Laura Lore

Sophie Sunday

nospam@example.com (Laura Kazynski) — Sun, 29 Jan 2012 12:14:56 -0600

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.

I still wish you were here.

nospam@example.com (Laura Kazynski) — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 21:55:00 -0600

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.

Sophie Sunday

nospam@example.com (Laura Kazynski) — Sun, 15 Jan 2012 11:44:11 -0600

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:

Incendiary

nospam@example.com (Laura Kazynski) — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 18:40:40 -0600

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.

Sophie Sunday

nospam@example.com (Laura Kazynski) — Sun, 08 Jan 2012 18:00:10 -0600

Nick and I were out of town for a few days last week. Since Sophie is fed daily, we need to impose on a family and friends to take care of her whenever we are gone. We have a backup caretaker, and a backup backup caretaker—but both were also out of town last weekend. My friend Becky, who lives in the same town, offered to stop in and take care of her. She recently rescued a cat of her own, and she's got a little kitty fever going on. (Of course, it may just be allergies.)

Becky has been in my home before, several times actually. Unfortunately, she has never stayed long enough for Sophie to decide whether or not she's safe. Our cat yearns to be social—sometimes aggressively loving—but she still has a knee-jerk (paw-jerk?) reaction of fear with new people. You just need to sit down for awhile, keep your voice soft, and pay her absolutely no attention at all. I guarantee you that she'll be drawn to you within minutes.

I warned Becky of this so that she wouldn't take it personally if my cat got one look of her and bolted. When new people so much as look at Sophie, she flattens her ears and sprints toward a hiding place as if the very devil is on her tail. (And I thought that I didn't like attention!)

We arrived back in Madison Tuesday night. I talked with Becky the next day when I picked up my key. As I suspected, Sophie didn't let her near. She said that Sophie took "evasive action" when she so much as breathed in her direction. I keep snickering at the phrase "evasive action" as applied to my fuzzy, pampered house cat…but basically, Sophie spent the weekend completely alone.

I suppose that explains why she almost took me to the ground in her excited vigor when I first walked through the door. Oh, Sophie. If only you would be so capriciously cute for everyone who stopped by…

The Decider

nospam@example.com (Laura Kazynski) — Sat, 07 Jan 2012 16:31:10 -0600

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.

Putting 2011 to Bed

nospam@example.com (Laura Kazynski) — Thu, 05 Jan 2012 17:02:15 -0600

I started the year marrying a man with the most beautiful heart I have ever seen.

I have learned a new life with him over the past six years. Oh, he can irritate me to tears…but he is also selfless. He moves Heaven and Earth to make me smile, even when I'm determined not to. He often comes through the door with shopping bags from one of his excursions saying, "How much does Nick love Laura!?" It's just how he thinks. He wants me to feel special…loved, always loved. I am fortunate that he was right there waiting for me when I least expected to find anyone there.

He helped me live out a fantasy in June when we went to Las Vegas to see Paul McCartney in concert. Even though we were two tourists having fun together, I know we went there because he knew that it would make me absurdly happy to see my favorite musician of all time perform live. (And it most certainly did!)

I grew close to my cousin again this year. We were best friends as children, but we grew apart. I think we're finally in the same phase of our lives at the same time, and it has been a salve to my heart to have that connection back. I was particularly glad to have her around when I found out that I needed a hysterectomy.

Every time it made me emotional, I scolded myself—almost cruelly. Snap out of it. It's not like I can have children anyway, so what's my problem? Stop being weak, Laura. Just STOP IT: somebody is going to see if you don't. Then I would put the mask back on and appear catatonic to life as it happened around me. She saw straight through my smokescreen and validated my darkest feelings…giving me a safe place to acknowledge them…making me acknowledge them.

I spent July recovering from surgery. My medical leave gave both my body and my mind time to heal. I started blogging more regularly again during that time because I finally recognized how I needed writing to help me connect the dots when answers aren't obvious. I feel more like myself than I have in years.

I will forget that I had to use my first sick day since 2006 because Nick gave me an awful cold after we returned from Florida in January. I will forget that the last installment of the Harry Potter movie franchise came to theaters. I will forget how I nearly died when I cut my thumb with that apple slicer. I will forget turning the spare bedroom into a closet. I will probably even forget that I turned 30 years old in 2011.

