...and some people are afraid of smiley, flower pillows. Or, more accurately, what a gift of a smiley, flower pillow on a day celebrating fathers and June birthdays from a this-close-to-senile grandmother means to an August-born lass. It's darn scary. She didn't want me to feel left out...being neither a father nor of those born in the sixth month....because I totally would have....I'm exceptionally bitter that I've not met either qualifier in all my 24-almost-25 years.

The point being, that people often develop an irrational nervousness toward otherwise benign, innocuous whatnots. I honestly just didn't like the way the pillow looked at me when I pulled it from the bag. Nick held it in his lap on the way back to his place, and I didn't like the way it smiled while he mechanically squeezed a petal while lost in thought at the traffic lights. It didn't blink. Its unerring smile broke my calm and I felt drops of uneasy sweat slide down between my shoulder blades.

I immediately disposed of the thing. Grandma would never know...she never does. She hasn't quite reconciled herself to the fact that I'm no longer nine years old...beyond being frustrated with my dual-toned eye, she's hoping that one of these days I still sprout up to do my viking ancestors proud...and hasn't quite forgiven my father for marrying into the short-n-stout, shitfaced, German blood line. Well, so be it. Those guys know how to live.

I tossed the pillow toward the trash with a spin and thought the matter closed...until I left the room briefly, and returned to find it situated with Nick's throw pillows on the couch. More than a little unsettled, I took several deep breaths before reviewing the scene. I renewed my efforts to eradicate its place in my life.

Thinking the matter closed, I cleansed all related thoughts from my mind. Besides, I've been a little "out there" as of late...my medications, where I am determined to keep my accusatory finger pointed, have been to blame for many a spacey moment. I had a somewhat upsetting dream the other night.

It was a Wednesday...and I was watching Nick and his family play volleyball...as I tend to do on Wednesdays. Then I got a phone call...on my cell phone...not many people have my number, or even access to my number. My whole family was dead, the caller told me: freak car accident...everybody was gone, both sides of my family. At first, my reaction was normal—you know, sad, disbelieving, tortured—but it passed a little too quickly and I demanded, "HOW DID YOU GET THIS NUMBER!?" Then, a second thought crashing through, I interrupted their answer to inquire, "Why the hell were all of my family in the same place? They don't even like each other!"

Then I woke up. This just in: my soul really is blackened.

So anyway, being that I'm up a few times a night, and several nights a week I still catch myself wanting to get dressed at 1:30 AM to go to Mom's bedside and see that she's alright, I figured I imagined the pillow too. You never know, and you can never be too protective of your failing mental capacity. That, and I'm blond...I get enough points deducted just because I have that "look" to me.



However, as I entered the bedroom this afternoon, I am pretty sure that I could be described as completely lucid and quite in control of my perceptions. He likes mind games, my Nicholas does. I just wish he wouldn't choose such pliable subjects to poke.

So, Nick is hosting his family's Father's Day celebration today (mine held theirs yesterday). I asked if I could bring something, as polite people are supposed to do, and without internal struggle, deliberation, or timidity, Nick blurted, "You could make that seafood salad." I guess it pleased his palate...somewhat.

The game plan was to hit my family get-together and then buy groceries for me to make my salad and Nick to make potato salad. This is to be a monuments occasion...Nick has never made potato salad, and for sure he has never made his mother's potato salad, though he's probably had the recipe for the better part of the aughts.

He was selecting eggs at the grocery store when his phone chimed—his mother. She told him that she bought potato salad earlier that morning. I questioned Nick on this, being that she has a supposedly special recipe and all...he advised that she's gotten lazy in recent years—his words, not mine.

He told his mother that that was just too bad, he was seriously up to the challenge of the potato salad, and his basket was already loaded with potato-salad-makings. I am walking at his right elbow, slightly trailing him (Nick sporadically changes directions, stops suddenly, and generally makes himself an accident waiting to happen while on foot). Meanwhile, I hear her giving him pointers, Nick looking pointedly at me as if to say, "Are you writing this down? Can you remember that?" I bit my tongue and refrained from airing my all too pitiful growl.

We got back and I whipped together my salad...pasta needs time to suck in the Miracle Whip...yes, I'm a Miracle Whip kinda girl...hold the mayo, if you please. (Actually, it doesn't really matter to me one way or the other, but I'll always BUY Miracle Whip...that's what Mom did...Mother knows best.) Meanwhile, I hard-boiled eggs for him, chopped his allotment of onion, and asked if he'd like me to start his potatoes as well. I'm nice on occasion.

So I complete my role, placing my dish in the refrigerator. Nick comes in, needing only to, essentially, mix everything together. I left the kitchen in pristine shape, counters sparkling, his ingredients lined up in a neat little row. And in a span of about 10 minutes, the counter had a potatoey-grime texture, gobs of Miracle Whip—Nick's of a Miracle Whip people as well. I was impressed by the mess—the procurement and the completeness both.

