I retrieved the pack from my pocket and tapped it forcefully against my opposite palm. Two emerged and I grabbed both, admitting that I would need the second in no time at all. My mother looked on, disapprovingly.

"You're hitting those kind of hard today, aren't you Sweetie?" I was the only in the vehicle who had this particular craving, so it was only natural that it should make them uneasy...or, so I told myself.

"I've cut back a little," I soothed. My habits, though none of her business, ought not to cause such concern. "I'm down to a pack and a half a day." It was apparent almost immediately that this information soothed most inadequately.

"I just don't know where you picked that up!" she huffed. "It's such a disgusting habit...people just throw the ends wherever they happen to be at the time, with no regard for the rest of the population!"

"I always take care with my disposal."

"OH? You never throw it out of the car window while you're on the highway?" Busted. She's seen me do that.

"Just once in a blue moon...settle down."

"No, I'm concerned. And do you know that there is nothing more offensive than hearing somebody do it over the phone? I HATE that! It makes me want to smack the person until it falls right out of their mouth!"

"I'm not much of a phone person."

"Don't get smart with me—I just don't understand how you developed such an addiction! Your father doesn't do it! I only do it socially!"

"Oh, Mother, please. Enough, already. I have no plans on quitting. Besides, it helps me keep my weight in check."

"Laura, Laura, Laura..." she sighed, defeated. She cringed outwardly and expelled her exasperation just loud enough for me to hear. "GUM!"

Actually, it is Brenda's—but I've stolen it, you see. I first applied this scrumptiously aromatic bliss last February, and fought the urge to use a rubber spatula and my tongue to clean the beauty treatment from my visage. It isn't made for eating, but you could've fooled my nose...and she isn't so easily deceived.

I brought a bottle with me for this trip; the impenetrability of the hard water around here is legendary. Last night, I applied a layer as we watched Primal Fear. I situated myself on the couch, in plain view of my husband. Miles looked at me in a long and scrutinizing gaze and offered a dual comment/question, obviously unsure of which he wanted it to be. "You have a mask on...or something?"

I looked at him, thinking thousands of sarcastic replies all at once, but my heart wasn't in it. Not...really. "Nope," I replied, pretending to be unaware of the goop on my face. Meanwhile, my stomach growled at direction from my olfactory gland, which was channeling quite the articulate little description of the foodstuff thought to be imminent.

"If you don't have a mask on, you look a little sick," Debbie added from her chair.

Brenda looked over and added, "Naw, she looks fine. Skin like porcelain. Porcelain!" They all shrugged and returned to the movie. Five minutes later, I removed the mask and my tongue's temptation with the broad swipes of a soft cloth. I returned to my place on the couch feeling girlish and attractive after the skin nourishing treatment. Brenda lolled her head back over to me and cringed. "Do you have a mask on?"

My pastor, the pastor of all pastors, Pastor Doug, works out in my gym. I see him there often and last week I had a chance to talk to him for quite a long time. I shyly mentioned my penchant for murmuring hymns during the week. I mentioned that it often made people uncomfortable, one nameless individual saying recently, "Laura! Stop that! I just swore!"

Pastor Doug laughed shockingly loud, clearly amused, and exclaimed, "And, did you tell them, 'That's ok! I don't care! I'm Lutheran!'!?"

I sat at the table sipping my coffee the other morning. The cats had just partaken of their morning treats, and Clem, the mischievous and slightly intoxicated chap photographed in my lap above, began his ritual of chasing the others. His teasing is nothing short of cruel, and I've taken to calling him "The Little Shit" (which he comes to just as readily as "Clem").

I snarled at him to cut it out from two rooms away. When I didn't hear the fighting subside, I hollered, "CLEM! I so mean it!" Brenda walked into the kitchen moments later with her makeup half-complete, holding a mascara wand loosely in her right hand.

"I so mean it?" she mocked. "You're going to make quite the little mother one day. I can just hear it now: 'Stop misbehaving—I so mean it!'" She thought a moment more, and giggled to herself. Knowing that Miles has an affinity for the laid back—and the tendency to ruin an entire day's schedule with tardiness—she continued, clearly enjoying the idea, "And you'll say, 'I'm going to let your father take of punishing you!' and he'll say, "Yeah, I'll be there in a minute.'" She continued to giggle to herself, and I saw scary glimpses into the future.

I have been trying to exercise a little healthful influence during meal preparation. I can't quite convince the lot to use TVP [Textured Vegetable Protein] in their casseroles, but I am hopeful. It's all about opening your mind to new possibilities. One day...

Until then, I will work to convince them that ninety-eight and ninety-nine percent fat free ground chicken or turkey is the way to go. One night, Mom made the perennial favorite, Tater Tot Casserole.

Contrary to what the name suggests, the tater tots are not the heart and soul of the dish, but rather, the topping. The casserole guts are an influx of ground meaty substance, vegetables, and an aged cream soup—Campbell's, 2004...a good year.

Mom tried to sneak ground turkey in instead of the beef. Unfortunately, Dad saw the turkey thawing. He converged upon me as I hung my laundry on the line. "What's the ground turkey for?" Stupidly, I told him. He snorted in disgust, telling me that he wouldn't be joining us for dinner. "I NEED MEAT!" he thundered.

Vegetarians be enlightened: poultry is back on the menu.