What’s that word?

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I remember it like it was yesterday. I’d just received a letter from our neighbor’s granddaughter, and I tore into it excitedly. They were the days when you could never adorn an envelope with too many stickers, “K.I.T.” requests or felt tip marker doodles. We’d become pen pals after playing one summer while she was visiting Anaheim. She was from Wisconsin, I think, and was a couple years older. I was 6 or so.

“What does it say?” my mom asked. “Read it to me.”

“Dear Lauren,” I began. “How are you? I am fine. We just got back from a trip to…”

I stared at the next word. It had me stumped.

“Go on,” my mom encouraged.

I stared some more, then spit it out.

“We just got back from a trip to Knee-uh-gair-uh Falls. Where’s Knee-uh-gair-uh Falls?” I asked my mom.

“Ny-AG-ruh, honey,” she said. “Ny-AG-ruh Falls in New York.”

I scrutinized the word for another minute and was instantly baffled as to why I thought it would ever be pronounced any other way.

Ny-AG-ruh. Of course. I’d heard of Niagara Falls before, but apparently had never seen it in writing.

Another word around that same age also stumped me: homogenized. I’d see it written on milk cartons and would whisper it to myself, wondering what it had to do with a cow:

Homo-JEAN-ized. Homo-JEAN-ized? What was that all about? Should I be drinking this milk? Did the cow ever experience pain of the “homogenized” variety?

“Huh-MAW-jin-iss,” I was told. Then I got the explanation.

Go ahead and laugh. I still do. Typical me, over-thinking and over-complicating everything in my head.

Seems like there are always things that appear one way when, in reality, they’re something entirely different and not what we expected. I saw Niagara Falls today for the first time and was stunned by its beauty — beauty that I’d always heard of, but which was initially hidden years ago by a strangely spelled word. I shared my Knee-uh-gair-uh story earlier, only then realizing that there are always people in our lives who care enough to nudge us in the right direction — in order to add clarity, understanding and who educate us while opening our eyes a bit more. Maybe it’s just a word, or maybe they turn our lives around in larger ways.

For those people, and for the ones I shared Niagara’s beauty with today, I am thankful.

The Man with a Plan

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I’m not a big talker on flights. I’m big on staring out the window and taking in the changing landscape, thinking, looking for landmarks and wondering where I’ll go on my next trip.

But I had an aisle seat yesterday, so daydreaming with a good view wasn’t in the cards.

The man I was sitting next to had papers everywhere; they overwhelmed his tray table. Some notes were scribbled on yellow lined paper, while diagrams were relegated to white paper torn from a small, freebie tablet — like the kind you’d find in your mailbox from a local realtor, or from a charity hoping for a donation.

“Are you headed out for business or pleasure?” he asked.

“Business,” I replied. We made small talk, and he ended up explaining his mini mountain of paper.

“I’m building a chicken cage for my daughter,” he said. “She looked them up online and they were about $700 to buy, so I told her I’d make it myself. I’m flying up for the weekend to build it.”

My brain started to hurt from listening to him explain the measurements, but it wasn’t personal — most things that include numbers inspire headaches of substantial size to pay me a visit. I decided to flip through a magazine to clear my head of numbers. And chickens.

“Look down there,” he said. “We’re over Santa Barbara. See that point? That’s near the first place I kissed my college sweetheart. She’s my wife now.”

He told me that they were overlooking the water, a point which had since lost its battle with the ocean after years of erosion.

“The mountains nearby were so beautiful,” he said. “And so was she. There was a harvest moon that came up right over the top of that ridge and it shimmered on the water. I knew the moment we kissed that I was going to marry her. It was terribly, terribly romantic.”

He was maybe 70 or so; years of sun had left his face blotchy, but you could tell he’d enjoyed his time outdoors. His hair was white, his hands had all the hallmarks of a hard-working man who liked to build things, and he still had a sparkle in his eye. He was lost in thought for about a minute.

