Here.

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I’m here.

Sometimes it feels otherwise, like those nights when I’m too tired to think, to write, to move. But at this moment — listening to my laundry tumble about in the dryer, picking out the faint clackety-clack of a train’s song being carried through the night air and trying to ignore my hunger pangs — I am definitely here.

Earlier today I realized how long it’s been since we’ve had a somewhat sizable earthquake in SoCal. I’m not necessarily wishing for one, it’s just a fact.

An earthquake is something, not surprisingly, that would make me wish I wasn’t here — not in California. Missing someone is something that makes me wish I wasn’t here, too. Wanting a break from it all — however we define it all — also inspires a bit of daydreamy wanderlust.

But I’m here.

I am very much here.

You know those times when you feel like you’re at a general loss and the idea of nobody being around highlights the desperation that can sometimes fill this life? Your compass needle might be having a hard time finding its true north, and you can swear you’re floating — simply going through the motions. “I’m here” is one of the best things we can hear in those circumstances. Even though our tendency may be to cocoon ourselves and ride things out solo, an instance of “I’m here” — even if from afar — can go a long way.

It’s grounding. Comforting. Understanding.

It’s human.

I’m at a slight loss tonight with no real knowledge of what, or why. It’s a lovely evening — the chill we’ve had over the last week or so has briefly passed; the Santa Ana winds are stirring dry leaves barely hanging onto their branches. It’s a peaceful night. It’s a still night, and that may be what’s getting to me. I’m here, period. Just me.

Being here speaks to being present, but also being engaged. It speaks volumes to someone riding out a storm, and it reminds us also that we’re mere mortals who need a rest — and someone to lean on every now and again.

Here’s to being here — for ourselves, for going easy on our spirit, and to being there for someone who needs to catch a break — or just their breath. Tonight I find myself thankful for those who have always popped their heads in at just the right time.

Charcoal.

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Asphalt. Concrete. Cinder block. Metal.

We were playing a high school basketball game on a campus that felt more like a prison. I didn’t want to be there. I kept looking over my shoulder and wondering who might shank any one of us if we scored against the home team.

How did we end up here? Who is this team? Why haven’t we played them before? How’d they end up on our schedule?

The school lacked any green space, favoring only hard-top courts for tennis or racquetball. Some might think the grounds were modern but it fell short of that adjective, instead landing among “cold,” unwelcoming” and “austere.” I wish I could tell you that what the school lacked in warmth it made up in the people — students and teachers alike — that walked its halls. This wasn’t the case. They were simply living, breathing versions of the inanimate space.

I wish I could remember what the name of the high school was but, in a way, I’m glad I can’t. I remember not being able to leave fast enough once the game was over. I don’t know if we won or lost, and I don’t care. I felt badly for the students who had to show up every day, and I felt like the teachers must fancy themselves wardens versus educators. How depressing.

There are times from years past that I remember so vividly in some respects, and not at all in others. This particular memory left a mark which began as a bruise and quickly ended up as a permanently discolored area of my life. Nothing bad happened there, but it’s the kind of place that makes you suspect it held countless bad memories for others; they practically seeped out of the walls. I appreciate “modern” and “sparse” as adjectives and in design, but — to this day — if things are pushed too far (say, in the direction of said school’s appearance), it’s enough to shut me down. I really can’t explain it. I need trees and grass, softness and throw pillows. I need something that says “welcome,” and the campus instead said, “I can’t wait for you to get out of here.”

And, frankly, neither could I.

Driving home from our agency’s holiday party this evening, I was on a stretch of the freeway that was nothing but charcoal: light charcoal concrete walls surrounding a freeway that sat 40-50 feet lower than the city traffic above. Slightly darker charcoal that colored the freeway itself. Even darker charcoal that made up the night sky. Nothing was absolutely black or absolutely white, and there was nobody else around me. It felt like I was back on those school grounds, and I was immediately uneasy. Fortunately the freeway made it to higher ground, and roadside shrubbery was suddenly visible. It was a welcome sight, despite the fact that the night was damp and a chill was in the air. The point is that something aside from me was living — surviving, in fact — and that made my own existence seem that much more sure. Possible. Full of life.

