An onion’s scent is to this dieter’s abode as poorly applied polish is to a fingernail.

Alright — possibly a stretch…but go with me on this one.

Whenever I’m back on the dieting wagon, I tend to do a lot of vegetable-roasting in the oven. Asparagus, zucchini and, yes, onions. We dieting-folk (particularly those of us playing by Nutrisystem’s rules) are pretty much allowed to eat as much of these things as we want, without feeling guilty and seeing it reflected the next day on a) the scale or b) in the waistband of my pants. While I can eat others, these are my favorite veggies.

The catch is that…well, one of them’s an onion. When not fully cooked, it can be a pretty foul delicacy.

I roast other things like carrots, tomatoes, yellow bell peppers, the occasional sweet potato, eggplant, kale, mushrooms — even apples and pears. But roasting an onion is one of my favorites.

The problem is that whenever I specifically roast an onion, which I adore, the house reeks of caramelized oniony goodness for days. I opened windows, opened the back door, opened the patio doors, and nothing really helped with airing the place out like I hoped it would.

I roasted one on Friday night, and come Sunday evening I could still smell it. What’d I do? Nope, couldn’t wait a few more days for the lingering smell to depart. I decided I really wanted another onion tonight, as well as some mushroom-action all up in it. I wondered if it would be less stinky if I caramelized it on top of the stove in a big skillet with glass lid.

Nope. In fact, it was probably stinkier. But the concoction was really delicious atop my tasty Nutrisystem burger (oxymoron?).

Since the Friday night onion stench wasn’t fully gone, I got to wondering in the midst of my roasting: if I do up another onion, will the stench permeate the fabrics, carpeting and every inch of the house that much more since the original aroma hadn’t yet peaced out?

I pictured a fingernail that had a few coats of polish on it, each layer applied before the previous coat was fully dry. If this has ever happened to you, you know how it gets an icky, messy look. Negative points if it also forms little air bubbles that dry as your polish does.

Anyway, such is the air in the casa right now. It’s thick, it’s unattractive and I wish I could start over.

Maybe a fingernail wasn’t the best thing to compare onion stink to. My point is that when something is at once both sweet and pungent, and when it lingers for as long as onion-stink does, one can’t help but wonder if there’s a layering effect that makes the smell that much more difficult to get rid of.

Probably not. But I’m not going to lie — I intentionally didn’t bring my dry cleaning inside tonight because, since I picked it up to have in time for some work travel up to SF on Wednesday, I didn’t want to smell like a ripe, caramelized onion for the first time I meet my clients.

Yes, we’re breaking bread over lunch and, yes, I probably could pass off my funk as either airplane-odor or taxi scent. But knowing that I won’t have to is key in this case.

Tonight I (and others, I’m sure) am thankful that I don’t also incorporate a garlic clove into my onion mess. I’m thankful it’s just the onion and mushrooms cohabitating like two stinky hippies. I’m thankful that I don’t have a roommate other than the cat (who, granted, retreats from the kitchen and stays a safe distance away when said onion roasting is occurring), because if I did, I’d surely have to find another equally-delicious-yet-less-stinky veggie to fill up on.

Such is the delicious curse of the onion.

For months on end, my remote control would turn on my TV, but not turn it off.

While I was fine with getting up and turing off my TV by hand, after a while I decided it was irritating and that the remote should work. If it can turn it on, it should be able to turn it off. I thought about just getting a new one and having someone of the male gender figure out how to make it work, but something told me I’d be able to solve the mystery.

Sure enough, one night I went to turn my TV off with the remote, forgetting that it had stopped working for me. But the TV went off anyway.

Turns out it turns on when you press the ON button, and it also turns off when you press the ON button. I’d accidentally pressed the “wrong” button and discovered its quirk.

It sort of reminded me of the time back in 2006 when I’d just moved home from Connecticut. I’d moved back in with my ‘rents and was crashing in my old bedroom when, on more than one occasion, I’d wake up to the sound of my computer turning on. And it’s not like anything could’ve turned it on, because it was a flat button on the front of my old-school tower that had to be pushed in to start it up. Within seconds, the screen would be glowing, and I’d have to get up and turn it off.

Creepy, no?

I told my mom recently that I sometimes hear things in the house when I know I’m the only one here. The house was built in the 1950s, and it has some of those familiar sounds that I’ve come to know and love. That is, when I’m positive when I know what’s causing them. When they just start happening out of the blue, they’re sort of strange.

There’s a spot in the hallway that, when you walk down it, the floorboards under the carpeting creak a little bit. It’s a sound I can remember hearing for at least 30 years of my life. When I was little, I remember my brother and I would both be quiet when one of us would get up in the middle of the night and leave our rooms to get a drink of water or use the bathroom. Our parents’ bedroom was a few feet away; I didn’t want to wake him, he didn’t want to wake me, and neither of us wanted to wake them. We’d do a great job at being quiet until the hallway would creak under our soft footsteps.

Even a lightweight pet can cause the floorboard to grumble. But since I don’t allow the cat in any part of the house besides the family room and kitchen, it’s occasionally odd to me that I can hear the sound of someone’s or something’s footsteps in the hallway. Maybe it’s the house settling or adjusting to a change in temperature, but I’ve come to know what those sounds are, as well, and they’ve always been different than the sound of footsteps.

Right after my grandfather passed away — I think I was 11 or 12 — I remember waking up in my bedroom one night around 2 or 3am and feeling what I thought was someone’s hand touch my forehead and brush my hair back off my face. I knew my bedroom door was shut and that everyone else was sound asleep, but something made me think that it was my grandfather’s spirit who came to say hello that night since I was missing him. Maybe I was at the point of sleep where I had mistakenly thought a tumbling teddy bear or a pillow was that of a hand, but at the time it was actually somewhat comforting to think that it might’ve been him.

So maybe he’s back and cruising through the house that he and my grandma used to visit. Maybe they’re both here, checking things out and making sure that I’m doing alright. Maybe they were having a good time reprogramming my remote control so that I felt like watching a little less TV, and maybe they were turning on my computer because they were reminding me that I need to write more.

Yesterday I was in the backyard pulling some weeds from the flowerbed, and I heard my cat emit one of his dainty meows. I turned around to see where he was, and he was heading into the house through the doggy door from years ago, which he’s now come to know and love as his own private entry.

But instead of hopping all the way through the door, he got halfway in, made some sort of weird hissing sound and backed up. Quickly. He sat on the patio for a few seconds looking at the kitty door, then decided he didn’t want to go inside after all and took off, slinking around the corner.

Maybe he saw the ghost inside the casa. Maybe he finally met my grandparents and hasn’t yet become familiar enough with them. Probably not, but hey — it was a good story for a Sunday night.

Tonight I am thankful for my casa and all its quirks, for my cat who somehow validated the fact that something’s up (not sure if I should be thankful for that or concerned about my own sanity) and I’m thankful that for as many weird happenings and creaky noises that go on in this place, that there’s still no place like home — friendly ghosts and all.

I spent some time outdoors today weeding the flowerbeds in my backyard. It was a fitting thing to do the day before Earth Day, I figured.

Mother Nature was at her best. A giant grasshopper visited midway through my time outside, landing on a small African iris I planted a couple of months back. It startled me at first, but I got used to it watching me as I weeded here, weeded there.

My bird feeder which had been empty for a few months needed filling, and while I thought the birds had come to know it as being food-less, a few perched on it today in the hopes that I’d come to their rescue. I did, and before I knew it, a few sparrow-sized birds with red chests had gathered around and were happily flinging seeds everywhere.

Lizards were scurrying back and forth across the block wall at the rear of the yard, with one in particular showing off some crazy moves. It was as though he was on hydraulics, crouching down then popping back up repeatedly and in a very herky-jerky fashion. Even a baby lizard got in on the festivities; it would run a ways down the wall, then turn around when it got too far away from its parents.

Butterflies were flitting here and there.

A the low whir of a hummingbird’s wings passed quickly by my ears a few times.

Since the temperature was warmer than it has been lately, I wore a tank top and promply burned my back and shoulders. Woops.

I accidentally dug up a few worms, intentionally killed a pincher bug and squashed a crippled fly that would’ve died anyway, removed a few weeds from the grass and earmarked next weekend for redefining the curving grassline near some bushes in the back of the yard.

Before heading back inside, I sat outside with a giant bottle of water and took in my fresh, clean flowerbeds and admired the grass that hasn’t been this green in a while. A few hours well-spent the day before Earth Day, indeed.

Today I am thankful for Mother Nature’s charms, her scents and for the plethora of creatures that crossed my path. Sunburn aside, and dead fly and pincher bug aside, it seemed we all had the same goal: to be out and about, beautifying, taking care of and enjoying our Mother together.

Sometimes when I’m really bored and looking to keep the shenanigans to a minimum, I’ll drive over to my local Walmart about a mile away and peruse the aisles. I can easily lose myself for a few hours, and generally wind up coming home with a new candle, or an eggplant that I have big plans for — but then usually just end up forgetting about until I see its shriveled purple mass in my veggie drawer. I almost made a Walmart run tonight, but stumbled across You’ve Got Mail on TV; staying in was suddenly the easy choice.

Last Christmas season I was Walmarting and doing my weekly wandering to see what I could see, and I did something I rarely do: I wandered down the book aisle. The funny thing about me and books is that I have a ton of them, but most I’ve never read. I’ll buy them because the cover is pretty (interestingly, I’ve also been known to buy wine because of its label…coincidence? I think not…), or I’ll buy it because the inside cover led me to believe it’d be a good read. Then I get it home, lay it on the arm of the sofa so that I’ll remember to read it whenever I pass by, but inevitably a holiday or other event at the casa will spur me to pick up and clean the house — at which point the book gets shelved.

This book-buying thing went on for most of my 20s, so I’ve made a concerted effort in my 30s to put them back before I leave the store. I’ll allow myself to wander the aisles with a book or three in my cart, but really — who am I kidding? I figure putting them back not only saves me money and from feeling guilty for not reading them, but it also burns a few calories by having to cross the monolithic building to get them back to their proper aisle.

At any rate, last Christmas I actually bought a book. It’s a 2012 Devotional Collection called Our Daily Bread, and since I’d been feeling the need for something of its kind, the fact that it was in my path made purchasing it a no-brainer. Its first devotion of the year is what inspired this blog, and ever since January 1, I’ve made it a priority to read them before hitting the hay each night — minus a few nights in January and February when work travel tripped up my nightly routine. For me, I find that reading them quiets my brain and gets it into the right place to be able to nod off to sleep fairly quickly.

More than once, I’ve sat down at this computer to write my blog for the day and I’ve had no idea what to write about; some posts likely reflect this. But after my head goes to a particular topic and I find that I’m writing about something that wasn’t inside my noggin just a few minutes before, it has happened — on more than a few occasions — that when I finish writing, click the Publish button and head into bed for the night, I’ll read my devotion for the day and it’s exactly in line with what I’ve just written.

The first time it happened I was surprised.

The second time it happened, I smiled.

Last night’s blog post was a bit blue, but it’s where my head was at the time. Some things I don’t feel like glossing over or ignoring when it’s time to write, and while the post was likely incredibly vague to everyone but me, I’ll say that sometimes I look back on my life and I see a lot of bad and not a lot of good. I know this isn’t the full story, but occasionally the icky stuff is what stands out more than the happy things.

The devotion that I read last night immediately after writing spoke directly to where my head had been for the hour or so I’d been at the keyboard. Check this out:

“What is memory? What is this faculty that enables us to recall past feelings, sights, sounds and experiences? By what process are events recorded, stored and preserved in our brain to be brought back again and again? Much is still mystery. We do know that memories can be blessings — full of comfort, assurance and joy. Old age can be happy and satisfying if we have stored up memories of purity, faith, fellowship and love.”

After a few more sentences, however, the devotion takes a bit of a turn. “But memory can also be a curse and a tormentor. Many people…would give all they possess to erase from their minds the past sins that haunt them. What can a person do who is plagued by such remembrances? Just one thing. He can take them to the One who is able to forgive them and blot them out forever.”

The devotion wrapped up nicely, and once again I was smiling. Whenever I seem to have a heavy heart, something greater than me reminds me that the burden isn’t mine to bear — it’s mine to share.

I’m not surprised by the connection the little book of daily devotions has to my life. I’m not surprised that I came across it and bought it — the first book in the last five years I’ve purchased (except for Motley Crue’s The Dirt which, yes, I fully realize is a direct contradiction to said book of Christian devotions). It seems the book of devotions was in my path at a time in my life when I needed it the most. Only I didn’t know I was looking for it.

Today I was doing a Google Images search for a client’s logo, and of the many graphics, photos and doodles that popped up, there was something that seemed out of place. I clicked on whatever the picture was and was taken to a blog where a woman had written about, well, writing. It was an encouraging post in which she basically said that if she’d done all her research about being published before attempting to get published, she would’ve quit before she started. She continued, saying, “If you let the fear of the unknown (could I make it in this world?) stop you from even starting, you won’t start.”

So true. She recommends, in this case, choosing to be naive — to not dig so deep that you stop yourself from making any progress at all. And as someone who overthinks most of my writing instead of actually just sitting down and seeing what comes out, it was something that I needed to see — that very moment that I saw it.

At first I was surprised I came across it.

And then I smiled, because it really wasn’t surprising at all.

Tonight I am thankful for the reminders that I get from — get ready — God. Yes, I said it. I say “God” because for me, that’s where I firmly believe I get my best, most meaningful nudges, my guidance to stay on the rails, to color (usually) within the lines, and my peace. I realize that God can be a controversial word. If it is for you, I wouldn’t be offended if you stopped reading. When writing this blog, I’ve occasionally struggled with how much to say, or how little to say when it comes to my faith. Do I not offend the masses and instead refer to Him as “a higher power”? I probably have before. Do I instead take the whimsical approach and give a shout out to the universe? This I’ve definitely done, and for the most part, my intention was to express exactly that — whimsy — instead of denying my God.

But while the past four to six months have shown me things that I could pass off as coming from somewhere else, I know their true origin. And since this particular post doesn’t have much to do with whimsy, I figured tonight it’s time to call it what it is for me.

Today at work, I found myself doing a bit of research on a guy who started a company that we’re in the process of pitching. The man seems incredibly smart and has amazingly diverse professional experience, and at the end of his particular “About Us” blurb that I was reading on their site, it said he was also into 80s music, tattoos, motorcycles and a few charitable causes, one of which was a specific no-kill animal shelter that he supports.

While I veered off on a digital tangent and started browsing through the shelter’s adoptable pets, vowing to make a beautiful Husky-mix girl named Miska my own, I got to thinking about the idea of a no-kill shelter.

Its purpose? To be a safe haven for rescued animals that probably have some pretty substantial issues, but which are able to be rehabilitated, cared for and adopted by — ideally — a loving person, people or family who can’t wait to be with them.

It’s really no different than what we put ourselves through at times, and what we hold ourselves back from.

Oh, if I had a list of all of my issues, my stumbles, my errors, my sins and each piece of baggage that I think of each day…it would be lengthy. Most of the time, I feel like if anyone knew about even a fraction of that list, their mouths would fall open and they’d probably run the other direction. It’s something I know I should probably try to work through at some point in the very near future, but this week — this month — I’m just not ready to yet.

That aside, I decided I need to find my own personal version of a no-kill shelter. I’m clearly treating myself badly by withholding myself from certain situations because of “the list.” While most of the time I really have no desire to do anything other than a good job at work, relax at home, get to bed on time and write as much as possible, sometimes I imagine myself in more social settings — maybe putting myself out there more, or picturing myself as more of an outgoing person than I am. It exhausts me — one, because it’s not my nature. But more importantly, because I feel the need to treat people as a confessional so that I’m “up front,” “transparent” and so that people know what they’re getting when they think they want to get closer to me than just a casual acquaintance.

In my mind, I’m thinking…really? Who wants to deal with my list? Nobody. So I refrain entirely, choosing instead to keep my circle of trusted friends who already know everything about every year of my life intentionally small, the walls intentionally high and my focus on things that I not only enjoy immensely, but that also — and interestingly — don’t judge.

Writing doesn’t judge.

Driving aimlessly with great music doesn’t judge.

My cat doesn’t judge.

My cake pops, while usually grossly misshapen and falling off the stick, don’t judge.

Reruns of The Golden Girls don’t judge.

If animals are conscious of thinking the same way humans do, I’m sure many of them — before finding a safe harbor at a no-kill shelter — get into a headspace where they think they’re not worth any more than what the hands of their owners subject them to.

I was reading about a German Shepherd rescued and rehabilitated at the shelter. It had been confined in a small cage too small for it to turn around in and shot at; wounds on its head, neck and torso had healed, but the emotional damage had been done.

How sad to imagine such a beautiful creature thinking that’s all they’re worthy of. Their owner, perhaps. But not them.

And we’re really no different.

We may not have visible wounds, but some of the dark and negative things we’ve seen, experienced or dealt with at the hands of friends, strangers — or even those we thought were connected by one degree or another of love — can have devastatingly disastrous implications on our lives.

Just like the animals, we sleep every night and we wake up every morning, but we carry so much of an invisible burden on our shoulders that sometimes it’s all we can do to to open our eyes when we sense sunlight outside, or crack a smile when we think we’re not worthy of happiness.

Tonight I am thankful for the random digital wandering I did at work today, because the actual no-kill shelter and what it can mean for each of us who has anywhere from a pebble-sized issue to a mountain of them was a nice reminder to maybe not be so hard on ourselves…and to remember that it’s not to late to overhaul one’s sense of self and to rehab one’s way of thinking.

Inspiration is a funny thing. Places where you never expected to find it, it exists. And places where you thought you would see it, you instead find that you’re coming up a bit short.

In the past two weeks, I’ve found inspiration in the graffiti on a freeway off-ramp. I may crank out a bit of writing this weekend with said graffiti at the center of the story.

