I haven't always been one to make decisions. In fact, I would say that I've spent most of my life being completely and utterly wishy-washy. It was never about having opinions…it was about the abject fear that I would make the wrong choice.

My behavior changed sometime during my late 20s. I couldn't tell you the catalyst for sure, as the second half of my last decade was like a remodeling project that just wouldn't end. I'm hardly even the same person!

But irony strikes again: I married a waffler.

I am suddenly in the position where I want to violently shake him until a decision falls out. How quickly I forget that I used to be THAT person. Instead, total frustration blinds me.I am not talking about big decisions, obviously. You should spend considerable time deciding on a new life direction, but you can probably flip a coin between Ruffles and Lays without the world ending.

Time is weighted differently in my new perception of life. I would much rather live with a decision that could have been better than waste months trying to figure out what to do. I guarantee that your guest doesn't spend time thinking of the Lays while he stuffs his face with the Ruffles, but those long moments of uncertainty in the snack food aisle are lost to you forever.

Nick has been looking for a new pair of winter boots for months. He has found several that fit the bill, but he has yet to buy any of them. It's like those brides who try on too many dresses and suddenly none of them look right: he's in winter boot overload. He has been asking my opinion on this pair or that as he conducts his extensive online research. I gave him decent feedback in the beginning.

I say decent because I really don't have any sort of opinion on what he puts on his feet. Yet, I gave him my thoughts as if I would be given the credit or blame for his foot wardrobe. Heading into month two of the research, I started giving him a simple thumbs up or thumbs down depending on which one I gave him for the last product he showed me. I threatened him a few hours ago that one day I would just come home with a pair of boots and HE WILL WEAR THEM—even if they're the wrong size…that's just the price you have to pay for not making your own decisions.

This all boiled to the surface today over a series of text messages with my cousin. She sends me a picture of a bare spot in her apartment and asks what she should buy to make that space feel complete. I tell her a bench with storage would be aesthetically pleasing and practical: two birds, one stone. She loves the idea of a bench. Where can she buy an inexpensive bench with storage she wants to know. I confer with Google, and we find the perfect seller.

Upon sending a picture from bench-people's website, she falls head over heels in love with one of their products. I mean, it's almost indecent how much passion she has for this bench. She thinks it's perfect, just perfect. Even better: it's within budget! She confesses that she wasn't thinking of a bench, but now she sees only THAT bench in her empty space. Michelle and the bench sitting in a tree…K-I-S-S-I-N-G…

"Good deal. Are you shopping today? Do you want company?" I question in reply. She does want company, but…only…is this the right choice? She reneges, backtracks. Maybe there is something better out there…maybe…maybe…maybe…

"Oh no," I thought sadly. Et tu Brute?

Reading my silence correctly, she writes, "I need help making decisions. You're THE DECIDER! We're so lucky to have you!" She's just lucky that in my Laura 2.0 revamp I haven't shaken my weakness to flattery. Watch out for 3.0 though—you're not going to want to mess with her.

Meanwhile, I may decide to use "The Decider" as my wrestling stage name: "Meek and Moody" isn't putting the fear in anyone's eyes.

There is a certain flow to my routines. Since they flow rhythmically and unfettered, I subconsciously repeat the same sequences every day…over and over again…forever. I catch myself sometimes and have a little chat with my reflection on the proper way for sane people to behave. Inevitably, my reflection sasses back during my exhaustive speech that I should shut up because sane people don't talk to themselves, either.

When I arrive home from work, I…

1. Walk to the iPod charging base to plug in my iPod
2. Walk back toward the entrance and place my car keys in the key basket
3. Pull my cell phone out of my bag, take it out of silent mode, and place it on the Power Mat to charge
4. Hang my bag on the door knob of the front door
5. Slip off my shoes on my walk back the other direction
6. Remove my coat and hang it in the closet
7. Feed Sophie

I am sure that if I inked my feet, I would be quite humored at the jumble of steps I would leave. It's probably not the most efficient sequence, but it gets the job done, and I can do it in auto pilot (that last bit is vastly important…can't rely on me to remember anything!).

As you'll note, my little routine involves the cat. My sequence is a Rube Goldberg machine, and feeding Sophie is the marble rolling into the little cup to raise the flag at the end. I did not fully appreciation my routine until today.

I came home, and Sophie was waiting for me at the iPod charger. She was underfoot as she raced to get ahead of me in front of the key basket, then the Power Mat. I hung my bag on the door knob and she pranced over to the closet while I removed my shoes. As soon as my coat was on the hanger, she ran to the kitchen like the devil was on her heels. She looked at me with eager eyes, sitting where I always set her bowl on the floor, and waiting for me to raise that glorious flag.