Tonight I am thankful for the past that can have an effect on the present, because my surroundings back then contained the same things that still set my radar off to this day. Who’s around me? What do they want? Am I safe? If not, where’s my out? If I am, how do I know? Might sound more than a little paranoid, but I don’t think any one of us can be too careful in the world today. Whether it’s a gut feeling or an old memory of a prison-like school that makes us extra-cautious, listening to it can sometimes be the only that that allows us to live another day. We’ll never really now.

So here’s to listening.

The Snacker and the Universe

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I managed to do what’s damn near impossible for most people: I burned my microwave dinner.

Last time I was at the store, I happened upon some frozen “lean gourmet” pepperoni pizza snackers.

Hm. A way to get my pizza fix that’s both lean and gourmet? Sign me up.

They weren’t bad. I made a few earlier this week and they swiftly turned from frozen, Barbie-sized beanbags into small, poofy pillows of deliciousness. I decided tonight I needed to revisit them…all six that came in the box.

Somewhere in between arranging them on a plate and pressing the microwave’s start button, my brain went haywire. I read that six snackers took two minutes, so in they went.

For some reason I pressed the six instead of the two.

While they met their hellish demise, I went about some chores in other parts of the house. When I returned, the kitchen reeked of burned snackers.

They were no longer the pillowy gems that I’d made earlier in the week. They’d been defeated by the heat, shrinking to half their size and turning into something resembling smoldering bits of meteor debris.

Bummed and still hungry, I pried them off the plate, put them in a sandwich bag and made my way outside to the trash. It took exactly seven steps for the bag to succumb to their fury and begin to melt.

I tried my hand at the microwave again, this time settling on a bag of steamed veggies. Mmm. Not snackerish whatsoever, but also not smoldering. It’s something.

Tonight I am thankful the snackers didn’t somehow manage to be a catalyst for burning down the house. Their stench has slowly infiltrated most rooms, but I think the trashcan outside received the worst of it. In a weird way, perhaps the universe was reminding me that I’d not yet consumed my recommended daily quantity of veggies — or perhaps I’m simply rationalizing my air-headed ways. Regardless, I am with veg and sans-snacker, and will gladly close the book on today’s meal mishap. Read carefully, hungry people.

Floyd

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My brother bequeathed a fish to me when he left home at 18.

It was a tropical fish — a Kissing Gourami which was pink. As such, I named him Floyd.

The fish lived to be close to 20 years old — no joke. For years I dutifully cleaned Floyd’s tank, but when I went away to college seven years after my brother moved out, the cleanings became less frequent. In fact, I assumed I’d come home on break and find a bit of Floyd taxidermy on the wall next to my dad’s largemouth bass haul from the ’80s.

That never happened. Floyd persevered through most of my college career.

Ultimately one day Floyd did pass, but that little guy (gal?) was a tough one. And his legacy lives on in Floydisms to this very day.

1) Life can get pretty scummy. Suck it up. (Floyd did this literally. I believe it was a delicacy for him.)

2) You might spend a lot of time a-chasin’ (as my grandma used to say), but don’t forget to come up for air.

3) When you get new roommates or when someone comes into your space, be nice. Don’t terrorize them.

4) Sometimes fake plants are best.

5) There will be days when you’ll need to be content simply watching the world go by. Enjoy those days.

I’ve not thought of Floyd for years until very recently — hence this post. As a fish, he never really had a voice, but he always held a place in our hearts. For Floyd and all the years he spent in our home — bless his little gills — I am thankful.

‘Tis the Season

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It’s getting crazy out there.

‘Tis the season for oblivious drivers, mindless wanderers, rogue shopping carts and grabby people.

