Sometimes I get a little frustrated with you — not because I’m genuinely irritated or anything, but because I know you can do better than the effort you occasionally put out.

On days when nothing fills your evenings and you come home, grateful to unwind and relax for a couple of hours, I occasionally wonder why you’re not doing more. If you say you have all these things that you want to do, what better time than the present? Get up. Move. Do something. And by the way, sitting doesn’t count as “something,” in this case.

There are days when I think your talent is wasted on posts that you write just to get them done in time, but then I remember that regardless of the content, the habit stuck and dedication is nothing to be laughed at. I’ll try harder to be easier on you…sometimes.

And you know those times when you’re falling asleep at night or you’re partially awake in the morning and you have an idea for a story? Start writing them down. You know you always mean to, and seriously…you went to the trouble almost a year ago of buying little notebooks for that very purpose — notebooks with “Think, Write, Create” on the cover — so do it already. You’ve got the thinking part down, now you just need to write down what you’re thinking. Then go create it.

Y’all, these are the things I wrestle with on a daily basis. Yes, this is a letter to me. No, I didn’t need to write it down and put pen to paper/fingers to keyboard since it’s all [clearly] relatively top of mind. But sometimes I can’t help but wonder — what’s our deal?

We live in a world of doers, of inventors, of creators. And while “dreamers,” “planners” and “wishers” aren’t bad words on their own, they imply inaction — and “inaction” is the dirty word here.

Tonight I am thankful for the start of a new year and for the dreams, plans and wishes I’d like to see come to fruition. I’ve been in awe of doers, inventors and creators for a long time, and I can only hope that this year might be the one that I can join them.

“It’s been a great year, Chuck. You’ll have to admit that. What do you think, Chuck, would be good rules for living in the new year?”

Charlie Brown thought for a moment, then said to Peppermint Patty, “Keep the ball low, don’t leave your crayons in the sun, use dental floss every day, don’t spill the shoe polish, always knock before entering, don’t let the ants get in the sugar, never volunteer to be a program chairman, always get your first serve in, and feed your dog whenever he’s hungry.”

“Will those rules give me a better life, Chuck?” Peppermint Patty asked.

“The better life, and a fat dog.”

What are your rules for living in the new year? Here are some of mine:

Beware of parking in the coveted end spot. Fires in the fireplace are acceptable anytime the temperature is below 70 degrees. Book your reservations in advance. Avoid the middle seat when flying. Work on being early. Sleep in whenever possible. Recycle. Donate. Shelve rational thought once in a while. Stop thinking about taking that class and sign up for it already. Take the trip. Ask why. Never underestimate the power of duct tape. Never underestimate the power of a cupcake. Jump, leap, and do. Breathe deeply.

Smile more.

Laugh more.

Love more.

Tonight I am thankful for a new year, and for the rules we can write as we go. Or not. Maybe one of your rules is to have fewer of them, which can also be a great one to live by. Either way, the next 12 months are ours for the taking, for the exploring and for the writing. What sort of adventures will you pen? 

I think we can sometimes spend so much time plotting our next move that we forget to move at all.

Other times we set off without thinking, and while we might end up regretting our last move, I know my own tendency is to always kick myself for doing nothing instead of something.

Sometimes we think we’re motivated by good intentions, and we tell ourself that once we become more this, more that, better in this area or that area that we’ll be ready to tackle something. More versed on a topic, more articulate, maybe a bit thinner, perhaps more tan, more funny or witty, more outgoing. In reality, a lot of those things are just excuses and time sucks which only serve to delay the inevitable — the inevitable being the day that you finally do whatever it is you’ve been promising yourself, or the day that you forget entirely about doing that thing that once upon a time fueled your waking and sleeping hours…at which point we subsequently spend the rest of our lives regretting our lack of action.

The best is when you finally “do,” and you didn’t lose a few pounds or get that golden glow in order to achieve it. Suddenly you can do anything; you feel invincible.

