Over lunch today, I was speaking with a friend about the power of yes.

It goes without saying that we all probably prefer our bubble, our routine. It’s comfortable, it’s easy, and it’s not unlike a familiar t-shirt or pair of jeans that have stood the test of time; it practically defines us.

But sometimes our definition needs tweaking. Whereas a dictionary is fairly set in stone, we are not. We’re malleable, and when we want to be something else, we fortunately have the ability to adjust our course and set off in a new direction.

The power of yes means that — if we’re open to going, doing, seeing, experiencing and simply being — we can place ourselves in the path of things, people and settings that can be life altering.

Yes means ditching the comfy PJs and couch on a Friday evening and going out.

Yes means hopping in the car to endure LA traffic in exchange for good times with friends.

Yes means being open to the influences of a new environment, a new person or a new chapter in life, all the while still aware of the fact that we can always fall back on “no” if we need to once again adjust our courses.

I realized that my “yes” instances are more linked to classes, solo experiences and personal achievements than anything else, so thanks to today’s conversation, I will try to expand my bubble-for-one and say yes to known invitations, which can lead to so much that’s unknown…for in the unknown lives adventure.

Tonight I am thankful for an eye-opening lunchtime chat and the realization that although it’s one of the shorter words in the English language, “yes” has the power to quickly turn a perhaps life-long routine on its head — and to expand a bubble exponentially.

Here’s to more yes.

Remember Meg Ryan’s boyfriend, Frank, in “You’ve Got Mail”? He had a bit of an obsession with typewriters.

Some kids today may not know what a typewriter is. (Gasp.) But I think Frank was on to something.

There were no Blackberry devices back then, none of these Smartphones, no tablets, nada. If there had been, his obsession with the old in the face of the new may very well have landed him in a mental institution, and we’d have an entirely different movie. Sure, there were computers, but by today’s standards they were archaic.

Sometimes I think of moving away to live in a small farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. Perhaps Kansas. Maybe Iowa. It could be Nebraska. Maybe even eastern Colorado. Who knows. The neighbors wouldn’t be close, and the residence wouldn’t be updated; it would likely have peeling wallpaper, a screen door or three that doesn’t fully shut or gets hung up for no reason, and it wouldn’t have A/C. It may have two or three bathrooms, but only one would be fully functional. It would be simple, and some might call it uncivilized. But in this case, simple trumps civilized, though I fully realize it’s possible to have both.

One thing it would have, however, is a typewriter.

For as often as I think about the way things used to be, and for as often as I wish to be Blackberry-less and lacking the convenience to sit here on the couch blogging with Cooking Channel on in the background, the truth is that I’m thankful for being part of a generation with one foot firmly rooted in the past, mindful of simpler times, but with the ability to have technology at my fingertips when I want it.

I’m sure all generations have something that defines past/present for them. From no cars to seeing the birth of the automobile, or from no planes to seeing air travel take off, so to speak, etc.

Tonight, with a blog in the present and typewritten school reports in the past, I’m thankful for my generation and for our means of communication taking on a new face. I can’t imagine how much more it will change in my lifetime, or for generations to come.

I believe it’s never too late to say a prayer.

I know to whom I say mine, but to pray is to give thanks or request assistance from God “or an object of worship,” as my trusty online definition tells me. It’s giving in to the realization that you can’t always do it all and that not everything that has occurred has happened solely because of you; giving in doesn’t mean you’re giving up. It still requires effort on our part, but now our burdens are shared and our thanks is directed.

It could also be a request for assistance for someone else – assistance that you may not be able to provide.

The beauty of a prayer is that they can be said at any time, 24/7. The beauty of a prayer is that if you’ve never said one, it’s not too late to say one now.

Or if it’s been a while, that’s also OK.

They don’t always need to have a request. They can communicate gratitude, wonder, a simple question or simply be a time to confess something – frustration, confusion, even just a feeling of being directionless.

My mom sent me an email today that was difficult to read. I can’t imagine being in her shoes, since she actually saw it happen.

She said she’d been on the freeway and heard something that sounded like a collision, and as she looked in her rearview mirror, she saw a person that had somehow likely either been thrown from a vehicle or a motorcycle – who knows – and whose body was flying through the air. In a split-second, the body landed on the asphalt and was hit by a car. According to the CHP, it was a three-vehicle accident and there was a fatality.

