed like the person I knew, and also the last time I saw that person. The thrashing and delirium faded for pockets of time and she urged us all close and told us how much she loved us. A year ago today, she was in a coma.

It is a comfort that I believe in a higher power. It is a comfort that I was born with a faith that I have never questioned. It is a comfort to know that she did not fear death for she new she was going to a splendor we could never fathom here on Earth. There is a song from Mercy Me titled "I can only imagine." I fight the emotion conjuring in the back of my throat whenever I hear the opening chords and I think of what it must have been like for my mother to meet her maker...and I'm so happy for her.

Rafiki—come on, you remember Rafiki! He's that wise old mandrill from The Lion King...we should all be so lucky to have a Rafiki in our lives! (If, for no other reason, than to have a big monkey dangle us over a big rock while we're infants.) But, pertaining to this post which has gone horribly nonsensical as you've come to expect, Rafiki said in his mystic-dressed-in-a-bit-of-loony rasp, "Look haaaardah." Look harder. Yes, that is what I should have done, and what I am now instructing you to do should this circumstance cross your path.

Way back in December (eons ago, you know), on an evening wherein I was probably recovering from my myelogram, or my outpatient surgery, or something silly like that, I folded myself into the corner of the L-shaped sofa and tried to find a little comfort as I passed the night. My boyfriend at the time reached for a Bucky Badger blanket that lie draped across the back of a chair and spread it over my body before returning, camera in hand. "Oh, how sweet!" thought I, now enveloped in warmth. Tsk, tsk...naivety will get you nowhere. Look Harder.

Nick's idea of a perfect mate (a sort of mascot-woman hybrid):