I can get so wrapped up in the analysis paralysis thing that you’d think it was a favorite pastime of mine. Some days I find it nothing short of a miracle that I’ve managed to blog up for practically a full year, and I wonder why I didn’t overthink its early days and miss a post here or there. In truth, I did — overthink things, that is. On day one, I set up the autopost feature here on Posterous, wrote something and clicked “publish,” only to break out into a cold sweat for fear of criticism, judgment and feeling exposed. But there were no comments — at least not that I was aware of. After that, I didn’t care. “It is what it is,” I thought, and I vowed to do it for me. If someone didn’t like it (and bothered to say so), that’s more their issue than mine.

So I carried on. And on.

And on some more.

The critical side of me only has a few favorite posts out of the few hundred on here, but there might be others that resonate with certain people more than me, thus they make their way into the favorite bucket, as well. But favorites aren’t really the point. The point is merely about action. I wish I could take more of it in my life — also regarding other writing projects, but maybe I’ll find it in a few days once my full year is up. Or maybe I won’t. It’s really wide open.

Then again, it’s not. I enrolled in a writing program about six years ago, and the instructors liked to say that the secret to writing is writing. Really? Great, glad I paid money if simply writing is all it takes. But seriously, I learned a few things here and there, yet mostly I learned how to shut myself up and just do something. Staring at a blank screen won’t get you over a hurdle, but typing words will. They may be terrible, but that’s what the backspace and delete buttons are for — you can have a do-over, primarily because you bothered to “do” in the first place. No doing, no do-over.

Tonight I am thankful for knowing that any move is a good move. It beats inaction, it beats wondering and it beats seeing someone else come along and do something incredibly similar to what you had in your head all along. I’ve had that very thing happen, and I kick myself every time, knowing that I could’ve done it a little better — had I only tried in the first place. Here’s to a new year just around the corner, and hopefully a new year full of trying, of action and of good moves.

At some point during December, perhaps before the tree goes up, maybe before the last present is wrapped and possibly before any attention is turned to New Year’s Eve celebrations, wishes are made and offered up to the universe. Some people do it like clockwork, as though a Christmas wish is a precursor to a New Year’s resolution.

They may be ones of a personal nature, while others may be for friends or family. Some of us may hope for things, for the tangibles that fill our lives; others may wish for strength or focus, for peace or clarity, for a new beginning or for the bravery to do something that could be life-changing.

I imagine the wishes being as countless as the stars. I picture them populating the airspace just over our heads, doing their best to keep up with us as we rush here and there. I suspect they’re all bumping into one another and vying for room to breathe and space to exist — space which becomes more and more sparse over the course of the month as more wishes fill the air.

It seems as though some of them stick around and make it into the new year with us, while others — though shiny and well-intended — burst like a delicate bubble the minute the magic of the season passes. Where do they go? If we’d bothered to write them on a little piece of paper as though they were plucked from a fortune cookie, would they stand a better chance at coming true?

And those that come to be, why did they survive? Was there more attention given to them, more determination or were there more prayers about them?

I didn’t want much this year for Christmas. I have stuff, things that fill my life and give character to this house — and I appreciate them all. But something about this particular year makes me wish for others more than want for myself, and hope for you more than think of me. This year, my wish is your wish, and I hope you find whatever it is in the new year — if not before.

Merry Christmas, everyone.  

I’m pretty sure that exactly one year ago tonight I had no idea I’d start a daily blog in January. Truth be told, I didn’t know until I picked up my book of devotions for 2012 that I’d purchased for the new year and read the one for January 1st.

The topic was about not only reading His word on a daily basis, but also living it. I fail miserably at this day in and day out. And to make matters worse, at the time I put a selfish spin on what I was reading and thought, “I always say I will do something, but I never do it with any consistency. This year I will.” So I vowed to write every day. Enter: Thanky.

It never ceases to amaze me how much can happen in one year. On one hand, it seems like time passes in the blink of an eye, and like we were having Christmas 2011 just yesterday. I remember going to see White Christmas with my family at the performing arts center, I remember decorating the tree, and I remember the two weeks I took off to enjoy my “birthday month.” I remember a friend moving home from a year abroad in Korea, and I remember losing my Napa Valley wine train tickets and a corresponding hotel reservation for New Year’s Eve because I unexpectedly had knee surgery and simply couldn’t make it. I’ve never had a good New Year’s Eve, so why would last year have been any different? Sigh.

On the other hand, if I think back to specific things that happened throughout the year, it seems like time passes so slowly.

