"Hello, Laura? You have a delivery at the reception desk." I got the voicemail just after I returned from picking up my t-shirt and bib for Saturday's run...I am running for the American Family Team, which was a handy way to have my race packet delivered to me at work, instead of having to go and pick it up myself. I deleted the message, knowing I had just picked up what had been delivered.

The receptionist called again, and I inquired if this was regarding the t-shirt I just picked up, and she replied, "NO! IT'S THE MOST BEAUTIFUL ORCHID!" I think I sprinted all the way downstairs. I knew it wouldn't be from Nick—not that Nick isn't the best sort of man who buys me flowers, because he is...he just likes to give them in person. The plant is really tall, and it was awkward bringing it back up to my desk. I opened the card quickly, knowing it had to be someone who's known me a long, long time because the name scribbled across the envelope was Laura Kittleson Phillips.

And sure enough, the nicest card with the sweetest note was from none other than the Gehrke Family, the family my father knew as neighbors while growing up, and the family that lost one of theirs to liver cancer mere months after my family lost Mom. Geraldine wrote that she's wanted to get me an orchid for a long time and that she hopes it blooms for a long time to come...that she and the entire family love me.

It was such and out-of-the blue gift that I'll admit I teared up instantly and the emotion clogged at the bottom of my throat. The instruction sheet says it is one of the easiest to maintain orchids, and it blooms twice a year, with blossoms lasting 2-4 months. It's beautiful, it truly is. Between the weak light last night and this morning, I haven't been able to get a picture that does it justice...so, I edited one of the poorly tinted shots in Photoshop (above).

I am just so touched, and I've been working on drafts for my thank you note...finding the words that express how truly lovely the gift made me feel. If you, in your daily lives, have a thought of someone cross your mind, perhaps someone you don't talk with all that often, don't see all that often, send a trinket or even a note. It will make their day.

Full of whimsy and the stuff of smiles, she rolls on her back and twists, pawing at the air and the fancy only she can see. We should all know such content.

For Sheree, and others unfamiliar with a cheese curd:



In the foreground are the garlic dill curds I bought at the Farmer's Market and behind, the jalapeño. These little guys are not, perhaps, spread the country over because (other than the fact that not everyone has the same steamy love affair going on with cheese as we have) cheese curds loose their freshness very fast, and the initial "cheese curd-ness" goes away—namely, the squeak—within 25 hours of production. Their texture is a little rubbery I'd say, and they're generally mild in flavor (except if you buy jalapeño altered ones, I suppose).

From my Google queries, it seems to be that Wisconsin and Canada (Quebec) are the main areas of availability for fresh cheese curds...now, deep fried, well, I think they're everywhere. Most people don't care if their little breaded ball of melted cheese squeaks against their teeth—making the unhealthier cousin much more marketable.

I had an appointment with Dermatology today. I sat in the waiting room, looking around, and feeling like a jerk. There I sat with my golden tint and legs crossed (looking ever the bored socialite I'm sure), while I watched others limp in, some with bandages covering the skin that showed, and the rest displaying the ravages of skin cancer. There I sat with a non life threatening problem and I wanted to run away, skipping my appointment and losing the copay I had already signed off on.

At heart, I guess I'm a coward. I blamed it on shame—that desire to bolt—but it was really that I didn't want to come face to face with the sad little girl I walked away from some six years ago. There are a lot of bad habits out there, things that we do to fill some void or distract us from some feeling...but many of them aren't obvious to the world and people aren't walking around proclaiming that they're weak. Unfortunately, putting too much on your dinner plate isn't one of those habits.

It's one of those subjects that, to the right audience (my fitness forum girls can attest!) I will talk your ear off. I'll tell you everything you want to know about fitness, diet and weight loss—and how to rev your metabolism too. I'm a walking encyclopedia. But then, there are those around whom I clam up if the subject should arise and I don't want to be suspect of knowing anything on healthful living at all.

Not like this is any real comparison, but I remember my mother's first surgery, the one that left her with a 20" incision down her torso, and how Mom hated that scar. Barb, her sister, told my brother that she should be proud of the scar, "It's like a battle wound!" I found the comment stupid. What did she know of my mother's battle? Why would she think a daily visible reminder that you're different should be enviable? Hadn't she ever had something happen that she'd rather just forget altogether?

I have.

It's easy to see someone's victory but nearly impossible to imagine their struggle.

I was referred to the dermatologist after my physical earlier this month, and she was a very kind doctor. Her gentle nature made a dreaded appointment pass quickly—I didn't even break into tears as I feared I would. I left feeling a lot less like a jerk, and a lot like someone who was taking the first steps to eventually close a sensitive chapter from the destructive glare of retrospect.

Sure, we'll call it that :-)

Yesterday, I finally loaded Photoshop on my new laptop. So, with an image editing suite at my fingertips, I reviewed the collection of files saved to my picture card. I came across the picture below and had to share. There is something that gets me every time when I see a strong hand administer a gentle touch.

Nick and Sophie: