I hate spiders. That said, I do realize their benefit in the garden. Benefits aside, they always find me, and my succulent person has often been the victim of their bites more times than I care to remember. Earlier this week, I noticed a semi-large one just outside my front window. It wouldn’t have been able to get inside, but it had gotten under the screen and spun a few palatial webs against the glass; he was living the life for sure. I vowed to kill it at some point, but ended up forgetting.

Until tonight.

I went outside to turn the front sprinklers on, and noticed a wayward cricket had made its way under the screen, too. It was unaware of the lurking danger and webby mess that it was nearing, but as I watched for a few moments, I noticed that the spider wasn’t unaware at all. It would move about a quarter-inch toward the perky cricket every few seconds. And I wasn’t about to have such a murder go down on my property.

I made a beeline to the backyard to retrieve the wasp and hornet spray (works wonderfully on every size spider, too), and began my deliberate trek back toward the calculating spider.

The cricket was still safe, so I blew on it a bit to scoot it over to a corner of the window while I shot the murderous spray at the spider. He was a good as dead, but the fumes were making the cricket start to freak.

Cricket hopped upwards, but stopped abruptly when it detected the web. As the spider slowly struggled, the cricket deftly hopped over its writhing corpse and flattened itself to exit under a corner that yielded just enough room.

I rule.

Tonight, while I feel badly for any spider babies that I turned into orphans (no, not really), I am thankful to have saved myself from the inevitable spider bite I know I would’ve endured by letting that creepy dude live for much longer, and am glad to have been able to let the cricket live a longer life than it surely would have had I not intervened. May my cat not spot it and render my efforts meaningless.

There’s nothing quite like living out your rockstar fantasy at the House of Blues — and then having that glorious night followed by a foot appointment the next day where you’re diagnosed with something that no chick ever wants to hear.

And by “you” I mean me.

While I’m generally a fan of my 30s, I can say that I’m not fond of falling apart. Last Christmas, it was meniscus repair and microfracture surgery on the ol’ knee. A couple of months later, after experiencing tingling and weakness in my left arm/wrist/hand/etc., the diagnosis was a bruised ulnar nerve. Today, I come to find out that my body (the right foot, to be exact) is a vehicle for a condition called Morton’s neuroma.

The official explanation is that it’s an injury to the nerve between the third and fourth toes that causes thickening and pain. (Ew.) The bottom line, however, is the oh-so-important “what does this mean to me?” part of the equation.

No more cute shoes. That’s what it means.

Not that I’ve ever had the cutest selection, but dang…if a girl’s gonna be diagnosed with a foot malady, I’d at least love to have a closet full of adorable footwear to be able to blame. Alas, I have only boring, office-oriented footwear that’s apparently been too tight for too long. The occasional studded heel and strappy sandal has been donned before — don’t get me wrong. They’re just not an everyday occurrence. Despite El Neuroma de Morton, however, I’m pretty sure I’ll still bust out a sassy heel once or twice a year.

The doctor liked my flip-flops (go Rainbows). They’re the dude ones and are uber-thick, wide and he liked how my feet didn’t spill off of either side. (Note to self: try to get a doctor’s note to be able to wear Rainbows to work.)

He had me stand up on a piece of paper, then drew the outline of my right foot. He had me step back and told me that if any shoes I buy from here forward don’t cover the outline that he drew, I shouldn’t buy them.

(Another note to self: consider sending back the four pairs of shoes my friends at Zappos just sent. OK, done considering.)

I had orthotics made last fall, and they’re…gross. I feel like I should be 55, not 35. They currently only fit in a clunky, wide-width athletic shoe, and I can’t very well wear those to work. My options?

Aside from the steroid shot I could’ve gotten on the spot (I declined), there aren’t many more. Crocs (I think the only person who’d find me attractive would be Mario Batali), Vans (cute, but…for the workplace…? We’ll see…), Naturalizer (even their ‘Wide’ width doesn’t seem to want to fit the orthotics), and probably other brands like Clarks, Born, Merrell, Ecco, Softspots, bleh.

