Tonight I got home from work and wasn’t in the mood for a proper dinner. I didn’t know what I was in the mood for, really. Food — or not. Being outside — or not. Laundry — or not. Finishing some painting — or not. I settled for food.

I tumbled some Special K Chocolatey Delight into a bowl, poured some skim milk over it and sat down for some Family Feud.

The cereal was so good I decided to have another bowl. Then, before I knew it, the commercial breaks were getting the best of me.

Unsweetened applesauce during one break.

Diet 7UP during another.

Then a Claussen pickle spear.

I realized I had a few Laughing Cow Light Garlic & Herb wedges, so I had one with a couple of rosemary crackers.

By this time, my spot on the couch was becoming mighty comfy but I hopped up to fetch another Diet 7UP anyhow, then tuned in to Iron Chef America. It was a cheese battle tonight, and everything looked divine. Holy, in fact — but, at the same time, sinful. If I was forced to worship a food, it would be cheese. Any kind — I don’t play favorites [often]. I’m equal opportunity queso.

Being that it was Kitchen Stadium, food was flying every which way. Plates become an artist’s canvas, different foods become their paints. They do what they want with them, mix them with other things, throw them out, start over — all for a few courses of perfection at the end.

I was starting to get the munchies again, so I decided it was as good a time as any to finally have my end-of-day Nutrisystem meal. I made the Italian herb flatbread pizza and tossed on a few pieces of turkey pepperoni and resumed my position on the couch.

And then, for some reason, I turned the channel to see an ad that highlighted children without enough to eat.

It stung.

Since arriving home this evening, my existence had been about food: freely getting up whenever I wanted to, so that I could grab whatever I felt like eating. Then I had my diet food for which I paid a couple hundred bucks. Then I watched it on TV. For us, food is entertainment. It’s something we discard without much thought, as though it was a used tissue that we wanted out of our sight. We treat it as though we expect it will show up again tomorrow. And for the most part, it does. For many, they don’t know when it will show up again.

Food is also something we try to consume less of for other reasons, reasons often rooted either in vanity or in health. Sometimes they can be the same. Sometimes they are not.

And then there are those who don’t have a fraction of what we have. They lack the ability to hop up from a couch and choose something to eat; they often lack the couch itself, not to mention food to choose from.

Tonight I am thankful for food. I often look in my freezer and see things that have been there for months, and that I have no intention of eating. I feel bad for the freezer-burned bits that could’ve been put to better use. I purchased them with good intentions — this for a holiday meal, that for better, healthier eating. This for economic reasons, that because it freezes well. And there it sits. All of it.

So tonight I wish for a better food conscience — one that picks more wisely, buys more deliberately and partakes in a more humble manner. Because not everyone has the luxury of making such choices.

I’m often prone to taking off and going on a random trip whenever the mood strikes.

Lately, I’ve been traveling to Italy a lot. I find the Cinque Terre region fascinating, in particular Manarola, which is located in the province of La Spezia. The first time I became aware of the region, it was via a travel catalog I received from Backroads. The company is one through which you can sign up for a walking tour of a particular area, biking tour, hiking tour or multi-sport tour (think kayaking in Bali) in practically any part of the world. Their trips aren’t cheap, but when you’re traveling to Europe and you need gear on the other end, rest assured your accommodations are first-rate, and there’s a bicycle waiting for you.

For about a year, I’ve had my desktop wallpaper set to a nighttime shot of the Cinque Terre part of Italy. It’s a photo that captures an aerial shot of the coast and the water crashing against the rocks, with a combination of vibrantly colored buildings alongside ones of a more pastel nature — all of which seem to glow against the dark sky. I have it centered as a small photo set against a black background, so the colors pop off the screen and slap me across the face each time I turn the computer on — and each time the picture asks if I have my trip booked yet. I do not.