I was buying tea yesterday. Tea — something that evokes images of quiet and calm, peace and warmth. After studying the display long and hard, my hand was almost upon a particular box, until said box was plucked from in front of me by a speeding shopper. I shouldn’t have been surprised at what transpired, as she practically laid rubber coming around the corner. My hand was wavering between the Sleepytime and the Country Peach Passion when the former was swiped from the shelf.

“Excuse you,” the tea-pilferer said before she continued on her way.

I was so shocked at her crabbiness that I laughed, which she didn’t appreciate. She clearly needed the Sleepytime more than yours truly.

The parking lot was another interesting scene. A man’s shopping cart grew a mind of its own and wandered off down the aisle as he was yelling at his child. Then a driver backed into it, sending the cart and its contents tipping over. The man yelled at his kid some more. Fantastic.

I sat in my car for about a minute and let it run while I found my happy place. I backed out, motored toward the exit and was met — fortunately not literally — by a teenager who had emerged from between two cars. Out he wandered in front of me, his head down and focused on his phone the whole time. He kept walking, never looking up, and I waited.

I’ve never been so happy to get home. And this shopping trip was after the accident I’d witnessed on my way home earlier that evening. Whew.

Tonight I am thankful for those crazy people who come out of the woodwork during the most hectic time of the year, because they are to our awareness what a sharpener is to a pencil. When before we may have been dull, we emerge sharp and focused after being in their presence — sometimes a bit worn around the edges, but focused all the same.

Stay safe, friends.

Use caution.

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He just wanted to turn left into a housing tract.

But it was rush hour, and he had to get across three lanes of traffic first.

I was in the middle lane and the light up ahead was red. My lane was backing up quickly, so I kept the intersection open and left a clear path to the side street he wanted to head down.

On the other side of the street, Mr. Left Turn stayed put.

Then the driver to my left stopped, as his lane was also out of room.

There was nobody stopped in the lane to my right; it wasn’t even close to being backed up, and Mr. Left Turn thought he’d make a break for it.

He made the wrong choice.

He crossed in front of the driver to my left, then me. The lane to my right was so open that it easily accommodated its 45 mph drivers. Mr. Left Turn would quickly meet one of them.

A new VW Beetle in the wide-open lane t-boned Mr. Left Turn’s older Honda on the passenger side, but not before trying in vain to slam on its brakes. They caught briefly, a weak, high-pitched squeal crying out in the night.

Impact.

There were two drivers in each car. All sat dazed for a moment, but eventually began moving around. I called 911.

It was a hard hit — one that turned my stomach into a giant knot. I’m guessing the Honda didn’t even see the VW coming. The VW surely didn’t expect the Honda to be in its path.

So many others do the same thing day in and day out, and they get lucky. They may know they’re taking a risk but figure their gas pedal will save them, swiftly speeding them across a lane they’re unsure of — the motorist’s version of Russian roulette.

I thought about how much worse it could’ve been had there been a car immediately behind the VW that plowed into the Honda, making it at least a three-car accident then. Or how much worse it could’ve been had it been raining.

I even wondered if I’d caused the wreck. So many nights before I’ve come up to that same intersection and other drivers haven’t left it clear, so I didn’t, either. What good is my open lane when there are two more that are blocked? Tonight I stopped first. Then the driver to my left. Then all hell broke loose.

I know I’m not to blame, per se, but I opened the door — just a crack; I left it ajar. You’re not supposed to go unless you’re sure all lanes are clear, though, and they weren’t.

People give us the green light and the thumbs up all the time, but it doesn’t mean the path we’re on is the best one. And while we can never predict the final outcome, we can do our best in the process to make sure our I’s are dotted, T’s are crossed and our lanes are clear. Anything less can get us into trouble, not to mention the lives of those around us.

