I’ve often written about my love for the holidays and my preference for the late fall/winter time of year. If I had to prioritize my seasons, they’d go in the order of winter, fall, spring and summer. I love when the days are short, when it’s dark around 5pm and — while I don’t deny that productivity around the homestead picks up when days are longer — there’s something about short days that makes it OK to be lazy and hole up inside with a cozy blanket.

That said, there’s generally one day each year when I begin to look forward to summer. Today was that day. It was warm but not hot, the air was comfortable but not still and the evening light slowly faded the way the wick on a candle does right after you blow out the flame. There was something lingering in the evening, and it was the anticipation of summer.

A few days ago I posted the Christmas Countdown clock, and today I felt the faintest hint of excitement about longer days, warmer weather and — yes — grilling season. I suspect that faint sensation will become stronger the closer we get to June. Cocktails on the patio rushed to the forefront of my mind; this will be the summer I finally experiment with herbs such as rosemary and basil in my adult beverages, as well as current trends like jalapeno and other spicy delights.

This might be the summer I finally drag my body out of bed at the crack of dawn on a weekend and do some kayaking.

It might also be the summer I relive some high school memories and find a place for a beach campfire. (Or maybe I’ll just buy a firepit to use here at the casa.)

It could be the summer I find time to literally fly a kite.

It might be the summer that I find some off-the-beaten-path, hidden areas of the southland in which to wander around aimlessly and photograph.

Or it might be the summer when a season other than winter takes first place in my heart. Unlikely, but you never know.

Whatever the summer has in store, even if it’s simply more gardening and finding time to recharge my batteries on the weekend, tonight I am thankful that — at least for a short while — my desire to fast-forward to the holidays has been replaced with the anticipation of summer.

The other day on my way to work, I was stopped at a busy intersection waiting for the light to turn green.

I noticed a man across the streeting looking mighty excited to be walking to the bus stop. He was older, had an enormous beard, a full backpack and a head of gray hair. He wore parachute pants and high-tops.

He walked just past the bus stop, paused at the tall, block wall fence that separated a row of backyards from the busy city street and proceeded to partially bark and partially howl like a wolf at the dog on the other side. My window was down a crack, and right after he started howling/barking, the dog responded in kind.

As quickly as he’d begun, the man nonchalantly walked back a few feet to the bus stop, and the other man who had been sitting there the whole time watched him cautiously. The Bearded Barker proceeded to stare down every car that passed them — not just by turning his head, but by turning his whole body. Just as my light turned green, I saw the bus approaching their bus stop; the Bearded Barker waved excitedly, then gave the bus an animated thumbs-up.

It was one of the more interesting things I’ve seen on my way to work.

A few miles up, I made my way into the fast lane — which is never really that fast — and was immediately cut off by a late-80s Toyota truck weighed down with gardening equipment. The left rear tire was flat, and the two men in the single-cab truck didn’t seem to notice…or if they did, they didn’t seem to mind. Apparently there was a lawn in need of mowing, and they were determined to get there. (Except for the fact that they were doing 20 in a 45 mph zone. Always awesome.)

It’s sometimes impossible to know why we see things, or why little obstacles are put in our way. It was easy enough to wonder whether there was a deeper meaning to those two scenes, but as to what the meaning might’ve been, I’m still stumped.

Throughout the day, I tried to make the puzzle pieces fit. Except for a few thoughts about perhaps coming across both the Bearded Barker and Gardeners y Flat Tire because I needed to slow down and appreciate everything I have before my life needs some serious repair, I couldn’t think of anything more specific. Figuratively speaking, maybe I’d need a new set of tires to keep me going for a few more decades — but what shape those tires would come in, I wasn’t sure.

Maybe it was just a reminder that for as much as we perceive others to have — or not have — there’s always a worse place that they (and we) could be in. Maybe the Bearded Barker had all of his worldly possessions in that backpack and, for him, that’s all he needed.

Maybe the flat tire was the least of the gardeners’ worries and they had bigger fish to fry elsewhere in their lives.

There are so many maybes we can conjure up, but only one person who has the ability to deal with their own reality: the Bearded Barker, the Gardeners y Flat Tire, and each of us.

Tonight I am thankful for my burdens, my blessings and for my knowledge of each of them — inside and out. Some moments may be tougher than others, but they’re my moments.

Every so often, I have a toenail that likes to go rogue.