I can’t imagine those final seconds being the last of my life. I can’t imagine getting the news about your son, daughter, spouse or friend and having to imagine what they went through or how everything transpired. I also can’t imagine that I’ve missed my chance to say a prayer – for the victim, for their loved ones, for the simple act of keeping them in the care of a being greater than us. In His care.

Tonight I am grateful for prayer, and tonight I say one in the wake of today’s horrific accident – because I believe it’s never too late.

So things have been a bit interesting in Anaheim these days.

Rioting, protests, broken storefront windows, the occasional peaceful demonstration and helicopters overhead 24/7 have defined the past week.

Regardless of the situations that occurred, the injustice that many perceive, the investigations, FBI involvement and the transparency that the city hopes to maintain, the fact of the matter is that a bunch of people have taken things into their own hands and are now creating more of a reason for the city to be under the microscope. It’s one thing to have an organized band of people demonstrating peacefully (which has finally happened in recent days), but setting fires, assaulting people and vandalizing businesses really, really irritates me.

I haven’t gone walking in the evenings since before my knee surgery last Christmas, but lately I’ve finally been thinking about getting back into it again. After the events of the last week — or, more specifically, the reaction that some of this city’s residents have chosen to display, I think I’ll pass, just because of how close everything is to where I live. And that’s unfortunate.

There are still officers out there doing their jobs flawlessly to keep the peace…in fact, there are more than usual. There are officers from other cities who are helping out. There are make-shift base camps, horse trailers, horses, barricades, familiar areas that are now coned off and a PD that stands ready. They’re always ready, but given the behavior of many in the wake of the shootings, they’re on high alert.

Anaheim is a big city. I heard today on the news that it’s the largest in Orange County. I don’t think I knew that it was the largest, but I’m not surprised. Now that I think about it, I really don’t know of any other that could rival its size. It spans from the hills and posh gated communities to the flat lands. I dated a guy once whose friends knew I was from Anaheim, and they said hopefully, “Oh, are you from Anaheim Hills?” I replied, “Nope, just plain ol’ Anaheim.” Their response? “Oh, I’m sorry.”

Well, I was more sorry for them. I happen to have a lot of pride in this city. It’s the city I was proud to call home when away at school in Michigan, the city I was proud to come home to when I lived in Connecticut, and it’s the city I’m proud to be from — especially the “flat lands” where, yes, many people still work hard to display pride of ownership in their homes, their property and where, quite frankly, unpretentiousness reigns supreme.

I can have a bottle of beer in the evenings as I water the grass along the back parkway and be happy as a clam. People of all shapes, sizes and kinds wave as they drive by. And I love it.

The piano teacher I went to for almost 10 years lived right around the corner from where I am now. My best friend and I met when we were 5 and she lived on the street behind me. The hospital where I was born is less than a mile away. The pre-school I went to is also less than a mile away, as is my elementary school and the high school where my parents met as teenagers — and where my brother also attended in the 80s. The phone company where my mom worked in her early 20s is less than a mile away, my parents’ first house is less than a mile away, and the community park pool where I took swimming lessons is still there. It’s all just around the corner. Another park where I took ballet and baton lessons when I was little is a stone’s throw away, and a third park where I attended many softball games over the course of many summers is a stone’s throw in the opposite direction. It’s not enough to say that my life is here, because most can have a life anywhere. But my roots are here, and tonight I couldn’t be more thankful for the many officers of the Anaheim PD that do their jobs around the clock for the good of the city that many long-time residents still believe in, many new residents are proud to call home, and despite a specific group of people who give little thought to how their actions may affect a city that’s theirs, too, in the long-run. Tonight I am thankful for my city’s officers, for the support of neighboring cities and for those who work tirelessly to keep order — even for those whose actions speak to anything but.

Was speaking with a friend tonight about life, and how it can be described as a bell curve.

The first 20 years are spent learning. The next 20 are spent climbing. The third 20 are spent maintaining, and the last 20 are spent living out the remainder.

Granted, this is all assuming a minimum of 80 years of life, and some sort of education and/or ladder-climbing.

But at some point you have to wonder whether you’re climbing for yourself, or for others.

Are you happy because of your accomplishments and how they make you feel, or are you happy because of how others perceive you?

Tonight I am thankful for making my own path, and for forging my way based on my own preferences, my own wants and my own way. For me, that’s worth more in the “what have I done” category than others’ perceptions anyday.

One of the best things about travel is the home that awaits my return.

Sometimes home is in the haze that’s heavy in the sky. It tells me I’m just an hour outside of LA.

Or it’s the familiar grid of streets and highways that slowly reveals little landmarks and familiar places I’ve been before.

Sometimes home hits me a little further out, like when the country transitions from one that’s predominantly green to a more arid, brownish-tan color. Home is heard in the flaps and is felt in the plane as it begins its final descent.

Home is felt in the air that brushes my face as a slight breeze makes its way through that little gap between the jetway and the airplane.

Interestingly, even the familiar gridlock on the freeways home make me [occasionally] feel at ease.

And sometimes it’s just a little meow from my cat as he runs to the door to greet me.

Sometimes we find little pieces of home in the usual places, as well as those that we’ve never considered but which make us smile when we take notice.

Tonight I am thankful for home.

Have you ever felt the intangible?

I have. And each time I’ve experienced it, I can tell you exactly where it starts. It starts in my chest.

It sometimes leads to shortness of breath, and sometimes it leads to a lump in the throat.

Sometimes it manifests itself in goose bumps, other times it’s something that makes your eyes well up with tears.

Sometimes it’ll make you feel as though there’s a weight on your chest, and other times it’ll make your head tingle – like something or someone is standing right behind you and lightly touching a feather to the back of your head, slowly moving it from one ear to the other. A few intangible things that I’ve felt include pride, sorrow, jealousy, regret, hope, emptiness, joy, appreciation and honor.

Today I experienced it with love.

Seeing my best friend and her husband marry was one of the best things I’ve seen in a long time. And when a guest at their reception requested Adele’s “One and Only” for the new bride and groom, my eyes teared up at the line, “God only know why it’s taken me so long to let my doubts go.”

They teared up because theirs was a beautiful union that happened because the past had been put aside, and because the future is all that mattered.

And sometimes, for as many lessons as the past can teach us, all we really deserve to do is move forward and let go of all that has happened before, any doubts that might still be there and vow to live a life together, but as one.

Tonight I am thankful for feeling their love, and to them for making the intangible tangible once again. Huge congrats and much love to them both.

Waking at 3am to make sure there’s ample time for primping, packing and to do an idiot check before high-tailing it to the airport can make for a long day.

Once there, I was greeted by a gargantuan Terminal 1 security line which almost stretched down to Terminal 2…but it moved swiftly.

TSA officers were chipper and happy – and none of my liquids were scrutinized or discarded…something I’ve never seen before.

And the mega-line at Starbucks also was daunting at first, but I ended up flying through it.

On the plane, I struggled with whether to get a regular coffee, decaf coffee, or a cocktail. Regular would give me coffee breath and keep me awake, and I wanted to sleep. Decaf would give me coffee breath, but would let me sleep. A cocktail would probably give me funky breath, too, but hopefully even the slightest buzz would make me disregard any breath funk. I went with the cocktail, and it was a wise choice. The large dude in the middle seat next to me passed out and his head was tilted toward yours truly. He was a mouth-breather, and whatever concerns I had for my own breath were forgotten when I smelled his. Yikes. Cocktail buzz to the rescue, because my screwdriver promptly made me nod off and snooze for the better part of my 3.5 hour flight.

Score.

I got to St. Louis, and was whisked away by the rental car shuttle after waiting mere minutes. Awesome.

Once at the rental car location, my preferred status did, in fact, show up on the digital display board, so I was in my car in no time.

And when I got to the hotel, even though I was technically 45 minutes before the allowed check-in time, they let me check in anyway.

Add in a fun rehearsal at the church, good times at the groom’s parents’ house this evening and a girls’ night at the hotel before her big wedding tomorrow, and the day was pretty flawless.

Tonight I am thankful for a lovely day of uneventful travel, for best friends and their love and for celebrations to come.

Cheers to the soon-to-be Mr. and Mrs.

There’s nothing like deciding to go with a carry-on bag to make you question every item you’ve packed.