“I’m going to tell you something,” he said. “And always remember this: men are like those ice cube trays — you know, like the ones that are plastic or metal…the ones you fill with water to make ice cubes. Men work in compartments. Women are like spaghetti.”

I paused to consider this label: I’m a noodle?

“What I mean,” he continued, “is that men focus on one thing at a time, for the most part. Women are like strands of pasta. Their thoughts are all intertwined. What should I make for dinner, will that give me enough time to take the kids here or there, and will it be ready by the time my husband gets home?”

I understood what he was saying, despite the fact that I am without hubs or offspring.

“They’re fairly simple, men are. Sure, they think about sex a lot, but just know that whatever they’re thinking about — sex, money, work, sex — they usually think about one thing at a time. My wife and I had one plan when we married, and it was to be happy. She figured out the compartment thing early on, and I think it’s why we’ve been together all these years.”

I wasn’t super keen on discussing the finer points of sexy-think with my 70-something row mate, so I nodded, agreed and returned to my magazine.

Reading between the lines, I suspected that there was a lot he wasn’t saying about the need for clear communication when you’re with someone. It takes knowing how to communicate for your communication to be understood and not just heard, and his plan going into their marriage was to know how his wife was wired; he wanted their interaction to be positive so it would help preserve their union.

I wondered if he’d always been a planner, or if it was something he learned only after stumbling along the way. It didn’t really matter, though, as my bigger takeaway was how charming he’d been in his sharing of advice. Chicken cage or marital plan of action, the man was charting courses and making them happen.

And because he reminded me of the need for a little more planning in my own life, today I am thankful for the amusing advice from a perfect stranger. I don’t doubt his weekend project will be exact and flawless when it’s completed.

All thanks to planning.

Fifteen Minutes, Nine Ounces

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Today’s day trip to San Francisco concluded with wine at the airport before flying home to Orange County. I was running a little short on time, but am always happy to accommodate a glass when possible.

“Would you like the small or large size?” our server asked me after I requested a Pinot Noir.

It was like he should have been asking me about fries. Or beer. But no, he was most certainly asking me if I wanted to super-size my wine. One guess what my answer was.

While I enjoy an adult beverage before most flights, this was a tad excessive — primarily because I hadn’t eaten much all day. I was also coming down off something of a stress-high, was exhausted and desperately in need of a nap.

The wine went right to my head and, before I knew it, I was hoofing it to my gate. The five minute walk flew by (thanks, wine), I boarded the plane and collapsed into my Economy Plus seat (such a cruel name, by the way — Plus? Plus what? Plus the perception that you think you’re in a roomier seat when you really can’t tell a difference from the ones across the aisle? Snort!).

Not noticing that my feet were swelling in the pointy-toed kitten heels I foolishly decided to wear for the first time (really, who breaks in shoes on a travel day?), I settled in for a brief snooze. In Orange County, I walked off the ramp, inside the terminal, through the terminal, across the street to the parking deck, through the parking deck and collapsed once more — this time in my car. I peeled my shoes off. Bloody heels! Meaning, literally…bloody heels. Torn flesh. Fantastic. Excited at the prospect of wearing more sensible shoes tomorrow (read: flip-flops) when I visit three more airports.

While consuming nine ounces of Pinot Noir on a weary, empty stomach isn’t the smartest thing I’ve ever done (nor is it the most stupid, for the record), tonight I am thankful that it lulled me to sleep and erased most of the memory of my feet turning twice their size prior to being torn to shreds on my journey home. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I heart you, vino.

Third Time’s a Charm?

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They say the third time’s a charm.

If that’s true, can someone tell me what’s charming about my rear bumper being hit three times in as many years?

It never ceases to amaze me how shady people can be. Whether it’s leading someone on, treating people as recreation or toys and nothing more, telling half-truths, non-truths or hitting a car in a parking garage without leaving so much as a note, I really wonder where our world is headed.

