He opened the back hatch of his SUV, the place where his golf clubs will live during the next several months. On Thursdays, Nick plays in a golf league, and the first game of the season is in a few days. Walking into the garage, he grabbed two pairs of shoes and threw them in the back with the rest of the golf paraphernalia. Back in the glory days of 2006, I had golf lesson with Brenda—as you can tell from that entry, we learned more than enough from that first go that we didn't really see the need to go back.

In any event, the instructor never covered golf shoes; I had to ask.

"So, why two different shoes? Is one pair for wet conditions and the other for dry?"

(Nick) "Nope."

"Is one pair to change into after the game is over?"

(Nick) "Nope."

"Are you giving one pair to a teammate?"

(Nick) "Nope."

The sound of crickets was suddenly deafening as I stared him down.

"WHAT'S WITH THE SHOES?" Damn, I wish I had finished those lessons with Brenda, 'cause this was just plain irritating.

(Nick) "I pick which pair I wear depending if black or brown goes better with my outfit."

…

Ah, my little metrosexual. I should have guessed. Screw golf lessons: we left at our peak.

So I forgot my cell phone this morning as I left for work. No big deal. Nonetheless, my primary mission after arriving home was to move it from the end table to my purse.

Nick and I do not have a land line. Really, the whole concept seems rather silly seeing as how we have decent cell reception and the people that want to talk to me or him already know how to contact me or him. Anyway, moving on.

Blindly, I reached my hand over the end table as I read through my personal email. My fingers met the surface of the table: no phone. I proceeded to look in every place where I typically leave my phone. I retraced all of my steps last night and even felt through icky sweaty exercise clothes to see if it had fallen in the laundry pile.

No dice.

Nick was not home. I could not even call my cell phone to see if I could hear it ringing. Hurriedly, I looked everywhere all over again to the same end: no cell phone to be found. Like I want to pay for a new cell phone right now! Mine is only a year old!

Finally, at the end of my wits, I downloaded Skype. I am sure it will only ever be used that one time, but I dialed my cell number. I heard Norah Jones singing "Turn Me On". The sound was coming from the kitchen.

Before I go much further with this altogether thrilling tale (these are the happenings that I find exciting enough to blog about, mind you), I should give you some updates about Sophie. She has grown into a big big kitty. She is intimidatingly strong, and I have no doubt that she could put me in a headlock if I ever dawdled too much in the dishing out of the evening canned food.

A few weeks ago, Nick swore that she carried up one of his shoes from the basement. I did not really believe him. Carrying a shoe almost the same height as her would have been cumbersome going up stairs, no? Well, just last night I discovered one of my one-pound wrist weights deposited neatly on the living room floor when it belonged by my other weights downstairs. I guess maybe she could carry a shoe, then.

So, getting back to the story…no phone, no land line, Skype, "Turn Me On", the kitchen. I looked over every surface of the counter top, and I even looked in a few cupboards and the refrigerator (I can be absentminded with the best of 'em). Finally, I went lower. I looked in the crevices next to the refrigerator and the ledge under the bottom cupboards. Meanwhile, I've redialed my number in Skype.

Finally, I noticed a reddish light flashing from beneath the oven. Sure enough, there it was...LODGED to the point where I had to lever the appliance up to get it out.

The whole incident, oddly, reminded me of my mom. Dad would always prepare himself a cup of coffee and then forget it on the counter or kitchen table; eventually, he would come back looking for it. Well, my mother, being the impish sort, took to hiding his coffee every time he forgot it. She'd stick it in cupboards, the oven, or the breadbox. Oh, it was great sport… we know how to make our fun living out in the middle of nowhere.

So, the unsettling prospect remains…is my impish cat my impish mother reincarnate? I am just grateful that my Faith negates the mere possibility…or I would be downright embarrassed at the things my cat has seen me do that I wouldn't want my mother to see me do.

I grudgingly watch South Park with Nick every now and then. Mostly, I find the show distasteful, but I would be remiss if I did not find it in equal parts funny.

I am not proud.

Last night, I was particularly amused when the townspeople of South Park awoke to no Internet. Widespread panic ensues as people cannot find out what happened to the internet because there is no internet to check! An awkward moment of silence encompasses the crowd as someone asks how they got their news before the Internet. As memory dawns, the throng breaks into a television store to turn on the news. The newscaster reports dully that their Internet is down and they have no way to get the news to report. In a deep resolve and in Grapes of Wrath style, one family decides to head out to California where it is rumored that there is still some Internet out there.

I found the satire hilarious. To equate the loss of the Internet with the Great Depression was brilliant, so sad and true. In the end, one of the little boys is sent to negotiate with The Internet (a giant router with a blinking orange light), and he makes peace with it by unplugging it, then plugging it back in. Peace (and the World Wide Web) returns to South Park, and a town meeting is held wherein the people are cautioned not to abuse web browsing, to only surf when absolutely necessary, and to view Internet pornography twice a day maximum.

And, with that distasteful note, I have dedicated an entire entry to South Park. Nick has poisoned my mind.

---

(edited to add clip:)

Madison, Wisconsin tops the national best teeth list.

Look, I know it's no secret that I more than just a little obsessive about certain things. I grew up with my role model being someone who regularly marched to her car with a Q-tip, rubbing alcohol, and sheer determination and disinfect those dashboard crannies. I am not quite that way, much to Nick's chagrin ("I thought when I started dating someone with OCD, the condo would always be spotless!"), but I have instead the compulsion to randomly wash my face, scrub my hands, and brush my teeth. Don't worry, Nick. When you started dating someone with OCD, your significant other would always be clean!

I get picked on a lot for my obsession—but today I did manage to have a rather riveting conversation in the bathroom which I did not initiate, thank you very much. I had this conversation with the very acquaintance who stumbled upon me brushing my teeth one day and sneered, "Let me guess. You ate something and now you think your teeth are scummy." A former cube neighbor, I know she sees me as competition: it is arguable whose collection of Purell is greater. She has a very sensitive nose and can often be found walking through our team asking who stinks. I always hold up my hands for vindication and she replies, "Oh, you smell like a hospital. Yuuummmy, clean hospital." Curiously, I have no qualms with double-dippers or sharing toothbrushes (except with cats) and I am fond of eating with my hands.

The moral of the story? Madison's got it right, and I'm still messed up. YAY!