Sometimes communication completely confuses me.

It was 1997, and I was home from college for the summer. I had started seeing someone and, in the context of relationships, I think I was still inexperienced and immature enough to where I didn’t second-guess everything I said or that he would say to me. I miss those days.

He lived in LA, I lived in Orange County. When we met up, we’d generally find someplace in between the two of us.

“Hey, want to meet up tonight around 7 at that bookstore in Torrance?” I asked him when we were on the phone one afteroon.

“That could work,” he said.

Our conversation wrapped up and, long story short, I showed up to the bookstore that evening and waited. And waited. And waited some more. Then, worried that something had happened, I called his cell. He answered.

“I’m here at the bookstore. Is everything OK?” I asked.

“Yeah, why?” he said.

“Well, weren’t we going to meet up?” I said.

He got mad and said that just because he’d indicated meeting up at 7 “could work,” it didn’t mean he actually committed to it.

Hm. Alright then. Noted.

These days, it’s a different kind of communication that has me baffled: people opening up to me.

It catches me off-guard, since I don’t do it often or easily to others.

I wonder why they’re telling me something and what they expect me to say. I wonder if they expect the same from me because, frankly, they probably won’t get it; the most they may get is a funny, colorful one-liner drenched in deflection — lest I be roped into equal amounts of sharing. I consider myself a good listener, but when it comes to reciprocating and opening up in return, it’s usually not going to happen. As I like to tell people, it’s just not the way I’m wired. I wish it wasn’t that way, but it is. The few times that I’ve tried, it’s come back to bite me in the butt. Things that I shared were then shared with others. And if I wanted them to know, I would’ve told them myself.

The other day, I found myself listening, listening, listening. Someone was opening up to me, and I was wondering why. Why me? Why now? Why this? I didn’t even really know this person, but there was something that made them feel OK about opening up to me.

They didn’t ask anything in return, and I didn’t need to do anything more than listen. So I did.

I stopped wondering, stopped questioning, and I started being present. In a strange way, it was a gift to myself — because after years of wondering why meaningful communication is so difficult to achieve, someone wanted to have it with me. It was a one-way street, more or less, but they wanted to drive down it. And I wanted to give them the courtesy of listening instead of wondering why — which, in a way, is a form of opening up in itself.

For realizing the joy in being present, I am thankful.

Something happens on Beach Boulevard when the weather starts to consistently become a little warmer, and I’ve noticed it over the past few weeks.

For one, it turns into seagull alley. There are so many of them these days — bunching together on streetlights, flying along with traffic mere feet above cars that are zooming by underneath, even landing in the road to make off with a bit of food or something else they find to be of interest. I’m sure this happens on other streets in the area, but with Beach being a fairly ridiculous thoroughfare in terms of traffic, the birds add one more obstacle to be mindful of.

They seem to still be in a winter coma, because I have seen more dead ones over the last few weeks than I ever have before in my life. A mound of white feathers will be there in the morning, and the next day it will be as flat as a pancake — but there’s a new one nearby. Are they not flying high enough? Are they still out of it from having taken it easy during the colder winter months? I have no idea, but it’s a sad, sad sight. All I can think of are the birds from Finding Nemo saying, “Mine, mine, mi—…”

Morbid.

Two, the familiar homeless clan is also back, but I’ve noticed a new man with a terrible limp and a shiny, tie-dye cane hanging out at my usual off-ramp.

Each morning, he’ll grimace as he hobbles up and down the off-ramp with his sign: “Food appreciated, money not necessary.” I’ve seen him get bananas, apples, brown-bagged lunches and bottled water — all of which he seems genuinely grateful to receive.

This morning, however, a driver wanted to give him money. We had all been stopped at a red light, and when a fellow driver waved a few bucks at the guy to have him come get it, the light turned green. And I’ll never forget what I saw.

The hobbler threw his cane into the brush which blanketed a short hill between our off-ramp and the freeway, and ran — yes, ran — towards the man with the money. He snatched it up, practically high-fived the guy, then ran back to where he’d chucked his cane right as all the cars were starting to move again.

Hello money, farewell limp. The Shawshank scene where Warden Samuel Norton sarcastically exclaims, “Lord, it’s a miracle!” popped into my head. Indeed, his hobble had up and vanished like a fart in the wind.

I’m not quite sure what to be thankful for in the context of dead birds and homeless individuals faking a disability. Maybe the guy isn’t even homeless. I feel terrible saying that, but who knows anymore? All I can say is that my normally boring, routine morning commute has recently gotten an IV drip of awareness, and my radar is working overtime these days. Makes me wonder if it’s in preparation for something more serious that I’ll need to have my antenna up for in the coming days and weeks. Either way, heightened awareness is never a bad thing, so I’ll take it — and be thankful for it.

