Song of the Palm

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I love the sound of a gentle breeze moving through the tops of palm trees. The sound is similar to a peaceful fountain, or soft raindrops hitting a damp surface.

Palm trees likely evoke numerous images of sunny days, sandy beaches, tanned bodies and umbrella-adorned cocktails. But for me, the palm is so much more. It’s a sign of things to come, a compass for the seasons.

On sunny days, one simply has to listen with closed eyes to imagine a day that’s gray and calming, perhaps with a bit of dampness falling from the heavens or pooling on the ground.

On gray days, the palm speaks of sun that will soon shine again.

During the crisp days of fall, palms reach up to the heavens with their lofty hugs, seemingly welcoming the cooler season and thanking Mother Nature for respite from the heat.

And during winter’s frost, they still stand tall — not to be broken by icy temperatures, cold treatment or a cloudy outlook.

I’m anything but a beach person, but I do love a good collection of palms upon one. For as much as the sand and surf can calm one’s soul, so does the palm when it speaks to me of seasons to come.

For the palm and its many songs, I am thankful.

Puppy.

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A puppy was in the middle of a nine-lane thoroughfare. It was rush hour.

I was at the tail-end of a giant pack of cars when I saw him, and was immediately amazed he hadn’t been hit. In the next second I realized that nobody was behind me. I dove into the left turn lane to pull over for him. With any luck, maybe the little guy would come to me.

An oncoming red minivan swerved to avoid hitting the skittish puppy, honking at it but continuing on its way. It never dawned on me that pausing for the dog meant that I could possibly witness its death, but the swerving minivan swiftly brought this fact into focus. With the exception of my car, the road was suddenly quiet. How fortunate.

I called to him and he quickly came towards me, sitting down about five feet away on the median. He was wearing a collar, so I suspected I’d be able to approach him and see where he lived. But as I took one step, he darted back into the road. I hoped it wouldn’t prove to be a fatal move. More traffic was coming.

A teenaged boy was suddenly next to me. I wasn’t sure where he came from, but he also wanted to help. As the cars approached, he helped slow traffic. Across the street, a woman was riding our way on her bike.

The boy called out to her, asking if the dog was hers. It was.

The puppy wandered back our way and again sat on the median to wait, seemingly aware of the danger all around. The latest round of traffic passed, and the road was clear once more.

He immediately ran across the road and the woman scooped him up then pedaled away. As I turned to thank the boy, he was already on the other side of the street walking away.

I often see animals in need but am never in a position to help. Today I was — and so was a young man with a good heart. The outcome was the best we could’ve hoped for, and I can’t ask for much more than that. For a safe puppy who returned home unscathed and for good people who step up to help, I am very thankful.

The Xhosa Baby

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I went to my thyroid appointment earlier today, and a mother and her daughter — maybe around a year and a half old — were also in the waiting room.

The child was running around the space and wore shoes which were made to squeak every time she walked or kicked something. To make matters more interesting, the mother spoke only a few words to her the entire 40 minutes I was in the same room with them, choosing instead to speak in a series of strange throat and tongue clicks, raspberry noises and alien-esque “bee-boops.”

Perhaps this is the latest parenting thing — I really don’t know. All I know is that it sounded like I was among the African Xhosa tribe whose members were terrorizing a doggie squeak toy.

I realize in this digital age that interpersonal communication is a rare thing, but I’d not realized that clicking noises made up for it.

And not to be child-less and judge-y, but if you’re holding your mini-person and she drops her toy, maybe don’t dangle her upside down until she picks it up — unless you want to be the recipient of shocked looks from others also waiting to be seen. While you’re at it, pounding on the fish tank is also not ideal. I doubt the little guys inside were in the mood for a mini-tsunami…but that’s just a gut feeling.

Last, please stop allowing her to tear apart the magazines. It makes reading really, really difficult, and it’s not cute. How else am I supposed to catch up on my Guns & Ammo and The National Enquirer material?