What I will always remember is the joy I had in finding parts of myself that I thought were lost. The year was golden, and I am happy to greet the next as a good friend who will surprise me, make me laugh, make me cry, and help me love.

It really makes you think.

nospam@example.com (Laura Kazynski) — Thu, 29 Dec 2011 19:47:50 -0600

The drive to work was treacherous this morning. The roads were deceptively clear, looking dry but randomly blanketed with black ice. We were listening to the news on the radio as we inched along, and we heard a terrible story. A dive team was searching the Rock River for a man who went into the water as the result of a car crash. He witnessed an accident on a bridge and left his vehicle to help a victim from theirs…when he slipped off the bridge and into the icy river. By tonight, the divers were looking to recover his body, for there was no hope left that he would still be alive in those frigid waves.

That man got out of bed this morning, got dressed, and left his home for what was going to be an ordinary day. Maybe he didn't wake his children before he left the house, but he'll be back soon. Maybe he was going to work early because he works whenever he can, but he'll slow down later. Maybe he had a fight with his girlfriend the night before, but he'll make it up to her tonight.

Maybe none of these things are true.

Maybe all of them are…then all the plans he pushed to tomorrow will never come to be. We're not in the habit of embracing mortality: there's always more time.

But actually, there's never enough.

He'll never have another moment with his children. He'll never slow down enough to enjoy life. He'll never be able to comfort his girlfriend in the aftermath of their argument. He's all out of chances, but who knew it would go that way? It was a day that started like any other…ordinary.

How perspective would change if we actually realized that any moment could really be our last…

The Christmas Shoes

nospam@example.com (Laura Kazynski) — Mon, 26 Dec 2011 20:16:00 -0600

I sent Nick off to bed as the last hours of Christmas day dwindled; his eyes had grown heavy while he rested on the couch. I was tired too, but I was feeling too anxious to sleep. I decided to watch a movie instead—I have watched very few this year. As The Christmas Shoes began to spin, I positioned the tissues close to my hand.

Now, it's not all that common for a straight-to-DVD movie to be on my scroll of must-sees during the holidays. (It's hard to stand up next to Jimmy Stewart, Bing Crosby, Fred Astaire, Cary Grant, and Danny Kaye, after all.) This movie, however, touches a nerve. It's a story based on a song by the same name. A little boy's mother is dying of heart failure, and he wants to buy her shoes to wear once she gets to heaven.

It's sweetly innocent… and heavy (at least it is for me). It probably doesn't help that it was around this time six years ago that I realized that my mother would be leaving. Soon. I dissolve whenever I hear a story about a child losing his or her parents…really, a story about anyone losing someone who they loved. I cannot help but be empathetic to that overwhelming sensation of loneliness, and I cry raw tears—as if it were only yesterday when Mom took her final breath. I don't let myself reside in that place of despair, but the memories of those emotions are vivid and easily summoned.

The movie is incredibly touching, and I don't think anyone is immune to the breadth of emotions it stirs. I seem to get caught on a different part of the goodbye every year. This year, it was her husband telling her that he and their son were going to be fine…that it was okay to go. I remember visiting her in the hospital on January 19, 2006.

…

My brother and I were in the hall outside her room when one of our aunts came out. With a hand on each of our shoulders, she told us that we needed to tell her to go.

Everybody else had already told her, but she continued to fight against the inevitable…so that left her children. Charlie and I couldn't tell her that day. We hugged each other and cried because we knew we would have to find the strength to lie. We would have to tell her it was okay to go when it really wasn't. It wasn't okay at all. On that day, our tears would have betrayed us and our best attempts.

She came home on a Saturday. Hospice nurses came to our house and made the living room into a makeshift hospital room. We all kept vigil around her, not wanting her to feel alone when she left. On Sunday, my pastor took me and Charlie aside and reiterated that we needed to tell her to go. "She's holding on for you," he said. I remember his eyes shining with unshed tears as he swallowed hard and said, "I wouldn't be able to leave my children either."

She wasn't herself by that stage. She was looking through us as though seeing something that we could not; her eyes did not focus on us as we leaned over her bed. Yet, there were words that everyone said we needed to say…words that felt sharp and jagged in my throat. Charlie went first.