Back in the day (“the day” being sixth grade) my brother and I went to see a movie — Scrooged, to be exact. The Buena Park mall was the place to be and he was newly-licensed, so we drove over to catch the flick.

Among other atrocities, I had on my pegged, acid-washed jeans, white L.A. Gear shoes and two color-coordinating pairs of socks: peach and seafoam green. It was the late 80s, if that wasn’t already obvious by the preceding hints.

We got our tickets and headed for the theater. After entering one set of swinging doors, we appoached the second set, a.k.a. the ones that would lead us into the theater itself. A guy came running from the other side and flung them open, smacking one into my right foot that I had extended as I reached to push it open. I felt excruciating pain, but the guy kept running — maybe to the snack bar, maybe to the restroom. Who knows. I certainly didn’t, nor did I care. What I did care about was my pulsating toe that had heat radiating off it.

My brother and I found two suitable seats and settled in, but I decided to take my shoe off to see what was going on. The second I pulled off my white shoe, I could feel the throbbing really start. And it wasn’t heat, it was blood — blood that had already soaked through both pairs of socks, and I started to freak out. When the guy had flung the swinging doors open, the impact of the door against my foot popped the toenail on my right big toe clean off. Brother wanted to go find the guy and beat him up, but I urged him to get me some napkins, instead.

We didn’t end up seeing Scrooged that night; to this day I still haven’t.

The above is background as to why I have a toenail that likes to go rogue. It grew back completely over the next year-plus, but occasionally — 20+ years later — it likes to make a U-turn as it grows, thus leaving me with a painful digit that has to be fixed by my miracle-worker of a nail tech. Sometimes it’s good for months, other times it’s constantly finding a way to become ingrown. It’s annoying. And painful.

Today at work I realized that I needed to get the toe looked at, and fast. I headed to the salon on my way home and my Miracle Worker was there. Success.

As I sat in the spa chair that looked out into the mall, I watched people wandering by. One woman was holding hands with what I presume was her husband. She looked in and said, “Ohh, that looks nice.”

I noticed that he looked in the the direction that she was looking, but as soon as she turned to look at him with an expression that seemed to say, “Would you want to get me that for Mother’s Day?” he not only looked away from the salon, but let out the most exasperated noise and rolled his eyes. Her expression turned from hopeful to dejected, and I’ve never wanted buy someone a gift certificate for a mani/pedi more that I did in that moment.

Seriously, dude — really?

I’m pretty sure that had he said, “Yes, honey, that does look nice,” it wouldn’t have killed him. It’s a statement that doesn’t commit to purchasing anything, but it lets your lady know that you’re on the same page with her.

His reaction not only said that he was interested neither in her paragraph nor her chapter, it pretty much said that her entire book was a load of poop.

Thus, the idea for tonight’s post.

Mother’s Day is around the corner, but — and case in point with me and my furbaby — moms can be moms to various things. Some are parents to babies, pre-teens, teenagers, grown adults and some simply have pets or a garden to look after. Some are caregivers to their mom, thus flip-flopping the mom role a bit.

The point is that there’s a gal in your midst that has a short list of little things that bring joy to her life. Maybe she’s your girlfriend, your mom, a friend that’s a girl or a mom-figure. Whatever and whoever she’s a mom to — whoever she is — find the equivalent to that woman’s simple pleasure of a pedicure and snatch it up for her.

A day at Burke Williams? Sold. A manicure? Easy peasy. Lunch? Cake. (Mmm, cake.) A day-trip somewhere? Just go. But seriously — don’t be that person I want to wiggle my ingrown toenail at.

Pony up. Find her pedi-quivalent. It’s painless (unlike my toenail). I promise.

Tonight I’d like to thank the tool at the mall for making me realize, in the wake of his delivered disdain, that it’s so much easier — and more pleasant for both sides — to practice a little bit of kindness.

Especially for a day like Mother’s Day.

Continuing with my Cirque musings, I was thinking after writing last night’s post about how I used to want to work at the Cirque du Soleil headquarters in Montreal, Quebec. I’ve applied online a few times over the years, but the biggest issue for me is that they apparently require their employees to be fluent in French.

My current gig has taught me a little about Canada due to the Canadian media buys we make for some of our clients. I haven’t learned the language, of course, but I’ve learned that the majority of Quebec is French-speaking, and those that speak English — while they do live in Montreal — are bilingual (one guess what their other language is). So, pretty good reason for that requirement on Cirque’s job application section of their site.

(Not that I’m looking.)

I used to dream of moving to far away (cold) places and unleashing serious marketing genius on one of the most captivating brands on the planet: Cirque du Soleil. I didn’t know where I’d live, I didn’t know if I could afford to move to Montreal, but I knew I really, really, desperately wanted to do it.

But that French thing…

Enter: Rosetta Stone. It’s been on my Christmas list for years, and I still have nary a volume from which to start learning. This is mostly my fault, because on one hand, I get that others won’t want to fork over the dough to purchase such a thing — after all, I don’t want to, either. On the other hand, really — is it fair to put a price on a dream?

I’ve decided that dreams, not unlike something I wrote in a recent post, have a lot to do with priorities. It’s one thing to think it would be great to do something someday, but it’s entirely another to dub something a “dream” and do something about it. I’m a big believer in having the right tools to get to that path that could lead you to your dream. It may not be a straight shot, and there may be bumps along the way that delay your progress. But if you don’t invest, either time-wise or otherwise, the chances of that dream coming to fruition are slim, at best.

I’ve also decided that Rosetta Stone is a facilitator of dreams. Used the world over by folks who have dreamed of fitting in on their journeys to distant lands, used by applicants who dream of having a leg up on their competition during the job application and interview process; used by people who simply want to cross something off their bucket list, and used by people who dream of simply keeping their mind sharp and their brain agile during their later years.

Nope — not just a tool. It’s a dream facilitator.

Working at the Cirque Headquarters is a dream that has since gathered a layer of dust so thick that it would give any allergy-sufferer nightmares for months on end, as there have since become others that I’ve spent my time on. That dream of helping craft such a magically delightful brand is still there, but it’s distant. I don’t regret that it’s essentially been shelved, because I like that the dream facilitator can be purchased swiftly and put into motion whenever I wish. If not to follow through on the Cirque dream, then to perhaps enable another dream (Italian vacation? Trip to Greece?) instead.

This evening I am thankful for the existence of not just “tools,” but for access to the things that can help make a dream a reality… and which can take our lives in completely different directions — if only we allow ourselves to dream.

On my way to work this morning, I dusted off some Cirque du Soleil tunes. It’s been forever and a day since I listened to them; their return was way beyond overdue.

Has anyone seen “O”? I find the entire performance, including the music, to be nothing short of magical. My favorite is “Gamelan” — it really gets going at the 2:30 mark and it’s the most beautiful part of the song that comes around again a few more times.

I’ve heard that sometimes the lyrics are a mix of French, Russian — sometimes even Bulgarian. I’m sure there are others, but “Cirquish” is apparently the artificial language used by Cirque’s performers during songs and on the stage.

Fascinating.

The gibberish nature of it evokes emotions that can be felt whether you understand the words or not, similar to how you may ‘understand’ an Italian opera without actually knowing Italian.

My cat talks. A lot. He has a number of meows that he’ll alternate, and one in particular means he really wants attention and is no longer content with coming and going on his own. He wants lap-time.

Sometimes I’ll be in the kitchen — cleaning, cooking, whatevering — and I’ll be singing along to what’s on the radio, or whatever is blaring from the 80’s channel on DirecTV. The cat will come in, unbeknownst to me, and will sit there looking up at me while I’m singing.

Out of nowhere, he’ll let out a yowl that — in my opinon — is his expression of, “Wait, I want to sing, too — how does this work?” that comes to the surface. And it scares the bejeezus out of me, but that’s beside the point. It’s been bottled up in him as he sits patiently and watches me, and then he can’t wait any longer — he has to try his hand (paw?) at it. For as much as I have grown to adore the theater, musicals and composing my own tunes, I sometimes wonder if he’s a deceased thespian from centuries past that’s been reincarnated as my beloved pet.

(No, not really, but you know what I mean.)

I found myself wondering if that’s what spurs a baby to speak its first words. Maybe it’s just finally done being content with little grunts, squeaks and squeals, and it absolutely needs to find a way to be part of his surroundings. Thus, “mama” or “dada” comes out.

If the things around us — music, people, situations — are capable of building up a response that, why not music sung in Cirquish? 

My brain felt child-like, maybe even baby-like this morning. I exited the freeway at my usual off-ramp just as the music was beginning to build (refer to the above-mentioned 2:30 mark) and, since I hadn’t heard the song in ages, I got goosebumps and remembered exactly what it was that I loved about the entire album in that moment: it was the feeling of needing to let every single bottled-up emotion and ounce of creativity out, and like I could scream if I didn’t have a plan to go about doing that.