(…because a gun magazine is totally the thing to put in front of people who’ve been waiting an hour for a delayed doctor, you know.)

Interesting waiting room experience, yes. And then I remembered why I was there: for my health. The child, though guided by interesting parenting skills, seemed healthy, was fairly cute and unscathed. Minus the dangling-upside-down move, the mother’s love for her was clearly visible. The fish, eh — they’d survive. And the available reading material wasn’t that great anyway. Kindling was a far better path for it to take.

I knew I’d be called in for the mandatory blood pressure-taking process before too long, so I put the squeaky shoes and fish abuse out of my mind, worked on some relaxed breathing and found my zen zone — right after the mom and daughter were summoned back to their room.

Tonight I am thankful for finding peace amid squeakiness, quiet with noise lurking just around the corner and calm in the middle of chaos. I’ll take squeaky shoes over being nestled among sickly patients any day, and squeaks were delivered in abundance today.

Here’s to accepting the squeaks in our own lives each day, with patience to spare.

Zoom Out

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“I got a screw in my tire and my cat’s at the vet.”

Sounds like it could be the opening line of a country song, no? Alas, it’s my life today. Sigh.

After two new front tires on Friday, I spotted a screw last night in one of my larger rear tires. The place where I got them — including a certificate for repair/refund/replacement for each — of course isn’t open on Sundays, so I went to Sears to see if it was repairable.

No dice. My luck. I’d have been down to pay for a patch, but not a new tire — especially if I didn’t need to.

All that was left to do was keep my fingers crossed, leave the screw in the tire and hope it keeps any leaking at bay, drive as little as possible and get back to the place where I bought them at my earliest convenience. Which means tomorrow.

In the meantime, my old cat — an indoor/outdoor guy who does his own thing — decided today was his day to be über affectionate with me. The last time he pulled his lovey-dovey antics, he was in need of vet care due to a stinky, massive abscess in his neck, a telltale sign of a cat fight that he lost. Today, he sidled up to me on the couch, yawned, and his breath would’ve knocked me over had I not already been sitting down. What now? Another abscess, another bill? We shall see. Due for his annual checkup anyway, I whisked him off to the vet, returned a few hours later and plunked down a pretty penny to being him home.

I realized the other day that Christmas is about three months away, and I am thankful to soon be turning the page and moving on from 2013. I’ve hemorrhaged more than my share of cash this year, and it’s getting a wee bit old. The silver lining? I have pets that are pretty kickass, an awesome vet that I feel great about taking them to, and I spotted the screw in my tire instead of obliviously driving around on it and potentially having a big issue on my hands.

Sometimes zooming out helps us to put things back into proper perspective, because the more we focus on those things that are right in front of us, the less we’ll see the big picture. It can be a challenging task, particularly when our attention is dedicated to fixing those things staring back at us. What to do? Raise a glass with me, y’all — its toast-time:

Though life may trip us up at times and grow to staggering heights, here’s to focusing on what we can change, but always remembering to zoom out, breathe, and keep things in balance at the end of the day.

Single-Serve Curse

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I’m a big fan of portion control, but it somehow seems to bite me in the butt every time. I’m not sure what the deal is.

It’s a simple concept, really: everything in moderation. Except if you’re me, and dessert is at stake.

I’ve been known to defrost a bowl of frozen fruit or bake a cinnamon-sprinkled apple for dessert, and thank goodness for the guilt-free nature of such treats. But lately I’ve had one heck of a sweet tooth. And to satisfy it, I’ve been enamored with tiny, individually packaged brownies or small, one-point Weight Watchers ice cream bars. Perfection.

What’s not so perfect, however, is when multiple brownies or ice cream bars are consumed. They’re like the Lay’s of the dessert course: I can’t eat just one.

It’s a slippery slope. If it’s only one point, why not have another? If it’s a wee brownie, why not consume a second? Before you know it, my single-serve items are in a single place: my tummy.