Left turn or right, difficult or easy, tonight I am thankful for the reminder to use caution when proceeding. These days, faster and faster becomes our pace — but slow and steady wins the race. Here’s to using caution. Always.

Movie Magic

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Anyone been watching Hallmark Channel this season? If you have, maybe it’s because you’ve watched it before. Me, this is my first season.

Newsflash (or maybe not so much): I’m a crier. Therefore, my newfound channel is, in fact, made for me.

Tonight’s feature, Christmas in Conway, has it all: a story that tugs at your heartstrings, peppered with little scenes where you find yourself snickering through all the sniveling. Then there are the network’s commercials themselves…holy moly. Not a good evening to use a paper towel as a tissue, I’ll tell you that — it’ll see a lot of action, and the schnoz will see a lot of redness.

I’ve been a crier for as long as I can remember. Yes, sometimes the scenes are so well written and touching that they’ll inspire some waterworks, but it’s mostly because I’ll put myself in the situation of the characters that makes me a bit emotional.

A wife dying is sad. But her husband’s emotion makes me wonder if anyone would ever feel that way about me.

A daughter losing her mother is sad, though her strength in the film is inspiring and she triumphs in the end. But would I be as strong? Would I — could I — even go on living without mine?

A man recreating the best parts of his relationship with his wife for her Christmas present is touching and beautiful — but would anyone ever do that for me?

I guess at the end of the day my takeaway isn’t simply that I’ll shed a tear due to movie magic, but that it instead shines a light on my insecurities. Will I be strong enough in times of loss, worthy enough in times of love, valued enough for someone to chase rainbows and capture the stars?

I guess it remains to be seen. Many have been baffled by my tears. They say that movies are based on someone’s imagination, but I prefer to think of them the way the characters in Only You speak of love songs: they’re not a cruel hoax that feed people’s fantasies, somebody wrote them — therefore they came out of someone’s experience.

Tonight I am thankful for movies that move me to tears, no matter how cheesy. Whether they’re from someone’s experience or not, they inevitably teach me something about an area in which I can grow, about what I want and about what’s most important to me in life. And if that’s not a good movie with its own kind of magic, I don’t know what is.

Everyone Sing Along

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It’s the worst possible tiiiiiiiiiiime of the yeeeeeeeeeear
For the heater to break
So hot cider I’ll make
Must stay toasty in here!
It’s the worst possible time of the year

It’s the chill-chilliest weekend of all
With the temperature dropping
And raindroppage falling
Repair order’s tall!
It’s the chill-chilliest weekend of all

I have socks on my feet
And those Uggs you can’t beat
Plus a sweatshirt zipped up to my nose
Should I break out the gloves
And curl up on the rug
By a fire just to thaw out my woes

It’s the worst possible timing of all
Under normal conditions
I’d shop on a mission
And wrap presents here
But I’m now frozen in place, yes, that’s clear

The repairman arrived
And he’s looking inside
Of the hall closet where I’m in need
Of a heater that heats
Any warmth is a treat
‘Cause it’s not even sixty, you see

It’s the most wonderful time of the year
For my heater now works
Sixty-eight is a perk
I can strip and be free!
No more bulk-bulkety clothes
No more froze-frozenish nose
It’s the most wonderful time of the year!

Mixed Nuts

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I come from a long line of nutty broads. My mom, her mom, other women in the family — most of us have what I enjoy calling the haywire gene. Sometimes the crazy kicks in. It’s amusing enough when we’re solo, but we can be downright bizarre when we run in a pack.

Earlier tonight I was outside, looking up at some low clouds and crisp, flickering stars. The night was cold and I was about to head back inside, but not before I remembered something that I experienced in the early ’80s.

My grandmother had taken me somewhere one evening. For the life of me I couldn’t tell you where we’d been, as most events with her during those years blend together: going to the San Diego Zoo, taking my first plane trip, seeing a play at a dinner theater. But that night when we returned home from wherever we were and she parked on our cul-de-sac, I recall looking up and seeing three distinct lights in the sky.