After about three minutes, I heard the door slam from where I sat in the far south-eastern corner of the house. Everything seemed to rattle as my brother ran as fast and as hard as he could away from the house…the room…the bed…her. I was rattled too…by the strength and the violence of his feelings. Stumbling a bit, I made my way to her bedside.

I sat next to her and started talking. She was non-responsive, and I wasn't sure that she could hear me or comprehend what I was saying. Nonetheless, I told her how she inspired me. I told her what her love meant to me. I told her that I wanted to live up to her example. And, on a sob, I told her that I was going to be okay. Suddenly, profoundly, she opened her eyes and pierced me with her gaze. I watched as twin tears gathered in her eyes, and we stared at each other for several seconds. I saw the question in her eyes. Will you really be okay? they asked. Slowly I nodded, realizing only at that second that it was true.

Then the moment was over. Her eyes closed, her head lolled to the side again, and her clenched fist loosened. I kissed her cheek and felt my heart break.

…

These images replayed in my mind as I watched that scene last night. When the story ended, my tears had not, so I watched the scene again (and again and again) until I was finally spent. I went up to bed feeling lighter and less burdened. For once, I fell into sleep immediately and did not wake for almost seven hours. I can't remember the last time I slept so easily or for so long. I have so many hurts that still need to be soothed…but I keep forgetting that they are there. How many memories have I put on a shelf to deal with when I felt less vulnerable?

The cry felt good…cleansing…and afterward, love filled the void where the grief had been.

Off Topic

nospam@example.com (Laura Kazynski) — Thu, 22 Dec 2011 12:41:00 -0600

Today is the last day of work before my company closes for the holiday; I only had to work until 11:30. I was awesomely productive with desk work until 10:00 when I had a meeting scheduled. Of all my project teams, I was meeting with my favorite. We've worked together on our project for about two years now, and we have all become good friends. Our conversations steered away from our agenda almost immediately.

Karen started talking about her dog…her dog Max who goes to doggie day care every day. Apparently they gave him "dog nog" the other day (which I had never heard of but Google says it exists). Before I consulted with Google, I challenged the existence of the eggnog for dogs. Mona piped in that she's heard of it, but some dogs are allergic.

Karen:
"Yeah, some dogs are sensitive to the whey…"

Mona:
"Isn't whey in a lot of dog food too?" Karen nodded.

Karen (softly, almost singing):
"…eating her curds and whey!"

Mona:
"Hah! Yeah! Curds and whey!"

Then "whey" became a funny word for some reason, and Patty and Becky started to have an entire conversation using only that word and varied intonation.

Patty:
"Whey?"

Becky:
"Whey!"

Me (distracted by an email I was answering):
"I don't like spiders."

Now, I thought this was perfectly in line with the conversation because they were talking about Little Miss Muffet, weren't they? And didn't a spider come along and scare her away? Well, it would have scared me away too, and that's reason enough to dislike spiders.

But apparently, they were not thinking of what scared Little Miss Muffet or Little Miss Muffet at all. They thought I was suffering some sort of psychotic break: why else would I randomly confess my dislike for spiders? The room was suddenly engulfed with laughter—and not just any laughter, but the kind of laughter that reduces you to tears and that you just can't snap out of…the contagious kind that goes on long after the subject is forgotten.

Me (focused now and speaking in my best bored monotone):
"'Little Miss Muffet sat on her tuffet, eating her curds and whey. Along came a SPIDER who sat down beside her, and frightened Miss Muffet away.' You know, you really shouldn't put someone down just because their brain works better than yours."

I went back to my email before Karen started talking to me through hiccuping starts and stops.

Karen:
"You're just like my husband. We were watching TV one night and he just up and says, 'I hate snakes.'"

Mona:
"Can you imagine the conversation? She'd say, 'I don't like spiders.' He'd say, 'I hate snakes.' One of them would say, 'Will you be my friend?'"

Though I have no proof, I am sure that Karen's husband was making perfect sense at the time. I bet he'd be an awesome friend who wouldn't mistake my brilliance for idiocy like everyone else seems to!

Mount Crumpit

nospam@example.com (Laura Kazynski) — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 17:57:37 -0600

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).