I decided that in the interim, I’d travel travel to the town the next best way, so I fired up Google Maps one evening and headed out. I made my way through the twisting pathways and boats that clutter the alleys and walkways — in a good way, the same way an orange tree can be cluttered by an abundance of fruit.

As you ‘walk’ along the streets of Via di this and Via di that, gelaterias and bars pop out immediately. When I see them, I add them to my mental list of places to go when I finally visit. I can only imagine what it would be like to have no Blackberry buzzing next to me, but instead to have a plate of fresh calamari and perhaps some limoncello by my side. I dream of this often.

I imagine what it would be like to stay in a hotel mere feet above those same crashing waves with the windows open at night. I wonder if there are birds that come out at night which are audible over the sound of the ocean, or if there are stray cats that wander and let out the occasional mew as they walk the alleyways.

On some occasions, I picture myself staying only a few days and leaving the town in the same manner as which I arrived — not knowing anybody, and with no mark made on the nightlife. Other times, I picture myself staying for a few months at a time — perhaps during the summer to finish a novel or stageplay, and making friends with many (while leaving a substantial mark on the bars and area establishments — at least with my money).

I visit many places, but Italy is my favorite — perhaps only to be replaced by Greece or Ireland. I think because Cinque Terre is my desktop wallpaper I happen to go there most often. Maybe I’ll change it to an Irish or Greek photo and set out on those adventures more regularly.

Tonight I am thankful for the wonders of Google Maps, as well as for the inspiration it gives me to carve out a life that inspires me — and enables — to one day go there, and go there often.

Earlier today, I left my local FedEx Office store with more than just a tracking number.

I walked in with a simple request: I needed to mail off last night’s short story for entry into a contest. The mailing had to be postmarked by today’s date, and my neighborhood post office was closed.

I was wearing a V-neck maxi dress. The V was somewhat deep, but nothing terribly revealing, being as though The Girls have never been so large that they didn’t know their place.

As the manager was waiting for me to fill out my shipping form, she said to me, “I love your dress. I would never be able to wear something like that though.”

I looked more closely at her and realized that she was a bit beyond blessed in the chest region. 

“Well, you have those, and I have this dress,” I said.

Despite the comment, which I made simply because it felt like a funny response, I’ve never really wished for a larger chest. For one, things fit me well right off the rack. Two, I’m a stomach-sleeper and probably wouldn’t be if The Girls were any larger. Three, I’ve got enough back issues without needing two more things to contribute to the mess.

She continued the conversation, clearly assuming my comment meant that I felt like I’d gotten the short end of the stick in that category.

“You know, you can make them bigger,” she offered up.

Is this seriously turning into a conversation about boobs at the FedEx Office location?

I wasn’t sure what she was trying to get at, but all I could think of was her nibbling on a root or herb or some other magical, edible wonder in the hopes of increasing her bra size even more.

“Yeah, I’ll pass on the herbal supplements though,” I said.

“Oh, please! No supplements at all. You just need to stimulate them,” she said.

I stared at her for a second and finally blinked.

“You know, stimulate them. Massage them. I have friends who have had kids, and their boobs ended up getting all saggy and deflated afterwards. It’s because they didn’t massage them.”

By this time, I was confused as to how this gal had come to be a FedEx Office manager. I then decided it was because she had either a) bestowed some boob advice to a female higher-up who tried it and was convinced it was working, or b) she had regaled a group of male co-workers with her tales of boobdom and massage wizardry over drinks late one night after work. Or maybe even in broad daylight while sober.

Whatever the case, she was speaking very authoritatively about the topic.

“Well, good information — I think. So how much do I owe you?” I asked.

“For the boob advice?” she asked.

“No. For mailing that thing out,” I said, motioning to the story which had since been sealed up and which was waiting uncomfortably to be dropped into a shipping bin far, far away from the conversation it was forced to listen to.

(It was a children’s story, so I felt even worse for it. Little ears! Tsk, tsk.)

I paid and, as I was walking out the door, she hollered out, “You only need to do it in the shower for about five minutes each day. Just massage! You’ll be surprised.”

As her directions flew through the air, a gentleman was making his way inside and gave me a creepy smile.

Ew.

Tonight I am thankful for my bizarre experience at the FedEx Office location and for the unsolicited boob advice. This was one of those days when I wasn’t sure what I’d write about, but once the situation unfolded, I knew I had to put pen to paper — and fingers to keyboard. The next time I find myself cruising around The OC and overhear someone talking about enhancing certain parts of their physique, I will direct them to FedEx Office instead of first visiting their local plastic surgeon.

There’s a funny quote that goes something like, “I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by.”

Perhaps like many of us, I overthink and overthink and overthink (or just simply procrastinate, procrastinate, procrastinate) until the moment of truth has come:

To do, or not to do?

Tonight, I chose to do, and I did so with a deadline of tomorrow looming on the horizon, and with a full glass of wine to the left of my monitor.

And the deadline was met.

Tonight I finished a short story I’m entering into a contest. Nothing major, but its importance and all that the contest stands for isn’t lost on me.

It’s not about the contest, nor the prize — although the latter would be lovely. It’s about having a passion and, when met with a challenge that asks you whether or not you’ll “bring it,” it’s about whether or not you actually do.

And I did.

As with many nights of writing, the glass of wine was perched nearby should inspiration be necessary. Tonight, I somehow forgot about it completely and, when I finally remembered it was there, it was warm. (And it wasn’t a red wine. Thumbs down.)

The story was complete, and even though I’d been vigorously clicking away on the keyboard for the better part of three hours, the sauvignon blanc shimmering and dancing in my glass mere inches from my fingers, I tuned out the liquid encouragement.

No time for tasting when there’s a story to be written — or so it seemed.

Tonight I am thankful for completing the story, regardless of how well it does. I’m thankful for choosing to turn off the [once again up and running] DirecTV when all I wanted to was to veg in front of it and ease into the weekend slowly. I’m thankful that even after completing the story, there was time to spare for this blog, and overall I’m thankful that — for once — I feel like I had enough hours in today to do what I wanted to do.

Such is the peace in accomplishment.

I’ve been meaning to go with a cheaper mobile plan for my personal Blackberry. Now that I have a work-issued one, I’ve no real need for two of the same thing. As much as I’d love to keep paying $120 for a device that I no longer email on (it was reimbursable through the old gig) and for which I only call and text on, I’ll pass. However, I also don’t want to give up my cell number I’ve had for years and only go with the work ‘berry.

What to do, what to do.

On my drive home tonight, I ventured off my usual path and instead cruised in to an AT&T store in Westminster.

Long story short, they had two choices: severely downgrade my plan, or lose me as a customer entirely. AT&T has been good to me over the years and, while I know we all have our favorites, they’re mine.

I had no idea I couldn’t just drop my data plan from my existing Blackberry and use it only as a phone and for texting. Apparently any smartphone has to have a data plan. Ridiculous, but OK. I’ll play their game.

I went for the cheapest, no-frills phone they had in stock, and as a perky, neighboring saleswoman rang up an older gentleman’s iPhone and iPad next to me (to the tune of $743), my salesguy looked fairly dejected to be cutting my monthly bill in half and selling me an LG flip-phone.

Yep, a flip-phone. Without even a proper keyboard for texting. I’m going old-school, and pressing the numbers repeatedly to get to the right letter.

And I love it.

There’s something about knowing that I’ll no longer be able to press snooze repeatedly in the morning while scrolling through Facebook on my Blackberry. (I could do it on the work ‘berry, but…meh. It’s not the same to me.)

There’s something about knowing that my texts will no longer be novels, mostly because I lack a proper keyboard to be able to write them on. Shorter and sweeter will be my new way of texting, and I’m already experiencing feelings not unlike those you feel when on vacation and completely unplugged from everything.

