So Valentine's Day was a week ago today. Nick and I have never made big deal out of it. Sometimes we get each other a card, sometimes we don't. The thing is, if you're doing this whole relationship thing right, every day is Valentine's Day.

I've had this idea of something to give him—a "just because" gift—and it just so happened that the pieces fell into place on February 13th.

Let me give you the back-story.

Nick and I work for very different companies size-wise. My offices have bodegas and cafeterias. His has beverage vending machines. To put the contrast another way, this means that I get to pay for stuff with plastic, all kinds of coins, AND paper money (in a variety of denominations)…while he is reduced to a few pieces of change and the occasional one-dollar bill. A couple times a week, he gives me that sad little basset hound face and asks if he can go through my purse to retrieve enough money for two sodas.

This has been going on for quite some time now. I give him 70¢, pat his head, and tell him to spend his money wisely: it doesn't grow on trees you know. On those days when he's forced to accept that he's cleaned me out, his sad little basset hound face droops even more pathetically, as if preying on my sympathy is a direct line to the Conjurer of Quarters.

Those two sodas every day give him the armor to fight off a colossal caffeine headache. Sure I want him to have those two drinks, but I'm sick of being left with nothing but dirty pennies (I'm sure if they were all bright, shiny, and new I wouldn't be as put out). Then I had a moment of sheer inspiration while leafing through a catalog for a friend's Thirty-one party.

I ordered a customizable canvas pouch and labeled it "Soda Money."



I went to my bank to get $40 in quarters. I was truly expecting 160 quarters to take up more space than they do, and I actually considered getting a few more rolls…but I decided on the spot that I've been funding his habit for years, and I've already donated more than enough to the cause. I wrapped the pouch in tissue paper and congratulated myself on my sheer ingenuity! Genius, just genius!

In retrospect, I don't know that it was really all that genius. I mean, it has taken me more than five years to figure out that the best way to keep Nick out of my purse is to give Nick money. I'm sure glad all that higher education is paying off.

By all appearances, I became a deadbeat blogger again.

My silence wasn't accidental. The past six weeks have been a clanging of extremes, and I haven't quite found that spot between mirthful and miserable that most people term normal…but I'm getting closer. It comes down to this: at the end of the day, I will always be an introvert…and I haven't decided how I feel about everything yet.

For most of my life, I thought introvert meant shy and extrovert meant outgoing. I hated admitting introversion because I thought it insinuated meekness…weakness. I learned a couple of years ago during a communications course that introverts simply process events and information internally as opposed to externally. I can definitely admit to that…and I consider myself neither meek nor weak.

I read a story a few weeks ago. The author compared life to a ride on a carousel. I don't really see the full parallel, but I haven't been able to shake the thought. Carousels seem so ever-pleasant, dreamy, tempered, predictable…but life isn't really like that, at least not all the time. Maybe I'm amused by the idea of a merry-go-round life.

I'm only amused and not wistful because nothing worthwhile should be that easy. We should have to work for the good, or we take it for granted. Never assume that happy times are standard-issue; instead, revel in them, and know that they are fleeting. Take mental snapshots and file them away because they will be there for you visit always. Loss gives you new eyes: they are the ironic takeaway from heartache. They appreciate.

I have lived the last six years with these eyes, and my heart is full—at this moment, painfully so. I started January with a relatively spontaneous getaway to Los Angeles where we celebrated our first anniversary in lavish fun. I ended January with a completely spontaneous trip to Orlando where we tried to make sense of the sudden death of Nick's father. His passing stole my air, and I haven't found my breath yet. Considering that I've only known him for six short years, I can only imagine how the rest of the family is feeling.

So much is going right in my life, yet so much will never be right again. A friend of mine from high school lost her father early February. I saw her note first, and my heart ached for her—his death, too, was unexpected. Then the funny interweave of life pounced on me.

My father called me later that day. The emotion in his voice was palpable. I could barely understand him at first…but eventually I understood that Bruce—my Bruce—had passed away. I was immediately upset, for he was a universally likeable man, and we need more of him in our world. My father kept saying, "He was my age…Laura, he was my age…"

It hit me somewhere between the conversations with both my father and my friend that the two situations were a little too similar to be chalked up to coincidence: we were all mourning the same man. I saw her last Thursday, and I could see everything she was feeling in her red-rimmed eyes. The family held a party for him yesterday, and I know that now begins the hollow period. It's that space of time when there's nothing left to do but let it sink in.

And I think we're all residing there right now, not quite looking for new real estate yet.

I have been in the process of organizing old digital photos to transfer to an image storage site (Flickr), and I have had fun looking through the past few years. A lot of smiles have come from Sophie's first year with us, when she was all round eyes and fluffy tail (she grew into them, let me tell you).

It was August 2006 when a surgeon told me that I was probably unable to have children. I latched onto "probably" quite desperately as I recovered from that series of surgeries. Probably meant there was still a chance.

That next year was dedicated to figuring out the nuances of everything that was wrong with me. Of course, being that I have a very rare genetic disorder sparks a lot of interest from various specialists. I bet that I didn't really need half of those appointments, and I did start to feel like I was a bit of a freak show for the medical community's entertainment.

It was through the course of those appointments that probably turned into a definite no…any slight chance that may have burned was promptly extinguished. Then came Sophie…and so begins the life of the most spoiled cat on the face of the planet.

Time is slippery: it's difficult to grasp and impossible to hold still…and I just can't believe that six years have passed since that sad day. I can close my eyes and remember the feel of her soft skin and the strength of her hug. I remember the sound of her friendly voice and the welcoming scent of lavender that she spread throughout our home. I wish I could forget those last few days of her life…those memories seem to collide and dominate my thoughts around this time of year. They are the nightmare that I can never quite escape.

This year, my grief is heightened. My father-in-law passed away suddenly on January 20th. I am caught between the ache of losing such a kind person and the empathy of losing a parent. Life can really hurt sometimes, but it's the empathy that's twisting the knife. It's taking me back to the rawness, back to the breathlessness, back to the panic in the face of learning to live without someone.

I went to her grave as I do every year on the anniversary. It's the only day I visit because the experience is too overwhelming. Away from there, I can remember her healthy, laughing, carefree…there, I am slapped with the unyielding reality that she's gone. The morning she died was sunny and unfairly pleasant, but January 26th has been gray and barren every year since.

I didn't expect Nick to go with me this year…he has his own heartache to work through. Even so, I was grateful when he made plans to do so. He wiped the snow away from her stone as I knelt on a blanket upon the frozen earth and wept. Feeling guilty, I apologized to him—this was his time…his sadness was fresher—but I couldn't stop the tears. He knelt beside me and told me to that January 26th will always be my day…oh how I wish to God that it wasn't…that nothing of importance had ever happened on this day.

I hope I can be as much of a comfort to him as he's been to me.

When Nick shot this video Friday night, I admit that me and my cousin were embarrassed by the sound of our raucous laughter. Yet, I find myself sharing it here.

To set the stage for you, Michelle came over Friday night to help rice potatoes for a planned lefse day (which didn't work out). Nick asked hopefully if she would be staying for awhile…because then he could coerce the two of us into a board game…namely, Beatles Trivial Pursuit. We actually have a few versions of Trivial Pursuit between the two of us, but I'm afraid that we do not play board games all that often—which is a shame because some of the funniest conversations of my recollection have happened during this sort of play.

When Nick and I started seeing each other, we had a no-TV night every week. During this one sacred night, we participated in technology-free activities such as Yahtzee, Scrabble, and various trivia games. This, as with so many other good habits we used to have, fell by the wayside when I re-enrolled in my B.S. program (pun intended). I could not afford a technology free night when there was always something due—either for work or one of my classes.

Now that the novelty of sitting on the couch with absolutely nothing to do has worn thin, I am trying to make the effort to practice my social skills once more.

But the Beatles, ah. The Beatles. I have spent my life loving The Beatles. I dragged Michelle into the obsession somewhere in the early 90s, and she's been infected ever since. Being that Nick is painfully unappreciative and knowledgeable of THE GREATEST BAND OF ALL TIME, his request to play that particular board game seemed all the more desperate. So, we played.

And how we laughed…and laughed, and laughed—mainly at Nick's answers because he seriously got the most difficult questions of the night. I wouldn't have known all that information on Brian Epstein either, but he made best of it and entertained us for hours. We were so amused that we laughed easily and boisterously at just about anything. And with that, I introduce the fuzziest player in our game: