Such a weird evening.

I’m sitting here in complete darkness, save for the 11 candles which are lit all around me. Across the room, a small fake plant in a decorative tin basket sits on a glass top table; the candle in front of it is almost bringing it to life, casting shadows on the wall which give life to the faux greenery and illuminating its leaves gently. The reflections from below give size and shape to the little pieces of decor that I look past each day. The room is alive.

Outside, the steady beat of a mid-July rain shower comes down on the patio roof. Its determined rhythm is all I hear in the humid, thick evening air. No, there’s more: the occasional oversized drop of water plunks down lazily on a terracotta flower pot, and crickets are chirping excitedly. I’m not sure if they’re elated that there’s nary a streetlight to infringe upon their nightly festivities this eve, or whether they’re usually this loud but generally unnoticed by me.

The power is out, and it’s peaceful. The only things I would wish for right now are cooler temperatures and for it to be a Friday night instead of a Thursday.

If it was cooler, I’d build a fire in the fireplace for extra light. With the house nearing 80 and the a/c off, however, I’ll pass on the idea.

I’d sit outside on the patio with wine and a candle in the center of my table so that a glow would delicately wash over the garden, but such a beautiful evening would call for at least two glasses — and it’s a school night, so I’ll pass on that, too.

With so little on my to do list this evening, the only thing left to check off is my thanky of the day.

Tonight I am thankful for a summer storm that has given pause to my night and taught me to not be so eager to speed ahead to Friday. Its raindrops are asking me to listen to them, to appreciate them being too few and far between this year, and its crickets are telling me to take better notice of the little things that the noises of each day normally drown out.

If I get out during the lunch hour, I usually buzz a Starbucks near the office for an unsweetened passionfruit iced tea, drive aimlessly for 45 minutes, then run an errand just before heading back to the office. Today was one of those days when I was able to do that.

After passionfruiting, I couldn’t decide whether to go south on PCH, or north. Instead, I decided to head north on an entirely different street — just to see what I could see.

I saw an equestrian center and was reminded of my time at a horsemanship camp when I was 12. Back then, I wanted a horse so badly that I would’ve done anything for one. These days, being an adult and all, I’m acutely aware of the expense a horse requires and — while I still want one — I need to snag the property first in Palos Verdes so that it has a suitable place to roam. Working on that.

I saw a driving range and remembered how I took my dad golfing for either his birthday or Father’s Day when I was, oh, maybe 10 or so. It was the worst gift I’ve ever given him, yet I’ll never forget how patient he was. We only “played” nine holes, but with the first one being beyond an agonizing experience for me, the other eight were exponentially worse. Picture an inexperienced 10-year-old holding up the others behind us, wildly hitting balls here and there, and doing everything from cackling hysterically to reaching my boiling point in the process. I’d only ever hit a bucket of balls here and there, or used the putting green with him when he went — so taking him golfing wasn’t the most brilliant idea I’ve ever had. They were the longest nine holes ever, but somehow we made it out alive that day.

I don’t think I’ve golfed since then — but I’ve certainly thought about lessons. Maybe in another lifetime.

And then, as I continued on my lunchtime drive, I came upon it: an Armstrong Garden Center.

I’ve been meaning to go for a few months now, but I haven’t made it to one yet. But there it was, at the corner(ish) of Goldenwest and Slater, beckoning me to come inside.

I had my iced tea and the sunroof was open, so I thought about just staying in the car and continuing to wherever it was that I ended up driving. As I rounded the corner and turned onto Slater, there was one final driveway that led to it, so I figured it was a sign.

And it was.

My last trip to Lowe’s left me a bit uninspired, as I couldn’t find any Coneflowers to attract the butterflies to my yard, nor could I find any decent groundcovering to replace the Red Apple which used to be in the front of the house. Armstrong’s, however, had all of the above — and then some.

I spent a good 50 minutes wandering, then was jolted back to reality by a) the loud suctioning of a lonely straw, thanks to an empty passionfruit iced tea cup, and b) the realization that I was suddenly out of time during my lunch hour.

When I left the office, I had a dull ache in my lower back. After getting lost in my thoughts and walking around a relatively empty garden center while admiring the selection of plants, flowers, pottery, herbs and fruit trees, I felt renewed, invigorated and ready to tackle the latter part of my day.

Tonight I am thankful for the calm I found earlier this afternoon at a garden center, for the feeling it gave of having taken a long, restful nap and for the peaceful mindset that stayed with me the rest of the day, straight into the evening. It’s funny what a little fresh air and beautiful flora can do for the soul.

Earlier, I met a former client of mine for dinner at L’Opera in Long Beach. It was my first time at the restaurant, and it was a great evening overall. There was no traffic up PCH from Huntington Beach, the weather couldn’t have been more beautiful, and it seemed everyone was outside taking advantage of it. Yoga-ers were posing on the grass under a large tree mere feet from the ocean, the setting sun sparkled off the high-rise buildings and created a sea of amber gem-like reflections and a warm breeze was coming in off the ocean.

Along Ocean Boulevard, nobody was in a hurry or impatient, so nobody was honking. Parking was easy to find. My entree was phenomenal, and I — frankly — would like to go back and repeat it again tomorrow.

After dinner, I decided to head down PCH to make my way home versus taking a speedier route. There was still the slightest bit of light in the sky, and it was my favorite time of day: dusk.

People flitted about 2nd Street in Belmont Shore the way the June Bugs were beginning to do up near the glow from the street lights and bright restaurant signs.

Bicyclists were out in droves.

It looked more like a Thursday or Friday instead of a Tuesday. Shops were bustling, and business looked like it was doing well.

As I took in the sights, my eyes caught part of a billboard and all I was able to read was, “Thank Good for Good.”

I knew it wasn’t the full billboard itself, but even the abbreviated, partial headline made sense to me.

Good creates more good.

Positivity fosters positivity.

Smiles bring about more smiles.

Elation can generate elation.

And at the end of the day, the more good we put out, the more good we get back. The more good we try to see, the more that seeing good comes naturally.

Thus, tonight I am thankful for ‘good.’

…does every boob have a cup?

Frankly, I think the bra industry is out to shamelessly rob women, and I’m convinced brassieres were burned in the 1960s merely because they’re frustrating.

I don’t have much to gripe about in my life, but I can say with confidence that my bras have been aggravating me for years. I’ve tried them all: Victoria’s Secret (no secret there, their stuff is a sham!), Frederick’s, bras that Macy’s sells, ones that JCP sells, and every store in between. Bras that I’ve bought online (with my luck, I figured it would be the one that I never tried on that would work the best — but nooo), and bras that I’ve worn as a gift. ‘Nuff said on that last one.

I’ve determined that bras are about as useful as leashes are for cats.

Before you regale me with any tales about how you knew someone whose cousin’s half-sister’s hoarding friend successfully walked her cat on a daily basis, I will say that I am aware of the benefits of bras. And while I’m not threatening to go without (not that it would be that big of a deal), I will say that tonight’s experience at Nordstorm was amusing.

I went in for double-sided tape because I have a dress that likes to get a little wild in front. After searching for and finally procuring said tape, I somehow became ensnared in the trap of the salesgirl. I ended up being measured (for, like, the seventeenth time in my life) to see what size bra I wore, and she proceeded to bring me two “fit bras” to confirm her sizing suspicious. Initially I scoffed at them both. There was no way either was my size.

Miraculously, one was perfect. I suddenly had high hopes.

I explained what I was looking for, what my current bra issues were, and — might I say — it’s amazing how quickly the shame of undressing for a complete stranger leaves you when being the owner of a well-fitting bra is potentially looming on the horizon.

She brought me a batch of funky Betsey Johnson bras and I tried to look past the adorable miniature bows and sassy straps, instead embracing them for their reportedly amazing fit.

While the first seemed to be the Holy Grail of Bratopia, I soon realized it was not. It wasn’t in the same sinking boat as all the other bras I’ve owned, but when the salesgirl came back to check on me, I gladly let her tug, poke, prod and behold the enigma that is my girls in a brassiere.

“Huh,” she said. “I don’t think I like what’s going on here.”

Awesome.

She tugged the back down, adjusted the straps and — if I was standing perfectly rigid — sure, the thing looked pretty awesome.

“I’m fairly confident I won’t be walking around like this all day, so let the back ride up or do whatever it’s gonna do,” I said.

Sure enough, a few awkward dressing room movements later, and the true picture was painted. She was even less impressed than before. I was stumped.

Do I need implants? Was the lady two weekends ago at FedEx Office right with her advice — and should I perhaps look to enlarge them, er, naturally? If their size is the issue, why can’t scientists find a way to take the fat from my butt, inject it into The Girls and have it all stay put?

The two of us were in the dressing room chatting away about my dilemma, and it wasn’t lost on me how thankful I was that I found myself doing this on a Monday night — because there was NOBODY else in the store. Whew.

Still in the same bra, I noticed I now had this weird Venus Flytrap thing going on with the cups. I could look down and see that the front of each was pulling away a bit, and it looked like I suddenly had two backup pockets in case the ones in my jeans were ever out of room — or like I was providing a safe haven for two pygmy marmosets. 

I decided to try on a few other styles she brought in.

One by one, they all bit the dust.

“Are you sure you measured me correctly?” I asked. She raised her eyebrows at me (my bad — how dare I second-guess a chick with a measuring tape) and cheerfully squealed something about me just needing to spend more time trying others on.

Nah. I’m all set.

I explained to her that if I wasn’t going on my twentieth year of having this issue, I might actually be peeved. But instead, I expected it, and I was OK with the situation.

All that aside, I was happy with the overall experience at Nordies, and will probably wander back that way — ideally on a Monday so The Girls can get another red carpet treatment without an audience.

Tonight I am thankful for what is just about the closest I’ve ever come to having a completely successful bra shopping experience. I appreciate the salegirl’s help, her undying determination to get me back into a [properly-fitting] saddle again (because that’s what most of mine are about as comfy as), and for the just generally awesome help that I had earlier. It didn’t result in purchased bras, but it resulted in something just as good: renewed faith that maybe — just maybe —  my pots will find their lid after all.

I have eleven more to go.

I never thought I’d reach this day, although I hoped that I would. When I started out, it seemed like such a monumental task, but now it seems so…everyday.

At first, I was reminded on a daily basis by my Blackberry. Now, it’s second-nature.

At first, it seemed like a chore. Now I look forward to it.

At first, I had to much to say. After 189 posts, it gets a little more difficult. (You might’ve noticed.)

Yep, I’m eleven days away from blogging for 200 days straight. Some posts come more easily than others, while a number have — admittedly — been “throw-away” posts. (Interestingly, the throw-away ones often get the most comments. Strange to me.)

189 days ago, I was fresh out of knee surgery.

189 days ago, I was mourning the loss of Christmas.

189 days ago, I wondered how I’d reach day 30.

Now I look forward to the next day of writing, the next day of discipline, the next day of wondering what I’ll write about, the next day that’s nothing more than a blank slate.

Tonight I am thankful for tomorrows, for putting one foot in front of the other and for making it further than I ever thought I would. I wasn’t sure when I’d succumb to the allure of laziness, but I’m glad it hasn’t happened yet.

(Perhaps on day 367 — being that this is a leap year and all.)

Confession: I’m “that neighbor” who does random things at weird hours of the day.

At least that’s what mine probably think.

If I can’t sleep at 2 or 3am (and if you can’t, either), you’ll see my office light on. I sometimes go in and write things down that could be bigger things (plots, character conceits, parts of a scene, a poem, etc.) at a later time. Strange nuggets of ideas with rough edges come to me at odd hours of the day, but when I review them during normal hours, I polish them and make them acceptable.

If I’ve just finished watching a movie that ended around midnight and am inspired to clean my kitchen floor, you can see me through my perpetually-partway-open dining room shutters Swiffering after the 12am hour. Good comedy.

And, not content to stop at Swiffering, I then feel compelled to gather up the bathroom and kitchen trashbags and take them outside, including my recyclables that generally have a few bottles and cans clanking around inside their flimsy, plastic, handled home. I usually wander outside around 1:30 or 2am, deposit them in my trash cans, then return to the comfort of my home. My snoozing neighbor probably hates this.

In the evenings during the week, I usually get home from work and turn the hose on in the garden flowerbeds. I find an amusing rerun to watch, get engrossed in a glass or two of wine, and before I know it it’s 9pm and I need to water the grass (no sprinklers in the backyard). I dutifully attach the oscillating sprinkler to the hose, and let it do its thing. After a half hour or so, I’ll go outside to turn it off, but then I’ll feel sad for the adjacent square of grass that the sprinkler couldn’t reach so I feel obliged to give it its own time with the water. Before you know it, my person is casting a shadow across the backyard under the watchful eye of the streetlight, and I’m watering a patch of green stuff in my jammies.

The opposite is also true. I’ll water the front yard in the morning, usually between 5:30 and 5:45 when I wake up. Fortunately there are sprinklers, so in this case all it entails is me cruising out to the front porch in, yes, those same jammies, and turning a section of sprinklers on as the dude across the street passes in front of my house like clockwork, waves with a friendly “Hola!” and continues on his walk with his ratty, hyperactive pooch. Their morning walk always coincides with my waking-and-watering routine.

Truth be told, it’s better to water in the early morning and evenings anyway…it’s just that I tend to take it to the extreme.

In my 30s, I’ve also come to realize the pleasure in going to bed early on a Friday or Saturday night following an evening with no wine (not always, but sometimes), then waking up early the next morning to weed before the sun comes out and bestows unattractive tan lines upon me.

In my 20s, I slept till noon after an evening of, well…”festivities,” didn’t weed and never went to bed early on a Friday or Saturday night. Oh, how a decade changes things.

This evening, I was in the middle of watching Father of the Bride when I realized I had a string of clear globe lights on my patio that had gone out. I noticed it a few weeks back, but I finally felt like doing something about it tonight after some TV-viewing and alcohol-free wine-ing (random, yes — and also potentially contradictory since alcohol didn’t spur me to to anything crazy…for once. Speaking of, the brand is FRE, and Sutter Home makes it. Try the [faux] merlot. It’s delish.).

I walked outside and realized it was a bit more dim than I initially thought. Remembering that I had an extra string of lights in the house, I fetched it, removed it from the box and untangled its mess of wires, only to see that two of the globes had cracked. Seeing no point in putting up broken lights, I saw that it was an opportunity for me to instead whip out the measuring tape and get the patio’s dimensions so that I could order better lighting.

With no porchlight on and only the metallic racket of a measuring tape echoing in the evening air, I felt a little weird. I went inside to turn the porchlight on, but that only helped a bit. From across the property line, my neighbor called out, “Are you saying ‘hi’ to Lauren?” She was talking to her son who was peering into the yard through the gate. I realized I had an audience, and went over to be neighborly.

We chatted about my lighting issue, Christmas lights, her two-year-old son’s fascination with measuring tapes (odd, but glad that I had one on my person), and that was that.

Having taken the measurements, I went inside to look for more ideal [read: commercial-grade?] lighting options online. A few were found, but when you see that the bulb spacing is at 24″ and costs close to $100 for a 21′ strand, that’s a lotta dinero for not a lot of illumination. I stumbled across a homeowner’s blog in which she said she used clear C9 Christmas lights for her patio, at a fraction — and I mean FRACK-SHUN — of the cost. So, problem solved.

Now I can not only be “that neighbor,” but also “that girl” who leaves up Christmas lights year-round.

Whatever. When they’re clear and on a patio, I think they’re stellar.

Tonight I am thankful for my lighting dilemma which ultimately yielded a more cost-efficient solution, for the notion of being able to leave up my yet-to-be-ordered clear Christmas lights year-round [ye who know my obsession with the holidays won’t be surprised at this] and for being “that girl’ on the street who does random things at all hours. If it weren’t for the randomness, I’d have one less thing to blog about.

Sometimes, usually late in the evening hours, I’ll wander over to VH1 Classic and see what there is to see. For a while, it seemed I would always tune in when Rush: Beyond the Lighted Stage was on, and every time I would sit and watch as though it was my first time seeing it. After that, I would often continue my couch-bonding if Metal Mania was on, or if there was an episode of That Metal Show.

Tonight, unenthused at the television’s offerings, I was about to turn it off when I once again strolled over to VH1C. To my delight, a wonderful concert was on, and I decided I’d be sitting still for a while longer to take it all in.

I should note that for the past few nights, I’ve been in a concert mood. I’ve come close to dusting off a Sarah Brightman DVD so that I could get my concert fix that way, but something about that route just didn’t seem as satisfactory as if I was in a Brightman-specific mood. No doubt about it: I needed some on-stage musical artistry, but not necessary hers. I couldn’t place what I was looking for though.

When I saw the title on the DirecTV guide, however, I knew I had found it.

I remembered seeing one of their concerts on TV during the late 80s, and it was life-changing for me. The spectacle of it all took my breath away, so I can’t imagine what it would’ve been like to be there in person. The lighting. The effects. The everything.

The backup singers, the impressively oversized drum set-up (cage?) of Gary Wallis which had elements that could only be reached if he jumped into the air to make contact with them, the laser lights and the guitar — oh, that guitar that is so David, so beautiful and both melancholy and melodic at the same time.

David Gilmour: Live in Gdansk is what I stumbled across tonight, and without fail — whenever I watch a show that’s full-Floyd or Gilmour-centric — I feel like I’ve just slept for a restful 8 hours, or had the most peaceful dream ever. Or both.

It probably doesn’t hurt that I [still] have a giant crush on him after 20+ years, either.

Tonight I am thankful for the many talents of David Gilmour, for the music of Pink Floyd and for their ability to transport me to an otherworldly place. No doubt, I’m sure I would feel their musical void if they never had been, likely constantly searching for something to move me more than the last song, artist or concert I experienced. There are some artists you take note of and whose talents you recognize, but there’s still that something missing which can’t you can’t quite put a finer on.

And then there are artists that fill that void, and then some.

Then some more, and then even more yet. And you know they’ll be with you forever.

After my junior year of high school, my mom and I went college shopping in the Midwest. We visited schools in Indiana, Illinois and Michigan, but before we got to Michigan, we found ourselves worn out one humid, stifling afternoon at Union Station in Chicago.

If I remember correctly, we were eating lunch, hydrating, and trying to figure out where our travels would take us next. The conversation turned to Michigan State University, and a woman at a neighboring table turned around and said something like, “Oh, do you go there?”

The three of us ended up chatting for a while, and my mom remembers that she was a single lady with a son who was going to college here in California. She was apparently very active, as she was often going on bicycling tours around Michigan, traveling here, gallivanting there.

We’d been on the road for Lord-knows-how-many-days (looking back, it seems like we were scoping out campuses for the better part of a month, although that wasn’t the case), and she had taken a genuine interest in our journey, in what we thought of the different schools, and just generally in our story. Her name was Glenda.

Before I knew it, she was offering us a place to stay when we got to the Lansing area: her condo. She was going to be there and, despite her being a complete stranger, in our minds it apparently beat staying in another motel and foraging for food in parts of the country we had no knowledge of. Maybe it was the heat that lowered our guard, but we accepted.

Fast-forward a day or so — I really can’t remember how much time had passed since meeting her in the food court of Union Station. We spoke with Glenda on the phone, and it turned out she wasn’t going to be in town after all. No matter — she said she would “leave the key under the mat” for us.

Who does that?

Suddenly, things seemed fishy to me. I was suspicious. Would we be the only ones with a key, aside from her? Do others have a key? Were we about to enter the greater-Midwest crash-pad, open to all, shunning none? Once we entered her condo, would someone leap out from behind a ficus and steal our rented Plymouth Acclaim? Thoughts tumbled and careened from one absurd notion to another in my head. But then the humidity took hold, and we were on our way.

We drove to Glenda’s condo and, sure enough, found the key under the mat. The condo was tidy as can be, no cabinets were padlocked and there were no safes housing valuables. She was clearly trusting of us, so I wondered if I should simply reciprocate.

I noticed she had made a large batch of lemon-poppyseed muffins which, for a split second, I scrutinized and wondered if they were safe to eat. Then my hunger got the best of me and I scarfed one. I didn’t even bother sniffing it first, as any good sleuth would do.

Nothing happened.

So I scarfed another.

And another.

And then my initial suspicions were confirmed: I knew she was a truly kind stranger.

Glenda came to mind earlier this evening. Her name came to me completely out of the blue, and I did a quick search for her to see if she was still in the Lansing area. The moment I saw the address, I knew it was her. Same address, right around the corner from a restaurant she introduced us to, and which I frequented all through my undergrad and graduate time at MSU.

Tonight I am thankful for Glenda, and for the kind, honest, good-hearted angels-on-earth that seem to be so few and far between. We haven’t spoken for years, but I’m guessing there’s a reason she came to mind, and a reason that I feel the strong desire to send her a card and say hello…so I will, perhaps along with a batch of lemon-poppyseed muffins, just for old time’s sake.

Each year I try to catch A Capitol Fourth on PBS. This year I caught only a tiny bit, thanks to a food coma and stomach ache from too much feasting.

It’s easy to look around every day and see a lot of good without it really registering. I know that I take a lot for granted. Seeing the fireworks and the military bands play while backlit by fireworks and flanked by statues that glowed with each aerial explosion was moving, as always. On my drive home, I was thinking about the many things — big and small — that I’m thankful for.

Family. Friends. A cold beer on a hot day. Junebugs on a warm evening. Connections you build with people and keep, regardless of distance or how often you talk. Inspiring music. The power of the written word. Paved roads. Electicity. Air conditioning. My cat. My piano. A seemingly neverending list of classes I want to take, and the ability to tackle them all. A great job, with great people. Being close to the ocean. Being close to the mountains. The internet. Our troops. Our policemen. Our firefighters. Our first responders. The ability to call a cocktail “dinner” if I want to. The ability to call dessert “breakfast” if I want to. Food. Clothing. Shelter. The list could go on and on.

But perhaps the greatest of all is freedom.

Tonight I am thankful for everything I have, big and small, and for the comfortable life I’m blessed to be able to call my own. Without a piano or a cocktail or a class I want to take, my life wouldn’t be much different. But without our freedom, I cringe to imagine what life would be.

Interestingly, I found myself deep in thought about it after I caught myself doing it earlier.

Sometimes “it” is maddening, other times it’s liberating.

They say that when you do it, you’re most likely to find yourself.

It can happen to anyone. And anyone can make it happen.

It can make you lose track of time. It can also inspire you make the most of it.

It can spark a dream, a goal, a memory. It can inspire practically anything — from being more organized to trying out a new recipe. It can make you plant things, harvest things, and it can make you try your hand at something just because it crossed your mind and you figured, “Now’s the time.”

What is it?

Getting lost. Daydreaming.

It’s one of those great, inexpensive ways to take a mental vacation, if that’s the angle you’re after. Do it while you’re enjoying some air on the patio, or in that half-awake stage before you’ve actually gotten out of bed for the day. Do it with wine, or in the morning with coffee. Do it while listening to music, or not. Do it while dusting, vacuuming, doing laundry, doing dishes or taking out the trash.

Do it while driving (sparingly), do it while gardening. Do it while staring out at the ocean, while staring up at the stars, or while you’re on the train, bus or in a taxi.

In the accidental manner, getting lost can be aggravating and a big waste of time.

In the intentional way, getting lost can be rejuvenating and a good use of time.

Tonight I am thankful for the simple pleasure of daydreams. I’m thankful for the epiphanies they sometimes hold, for the motivation they often contain and for their gentle, quiet approach that can inspire a pursuit of greatness.