I was getting an upgrade to my car shortly after I bought it last Fall—an auto-dim compass mirror—when the mechanic says to me conversationally, "You know, everybody says that the police target people in little red cars..." and I nodded curtly. "...but really, it's that people that buy little red cars are very Type A."

I didn't appreciate that.

But I had a moment of dawning today on the highway, my irritation peaking as I switched from lane to lane, trying to find a flow of traffic with a pair of balls big enough to go respectably over the speed limit. Um. It's called RUSH hour.

Finally, accepting that 63 in a 55 zone was the best I was going to do, my head fell forward in disappointment, and I saw my disappointment mirrored by the driver in the car ahead of me...his head nearly banging against the steering wheel of his little red car.

I noticed it at our local Culver's Memorial Day Weekend's Saturday, but I managed to not get there to clean them out. The flavor sounded so totally requisite in my life and I had to have it: Blueberry Cheesecake Custard. That was the day we went to Brat Fest in the pouring rain and Nicholas had a conniption over the Boca brat I insisted on having. Not that I'm bitter.

The day ran out on me, and I lacked the initiative to go back out into the cold rainy night. I regretted so the next day when I awoke to that longing. I have never known a desire so great for something I've never tasted, but I can easily see the feasibility of the craving for my imagination's object trumping all others.

By that Monday, I was desperate and logged onto Culver's site to find the next sighting of that particular flavor of the day. I found it at the Northport branch, which I pass every day on my way to work. It was to be there June 12th. I circled it on my calendar and told all I'd pass to spread the goodness that I knew must be Blueberry Cheesecake Custard. Easily, I prefer frozen custard to ice cream if I'm going to indulge—so silky and smooth, I think it is made of silver cloud linings.

I told Jim Sunday when we went biking. Turns out, that was a good move. I received an email yesterday that told me I did not have to, in fact, wait until the twelfth for the object of my desire, because it was the flavor of the day at the Culver's in Middleton. Now, okay. I am not familiar with Middleton or the West Side at all...well, except to get to the UW Hospital. I didn't grow up close to either area and my parents stuck to the areas they knew...namely, De Forest and Sun Prairie. It was a big deal the first time Mom drove to the East Side Shop-ko all by herself.

So, when I got back from the gym, and I let loose my enthusiasm upon Nick that BLUEBERRY CHEESECAKE CUSTARD WAS AT THE MIDDLETON CULVER'S!, he replied that we would take a ride after dinner. So, we're in the car and he asks, "Which Culver's is it?" I stared blankly. "There are four," he explains. I whine that I don't know, that all Jim said was that it was a Middleton Culver's and he didn't say which one. "I guess we'll just drive around until we find it then," he sighs with aggravation.

I was feeling pouty myself by that point. Nick was the one that suggested we go after dinner—I certainly wouldn't have because I didn't know where it was—and now he was giving me attitude. He's such a diva.

I see a Culver's sign in the distance and squint. "THAT'S IT! THAT'S THE ONE!" I point happily, forgetting to hold my pout. He turns and I buy a half gallon of the flavor of the day. "First one we drove by!" I cheer. Nick looks at me with that smile that I hate...the one that tells me that he's having way too much fun at my expense, and worse, that I've been completely unaware.

"Did you really think I didn't know where I was going?" Cocky.

"Well, you said there were four."

"There's only one."

I'm old school. I BELIEVE WHAT PEOPLE SAY.

My irritation dissipated as I made my lackey-boyfriend fill my car with gas and serve me custard. It disappeared altogether when I wrapped my mouth around the creamy gift from God, my eyes rolling back and mewling sounds catching in my throat.

Nick who?

I know you're supposed to switch out your razors every 3 or 4 times you shave, but razor blades are expensive!—especially for someone who shaves EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. This is a quirk, mainly because I don't have very much hair on my legs to begin with, and it grows in very slowly...but hey, it's part of the daily shower routine so I go with it. Yes, Brenda, even in Winter.

It's always been this way, and I can tell you that the majority of the marks on my legs are from shaving incidents of years past, all except the nastiest one on my knee—where my lovely brother hit me with a gravel-filled snow ball in elementary school. I remember once, my aunt, Debbie, remarked how she didn't know what would possess someone to continue shaving after they had cut themselves. I replied that you never know when someone's gonna up and touch your leg.

Well, yesterday, I switched out the blade on my razor for the first time since, oh, I don't know, September? I was feeling a little down with the whole Mother's Day thing and decided to treat myself—with a super sharp razor blade. It seems not a little messed up in retrospect.

But, I went about my routine...and once the steam had cleared and the mirror had revealed, I realized that my armpits were smooth enough to show my reflection, and life was good.

Well, I've had this phantom subscription of Shape magazine for a very long time.

(excerpt from Friday, March 24, 2006)
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?

Well, we've since determined the subscription wasn't coming for free at all, and it was probably a late coming last Christmas gift from Mom, being that the subscription ran from 11/2005 through 11/2006 and she would have probably noticed that I always inched the latest month's issue on the belt behind her groceries at the store. I renewed it for 2 years, and it's just one of those things...I don't know...I'll probably always have to keep that subscription going. Don't make me try to explain my neurosis...you're saner without knowing.

