I heard earlier that a #1 best-selling book from the 90s was written in 11 days.

11.

The manuscript was a labor of love that the author created for family and friends, but at the end of the day, one of those friends shared the author’s work with an agent and the rest was history: it ended up becoming a movie.

All thanks to 11 days.

That’s not even two weeks’ time.

What can be done in 11 days? A lot.

You could drive across the country — twice. You could take a few three-day seminars. You could meet someone and get married (Vegas, anyone?). You could take a leisurely honeymoon and work on redefining the meaning of “relaxation.” You could lose a few pounds. You could take a cruise. You could get a bunch of tattoos. You could get a nose job and have most of your bruising gone by day 11. You could have a new house built for your family if you’re being featured on Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. You could be about a third of the way towards develping a habit, if you believe it takes 30 days to form one.

So while I was on the beach in Maui a number of years back — not on a honeymoon, but definitely vegging with a cocktail in hand and white sand all around, someone was perhaps penning the next great best-seller-soon-to-be-turned-movie.

Sheesh.

I heard in an interview once that Jack Black wrote a screenplay in something like five days. That’s even more depressing.

When I heard that 11-day tidbit earlier, it really made me think about what I was doing 11 days ago, and what I could possibly do with the next 11. And imagine if I only slept, like, four or five hours a night (like I could ever deal on such little snoozage)…I could be unstoppable. Especially if I found time for a few power naps here and there.

Alas, we start, stop and start again, then stop once more, and consider starting back up all the time. I tend to have a number of unfinished projects at any given moment, and when I come up for air and look around at them all, I often wonder what my problem is. Why can’t I finish them? Why am I content to let a layer of dust take away their sparkly sheen that, once upon a time, had me captivated and up till all hours working on it? I have no answer; I probably never will.

But tonight I am thankful for the 11 day blurb that lit the fire within once again, and that made me realize that if someone can write something for family and friends that blows up into something big, just imagine what we could all do if we dared to put together a more definitive, deliberate plan for something we’d like to see take flight.

It’s official: I started my Christmas shopping.

While sparkly green, red, silver and gold decor has been disturbingly visible in stores since before Halloween, I’ve been hesitant to fully embrace the holiday that I love the most until the day after Thanksgiving. The problem with following through on this, for me at least, came when I saw a great deal pop up in my Facebook newsfeed.

Like, a deal-so-good-it-must-be-incorrect deal.

And a deal-so-good-it-won’t-last-for-long deal — assuming the price was accurate.

I scoured reviews on this particular item before I bought it to make sure it wasn’t selling like mad just because of its price point. It was, in fact, highly rated due to its functionality, design and overall beauty.

Lovely.

And sold…times four.

I’d like to think it’ll end up being one of the better gifts I’ve ever given, being that it has a couple of uses instead of just the one that its packaging may first showcase. I’ve made biscotti for gifts for more than a decade, and while those are one of my tastiest offerings, my latest purchase could just end up being one of the top inedible items.

The time spent reviewing and snagging my first batch of Christmas gifts took a fraction of the time it would’ve taken me to get in the car and drive one mile — if even that far. And while I have slight guilt about starting my shopping early (for me), I’m thinking that keeping my marbles intact by continuing to conduct my shopping shenanigans online will be priceless.

Tonight I am thankful for online shopping which is sure to keep me clearheaded, and for technology that allows me to keep the merriest part of the season alive in peace. Others can keep the hustle and bustle, the angry lines and the parking lot feuds. If you need an ounce of sanity, I’ll be here in Anaheim with a holiday cocktail, my cat, the man-made smell of pine and cranberries and my faux tree all aglow.

Oh, holidays — how I’ve missed you.

For the better part of the day, an ABBA song has been stuck in my head.

Earlier this evening while I was hoofing it around the streets of Anaheim, I realized how fitting the song was for this fine election day.

“The Winner Takes It All” is the tune that I’ve not been able to shake for hours on end. When I was at first absent-mindedly singing the lyrics — then thinking about them a bit more — they resonated.

“The winner takes it all; the loser has to fall. It’s simple and it’s plain; why should I complain?”