It’s easy enough to shut the door on people who aren’t willing to be positive, active contributors in your life. It hurts, but when the writing is on the wall, it seems the sane thing to do for all parties involved. It’s not, however, easy when a complete stranger walks in, leaves his mark on your world, then exits (not even in a graceful manner) — leaving you to pick up the pieces.

Thanks, pal. I had enough pieces already, but I appreciate more.

True, it sounds like sarcasm. And a few hours ago when I walked out to my car, it was. Really, really thick, dense sarcasm.

After a tiny bit of retail therapy, I started thinking about things; I started thinking about the so-called “pieces.”

The bumper damage is more of a series of scrapes versus dents…not cool, but not the end of the world. My car is going on eight years old, and I have yet to get a door ding anywhere on my beloved vehicle (now that I’ve said it, I’m sure I’ll get one at one of the two airports — or both — that I’ll be visiting in the next two days); I reckon a door ding might be far more annoying to me than a scrape on a bumper.

Then there’s the obvious: nobody died.

My car wasn’t broken into like others have experienced while parked in that darned parking deck, my car runs, my car is 99% all good in the ‘hood.

So, really, what’s my problem?

I have very few. Sometimes I think otherwise, but that’s when it’s time to back up, reflect, and realize how good we have it.

All of us, every day.

Think you have problems? You’re sitting in front of a computer. Many people don’t have a computer. You have time to read this, whereas many people don’t have a moment of peace in their day.

Perspective. I love it. And I’m thankful for it.

Good Love

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In the words of Tom Petty, good love is hard to find. But have you ever stopped to consider how you’re defining love?

Love doesn’t always have to be the romantic variety, the last-your-whole-life variety. It doesn’t have to be full of passion, full of kisses or full of tender moments.

It can be simple love — the love you feel for a friend who gives good advice. It can be the love you feel for family, your kids, for an animal, from an animal you’ve rescued, for new people you click with, for peace and quiet that doesn’t happen often enough or for the life you’re simply thankful for…the life you’ve built for yourself. This kind of love isn’t hard to find — it’s often all around us, all the time. It’s the love that keeps us going each day.

Tonight I am thankful for love of all kinds, and for knowing that love is all around us. Always.

The Stream

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I might’ve written about it before, but Rush’s Beyond the Lighted Stage is a fantastic documentary.

In it, Geddy Lee says of the mainstream, “We were our own. Not the main one.” And look how far they went.

The opposite is also true, though: doing your own thing and blazing your own trails doesn’t always ensure you’ll come out in top. It can often times mean ridicule, no shortage of others’ lack of faith in you, years of questions and relentless questioning about why you can’t do what’s “normal,” what’s expected.

We have a choice every day of choosing the mainstream or charting our own course. I like to think my life is a little bit of both, but I like even more that I can turn the dial up on “not the main one” whenever I choose. For choice, I am grateful.

Jack, part 2.

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I’ve adopted a head-butter.

Meaning, when I’m on the floor hoping to bond with the little guy, he actually goes for it. He’ll first start purring while hiding under the bed, eventually scoot out from underneath it, come over, then touch noses with me and lower his head so that it butts against mine.

Swoon.

Truth be told, I wasn’t sure of his personality when I adopted him — I just knew he’d been growing up in a cage, and nobody wanted to give him a forever home. I’m pretty glad I did.

I was excited by two things tonight that have never before had such an effect on me: a scratching post, and a litter box. He used both as though he was an old pro. He also likes to stand on his hind legs and reach up to my hands if I’m holding them over his head — seems like he knows how to seek out affection with the best of ’em but, then again, I suppose I would, too, if someone had helped me leave a cold vet’s office and metal cage in my rearview mirror.

Tonight I am thankful for Jack’s settling in process that has been going quite swimmingly over the last day, and I’m excited to see how he continues to acclimate. It makes me realize that for as much as our lives can change on a daily, weekly, monthly or yearly basis, sometimes the 180-degree turns that happen in the blink of an eye are the most rewarding to embrace. We might not’ve seen it coming, but if we look at the good that will inevitably be all around us, we’ll realize how lucky we are.