But last year, while I had a very exhausting dual residency between my aunts' and Nick's, I had subscriptions at both locals, so I could prove that I lived here or there if some random person should get in my face and ask. Right about now, two fitness magazines should be expiring...they were too much, and held the same info as Shape anyhow, but less of it. Last Summer, I started a People subscription which will continue on because, well, it's a big picture book and in a house with two pairs of artistic eyes....and all the gossip is addicting. I wanted to cancel Cosmo, too. "I only need Shape and People," I'd protest...and Nick would give an ultimatum.

"If you don't renew Cosmo, I'm going to subscribe to Maxim again." And, truly, I hated seeing the smuttily clad girls on the glossy cover month after month...Cosmo girls may not be all that covered up, but at least their nudity is meant to appeal to women and not men and therefore the smuttiness is lost to me. Days ago, the latest Cosmo came.

Last month's issue was "on deck" beneath the coffee table and Nick asked coyly, "So, since the latest issue came, can I take [the one beneath the coffee table] to the bathroom?" He has a little basket of Cosmos in there, along with kayaking and biking trail guides...and I think even a book on how to make more money. Quite the library—and apparently he needed his latest fix on how to avoid cravings for junk food or how to find the right pair of blue jeans to fit his curves properly.

Nick is a bit clumsy on the stairs. Similarly, Sophie is a bit clumsy on the stairs. I chided him last week for teaching her how to use the apparatus, and cautioned that she better not be learning anything else from him. He replied that maybe we should set some old issues of Cosmo near the litter box.

Our kitten has taken to sleeping with us—or, rather, flipping, flopping, and squirming erratically while she plays with the covers (or Nick's feet). The sounds from her prolific little collar bell chatter with her metal tag, and Nick and I were both awake and groaning at 3:30.

Nick sat up to look at her, and she sprinted away (to return moments later once we were settled in again). He mumbled grumpily, "She needs to be taught that the bed's not a play area." I wonder if she'll pout and start looking at personal ads like I did when he taught me.

In church, Nick's mother leans across me to ask Nick why he's wearing his glasses instead of his contact lenses. He comes clean, telling her that he has a blemish near his eye, and how the frames of his eyeglasses camouflage the unscrupulous beast (really, to attack on EASTER SUNDAY like that...just terrible!).

In a gooey Full House moral-of-the-story moment, one wherein I heard, there in God's house, Michael Jackson singing, "You are not alooooone..." I whispered to him that I had an upsetting discovery of the same sort that very morning, in the hollow of my right cheek. We bonded...I thought we really bonded. I thought I shared something deeply personal to help him deal with his own troubles.

Then, later, in my grandmother's assisted living suite, he sat behind me—me on the footstool, him on the corresponding glider. Leaning forward to kiss the right side of my neck, he caught sight of my cheek and jerked away...spitting in his hysteria, "MOUNT ST. HELENS!"

We're glued to the television because tornadoes are ripping through the place. As the warning is lifted for our area, the marquee catches Nick's attention and he snickers. Pausing the live newscast, he rewinds, calling me into the room to read.

"Friday night, we told you about a cat perched on top a telephone pole in Sun Prairie. Since the story aired, we've received numerous calls inquiring about the cat's status. We can tell you it is no longer on the pole, but we're not sure what happened to it."






And, in other news, Farmer Thompson's Jersey cow came home this morning, after wandering off sometime just after dusk. The cow is blaming her delay on an overindulgence of bovine wine and apologizes for not calling when she knew she'd be late. Back to you, Mike.

Tell me, who are you? (who are you? who, who, who, who? )
Cause I really wanna know (who are you? who, who, who, who? )

SpikeTV begins playing CSI reruns early in the evening...we're pretty much chomping at the bit for Oprah to quit rambling because it's our cue to toggle over to channel 30 and watch Gil Grissom solve another case, undoubtedly, a case we've already seen solved, and have rare the opportunity to feel truly intelligent as we direct the characters on the screen where to look next, who we "think" the bad guy really is. It's not really that bad, it's not like we've stopped eating or caring for the household to watch television (Although I think my grumbling stomach kept Nick from falling asleep the other night...and I'm wondering which one of us will finally break and unload the dishwasher—undoubtedly, he'll play the "I did it last time!" card...), but it's a comfort to know that it's always there. The weeknight marathons on Spike, the new episodes Thursday, and the occasional extra episode CBS airs in HD when sports play has left a hole in their TV lineup.

It's great to fall asleep to, an old friend, security. It's just like curling up with my favorite blankie in a soft lit room with tiny chimes, watching that stripper-come-scientist get cheeky with the guy in the lab. UNCANNY. So, you can imagine my upset last night when, Nick and I ready for slumber, could not find a single CSI to watch. Hell, even if Spike isn't playing them, A&E will be playing the sister show in Miami...but last night, they were all dried up. Nothing. I took a turn switching around, Nick tried his hand at the remote...and the verdict was the same. We made small talk for a bit, but that just didn't seem right at all, and eventually found some other crime show to set the timer to, a show that engaged neither of us, but left a clearer understanding of the void that had now taken hold of our lives.