We had a winner and a loser tonight. No matter what side you took, yes, the winner gets it all: the victory, yes. But aside from the good, he also gets the bad and the ugly. The difficult and the challenging. The heart-wrenching and the dividing.

Electoral College aside, popular vote aside, there’s still room for not one but many voices to be heard if you’ve got something on your heart. That’s part of what makes America fantastic. We can speak our mind the way many other countries can’t. If we don’t like something, we can let our leaders know. If we have ideas about how things could be better managed — even an entire country — then we can raise our hand. We can write letters. If we want to start a grassroots movement, we’re allowed to.

So the song, it turns out, is wrong. Whether it’s about politics or anything else, the reason we should complain is because we’ve been given a voice to do so. Don’t use it, and there stands to be little chance at getting what you want. Use it, and you’ve got a shot. The mere fact that we have a right to freedom of speech is something we often take for granted. But if the outcome of tonight’s election isn’t what you’d hoped, how do you plan to make the next four years something better than where you think they might be headed?

Tonight I am thankful for this country, for the voice we’ve all been given and for the passion that we’ve all expressed — regardless of our party affiliation. Passion implies a heartbeat, and a heartbeat implies that we all still have a voice — to express support, or request change.

I am fairly confident that dudes shaving during their morning commute have replaced makeup-applying women as the most feared group of motorists on the road.

With the recent time change and gloriously bright, sunny morning on my hands, I looked in my rearview mirror on my way to work and noticed a man barreling down on me. Having been the not-so-proud recipient of two bumpers over the last two years, a bit of nervousness quickly overtook me…

…especially because I was in the process of merging with traffic and about to be braking.

The sunlight illuminated his actions: there he was, going back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and back and forth across his face with his trusty shaver; his chin was elevated and being scrutinized mere inches from his rearview mirror. Sure enough, he wasn’t expecting brake lights and ended up fumbling the gadget, promptly resulting in overly animated (and, I presume, stubble-free) facial expressions, seemingly accompanied by a few choice French words.

He seemed irritated at me, but I was pretty irritated with him. Was he trying to make me go for bumper #3? Two is more than enough, thanks.

Was he so rushed for time that he couldn’t be bothered to mow his face at home?

And honestly, who wants stubble all over their dress shirt?

Maybe I’m not up on my stubble knowledge, and maybe after the whole shaving process one’s whiskers become undetectable. But why would anyone be OK with finely shaved bits of hair snowing down on their attire? They’re still there, right? I can only imagine the sensation of said lurking, chopped whiskers is akin to getting a haircut and then leaving the salon, at which time you can feel the leftover pokey, stray hairs on your person – but you can’t see them. Bleh. No bueno.

Years ago when I had my previous car, I was on the 5 freeway heading to a photoshoot that was taking place north of LA. I’d noticed there was a woman in the lane next to me who was intent on achieving flawless makeup application – while driving. For miles she was applying mascara, lip gloss, more mascara, powder, more lip gloss and, right as I neared the 710 freeway, someone rear-ended me.

It was mascara girl.

Seeing stubble man this morning brought back all sorts of concern.

Shortly after the shaver fumble by Stubbs, I ended up branching off for a freeway other than the one he was taking. I was thankful that I emerged unscathed and arrived to work with nary an additional scratch on my vehicle, and I appreciated any additional illumination the morning light provided, thanks to the time change. Perhaps it helped Stubbs to avoid a collision, or perhaps it helped to illuminate his poor choices while driving.

Either way, bumper #3 can wait another day. Then again, there’s still the drive home this evening.

In the dark.

Fingers crossed.

“Only” is one of those words that can speak of everything from loneliness to hope.

“It’ll be only me,” friends might say when RSVPing for a party, a wedding, an event. I’ve been only me for a while, and while I don’t remember the last time I had an issue with this kind of “only,” I know it’s not always the most comforting of words for many.

Sometimes I build up a situation to dizzying heights in my mind, when the reality is “only” a fraction of what’s in my head. I often manage to deflate the issue and move on, but until “only” comes into the picture, I can spin myself up with the best of ’em.

“Only five more,” my trainer from many moons ago would say to me. I hated him during my sessions — in an I-really-appreciated-him sorta way, but those five more reps meant I was getting close to the end of a set…until he’d throw in two or three more of whatever we were doing. The nerve.