Sorrowful violins seemed to find a resolve, cellos spoke of dark feelings that hadn’t before been acknowledged; a driving, powerful drumming moved the whole song forward to a place of exhaustion after a cathartic mess had been experienced, dealt with and embraced (and I use the word “mess” lovingly). Last but not least, there are other instruments that I haven’t addressed, but let us not forget the forlorn and wandering keys that find their way with a beautiful melody, go off track and begin to play a few measures of doubtful, wayward sadness, then find their way again.

Not unlike us every now and again in life.

Tonight I am thankful for the music of Cirque du Soleil’s “O” and for the sounds of Gamelan that reminded me of the power in creating — as well as the power in release.

I might’ve mentioned this before, but I’m consistently amazed that on the days when I wake up early, I end up running about 10 minutes late in getting to the office.

And on days when I wake up late, I get to work on time, if not a few minutes early.

The other morning when I was driving to work (ahead of schedule since I woke up late, natch), I was thinking about this funny little phenomenon. And then I decided it’s no different than those people who maximize the bejeezus out of their life when (not to be morbid) they know they have a finite amount of time left to live.

If someone told me this Friday would be my last day on earth, I’d probably call in sick tomorrow and Thursday, then pull a couple of all-nighters so that I can finish my two screenplays and three plays. Why? Because I’d want to make the most of my time, and the clock is ticking.

The clock is ticking on mornings when I’m running late, and on mornings when I’m ahead of schedule. It ticks at the same pace. But on mornings when I seem to have ample time to get things done, I take it for granted, I slow my pace, and I put things off for another minute or two.

Then those minutes turn into ten, then fifteen, and before you know it, I’m rushing.

I hate rushing.

Ironically, when I wake up and I have to rush from the get-go, I find ways to get it all done with time to spare. The time isn’t taken for granted because I’m already operating at a deficit, and I hate being known as the late girl — exactly the way I would hate being known as the girl who passed without having completed any of my writing projects.

I guess it all comes down to priorities. Because if the clock’s ticking, you surely must be focusing on something: getting out the door on time, shooting one last basket with the hopes of tying — or maybe even winning — the game, making it onto the airplane before they close the jetway door, getting home in time to watch your favorite TV show, logging onto the computer so you can buy those concert tickets that go on sale at 10am, making it to a first date on time.

Only there’s no “if.” The clock is always ticking. Why put off till tomorrow what you can do today — especially when tomorrow isn’t guaranteed?

What are you racing toward?

Tonight I am thankful for some weekday rushing that reminded me that the clock isn’t just ticking on the way to work, but instead — like an anxious child — is calling out over and over, “Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?”

Here’s to doing what we’ve been putting off so that we can, in fact, say yes — I’m there.

It takes me just under one hour to get to work. And when I get there, our agency occupies two of the three floors in the building. I work on three.

If I took a lunch hour, my work day would be divided into two four-hour chunks. But I rarely do this; I tend to go a full five days without carving out an hour in the middle. It’s a bad habit leftover from a past life.

When I get home, which is usually around six, I feed the cat, change out of my work clothes and usually eat around seven. Writing is a part of every day, and mostly happens in the evenings. I try to write around eight, since it takes me a full hour and I have a goal to always get to bed by nine. That never happens; ten is usually my default bedtime.

I can say a few things about “eleven.” Eleven is the shape my furrowed brow makes when I read an email that confuses me (happens a lot these days when one has to learn the ropes at a new gig), and this number makes me want to revisit my Botox days, brief though they were. For the time being, I’ll refrain and will put my faith in the non-needle magic of Obagi’s products (shameless plug).

An alternate 11 is the number of minutes it should take me to get from my driveway to the part of the 5 freeway where it meets the 22 west. Monday it tends to be longer. Friday it’s definitely shorter.

Our agency’s been having a lot of upfront presentations of late, and twelve has become the tasty hour. I’ve been avoiding the lunches, but noon marks the time of the day that signals leftovers will surely grace the kitchen in an hour or two. And nothing is more delicious with a mid-afternoon coffee than a [tiny] tasty treat which, I confess, I’ve snuck a time or two. But that’s between me and my Nutrisystem plan.

Thirteen: the number of non-agency, media-esque/news-y emails I received today.