The title of today’s post is a chick flick, and there’s a line in the movie that I’ve always loved.

“You weren’t who you said you were, therefore I wasn’t who I thought I was.”

It’s a line that really makes you think — I’m sure many of us have felt like we’ve been there.

When you realize you’ve been duped, it’s an unsettling feeling. You think back to things you said or did, and a flood of feelings comes rushing over you. And boy, can they sure run the gamut.

Embarrassment. Stupidity. Irritation. Frustration. Confusion. Sadness. Suspecting you did too much while wondering if you did too little. Thinking too much was said, or maybe it was the exact opposite. Regretting putting yourself out there. Hoping at least part of the time wasn’t a waste, because it would be a pity to have been taken advantage of from the start.

You wonder if any portion of what you gave was real, or whether it was simply the result of what you thought you were correctly reading from the other person. You wonder what you’ll have left for the next person who comes along.

You might’ve thought you were on the same page the whole time, but it turned out you weren’t even in the same book.

It’s been said that the worst part of being lied to is knowing you weren’t worth the truth. I agree.

They burn a little when you realize you’ve just gotten one, but a lesson learned is a lesson learned. Today I am thankful for all of them I’ve had, as well as those yet to come.

We probably didn’t realize it when we first started encountering them with any regularity during our younger years, but life is nothing more than a series of multiple choice questions.

There are multiple answers for everything — everything. How we’ll respond to someone, how we’ll handle a situation, whether we’ll spend, save or do a little of both.

Whether we’ll be in a good mood when we wake up, a bad mood, or let the day decide our mood. Whether we’ll be the active driver or passive participant in our lives, or whether we’ll just complain the whole time.

Whether we’ll love openly, dabble cautiously or avoid it entirely.

Whether we’ll regret, learn and not repeat our mistakes, or feign remorse and do it again.

Whether we’ll hold on, fight or let go.

Sometimes I wonder what life would be like if there was only one right answer for every situation and every emotion; I’m sure the world would be a more chaotic place than it already is. But knowing that the right answer — the answer that’s best for us and us alone — will always come in time if we wait on it, ponder it and maybe even weigh the pros and cons, inspires a bit of relief.

For not having only one right answer and for being able to do what fits our lives best, I am thankful. 

I learned a new non-word recently — and by recently, I mean last night.

Blesson: the combination of both a blessing and a lesson.

I went to a playwriting meeting yesterday, but almost ended up staying home. I was slightly bummed out by recent (although accurate) feedback, and was really wanting to sleep in, lick my wounds, lounge around for a while and then get ready for the day in a leisurely manner. Because this was my preference, I did the exact opposite.

I showed up and, playwriting stuff aside, saw a woman who I’d last seen a number of months back — sometime in the fall. She seems to be a staple of the theater community, and has a lovely combination of charisma tempered by humility, as well as immense skill and knowledge balanced by kindness. She’s intimidatingly good at her craft, yet has managed to be a mentor to many at the same time.

She’s much older — probably nearing 80 — and when I saw her yesterday, she walked in with a cane and a new hairstyle. The hairstyle, as I looked more closely at it, looked like it could have been a wig. And it was. A gentleman leaned over to me during one of the breaks and explained who she was, although I already knew. 

“She’s been going through cancer treatment,” he said.

I asked him for how long, and he said it was going on six months or so. It looked like it had been much longer, although her spirits seemed to be the same as they always had been.

She’s the kind of woman to whom you’d dedicate a play — a play that you’d written, yes, but that she helped guide you through, and for which she might’ve participated in a reading… or five. She is theatrical excellence, and you get the sense that, no, they really don’t make them like her anymore. You know from talking to her that her talent is old-school, learned over the years — not something that was a happy accident that came to be overnight. She’s one of two people about whom I’ve consciously thought, “If I ever have a play produced, I’d dedicate it to her.” She is a blessing.

When I heard the word “blesson” last night, it dawned on me how ridiculous it was for the thought of not going to the meeting to have even crossed my mind. Getting tough feedback that I know is truthful isn’t hard. Cancer is hard. And here she is, dealing with it the way she’s likely dealt with everything throughout her long life: with grace, with poise and with the qualities that only a seasoned pro can possess.

And therein lies the blesson — a word which was learned on the day that the blesson was painfully obvious. And for this I am thankful.

Those two short plays I submitted to the playwriting group? Yeah, they weren’t ready.

I’ll be honest — I had my fingers crossed, but when I got the feedback about where they fell short, it wasn’t a surprise. After all, it was the same feedback I’d received two years ago. And did I do my homework in the meantime? Nope.

They sat.

They collected dust.