I remember being unafraid but curious. The lights were maybe an eighth to a quarter of a mile over us and they were all attached to something. What that thing was, I hadn’t a clue. But if you’re holding a yardstick and lift it horizontally over your head, that was the length of one of the triangle’s sides. Whatever it was stayed motionless and silent, but it was definitely a large structure in the sky.

I occasionally think about it and wonder if my kid senses were to blame. Perhaps my sense of distance was warped. Maybe I was momentarily deaf and couldn’t tell that it was nothing more than a noisy, hovering police helicopter out looking for someone. I certainly hadn’t been drinking anything other than milk or water, since I was no older than seven years of age…so, for once, I can’t wonder if the bottle was to blame.

That said, I don’t think it was a helicopter. I don’t think my sense of distance or size was skewed. I can’t tell you what I saw, but there’s nothing that obscures my street from the heavens — no overhanging tree branches, no buildings — nada. It’s asphalt, then straight up into the sky. But something was in the airspace.

Maybe my crazy kicked in at a young age; perhaps that night was the birth of my haywire gene. Even today, illuminated streetlights turn off when I’m out on my evening walks, and lights that are off come back on when I pass by them. Then there were the times right after I moved home from Connecticut when my computer would turn on in the middle of the night all by itself. To power it on normally, you’d press a flat button flush with the front of the tower. But some nights I’d awaken to the Windows start-up tones and my monitor glowing in an otherwise dark room. Lately my car presets will change to a different station while both hands are on the wheel. Weird, right?

Ah, the mystery of it all. If I were to loop the women in my family in on such things, I’m betting that they’d either ‘fess up to similar experiences, or simply believe me without question. Anyone else, like those of you reading, for example, may finally have your suspicions about me confirmed: yep, I’m a weird one. But some lady told me that very thing on a plane once, so it’s not news to me.

Whatever the reason for the plethora of oddities, it’s nice to know I’m surrounded by a bunch of mixed nuts among whom I’ll fit in perfectly. For them, and for their stories that can always be guaranteed as having similar degrees of strangeness, I am thankful.

Save the Best

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It’s probably not a large number compared to what others have, but somewhere between Newark and LAX I decided to use my time wisely by deleting as many of my 1,700 pictures as possible. I guess you could call it a premature spring cleaning.

The great thing about the iPhone, even though I took forever to warm up to it, is that — whenever the moment grabs me — I can capture anything I want to save and remember. Most of my pictures are of travel and tiny details — clouds mid-country, sunsets, changing light, the landscape, towns lit up at night, plants, trees, and there were many of raindrops on hotel windows with a foggy, gray cityscape for a backdrop. Apparently I travel during inclement weather more often than I realized.

If the photo reminded me of more than simply the destination and a meeting I attended, I saved it. If it didn’t, it was deleted. I deleted one-third of my stash.

I think we do the same thing to other people. We filter, and sometimes we do it without even realizing what we’re up to. Good memories, people get to stick around. Mediocre, then sticking around is a big if. If we don’t like the way we feel around someone or the person we become, the plug gets pulled — usually without an explanation. At least that’s how I operate. There may be better ways to handle things, but that’s one of my truths, for better or for worse. I prefer to think of it as self-preservation; it’s protection, in one of its purest forms.

You can cram a lot into an iPhone. I’m sure I wasn’t in any danger of filling up my space for photos, but why keep the unnecessary around? Save the best and cash in on those memories when things get a little bleak, when you just need a lift or when you feel your road getting a bit bumpy. Same goes for life. We can accept a lot, we can take a lot, and we can put up with a lot — but why? So much of it is garbage, a waste. And for what?

Tonight I am thankful for my iPhone (never thought I’d say that) and its hidden truth. We can accumulate a lot as we travel our path, but the road is long and it’s only so wide. Here’s to making the journey as full of good memories as possible.