So, I am craving this new shoe from New Balance. After my last set of running shoes (I replace shoes often...mainly because I am an active person and want my joints to last me into the golden years) I am determined to only ever buy running shoes in a shade of orange.



Ok, so they're not brand-brand new...I've had my eye on them for months, trying to talk myself into buying them. Well, I've been spurred to action now, as I put an order in for an 8D on www.brownsnewbalance.com who was selling them $25 cheaper than Dick's Sporting Goods. I received an email back yesterday they had had 8B's, but not 8D's. I inquired whether or not they would be getting in more sizes, and was told that the orange/white combo IS A DISCONTINUED COLOR!

I was upset, and immediately resolved that I would do my darnedest to find an 8D in the orange NB Zips. We stopped at Dick's Sporting Goods last night, price didn't matter quite as much knowing the situation, and found they were selling the oranges at a reduced price now too. "An 8D, please?" I requested to the handsome young man in the running shoe area, and he came back saying they didn't have an 8 in a D, only in a B, and would that work? I shook my head morosely...my stupid, flat, wide feet need the D.

And I came home, scouring the internet for an 8D...I've ordered one such set this morning, full price, and await the email telling me that there are no D widths to be found. I could cry. I WANT ORANGE SHOES! I WANT THEM NOW! I betcha this is just some marketing ploy to get me to buy shoes...because, you know in the scheme of things, my purchase matters that much.

Saturday, I received confirmation that my new shiny laptop had shipped, estimated delivery for the end of this week. I knew the package would require a signature and that I would be unable to sign for it—that whole "work" thing. I tried to have the shipping address changed to Nick's work address, but Dell told me that to process the change, they would need to cancel the order completely and start from the top, restarting the waiting process. Well, at that point I had already been waiting a week and I was anxious and said, "Never mind. Forget I called." When I checked tracking yesterday, I saw that it was out for delivery, and immediately called DHL, telling them to put a hold on the package and I would pick it up from their center on my way home from work. When I called at 4:00, they confirmed that the package the truck was on had returned, and I practically skipped through the work parking lot to get to my car.

I'm still in the process of making it mine, but LOVE the high gloss screen and am pretty sure that I HATE Windows Vista (the boogers at Dell wouldn't let me choose an outdated OS to load!) who insists on asking my permission for every little thing. You just clicked to open Firefox. I need your permission to open Firefox. May I open Firefox? Huh? Please? Can I?—Oh, I can? Are you sure? But that isn't even the half of it...the stupid OS wasn't sure of the validity of a MICROSOFT APPLICATION. I think I even shouted aloud on a sarcastic bark of laughter, "IT'S MSCONFIG!" Just when I thought Microsoft couldn't release an operating system worse than ME.

But it's powerful machine, I can't complain—being a graphics artist as long as I was, I'm power hungry with my computers and it's a hot lil thing. I haven't determined gender yet, or what name suits it best (Nick is somewhere rubbing his face and repeating my refrain, Who am I DATING?), but the bonding will come...with this ward, I know it will. As Sophie sprinted down the stairs yesterday and hunched down to look at us before peeling away again, I shouted with Nick at my side (we were both looking adoringly at the laptop), "See, this is what happens! When someone brings you into their home, YOU LET THEM LOVE YOU."

Really, Sophie's got us played out. She has loads of toys, she gets treats and canned food, and she knows she doesn't have to try too hard to win us over because we've now spent enough money on her that it is inconceivable that we'd turn her over to the wolves. A stark constrast from the kitten who snuggled with us a few weeks ago, I like to think of these as her teenage years...nail spitting little snot...whom I love.

I know you're supposed to switch out your razors every 3 or 4 times you shave, but razor blades are expensive!—especially for someone who shaves EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. This is a quirk, mainly because I don't have very much hair on my legs to begin with, and it grows in very slowly...but hey, it's part of the daily shower routine so I go with it. Yes, Brenda, even in Winter.