They were a good dream, but a dusty dream isn’t much more than a dust bunny at the end of the day. You know?

I wanted them off my plate, I wanted them submitted. I wanted to say I finished them, and I suppose I did…the first draft, that is. Because obviously they weren’t a final draft, despite that being the name of my trusty writing program.

Some things were really good about them. Their dialogue, which can be hard for many people, was good. What did they lack? Conflict.

Interestingly, my life lacks conflict, too. I despise it. I run from it. And it’s the very thing I couldn’t wrap my head around in those two short plays.

In truth, they were meant to be longer, full-length plays. And to submit them, I just wrapped things up where I’d left off — which means that the arc and all the character development died slow deaths. Was the writing funny? Sure. Did things move along? Yes. But funny stories do not successful plays make. It just makes them partial tales that either leave the reader confused, wanting more, asking “so what?” or wondering “why should I care?”

I think mine checked all four boxes. Woops.

I returned to the playwriting group today, yet again as a guest, but with new eyes — and new ears. I listened to the plays that were read and picked apart by the members, and I took more notes than I ever have before. Instead of listening for enjoyment, I was hanging on every word to see if I could identify the conflict. The drama. The turning point. What was at stake.

Fortunately, I could. If I was still at a loss afterwards, I told myself I’d throw in the towel. Instead, I think I’m choosing — for the time being, anyway — to dust off the brain, hunker down and revisit my content.

The crappy thing about getting the feedback, however, was that — at least for two or three days — it called into question everything else I’ve been doing. Maybe my collection of personal essays that I’ve been writing is really terrible work. Maybe this blog is horrible. Maybe this is all nothing more than a time-filler, and it’ll never be anything more than that.

And right when I let all those thoughts into my head, I gave them the finger. I haven’t spent more than a year writing this blog for nothing — it has a purpose. For me, it’s practice — plain and simple. And I haven’t been writing personal essays because I’m bored — I write them because I believe in them. And when I finish the plays — correctly, next time — they might be good enough for me to be called a “member,” but they may not be everyone’s cup of tea at the end of the day. And that’s fine by me, because just as two people may not be a match, the same thing goes with writing or any other art form. They’re not for everyone.

Today I am thankful for listening to the voice in my heart and head that told me to quiet the negative thoughts, and to get back up, dust myself off and start all over again. It seems like a daunting task, but at least I feel like I have a roadmap now when before I did not; at least there’s definitive feedback instead of being paralyzed by wondering “is it good enough?”

No. It wasn’t. But it can be if I want it to be.

And I do. 

I can look back over my life and see specific points of time that are tarnished by half-truths — statements that were dialed back just enough to not make a situation worse than it already was, or where it was heading.

Some of my 30-something frustrations are things I’ve assumed were a result of just getting older. But what if they’re a result of just never having been truthful enough? If I could say a few things over, here’s what they might be:

When I said I wasn’t hungry, what I really meant was that being in your presence turns my stomach into a giant knot. I was hungry. Starving, in fact, but not for food…for you to reciprocate.

When I said it was good to see you, a statement that seemed to put a lovely farewell bow on our time together, I really meant I didn’t want you to leave at all — in the first place, and then when I saw you again months later.

When I said I understood that you didn’t feel for me what I felt for you, what I really meant was that I thought you were making a huge mistake by choosing her instead.

When I said it was me and not you, what I really meant was that it was you.

When I said I supported your decision, I really thought you were making a move you’d regret for years to come.

When I said I understood and that I wouldn’t judge, I didn’t really understand at all. And I did judge.

I don’t like that the truth can sometimes hurt, so I’ve avoided it a lot. What I like less is wondering whether the hole that I sometimes feel like I’m in is a result of my own doing — soft words or admitting defeat instead of letting the voice inside come out and be heard. Some people think that honesty is the best policy, while my life tends to be mostly characterized by, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” But surely there must be a happy medium between the two, yes?

Today I am thankful for realizing there’s an opportunity to learn to speak up more often, more openly and more truthfully than before. Better late than never, I suppose.

Posterous announced recently that it will be closing down on April 30th. No more online or mobile apps, no more viewing of blogs.

Done.

Kaput.

Yes, I have over 400 days invested in this blog, but it’s not the most heartbreaking news to me. I can back up my posts and transfer them to another service, sure, but in the context of Posterous, I’m sort of glad to see it go. It hasn’t been without its issues, and that’s just in my relatively short time of using it. I can only imagine the angst that others might’ve experienced.

Service disruptions. Missing posts. As it is, my last post that’s visible is from Monday. Being that we’re now on Friday, what happened to the other days? I wrote, I published, they posted. They’re accessible through some links, but not all — and not at all times. Sometimes they show up, other times they don’t. Seriously? Thumbs down.