Fourteen: the number of meeting acceptances I received today.

Fifteen: the number of minutes which make up a quarter hour. I leave my house at 7:15, and while we’re “off” at 5p, I generally shoot for a 5:15 departure.

Sixteen: the number of hours I’m awake during a day.

Seventeen: the number of muscles it apparently takes to smile. It’s also the number that gave me the idea for tonight’s post.

I walked out of my office this morning to make a quick jaunt to the ladies’ room and said hello to a few people along the way. It’s something that’s such a simple thing to do, but which can easily be avoided if you want to. It’s easy to walk with your head down, or while preoccupied with a document that just came out of the printer. It’s easy to be enthralled with a Blackberry (guilty), a plate of food you’re carrying (guilty) or a hot beverage (guilty, and you’d probably thank me for it).

Some things are meant to be focused on. Other things are fine to focus on, but can wait if you want to wait. I’ve never been more cheery at a job as I have at this one. I’m sure I’ll have my days (would be just like the universe to make tomorrow a difficult one), but this morning as I said a single word to a few people while on my way to the restroom, I found myself smiling with each “hello.” My spirit lifted over and over — and it didn’t necessarily need lifting.

I got back to my office and looked up how many muscles it takes to smile, and how many it takes to frown. The numbers vary wildly, but for the purpose of this post, we’re going with 17 and 43, respectively.

Tonight I am thankful for the single word that caused those seventeen tiny parts of me to manifest themselves in a smile over and over, and for the multi-hour effect it had on my day.

And since I can, I think I might actually start taking a lunch hour. Or walking during it. Or shopping. Or going out to the tiny ponds and streams behind the building and admiring the ducks and tiny ducklings — if only because they make those seventeen muscles come to life again and again.

Today held one of those moments when I realized that had my timing been off by about an hour, my day may have ended far differently.

I often see accidents that have just happened and, as I drive past them, I rewind a bit and realize that had it not been for the slow person ahead of me in line at Starbucks, had it not been for hitting every red light, or had it not been for forgetting something at the office or at home and going back to get it, I could’ve been in that accident, too.

I wanted to run some of my parents’ mail and a Mother’s Day gift for my grandma up to my parents’ house this afternoon. I hadn’t planned on it, but my errands took me in a different direction than I’d planned for the day to go. Knowing that they’d just picked her up from the airport today and that she’d be at their house overnight — and suspecting I wouldn’t see her next weekend — today seemed the best time for a delivery.

Her brother’s memory has taken quite a hit in recent years, and he’s not the person he used to be. They’re both hovering right around 90 and each is struggling in their own way these days, some of those struggles more visible than others. I recently came across a photo of them from 2007; they were sitting on the couch at a family gathering, both beaming, and both looking alert and upbeat. It’s a good photo and likely one that they’d both be glad for others to have of them, so I had copies made and framed one for grandma.

On my way home from Corona after delivery, traffic was completely stopped from the moment I got on the freeway. It wasn’t that way when I was on my way to drop the gift off, so it had just recently happened. It took 30 minutes to go 2 miles, and when I finally came upon the scene, there were two firetrucks, three police cars and five cars that had seen better days off to the side. Some were burned. Others were so damaged they weren’t recognizable. The carpool, first and second lanes were shut down. I don’t know if there were other cars involved that had already been taken away, and I don’t know if there were people beyond those who were standing dazed on the side of the road who had already been driven to a hospital by ambulance.

I tried to go to my parents’ house earlier in the day, but I didn’t get an answer when I called. I assumed they were home, but didn’t bother to leave a message. Instead, I decided to make a trip to the grocery store. About 40 minutes later, I was heading home from the store to put things away and had since talked to my mom about dropping off the gift.

It’s tough to say whether my delay and trip to the grocery store saved me from being in the accident that I saw on my way home, but I always wonder about things like that. I remember thinking there was probably a reason I didn’t get an answer when I called. Maybe they were all listening to grandma talk about her trip. Or maybe they’re in a deep discussion about the changes my mom and dad are seeing in her. Maybe she’s being difficult to reason with. Or maybe grandpa is being difficult. Maybe his hearing aid batteries died again and they went to get new ones, but in the meantime perhaps they’re all speaking so loudly to him that they can’t hear the phone ringing.

In reality, maybe I didn’t get an answer because I wasn’t supposed to get there any earlier than I had. Because if I did, I would’ve stayed the same brief amount of time, left and gotten on the freeway — only to be caught up in that accident.

