Two friends walk towards a bar, but before they can go inside, they’re stopped by a man preaching.  

Nope, not the start of a joke. It’s a true story, and it happened this evening. I guess that’s what we get for going to a bar on a Sunday.

It wasn’t the only odd occurence today. I was watering the grass along the back parkway after I got home when an older, graying, power-walking man passed by. Most will cross the street when they see a girl watering, presumably so as not to a) startle me and b) have to awkwardly squeeze by me while I’m wielding the hose. But not this guy. He and his tracksuit were on a mission, and he wasn’t about to be detoured.

Interestingly enough, he was also smoking. Who smokes while they’re working out? I imagined that his doctor told him to quit smoking and to exercise more, and that he’s clearly easing into things at his own pace. I suppose one out of two isn’t bad.

Weirdness seems to find me most days, so I didn’t dwell on either situation too much. But clearly it’s fodder for tonight’s post.

Up until this evening, my day was peaceful. Uneventful. Quiet. I had a fitful night of sleep, but still managed to sleep in a tad. I did laundry, made breakfast, bonded with the Food Network and Cooking Channel over coffee, did more laundry, had more coffee, cleaned, watered the backyard, filled the bird feeder and finally watered the front yard. The most drama I encounted was when the washing machine cycle wouldn’t advance.

I figure that the weirdness was meant to remind me to be on my toes and to stay alert at all times — to not get too comfortable with the peaceful, to not expect or take for granted the calm, the serene, the quiet. Because the minute you do, there’s bound to be something that catches you off guard, and who’s to say that weirdness doesn’t turn into something more — something worse, something potentially life-threatening?

Tonight I am thankful for today’s weirdness and am reminded to stay aware of my surroundings. I’m not sure I necessarily needed a smoking (and not in the attractive sense), power-walking, middle-aged man to remind me of such things, but…whatever works, I suppose.

In 27 Dresses, cynical Kevin and perennial bridesmaid Jane realize they have something in common: each likes to turn to look at the groom when everyone else turns to look at the bride as she makes her entrance.

My brother got married this evening, and as his wife-to-be was making her way down the aisle, my mind wandered in the movie’s direction; I decided to turn to look at him. I broke down into tears. Happy tears.

I knew I’d forgotten something when I left the house, but assumed it was just that I failed to eat lunch. No, I also forgot to stuff a tissue or two into my purse. I didn’t think I’d cry, and I didn’t think I’d look at anyone other than the bride as she was walking down the aisle. But I did, and the sleeve of my cardigan instantly turned into a hanky.

I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a happier, more content look on his face. “He” was about to become a “we,” and they are beautiful together.

It was a look that said all of his single years were worth the wait. It was a look of pure peacefulness. It was a look that I hope someone has for me someday.

Tonight, I am so happy and thankful for my brother and sister-in-law. Love happens every day, but love that hits so close to home is a nice reminder that everything happens in its own time, in its own way and with the exact person who’s meant to be in your life.

It’s that time of year again.

Sign-spinners stand on street corners, catching the attention of passersby. I’m sure some also manage to cause an accident or two.

Liberty Tax Service employs one of these sign-spinners near my office; it’s amusing to see him work.

He’s a tall kid — looks maybe 16 or 17, somewhat lanky and entirely too jazzed to be hanging out near a busy intersection dressed in a long, floor-length sheath the shade of oxidized copper. He wears Lady Liberty’s crown atop his head and, regardless of it usually being broad daylight when I see him, he’s twirling rave glow sticks over his head, down towards the ground — left, right, all around. He has no issue dancing in public. Perhaps the sunglasses and faux-dress hide his true identity and therefore somehow manage to boost his self-confidence.

I wonder how many calories he burns during one of his shifts. I wonder if any cars have been so distracted by him that they’ve run up on the curb, causing him to dive out of the way. I wonder if he’s snagged a phone number or two, simply because there seems to be a shortage of happy, fun, incredibly confident guys in this world; I can’t imagine a young lady in the vicinity not being drawn to him in some way, shape or form. Anyone remember the appearance of Ichabod Crane, the schoolmaster of Sleepy Hollow, from Disney’s version of The Adventures of Ichabod and Mr Toad? Sir Liberty reminds me of Ichabod, minus 10-15 years.