It’s astounding to me that I can make it through a whole day and stay on track with my vittles, but then be sidetracked during my last hour or two before I hit the hay. What gives?

Do I need to set out on an epic evening walk and wear myself out to the point of dessert taking a backseat to Band-Aids for my feet, water for my person or a bed for my body?

Perhaps.

Do I need to bypass dessert entirely? Yikes. I’d hate to see the gorging that might take place following such a hiatus — not that said hiatus would last long.

Should I stick to fruit-only options moving forward? Meh.

The problem with any of the above “solutions” is that they don’t speak to moderation at all. They speak to a bit of desperation and avoidance. What’s a girl to do?

Stay at it. Earth-shaking advice, right? Seriously, though — sometimes all we can do is vow to begin again tomorrow. The beauty of the single-serve curse is that they’re tiny lessons teed up for us to learn from. We might not learn the first time (or the twentieth), but we can in time if harnessing the knowledge and power is a priority. Tonight I am thankful that they both are for me.

The Makeup Rule

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I think we were somewhere in Northern California. It was our annual summer vacation, and I was around 7 or 8 years old. We were in the middle of a town during the morning rush hour, and I remember looking out the window of our station wagon. The woman next to us was pretty, dressed professionally, clearly heading off to a workplace of some sort, and was applying mascara in her visor mirror amid all the hustle and bustle.

I said aloud to anyone who cared to respond, “I want to be like her someday.”

“No, you don’t. A lady who’s prepared always puts her makeup on at home,” my mother told me.

Suddenly, my image of the woman next to me was tarnished. Why didn’t anyone else see her on the pedestal I’d created mere seconds before? She was on the go. In demand. She was making things happen, moving and shaking. Right?

Nope. Wielding a tube of lipstick or curling one’s eyelashes while behind the wheel of a moving vehicle are activities right up there with twerking or stealing someone else’s lunch out of the company fridge. It’s just dumb. Don’t do it. People won’t like you. You’ll be that person.

These days, perhaps because of my mother’s statement at an early age (or perhaps thanks to common sense), I cringe at women who put their makeup on during their morning commute — and there are far too many out there. In fact, one almost hit me this morning. I was behind her and could see the face-powdering going on, so I decided to pass her. As I committed to the lane next to us, she decided that very moment would also be a fantastic time to change lanes, too — only she hadn’t been paying attention, so she didn’t realize I was already there. I did a tappity-tap honk versus laying on the horn, so as to politely (or so I thought) let her know that I was already there.

She flipped me off.

Really? Who knew powdering one’s nose could ever be followed by such an unladylike action? Sheesh.

This morning’s rush hour shenanigans took me back about 30 years to the woman I saw that summer during our family vacation. And you know what? Mom was right. Always put your makeup on at home.

She’s bestowed multiple tidbits of truth and wisdom upon me over the years, but this is just one of many.

Today I am thankful for my mom’s candor and ability to speak her mind on matters seemingly insignificant to others. Putting one’s makeup on at home (save for the mid-day refresh) may be one mark of lady (er, or man…?), but it’s also the mark of a courteous, respectful driver.

The Rut

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This blog is the product of some inspiration that came my way after starting a book of daily devotions I bought at the beginning of January 2012. Since then, with the exception of one day, I’ve written daily — by midnight in whatever time zone I happen to be in.

I was on a roll earlier this year. I purchased the 2013 devotional book, read its short passages nightly and, of all things, managed to go on a five-month streak of making my bed every morning. It may not sound impressive, but it’s huge for me. A nasty snooze button habit means most days see a hasty smoothing-out of my sheets and comforter versus a proper bed-making. But this year began with daily beautification of my bedroom, complete with decorative pillows carefully placed atop an inviting place to rest. Since May, I’ve made my bed inconsistently, at best.

I’ve also been inconsistent with my devotions. “Inconsistent” meaning I’ve read maybe six or seven since just before the official start of summer.

