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?"

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.

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.

Nick and I went to see The DaVinci Code yesterday afternoon. We hit Sweet Sophie's afterwards for salads and Prosciutto-wrapped asparagus spears. Mmm. Anyway, none of this is pertinent to my post, it was just an enjoyable afternoon to evening...and if my recent months have taught me nothing else, I have learned to appreciate the myriad little things that inspire joy.

We were only recently seated at the restaurant when Nick expressed his frustrations....with the popcorn kernel stuck in his lower right molar. He was disquieted to say the least, and way too proper to extract the nuisance with a poor mannered mouthward-insertion of his index finger. He made it through the meal like a trooper, but I could tell from the telltale look in his eyes that he was rapidly losing his waged war with patience.

We both partook of the complimentary toothpicks on our departure from the establishment, walking side-by-side until the path narrowed and Nick gently nudged me forward, inviting me to take the lead. I did so and in little time realized that Nick was no longer behind me. He was arrested there at the narrowing of the walk, slightly stooped over and intense. And, at once the silence of the moment and the calm of my concerned gaze were shattered as he extracted the toothpick from his mouth and waved it theatrically through the night air, crying "GOT IT!"