He’s been a fixture on the streets for the past two months, and I’m pretty certain other drivers also enjoy his presence. I’ve seen him get a few friendly honks and waves, and I admit that I hope to catch a glimpse of his cheerfulness on my way home.

He seems like he’d be the type to never have a bad day, to always see the glass as half full. He seems like the type of person who couldn’t care less of what someone else thinks about him because, frankly, he has the easiest job in the world and he gets paid to stand around and dance. It seems like he’s the adorably nerdy guy who would be the most fun to go to prom with (they always were in my book), and I’m sure he has no shortage of girls clamoring to accompany him to such events. He looks like the guy you’d trust to both babysit your child, as well as cut your grass. You can’t imagine a mower running amok in your yard or a child bursting into tears while he’s at the wheel.

Sometimes I think about stopping and interviewing him, but I’d be taking him away from his job. I also think others would be irritated at me for taking away what might be the brightest part of their day. I have no idea who this kid is, but I can tell you that every time I see him, he reminds me to enjoy life more than I do. To dance more than sit. To not care what others think about me. To smile as much as possible. He seems to be someone that we could all learn a thing or two from, so today, for Sir Liberty, I am grateful.

I’m a sucker for inspirational quotes. For the most part, I enjoy them. I try to live by them. They lift me up, they bolster my spirit and they keep me going.

Sometimes, though, I can’t help but want to poke holes in them. And for as much as I think I enjoy them, I think that I need to do more than merely try to live by them. I need to ingest them, I need to do better by them.

They say that you must make a choice to take a chance if you want your life to change. I feel like I’ve decided to take a lot of chances in the love category (I won’t beat around the bush here), but they seem to have been the wrong ones. The only thing that seems to have changed in my life is my desire to take more chances.

They tell us to never regret anything that made us smile. I want to adopt this as my mantra, but at the end of the day, I usually end up feeling stupid for those smiles. I kick myself and think that I should’ve known better, or maybe what I thought I knew was all in my head. I really have no idea. It’s hard to tell which way is up sometimes.

They tell us that if we’re brave enough to say goodbye, we’ll be rewarded with a new hello. In reality, I often find myself wanting to hold on to that from which I walked away. There’s no human reason to want this, since it seems incredibly needy, but I do. I don’t want a new hello. I want to find redemption and peace in the old.

They say to never lose hope, for when the sun goes down, the stars come out. Sometimes, however, I find that all I can acknowledge is the darkness.

They tell us to adopt the pace of nature, for her secret is patience. I think I’ve failed in this area over and over and over again. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll learn patience only when I’m in the winter of my life and unable to do anything for myself. Frustration will set in, then I’ll be resigned to the way things are. And if that’s not patience, I don’t know what is.

They say that life isn’t about avoiding risks, but instead about making calculations and going all in with the things you love. I’ll extend this saying to people, as well. But what happens when you go all in and it doesn’t come back to you? It hurts, that’s what happens.

They tell us to be a blessing, a friend, to encourage someone, to take time to care, and to let our words heal and not wound. For someone who appreciates writing, I fail miserably at this last one. Consistently. Dare I say it sometimes feels like the only consistent thing in my life.

All of this may lead one to wonder what my ‘thanky’ is for today. But it’s really quite simple: I’m thankful that the dark side of inspiration — the negative spin on beautiful quotes — has made me realize that I need to be better to others and do better for myself in order to see the positive. I can’t imagine a day when I’ll have no more I-wish-I-wouldn’t-have’s, but I’m thankful for the power in inspirational sayings and their desire to make me want to see more clearly, fix the mistakes I continually make and be better for me. And for others.

I remember it like it was yesterday. Nobody had ever been powerful enough to stop my world, but he was. And he did.

I’d heard before about the infamous and much elusive “time stood still” thing; I wondered what it would be like, and if it would ever happen to me. I finally had my answer on a warm day in September. It was a day where I was running short on clean clothing, late to get out of my apartment, and so I threw on whatever was clean. I regretted that I had not spent more time fluffing and folding the prior weekend. 