A job search pays off; a new job begins. A best friend moves away. Another best friend gets engaged, as does my brother. Yet another best friend gets married. Post-surgery healing begins, and — while it took almost a full year — sitting cross-legged on the floor is no longer a dream of mine; I can do it once again (it’s the little things that make me happy). I remember going on a whopping total of four dates with a dude who ultimately revealed he had a bizarre penchant for playing dress-up and wearing pirate garb (eh, no thanks — oh, and buh-bye). A band forms, said band plays at the Hollywood House of Blues and, just like that, my rockstar fantasies are fulfilled. Grandparents succumb to dementia. New co-workers are met, and new friendships are forged. People from back in the day find their way back into your life.

Tonight I am thankful for all that a year brings. The good, the rocky, the bad, the challenging and the eye-opening. I am not thankful for my grandparents’ dementia, but I am thankful for the awareness, patience and knowledge it brings. I am not thankful that a best friend moved away, but I am thankful for his new adventure and exciting re-beginning. I am thankful for a new job, for a refreshed, renewed sense of purpose and for a family that I can’t wait to make new holiday memories with year after year.

Merry Christmas eve, everyone.

I have a splitting headache, and I’m pretty sure it’s because I decided to call wine and a couple of cake balls my dinner.

It all started when I decided to do a little baking for my neighbors. I had big plans to bake last year, but my knee surgery messed with the program and I ended up giving people store-bought peanut brittle instead.

Peanut brittle. I’ve never even had peanut brittle, and yet there I was, wishing people a merry Christmas and bestowing it upon them as though I thought the stuff was terrific.

I remember being so pinched for time the day before surgery that I cruised over to the grocery store and vowed to put a bow on the first thing I saw that could even remotely be considered gift-y. The brittle was dead ahead, and so it would have to do for my neighbors. I snagged a couple of boxes for them, even though I’d been given a massive plate of cookies by one, and a batch of homemade fudge by another. The peanut brittle seemed almost like a slap in the face in comparison, but at least I was able to check the neighbors off my list before I spent a month as a couch potato in a Vicodin coma.

That was a really, really good month.

To make up for last year’s peanut brittle, I made cake balls last night. Naturally, I needed to make sure that the balls were up to my standards, and I held four back to do a little quality control. Two became this evening’s dinner.

Tonight’s activities have consisted of hours of food prep (mirepoix, anyone?), thanks to my brilliant idea of making thyme and black pepper-rubbed short ribs braised in red wine for Christmas eve dinner. And yes, I’m aware it’s not Christmas eve just yet, but there’s an oven situation here in the casa: when it comes to holidays, it’s always a challenge to choreograph what goes in, when, for how long and at what temperature, so I called in the do-ahead gods and got some time-consuming (3+ hours) braising done ahead of time so that tomorrow’s side dishes aren’t left out in the cold.

Fortunately, braised short ribs seem to quite enjoy themselves the longer they’re prepared, so I’ve pretty much just given them a 24-hour spa therapy session. Three hours of braising tonight, followed by resting, followed by a nap in the fridge, followed by a brief re-braising session just before showtime tomorrow evening.

“A hearty red wine” is what the recipe called for and, wouldn’t you know it, I just happened to have an open bottle here already. But wait, surely I must check to make sure it was suitable for braising and hadn’t gone bad in the last two days, so I had a glass — and also just enough for what the recipe called for, too. Score!

But then I realized I’d doubled the recipe. Woops. More wine was needed.

Another bottle was lurking on my counter, and it seemed like it would also do the job quite nicely. And while it clearly doesn’t matter that much when everything is reducing in a pot on the stove, I wanted to see just how close (or not) of a match the two wines were. So I had another glass. And I kinda wish I hadn’t. But for the record, they were a pretty solid pairing.

That said, the house smells divine; I just might start gnawing on a doorjamb or something before too long. The day-ahead-braising effort has clearly paid off, assuming I don’t mess something up between now and tomorrow. Only an hour longer to go, then my little short ribs get to call it a night. I, however, will resume my cleaning duties and tidy up so that I can sleep in a little tomorrow. As for what I’m thankful for, that’s easy: a season that allows me to make poor (but fun) meal choices in the name of holiday preparations, and the opportunity to host Christmas eve dinner so that I can promptly make up for my bad judgement. ‘Tis the season for redemption.