It's always been this way, and I can tell you that the majority of the marks on my legs are from shaving incidents of years past, all except the nastiest one on my knee—where my lovely brother hit me with a gravel-filled snow ball in elementary school. I remember once, my aunt, Debbie, remarked how she didn't know what would possess someone to continue shaving after they had cut themselves. I replied that you never know when someone's gonna up and touch your leg.

Well, yesterday, I switched out the blade on my razor for the first time since, oh, I don't know, September? I was feeling a little down with the whole Mother's Day thing and decided to treat myself—with a super sharp razor blade. It seems not a little messed up in retrospect.

But, I went about my routine...and once the steam had cleared and the mirror had revealed, I realized that my armpits were smooth enough to show my reflection, and life was good.

There are few times in the year I enjoy as much as Mother's Day, because it celebrated everything that you had given to me, taught to me, and hoped for me—a tribute to your selflessness and love. I used to go around reading all of the tear-jerking plaques and touching the delicate petals of the lovely bouquets gathered in the name of the most special person on Earth: a mother.

My mother.

You had such a soft, dainty touch with me, yet you were a hard worker and would come in after a Saturday gardening, cleaning, and pruning with blistered hands. Perhaps your gentleness meant so much more knowing your strength. I loved just hanging around you...we used to get up early on Saturday mornings and go "bumming around"...maybe it was just a trip to a retail store or to pick up a few groceries, but we'd drive around extra blocks singing to the music on the radio, laughing at each other's silliness...find a parking lot with a pretty view of the morning sun and just talk. You were easily my best friend, and though you'd wish it differently, the now empty position will not be filled.

I get how this is supposed to go now, this being here without you...and even though I'd wish it differently, I understand about going on and continuing the life you wanted me to live. I see beauty in the ordinary again—the beauty that you taught me to see. I remember so many Summer nights, "Laura! Laura! Come quick!" I'd follow her voice to the western-facing bedroom windows and we'd stand there washed in the iridescent burn of a setting sun. "God paints us a pretty picture," you'd say. It's a statement that crosses my mind often in adulthood, and I am able to enjoy what many fail to even notice.

Because of you.

I dealt with a lot of the people you knew from the UW Hospital in the last months, and they all remembered you. With all of the patients they see, and with all the time that had passed since they had seen you, they remembered. Linda, my [our] surgeon's nurse, took care of all of my pre-op appointments and battling with my HMO to get things covered. She said a few times, "Thank God your mother didn't live to see this happen to you. This would have killed her if the Cancer hadn't." And I had to cry, because it would have. You would have blamed yourself for passing on your genetic anomalies. A phone call with the geneticist and he mentions wryly and more to himself, "I guess it's just luck that your mother's body didn't reject you." I guess that's what happens when you really want something...you really wanted me and I really wanted you, and we both fought to get me here. I wouldn't have it any other way. It is a testament to the human spirit that every now and then, we can defy science and, too, make one and one equal something other than two.

It is raining right now. I can smell it through the window on the crisp air, the subdued tapping playing against the roof. It is supposed to clear up as the day goes on, but we'll share this bit of rain, you and I. A dark chill isn't meant to last, but to be respected while it is here.

I love you.

I don't know that it's all that well documented here, but I love the music of Norah Jones. How do you dissect something you cannot explain? How do you prove a feeling that originates from a place you can't quite put your finger on? It is quite difficult to go on and on and on about something you truly love, because how can you elaborate on something that doesn't become, but just...is?

From the very first time I heard her sing on Come Away With Me, I've been a fan. It is a sort of enjoyment that causes me to languish lazily on the bed, my toes curling into the fluffy down of the duvet, simply loving to feel. I find it the most hypnotic, sensual, spiritual, and soulful sound I've yet to experience, and I know that until the day I die, I will never forget the rush of the first time I heard Norah Jones sing live.

Last Saturday, the darkened hall gave the eerie chill of a moonless midnight, the crickets quieted and the grasses still. Then, a lavender mist rose from nothingness and the sweetest voice chased the chill away, yet leaving still the hair of my arms on end and my heart trembling. Met with a deluge of emotion, I felt the scorching tears streak my face and reveal my passion for all to see.