The thing about a blog is that it inspires more blogs. It literally multiplies, like it’s a gremlin or something.

By the way, I wasn’t sure if “gremlin” was a proper noun, so I totally (as opposed to partially?) Googled it — since Google is, after all, the digital Gospel. I came across two brief definitions that made me giggle. Or maybe that was the wine’s fault. Anywho:

1) “Gremlins is a 1984 American horror comedy film directed by Joe Dante, released by Warner Bros.”

2) “The AMC Gremlin is a two-door subcompact car produced in the United States and Canada by the American Motors Corporation (AMC) between 1970 and 1978.”

Wow! The second definition sure brings back memories. You don’t see many anymore, but I was born in ’76 and there were quite a few that I saw back in the day, thus plaguing my memories of the early 80s. Thank God leg warmers and stirrup pants took the place of the Gremlin (never thought I’d say that).

(By the way. You want the definition of good comedy? Go to Wikipedia and look up “AMC Gremlin,” then behold the main photo they use near the top of the page. What’s with the woman and her come-hither stare as she’s lurking near the rear of the car — and in a red suit, no less? Awesome.)

At the end of the day, I decided “gremlin” wasn’t a proper noun when I personally use it. Just thought I’d close the loop on that.

I didn’t really have a topic to write about as I sat down at the keyboard tonight (as though that wasn’t already obvious), but there’s one I’ve been trying to wrap my head around for a month or two. It’s regarding the images of American cities that I saw time and time again in many 1980s textbooks — before the time, apparently, when smog checks were mandatory for cars of a certain age, and back when boxy Fords, Buicks and Chryslers dotted the highways.

They keep popping into my head.

Does anyone remember these images, which were likely ones that accompanied chapters about our country’s growth and/or sections that had to do with mass transportation? They were a hazy brownish-orange in hue, and I remember them striking a chord in me that made me think, “I get to grow up and drive an ugly car in a polluted environment? Gee, can’t wait till I turn 16.”

Pictures of families in textbooks were equally amusing. I can’t remember what chapters they would have been paired with, or the subject matter of book they might’ve appeared in, but they always showed a well-coiffed woman dressed impeccably while serving a bland meal of beige chicken next to beige rice next to beige potatoes (oh, the horror of two starches). And boy, was she making it happen! She remained dressed in her pumps after a long day of officing, her collared dress cinched at the waist by a belt, and she was serving her family at the dinner table — husband still in his suit (at least take off your jacket for the meal, buddy) and junior perfectly groomed after a long day of classes, PE and cafeteria shenanigans in his buttoned-all-the-way-up polo shirt and Aqua-Netted hair.

(Who managed the layouts of these books? Because their imagery has marred me for life.)

I don’t really have much to say about these early 80s textbooks, except that — again — they’ve been on my mind a lot these days. Maybe the weather has taken on a similar, murky appearance to those photos I saw back in the day. I now involve the 22 freeway in my daily commute to and from work, and I’ve never driven it so much in my life until now. It’s always been mere miles from where I grew up, but I never really had a need for it.

Something about those textbook photos always made me think of the 22 freeway that I was never really on, save for once in a blue moon. Perhaps that’s why I’m thinking about those textbook pictures more and more these days. Clearly they’re directly related to the amount of driving I’m doing on certain freeways.

Odd.

Regardless of the reason for a trip down memory lane, all my mental journeying as of late has spurred thoughts about other blogs I’d like to start. I have the spaces “held” here on Posterous already — their secretive titles are secured by yours truly. I’m just trying to figure out a time to begin them, and how structured I want them to be. Everything needs a focus, and that they have. But do I want to blog daily, like I do here? Or only when something really worthy of the subject matter presents itself?

I’m going to sleep on these two other blogs for a while, which is kinda always the good thing about life. Not sure what to do? Sleep on it. Don’t have an answer for something? Wander for a while — something might come to you. Can’t pinpoint how you want to handle a situation? I like to imagine myself wandering aimlessly, and it usually always leads me to a gut feeling I have — but don’t always realize is in me — about something.

What’s interesting about “wandering, aimless musings” is that sometimes having no direction can help you find one. And as I think back on everything from certain instances in my live to this particular blog post, being aimless has always helped me focus on something and end up in a good place. Tonight I am thankful for the freedom to simply wander.

Ah, always a good time when you’re nearly done with the blog post for the day, only to accidentally close the window you’re typing in when you meant to instead close another. My bad. Here goes again.

Long story short, the last thing a girl wants to see as she’s leaving work in the evening is a “low tire pressure” light come on.

Before exiting the lot entirely, I pulled over to see if I could tell which tire was, well, tired. It looked like it was my right rear, and then I remembered I had a tire pressure gauge — courtesy of Longo Lexus — in my glove box. I whipped it out, went to work, and sure enough, my right rear was at 20 PSI instead of the recommended 37 PSI. Hm.

