Last night was a planned TV-free evening. Nick is fond of these. You know what it kind of reminded me of? The night without television? My life before Nicholas. That was back when I read more...and wrote more...and honed my skills more...and generally used my brain more. All that's changed now, though...and I have tasted the sweet nectar of American Idol. It's a decent trade-off.

Nick had been advised, naturally, of my Scrabble prowesslessness. I'm certain that it might have even been a deciding factor when he picked the game. "A night of wine and Scrabble," he purred lasciviously over the scratchy connection between our cell phones.

I took an early lead. My lips twitched as I began to formulate a potential lauralore.com post in my mind. "I lacked confidence in my Scrabble abilities," my mind wrote across conceived pages before my imaginative eye, the eye through which all reality passes before hitting the written word. "I thought my skill lousy, shoddy, and poor." I get quite wordy with that imaginative eye there...an acknowledged quirk.

Five minutes into the match, I predicted the end with sweeping strokes of my ego. "And I went to win the game, leaving Nick shellshocked in my wake, totally and utterly useless in his attempts to remain cocky." I formulated the next line sagely, offering a bit of wisdom to the kids...'cause you know so many of them read this site. "That just goes to show you, boys and girls, have faith in yourself. There's always someone who sucks more than you do."



But Nick plays dirty. Damn dirty. He keeps score. He uses a dictionary. It just leaves a foul taste in one's mouth, don't you think?

(He wouldn't let me use Zen...or quwim!)

Needless to say, at the close of my best game of Scrabble ever, I was still just Laura, and not Victor at all. But it was close, Nick winning by points totalling less than ten and just about exactly five. Still, my imaginative eye was understandably upset (as you can note, I've sought to appease it somewhat here). As we left the living room, the scene of the drama, the never-ending blockade of newfangled words, Nick hugged me, sagging shoulders and all, and said, "Good game, Dear," softly, affectionately. I smiled into his chest and leaned into the hug as he continued, "It's too bad you—," his ugly falsetto chimed in, "—'re a LOOOOOOOOOOOOOSER!"