I visited a site called PlanetShoes.com a while ago, and…why does a comfort-oriented shoe have to be so ugly? If I wanted to redesign my whole wardrobe around a shoe, I suppose they could work…many look appropriate for hippies, and there’s a plethora of shoes that appear to be shaped like a duck’s bill. The hippie ones have crazy-ugly patterns. I mean, I’m all for patterns — but, like…on throw pillows, or fabric on a chair cushion. But a cool pattern does not always a desirable shoe make.

Same goes for the styles’ names. Bumble bee. Lollipop. Spring Step. Boulevard. Hope. Passion. A lovely name does not a lovely shoe make.

Better yet are the prices that these horrendous things command. Almost $200? Some doctor somewhere is telling a patient that it’s a small price to pay when compared to surgery or years of shots being jammed into your foot and injected into that nerve. And I will say that I’m sure he’s right. But forking over a wad of cash for an ugly shoe just doesn’t make this any easier of a pill to swallow.

That aside, I did a quick Google image search for “Morton’s neuroma,” and was met with icky images of surgeries where thickened tissue was in the process of being removed, as well as pictures of other foot woes: funky toes where they all curl up over each other, hammer toes, toes marred by scars from surgeries past — as well as surgeries gone bad…it’s enough to make me want to go barefoot the rest of my life. Although then I’d be escorted out of restaurants, and anywhere else they require footwear. Sheesh. The nerve.

(Get it? Nerve?)

Complaints aside, all of those images reminded me of how good my bad feet really have it. Things could be so much worse. I hope they never get to wherever “worse” is, but I suppose at the end of the day I’ll gladly wear boring flats the rest of my life than inch closer to foot gnarlidom via inches under my heel. Tonight I am thankful for my feet, and I pray they have it in them to continue our walk together through life.

My first concert on the Strip was when I was 14. I think I’ve written about it before, but to briefly recap, I’d sent a letter to a band’s management folks, got a letter back from the singer, an invitation to attend their show at the Roxy and, being underage and sans-license, my mom was awesome enough to take me and my best friend Erin up for our first show.

During the last song, we had trouble spotting the singer. He wasn’t on stage, but his voice could be heard. He finally emerged from behind velvet curtains wearing only body paint. And we saw peen.

I’ve seen other shows over the years up here, most recently Queensryche at the House of Blues last year. Peen hasn’t been spotted since that fateful evening in 1991. Predictably, they were awesome. None of their shows has ever let me down.

Today, I’m up on the Strip again. And at the House of Blues again. Soundcheck is at 4:30, the show starts a couple hours later. Tonight, however, I’m the one playing — and I couldn’t be more stoked to do it with such an awesome group of people.

Today I am thankful for our gathering of most excellent musicians, for the fellowship of singers, a tight rhythm section and awesome guitarists, and for the renewal they bring my spirit each time we get together. We’ve been working up to this for about a year, and the day has finally come.

Let the battle of the bands begin.

The other evening I saw two older women walking together. Their clothing was ill-fitting, mismatched, they had their possessions in push-carts that seemed to be used on a daily basis and it was obvious that walking was their main mode of transportation, save for perhaps a bus or possibly a vehicle owned by a friend or family member.

As I drove past them on my way home, I couldn’t help but notice the fantastic time they seemed to be having. One was talking and gesturing in an animated manner while the other was laughing incredibly hard, her head thrown back and lifted toward the heavens as though she wanted everyone to hear her happiness.

I don’t know where they were headed, but it’s not important. What struck me was that despite their lives likely only being filled with the necessary things and very little fluff, their joy was apparent. But when it comes right down to it, often times it’s the fluff that requires “more.”

More money spent on repairs. More money spent on the next version because the old is no longer good enough. More money dedicated to dry cleaning those expensives clothes made of finicky fabric we bought because we want to keep them looking good. More money spent on premium gasoline because our luxury cars demand it. More money put towards on gym memberships because we’re not forced to walk everywhere. More money spent on going out because others are going out and we don’t want to feel out of the loop. More money spent on things that will let others know we have money.

I understand these are broad statements and that they may not always be true. I understand there are exceptions. I agree that much of the above is avoidable. But they’re all what came to mind when I saw those two ladies. The more we have, the more we dole out, the more we want, the more we think we lack.

Today I am thankful for the reminder that much of what I have — my “stuff” — doesn’t mean that much at all, and how the important things in life include a friend to walk with, a laugh that can be shared, and allowing ourselves to experience the good that crosses our path.

