You get to a point in a relationship—any sort of relationship, romantic or other—wherein you begin to display each other's mannerisms, ways of speech, behaviors. Well I've known Nick for a good five months now, and I recognize that I am an altered person. I watch television. I find the taste of draft ciders slightly more than palatable. Every now and then I find myself groaning when I sit down or stand up...the very quirk I teased Nick for soon after we met. I use his catch phrases on occasion..."Well, exactly...", "Yah think!?", and the hypothetical "Whaddaryah gonna do?" when it is altogether obvious that there is nothing that can be done.

The same is true for him, as I learned this week when I caught him after work with a coffee stain on his shirtfront. Ah yes, the Laura-branding hath begun. I've already noted his regular use of "seriously," which is an old stand-by of mine...because, obviously I need to specify when I'm being an idiot and when I am playing the scholar...the differences in my demeanor being too subtle to differentiate. Now, I wait for the clumsiness to take hold.

The lilies of the valley have arrived for the year. These are, hands down, my favorite flower. They are delicately perfect in every way and I am completely smitten. When I lived in North Carolina, Debbie once picked a bouquet from her garden and sent them to me...I was tickled. Last night, as she presented me with the above, I smiled deeply at such a kind gesture. Debbie pays acute attention to her loved ones' pleasures, and surprises them often with "just thinking about you" charm. Thank you, Debbie. I bundled them with a rough twine to contrast with their fragile build and plan to stare at them all day at work. Truly, this is the best part of Spring.

Tonight is golf lesson #2. Being the nerd that I am, I left last week's lesson muttering, "I think I'm going to buy a book." Because, paying for lessons isn't enough of a financial drain for me to feel good about my golf-game-honing ventures. And, being the shopper that she is, Brenda ordered Golfing for Dummies last weekend. See, it's teamwork. I mention something I want, and Brenda buys it. I've managed to coordinate this plan of attack with many an acquaintance over the years, and it seems to work smoothly enough.

I feel really good today, the best I've felt in a long while, but last night was terrible. My stomach was hurting this way and that, and as I massaged my cramping midsection, I watched Brenda practice on the training putting green she ordered with the book, and I had to laugh. She shook her head and joined. "I'm not sure if this will work in our house," she advised, looking to the length of green and the three cats whose curiosities were there applied.

I took a bath and relaxed deeply in the fragrant water with a banana mask. I leafed through my new SHAPE magazine...which I just renewed for two years at a 75%+ savings off of the cover price...Nick's soon-to-be-former roommate received her copy of the magazine on Friday...I didn't receive mine until Monday. I typically leave my laptop at Nick's these days and do my "home surfing" from Brenda's spiffy new Dell. Yesterday, I chatted briefly with Nick and he reported that my Gmail notifier was showing I had new mail before the notifier from Brenda's computer did. I huffed, "Dang it! SHAPE arrives faster to Waunakee...email is delivered faster to Waunakee....WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING IN DEFOREST!?" Nick, who was wryly killing time until his volleyball game, and direly wishing for an electrical storm to cancel the match, confirmed that this was a very good question...I missed you too last evening, Nick.

I'm hoping to meet up with Sarah on Thursday. We seem to have trouble scheduling time. We're (hopefully, if we can get our procrastinating butts in gear...I don't know how many nights we skipped studying in college in favor of girl talk and just plain silliness) taking tennis lessons together later this summer. I possess little to no athletic skill, you see, a situation I would very much like to rectify. I was not an active youngster, and came into my physical prowess after the ripe old age of twenty. I have much ground to make up. Sarah has stomach issues too (I'm sure she loves that I announce that to the world...or the lauralore.com audience...yep, all 3 of you) and there is a sort of bond between people whose bodies have an unparalleled hatred for, you know...food.

Lastly, in this disconnected babble of a post, I bought a flat iron for my hair last night. My stylist said that it would make my hair shiny...and straight. Though I had my doubts, I have to say I'm impressed with this easy process and I actually got my hair to look like the salon got it to look the other night. I have a head of hair that sits on the fence in the curly/straight debate. The grass is always greener, they say...indeed, as a young girl with hair so thick I used to loose bobby pins only to find them weeks later, I was envious of the girls with flat hair. I say to you now, as a stockholder in volumizing shampoo lines who spends hours a night praying to the Vidal Sassoon Gods to let me lose not a strand more of my locks, thick hair really isn't so very bad.

I went back to the hair and day spa last night, the first time in about five months...makes ya cringe, doesn't it? Yes, well I was indeed in a sad state of neglect. My maintenance as of late having left much to be desired, my self confidence following suit.

Sitting in the chair, inhaling the hypnotic fragrances of pampering products of the studio, and reconnecting with that crafty Shampoo Girl, it felt good investing some time in me. I didn't feel nearly as guilty with the process as I was expecting to feel...as I felt when I made the appointment. It is hard to explain, I guess. Nothing seemed important after Mom passed away. Everything seemed cheap.



And, last night, as Nick told me that I was beautiful, I began to feel like a part of me decided to live again...I'm sure it all seems very vain, but it isn't. The ever-growing blanket of "I don't care" was beginning to smother me...and there have been days in past months that have frightened me with their themes of "What's the use?" The thing is, I do care...and I've finally admitted so to myself...reconciling myself too, that my mother wouldn't have had it any other way. "If you're not living, you're dead...which is it gonna be?" she'd demand.

I choose life...I choose liking myself...I choose moving forward.

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Just a quick blurb to finish 'er off:

I walked in the studio last night and my stylist welcomed my return with a bear hug. She said, "Here I thought you found another Salon! But, I can see for myself," she continued around a smirk, "that you just stopped going completely."

The girl knows how to flatter! That's why I tip her the big bucks...and I hope she buys something really wonderful with that 29¢.

So I'm on this medication...it came from the pharmacy in a orangy-brown bottle with what preliminary tallies determine to be a googolplex of warning stickers.

May cause blurred vision.
May cause drowsiness.
May cause disorientation.
May cause corny humor.
May cause silliness.

...The effects of alcohol may be heightened while taking this medication.

Well, let me tell you, there is no "may be" about that last one.

Nick made his signature dish for dinner last night...his spinach lasagna which, incidentally, was the first meal he ever made for me...on the day we met...after nearly 10 hours of nonstop conversation. Along with Italian, naturally, one must serve wine. It's like peanut butter and jelly or me and gum...they just go together.

Now, it wasn't even a hard wine. It was delicious, no doubt, and I went completely silly on it...which in hindsight must have been pretty obvious, but at the time I found my performance in suggesting otherwise brilliant and not a little Oscar-worthy.

We were doing dishes side by side...yes I dropped a few dishes as I dried, but I caught them all by the second or third wobble and none of them broke. Hell, I even loaded the coffeemaker, setting the timer for the next morning. I was riding high...I could barely see straight and look all that I still accomplished—who's the man!?

And, at 7:30, I awoke, knowing the coffee should be waiting for me. I picked my way downstairs and frowned as I saw the pot empty. I looked at the switch. Sure enough it was set to "auto"...sure enough it was set to 7:00. A.M., even. Leaning closer I felt the warmth.

Leaning closer yet, I lifted the lid. Leaning even closer yet, coming to the tips of my toes, the lid slipped from my grasp, flopping to an audible close. I frowned. I backed away. I whimpered.

I forgot the water.

I have in my possession a very inexpensive mp3 player. Very inexpensive...so much so that one might call it cheap and in need of replacement. It is but a few months old, but I wanted to first verify that I would actually use it before looking into the purchase of one with bells and whistles and probably the letters i-P-O-D labeled upon the front panel.

See, I was a television-watcher on the treadmill during days past. The Food Network never had a problem distracting me from the seeming cruelty I sought to inflict upon my knees, hips and toes. Particularly my toes. I'm fearful I'm going to lose a toenail at present, which is probably more information than you want to know...but it is painted a lovely posy-pink to camouflage the ugly purple-black of the underlying bruise. In any event, I could ignore my willpower's efforts toward debilitation as long as I knew Rachel Ray would once again succeed in making a whole meal, start to finish, in just thirty minutes.

However, as of late, Rachel hasn't done it for me. Maybe it's as Nick advised just the other day...she lost her interest factor for him, you see, once she got married...Rachel Ray's off the available list, fellas...time to start collecting takeout menus for the long hall.

So, it is with the gentle chords of Norah Jones, David Gray, and James Blunt that I've taken to running to music instead of food fantasies. I'm sure this seems silly. Norah, David, and James are softer choices...Nick is always suggesting a beat-heavy album for my running pleasure. I don't need the tunes for a rhythm...that's what the OCD is for.

Even so, I changed 'er up this morning...it was time. I painted the playlist with a Sheryl Crow basecoat and a Melissa Etheridge glaze. This is a good sign, a very good sign. I'm in the mood for happy and alive, introspective and quiet having salved me long enough. My heart is healing.