Only a few more days until the weekend. Until payday.

Only a few more weeks until Thanksgiving, a few business trips, and then Christmas.

Only a few more months until my brother’s wedding.

Only a few more years until I’m 40.

OK, five. Five more years.

“Only” glosses over the importance of a few dollars (“It’s only $14.99!” when, in reality, too many $14.99s and suddenly you’re nearing $100), but “only” can encourage giving to those in need (“It’s only a few dollars, and the man on the street corner needs it more than I do”).

Sometimes the challenge with “only” is that we avoid other things around us to get past a particular hurdle, or to get to something that we’re really looking forward to. It seems like remembering to slow down and not fast-forward will forever be one of life’s challenges. But how great is it to know that most things we fear won’t kill us, and that it’s “only” a matter of time before they pass?

Conversely, how great is it to know that if there are “only” a few hours left of an amazing vacation, you can always book another?

Tonight I am thankful for only and its many faces — faces that remind me to slow down, to take everything as it comes, to remember to toss in a grain of salt here and there and to keep my wits about me.

No.

Sorry.

Fail.

Out of luck.

Out of order.

Try again.

Play again.

Game over.

Sold out.

Discontinued.

Wrong way.

Do not enter.

No outlet.

No dice.

Not hearing or receiving some version of “yes” can be the most frustrating thing in the world, especially when you feel you’re on track for the green light.

No is a word that tests us. It tests our patience, our stamina, our determination, our conviction.

No is sometimes so abrupt that we don’t even want to try again; we’re simply done. We’re out of energy, out of passion, out of the fire that used to burn inside, out of emotion.

No can take something and throw it back in our face. No can win if we let it.

Maybe the key to beating “no” is to whittle things down into bite-sized pieces; to a size more palatable. Perhaps the key to escorting “no dice” out of the building is to first dice the larger challenge into smaller portions.

Realizing that we all have to start somewhere with everything we do, tonight I am thankful for knowing that my first attempt doesn’t have to be my last, and that square one can be returned to as often as I’d like. Tonight I am thankful for starting over, and for being able to roll the dice one more time — or as many times as I want to, need to or feel up to. 

I saw a man shuffling slowly across a crosswalk earlier this evening. It was possible he was drunk, or maybe he had some sort of physical impairment. It was rush hour, and everyone except the man trying to make his way to the other side of the street seemed to be in a hurry.

His pace was one that tested even the longest of lights; he made it only slightly more than halfway before a left arrow light turned green, leaving him looking bewildered. Fortunately my fellow motorists saw him and we all took a collective step back. Not with honking, cursing or irritation — we just observed.

When he was fully across and the other lanes had their turn to go, people cautiously proceeded on their way. The man stood there on the corner, still looking more than a little confused. Had it not been for the familiar markings and digital displays of a crosswalk, I wasn’t so sure he’d ever have made it across.

Not too different from this evening’s scene is the one where we might feel a bit lost sometimes. Or maybe more than a bit — maybe a lot. Maybe it’s something that’s been years in the making, or maybe it’s a recent development. Regardless of its duration, it can feel like we’re strangers in a strange land; foreigners who don’t speak the native tongue. We know we should be able to, but we can’t. And we know that we won’t be able to — maybe for a while, maybe only for a day.

They say that if you’re going through hell, it’s best to keep going. And while we feel for others but never fully know how another person’s hell is ultimately defined, we know that ours is the one that consumes us. Sometimes putting one foot in front of the other is all we need to do. In the end, the guides will show themselves, and we’ll make it across the crosswalk after what seems like an eternity. Patience will be shown by others — a form of encouragement in itself.

Tonight, after observing the scene that played out in front of me and which pressed the pause button on the rush hour noise, I am thankful for the quiet guidance that humanity was able to provide. I am thankful for the crosswalks — both literal and figurative — that we stumble across in life, for the path they reveal to us and for direction that’s occasionally spelled out when aimlessness is all we’re really able to feel.

The funny thing about order is that something so predictable can be dizzying.

Think about it: we’re taught all our lives that if we follow the steps and do them in a certain order, more often than not we’ll get to where we’re going.