She was having a lot of fun, I could tell from her eyes. This was a game to her, this figuring out that the Food Giver is crazy—but who cares because it ends with food. At what point did the tides turn? I thought the cat was supposed to entertain me, not the other way around. Maybe it will all make sense after I talk it out with the mirror tomorrow morning.

I have decided that when I design my version of the game CLUE, I am going to add an apple slicer as a weapon. It was Colonel Mustard in the library with the APPLE SLICER! Solid gold.

As you might have deduced, I had a little mishap with an apple slicer a few weeks ago. I don't typically use apple slicers because I'm pretty content with how efficiently I can slice apples with a knife—and it seems like I waste a lot less apple that way, too. But I had a new apple slicer to try out, a freebie as a result of my Pampered Chef order.

It was about 15 minutes before I had to leave for work, and I was packing the last bit of our lunches. I pushed down with the slicer (which can be tricky for me because I don't have a lot of leverage with my height, or lack thereof). As is usually the case, I couldn't get the slicer all the way through the bottom skin. So, I did what I always do and flipped the apple over to push the stuck bits through metal.

And just like that, I cut my thumb. No, I don't feel like "cut" cuts it. I gashed my thumb…split it like a banana…I slaughtered the poor unsuspecting fool. Luckily it wasn't my favorite thumb, but still.

Like all my deep kitchen cuts of years gone by (I should really be restricted to light plastic sporks), it ached for a second, maybe two. Then, the bleeding started and would not stop. I sneered at the pathetic appendage, all but spitting, "And you thought you were least loved before!"

Nick, shaking his head while I muttered obscenities over the kitchen sink, brought down a box of bandages. I took a couple extra bandages with me to work, knowing I would need to change it at least once. I got to work, expecting shock, dismay, and outright anger that such an innocent device should do so much damage. I got none of that.

I got a bunch of snooty know-it-alls. "Oooh, you can't do that with Pampered Chef slicers! They're extra sharp!" Thanks, genius…I deduced as much on my own.

Nick has been jumping ahead of me for weeks now, making sure he gets to the apples before I do…and probably pondering the feasibility of an all-spork kitchen. Stupid, lesser loved thumb. You ruin everything.

I was sitting in my second meeting of the morning with my friend, K.

Meetings are always better when I have a friend there with me in the room (better, but probably a touch less productive). K is sweet and funny—lackadaisical but driven. I met her earlier this year, and we bonded instantly. She's just as girly as I am if not more, and I love getting goofy with people who uphold the same unimportant standards that I do.

K started an email to forward me a document. She remarked after several starts and stops that she was having trouble typing today. I looked at her hands with their fresh coat of shimmering burgundy polish. "Looks like it's time to cut the nails," I murmured drolly.

If looks. could. kill.

She eyed me up and down where I sat. All snotty, she spat, "Looks like it's time to wear something besides a dress."

I raised my eyebrow. "...never happen."

She raised her eyebrow. "I rest my case."

Indignant and both offended by stupid suggestions, we went back to talking about work.

We have a membership to one of those wholesale shopping clubs. We almost recoup the cost of the membership every year with by purchasing boxes filled with 1,000 packets of Splenda instead of buying 200 packets here and 200 there—of all things, right?

We typically keep our purchases limited to non-regular grocery items: the aforementioned Splenda, toilet paper, and gum. When we stopped by last weekend, we also picked up a gallon of milk because it would save us a separate trip to the grocery store—milk is milk, right? Right. But—!

But not all milk containers are created equally! The wholesale club sells those square milk gallons. See, because of the squareness, the milk can be packed, and thus shipped, more efficiently. Meanwhile, the consumer can save a few cents on milk.

Woo.

Whatever. We were there and needed milk, and that's all the thought that went into it.

I only use milk in the morning: first for my coffee, then for my cereal. The coffee preparation all happens in auto pilot because I don't like to let myself wake up all the way until I have aromatic coffee steam caressing my face (it really is the best way to wake up; you ought to try it). On Monday, for the first time ever, I had that silly milk container to work with.

As part of the square design, the spout of the container is recessed and wider than a normal spout. It's a little awkward figuring out how to pour small amounts into small containers.

You of course see where this is going: milk on the counter, milk on the floor, milk on my bare feet—no milk in my coffee mug. That put me in a rather foul mood, and I was still muttering crazy conspiracy theory rants and scrubbing away at my mess when Nick came into the kitchen. He looked at me like he was moments away from laughing, which just made me boil a bit hotter.

I raged, "They make you think you're saving money, but they don't tell you that you'll have to dump half the gallon just to get a splash in your glass!" Wisely, he kept his laugh to himself (though I could still see it in his eyes) and walked away without saying a word.

On Tuesday morning, I trudged downstairs on auto pilot, making my way to the coffeemaker. I opened the refrigerator and reached for the milk. I found this instead.

Oh, Nick.