As I left the store and drove home, I fell in behind a used Smart car that someone had purchased from Carmax. While small and ridiculous, there’s something to be said for the economy of it all. I imagined myself driving one and, after laughing at the notion, realized how much money I could be saving.

After all, I just cut my monthly cell bill by more than half — why not the car, too?

Or better yet, why not ditch the car entirely, and start taking the bus?

My thoughts were deflated by the reality that I’d be placing myself in less than safe situations on nights when I worked late, especially during the fall when it gets darker earlier.

I pictured myself trying to shield The Hair from inclement weather on a gray day while running from the bus stop into the office. No bueno.

And then I realized that, given the amount of wine I often buy at the grocery store when I shop, I could very well be inviting a mob if I were to board a bus with that many bottles.

Logistics and safety aside, the bus is, frankly, appealing to me. But maybe not in these parts of the OC, and maybe not with all the extra-curricular stuff on my proverbial plate.

Tonight, however, I am thankful for the downsizing inspiration that came along with the flip-phone purchase, and for the mental poking around in other areas of my life to see what other unnecessary items can be removed. Cutting Netflix and WeightWatchers.com a few weeks back was freeing, and chopping my cell bill was exciting. And in the spirit of cutting out the unnecessary while continuing with the year-long commitment to things, I’ve had thoughts lately of making 2013 the year of going wine-less, but…really? Me?

Maybe I’ll take another year to think about it before doing anything drastic.

I’ve written about them before, but since I live just under three miles north of Disneyland and got home just as they were going off, I thought I’d write about them again.

When you’re in the park, they’re set to music and each explosion has a role in the overall Disney story. But when you live mere minutes from the Happiest Place on Earth, they take on a different role when they’re not set to magical music laden with characters’ voices.

They remind me of my childhood when Fourth of July fireworks were still legal, and they remind me of birthday cakes (even though nobody in my family was born in the summertime).

They remind me of more recent times, such as when I went to visit my friend Nicole in Washington D.C. for the July 4th holiday a few years back.

They remind me of barbecues, of backyard gatherings, of perfect weather and, for some reason, of beach bonfires.

The very nature of fireworks is a celebratory one, and there’s much to be thankful for in this little corner of the world:

Perfect weather on a near-daily basis.

The mountains, the beach, the desert and downtown locales all nearby.

Miles of oceanfront that welcomed me minutes after leaving work as I went to meet friends for dinner at an equally beautiful waterfront location. Bliss.

The occasional clear day that lets you see everything from the mountains above Malibu down to the hills and range in south Orange County. Gorgeous.

Warm nights with friendly June Bugs and low humidity.

And family just a stone’s throw away.

Tonight I am thankful for the fireworks’ reminder about how truly great we have it. All of us. No matter where we live.

I’m not the biggest fan of reading, but I’ve started to do it a little more lately. One of the best things I’ve ever read is The Holstee Manifesto.

Among its lines is the ever-truthful, “If you don’t have enough time, stop watching TV.”

I did a lot of stuff around the house on Sunday before heading out to meet friends in the evening. During my laundry-time that morning, I had the TV set to Sex and the City reruns. Always a great way, in my opinon, to ease into the day.

After getting my fill of faux drama, I went outside to tackle some yard work and, as I always do, set the channel to the 80s station on DirecTV and cranked it up. Siouxsie and Cher crooned from my family room, and their sounds drifted out to the patio where I was working. Their tunes helped me keep pace.

A few hours later, I decided I had enough. I came back inside, watched a cooking show, then turned off the TV and came into the office to check email.

With nothing good in my inbox, I decided to kill some more time in front of the TV before showering for the evening’s festivities.

But when I turned it on, DirecTV wasn’t having it.

I was met with a black screen, paired only with the faint crackle of pseudo-static and a line of copy that requested I call extension 722 for ordering.

On every channel.

Every.

Channel.

