It began around a campfire...crackling and aromatic, we kept our wits about us through the buzz of those last two bottles of beer...which followed the two rounds of Vodka Lemonades. With the circumstances as they were, I'm sure you'll understand when I attest that I have no idea how it started. Nick, I believe it was, had a slip of the tongue as he, Jeff, Kara, and I enjoyed comfortable, humorous conversation. Being in the company I was in—highly suited for me as they are all smart alecks—slips of the tongue are not treated as ignorable errors, but, rather, as something you spend the entirety of your life living down. I love these people!

Somehow, it became understood that they don't wear pants in Canada. Go ahead and re-read that sentence again if you like, but it won't make any more sense the second time through.

It comes up often—when someone (Nick) is wearing ripped jeans, for instance, we wonder aloud if maybe, just maybe, he's wanting to move to Canada. Or, or!—when someone (Nick) is complaining that their jeans are too hot, we wonder aloud if maybe, just maybe, he should move to Canada. Last Summer, recovering from my surgery, I existed (by and large) outfitted in one of Nick's tee shirts, and nothing more. They were cool, comfortable, and perfect for the location of my boo-boo. About 10 days into this style scheme, Nick came down for coffee before heading out to work and chastised, "YOU'RE NOT IN CANADA!"

Spoilsport.

The last two days I've been forced to wear pants to work. I am a dresses and skirts person...but due to a (much) less than pain free back after Wednesday's myelogram, I questioned my ability to don tights, a must for a non-menopausal, skirt-wearing Wisconsinite at the end of December. Pants! Can you imagine the travesty!? Nick asked timidly this morning how it felt to wear pants to work. I crinkled my face tellingly and complained in my most whiny tone, "I don'like iiiit!" Nick tried to soothe me, but I was inconsolable (my legs draped ankle to hip in opaque fabric as they were). I sniffed in unconvincing dramatic display and asked timidly around a fake hiccup, "Do you think we could move to Canada?"

So, totally, the best part of my outpatient procedure, competing against both the almost 4-hour wait and the 36-hours-without-food tummy growl, was my anesthesiologist...who was a dead ringer for Patrick Dempsey. Yum-my.

And the second best was when he put a stick of gum in his mouth and Nick looked on, nervously, questioning if he was going to kiss me. They had already administered the feel-good, anti-stress narcotics, and I thought to myself in a drunken slur and with a concealed smile, "I'm not wearing underrrrwearrrr!"

It was something my mother got me into, and my wallet will be forever lighter because of it. My mother wasn't much of a coffee drinker—not that she didn't like it! (It just didn't like her back.) But, when I would come home for a visit, we'd walk the aisle of coffee—the one whose aromatic wonderment left me weak-kneed and fighting tears at its magnificence—and she would name off the various flavors of gourmet beans...buying a pound of the ones that caused my eyes to widen the most. She knew it was a decadence I wouldn't allow myself because when you go through three pots every day, Maxwell House French Roast is the economic choice of champions.

But then we found the prince of all coffees, and it is available only at this time of year in the local markets: peppermint coffee. (Brenda's cringing right now.) Do you know, I used to put a heavy layer of Burt's Bees Lip Balm on before starting into my first cup of coffee just because it tasted more pepperminty? "What can I say?" as Nick would explain on the subject of his sports obsession, "I'm a fan." My mother and I fell into such amorous relations with this holiday bean that we'd stock up throughout all of December so our stock would last past the point wherein it was no longer available. Uff dah. Fellow OCD "sufferers", you know.

I had to do it this year...I just had to...I just love the peppermint stuff so. I filled a bag with beans and fed them through the store grinder, nearly passing out with my anxious glee. It was last Tuesday, while Nick was at the basketball game and I was on my way home after the gym, trying to get home in time to watch the 2nd half. With guilt, I thought of Nick then, even though the louse went to the game without me, I still sort of like him. His mother had returned from Hawaii this past October bearing coffee gifts (LOVE the way this woman thinks!), coffee gifts that Nick and I both enjoyed. As a second thought, I bought a pound of "Kona Blend" beans too. I'd drink "Peppermint Stick" on the weekends, when I was up early and able to conquer a pot on my own before Nick's first appearance of the day.

Even so, he did go to the basketball game without me, so I loaded the coffeemaker with peppermint and set it to brew the next morning. It was the least I could do. The next morning, however, I was feeling guilty and warned him that he may not like the coffee, that it wasn't the only flavor I bought. He prepared himself a cup and I grabbed my keys to head to work. Imagine my surprise and delight when he called later in the morning to tell me how he enjoyed the peppermint coffee, went to work, prepared a cup of coffee from the supply they brew there, and dumped it out thinking, "This is crap." I've unleased the monster.

YAY!

(But you know it's only fair...it just ain't right that I was bummed to have been left to watch the basketball game at the gym/home. When was the last time I enjoyed basketball!? A past life, perhaps...certainly not this one. We share our addictions..."awwww...")