But maybe hold off on head-butting someone in gratitude.

Jack.

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There are things in life that are hard to ignore. Sometimes they’re people who get under your skin, other times it’s the right thing — the right thing that hasn’t yet been done.

A month ago, I picked up my cat from the vet; he’d gotten into a cat fight, had an abscess that needed draining and stitches. He was stoked to wear a cone for two weeks. Not really.

There was a black stray kitten at the vet that someone had brought in — it was a few months old at the time when he first arrived. The vet fixed him, let people know he was ready for adoption, and the days ticked by.

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. Half his life had been spent in a small cage, even though the staff would take him out for play time every day.

I met him a month ago when I picked up my cat, but had completely forgotten about him until the other night. I was almost asleep when my eyes shot open: “I wonder if that cat is still at the vet,” I wondered. My stomach felt sick at the thought of a cage being all that little kitty knew of life.

I marinated on it for two days, then called the vet on Thursday to see if he was still there. I knew if they said yes, I’d have to bring him home. Who would say, “OK, just wondering. Bye!”

Not me.

He was still there. “Are you interested?!” the girl asked excitedly.

“I uh…I am,” I said. The girl at the vet practically squealed with delight.

People laughed at me, told me I didn’t know what I was doing. In fact, I did. I was helping, and decidedly leaning into my singleness.

I picked him up earlier today, and he’s trying to make sense of his new surroundings. Nobody wanted him because he was a black cat; apparently superstitious people are more plentiful than I thought. But to let an animal sit in a cage and not try to help is impossible for me.

Today I am thankful for my new kitty, Jack, and for being able to help. In a weird way, I’m thankful he wasn’t wanted by anyone else, because now I know how to put a cat condo together, and I’ll have at least one companion until I’m 50-something.

50-something. Wow. But nobody will be able to tell me ever again that I don’t know what I’m doing, and that — if you will — I don’t know Jack…because I certainly do. He’s shy, he’s furry and he’s tiny. And I know him.

Think.

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Sometimes I feel like I’m waiting for my life to really start. Other times it feels close to perfect, what with its good balance of work and personal time, obligations and hobbies, sleeping in and burning the midnight oil.

Some days I want to overhaul my life. Other days, I find that I don’t want it to change one bit. Some mornings I wish there was someone next to me as I open my eyes to a new day. Other mornings, I am ecstatic to be able to sprawl across the bed — a bed all to myself.

Some days I think I know what I want, while other days I have no clue. I’m fearful of perhaps finding that person who makes my heart leap with joy, because if I haven’t found him yet, I wonder if I’ll know what to do with it when and if I do. Will I nurture it? Or will I sabotage it because it’s so foreign to me?

I guess by virtue of all this wondering, I stand a good chance of being hyper-aware and ready to know what to do when the day comes — for any sort of change. A lot of people believe overthinking is a bad thing. To that, I say that it’s in our chick job description and, thus, we can’t help it. But I also say that more thinking in the world — by men and women alike — wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing.

Tonight I am thankful to be able to mull, chew, ponder, wonder and mentally come at something a million different ways. If not for our ability to do that, we stand a good chance at accepting the boring, the expected, the typical and the usual. And what fun is that? Very little, I’d think.

Think.

The Invitation

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“Eh, I’d rather just go home.”

“But the couch is calling my name.”

“I’m not really in the mood.”

“It’s too much trouble.”

“I have a zit.”

There are lots of excuses I can come up with to not go out and do something…to instead go straight home and park it on the couch for the duration of the evening. These excuses get me nowhere.

While I’m sure I’ll dish out many more in the years to come, and while I’m certain that I will find new ones to utter, tonight I am thankful for knowing that discarding the excuses and saying “yes” to an invitation is one of the best things I can do for myself.

I am thankful for knowing that with saying yes comes learning, with saying yes comes stretching and reaching, and with saying yes comes the realization that so much more happens when I’m not in front of the boob tube.

Tonight I am thankful for yes, for living, for experiencing and for doing.