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.

---

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):

Come away with me and I will write you a song, my cell phone croons from the table. I stop what I am doing to answer. "Hello?"

"Good morning, Dear!"

"Nick, it's afternoon."

"I know, but you probably just woke up."

Offended and put out, I negate, "I was cleaning the kitchen!"

Immediately, he becomes defensive. "Oh, because I made dinner last night?" he hisses.

"No! I cleaned the kitchen last night, too."

"Oh," he continues, less edge in his voice, and I swear I can hear him think, "because I ate lunch at home?"

"Pretty much."

The first day after my surgery, I, tired of daytime television even then, loaded the second Lord of the Rings movie into the DVD player. I am an admirer—having read the books, I am awed that they were able to make this trilogy into a movie. At times, there are three complete and separate storylines moving along different timelines (but ultimately toward the same end). Meaning, the makers of the trilogy had to physically map out all three storylines and using the clues in the writing, deduct where they fall in on the master order of events! I just think that's so gosh darn spiffy.

The phone rings or breakfast calls, or something happens to distract Nick (who stayed home with me that first day) away from the television. Respectful, very drugged, and slightly asleep, I slur, "D'jou want me to press pause?"

"No, that's okay. I've seen this movie like seven times since I met you."

Nick and I spent a good deal of time inside of my car this weekend...and, as he reached for my hand (as he regularly does) two hours into the first leg, he exclaimed, "How come YOUR hands are soft and mind are dry!?" I shrugged in lieu of defending that I've had my butt diced up, and shouldn't I be allowed soft hands as compensation? We had been breakfasting two hours earlier, and as we chose our table, I experienced my first shock of the trip.

With all due respect to the dignitaries, heads of state, and parents in the LauraLore reading audience, I won't mention precisely where Nick's outstretched fingers zapped me, only that he said was trying to remove a bit of fuzz from my cardigan. I clutched my hand over the affected area and guarded it protectively with my poutiest expression. Until coffee came. Then the rapture swallowed the pout whole and the message was lost.

The entire weekend was rather electric, actually...and I began to fear kissing and touching of any sort (from Nick): I came THIS close to demanding he ground himself before entering my 18-inch radius. We greeted each other this morning as he, fresh from his shower, noticed me for the first time of the day. He leaned down to kiss me and then jerked back, poking his index finger into his cheek wildly. Saucer-eyed, he warned, "I don't know how much electricity I have..."

Wrapping my arms around my body and tensing every muscle I'm capable of tensing, I clamped my eyes shut and tilted my chin up on a whimpering pucker and waited for my end.

I've chosen today to focus on a torture I have not yet subjected myself to: pants. Not that I'm not content to exist in the world of lumpy, frumpy pajama bottoms, but they're not so much socially acceptable. At the hospital last Tuesday, I whimpered to Nick that I felt like such a schmuck going out in public looking like I did, and I was secretly on the look out for a What Not to Wear camera catching me at my worst. He grabbed my hand and leaned down to speak into my ear, "You're in a hospital." Right. That changes things.

But, sooner or later, I will reenter the real world...and I've got to retrain myself to accept that my bottom half must be adequately clothed, I've just got to...because I don't live in Canada. I walked around today with my legs spread widely while I wobbled all stooped over like a bowlegged Quasimodo. I don't think you quite get my plight: denim. was. touching. my. butt. Have you seen the end of Braveheart? They're torturing this guy to death and he cries, "FREEDOM!" Yeah, totally get that now.

I'm proud to say that I kept my jeans on all day long, even when I wanted to give up...because, if for no other reason, I get to see Anna this weekend at her housewarming party. I haven't seen dear Anna in nearly five years and I'd hate for her to think I've become an exhibitionist. (Or, rather, than I can't turn it off.)

Well, I, personally, couldn't do it. I could not emerge from my comfortable place only to meet the chill of the way things really are. Nick has the fortitude that I lack, obviously, as this is a challenge he faces every morning before starting his day: coming out of the closet.

Returning a pair of shoes to their rightful place, I understood today, maybe for the first time, his struggle. There was a special quality in that little space that had me slowing the turn of my heel. I hesitated a moment before finding the nerve to leave.

Quite simply, Nick's closet is the warmest place in the whole condo.

I had just finished watching back-to-back 30 Minute Meals. I've long ago decided that those recipes do only take 30 minutes...if your name is Rachael Ray. "What are you hungry for?" he asks me as the 2nd episode concludes and I shrug. He moves to the kitchen, wanting to get dinner underway. He pulls the cupboard doors open, all of them, before commencing the meal.

I steal a glance at him through the available sliver of my view, and he's standing at the stove stirring something, shifting his legs fluidly. He moves well. He's mumbling some sweet nothing to the heated pan, then cocking his neck with telling attitude...and as the sizzling pierces the space, I can pull his statement from the air.

"Who needs Rachael Ray when you've got Betty Crocker."

You tell 'em, Nick.