Bed-making and daily devotion issues also have me wondering about the future of this blog. To continue writing each day, or to change up the frequency? I will finish out the year the same way it began, but I’m kicking around Thanky options for 2014 and beyond.

Three little things have me internally fidgety these days — I’m feeling unsettled. I should be excited to read my book of daily devotions, but I’m not so I don’t. The nights when I do dust off my book, I read the words but they don’t resonate within me. I’m in a rut.

I’m in a rut with my bed-making, with this blog, and I’m wondering where my inspiration has gone. It has changed right along with the seasons, and it scares me a little bit.

Will my focus return? Is this the beginning of a downward spiral and will these things permeate other areas of my life? Should I get up a little earlier and force myself to make my bed until the habit kicks in? Should I allow 30 minutes each night to not only read from my devotion book — but also to quietly reflect on it?

I know the answers, as these are relatively small issues when they could be so much bigger. But sometimes when we get into a rut, all we can do is complain about our environment versus actively seeking to change it. It’s easy to talk about it and mull it over; it’s easy to marinate on why you’re in it, how much you wish it didn’t exist and to remember how great you once felt.

Hold on to the latter and take a step. Forward. Out of the rut. Remember your better days, your routine that made you feel centered, grounded and claw your way back to it. When all is said and done, your rut is partially there because of you, so give it your best boot and then see where that takes you. My guess is that you’ll find yourself among new surroundings in no time at all.

Tonight I am thankful for ruts and their nudging to get us to do something. The bigger the rut, the bigger the step. The smaller the rut the easier it is to resign yourself and accept it — but with a bit of focus and determination, even the smallest of trenches will be nothing more than a tiny bump in the road of life.

Giving in.

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Some days I’m just not sure where the time goes.

Work, battle traffic on the way home, hit the grocery store, pick up a greeting card, then to the cleaners, bank, gas station, home to sign the card, then back to the post office to mail said card. Back home again, tend to the pets, turn the water on in the backyard, toss in a load of laundry, take out some trash, put the dry cleaning away then notice it’s after 8p and dark — therefore no evening walk shall occur. What to do? Begin to rummage for dinner, naturally.

I remembered that my celery needed chopping, so I cut it up and saw that I had hummus in the fridge, too. Score. Perfect late “dinner” — perhaps with a cocktail thrown in for good measure, too. The expiration date on the lid said October 15. I dug in, then stopped. Something tasted…musty, not hummussy.

I read the packaging again and noticed it said to consume within seven days of opening. I can’t recall when I opened it, but it tasted like it had been a multiple of seven. My mistake.

My freezer housed some microwaveable frozen carrots that I settled on, but my celery was still lonely. I gave in to peanut butter.

Then I gave in to a cocktail, elastic waistband pajama bottoms, an old t-shirt and my trusty Uggs. The hair went up, my stress level came down and I melted into the couch while the Property Brothers educated me on a bit of home renovation. I might’ve also given into a handful of white chocolate chips. This, friends, is my version of some good old-fashioned licking of the wounds.

I realize that others’ lives are far more busy than mine. I realize that others have more mouths to feed, longer to-do lists and don’t have time to sink into a couch without still being pulled in multiple directions. I gave in to some quiet, comforting moments tonight, then gave in to a small amount of guilt for feeling so exhausted. Am I? Yes. Do I know the exhaustion that others know on a daily basis? No.

Regardless of our days, our lists, our dwindling energy levels, giving in to time for ourselves — no matter what it takes — is mandatory. It’s mandatory for quieting the mind, for recharging the batteries, for being able to get up and do it all over again the next day. And the day after that, and the day after that.

Tonight I am thankful for the little things that calm the soul, for the days that give us only as much as we can handle and for those people around us who can help with the weight — whatever we need them to do, however we need them to do.

Here’s to all our tomorrows that we’ll make it to, and all of them we’ll make it through.

Fall’s coming.

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Fall is in the air tonight, even though it’s technically not quite here yet.

