Check.

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I’ve been really good about my water and fruit intake lately, and it’s been showing in my skin. This morning I was marveling at its clarity; it was dewy, almost glowing. I say this not to sound smug, but because it wasn’t until after 35 that my skin really began to improve — so I’ve only recently a) made peace with it and b) been able to appreciate it. Hey, so it took three and a half decades (and a bit of Obagi love). Whatevs.

In between today’s girly mani and pedi appointments, I stopped by my house to pick up the birthday gift for a party I was going to following my toes getting spruced up. I was bringing sparkling wine with me, and I knew the temps were around 90. Having a bottle of bubbly sitting in a hot car while I pedicured it up didn’t seem right, so I figured I’d let it rest in between two large Ziploc bags filled with ice. Instead of using the ice dispenser on the freezer door, I figured it’d be easier to remove the bin itself and get the ice into the bags that way.

Good idea, but with a big, huge execution fail. The ice bin didn’t want to come out, so I had to wrestle it loose with a bad (read: weak, sore, stiff) right wrist. I ended up bear hugging the bin and jostling it around to get it out of the freezer and, sure enough, out it came.

It also slammed right into my chin.

I had a perfectly straight, long slice running parallel to my lower lip and it was starting to bleed. The things I do to keep a bottle of vino cool, I tell you.

I ended up icing it (since, after all, the frozen stuff was über handy), smearing some ChapStick over the cut and covering it up with makeup before running out the door again. So there’s that: my good skin day was pretty short-lived. Oh well.

Not every good streak gives us such an abrupt, painful reality check, but some do. We might be marveling at bliss just as rage decides to body check us, or maybe it’s more subtle than that. Either way, it seems life often reminds us to not get too comfy and to keep a watchful eye out for a changing tide. It’s not to say that we should always be on high alert, but keeping one’s feet firmly grounded and one’s head from drifting too high into the clouds can help balance out the highs and the lows.

Today, for realizing that every season has its end and that all good things generally come to a close of some sort, I am thankful. Will I be on the lookout next time and be ready for the next good skin day to possibly go sideways? Check. You betcha.

Oh, crap.

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It’s been one heck of a week and a half, so I was more than ready to see Friday roll around.

On my way home this evening, I stopped to buy a birthday gift for a friend and, once back in my car, exhaled a sigh of relief. The only things before me were rummaging up some dinner, taking a walk — or not, maybe making a cocktail — or not, and diving head first into my jammies. On the radar for tonight and the morning? Sleeping hard, and sleeping in.

I was coming up to a red light and keeping an eye on the car behind me; the driver didn’t seem to realize I was slowing down. Finally, he slammed on his brakes. No squealing, no harm, no foul, but that’s all I would’ve needed.

Then it happened: as I was falling into somewhat of a blank stare and fixating on the scene in my rear view mirror, a passing bird released the biggest load of poo I’ve ever seen deposited on a car. And it was on mine — right in the part of my rear window that I had been absent-mindedly focusing on.

Yep, crap. That about sums up recent events. All I could do was laugh.

Inevitably, however, crap is followed by clearing. That part showed itself tonight, too.

We have incredibly high winds tonight — winds set to last through the weekend. The power has already flickered a number of times, and the TV has adopted a bit of static. Then again, mine is pretty old. A red flag warning coupled with low humidity — we’re at 10% right now — means it’s fire weather.

I stepped outside to experience the gusts and was immediately blinded by dust flying through the air. Smart move. After a series of rapid blinks, my eyes cleared. Adjusting to the night and away from artificial indoor lighting, I looked up. I’ve never seen so many stars in the sky — and I’m in the middle of the biggest city in Orange County. They were staggeringly beautiful.

To go from crap to clearing in a matter of four hours is the way life goes. Sometimes it takes longer, sometimes it takes less time. But one thing’s for sure: when there’s a mess on your hands and you’re blinded by grit in your eyes, the stars are always there. We just need to remember to find them.

For stars to balance the more messy parts of life, I am thankful.

Aware.

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I saw an owl tonight, and it was the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in a long time.

The faintest bit of light remained in the sky, and in a matter of minutes the trees would be silhouetted against a dark night. But I could clearly see the treetops, and something was circling overhead.

With a graceful spiral motion, it landed gently on a branch up high. My pace was fast, but I could see its head turn as I continued on my way. I heard an airplane making its way through the skies over Orange County and looked up, only to see the owl also on the move. It passed about twenty feet over my head. If I could’ve reached up and touched it, I might have.

When we look in a particular direction because something makes us take notice or piques our curiosity, we may find that our attention was captured in order to see something else. Something other than that which we originally saw comes to light if we keep our eyes open. I heard a plane, but was intended to get a better view of beauty, of winged gracefulness.

Tonight, for a shift in my attention and for knowing that awareness can shine a light on that which can have a profound effect on my soul, I am thankful.

Good day.

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If I could get paid to sleep, write, go on fantastic walks and drink wine, I’d be a happy camper.