Being a luggage-checking kind of gal, mostly because of my penchant for traveling with full-sized bottles of hair product, I decided to not do that tomorrow when I board a plane for my best friend’s wedding. With my luck, I’d arrive at my destination sans-bridesmaid dress, and therefore sans-shoes, makeup and unmentionables.

Instead, I made sure to go so far as to double-check that I can bring things like cuticle-trimmers on the plane with me, as well as tweezers. They didn’t specify anything about random, maid-of-honor-y emergency items like super glue or double-sided tape, but assuming they realize my glue isn’t Costco-sized and that they appreciate the need for wardrobe malfunctions to not happen, I’ll pack ’em anyway.

I was also able to confirm that my meat cleaver, ice axe, cattle prod, nunchucks, lacrosse stick, snow globe and JELL-O pudding snacks need to be left at home. Super glad I checked on those.

As I perused the unofficial “look up your carry-on items here” site, I started noticing a pesky little word presenting itself repeatedly ; it seemed to be everywhere.

“Gel.”

No gel allowed here. No gel allowed there.

I mentally reviewed my packing list:

Hair gel? Nope, left that in the 90s.

Gel toothpaste? Negative, but even if I did, it would be less than 3 oz, natch.

Gel shoe inserts? Ixnay.

Gel…bra?

Holycrap.

My miracle-working, strapless, clasp-in-the-front-while-sticking-to-The-Girls-with-powerful-adhesive contraption was suddenly in limbo.

The dress and its appearance were so closely linked to my undergarments that it would be like trying to fathom a burrito without a tortilla.

My fingers flew across the keyboard and I Googled “gel bra TSA carry on,” and the results met my eyes a nanosecond later.

I clicked on the URL with TSA.gov in it – seemed the most legit to me. I was transported to an official-looking yet likely-continually-updated page. My eyes began scanning.

And there I saw it:

“Items used to augment the body for medical or cosmetic reasons such as mastectomy products, prosthetic breasts, bras or shells containing gels, saline solution, or other liquids” are allowed.

Whew.

I printed out the page to bring with me, since you never know when a TSA-er won’t know the rules they’re supposed to play by.

Today I am thankful that, like Delta’s ad says, the rules haven’t overruled common sense, that the TSA appreciates cosmetic augmentation and that my gel bra will, in fact, be allowed to go on a journey with me.

Let’s fly.

He smelled like a warm, melted Andes mint. Or maybe like hot cocoa with a splash of crème de menthe.

Either way, it was interesting. And odd. Oddly interesting.

His arm held the elevator open for me, and I got inside. I noticed his parched, scraggly, bleached blonde hair peeking out from underneath a neon-colored baseball cap; lime green and orange, to be exact.

He wore plaid socks and white tennis shoes.

His t-shirt was hot pink and black, with some ‘smile’-something-or-other writing on it.

His knee-length shorts were bright turquoise.

He was of slight build, and was maybe an inch shorter than me. When he spoke, the chocolate mintiness intensified.

“What floor?” he asked softly.

“Three, thank you,” I said. He pushed two for himself, then three for me. The movement of his arm stirred up more chocolate mintiness in our small space. 

“Dude, I was walking inside just now, and I could’ve sworn I felt it sprinkling on my face,” he said slowly.

“Yeah, I think it’s just weird, gloomy summer weather…like, low clouds or fog or mist or something,” I replied.

“Cool, cool,” he said, nodding slowly and processing (I assumed) my statement. The elevator doors opened. He turned, looked at me and had a gentle smile on his face.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah. Right on.”

He exited the elevator and went on his way while I rode it up one more floor. I wasn’t sure what exactly was ‘right on.’

Had he been having a separate dialogue in his head?

Was he pondering the mistiness in the morning air?

Or did he just happen to agree with my overall meteorological assessment?

I watched him walk down the hall as the doors shut, his lime-green, orange, turquoise, black, white, hot pink and plaid person seemingly floating away from me. I was so captivated by the human rainbow who had just departed the elevator that I never got a good read on his shirt. I just remember one word:

“Smile.”

And I did.

Today I am thankful for my interesting, delightfully odd start to the morning, and for the rainbow dude whose mint-chocolate scent and zen-like state of being ushered in the start of a new work-week in one of the most unique ways ever. I’m pretty sure he was there visiting the physical therapy office in our building, but I’m certain the therapists were also about to take note of his aroma-therapy offerings the same way I had.