Walking into the meeting room, the absence of others told me I had time to grab a cup of coffee. When I came back, he was there. Sitting, shuffling a few papers, organizing his spot at the table. The coffee cup had just touched my lips when I froze. All I could do was stare. I ran through my mental list of meeting attendees and concluded that he was the one I’d been talking to on the phone for the last few months. He wasn’t how I’d pictured. He was perfect. I finally sipped my coffee.

I’d imagined him as a boisterous, older, overweight, short, balding, aggressive professional. I assumed he was married with a gaggle of kids, a house outside the city and an impressive expense account. Our phone discussions were 2% friendly, 98% business.

In actuality, we were close enough in age. He wasn’t overweight, nor was he short. He wasn’t balding, nor was he aggressive. And while there was no ring on his finger, I’d experienced enough shadiness to know that being sans-wedding band does not always a single man make. But, as it turned out, he was single after all.

Following the in-person meeting, our communication expanded a bit over the next few weeks; the percentage of friendly vs. business talk did a 180. We were fast approaching another in-person meeting and, despite the shift in dialogue, I (in typical fashion) was missing signs left and right that he was interested in me.

A lot of signs.

I eventually picked up on them, and we tried to head in that direction. It ultimately didn’t end up working out, but the world had stopped for a few seconds.

My world.

I finally knew what it was like to have that romantic comedy experience that not even a recreated slo-mo scene could’ve done justice. I often say that the smell of orange blossoms is heaven on earth to me. Those few seconds when time stood still have been tied with the orange blossoms for almost 10 years.

The world stopped, but inevitably started up again. Granted, it ended up being without him, but knowing first-hand that time really can stand still makes me happy. It fills up my jar of hope, which often times runs low. It makes me smile when I remember it, and it has been added to the list that others have helped to populate — a mental list of what to be on the lookout for so I don’t pass up anything good in the future. For the world stopping and for knowing that it can happen again, I am thankful.

I’ve never been frilly, never been that into pink. But I had a fairly lengthy Barbie phase, which then turned into a My Little Pony phase — ponies, that is. Ponies with chopped off tails. I tried to groom them, tried to make them less prone to being tangled. They never grew back.

I didn’t grow up envisioning my wedding. At a friend’s slumber party during first grade or so, one of the games involved toilet paper; we had to team up and see which two girls made the best, biggest, most princessy bridal gowns. I lost, and I didn’t really care. I did, however, remember thinking that the wasted piles of two-ply fluff would make a great, cushiony bed to relax on, and I tried to catch a few Z’s. No luck with screaming girls everywhere.

I don’t have a ticking anything — just the watch on my wrist. I kind of like this fact about myself, because if it occasionally stresses me out to make sure I blog by midnight each day, imagine the sort of mess I’d be if I had some insane, child-bearing desire radiating from my loins. (Hint: it would be a far larger mess than what I already am.)

I’ve never yearned for the picket fence, the 2.5 kids, the dogs, the stay-at-home-mom-ness, the husband home by 5:30 for dinner. A beach or mountain cottage, a dog and a husband, sure. A lifestyle conducive to coming and going at any hour, staying up past my bedtime and sleeping in, yes. Selfish? Perhaps, or perhaps only because it’s not the norm, not what’s expected. But it’s honest. And if judging my honesty makes you feel better, then that’s OK. 

People tell me that nothing is ticking because I haven’t met “the one” yet. This might be true, or it might not be. The truth is, there is something ticking: it’s the timeframe for my dreams to go somewhere, for my writing to be more than a blog. Those are my children. They may never fully grow up, but I’m determined to have a good time playing with them, guiding them and sending them out into the world anyway.

Julia Roberts’ character in Pretty Woman tells Edward that she wants the fairy tale. So do I.

Mine may not be the typical life that a single 30-something gal is suspected of wanting. But what fun is typical? I can tell you that a Prince Charming would be great. But I know myself well enough to realize there will likely be very little that’s typical beyond that, assuming he materializes. There have been a few times when I thought he has; my heart still has some bruising to prove this wasn’t the case. Some people you try on for a while, but the spark disappears faster than the flavor from gumball machine gum. Others you dream about, you imagine, you put on a pedestal in your mind. They must be real, you think. They have to be real. They must be why there’s been such a massive lull in the romance category, you tell yourself; they were meant to come along, at precisely this time. If you hope long and hard, maybe you can will them into actual existence.