Earlier this evening, I was at the grocery store hunting and gathering in preparation for Christmas Eve dinner. I’d stopped by Starbucks beforehand, since I generally find myself freezing to death while shopping. This time, I came prepared.

I was getting through my list in record time, but mid-way through my spree, I decided to pull up a recipe on my iPhone to make sure I didn’t leave anything out of my cart. Sure enough, I was missing a bay leaf (why aren’t they sold in containers of, you know, one?). When I decided to press on, I rounded a corner and came upon three college dudes talking about — what else? Bacon.

As I maneuvered around them, I looked at one of the guys, mumbled a quiet “excuse me” since I’d broken up their lively debate, and carried on my way. Or so I tried.

“Hi,” he said, turning his attention away from his friends.

Oh sheesh. Great.

“Hello,” I responded, continuing to head down an aisle. 

“How are you?” he asked, following me. His friends suddenly stopped talking and watched.

“Um…fine…?” I answered. By this time I was wondering if there was something on my person. Maybe I’d spilled coffee down the front of my shirt and didn’t realize it. Maybe my nose was running. Maybe my mascara had smudged. Something was definitely up.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Lauren…?” I sounded like I was lying.

“You’re pretty cute, Lauren,” Bacon Boy says.

“I’m pretty old,” I replied.

Side note: when anyone says my name and they’re clearly talking to me, it freaks me out. I don’t know why.

“So?” he said.

OK. Really? I think I started laughing at this point. I can appreciate the guy putting himself out there, whether or not he was serious, because that takes balls. And the last time someone approached me in such a ballsy manner, it was a woman who at first was fawning over my hair, then told me I had “great energy” and that I should give her a call sometime. Hm. Thanks, but no thanks.

“Is he bothering you?” one of Bacon Boy’s friends called over to me.

Before I could muster an answer, Bacon Boy asks, “So do you have a phone number?”

“Uh, no,” I said.

“No?” he asked skeptically.

“No,” I said again, clearly oblivious to the fact that my iPhone was in my hand.

“Hm. Well can I take you to coffee sometime?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“Do you want to come out to the bars with us tonight?” he asked. I started laughing again. Such persistence.

“No, but thanks,” I said.

We all parted ways, and I promptly spent the next 20 minutes dodging them, covertly peeking around corners before fully tackling each remaining aisle.

I texted a friend of mine in NJ after the ballsy encounter to share the comedy of what had just happened. On my drive home, I got a response:

“Elope,” his text said.

What the…?

It’s a funnier story if you knew said friend, as said friend — last time I checked — is not a fan of most unions. I suspected he had been drinking, or was in the process of.

“Nah, maybe next year,” I wrote back, and briefly pondered what life would be like if I eloped with a college-aged dude who I met in the bacon section. Seconds later, a response:

“Wtf? That was supposed to say “Wow,” not “Elope.” Stupid, funny autocorrect.”

Funny indeed. I couldn’t remember the last time I had gone “out to the bars,” and I really did feel as old as I told Bacon.

Tonight I am thankful for a delightfully strange trip to Ralphs, for no eloping in my [immediate] future and for friends who can share and appreciate the ridiculousness of a situation from across the country.

During the holidays, one of the worst sounds to hear — in my opinion — is the sound of sirens.

They’re bad on any day, and during any time of the year. They speak of trauma, distress or of loss. If not loss, then they speak of borrowed time — time that someone only has because an EMT or other first-responder got there before it was too late. Sirens make me tense, and they often cause a pit in my stomach.

There’s a song called “Flying” by a band called The Samples which evokes a similar feeling in me. It’s incredibly sad, incredibly heavy. It makes my heart feel like it’s made of concrete. It’s about a flight that never made it home, and about the people who would never see their loved ones again.

Sirens filled the night air this evening, and their backdrop was holiday music that I had playing in another room. The two couldn’t have been more opposite. I wondered whether someone’s last breath had been taken, and who might be mourning instead of tearing open presents on Christmas morning. It seems weird to hope that the sirens would only end in someone’s arrest, but I wished this was the case.

