Miles and I live life in the fast lane. We're adventuresome, reckless, and have been known to use the express checkout even when our items total 13 instead of 12. And so, it should come as little surprise that today, despite the holiday celebrations and social gatherings, we spent twelve hours watching a Little House on the Prairie marathon.

My mother loves the Laura Ingalls Wilder books. I still remember her yellowed, age-worn set adorning the bookcase. Rumor has it, she even named her first born "Laura". The very same child oft wondered why it was cautioned to keep bees out of one's bonnet...how else would you spell it but with a "b", after all? Mother simply patted my head and hoped I would grow into a less literal sense of humor.

Unfortunately, hopes are wont to be dashed.

As I slumbered the evening last, I dreamt vividly. My husband and Jason were taking a computer class, and one day the instructor had them make banana nut bread. Yeah, I don't know why he/she had them do that either.

Anyway, Jason gave me HIS banana nut bread...and Miles came home empty-handed, with guilty crumbs of banana nut-ness about the corners of his mouth. Then, I woke up.

Still caught in my dream, I rolled to Miles, slightly hysterically, and exclaimed, "You made banana nut bread in school! Jason shared! You ate all yours!" I had startled him out of a deep sleep and yet he looked totally calm and attentive.

Rationally, he replied, "But Jason shared his, right?" I nodded angrily. He continued, "Then what's the big deal?" He rolled over and went back to sleep. I did so as well, coming out of the haze enough to realize how foolish I must have sounded.

An hour or so later, when we were of a more lucid mind, Miles put his hand on my shoulder and said, "I had the strangest dream. You thought Jason gave you banana nut bread while I hoarded my share. Isn't that weird!?"

"Very," I replied.

It's been one of those weeks. I am behind on sleep and ahead on headaches, and looking slightly worse for wear....a bit death-warmed-overish. Unfortunately, today we were scheduled to sign our life insurance policies. I thought the whole reheated death portrayal might mess with our agent's confidence in my youth and vitality...so I allowed my hand to go heavy with the blusher.

Miles picked me up and immediately he was aflutter with compliments. Well, as "aflutter" as my Miles gets. Pat, with whom we met, was also quite generous with complimentary utterances.

Fraudulent smile plastered to my face, I thanked them both and realized that I must usually look like crap. Or, perhaps, that I look my best made up as a floozy.

I have been distinctly out of sorts as of late, something you might have picked up on by the lack of posts. Oh, you're a quick bunch, you are!

Miles has been dropping pounds like crazy. He looked at me almost accusatorily the other morning and said, "I don't know why, but I'm losing weight!"

I've had such inklings in the past, but now I'm almost certain of it: Miles is no woman. A woman would view unexpected weight loss as a gift from the highest heavens and perhaps even keep it to herself so as not to break the spell. I've been beneath the cloud of headache for awhile now, but his incriminating gaze still had me shaking my head.

I replied, "And! By God! The bank account has extra, unexpected money! Why must we keep suffering so? Why does the world deal us so harshly!?"

He gave me his, "stop trying to be funny, it's not working" look and tied his shoes. We haven't discussed it since.