The Holstee Manifesto immediately came to mind, and as I remembered that I had a few ideas for my writing, as well as some valances to hang in the office, I was suddenly more irritated at myself for shirking the to-do list than I was at the TV for not working.

That was Sunday. And after getting home from my evening outing, the TV still wasn’t working. So I sat down and wrote.

Last night, I tackled some more of the garden.

Tonight, this non-reader did some reading of a large, hardcover landscaping book about privacy hedges. (Yep.)

I’d been meaning to do those things for a few weeks, but with the TV readily available, it’s amazing to look back and see how often I chose reruns over removing the weeds in the flowerbed.

Tonight I am thankful for my still-dead DirecTV and, even though assistance is on the way, am hopeful that I can keep the simplified life front and center in my thoughts once it’s back up and running.

As I was pulling into my driveway this evening, I noticed something on the far corner of my front lawn that looked like a mound of crumpled up paper towels, trash of some sort — maybe in a white plastic bag or three, or who-knows-what.

I parked, wheeled my trash barrels out to the curb and made a beeline for the heap of chaos. As I walked toward it, I noticed that my neighbor’s dad was on the front porch watching me approach The Pile.

Once I was upon The Pile, I realized that I was looking at approximately five baby socks, a crumpled up white t-shirt, a pair of white shorts and whatever else was hiding underneath. (At least someone understands the concept of separating their colors.) Since my neighbors have a baby, I figured the socks must be theirs, and that a laundry mishap had occured — either when transporting laundry to or from one of their cars.

I picked up a sock and called over to the neighbor’s dad, asking if the stuff was theirs. (I didn’t really care that it was on my grass, but I figured they’d miss it before too long and would probably want to know where their socks had run off to.)

“I don’t know, what is it?” he semi-barked.

Sheesh.

He made his way over and I indicated that it was laundry, and that there were a few baby socks in the mix.

“Why would that stuff be mine?” he asked.

“Well, you have a one-year-old grandson. I have a cat. And this wouldn’t fit me,” I explained, holding up a sock.

Duh.

He rummaged through the pile some more, and came upon a bra. He slowly lifted it up for inspection. For a split-second, I thought that perhaps the heavens had taken pity upon me and finally bestowed on my person a bra to forever end my cup/strap woes and brassiere rantings. I also thought for a moment that I heard angels singing. But then I snapped out of it — no girl would ever be so lucky to never have to bra-shop again.

Just as we were reaching the point of total confusion, my neighbor arrived home from work. He saw that we were wondering what the deal was with The Pile, and offered an explanation.

“Oh, those were on the street by my car when I came out to go to work this morning. I was going to throw them away. Apparently people see a crappy yard and think they can just get rid of anything over here.”

(Note for the sake of context: their front yard has been under construction (i.e. dead, brown, weedy) for about two years.)

OK.

So while I appreciated his explanation, a few more questions now came to mind:

Were you going to throw them away, oh, I dunno…this year?

Was there something that rendered you incapable of walking the 20 feet back to your trashcan at that moment in time to throw them out like you indicated you wanted to do?

If they were on the street by your car, and near your yard that you just called crappy, why did you throw them in my yard? I’ll take the bra if I must, but please keep the baby socks on your side.

While I’ve hung a “line-dry only” shirt outside a time or two before, why make me look like I also air-dry my unmentionables in a pile on my grass (in the front yard, no less) under the hot afternoon sun?

…there’s seriously been a bra on my grass all day long? Sigh.

I decided to stop wondering such logical things, and to chalk it up to neighborly shenanigans. OK, that, and laziness.  Regardless of what the deal was, it provided a good laugh and a topic for tonight’s post. What’s funnier is that somewhere in Anaheim, there’s a woman running around bra-less.

And for as much as I complain about mine, I’m pretty glad it’s not me.