Christmas is my favorite holiday, and I realize that it’s my favorite because of all the wonderful memories I’ve accumulated over the last almost 36 years. But when does something stop being a favorite? When you’ve had too much of it? (Not possible with me and Christmas.) When you’re exhausted by it? (Also not possible.) When key elements of Christmas are gone?

My key elements have always been my family — and someday we won’t all be here. Whether it’s in one year or in 30 years, something will change. Will Christmas still be my favorite then? Probably not for a while after things shift, but hopefully it will be again. Who knows? Until that time comes, I am thankful for togetherness, for family and for the sirens which have not yet sounded for us, and I am thankful we’ve arrived at another holiday season intact.

Stationery is something I’ve always adored.

I used to buy box after box of it, and I’d actually use it. When I was little, my mom made sure thank you notes were always written after birthdays, Christmas — anytime a gift was given. They could be written in pencil, pen, marker or Crayon, but they were always written. As I got older, I fell out of the habit of consistently thanking people with a note, but I still liked to buy little packs of notecards to have on hand for whenever I happened to remember to write one.

I wrote a lot of letters during my elementary school years to friends and old neighbors who had moved away; many were decorated with doodles, flowers, stickers and bubble letters encouraging my pen pals to “K.I.T.!” When I went away to college, I wrote many to my parents, as well as to friends I graduated from high school with. Some were hand-written, others were typed, many were greeting cards and — if I wanted to go all out — it would be a greeting card with a separate, multi-page letter inside. I had a laptop back then, and I remember being enamored with the assortment of silly graphics and Wingdings gems that I could litter my typed pages with. By the way, when the time came to finally send it on its way, the stamp was often as important as the card or stationery design. I’d stand for minutes on end, staring at the stamp dispenser inside the post office, trying to pick the best offering…as though anyone else ever notices the stamp.

I realize that not many people regularly use pen and paper to keep in touch or say thanks anymore — including me, and I wish that I did more than I do. I’ve even failed at sending Christmas cards out for three years in a row. Whether greeting cards or gratitude, there are so many expressions of thanks that we could probably all give to others, and I’m sure we wouldn’t even need to think about it that long. I’ll bet the list would come easily, and I’ll bet it would be lengthy. I know that mine would.

Tonight I am thankful, yes, for family and friends. But I am also thankful for those who have been my partners in crime over the years, who’ve provided shoulders to lean or cry on, who have given patient ears for tales both serious and silly, and for their company which has made my happy days even sunnier, and my bad days not as gloomy.

If I knew then what I know now, I might’ve been more ready, more prepared, more understanding, more brave, more easy on myself.

I would’ve known that if someone was frustrated with a five year-old for not articulating something the right way, or not singing the right words to a song, it was more a reflection of them and not me.

I would’ve told myself in elementary school that not doing something correctly the first time isn’t an indicator of my worth as a person. It is, however, indicative of someone else’s insecurity when they scolded me loudly and pointed out my error for all to take note of.

I would’ve spoken up when I went to horsemanship camp during junior high and told on the people who owned the horses we rode, but who hit them violently in small, confined spaces when they thought nobody was watching. I suppose I was somehow afraid that by alerting someone who might’ve been able to do help them, I might’ve endured treatment similar to what the horses received.

I would’ve cared less about feeling foolish or rejected or laughed at and shared my feelings more. Not through the written word, but through the spoken word.

I would’ve believed my voice mattered more.

I would’ve spoken up more.

I would’ve been more OK about interrupting the people who interrupted me first.

I would’ve loved more freely, but quite possibly been hurt far more deeply. Then again, I wonder if my walls kept me from feeling a devastation that I wouldn’t have bounced back from if I’d been more open. Who’s to say?

If I knew then what I know now, I might’ve been a lot of things. I might’ve been more than I am today, and I might not have. But my life would’ve been different, because it wouldn’t have been a life lived at all; it would’ve been expected, since I’d always sort of know what’s coming. I’d know how to deal, how to process, how to compartmentalize, how to filter out the chaff. There’d be few surprises, fewer lessons to learn, and no experiences to draw from with which to counsel others. And because this isn’t the case, I am thankful.