The other night after the workday had ended, and during those precious turquoise sky moments when the sun seems to rest in a hammock just below the horizon, I decided to spend some time outside.

When I finally came in, I noticed something I hadn’t seen in a few months. It was surprising, because I thought I’d seen the last of them.

They spent the better part of May and most of the following month clumsily running into the patio overhead, screens and porch lights. They’d occasionally find my forehead as I’d take the trash barrels out to the curb one evening and back in the next, their lazy, drowsy flight line as exact as a weatherman’s forecast.

I thought they were long gone until next summer, but there he was — nestled in the stuccoed corner of the house by the back door: a June bug. Motionless, possibly lonely, but bold all the same to be gracing the evening with its presence.

The next morning, he was gone. But it made me think about all those times when we firmly say never, when we’re supposedly completely done with someone and ready to move on or simply when we think we’ve missed an opportunity…that something or someone generally comes back around again in some fashion, and we have a chance to seize the moment, make amends or just understand that never is a strong word that is often never accurate.

Tonight I am thankful for June bug’s brief presence, its urging to never say never and for the reminder that just when you think the book is closed, a page inevitably comes floating back into the picture.

Sometimes a walk down memory lane can be an invigorating experience. It might make you feel inspired to try your hand at something that you once used to do regularly, take the trip you’ve been putting off for years or call someone you haven’t spoken to in ages. It might be all sunshine and roses and rainbows.

It can also bring up emotions you didn’t realize were hastily buried so close to the surface. I unintentionally took one of those walks yesterday and was struck by how true it really is when they say hindsight is 20/20. I was recounting details, conversations, encounters, gatherings, travels and people and the overall life-setback-ness of it all. I don’t think I felt that way at the time, but — needless to say — I did after the fact.

At the end of my trip down memory lane, I was left thinking, “Wow. It’s all got to be worth something…doesn’t it?”

I’ve never really bothered to revisit everything, and now that I had, I felt a desperation to make something out of it. To mold it. To shape and change and give it structure. I’ve never not been able to make something out of a mess, and this is a mess that I’d ignored and, more or less, forgotten about.

The truth is, however, that nothing ever has to be anything. It is what it is, and it is no more. For me, though, it’s important to make it into something; to find meaning in it, to not be burdened by it, to find some good in the weight that’s been unapologetically present for far too long. No, it doesn’t have to be anything other than what it is. But if it’s made its way into my life and has been mooching off me for long enough, then it’s going to get a boot in the behind and do what I want it to do. It will be what I want it to be. Because it’s been in control for too long.

There are a number of issues that I’m working through from a change I made in my life almost eight years ago, and I don’t know what the final outcome will be. Maybe I’ll just write about it and harness the energy, channeling it into something else. Maybe I’ll simply be able to relate to someone else who makes a similar change and I can provide a shoulder to lean on. Maybe it’s meant to be nothing more than something I think about over and over and over again so that — in time — I can hurl myself over the emotional hurdles that’ve been in the way and I can finally be done with them.

Whatever the reason, memory lane is a path that I’ve had enough of for the time-being. But at the end of the day I am grateful for those experiences and their benefit I have yet to uncover. I’ve no doubt they’re like little diamonds that’ve been in the rough for years, but when it comes time to polish them, it will be a happy, happy day.

I was watching a show on TV earlier and the host was talking to someone whose business he was going to help. He said that he was going to flip the owner’s world upside down.

The owner had been doing things wrong and, although her business was failing, she didn’t dig deep to find out how to fix those things. Seems like the way we sometimes live our lives, yes?

We may do things over and over, hoping for a different outcome. They say this is the definition of insanity. Depending on the circumstance, however, it may also be the definition of a hopeless romantic. Or someone with some emotional scars who is afraid to do things differently. Or the definition of a die-hard believer with faith even through the most difficult situations.

The thing about having your world turned upside down, however, is that it may just be the thing you make you feel like you’re finally right side up. Sometimes we don’t realize the rut that we’re in and, while we may go kicking and screaming when change knocks on our door, sometimes it’s the thing we need to right our world and the wrongs we may not know we’re perpetuating.

Tonight I am thankful for the idea of being upside down, and for the notion it brings of if and when change comes, it may very well be because I wasn’t able to make myself right side up on my own.