My evening walk revealed familiar scents I haven’t smelled in about a year. Pot roasts and spaghetti dinners filled the neighborhoods, meals that have been hidden away since the heat of the summer months began. Someone was baking cookies — I suspected it had been too hot up until now to do anything substantial in the kitchen, aside from eat raw cookie dough…not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Sprinklers were keeping lawns green. In the night air the water smelled crisp, fresh and clean — a big departure from a few weeks ago when sprinkler overspray would hit the asphalt, making it smell like a Southern thunderstorm pounding down upon hot blacktop.

Gone were the mosquitos and evening gnats. Gone was the stillness that inspired sweat after being outside for only a few seconds’ time. Gone was the stickiness and the uncomfortable humidity.

If the past is any indication, these things will likely return before too long. October could be difficult as it has in years prior, vying for summer’s crown and hoping to steal it from June, July or August; an Indian summer could roll around in the middle of November.

It reminded me that, as in life, when we most need a break there’s generally one just around the corner. It doesn’t mean there won’t be a return to those things which wore us out in the first place, but it does mean a brief respite from the grind — and for that I am thankful.

Hurry up, Tuesday.

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Grocery shopping is something I enjoy. I make my lists based on the layout of the store, and methodically cruise around until every item is in my cart.

Tonight I was fulfilling my single girl job description: perusing cat toys in the pet aisle. I was debating whether to purchase the wand with a wad of feathers at the end, or a fuzzy, mouse-shaped creature with sparkles and bells. Then I heard him.

“Anaheim Shores, right?” he asked. He was around 70, with hair [badly] dyed blonde and a Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned to the sternum. He had a ring on each pinky, a sizable belly, and an empty cart except for a bunch of unripe bananas and Q-tips. I sensed perviness and, feeling cornered, I immediately broke out into boob sweat.

Anaheim Shores is a condo community here in the flatlands of my beloved city, and it’s set around a meandering series of streams and ponds. It’s not too far from the store where we both were. I wondered if there was a white, window-less van waiting for him in the parking lot.

“Excuse me?” I said.

“I’ve seen you walking around my lake, haven’t I?” asked The Perv.

“Nope, not me.” By this time, I was trying to pick out some cat food so I could be on my way. Should I go with the Friskies pâté, or the prime filets? I couldn’t pick — largely because The Perv was in my way.

“Well, you should. It’s a nice lake. Here,” he said, extending something to me. “Here’s my card.”

I took it and he walked off, bestowing “blessings” upon me under his breath. He cast a creepy backwards glance my way before rounding the corner.

The face of the card had a crest-like design on it — knights’ helmets, to be exact. The back was equally strange. Here’s what I saw:

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What the…?

Chairman of the Broad? Ew.

And pirates? What’s with this darned pirate thing these days? This isn’t the first male I’ve encountered who’s had a thing for the high seas.

Admittedly, I wondered if his pedicures were cheaper than the place that I go. I immediately decided I’d likely be paying for them in ways I didn’t care to imagine.

This calling card is not that of a gentleman — not that I would’ve called or sashayed around his lake if it had been. You know, the age difference and all.

I’d like to point out that I’ve collected a number of these experiences in my life. They find me, really. I wish they weren’t so common, but they are. I suppose they’re fodder.

I got home, had a few good laughs about it, then put my cat food haul away. Tomorrow being trash day, I went outside to wheel everything to the curb. I couldn’t get the yard trimmings barrel in a decent position before I began to move it, and as a result it ended up tipping over. All I could think about were how many spiders I’d just set free and which, most likely, were making a beeline for me. Dammit.

I guess this is the perfect definition of Monday. And you know what? I’ll take it. It had no shortage of weirdness, plenty of head-smacking moments and it gave me a gift: not only did I get a writing topic, I have oodles of gratitude over the fact that not all of my days are like this. Once in a blue moon, yes, and that’s about as often as I can handle them.

They keep me humble.

And single.

Can’t wait for Tuesday.