But we don’t always get there, even though we followed the rules. Our heads spin with confusion.

We learn that if you order something online, in a restaurant or through a catalog, it generally shows up without too much of a wait.

But when it doesn’t, our whole world is upside down.

We expect order, and in a way we crave it. When we don’t have it, it can leave us in a perpetually wandering state.

And yet we never want to be told what to do, but when we’re lacking even the guardrails and any obvious way to go about progressing, we’re lost.

Some people who like to muddy a process with red tape hide behind the word order, but I think we all know their true intentions; the two are not the same.

Sometimes order is cast aside by a crowd that won’t stand for something anymore, and we find that doing away with order can often be the most direct path to change.

Tonight, while I’m thankful for order, I’m also thankful for being able to choose my way over that of the masses, to say to hell with it instead of — yes, I’m happy to stand in line, and to simply do while knowing I can ask forgiveness later. I’m not condoning recklessness, I’m simply encouraging action. There’s a time and a place for order, and there’s a time and a place to give it a time out.

It was a chilly morning, and the usual characters were out in full force on Beach Boulevard as I drove to work. There were a few new faces, too, being that today was Halloween and all.

Teenagers were dressed up and on their way to school. Some adults behind the wheel were in costume, as well. One bus driver was sporting a rainbow-colored wig, and a delivery man had devil horns on his head.

On the sidewalk was a man with a long, flowing red cape behind him. As I came closer to him, a smile came across my face — I couldn’t wait to see what he was, and whether or not I recognized it.

Turns out the guy was homeless. He was dirty, he had a bag of what appeared to be very few belongings, and his red cape was a tattered blanket. I felt ridiculous and sad, and I wondered how many more people would make that same mistake today — then realize what they were actually seeing.

Traffic was moving along steadily, and even if I’d been able to turn around or go somewhere to give him something — food, or…I don’t even know what, I didn’t have anything of the sort on me. I’d need to find a store, go inside, buy things, and then I’d need to find the guy again. As I drove on, I looked in the rearview mirror and he was already long gone in a matter of seconds.

It was a chilly evening as I headed home, and I hoped that others hadn’t mistaken him for someone in costume the way I had earlier this morning. And even if nobody stopped to lend a hand all day, I was grateful for the blanket he carried, and hoped that it would provide enough warmth through the night to get him to a day where costumes weren’t expected, and where perhaps a little help could be secured.

About 15 years ago, when I accidentally took a semester off of school, I went to the pet store to buy fish food for a little finned wonder my brother had bequeathed to me when he left home.

It was October, and we were in the middle of yet another Indian summer here in SoCal. I recall walking into the store and, although I knew full well where the fish supplies were kept, taking a spin around the perimeter since the place was completely empty — save for the clerk at the front.

When I got to the very back, there was a cage of five, maybe six kittens. They were tiny, black, tumbling all over each other and mewing quietly as I approached. My heart melted.

As I was oohing and aahing over them, the clerk at the front shuffled back my way. I was enamored with the little balls of fur, and he knew it.

“You know,” he said, “Either you buy ’em or someone else takes ’em and kills ’em. That’s what people do on Halloween.”

Seriously? Sold.

I ended up buying only one — the only pet ever purchased, as most of them in our family have been rescues or hand-me-downs — but I made sure to choose carefully. The one getting trampled by his siblings because he was the runt was my pick, and today — 15 years later — Tayo is living the life.

I’d recently finished reading a book, and I named him after the main character who was a dark-haired Native American warrior. Over the years, he’s lived up to his name, kicking tail and swatting paws with the best of them on our block. But despite his bruiser status, every Halloween I keep him inside while adults watch over the trick-or-treaters who wander the neighborhood. I hear the clerk’s words in my head each Halloween, and I’m quite protective of my Tay, or “Babe” as I sometimes call him. He’s only got a few years left in him and, since he’s come this far, I’ll see to it that he sticks around for the rest of them.

Tonight, a mere hour and a half-ish away from the official start of Halloween, I am thankful for that little ball of fur who has grown into such a rad companion over the years. I’m thankful he’s been lucky, safe and I’m thankful for the years left in him still.

Happy early Halloween, y’all.