If only.

I want the fairy tale, which sometimes feels like wanting the impossible. But tonight I am thankful for knowing that everyone’s fairy tale is comprised of fact and fiction, of dreams and realities, of real-world and someplace deep within the soul. They’re unique to each of us. No two fairy tales are the same; no two paths are the same. Everyone’s fairy tale starts at the same place, but it’s up to each of us to chart its course.

Some people come into our lives and we immediately know why. Others are there for reasons we don’t yet know.

The starring roles are the easiest to figure out. A best friend gets us through hard times, gives us a shoulder to lean on, an ear to bend, a brain to pick and a heart of gold.

A significant other shapes us, bends us, molds us — hopefully always in a loving manner. In time, we turn into someone who either wants to be in it for the long haul, or into someone who realizes the lessons learned, the ways in which we’ve grown and the undeniable need for more expansion — all thanks to that person. And then we move on.

I have a lot of personal regrets, but very few — if any — when it comes to the people who have been in my life; I can look back and clearly see why they were there. I do, however, wish that some roles would’ve been different. I wish that some would’ve been reversed. Some who had starring roles would’ve made better cameos, and vice versa.

The cameos are the ones that kill me. They keep me up at nights, they make we want to back in time and say more, do more, show more, open up more. They tell me to do better for the next cameo that comes along, and to keep my eyes wide open so that I can spot it and not let the moment pass — again.

They beg for bigger roles, for the spotlight, for the attention and for the applause. Sometimes I recognize this of them and I decide to pass. Other times, I realize it too late and wish I could hit the rewind button.

The cameos of days gone by are the ones that like to tell me to seize the moment and stop walking away. They tell me to make room for another starring role, and to not be afraid of its potential the way that I’m afraid of my own. They show up in my dreams. They’re hauntingly beautiful.

Tonight I wish that I could rewrite some cameos and do things differently, yet I know I can’t. Those that were short-lived, either by my doing or the other person’s, make me sad and fill me with hope, all at the same time, but I’m thankful for their impact on me. I’m grateful for their ability to be eye-opening, to inspire soul-searching and for their contribution to my world, my heart, my spirit.

On a day when children near and far rush to gather Easter eggs, proudly filling up their baskets with goodies and treats, I am reminded of how often I put my eggs into a single basket, as well.

I feel like I’ve done it since birth. Better yet, I was probably scheming in the womb about my first basket, and I likely couldn’t wait to call it my own.

With guns blazing, I filled it up. Inevitably, a stumble occurred, and my eggs were gone. And that was just in pre-school.

The years would pass, and I’d gather more eggs, constantly putting them into one basket at a time. Again, more disappointment. Sometimes I’d trip myself up, and the eggs would once again be gone. Other times, it seems like people could smell the fact that I was a one-basket girl, and they’d target that very thing that I was so sure of.

“Let’s get her,” they’d say.

“Push her down,” others would chime in.

And there I’d be, stunned, blinking, wondering how the basket that I thought was rock-solid and impervious to others’ antics could fail me. Wondering how people could fail me. Wondering how love could fail me.

When it comes time to start saving for retirement, our eggs are rarely in one basket. Trusted advisors spread them around for us. So why is it so hard to do this in our own lives? Maybe it’s not for most people. But it is for me.

I like that I’m a one-basket girl. I like my focus, my commitment and my tireless belief in something. But when it doesn’t come back to us, it’s less about questioning my one-basketness, and more about finding a basket that’s up for the task. Maybe one that doesn’t have a hole in it, maybe one that has a sturdier handle.

My basket failed recently, and my eggs are gone. I’m going to be basketless and eggless for a while — by design — while I wrap my head around, well, myself, and dissect that which I thought I knew to be true by this point in my life. But the thing I’m thankful for is the mental picture of the kid who, even though she tripped in the grass and everything tumbled out, wiped away the frustration from her eyes set out to give the basket another go with a smile on her face.

The day was off to a good start, minus the splitting headache that greeted me as I opened my eyes.

I managed to make a decent cup of coffee this morning — something I often mess up by over-creamering or over-sweetening, I had a little bit of time to relax in my jammies and bond with the TV, and Sleepless in Seattle was on. Score.

