Nick's computer is less than functional. I smuggled over a wireless router to his condo awhile back, and, on occasion, I bring my laptop over for a play-date. Needless to say, Nick has come to be rather fond of having a laptop sitting around...and that was when his desktop was more than functional.

As last night drew to a close, Nick fished, "Do you think you'll be coming by tomorrow night?" I put down the People crossword that I was working on—the leaf which I tore (with permission) from an old magazine in the collapsing heap of time-passers at Parks Automotive on Friday while I waited for them to tally my bill—and looked to his eager little face.

"I'm leaving my laptop here," I offered my olive branch. I saw his immediate joy and then the fronted nonchalance. "Yes, I read through that question," I replied with a twinkle in my eye, and he began to smirk and duck his head with feigned embarrassment at being caught.


Ah, but it is good to be needed.

Brenda took me out to dinner last night to talk about how I was handling everything. I haven't been home much at all, and naturally she reads lauralore.com daily...and I occasionally key a heavy post here...

Hi, Brenda!

I told her that I am best on the days that I double my mood-enhancing supplement. It's an amino acid called L-Tyrosine that I originally started taking in September to help me through the winter slump....little did I know then how slumpy my winter would get! My working knowledge of supplements is staggering, and completely useless in any facet of my daily life.

I offered this piece of information shyly, not wanting my aunt to worry that I was doubling a recommended dose. I needn't have worried. This from the aunt who, whenever she goes to the doctor and they find something off, asks, "Is there a pill I can take?" When detailing what my stress has manifested physically, Brenda generously offers, "We've got lots of pills here. Feel free." Silly me. We have a pill drawer. An entire drawer in the kitchen dedicated to pills. And a cupboard that contains the pill overflow, and your run-of-the-mill OTC drugs.

So, it should have come as little surprise for Brenda to offer, in response to me taking extra amino acids, "They usually list low-end doses anyway." Do you think this applies at all to the tolerated upper limit of sugar? Hmm.

Thursday, Chris came over to my cubicle tell me about the dessert she had at lunch. She knows that I am a fan of desserts and enjoy hearing of their splendor. I also feel that my imagination deserves a little gluttony now and then, even if the rest of me stays nutritionally sound.

She began describing the torte of sorts, and when she got to the layer of chocolate mousse, I interrupted her to ask if she knew what sound a moose made. This caught her off guard and she stopped mid-word in her weaving narrative of the Heath candy crumbles. I do that to people, distracting them from the task at hand with a question that holds little value and whose answer I care about only marginally.

But there is a power in this...because while Chris was dying to tell me about the angels that sang while she devoured her bit of delectability, she also wanted to answer my question...because everybody should know what sound a moose makes. It's just an American-thing to know. Chris is nothing if not patriotic.

And, I had asked so inquisitively, so innocently, and so sweetly—I can be, quite frankly, irresistible with very little effort. I know this to be especially true when I am on the phone with a provider set on ripping me a new one and I end the conversation with them complimenting my kind voice and wishing me a very pleasant afternoon...and note that "very"...it's important.

Chris began to answer me in earnest, her face set in determined lines and her eyes intent. The delicate curls about her face trembled as she summoned her reply. "Well, they make this sound: Moo—se." She laughed at what came from her mouth. She turned to Dawn, next cubicle down, and asked the same question.

"WHAT!?" cascaded over the impermanent walls, and Chris came back to my view, shrugging exaggeratedly about the response to such an answer-worthy question. She was so completely curious about what sound a moose makes, forgetting completely about dessert. I thrive on widespread illogical...breeds humor, I say. It's as though causing such discord is the meaning of my life, and I define it plenty.

I popped an individual bag of popcorn—a subject that Nick finds silly...because who can't finish a bag of REGULAR sized popcorn on their own? Yes, yes, Nicholas...but who SHOULD?—and Sally passed by, smiling in greeting while making her way to the copy machine. "Hey, Sally?" I called. "What sound does a moose make?" Her smile dropped and her feet stumbled haphazardly toward me.

"HUH!?" I repeated the question, and she began laughing uncertainly, waiting for the punchline. She was one of my mother's oldest friends, and tries to be generous with my poor attempts at joke telling. My timing typically sucks, so I stick with the puns. Anyway, moose calls: Sally pondered the situation, and when it was obvious that my question was delivered in all seriousness, she became curious in her own right, replying, "I have no idea!"

"Great!" I groaned. "Here I am, stuck at work, and I have no idea how to attract a moose." I stalked off like a cat trying to train her human. I heard Sally laugh in my wake, a little confused, but generous as I said. Suzanne was next, then Trixie, and Sheila the next morning. Sheila's my boss, my mentor, and as per last Thursday, my lunchtime shrink. If Sheila doesn't know, nobody knows. I ask her everything. Nobody knows.

It is quickly becoming the big topic at the office, all 8 hours it's had the chance to brew..."Did you figure out what sound a moose makes?" they ask. Few remember how it started, for few knew. It is quickly passing into the pages of inside-jokedom and, dare I say, lore. Chris never got around to describing her dessert.

On Saturday, Brenda made a delicious Chicken Parmesan. It was the very same she made for the first time on my birthday last August, and it was just as delicious as I remembered. Debbie offered to duplicate the entire meal by baking an apple-pie-chaser (which I requested in lieu of cake), but decided on a chocolaty cheesecake pie instead. Yeah, we really suffered there...heh.

It's just as well...half of the infatuation with anything is the anticipation. I wait all year for late summer/early fall just for the abundance of apple pie. Mmm. Whenever the winter doldrums are rolling in, I focus on that pie, and I always seem to make it through to the other side.

Anyway...this post has nothing to do with pie.

Except, I feel I should note that Debbie makes the best apple pie in, I'm only qualified to say, two states.

I was aiding in the clearing and cleaning of the table after the conclusion of the meal. I grasped the resealable bag of freshly shredded parm and mechanically went about the business of pressing out the air before sealing and placing in the refrigerator. Brenda rushed over with eyebrows in a "V" and snatched the bag from my hands!

"That's not how you put away cheese!" she all but growled. Brenda would know. Her love of cheese is unparalleled by even the likes of Cleopatra and Marc Antony...to say nothing of Burt and Ernie (c'mon, read between the lines!). I shivered in my chastisement and hugged my arms close to my chest. She reopened the bag, pinching a wad of cheese between her fingers and placing it in her mouth. She then proceeded to pressed the air from the bag and secure the seal before placing it in the refrigerator.

I'll know for next time.

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!"