By “paid,” I mean in money. Dollars. Dinero. Not in burritos, although I do adore them. Not in elastic waist comfy pants, although I do find them to be quite delightful. Nothing shady, nothing illegal.

Money. Cold, hard cash. And ideally without having to go backwards in pay. Wishful thinking, right?

Yes. Or maybe it’s just the infamous catalyst at work.

I was thinking tonight about how every ounce of stress and tension disappears when I set out on my evening walks. I almost didn’t go tonight, but guilt set in.

“What exactly are you going to do instead?” my conscience asked. I’ve never been good at tests, but I knew the answer: nothing.

I’d sit on the couch, chill, and marvel at how I didn’t feel any less stressed even though I was supposedly relaxing — so I put my walking duds on. Within my first thirty steps, I was in heaven.

Sure enough, a weight was lifted. With each mile, I felt stronger, more alive, more focused. I apparently also felt a bit smarter, because I realized that if the one thing on the list that’s already (for me) closest to an actual job — writing — was something that drew a paycheck, it wouldn’t be as enjoyable.

True, they say that if you’re doing what you love, it’ll never feel like work…but add in a deadline or two and voila! Work.

I’ve never been one to shy away from such responsibility, however. And “it wouldn’t be as enjoyable” means that it would simply fall from a 100 to a 99 on the ol’ enjoyment scale. Not too shabby.

We may not always be living the dream that’s in our mind’s eye, but so long as we have a target in mind and the life we’re living each day is something that sustains us and keeps the dream alive, it’s a good, good day.

Here’s to dreams in plain view and an ability to chase after them. Tonight — for good days, for jobs that sustain us all and for dreams that drive our determination — I am thankful. How fortunate we are.

37.

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I was mesmerized by them. There I was on the couch, glass of wine next to me, Family Feud on the boob tube, donning my jammies before 8pm and fixating on two numbers.

3. 7.

There they were, right in front of me. I could almost hear them laughing.

37.

37 pounds.

It was a massive box, and at that moment I felt like I could very well be on my way to becoming the human equivalent if I continued to unwind by the vine in lieu of feeling the burn.

37.

The numbers were very, very big. Why did they need to be so big? You don’t buy the stuff because of its weight or to boast to your friends that yours is three pounds more than theirs, you buy it because it’s a massive box — period. It’s something that you really don’t want to have to buy frequently, so bulk is clearly the way to go.

Staring at a box of cat litter with vino a few inches away isn’t exactly the life I thought I’d be living when, as a 20-something gal, I tried to imagine life in my 30s. Mine is part Bridget Jones and part Sex and the City (emphasis on city, not so much on sex), and by that I’m talking an 80/20 Bridget/SaTC ratio, respectively. But it’s a life undeserving of complaints. It’s good comedy, it’s just my speed and — while I poke fun at it from time to time — it’s mine to handle as I please, and to joke about if I wish. Truth be told, if it was any more lively, I’d be exhausted far more than I already am.

37 is my next birthday, and it’s less than three months away. Aside from the fact that I feel every day of those 37 years throughout my body and that a gigantic cat litter box was getting in on the action and reminding me of 37’s impending arrival, I feel fine about 37. I feel fine about 40, even. I’m just not so sure about the cat litter connection. A bottle of wine or some cake with those numbers, however, no problem at all.

Cellar 37, anyone? Perhaps a 37 layer cake?

A girl can dream.

Tonight I am thankful for my life, for its quiet and quirky ways, for cat litter and furbabies alike, and for wine to occasionally quiet the already hushed, distant buzz of my world even further.

I’m coming for you, 37. Get ready.

Cheers.

Deserving.

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There are certain movies I’ll watch every time I see them on TV, and 27 Dresses is one of them.

Tonight, I heard something for the first time — really heard it. I’d watched the scene before, but there’s a line that finally resonated deep within. Kevin says to Jane, “I think you deserve more than what you’ve settled for. I think you deserve to be taken care of for a change.”

Nobody has ever said this to me until tonight, when I repeated it to myself.

Have you ever woken up one morning or had a moment of realization that left you dizzy with nothing more than the truth? No cocktails involved, no over-the-counter drugs causing a slight buzz — just a shot of straight, simple truth. For as intoxicating and head-spinning as it can be, it provides a sobering experience. Tonight was a moment for one of these truths.

I like giving. I’ve tried to not do it, but I can’t help myself. Yet there’s no denying the fact that it often leaves me drained, both emotionally and occasionally financially at times. I’ve accepted the role of shoulder-to-cry-on, advice-giver and drop-everything-to-come-be-with-you-er, but I’ve also settled because I’ve not made room for someone to do the same for me. I’ve been too busy doing for others, which isn’t a bad thing. But I’ve forgotten to let my walls down so that I could perhaps be taken care of for a change.

It was an interesting realization.

Tonight, I am thankful for those instances in life that act as finger-snapping moments and urge us to wake up. Do we stop? No. We simply make room for our actions to be reciprocated. I would never take back my efforts, acts of kindness, demonstrations of friendship and outreach, but realizing that I’ve not been as open as those people to whom I’ve run was knowledge I was missing.