Sophie Sunday

nospam@example.com (Laura Kazynski) — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 20:39:44 -0600

We have a chewer. I don't think we have a cord free of tooth marks in the entire place. I have tried just about everything I can think of to dissuade her, but nothing works. That cat just likes to gnaw, end of story.

The Christmas tree has been in jeopardy for weeks, but until recently she has saved her most passionate chewing for times when Nick and I are gone. Knowing she has the upper hand in our relationship, figuratively speaking of course, she's no longer hiding her activities. Finally sick of having to be on guard and having to raise my voice, I went to my last resort: the bitter spray.

It's a "no chew" formula that is supposed to taste just awful. The awfulness should send a message to little cat brains that chewing isn't fun at all (because it tastes lousy, duh). I bought the spray earlier this year when I identified a risk with new wicker baskets. I hate (absolutely hate!) using it.

It's not because I care about the poor plight of the cat. I have no sympathy for any discomfort she might experience while doing something she knows she shouldn't be doing. It's because when I use the spray, it somehow releases bitter particles around the entire room. Even though I didn't chew anything, I can't get the awful taste out of my mouth!

Meanwhile, Sophie is unaffected. She's curious why I'm spraying things. She walks up to the tree after I douse the bottom branches and sniffs. I put my hands on my hips and watch her with an arched eyebrow, daring her to take a bite. Never breaking eye contact with me, I see her tongue inching out the side of her mouth to reach the closest branch.

Obstinance!

But the in-your-face defiance is the least of my irritation: she's chewing the tree more now than she was before I sprayed the so called "no chew" formula. I felt a growl in my throat as I watched her and considered washing my own mouth out with soap.

I think that some conniving cat must have the patent on that bitter spray. They always frickin' win. Always.

Drawing a Blank

nospam@example.com (Laura Kazynski) — Fri, 16 Dec 2011 21:24:42 -0600

When I was a child, I was the artistic sort. I wrote my first short story—with illustrations, mind you—before I made it to second grade. At the time, because everyone should be making big life choices before second grade (naturally), I was torn as to whether I was more of a writer or more of an illustrator. In the end, writing stayed with me a bit longer…most likely because my writing became more sophisticated with age, but my sketching never did!

I still take to drawing occasionally. Well actually, I take to drawing more than just occasionally if you count all of the doodles I scribble on scrap paper while in phone conferences. Roll your eyes all you want…everyone is always surprised at all the information I retain without taking notes in those meetings! (It works!) The little doodle over to the right was Sophie-inspired, but with an extra-fluffy, excited-looking tail because that's how I like 'em.

I'm always a little surprised what I end up doodling when I dedicate my logic elsewhere.

Anyway, I always had fanciful stories in my head as a child. I wanted so badly to tell my mom all about the fantasies living in my mind, but I often felt frustrated because I didn't have the words to paint the stories well enough. I wanted everyone to see the faerie prince enchant all those flowers at dawn so that they would open and sing for the butterflies—but since I didn't have the words, I tried to recreate the image. I filled entire sketchbooks with my imagination.

I wonder, at what age do we stop seeing the unseen? If I still see, I've stopped acknowledging. The ability to run alongside your imagination is a gift that we have for such a short time, and I wish I still had those sketchbooks. I think they would be refreshing in contrast to my realistic, easily-described, all-business world. Hopefully I'll "wake up" from a phone conference one day and find that the faerie prince still lives in me after all.

Touchy

nospam@example.com (Laura Kazynski) — Wed, 14 Dec 2011 17:44:27 -0600

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.

Sophie Sunday

nospam@example.com (Laura Kazynski) — Sun, 11 Dec 2011 18:10:28 -0600

It's always a little stressful having a Christmas tree (albeit fake) AND a cat. For the most part, I don't decorate the last 12 inches or so of tree because it's just safer that way. I do hang the two ornaments that Sophie received as gifts (one from Nick's mom and one from my aunt) low for her to enjoy.

We walked in this afternoon after spending the weekend away. We were fully expecting at least something out of place, but everything was just as we left it several days before. We praised her for not being destructive—we gave her bonus treats and everything!

Once we sat down in the living room, however, she realized she had an audience. It's so much more fun being naughty if someone knows about it, of course: