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Kara and I decided last Saturday, regarding nature, that it would be so much better if the bugs were withdrawn, the dirt removed...and I, personally, petitioned for the addition of something pink and plushy.

On Sunday, Debbie and Brenda released balloons at Owen Park in Caledonia in honor of Mom who loved the overlook there. I imagine she reached for those balloons from the cleanest cloud—my mother would keep her cloud immaculate—and giggle at her helium-inspired chipmunk voice all afternoon.

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.

I once joked with Nick, when three pairs of my New Balance shoes—and there is a specific use for each pair of athletic shoes, mind you!—anyway, when three pairs of my NB's had wandered into his closet, and I said from the side of my mouth, "How many of my shoes have to accumulate here before we call this serious?"

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.