Anew.

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In the middle of Anaheim there’s a beautiful home which sits on such a massive piece of land, you’d swear they owned horses. I think they used to, actually, but no longer.

The house is wood siding and brick, the former painted a lovely shade of pale yellow. Its detached garage looks like a miniature barn, and its lawn is sprawling, lush and green.

A number of years back, its previous owners lost the home and trashed it for the next owner. Fixtures and cabinets were hastily torn down, holes were knocked in walls and ceilings, cement poured into the pool, windows shattered — you name it, and the home endured it.

In time, a new family moved in and gave it a new lease on life. On my evening walks, I marvel at the home’s beauty and it makes me think that maybe I’m meant to live in this town the rest of my life — but that I should save up my money to buy that home in the meantime.

Tonight I drove past the house and twinkle lights dripped from every tree branch and twisted up each tree trunk in the backyard. There were tables with white linens and white chairs set up. It was all for a wedding, and the guests who were arriving were dressed to the nines. For a home that received a new beginning a few years back, so does a newly married couple on this warm, late-September evening.

Most things have a distinct life cycle, and when they’re done — they’re done. As humans, our time may be up with a friend, a significant other, a job or a trip, but we often have the power to reinvent ourselves if we wish. We might’ve been through some rough patches or trying times, but we can come out clean on the other side if we put our minds to it.

When there’s a new beginning, we have a clean slate. And regardless of the myriad ways those beginnings can come around, I’m thankful for them. Time to embrace a new start means time to take a deep breath and enjoy the beginning — again.

Slow.

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You know what’s frustrating? Sailing along on your drive home then suddenly coming to a dead stop.

Why can’t people drive? It’s a five-lane city street with a speed limit of 50 mph. What’s the problem? What’s their deal?

Last night I experienced this. One second, full-speed ahead. The next, crawling and dealing with the jam-up.

Then I saw it: a child had been hit. He was on the ground, a sack of groceries scattered across the sidewalk. An older male was hovering over him, hoping he’d respond; a female was at his left shoulder, rocking back and forth with tears streaming down her face.

A dead stop.

The term has never seemed so staggeringly sobering, so full of sorrow, so heavy.

It was so recent that the traffic hadn’t really even had time to build up yet, nor had a large crowd. But they’d come before too long. They’d come to see if they could help, to see if it was one of their own from the neighborhood, to see if it was a friend, or just simply to see.

I dialed 911 and was told that the incident I reported had also been reported by others, and I was grateful for that. I continued on my drive home and saw the ambulance, a fire truck and a few police cars heading back towards the scene. My heart was heavy for a child I did not know, for a life that was hanging in the balance and for other lives that would no doubt be affected for years to come by what they’d seen.

Today I am thankful for our first responders and for the reminder that nothing is ever so important that we can’t slow down to pay attention. Getting home is on most everyone’s list of priorities at the end of a day, but slowing to ensure others reach their homes is a gift that gives to so many more than just that one person.

Dumb Hand, Diet Sugar

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I thought it was a joke when I first heard about, but I am officially a victim of smartphone hand.

I’d been a faithful Blackberry user for years, until I began working at my most recent job. Enter: the iPhone.

Fast-forward a year, and the way in which I’ve been holding it — not to mention the amount of time I use it — have both taken their toll. My right hand is more of a claw (OK, not really), in that it doesn’t like to lay flat on the ground when I do push-ups. It’s never relaxed like my left one is, and always has a sort of perma-bend to it. Boo.

Don’t blame the smartphone, you say? Pshaw. Common denominator! One does not take more than 10 years of piano lessons, function well at a computer since her teenage years and deftly maneuver around a Blackberry for seven years only to have problems from all three things pop up in a year’s time. I blame the iPhone.

While it is a lovely device, I clearly have not been practicing what I wrote about in a recent post: moderation. No, I’ve started using it as my blogging device in the evenings, and when I picked it up last night to check some work email, a pain shot through my hand. The manner in which I was cradling my phone made a lightbulb go on in my head. How I didn’t realize this before now, I have no idea.

Another sneaky no-gooder? Splenda. I’d been using regular Splenda and brown sugar splenda on a more than regular basis for many years, and I started to be plagued with aches and pains 24/7. No good. But, wouldn’t you know, stopping Splenda and simply using the real thing sparingly saw my aches disappear entirely.  As an aside, I once heard artificial sweetener referred to as “diet sugar” by a woman I was sitting next to on a plane. I’d never heard the term before (neither had the flight attendant), but it’s really a lovely idea. “Diet sugar.” Better than asking for a packet of chemicals, I suppose.

At the risk of this post going off the deep end, I will simply say that moderation isn’t limited to food or drink. It extends to smartphone use, Splenda, and so many other things. I’m confident the pain in my hand is an ailment that can disappear with some TLC and a bit of rest, but user be warned: smartphone can equal dumb hand.

Today, despite the difficulty in typing while wearing a brace and relying on my left hand for most tasks, I am thankful for the reminder that everything is fine in moderation — even technology and faux sweeteners.