Beware the Ides of March! I'm no soothsayer, so take it for what it's worth...

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!"

Many moons ago, Nick and I spent a weekend in Chicago...and while it is widely rumored that I spent most of the weekend visiting every Starbucks on Michigan Avenue, Nick and I went to the Field Museum, too. Their big-time attraction was entitled Pompeii: Stories from an Eruption.

Now, I am sure that all of you have a working knowledge of the tragic day in 79AD when Mount Vesuvius erupted and devastated Pompeii. I think I learned it in grammar school somewhere in the same timeline as Yankee Doodle Dandy...but just in case there are some of you that had a more basic grade school experience, I will summarize the happenings of that fateful day.

Basically, there was this volcano, you know? And it erupted. Volcano warning systems were somewhat archaic in those days, and the people didn't realize it was happening, lava and black smoke notwithstanding, obviously. Well lookie there, I just educated you!—oh, and for you Trivial Pursuit buffs, the exact date was the 08/24/0079. Thank me when you win that yellow pie wedge.

It was crowded. Nick and I were trying so arduously to be cultured and interested, but the crowds annoyed us. They milled...people actually milled. "But Laura, it's a museum. People want to study exhibits." Yeah, yeah...but how long can you look at repeated casts of dead people, salvaged jewelry, and crumbling frescoes? It was air-tight in there, lights were dimmed, and my personal bubble was seriously invaded. We were a part of a boa-constrictor-y queue slithering about displays, and my patience grew short.

"Cultured. Interested," I kept reminding myself. I exhaled audibly and rolled my shoulders back. The boredom sat on my shoulder, whispering sweet nothings in my ear. Not Nick, though. He perked up considerably upon learning the prostitute-laden society had a celebrated day of fornication on April 28th. The glass is always half-full with our Nick. Even if he wasn't cultured, you can be damn sure he was interested. I won't be surprised if he hosts a dinner party sometime near the end of April.

We watched a presentation on the whole mess, highlighting some nuances left out of my grammar school Pompeii brain-tickle. We stood up after the 6 minute break in our 2-hour shuffle through the darkened, congested hall, and wearily pushed our way through the last third of the affair. Nick reached for my hand dejectedly, and he had that empathic look—contrived, but still convincing—and leaned low to speak softly, "You know how this could have all been prevented?" He looked so down-trodden and tired....I shook my head. "If they had only sacrificed more virgins." With that, he dropped my hand and, shaking his head, stomped off with an actor's Grammy-worthy drama.

We were going to watch a movie last night. This One. Nick began snoring early-on. I raised my head from its relaxed position on his shoulder to gaze at his closed eyes. "Hey, Nick? Why don't I stop this. We can watch it sometime when you're more awake?"

"No," came his firm reply.

It's that defensive, macho, "Shoot, you think I sleep? Man, I NEVER sleep! I don't NEED sleep!" Because, you know, sleeping is as potentially harmful to a manly-man's reputation as poofy pink slippers.

I waited another five minutes, until his breathing vibrated tellingly, before raising my head again, gingerly. He started in seeming wakefulness. "No, that was just a heavy breath!"

It's sick. I've heard it before. I just might be dating my father...like the psychiatrist wouldn't already have a field day with me on the subject of my infatuation with inanimate objects and the conversations with them I do conduct.

Nick could come to cost me a pretty penny.