I prefer the quiet to the raucous. The quiet gives me the illusion of control and security. When everything is still, I feel like I have a handle on my environment…and I will be instantly aware of any changes. That I spook very easily probably has a bit to do with this preference.

The thing is, I can get into my head very easily; I can get in and shut out everything else. It makes me rather efficient at work because concentration is never a problem, but I have lost count how many times I have hissed swear words when a coworker sneaks up on me. I hate that moment when my heart feels like a ricocheting rubber ball inside my chest.

Our treadmill faces the partial windows in the basement instead of the stairs. Have you ever run on a treadmill? Dude, it's loud…but it's rhythmic and becomes a sort of white noise to me; I stop registering the sound. The noise may not irritate me, but it definitely impairs one of my senses when I've already compromised another. Suddenly, I can neither see nor hear someone's approach.

For this reason, I don't like anyone to be in the basement while I am running. This should be easy enough to achieve as the basement doesn't see a whole lot of traffic. However, I seem to be interrupted regularly. My response to this is to stop the treadmill, step off the belt, and wait until the intruder leaves. My intruder—and Sophie doesn't count—seems to find reasons to come down during one of my runs.

If I was looking at this situation from the outside, I would find this kind of charming. He likes to spend time with me, he likes talking with me. Maybe he even likes watching my…erm…assets while I run. But the point is that I'm not looking at this from the outside. I'm looking at this from the perspective of the person who loses years off her life every time he sneaks up on her.

One thing I've learned about Nick is that I should never tell him how to avoid irritating me. "Why not?" you ask. Well, that's a valid question. It would only make sense to let him know these things up front so that he knows how to stop my inner fire monster from making an appearance. Another thing I've learned about Nick is that he doesn't make sense: he loves irritating people, particularly when you tell him specific behaviors to avoid.

He sat on the stairs and talked to me tonight while I ran. My responses were clipped, urging him to scram. He eventually rose, acting affronted and put out—predictable. I would have gloried in my success, but I was busy trying to put out my blazing breath.

I have been working mostly from my company's national headquarters building, but I try to organize meetings so that I can get back to the regional building at least once a week (and sometimes that works). I had a shock a couple of weeks ago when I walked in because there was tinsel and glitter everywhere. I work at the very end of the building, so I walked through rows and rows of merrymaking before I made it to my desk. Exasperated, I pointed behind me and said aloud to my row, "It looks like Christmas threw up!"

The techs that were there barely looked up from their laptops but nodded with vigor. The people who sit in my row are being stretched a little thin just now, and I think most of us are a step or two away from a full-on anxiety attack at the sheer volume of information that we need to retain. I am blaming this for my lackluster Christmas spirit this year—just like at work, I don't have time to be merry.

Still on a roll (but it's really just bitter jealousy that I'm not light of spirit just now and all of them are), I cried, "It's Whoville back there!" I miss having fun at work (I used to).

My friend who sits across from me smirked. "I guess that makes us Mount Crumpit." She took it from there and made signs to hang on the column that divides the two worlds…one with an arrow pointing to Whoville and the other branding our barren little section of office space. I looked high and low (actually, barely at all) for a Max, but this oldie was the closest I could find.

So I'm a Grinch. You got a problem with that? Yeah, I didn't think so. (My upcoming days away from the office should make me a nice person again, don't worry).

Nick got new pants on Sunday.

This is a pretty big deal because Nick doesn't buy new pants very often. He is still stuck in the days of grunge, when comfort took precedent over just about anything else. I think his decade-plus old jeans touch him at his waist (only because he tightens them with a belt) and nowhere else. Don't get me wrong: he's a snappy dresser. He somehow manages to pull it off.

But they don't make pants three sizes too big anymore…you know, unless you actually buy them three sizes too big. He wore the camel cords today, and I made a point to say "beau pantalon" as I got into the car after work—a reference, of course, to the old Dockers commercial. When we were first dating and Nick found out that I knew a little French, he was quick to show off his deep knowledge of the language. Excitedly, he chirped "Beau pantalon! It means 'nice pants!'" My little Francophone…

But the pants actually did look very nice and tailored on him. Très chic.

We stopped at the grocery store on our way home. I was walking slightly behind him when I was almost kicked. His left foot suddenly sprang backwards and took me by surprise. I made a dramatic sound (as if he actually made contact) and chastised him. He brushed it off.

Our paths deviated as we went looking for different items, but when I came back to him, I noticed another awkward jerk in his legs. I didn't think anything of it as we continued on to the freezer section. But then he did it again, and I was a bit peeved until I realized what was up.

He didn't like his pants touching him. So, every time the material brushed his calf, he flinched and tried to throw it off. I had to swallow a snort because I found (find) this insanely funny. Such a delicate flower…poor thing had to travel through 15 years of fashion overnight. It probably would have overwhelmed anybody. Even while I tried to think of sad things to keep from laughing, he looked irritated by the pants that would dare to touch him. I don't think he found those pantalon very beau, not very beau at all.

The job was on my radar and had been for some time. I can't remember the last time I've actually taken things apart (shelves, drawers) to scrub it all down properly—don't judge me. Part of it was sheer apprehension at what green and fuzzy thing might be living in the back of the refrigerator. The other part, well, that was pure, unadulterated sloth.

I put dinner in the oven (it needed an hour), and I got to work. I pulled out all sorts of treasures from the dark unknown of the back refrigerator corner. There was the sticky, almost empty jar of jam that was pretty much adhered to the shelf; about five bottles of bleu cheese dressing because we use it for one recipe and buy a new bottle every time we make the dish; and the chocolate syrup that expired in 2008.

I wasn't all that surprised about the syrup. I do not have a huge sweet tooth, and in any case I've never liked chocolate syrup. I'm pretty sure that bottle predated my presence in Nick's life. Still, it was interesting/sad that we had a bottle of something that has been unfit to eat for three (almost four) years taking up real estate in our cramped refrigerator.

It was cathartic purging the waste, but then, I'm a thrower. This might be the biggest clash that Nick and I have. He saves everything, but I see no reason to keep something if it isn't of use to me. You can be assured that I will never be a hoarder!

After everything was shiny and reassembled, I called Nick in for dinner. He opened the door and just stared. I assumed it was appreciation that kept him glued there, appreciation for the comely sparkle that I swear came complete with the ting of a tiny bell. Who wouldn't be awestruck? Clouds part and angels sing for refrigerator shelves with that kind of gleam.

I was just so happy to have it clean and organized. I couldn't wait for the joy to break through the reverence so that he would share in my glee. He stood there for another minute or so before looking up at me. He looked pouty instead of joyful.

"Uh. Where's our stuff?"

He meant the expired, cruddy stuff that no living being should consume—the stuff that has no use and that I gladly throw. I think he was joking when he asked his question, but I've heard that 50% of all jokes are based in truth. A vision of a home with garbage and empty condiment containers stacked every which way popped into my head. I'm going to have to keep an eye on that boy.

Nick thinks of so many little things—little things that are not even on my radar. For example, he knows that I prefer to drink from straws. When we go to the Kohl Center to watch the Badgers play, the concession stands serve their fountain drinks without plastic tops or straws (to cut down on the refuse left behind, I assume). I have never really thought much of it…mainly because I am highly adaptable and talented enough to know how to drink both from a straw and from a glass. But Nick thought of it and remembered to smuggle in contraband. I sipped happily from the illegal straw throughout the entire game.

He can be so thorough that I can only be humored when confronted with gaps in ordinary processes.

We eat frozen pizza more often than any grown up should, but we can both be pretty weary after work. That frozen pizza may just save us from calling a handful of pretzel sticks "dinner." By contractual agreement, I remove the outer wrapping and place the pizza in the oven, and he takes the pizza out and cuts it. Along with our duties, it is assumed that I will remember to turn the oven on and that he will remember turn the oven off.

Frequently, the oven continues to heat long after it has been emptied, and this has become the source of one of our standing jokes. If it isn't the oven that he leaves on, it's the light that he turned on to check the "brownness" of the pizza when the timer first goes off. I usually take a turn in the kitchen to make sure everything has been turned off because I rarely assume anything with Nick anymore.

The other day, he was feeling pretty cocky as he sauntered out of the darkened kitchen with a plate of pizza. "Oven: OFF! Light: OFF!" No sooner did he finish his proclamation that the oven timer shrilled.

"And the timer?" I questioned with a raised eyebrow.

"Timer: not off."