Back in April, when I began seeking medical council for what ails me, I mentioned the insomnia, I mentioned my intolerance to even the mild agent of Tylenol PM and Benadryl, I mentioned the feelings of non-lucidity the next morning. My physician's assistant prescribed a supposed sleep aid that should wear off in mere hours, inhibiting the start of my day not.

I wasted time wandering down the aisles at Walgreen's while my prescriptions were filled, and when finally the pharmacist called my number, I listened patiently while she explained the side effects and dosage. When she came to my sleeping pill, she said only, "This should really help with the itching."

"Uh..." I grunted. "I don't itch. I think that was supposed to help me sleep?" Sure enough, drowsiness was a side effect. It should come as little surprise that this pill doesn't work overly well for me...wears off too quickly. I'm hard to please.

The morning that we ran Crazy Legs, I realized with great anguish that I did not have any Claritin handy...easy breathing being somewhat nice during a run scheduled during the height of my allergy suffering. I asked Nick if he had any allergy medication on hand. "Just some itch stuff I was prescribed last year," he negated.

"Heck, I have itch stuff...tiny little green pills." Nick's eyebrows vee'd and he retrieved his bottle of leftover drugs. We had the same prescription, and warmth spread as we realized something else we would be able to share: medicating. He keeps his bottle on the night stand, I keep mine in my purse. The drugs are always accessible.

We hiked through Wyalusing State Park last Saturday, with the breathtaking views of the Wisconsin and Mississippi Rivers, and it was quickly obvious that our low-strength strain of bug spray would not do, and to play it down a bit, we were nearly eaten alive by hungry mosquitoes. Damp woods, shadowy trails...who saw that one coming? Seriously!

So, since we sucked at prevention—and Nick swore he would never hike without deet-inspired spray again...deet, the word I challenged Nick on during an ill-fated game of Scrabble and was quickly proved wrong (a happening that does little for my ego)—we partook of my sleeping pills for the long drive home.

The itching was momentarily vanquished.

Kara and I decided last Saturday, regarding nature, that it would be so much better if the bugs were withdrawn, the dirt removed...and I, personally, petitioned for the addition of something pink and plushy.

Saturday evening, after danish and cappuccino at a local coffeehouse, lazing in the sun, curling into Nick on the picnic blanket as the temperature cooled and the rain spat, hiking with Jeff and Kara (and Nick) at Devil's Lake, hiking with Nick at Parfrey's Glen, getting soaked to the skin as we sprinted back to the car from the path at Parfrey's Glen in the sudden outbreak of a deluge, riding drenched in the sun-encased car, ordering a pizza for carryout from my cell, getting a $4 discount for having a "pleasant look" to me, eating, watching Fever Pitch and part of Bad Santa on TV....well, after all that, I was tired. I'm exhausted all over again just by reading that run-on.



I didn't see much of Bad Santa, which was ok because from what I saw of it, Billy Bob Thornton was just plain mean...and needed a shower. I was pretty much quiescent and heavy-lidded upon Nick's over-comfortable leather couch. The movie must have finished, for I awoke to the sounds of Nick tidying up the kitchen. I automatically stood and reached for the empty water bottles to help, and Nick grabbed them from me, telling me to go to bed.

I don't remember much after that point...mainly falling asleep and wondering how I got to the bedroom. The next morning, just after six ("just after six" is major sleeping-in for Miss it-is-2:30-and-I-am-wide-awake), I awoke for the first time. I sniffed at the air, thinking I smelled a coffee-laced tinge but knowing it could not be so. The evening-prior, I did not prepare coffee for the next morning—the fact a glaring mark on what was otherwise a perfect day, weather notwithstanding.

So I lay there, staring at the dawn, inhaling the essence of what I convinced myself to be coffee. I ruminated, I mulled, and I thought of Nick. Would he have....? Could he have....? Oh, I don't want to get myself excited and then be disappointed! But it smells so good! A steaming mug of French Roast would fit so pleasantly between my cool palms...but what if I go down to the kitchen and there's no coffee? Then what?

To put it mildly, I soliloquized Hamlet to shame.

Eventually, my feminine curiosity getting the better of me, I padded to the kitchen and saw the filled carafe. Well, it could just be left over coffee from yesterday, I chided, trying to keep myself grounded. I shuffled nearer and stretched my left fingertips forth. Heat. I leaned my head near the spout. Fragrant freshness. I poured myself a cup and purred. I was so contented that I set out to make Nick berry scones in gratitude.

A win-win situation for all.

Which reminds me...Nick asked in his obnoxious way yesterday what made a scone different from a biscuit. "Nothing," I replied, advising that the Brits called their biscuits scones. "I think we started using the term "scone" more with the advent of coffeehouses. Sounds ritzier. Coffeehouse goers are a teensy bit snobbish." Nick looked pointedly at me and agreed wholeheartedly.

The other day, I hit the grocery store seeking "bits of seafood" to add to a pasta salad. I was looking for a theme, some sort of common denominator as a last ditch effort to salute my dying OCD. That's right, I'm erring toward the side of normal these days. Nick even said last night in regards to my claims of OCD that it was only a disorder I thought I had. And, spanning the totality of my time on Earth, my bank of acquaintances are spitting in derision, wishing this had always been so. I'm mellowing in my old age.

So, naturally, I wandered toward the mock crab. I love mock crab. Better than the real stuff, actually...does that make me cheap? Well, so be it. You see, with the real stuff, there are variances in the flavor from crab to crab. Mock crab is chemically engineered to taste like good crab time and time again. Mmmm...chemicals. Romanced by the fakery, I reached for the package of mock lobster as well.

Forgive the pun, but it was all going swimingly at this point...until I sought the third bit of seafood I so dearly wanted to add, the shrimp. I met disappointment. I looked high and low, mostly low I suppose, and my pace quickened as I walked the line of freezers. At length, and with great hesitation, I made my selection and sulked all the way to the checkout line. My head hung low, I swiped my debit card and quit the store.

I was forced to use real shrimp, and I've never felt so base.

I was reclined in the dentist's chair last Friday, completely at my leisure. I seriously love going to the dentist. I've stayed away for far too long. Michelle, the hygienist to whom I was assigned, asked me several times if I was sure I hadn't been to the dentist in the last four years. Apparently my teeth did not meet the criteria for neglect that such a deviation should suggest. I believe her words were, verbatim, "These suckers don't even need to be polished...but I'll do it anyway."

As my time there grew to a close, and I voiced my concerns regarding the regular presence of coffee in my mouth...and, you know, stomach acid (they gave me a weekly fluoride treatment)...Michelle asked, "Do you whiten your teeth?" Oh, crap. She's gonna scold me. Don't take away my White-strips! Please! For the love of God! Not that, anything but that!

Meekly, with a tremor and contrived, droopy puppy dog eyes, "Yes. Are you going to put me on a time out now?" I figured this was payback for me warning that if I happen to see x-rays of my teeth published on a disreputable site, I'll know whose blood to hunt.

"No! They look really good! I think you should go ahead and do another round, actually!" She was buttering me up, you see...this little vanity fluffing distracted me while they ordered a crumbling mercury filling replaced, a wisdom tooth removed, and an NTI device to do away with my head, neck, and back aches—apparently it's all caused from my teeth grinding.

I laughed at my dentist, one of my most favorite people ever, saying, "Oh, but I don't grind my teeth, silly! Not even in my sleep!"

She patted my hand after the oral cancer exam and said, "Oh honey, but you do."

See, though...I'm easy. Flattery will get you pretty much anywhere...everywhere. "Wah—? My teeth sparkle? Well, well...there you go, I've signed the form. My first born? Totally yours. Oh, and while I was at it, I signed over my soul as well."

So, Nick is having this cookout tonight. He has invited assorted coworkers, some with whom he plays in a volleyball league, some with whom he does not play in a volleyball league, and then there's me.

It'll be a motley crew. But without Nikki Sixx.

And the hair will be on a smaller scale altogether.

Anyway, he told me about this get-together last week and my immediate question, as I was trained to be well-mannered, was "What can I bring?"

"Just yourself," he replied. This was not a suitable answer. I would feel better if I brought something. I asked the question several times over the past week, hoping I would hit him with his defenses down and he'd blurt, "CHOCOLATE MOUSSE!", "BRUSSELS SPROUTS!", or other cravings such as these. But, no...

So, last night arrives, and he's grocery shopping for this fête. He has his list in hand, the small, well-spaced neat lettering of his menu ingredients marked just so, with the overlarge "BEER" at the bottom. Can't forget the beer. He tells me that a coworker, Debbie—Debby? Debbi?—insisted on bringing something for the occasion. I threw a hand to my hip in what should have been a huffy stance, though my position reclined and cross-legged in the passenger seat lessened the effect marginally.

"I would have LOVED to bring something!" I blurt, as my defenses are down quite often and I'm prone to dramatic interludes of fussiness. It's one of my nicer qualities. COMPLETELY ATTRACTIVE. Now, the man had no problem trying to guilt trip his mother into making potato salad, but a willing accomplice? Nooooo—pamper Laura, force leisure, make her feel cherished! JERK! The evening drew to a close and I leaned in. "I had an easy seafood salad..." I led.

"That would have been fine," he replies at length, and I dually fume and rejoice. (I get to bring something—what? He expects me to bring something?) Poor show, Host, poor show.

I proceed to plan the preparation of the easy seafood salad the next morning (this morning), having grown accustomed to the 24-hour grocery stores in North Carolina. The bullies don't open until 6:00 here! Hello! Some of us are wide awake at 2:30 and the only thing we can think of is seafood salad! Think of the customers you're losing! Geez!

A quick rummaging of the cupboards found every ingredient but some bit of some seafood—arguably the least important part of my seafood salad—and I left IOU post-its all over the place. Just to be the perfectionist that I am, I'll probably buy some bit of some seafood to toss in during my lunch hour. Lunch half-hour. Probably crab. Maybe shrimp. I am what I eat....but I'm not so desperate as Nick's friend Jeff, who made tuna-cakes in the absence of crab meat. By the way his face scrunched in the retelling, I'm thinking for now on he'll stick with the crab.

Fortuitously, I shan't be skating on such thin ice with my "seafood" of choice now that I've wandered ever-so-slightly away from the Atlantic.