Remembering that I drive past Lexus of Westminster every morning, I thought I’d swing by en route to the casa. Not so much for air, because that’s easy enough to find…but I was genuinely hoping they’d want to help a girl in need, maybe put the car up on the rack and find the foreign object that I suspected was/is impaling my tire. I drove a short distance, pulled into their lot a few minutes before 7 and chatted with a nice salesman — only to find out that their service department is located off-site.

Of course.

The salesman tried phoning them, but nobody was answering. I filled him in on my tire pressure situation, and he tried to tell me that my right rear wasn’t low, but that the tire was “supposed to sit like that.”

Eh, no. It’s not.

I explained that I’d taken the pressure myself, and that it was low. He apparently didn’t believe me, because he checked them all again.

A few minutes later, he proceeded to point out that my right rear was, in fact, low. Thanks, buddy.

Since they couldn’t be of much help and any other place that I found would likely be closed for the night with no desire to search for my low tire cause, he referred me to Walmart across the street, since they have an auto service center there. Maybe they’d be open.

I thanked him, hopped in my car, crossed multiple lanes of traffic after 10 minutes of waiting for an opportunity to do so and pulled up right as one of the guys was putting the cones up for the evening. I disregarded the hint of “no more customers” and explained my sitch. The guy asked me what my tire pressure was, and when I told him the recommended PSI was 35 in front and 37 in the rear, he almost laughed at me.

“Nooooo, that’s not right,” he said.

He opened up my driver’s side door and reviewed the sticker. Sure enough, 35/37. “Oh, wow! That is correct!” he continued. I smiled and nodded.

He, too, was happy to take my tire pressure (a third time!) and actually ended up putting a tiny bit of air in the other three, while filling up the right rear to its recommended PSI.

I thanked him profusely for checking them all, drove off just as the last hint of daylight was being nudged out of the sky by a thick marine layer, and was happy to see the low pressure light disappear. All the way home, I kept my eyes peeled for gas stations where I could filled up a tire in case I need to put some more air in come morning. Almost stopped to finally buy an air compressor, since now seemed like the best time to have one, but — meh…some other time.

Not the most quiet nor the most eventful evening, but one — now that I think about it — which was a kind evening. There’s something funny about having people not believe you when you tell them a tidbit about your car, but I guess at the end of the day, sometimes they just want to see it for themselves. Therefore, maybe they’re coming from a place of genuine concern — and if they are, is that a bad thing? Not at all.

Tonight I am thankful for Mr. Lexus, Mr. Walmart and for my trusty Longo tire pressure gauge. They all helped me tonight, and while I appreciate a solid assist every now and again, this is one time I’m hoping I’m simply tired in the morning — and not tire-ing again.

Have you ever had such a clear picture for what you want your life to be that, when you take stock of all that’s around you, sometimes it feels like your dream is still decades away?

Last night, after perhaps half a glass of wine too much, I found myself getting weepy as I was on one of my favorite websites: Redfin.com. Yes, for as much as I love my casa in Anaheim, I was once again browsing tiny bungalows in seaside communities…which is interesting, because I’ve always been terrified of the ocean thanks to almost drowning. Oh, and also because my hair hates humidity.

Maybe it’s because I grew up with the movie Top Gun, and that scene where Charlie and Maverick are at her cozy oceanfront bungalow with Otis Redding’s “Sitting on the Dock of the Bay” playing is burned into my memory like the first time you see someone and you think love at first sight might actually be possible. Only my love was the perfectly filmed setting sun, the sea mist in the air that you could almost feel through the TV and the white wine being poured and enjoyed al fresco.

I was browsing property for sale in Laguna Beach. My favorite little store of handmade chocolates is off a tiny walkway called Peppertree Lane that’s accessible from Pacific Coast Highway. Facing the street is Watermarc, one of my beloved locations for enjoying a quiet glass of wine during off-peak hours. I’d like to live walking distance from both.

Sometimes I get a bit superstitious — not that I genuinely am, but I have a tendency to think that if I share something that I really want — if I voice it out loud — it probably will never come true. It’s one of the reasons I keep a lot of things to myself. Conversely, if I want something to not happen, I’ll voice it. Paranoid to travel for work and think I might die in a plane crash? I’ll totally talk about it so that it never happens. Think an earthquake might jolt us into awareness? Yep, I’m talking about that too.

(For the record, I never said a peep about any of the tinier ones we’ve had lately, hence — naturally — why we had them in the first place. Har.)

But back to my life dream. In the interest of this blog, which is supposed to be all about transparency and being real — and in the interest of trying to shake the silly superstition — here it is:

I want to be a writer someday. And I want to write in my cozy, unpretentious bungalow in Laguna Beach. I want to enjoy wine often without ever developing a dependency on it, I want to eat handmade chocolates equally as often without ever gaining a pound, I want to never be so famous as to have a stalker, and I want to earn enough from said writing to live comfortably and to share it with my parents and brother, to travel occasionally-but-not-extravagantly and to help those closest to me if they ever need it — but without ever needing to be paid back.

Last night when I was Redfinning, that dream felt 30 years away. I don’t mean to be impatient, but I don’t have 30 years. I’d like to enjoy my bungalow when I’m young and spry and spontaneous, and maybe even a bit frisky (my favorite f-word). Not when I’m 65 and checking to see what daily Medicare or AARP offerings await me in my mail.

I beat myself up about a lot, and in the case of this dream, I kick myself for not having it be more clear when I was 18. I kick myself for going through those stereotypical reckless and careless years in my 20s, and for dating people who I thought were worthy of my time — instead of giving my time to myself and my dreams. But when I think about it, perhaps those years are worthy of something after all: maybe they’re meant to be written about (fodder, anyone?) or perhaps simply learned from. Either could be valuable. The latter always is.

I’ve written about one of my favorite quotes from Henry David Thoreau before, and tonight it’s making its way into yet another post. “Go confidently in the direction of your dreams and live the life you’ve imagined” is Thoreau to the core, and perhaps the quote that he’s best known for.

It’s an easy quote to become wrapped up in, and to become starry-eyed and dreamy over. It’s a wistful quote. It has a sense of yearning. It simultaneously gives you a swift kick in the butt, but then sabotages (at least for me, anyway) one by saying, “…but you need to be confident. If you’re not confident, then don’t go in that direction just yet.” 

Or maybe that’s just me reading into it too much.

Confidence is something I often lack. It’s easy to be boisterous, to be loud, to be on stage, to be self-deprecating, to be sarcastic, to be funny. It’s easy because it’s an act I’ve gotten used to, and I often wonder if it’s at all “me,” or if it’s just something I’ve learned to use to my advantage between the hours of 9 and 5 (am and pm, respectively, lest any of you think I’m into tearing it up during the wee hours).

I find that I have a hard time reconciling the two sides of me.

Reconciling.

It’s a word I’ve used a lot in the past five years. I think there are two distinct sides of me that have been at odds for a while. The homebody, and the semi-inappropriate one that can sometimes skew a little bit Kathy Griffin. The girl that feels guilty for not going to church, but that also is down for a well-made gin and tonic, or — better yet — an extra dirty gin martini with extra olives.

Seriously. When do they reconcile? Ever? Are they even supposed to? And if not, when does the day come when I stop worrying about reconciling and embrace them both?

The life I imagined last evening is a life that left me with frustrated, built up tears in my eyes. I feel paralyzed sometimes. This blog has been great. It’s done exactly what I wanted it to do so far. It’s helped me tweak my voice (and I’m sure there’s much more tweaking to be done), it’s made me more comfortable with sharing my writing (oh, the beauty of auto-posting via Posterous), and it’s made me hungry to be able to speak that much more openly about so many things. But, as I like to jokingly say, “the time isn’t ripe.”

(Yep, “ripe.” It makes me laugh.)

I want to write about more than just surface stuff, but I’m not quite there yet. I don’t know why. Regardless, it’s also made me realize something more than I already knew: that I simply love to write, period. Surface or not.

The Thoreau quote, while easy to become enamored with, is dangerous. It’s something you know will always be there to pull out and dust off whenever you need some encouragement. But how often do each of us go confidently in the direction — not just any direction — but in the direction of our dreams?

Not often enough.

Tonight I am thankful for that quote that was tumbling around in my head all last night as I Redfinned, as I became angst-ridden over finding “cheap property” in Laguna Beach (then realizing it was only a lot — not an actual residence) and as I headed in to bed and read my two daily devotions before crashing out.

One was about how He knows where we are in every emotion, and the other — in an unrelated book — was about how He will never leave us.

Once again, the two books were connected. And if that isn’t its own kick in the butt, I don’t know what is. Time to go confidently, indeed.

Things that are awesome about today:

Our office IT dude helped me ditch my work Android for a work Blackberry. Yep, that’s right. I’m a die-hard Blackberry fan. Who knew? I didn’t realize it until I accidentally emailed the whole world — thanks to a little user error on the ‘droid — last Friday. My bad.

Mother’s Day giftage ordered: score.

Primping gift and bridesmaid dress swatch-o-fabric en route to chickie BFF living in AZ: double-score.

Covert, unrequested gift ordered for dude BFF living cross-country: triple-score.

Pics from Snapfish (aside from the Blackberry, I’m also a die-hard Snapfish user) that I’ve been meaning to order since forever ago (+ a day) ordered: quadruple score.

Realizing I lost enough lbs in the past 4 weeks to allow myself to have a solidly poured glass o’ wine three days before weighing in: extra awesome.

Randomly copying and pasting a picture of bacon into the chat window as I “spoke” with someone at work, then laughing myself silly for hours afterwards: way rad.

Plan-dreaming (different than actually planning, since I don’t have vacation stored up at the new gig yet) a vacation to Greece, then one to London, then Iceland and then a pub tour of Ireland — all this evening: relaxing, not to mention exhilarating to think that I have many-a-vacay to look forward to.

Thinking that I’ve screwed up my bathroom sink flange (yep — look it up) because I poured a little bit of bleach in the sink overnight to rid it of a hard water stain, then realizing I hadn’t messed it up after all once I let some distilled white vinegar sit in said sink for a mere 15 minutes? Whew — I was able to stop looking on Lowes.com for new flanges. Woo!

Monday complete? Always a great thing.

Sometimes I collapse into my comfy corner of the couch at the end of a Monday and veg to The Golden Girls, merely content to have made it through another Monday — which is my least favorite day of the week, but which has nothing to do with the job I go to (however, just for the record, I currently love my job). I’m happy to have made it through the day unscathed, happy to be moving on to Tuesday.

But this evening, when I thought I had nothing good to write about, I realized I had a whole day full of good. A day full of gratitude. A day full of thanks. 

And that’s way, way better than good.

It’s awesome.

So the bra saga continues.

A couple months ago, after thinking I’d found great-fitting, no-slip strap undergarments for the girls, I realized I’d ordered what amounted to the turtleneck of bras.

While the “no-slip strap” claim was true, it also was a bra that you couldn’t wear with anything other than a high-necked t-shirt, sweater or turtleneck. If one were to wear a v-neck tee or anything that skewed even remotely towards sexy, said bra would be front and center, visible to all.

I’ve never seen cups that come up so high. I mean, really — is it so hard to find a bra with straps that stay put, but with cups that actually know their place? (To be clear, their “place” is under my apparel. Not peeking out from underneath it all eager-like.)

Unfortunately, I purchased five of these turtlenecks in various colors online when I thought I’d found “the one.” After wearing one, I realized I needed to return the other four, which I attempted to do today.

JCPenney’s claim of “Happy returns: any item, anytime, anywhere” seemed to be completely untrue. I went to JCPenney at the mall in Santa Ana and was told that while, yes, I normally could return items purchased online at their customer service counter, I wasn’t allowed today because they were doing inventory — but that I could come back tomorrow.

I gave the girl a confused look, as if to say, “So doing inventory renders you incapable of processing a return?” and she replied with, “See? Look, there’s the sign that says you can’t return things today,” as she pointed to a crudely typed and printed out sign (complete with typos, might I add).

I replied with, “Oh, sorry — the sign wasn’t visible from my house when I decided to drive down here.” I was trying to be funny, but her open-mouthed stare at me inspired my quick departure and I refrained from trying to explain any further.

I had to go to the Brea Mall anyhow, so I thought I’d try their JCPenney location and see if they’d accept returns.

I walked up to the empty customer service area, save for an employee named Kyle who was rummaging through odds and ends of merchandise. He greeted me.

“How’s it going?” I asked. “Are you able to accept returns today?”

He looked confused. “Um, yeah. Why?”

I explained what had just happened in Santa Ana, and pointed out that their customer service staff pretty much rendered the claim of “happy returns/any item/anytime/anywhere” false. He was surprised and said that no store should ever decline a return for any reason.

“Great,” I said. “Then you’ve just won yourself four bras. From me.”

“Lucky me!” he said. At least this guy had a sense of humor.

I explained that I’d dubbed them “the turtleneck of bras,” and that they were fit for a grandmother. “And since I have nary a grandchild — let alone any children of my own — this is how I know we’re not a fit,” I said.

“No problem, I’m happy to take them off your hands,” he said.

“Great! Do I need to, you know, ‘bust out’ the card I charged them to? Pun intended,” I replied.

He laughed and said no, then offered up this statement after inspecting them with a quizzical expression: “They’re probably meant for women who have, you know, really, really saggy ones. So be glad they don’t fit you,” he joked.

Glad indeed.

I left the store with a cheery, “Thanks, brah!”

He laughed, I laughed, and all was well with the world.

Today I am thankful for Kyle, for the fact that I don’t have to make another trip to Santa Ana tomorrow after work, and that the ill-fitting brassieres are off my hands. And off of the girls. They weren’t happy, I wasn’t happy, and when the three of us aren’t in agreement, it’s not a pretty picture.

Here’s to finding “the real one,” even though I fully expect it to take another couple of decades.

Sometimes it’s the simplest of days that makes you the most thankful.

I’m thankful for my clean car, post-Harbor hand wash. I’ve seen people there inspect their cars thoroughly and make the employees do certain areas over again, questioning them angrily as they hurry to make their customer happy. It irritates me. Really, people? Maybe you should wash your car yourself next time. All I know is that mine was cleaner when I left there than it would’ve been had I given in to my body’s request to stay on the couch all day, so I was more than happy with it. I didn’t mind that some areas were still dripping, nor did I mind that some smudges were visible. They were the marks of an employee trying his best to get through a long line of cars as the hot sunshine beat down on him. I was grateful for his efforts.

I’m thankful for my pedicure, even though I’m not the biggest fan of the color I chose. The gal that I always see playfully chastised me the last time I was in, telling me that I needed to pick a color besides one of the 12 slightly different shades of dark red that I usually wear. Today, I brought her a bright, almost electric coral shade by OPI, and she was beaming. I doubt I’ll get the same color when I go in next time, but I don’t think I’ll be going back to my usual red, either. She got to see a new shade today, and I was encouraged to scoot out of my bubble a bit.

I’m thankful for the dude at the grocery store who was bagging my things — he noticed the checker rang up my zucchini instead as roma tomatoes, whereas I was focused on entering my customer number and sliding my card for payment. Even though the tomatoes would’ve been half the price as my zucchini, I was pleasantly surprised that someone cared enough to notice. Then to casually say something. Not in a nasty manner, not in a you’re-an-idiot manner. Just kindly. It gave me hope for our world.

I’m thankful for my Starbucks barista who took the time to encourage me to transfer my printed-out e-giftcard to a real one, who told me to register it and who basically did everything that I’m sure he was trained to do, but didn’t really have to do since nobody was watching. Seeing someone do what they know to be the right thing when eyes aren’t focused on them is one of the most pleasant, uplifting things ever.

I’m thankful for my little burst of energy tonight that fueled a bit of house cleaning, purse cleaning, dish washing, shoe organizing and laundry sorting.

My little bundle of thanks stems from the simplest of days, but at the end, the collection of gratitude makes a lovely bouquet.

I woke up this morning and the first thing I wanted to do was scratch my back. Vigorously. Last weekend’s sunburn had been manifesting itself in serious peeling since Wednesday, and today was the worst. From my shoulders downward, things looked about as attractive as a snake shedding its skin.

Today was a day off for me, and I intended to spend it doing leisurely things. Waking up when my body felt like waking up, watching cooking shows over morning coffee and then I was going to see my mom and grandpa, since he’s staying at my parents’ home while my grandmother gallivants through Europe solo.

Last night as I was trying to get things wrapped up at work, I sent a massive client email following up on 12 things, the last of which referenced an attachment which I — awesomely — forgot to attach. I emailed our department VP when I realized what I’d done, and he kindly volunteered to send it this morning when he was in. When I checked my work email after waking and saw that he’d done so, I decided to send him a quick note of thanks.

But then I decided to ask him about one other thing, so I started to compose a longer email. I was trying to be articulate and explain a situation accurately before I got to my question, and at one point I saved my email as a draft and went back to my inbox to check an email from someone else to make sure my facts were correct.

Once I had all my ducks in a row, I went back to my email draft and pulled it up, tapped the screen (it’s an Android) to continue writing the email and nothing responded to my touch. I tapped it again, and still nothing. I tapped once more, saw a few letters that I thought resembled the word “Ancestry” and then the email disappeared.

Wait, what…? What happened? Where did it go?

“Holy F,” I thought to myself, “I think I just prematurely sent the email.”

And not just to our department VP, but to more people.

The freaking out began, and before too long I was itchy from hives of nervousness instead of my peeling back.

I sped to the phone in my kitchen and tried my best to remember the office’s main line. I got through to the receptionist and asked to be transferred to my boss ASAP. Near hysterics, since I knew the email had been sent — including to clients (that weren’t mine) — I spoke in an elevated voice and quickly recapped what I’d done, but explained that I wasn’t sure exactly how it’d happened.

He was awesome. He calmed me down and pulled up the email, then — after a brief pause — said, “Oh, wow…hm…oh, my God! This even went to our clients at Ancestry!”

I was suddenly no longer calm, and my worst fears were confirmed. Not only was I the tool (still within my 90-day introductory period with the agency, mind you) who failed to attach a document to a client email last night, but I was the tool who decided to thank my boss for sending it in my absence — only to end up emailing the whole world.

And by the whole world, I mean my world. People in the office, clients outside of the office — I even managed to somehow send an email to our agency calendar.

My boss reminded me that it didn’t say anything bad, it was just an email that shouldn’t have gone to as many people as it did. He told me to simply send a “Sorry, please disregard” email, which I did — although I really didn’t want to touch the Android after what I’d just done. (He also tried to lighten the mood by telling me that sending a mass email like that was what I get for working on a day off, although I wasn’t ready to laugh just yet.)

With the gentle touch of someone who’d just been burned, I hopped back in the saddle, crafted another note apologizing to everyone on my initial message for my mass email fail, then cautiously sent that one, as well.

Unreal.

It made me think of a few times at my last job where I had a couple of email accidents. Once, right after sending a client email, I realized I’d ended an otherwise incredibly polished message with, “Best retards” instead of “Best regards.”

And on another occasion, I was having a firm discussion with someone in the office over email and addressed her as “Tuna” instead of “Tina.”

After today’s email snafu, I watched my inbox become more and more full, and couldn’t bring myself to read or reply to any of them for fear of accidentally emailing another batch of unsuspecting souls.

I put myself in the shoes of our clients and wondered what I’d think of my emails as they came through. I’d see the first one, be confused, then I’d see another email from the same idi— er, person — and, since it asked me to “disregard,” I’d do exactly that. I’d promptly trash both emails and move on with my day.

The only thing I can say is that two days ago — after it took me 25 minutes to compose a brief email in the San Francisco airport — I complained about my work Android and asked whether I could go back to a Blackberry (yes, still a faithful ‘berry-er). My boss said he’d support that, and encouraged me to talk to IT.

Given today’s situation, I think he’s going to make sure the switch happens ASAP.

After I calmed down and my hives went away, I realized that my shirt was damp, thanks to the sweat storm I’d created/endured. I went back to shaking my head over my idiocy and scratching my itchy back. Thanks to my shame, I dawdled in getting ready to go see grandpa and mom, and finally got out the door around 3:30.

The professional in me is embarrassed for doing this in the first place, but to do it during my 90-day introductory period is just genius. I pretty much just raised my hand and volunteered to be the company’s #1 liability. Granted, the content of the email was tame and full of a whole lotta nothing, but still.

The writer in me, however, was mortified that the email which got sent out contained incomplete thoughts and was missing punctuation — two pet peeves of mine. Oh, the horror.

Tonight, while I wish I was more technologically savvy and hadn’t done it at all, I am thankful for having committed my faux pas on a day off so that I have two more days to lick my wounds. I’m thankful for my level-headed boss who basically told me to stop worrying about it and move on, and for…wine.

Tasty, delicious, forgiving wine — and, interestingly, I’m drinking Conundrum.

How appropriate after today’s events.

I covered a lot of territory last night while I was flying home from San Francisco — not only literally, but thought-wise, as well.

It’s amazing how much the mind can think about when it’s not at rest.

The skies looked turbulent and threatening as we took off, and as I was blankly staring out the window while going back over the day in my mind, my eyes focused on the tiny beads of water speeding across the window just after take-off. Around 15,000 feet, I realized how much it was raining outside; the engine just beyond my window was shiny and wet, and when you’re flying at a few hundred miles per hour through inclement weather, you feel somewhat off balance when you realize the rain appears to be blowing perfectly horizontally across the sky.

I did a quick rewind and remembered staying up in South San Francisco a year ago with a friend and my parents for my cousin’s wedding in the city. The night before the celebration, he and I found a restaurant with a water view just south of the airport and enjoyed extra dirty martinis and beef carpacchio while watching the planes on their approach into SFO. I have a gray, typically Northern California photo of the green foliage just outside our restaurant window that seems to disappear into darker gray water. The clouds above were a lighter gray.

Everything was gray.

Everything was beautiful.

I thought back to last summer when I spent a few months interviewing at an agency adjacent to the Embarcadero, and I remembered — when I thought I might get the offer — how torn I felt to potentially be leaving Orange County and the part of Southern California I couldn’t wait to get home to each semester during my years at Michigan State, and when I was living briefly in Connecticut.

Still, I scoured the area for apartments. I crunched numbers, trying my best to replicate my living situation in Orange County in the Bay Area. It was difficult. But I kept crunching.

When I didn’t get the offer from that agency, it was the best feeling in the world — yet also the most disconcerting on a personal level. Did I really know so little about myself that I wasn’t aware of my true feelings until I had the decision made for me? Being told I didn’t get the job made me ecstatic. Not because I got to stay where I was working, but because I was able to continue building my life in the area where I was living.

I told my six-weeks-new boss the story as we flew up yesterday, and we decided that sometimes we just get so involved in the interview process because we’re in need of something different; we simply go through the steps and hope to come out the other side unscathed and happier. In my case, the excitement and prospect of something new was reverberating within me. At the same time, however, it was covering up my spirit’s true feelings.

I continued to stare out the window at the streaky, shimmering rain and remembered that everything last summer was about the Bay Area for me. I’d see Under the Tuscan Sun on TV repeatedly, and would stop to watch it each time it was on. I remembered that Diane Lane’s divorced character was from San Francisco and that she had the Fog City Diner cookbook. During my interview process, my mom had secretly ordered that same cookbook for me — it’s a restaurant that actually exists.

(It is charming, and I highly recommend you — yes, you — visit it.)

When I was up there in person for the interview, it’s where they took me to lunch.

And when I didn’t get the job, my mom gave me a congratulations card saying as much; it accompanied the cookbook I didn’t know she’d ordered. It was one of the best gifts ever.

One of the flight attendants came around to take drink orders, and I gave him my coupon for a free cocktail. I was surprised when he brought me a gin and tonic that he’d made, since I was hoping to have control over the liquor/mixer ratio. Secretly, I was bummed that I didn’t get a mini bottle of Tanqueray, but I decided to be OK with it since driving home was in my near future and I hadn’t had much to eat most of the day.

I continued looking outside and remembered my brother’s years in flight school, as well as our family trip in a four-seater Cessna to Fountainhead (?) for dinner when we visited him in Tulsa.

The flight attendant was back and noticed I’d only taken a few sips of my cocktail. He asked if I needed more mixer. I absolutely declined. It was the strongest gin and tonic I’d ever had, and suddenly I was glad he’d made it for me. I decided his pouring hand was the equivalent of a lead foot and, in keeping with this blog, I was thankful for it.

I pondered marriage and my thoughts about it.

I thought about my best friend living in New Jersey, and how much my heart misses him.

Because the clouds were so thick, I wondered if we were passing anywhere near Monterey’s Laguna Seca track, or if we were over the ocean or too far inland.

I eavesdropped on conversations. I discovered that our flight attendant can fly for free on any domestic flight, and when he flies abroad, only has to pay tax.

I learned that the man in seat 1F was forgettable; he got up to use the bathroom just after take-off, and nobody missed him. He came back after the drinks had been handed out, after the peanuts had been consumed and as the trash was being collected.

I was considering using the restroom before we landed, but I suddenly had no desire once we all realized how long he’d been gone.

Before I knew it, we were descending and the clouds instantly broke to reveal that we were low over the ocean and just beginning to bank towards land; three oil platforms glowed in a sea of blackness, their amber lights bouncing off of waves and their structures standing proud in the night ocean air.

I realized that the company I work at now is just under the flight path of planes making their approach into Orange County’s John Wayne Airport, and that if I was inside our agency’s kitchen, I’d be able to look up and see my plane overhead.

I tracked our route as we continued our descent; clouds filled my view once again — big, white, billowy clouds only a few thousand feet above the ground with nothing but the night sky overhead. I was sitting on the right side of the plane and should’ve been able to see Saddleback, but there were some cottony puffs in the way. Just as I gave thought to it, a cloud perfectly shaped like the mountain began to break apart and gave way to the dark outline of our two familiar peaks within the Santa Ana mountains. Saddleback was in view.

We landed, I got to my car and it began to rain as I left the parking deck. The weather had reached Orange County just as I had.

Last night when I walked in the door, my eyes fell upon my baker’s rack and the shelf of cookbooks which greets anyone who enters the house. The Fog City Diner cookbook was front and center, and its visibility made me smile. Who would’ve thought that almost a year later I’d be returning to the area that I thought for sure I’d be living in, but that I was now visiting because of a new job that has kept me even closer to the home I didn’t want to leave (but never knew)?

Tonight I am thankful for the value in an hour, for the reflection that it brought and for the exhausted yet happy heart that helped me fall asleep quickly last night. I would never have guessed last summer that I’d be where I am today, and that I’d be back to San Francisco once again but with a whole new perspective. The value in an hour is that it brings exactly that — a new angle at which to observe life, a new lens to look through and a delightful cocktail that makes the hodgepodge of thoughts go down that much more easily.

I flew up to San Francisco this morning for a business day trip. Earlier this afternoon as the group I was with walked down the street and hailed a cab, we all piled into it and I noticed a man sitting on the sidewalk as we drove away. He had a sign that read, “Have AIDS. Homeless. Need food. God bless.”

Without dissecting the situation too much, it is a sad state of affairs on one level or another that the man was sitting on the street at all. Some may opt to bring him food. Others might default to giving some change here and there, or maybe a few bucks. Some may pass by and wonder if he really had AIDS, while others may wonder if he was truly homeless. Some might glance his way and wonder if he really needed food, whereas others may zero in on the religious angle and wonder if he really believed in God.

For me, the point is that regardless of whether his sign was factual or not, something compelled the man to believe that sitting on the sidewalk is the best option for his day, potentially the week, and maybe even for a month or longer.

Simply put, if the sign is factual, I’m sure there are resources in the city which could be sought out and utilized by him. It’s therefore sad that he’s not making use of them — and if he is, even sporadically — it’s sad that precious moments of his life are still being passed by sitting on a cold sidewalk.

If the sign was (and it’s disheartening to think that it could be) made up, it might leave one (like me) wondering what happened in the man’s life to make him think he’d be more successful in making a sign and asking for a handout than by trying to do more, to be more.

A long time ago, I heard that people who stand in busy intersections with signs asking passersby for money can make upwards of $60,000 a year, tax-free. Despite this, I had a theory that I talked myself into. If I wanted to give someone a buck — what’s it to me? Not much. It’s a couple of small burritos from Del Taco that I don’t really need, or it’s half the cost of a tall coffee from Starbucks. My thinking was that I’d give them the benefit of the doubt and assume that they really just needed money and that my dollar might be the one that made them think, “I can do more. I’m worth more. And this is the last dollar I’ll ever accept in this manner.”

Over time, my theory changed a bit — not necessarily for the better. I figured if they had a problem with addiction, the dollar may very well be used to continue that addiction — which I was OK with. My thinking was that sometimes desperate people do desperate things to get their next fix and, in a twisted way, I figured my dollar could potentially keep them from becoming desperate and hurting someone to get the fix they needed.

But I gradually stopped carrying cash over the years and, like many, began living by debit card. I had a ready answer for those asking for assistance: “Sorry, I don’t have any cash on me.” And it was true.

Despite the truth, I felt a bit empty so I began donating to The Smile Train when I started receiving their information in the mail. Minor feelings of redemption ensued. When The Salvation Army bell-ringer stands outside the stores during holiday season, I try to fill their red kettle with a dollar here and there, and with as much loose change in my purse that I can find. Slightly stronger feelings of redemption usually follow, but they’re short-lived.

Today as I was looking at the man with his sign, I saw him not as homeless or hungry or with AIDS, but I saw him simply as someone in need of something. Perhaps he was in need of exactly what his sign said, or perhaps he was in need of completely different things. My heart went out to him, because without engaging these people, sometimes all we can do is wonder, or find a foundation in their area that can accept my donation that — hopefully — somehow reaches the man.

I often wonder about things in general, and my subjects range from the mundane to those which skew more philosophical. In his case, I wonder tonight if he’s still on the streets in the rain, or if he’s found shelter.

If he’s found someplace to be, where is it?

If he needed food, did he get it?

Thoreau’s words have never felt more true and stung my being the way they did when I saw him. “The question is not what you look at, but what you see.”

Today I saw now a man on a sidewalk, but simply a man in need — maybe of something different than what his sign said, but who had needs all the same.

And what I saw in myself is someone whose heart got left behind a bit when I found myself in cab, driving away, not really sure what to do the next time I encounter this.

Tonight I am thankful for various things…for the city resources that exist for those who need them, for the people in a needy person’s path who can potentially direct them to the assistance if they ask for directions, and for a simple cardboard sign I saw almost six hours ago for mere seconds, but which has occupied my thoughts since my eyes fell upon it. A little bit of my heart was left behind in San Francisco, but I’m thinking that it will grow back once I’m able to find a reaction I’m happy with the next time I encounter something like what I saw today — and when I have the time to be able to do something, however small, to help it.

There’s nothing quite like getting a Living Will, Last Will and Testament and Power of Attorney in order to make your emotions take a sudden nosedive.

Being the genius that I am, I decided to do this around 10am this morning, and it had a marked effect on the rest of my day. Maybe it’s the work travel tomorrow that has me on edge. Maybe it’s air travel in general these days and pilots we see being tired, boarding a plane drunk and freaking out at altitude that has me on edge. Whatever the reason, I find that I’m strangely becoming less and less of a fan of flying.

I read that the odds of dying in a car accident are 1 in 12,300, while the odds of dying in a plane crash are less than 1 in 1,000,000.

But still, I fret.

Who will take care of my cat? Who will get my car?

I decided to put at least a portion of the fretting to rest and hop on LegalZoom [note the shameless plug for which I received no compensation] for some speedy document generation.

Granted, the papers haven’t been signed by myself nor my witnesses yet, but I feel better about having them.

In all seriousness, though, having to answer questions about whether you want to donate your organs as a gift to others, donate them to science or neither is a tricky thing to wrestle with over your morning coffee. Naming one or both parents as an “agent” who has the right to pull the plug if I’m in a vegetative state isn’t something I particularly enjoy thinking about, either. But I learned a few things.

I learned that, yes, I would like to be given food through an IV even if I am in a coma or otherwise silent state. I can’t imagine starving to death if I’m already in bad shape, can you?

I learned that I’m comfortable with donating my organs after all, whereas I’ve never really thought much about it — except to decline the donor dot on my driver’s license. Watch Seven Pounds if you haven’t seen it yet. If you’re not a donor, you might opt to become one.

I listed my dad as my first “agent” and my mom second. It’s not like they wouldn’t consult anyway. He’s listed first so that his level-headed dude-ness can preside over matters such as deciding what to do with my remains (I’m still undecided about whether to be cremated or buried, although I’ve always preferred the heat over the cold, so maybe this should inform my decision).

While I would never wish for any of these things to fall into my parents’ collective lap, as God knows they have enough on their own plate with my grandparents and with an eye towards my dad’s retirement these days, I can honestly say that tonight I am thankful that documents of this nature — and the ease with which they can be created (for a fee, natch) — makes me sleep a little easier.

Not on the plane, mind you, since I’ll be too busy trying to detect abnormal turbulence.

But easier nonetheless.