I was used to watching nothing but The Golden Girls reruns whenever I wandered toward the television. After Friends ended...well, I suppose my TV-watching spirit died a little...but, hey? Who's didn't? I quickly adjusted to minimal TV viewing, and used it more as a distraction than anything, hence why I chose to watch a sitcom whose script I probably know start to finish, season-1 to season-x.

But then came an increased awareness of this thing called High Definition TV. I've become a snob, and have a hard time watching The Golden Girls because they appear so grainy...what is the monstrously-sized blob lording over the left of the screen with the thundering voice? Oh, it's Dorothy. Of course. (I love you, Bea Arthur, I really do!)

But I find it ironic that with the multitude of cable packages that Nick pays for every month, there are but a handful channels that I even consider. The graphics artist in me appreciates the beauty in the flawless picture (yes, I intend to make this sad observation intellectual if not artistic), and fumes even further as another CSI episode clarifies a blurred image by ADDING PIXELS FROM THIN AIR. The life of a graphics artist so belittled. That's totally why I traded it all for an entry level position at the bottom of a totem pole: who's laughing now, huh!?

But it is an excitement when we find some sort of show on at bedtime (around 8:00, sadly) on a network station, and we rush to refold the blankets covering our laps and restore the living room before tackling the steps two, three at a time all while cheering excitedly as we head toward the new bedroom TV, "LET'S WATCH IT IN HD!"

And it is now that I know the interesting phase in my life has passed.

It hasn't been easy, you know. I drink water like it's...water. You know, the substance that covers most of the Earth and fills most of our bodies? I drink so much water that there were a few times under my aunt's gaze wherein she questioned whether I've ever been tested for diabetes. Well, I still haven't, but I'm thinking that with all of the darn blood tests and whatnot they've done, they would have noticed something peculiar.

So it comes to an issue of vessel. My needs are much reduced at work. I require only a straw. I do not like having to sip. It is undignified. And I slurp.

No, I'm a dedicated sucker, and will probably wind up old and gray with smoker's line even though I've never smoked a day in my life nor will I.



So, pretty much any straw-bearing bottle will do in the workplace, and the bigger the better or I'll just have to refill more often. But within reason: a coworker of mine as an 80-ouncer. That's a five pound sloshing trough to have to drag back from the bubbler! I have from from Choose Hope, Inc...for obvious reasons I should hope. I'm all about proceeds going to Cancer research.

What to use at home is a non-issue. I found a lovely specimen last spring, and even had a task force go back to the store to steal a rubber washer from another bottle there when, devastated, I managed to lose my own during the height of my illness last Summer. If you bought that water bottle without the washer, part of me is sorry, but most of me feels that you didn't know what you were missing anyhow and my conscience in clear.

But at the gym, oh boy. I struggle so. Nick has an assortment of those Nalgene bottles, which are great because you can pack like 40 ounces in those suckers if you really smash the water molecules together. This volume is, of course, perfect for those days that I feel like wasting 75 minutes on the treadmill. But I have to drink from them by placing my lips physically on the mouth of the bottle, and drinking. It's uncouth for one, and for the second...well, you try drinking like that, from a brimming 40-oz bottle, while jogging. I NEED STRAWS. I'm convinced I'd have died of thirst by now had they not existed. They say a sucker is born every minute, and I guess I was the one at 9:42p some twenty-five and a half years ago.

But that's not even the worst. The hard plastic clangs against the metal of the cup holder when I display any sort of bounce, vigor, or hitch in my get-along. I find it very distracting and thow darts at the loud thing with my eyes, willing it to shut the heck up. It never does. I look around, realize that everyone else working out can hear my tantrumming bottle, and lord only knows how long it will be before the powers that be throw us both out of the establishment. I turn off my treadmill and cry. This is a big deal. I need a water bottle that will stand up the the challenges I face.

Last week, I found it, THE bottle. It has the look, feel, and singing voice of the Nalgene bottles, BUT WITH A STRAW! I was so giddy that I giggled for a few minutes before stroking the purple one. So, with an adequate water supply and adequate system for delivery, one problem remained. The attention-seeking need to make more noise than the treadmill—I didn't think it was possible either but let me tell you...

Late Sunday night, I ordered sleeves for the bottles (Nick got one too), I'm thinking they will muffle the impact substantially. Until then, I came up with my own little solution, and shortly after my first test run, regretted having ordered anything as the home solution worked fabulously. A sock. Duh. Of course! I wrapped my bottle in the downy insulation I usually only bestow upon my toes, and only sound I could hear over the treadmill was the inner groan of my hips.

Thrilled, I headed home to Nick, who worked late that night and was unable to join me at the gym. Immediately he reached for my bottle, examining my setup. "Jealous, aren't you?" I asked, very full of myself as I recall. He made to answer, but I jumped ahead of him, "Do you want to use the other sock for yours?" He stroked the primary blue sock that I had purchased expecting a long hospital stay last month. It is gaudy and complete with white rubbery marks for traction. "I also have one in pink?" He seemed disincline to accept.

But I'm still content.