A number of years back, I had a housewarming and had spent the few weeks prior decorating my place until it was just the way I liked it. My living room had massive windows — I can’t remember how tall they were, but somewhere in the neighborhood of 15 or 20 feet sounds about right. It was a two-story apartment, and the windows spanned the height of both stories.

Window coverings have always been a weird issue for me, and these windows were out to prove that they’d continue to be problematic. That is, until I was out shopping at Anna’s Linens for furnishings and found an incredibly long piece of finished fabric that was meant to be draped in one long, elegant swoop up, over and back down a more normal-sized window.

I had a hunch I could buy two and flank my massive window with the fabric, while cutting off the excess and making a valance to go in between them across the top. I was right. It looked beautiful.

The evening of my housewarming, one of my guests overheard me telling someone else that I’d cut and hemmed the fabric to be able to have a curtain that actually fit the giant window, and an incredibly comical question exited her mouth — one that was surprising, given the age of everyone, including her, in the room.

“Ohmygosh! Do you, like, also make your own clothes and sew those, too?” she snickered. I’m pretty sure she was the only one laughing.

It was such an obviously immature and juvenile thing to say that it rivals comments that the most obnoxious girl in my sixth grade class would always make. Super classy.

But to go back for a second, you know what? Frankly, if I had the time to make my clothes, I totally would.

Truth is, I’ve always had a soft spot for the ol’ needle and thread. Back in the 80s, I used to make scrunchies from fabric remnants that my mom and I would find at the fabric store.

I remember making a tiny cottonball-filled pillow door hanger with “Out to Lunch” scrawled across it for my dad for Father’s Day when I was 7 or 8. I can’t remember if I gave it to him or not, but I still adore the thought behind it.

During my early elementary school years, I had a few outfits that my mom expertly crafted on her Singer sewing machine, and they were fabulous. I wore them proudly, and I might’ve had a school photo or two taken in them. Today I went to the fabric store and bought as many sparkly, sequin-adorned things I could find. Why? The band from my last agency that I still play in has a gig this coming Thursday. At the House of Blues. On the Sunset Strip.

Yep. Never thought I’d say that.

Since we’d all agreed an element of sparkle was mandatory for the show, I bedazzled a few things and made a skinny tie out of my sequin fabric for one of our guitarists. And with that little bit of sewing, it turns out I do make clothes after all.

I’m so glad that my mother’s time, patience and ability has rubbed off on me, and I wish similar motherly gifts be passed down to others from their moms — sewing or not.

Tonight I am thankful for an idea, for a vision, for the ability and execution that my mom taught me over the years through the magic of sewing. My ability won’t ever be like hers, but I’m thankful for the small bit that she gave me.

Confession: sometimes I eat soup from a can.

Not a can of soupish contents that I dump into a pan and add water or milk to…I’m talking straight from the can itself.

Like, stick a spoon in and go for it. But not all soups are created equal. There’s only one soup that I’ll do this with: cream of mushroom.

When I was younger, say, 7 or 8, I’d add the customary half a can of milk and half a can of water to my condensed goodness, heat it up, then let it cool so that I could dump it into a large cup and suck it all through a straw. It was delicious, and somehow I didn’t mind that the bits of mushroom generally caused many a blockage. People were repulsed by this; it made me want to do it more often.

In my 20s, I started cooking with the stuff. I’d bake some chicken and dump a can over everything towards the end, and I’d always marvel at how the soup turned into a magical, sumptuous gravy by the time everything was ready. Good eatin’.

About a year ago, I had an uncanny craving for soup. I wasn’t sure if I was in the mood for clam chowder, split pea or cream of mushroom, canned or homemade, so I set out for Ralphs. The mushroom caught my eye first, and it happened to be a can of Healthy Request from Campbell’s. Or maybe it was a low-sodium option. It might’ve even been both. Regardless, I bought a few cans and had every intention of bringing it home and having a grilled something-or-other sandwich alongside it.

Didn’t happen. I pulled the pop-top lid off and couldn’t resist sticking a spoon in, just for a taste, of course. The taste turned into a few spoonfuls, and before I knew it I was rinsing out the empty can and tossing it into the recycling bag.

Lacking a sophisticated palate? On occasion. Trying to recycle whenever I can? You bet.