Often, my downfall in cooking is scorching and exploding of foodstuffs while I'm too busy taking care of the dirty dishes I've made. Nick's a grand chef, however...I'm told you should never trust your dinner if it came from a clean kitchen or a thin chef...well, one outta two ain't bad. So, Nick: I applaud your mess. Perhaps one day you can teach me the trick.

Today was day number three on the job. I've already managed to fall in love with one girl on my team who just tickles me endlessly (figuratively). She has a phobia of dead rodents...wanna know why? Not because they're vermin—no, of course not that. Not because they're dead—not that either, silly. She has a phobia of dead rodents because she's convinced herself that someone is going to pick "it" up and chase her with it.

"How does someone develop such a phobia?" I found myself asking. She looked at me wide-eyed and fresh-faced, totally innocent—this girl's the real deal. She shrugged in slow motion and looked completely vulnerable. I felt very protective then...for the girl who out-highs me by a decent 7-10 inches. I went to pat the back of her hand where it rested on the table when she turned to continue her streaming vignettes.

"I like dead crabs, though. I play with their claws and pretend like I'm going to pinch my kids with them. They get so freaked out! It's so funny!"

I withdrew my hand where it hovered over hers, and tried to look disapproving through my laughter.

We were sitting in the coffeeshop this morning, and talking about bringing more people to the church. We are getting a new pastor, and with this change we hope to implement an early and a late Sunday service, and eventually a gathering Saturday evening as well.

But the question is, how to collect new members?

Brenda announced that she and I ought to stand on the church's front lawn with our shirts held up. I winced. In a land where all things are considered equal I was gypped. Though, I am always tickled when Debbie does the laundry and accidentally gives me some of Brenda's brassieres...the ultimate compliment. Well, not to Brenda...

Brenda amended, "Ok, I can stand with my shirt held up, you can pull down your pants and give 'em your butt. You have a better butt."

"I'll just have to hope for a strong wind blowing against me to make everything look tight," I thought aloud.

"Well, you don't want too much of a wind...things'll wobble." It was her turn to wince.

I suppose the point was to bring people in, and not to frighten them away.

Please tell me that I'm not the only one in the free world ignorant on the subject of "gorp", neither its definition, part of speech, nor religious preference. Nick made trail mix the other day to snack on when we went to the Brewers game. He bought supplies for two batches...he and a friend, Jim (who, I've been advised, reads this site on occasion...HI JIM!) are mountain biking this weekend...in Boulder Junction! C'mon...you remember Boulder Junction...I was in the area last Fall.

Anyway, apparently they live on a blend of Chex Mix, mixed nuts, and peanut m&m's during their excursion. Nutrition abounds, naturally.

So I'm sitting at Nick's kitchen counter/breakfast bar area, writing out my June birthday cards. June's a toughie for me. An aunt, an uncle, a brother, a deceased grandfather, and a cousin...all born in June. Sure, the deceased grandfather would have saved me a card, but then I started dating another June-birthday'd individual. *sigh* Perhaps I need to start being pickier during my interview process for the position of "significant other".

But back to my story (You're safe for now, Nick...I've just broken you in. Too tired to start over at present...and I kinda like ya.). Nick is eating the remains of Sunday's batch in the other room, and he calls out softly, "I have a question for you, and I won't be angry with the answer, but did you go through and eat all the nuts in the gorp?"

Forgetting momentarily that I was just accused of being a nut-thief, I exclaimed in inquiry, "GORP!?" I stomped over to where he sat and looked into the trail mix container positioned on his lap. I saw peanuts and cashews aplenty. I complained heartily Saturday that there were only TWO Brazil nuts in the whole canister of mixed nuts...Brazil nuts being my favorite. Not that my stomach allows me to eat nuts, really, but I like to live on the edge now and then. God had my back on Sunday, allowing me a gluttony of only two Brazil nuts.

So, my mind going hand-over-hand to decide which issue to handle first, the meaning of this altogether disgusting-sounding word that seemingly applied to food, or this gross charge of wrongdoing. So what does Nick do while I'm sputtering...he calls Jim. Puts him on speaker phone. Asks him to define G-O-R-P...which of course he does without error. Nick tells him of my lacking gorp-knowledge. Jim wonders what kind of person Nick's dating. I sat in silence, glaring at Nick who I so desperately wanted to tackle or tickle senseless.

So anyway, it's late in the evening, and I remember the denouncement laid at my feet. In the still, I spat, "You know, if you'd been thinking clearly, you'd have realized that if I had picked through your trail mix, you'd be without peanut m&m's—the nuts would've been safe."

Nick, Nick Nick...I thought you knew me. I'm hurt.

By the way, the origins of GORP (God that sounds disgusting) place it as an acronym for "good old raisins and peanuts", "granola, oatmeal, raisins and peanuts", or just a derivative of the archaic gawp-up—a gluttonous display of enjoyment.

In conclusion, I pilfered nary a nut.