You never know. But sometimes it doesn’t hurt to wonder, to listen to the things that aren’t being said or that aren’t right in front of you. Sometimes reading between the lines is when we hear and feel the most.

Tonight I am thankful for the tiny events of the day that led me to my parents’ house when I did. I was wondering earlier this afternoon why I drove to a gas station four miles away instead of going to the one that was a mile down the road, why I took a winding road through the hills home and then went to a more distant Target than the one I was close to. At the time I chalked it up to being bored and not feeling like getting out of the car just yet. But maybe that was supposed to be the plan all along.

You never know.

“We are the music makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams —
World-losers and world-forsakers,
On whom the pale moon gleams:
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world for ever, it seems.”

The above is an excerpt from Ode within Arthur O’Shaughnessy’s 1874 book entitled Music and Moonlight.

Gene Wilder, in his role as Willy Wonka in the film Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, speaks the first two lines as a response to an indignant Veruca Salt who questions, “Snozberries?! Who ever heard of a snozberry?”

I couldn’t think of a more fitting topic for tonight’s post. We have a perigee full moon on our hands, and countless dreams are perhaps being offered up to the heavens in countries around the world. The sight of the moon makes me think of it as a giant star meant to be wished upon, and I imagine people in cities big and small, villages, towns — even those at sea — looking up at it in reverence.

Some may simply notice its brightness, others may not notice at all. Some may be drawn to behold its beauty a bit longer than other full moons, others may wonder what all the fuss is about.

Regardless, for me it’s a reminder that when you think something can’t get much more beautiful, it might just find a way to become a bit more awe-inspiring. In a different vein, it’s a reminder that just when you think your ideas might be leaning towards stale, a jolt of magic moves you and something new is created. Just when you think the world is the same ol’, same ol’ — day in and day out — you realize it’s not…and that even our own tiny existence can be crafted to be as enchanting, as whimsical and as much of a daydream as we want it to be.

We might be questioned, scrutinized or made fun of for these worlds that we create, but in the end, it’s a constant stream of inspiration that we seek and that we try to give back to those around us. And that’s something the world can always use more of.

Tonight I am thankful for those movers and shakers who have inspired me, and for those music makers and dreamers of dreams whose drive and motivation inspire me to keep the creative flame alive in myself.

I think my computer’s on the fritz. Just before I was able to start typing, I started it up twice, only to be met with a black screen after logging in. Hm. Third time was clearly a charm.

A couple of days ago, my tire was on the fritz. I hopped in my car to head home from work, and the low tire pressure light came on. After filling it with air that night, I came out the next morning to realize it clearly wasn’t having it. But I filled it again to get to work, then discovered at lunch when I took it in that there was a nail in the sidewall. No patch for me. Instead, two new rear tires graced me with their presence since mine needed replacing anyhow. Two thumbs down for my tires not being rotatable since the ones on the rear are bigger than the ones on the front. Sigh.

My hair is on the fritz. Long about week three, it starts to get unruly. It’s not the longest, but it’s finicky and it knows what it likes. And from the looks of it, I think it would like to get cut and colored every three weeks instead of every four. I’m embarking upon week four tomorrow, and will need all the patience I can get to keep it in its place.

I think what set everything in motion was last Friday’s Android email fail. Since then, I’ve admitted to my obvious user error on a few days, although I still have no idea how I managed to do what I did. Other days, I’ll blame the thing itself. The fritz-y Android is at fault, I say!

It’s been a week full of Fritz. I don’t know who he thinks he is, but he needs to let me know next time he’s heading my way. There’s only so much a girl can take — so I suppose it’s fitting that there were two ginormous boxes of donuts in our agency kitchen today, as well as a basket o’ Corner Bakery treats. There, there, poor self.

I took solace in the carb action, and before I knew it…

I was on the fritz.

Tonight I am thankful for the weekend ahead of me where I can get back on track, do some gardening and hopefully work off those fritz-inspired calories I scarfed today. Not that I normally get crazy in the first place, but this weekend the plan is to definitely lay low. No more Fritz, por favor.

I’m going to go out on a limb and say that Fritz’s distant, more friendly cousin is Rosy, and rumor has it she usually comes in and saves the day after he’s been on his whirlwind. So cheers to the 180 that should be on her way before too long, cheers to making it through the week and here’s to a few days of R&R.