I’ve tried to replicate that first delicious, non-mixed can experience a few times, and I can vouch for the fact that not all condensed soups are on equal footing. For example, if my can dining wasn’t bad enough, I saw Walmart’s generic brand of cream of mushroom soup and thought I’d try to sit down for a feast that was cheaper than the first. It was cheap, alright. The taste was horrible.

It was plain ol’ condensed soup; I imagined it being from a botched batch that Campbell’s had discarded and sold to a needy, er, soupery. Nothing healthy about it, nothing else that had been requested of it. It was a weird gelatinous mess of incredibly salty, lumpy albino matter. Thumbs down. Note to self: peanut butter is no longer the only thing I will buy with a brand name…soup is now on the list, too.

That said, it was still considered food and still had the ability to provide nourishment. So what can a can of unmixed soup teach you? Even a can that provides less than ideal eats? That eating can be cheap when you need it to be. That the can you’re holding in your hand is, sadly, a whole can more than what many people have in this country. Where some go hungry, who are we to turn our noses up at food of any sort — even if it’s food that isn’t eaten in its usual way?

Tonight I am thankful for having plenty, for a life where I’ve never wanted for anything and for the awareness and appreciation for all that I have.

Know what I hate? When a thought process short circuits and fails me.

My first recollection of this was when (sorry, guys) I shaved my legs for the first time. I was fascinated at how smooth my calves were and, as I stared at the wonder-tool in my hand with awe and fascination, the way my virginal hairs stuck between multiple razors. Enamored, I lightly ran my thumb across the blades in admiration.

Seriously.

What happened? I was the proud new owner of gill-like slits in my flesh. No blood, just flaps of skin. Really? How did that just happen?

Around that same time, I remember washing my fish tank in the front yard. I’d carefully taken out all of the gravel, gotten the funk cleaned out of it, tenderly removed my faux plants and then — when it came time to pluck a fragile, neon-airbrushed cave from the tank — I spotted a clear place on the sidewalk next to the grass. Looked like a good spot for it to me, so…I tossed the cave down from about two to three feet in the air.

It shattered.

I remember staring, motionless, at the broken bits and feeling like a fool. An emotion-lacking, stupid fool. Not mad, not irritated. Just ridiculous and foolish. How could I carefully place unbreakable mounds of gravel and fake plants on the soft grass then toss a tiny, breakable accessory onto the concrete and expect it to survive?

Most recently, I’ve become a huge fan of managing my finances to the smallest detail. I save receipts. I track balances. I expect certain payments like student loans and the gardener’s check and my bimonthly utility bill to hit my checking account on certain days, and they all do. All the time.

For whatever reason, I don’t like setting up automatic, recurring payments. I prefer scheduling a one-timer for things like credit card payments, the gas company bill, and I like taking out cash for wanty-not-needy things like my pedicures and my car washes. So what in the world happened when I set up two large payments for one credit card in the same billing period? Mass hysteria, that’s what happened.

But not for the reason you’d think. My biggest issue is that I remember setting up one of the payments, but not the other.

Now, if this was someone messing with my credit card, I’d expect to see new charges on it — not a payment made against its balance. But that’s what it was. Zero. Recollection.

I know I enjoy trying new wines often, but I’m pretty sure I’ve never thought participating in online banking post-drinking would ever be a good idea.

And yet, all signs point to one thing: user error.

And I’m the user. Therefore the error must be mine.

I had an error with the razor years ago. I malfunctioned with the fish tank’s dainty cave. And I had a massive fail when I came to remembering one of two payments that I’d apparently scheduled.

Hmpf.

I’m used to hearing stories from my mom about my grandparents’ memory and processing issues, and if what they say about these types of issue skipping a generation is true, well…mine are starting mighty early.

What to be thankful for? The comedy of it all. But seriously — let’s be honest: it’s a wake-up call, as well. At their simplest, errors at any age are a little nudge to try to be a little more focused, a little more on it, a little more together…that is, if you realize the error in the first place. For me, it’s a push to make the spreadsheet a little more buttoned up than it already is, my days a tad less frenetic or scattered or whatever other adjective is clearly plaguing them, and my bills, well…simply less.

Here’s to finding the good for the user in the user’s error.