Moving on can be a good thing. There has been little consistency, and lack of consistency bugs me — with things, and with people. If you’re in, be in. If you’re not, please scoot.

And it seems they’re doing just that, but likely for other reasons.

While Thanky will continue, I hope, it will have a new beginning. A new platform. A new lease on life. I didn’t pick the change, but sometimes it’s the change that’s forced upon us that really opens our eyes as to how lacking certain things have been, and how much better they can be elsewhere.

For change, I am thankful.

I communicate with my clients every day, and my emails tend to be more conversational than formal since I like to think I have a good rapport with each of them. Actual conversations are the same.

Lately, however, I’ve been editing my emails more than usual. I find myself deleting phrases and finding new ways to say things because I don’t want to offend — or risk offending — anyone.

I used to ask for approval on things in such informal terms as, “Let us know when you’re ready to pull the trigger on the media plan.” I’ve stopped using that phrase.

Have a question for me? “Fire away” or “Shoot” would be common replies. No more.

When it’s time to do something we’ve been postponing for a number of reasons, bite the bullet seems like a potentially less than ideal phrase. I’ve replaced it with one of my personal favorites that I’ve recently pulled out of storage and dusted off, since “Get ‘er done” seems to be a crowd pleaser.

None of these phrases offends me, but it seems like every time I turn around, there’s another shooting in the news; another school on lockdown, another neighborhood terrorized, another law enforcement officer killed, another innocent person in the wrong place at the wrong time. With each instance, there’s a ripple effect. More people are affected, therefore more people know people who were affected. Who’s to say that one of my clients in New York wasn’t personally affected by the Sandy Hook shootings — or that they have a friend or relative who was? Nope, I don’t mind these phrases at all. But if you look around and see how close to home these things can hit, it makes me want to shelve them for a while.

I was talking with a coworker about these phrases the other day, and how I’ve stopped using them — at least outside of my friends and family circle.

“Really? Do you think we’re there?” was the response.

I said I wasn’t sure, but that I wouldn’t be surprised. I’m not the biggest math person, but here’s some that makes sense to me: the litigious nature of our society coupled with what feels like a general decline in common sense multiplied by seemingly irrational reactions of people make me think that we’re not too far off — particularly if people take offense at something as ridiculous as a t-shirt that someone wears, and said event makes the news.

I don’t have any answers. I don’t know if this is going too far or if it’s reasonable and logical. Conversely, I also don’t think that my breakup with a few phrases will do anything in the grand scheme of our gun-centric climate. But in my focus group of one, it’s reasonable for me. To others, it might be ridiculous and unnecessary — perhaps even irrational. But to each his own, and while I’ve never been a fan of my ability to overthink things (like I seem to be doing in this case), thinking is never a bad thing — especially when it precedes speaking.

I met an angel yesterday.

I had a doctor’s appointment that left me feeling nervous, anxious, stressed out, and I just wanted to get it over with.

I really wished there was a way (read: “I wish it was socially acceptable”) to have a cocktail beforehand, but I didn’t end up imbibing. At some point during those twelve needle pokes, I joked about such liquid delights with my doctor. He said that some people have actually done that very thing; I told him I was concerned it might be a bad idea. He laughed. I took that as a green light to engage in such shenanigans if there’s a “next time” to this whole ordeal.

My blood pressure was taken before the appointment. Normal.

After the appointment, they took it again. Incredibly elevated. I sat for a while.

I felt like my stomach was in my throat. I felt like I wanted to pass out. Had I passed out with my stomach in my throat, however, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to breathe. So I stayed coherent.

I walked to the elevator and entered when it arrived at my floor; a nurse was already inside. All the floor buttons — both those above and below us — were lit up; I was even more confused in my already confused state.

“Are you heading down to the lobby?” I asked her.

“Yes, and I have no idea why they’re all lit up,” she said with a laugh. At least it wasn’t just me.

As we got to the lobby and walked outside, she asked what I was being seen for; I gave her the uber-topline version. She must’ve seen something in my eyes, because as we stepped out into the sun, she paused and put a hand on my shoulder.

“Well, don’t worry unless there’s a reason to worry. And there’s no reason right now.”

I said thank you to her, and told her she was right. I wanted to cry — mostly from nerves — but there was also a good bit of pain in the mix, as well.

If you’d have taken my blood pressue the moment after she said that, though, I’m sure it would’ve been markedly lower. I saw her while I was exiting the parking garage to head home. In case you’re wondering, angels drive black Kia Souls.

Arriving back at my casa, I poured a hefty and stiff gin and tonic, and tried to find decompression mode. It was a clumsy search, but I finally found it in between Biography and OWN.

Today, for angels and cocktails, I am thankful.