I almost watched the DVD of it last night, but was too tired. Big thanks to the universe for making sure I managed to get my fix before the weekend was up.

One of the things I adore most about the movie is that it takes the term “hopeless romantic” and cuts it in two. They cover the hopeless angle pretty well, as well as — of course — the romantic aspect. I’m pretty sure we’ve all been on both sides before. As for me, lately I feel more hopeless than romantic.

I joined a dating site earlier this week and, true to form, promptly hid my profile two days later. I have no idea what I was thinking. I guess it boils down to this: multiple friend recommendations to try Match.com do not a good idea make.

I have slight financial guilt about hiding out so soon, being that — for some unknown reason — I bought six months instead of one at a time. But I decided that if I just don’t go to the grocery store for the next few weeks, things should even out….so I plan on eating a lot of soup, frozen vegetables, canned tuna and pudding during April — all the things I seem to accumulate and ignore.

So, yeah. Six months. Really, who do I think I am? Have I not learned from past forays into the world of online dating and a plethora of meetings-gone-wrong?

The most recent disaster isn’t recent at all — it was about six years ago when I figured I’d give eHarmony a shot. A guy invited me to an Angels game, and I said yes — realizing that I could very well end up regretting my decision sometime during the first inning. But it was summer, it was a weekend, and a cold beer and a ballgame seemed like a great way to spend an afternoon. My mistake. By the fourth inning the guy wanted to make out, and by the sixth inning I had excused myself to go home. He sent me a lovely follow-up text calling me the C-word. Awesome.

Shortly after that, I was delivered a new “match” by the site, and the photo made me gag when I opened his profile. It was my client.

Who was married.

I peaced out on my membership three months early, and that was the end of my online dabbling — until this week. And this week lasted a whopping two days. Fantastic.

There’s a scene in Sleepless in Seattle where Tom Hanks’ character is explaining to his son that he isn’t interested in replying to the myriad letters flooding their mailbox as a result of having been on a national radio show.

“I’d much rather just see someone I like, and get a feeling about them,” he says.

Yeah. I guess that’s the same for me. I’ve always admired the old-fashioned: typewriters, donuts, drive-in movies, oil lamps. The problem comes in when your feeling is wrong. One example out of many: I’ve had serious crushes on two guys — one in college, the other about four years ago — and both of them were gay. Sigh. Am I that clueless?

Apparently.

Tonight, despite being 97% hopeless and 3% romantic (as an aside, that 3% is currently reserved for wine, cake and cheese), I am thankful for the Sleepless reminder that it’s OK to not force myself to dabble online, and that it’s fine to let things happen the old-fashioned way. Maybe a letter in a bottle or a note tied to a bunch of balloons is the way to go?

I don’t know what inspired it, but I took a walk down memory lane last night.

I was remembering my 20s. They were odd, fun, dumb, strange, tiring, confusing and full of adventure. I was firmly rooted in the “old enough to know better, but young enough to still get away with it” camp.

I’d been dating a guy and spending quite a bit of time with him. He was in the market to buy a place, so we’d go condo hunting on the weekends, and had more than our fair share of dinner-and-a-movie nights. For the purpose of this story, we’ll call him Joe*. 

Walking into the office one Monday morning, I heard someone behind me in the elevator (who also knew Joe) ask another coworker if he’d heard the news. The news, it turned out, was that Joe had also been dating someone else, gone off to Vegas with her over the weekend and gotten married.

Hm. Alrighty then.

I think the thing that bummed me out the most wasn’t that it had happened, because I get that people have feelings for other people all the time and that those feelings can’t always be helped. It just bummed me out, given the time we’d spent together, that I didn’t have a heads up. Or rather, that I wasn’t worth a heads up. I wasn’t worth the truth, an explanation. To this day, I still can’t figure out how someone would think that just turning up married would be the better route to take; since that day, my guard is constantly up. I suppose a lot of things in this world don’t — and will never — make sense, no matter how much we try to think them to death.

They say that comedy equals tragedy plus time, and I was eventually able to see the comedy in what happened with him (and in what didn’t happen with me). Today, for the passing of time that often doesn’t make things less confusing but does bring enlightenment and a better, more productive way of thinking about things, I am thankful.

*Name changed to protect the not-so-innocent, but hey…I’m nice like that.