Tonight I am thankful to still have all my [ill-fitting] bras in my possession, to no longer have The Pile on my front lawn and to have had the chance to get home a little early and experience the explanation for myself. Had I come home any later, the scene of the crime might’ve been cleaned up. Good, good comedy. 

I recently tripped and fell into yet another music rut.

They happen about three times a year for me. Some stumbles are more of a doozy than others, but I eventually find my way back to solid footing.

My current rut was one that I wasn’t really aware I was in. But I was the recent recipient of some new music, so I patiently listened to the whole album all the way through.

Long about the eighth song, I realized that I was, in fact, in more of a music rut than I initially had thought, and that the song I was listening to was the equivalent of a baby speaking its first words.

Or a bird singing a few melodic notes for the first time.

It was like finding a voice inside me that I didn’t know existed, and the song was the monologue that voice had been trying to speak for a long time.

When you find a way of expressing that which seems fleeting, nebulous and indescribable, something magical happens.

New music can be like a compass for our myriad emotions which often times leave us wondering how we truly feel about something.

It refocuses our thoughts and energy, and with each swell of the music, we receive more and more clarity. That clarity is not unlike a new language — a new batch of words that you sensed was there, but never really were able to dust off quite enough.

Tonight I am thankful for finding new music, and for finding a new language that made sense out of everything that had been tumbling around in my head and heart. To some they may only be notes on a page of sheet music, but to others, those notes can sometimes unlock the door to a room you suspected existed, but never had proof of.

Early this morning, I made my way to the dealership to have some routine minor service done on my car. The service advisor I’ve been paired up with a number of times before is now the one I request each time I go. I figure that if I have to get up at such an early hour on a weekend, there’d better be a pleasant individual ready for me on the other end. And there always is.

We chatted a bit, and somehow we got on the topic of pets. He told me about the ones that he and his wife have now that their kids have moved out of the house. One dog is a rescue, one cat is a rescue, and another dog is one of those “designer” types that they purchased — a “Poochon,” if you will: part Bichon, part Poodle. Given the dog’s genetic composition, apparently everything sticks to its fur: food, leaves, grass, fur which has been shed, flowers, etc. As such, they’ve dubbed the dog Mr. Velcro. Good comedy.

After covering the pets territory, we transitioned into discussing our weekend plans. I explained that my flowerbed has been neglected for a few weeks, and that I needed to try to do some weeding. He was telling me that he needed to do the same, but that he also needed to trim a tree.

“I’m really not supposed to,” he said, “but I enjoy doing it, and I do a good job.”

He said his brother is a city employee and scolded him for trimming something that the city was supposed to be maintaining, but promised not to tattle. It reminded me of a tree situation my parents had earlier this year.

Their tree was getting out of hand, and was in desperate need of some cleaning up. But when the crew came out, it was obvious — based on their work — that they had no idea how to deal with it. So now my parents are left with a tree that, after decades of living a peaceful, neatly-groomed existence, was attacked by city employees wielding landscaping weaponry. It now has a conehead-like appearance, not to mention stands out from the other trees which weren’t accosted in a similar manner. Still, though, we love the tree and are learning to embrace its new look.

My service advisor snickered, and recalled doing something similar to an unsuspecting tree once upon a time.

“They still call me The Butcher, even though I do a great job now.”

I told him that between Mr. Velcro and The Butcher, it sounded like quite the cast of characters at his house. I didn’t ask about any other nicknames — and especially not his wife’s, since that would be terribly awkward — but I’m sure they exist.

Tonight I am thankful for yet another fun (who knew?) service appointment at my favorite dealership. I’m not a fan of waking up during the 6am hour on a weekend, or at any hour if there’s an alarm clock involved. But when I meet with my advisor who can introduce me to terms like Poochon and with whom I can share tales of weeding and stories of tree butchery, I fully realize that the dealership’s offerings extend far beyond vehicle maintenance — they also include human kindness and pleasantries, at no additional charge. Such a treat in today’s world.