The first time I saw it, it was merely something I read. The next day I saw it, there was a reply of sorts that had been scrawled over the top. Not an angry reply, just a reply.

I’m sure the conversation has continued for months, and that it’s only been because of my new route to work that I’ve caught on to the ongoing dialogue between at least two people.

I wonder what time of the day they paint their messages on the off-ramp wall. I wonder if it’s during the daytime and I just happen to never see them, or if it’s under the dark of night. I wonder if they know each other, and how many supplies they travel with. If they do know each other, I wonder why they don’t just sit down and have a conversation, or if they know that what they do has some sort of entertainment value for those of us who see the aftermath. I wonder if I’ve ever passed them in the paint brush aisle at Michael’s, and I wonder if they had to go through a trial and error process to find the best paint to suit their communication needs.

The intersection just off the freeway where this all occurs is a fascinating one. The first morning that I noticed the words written by a wide brush thick with paint, I also noticed a homeless man at the end of the off-ramp. His corner was thoroughly marked: a toilet seat was dangling by a looped rope from the street sign pole he was standing next to, and it was smeared with, well, brown stuff. The “stuff,” however, was completely dry and looked like paint, so I’m going to hope it was that. The next morning at the end of that same off-ramp, he was gone, and so was his toilet seat.

Something about this area each morning makes me sad. Right as I exit the freeway, I’m met with a shallow hill layered with the striking beauty of mature, lush ice plant groundcover, its electric purple flowers bursting from plump green structures. Then a second later, the graffiti and the dangling toilet seat. The simple beauty of Mother Nature juxtaposed with depressing human elements is sometimes too much. And yet with each passing morning, I find something new about the entire scene, and I vow to write about it.

Sometimes I look around at the world and wonder why there are so many things that yield nothing more than the emotional equivalent of a gloomy, dark gray cloud that looks like it’s about to open up and pour at any second. And then I realize that if my tiny existence feels the burden of a situation I’m not directly involved in, imagine what it would be like to live the situation day in and day out.

I think of people who have come from having very little in life to making something from nothing. I think of people who have overcome abuse, bankruptcy, addiction or incarceration. I think of these people and can’t help but believe that somewhere — in something, and at some point in time — they saw a tiny speck that stood out from the rest; a sparkle of hope and a glimmer of encouragement. I think that they maybe were finally able to hear the words, “You can” instead of “You can’t,” and that those two words were the ones that flung the door that was mostly shut — but not quite all the way — wide open.

And I sometimes think that maybe it’s the words of a writer or the music of a musician that could very well have been the vehicle to greatness for someone. I’d be lying if I told you that I didn’t want my words to be that for someone someday.

So when I wonder about all the gray in the world and all that brings me down, I wonder if it’s meant to inspire the exact opposite, and that the light that I can hopefully create by putting pen to paper or fingers to keyboard may someday find their way into the hands of someone who needs a bit of sparkle in a life of darkness.

I hope.

Tonight I am thankful for my random inspiration and for the lives of others who inspire mine. May my contributions someday inspire a part of their world, as well.

Around 11am, a headache paid a visit to me. Ever since, it’s been hanging out and being a pest all day. I can’t shake it.

A far cry from the migraines I used to get frequently, this one still managed to wreak havoc in its own way. A busy day kept it at my side, and around the 2pm hour when I was in the office kitchen getting some fruit, it inspired me to grab a cupcake when someone walked in with a fresh box from Sprinkles.

(I don’t even like Sprinkles, so that’s sayin’ something about the degree of pain.)

When I got home, I had a protein-centric dinner, thinking that maybe it would help (since neither the aspirin nor cupcake did). It might’ve, or maybe it didn’t — but an hour ago it seemed to be backing off.

Just when I was easing into the evening, I cracked open a Diet 7-Up and added some diet cranberry juice to it as my non-alcoholic toast to an evening warm enough that it demanded the A/C be turned on. And just like that, the headache came back.

The innocent concoction no longer seemed tasty. I poured it down the drain.

My headband that was holding my hair out of my face now felt like a vice grip.

What’s the deal?

My flowers that I displayed in vases on Easter were finally on their last petal, given the toasty day we had here with nary a window open. Their stems were wilted, and their blooms ranging from crispy to limp and everything in between. I wanted to hit the hay instead of discarding them, but they’d be stinky come tomorrow, so I gathered them up and took them out to the trash.

I realized that, once again, my neighbor had brought my barrels in for me earlier today while I was at work. And the very next second, I realized how pleasant the night air felt on my skin and how clear the stars looked overhead.

I realized that for as exhausted as I was, I hadn’t been up since 3:30am before husband and child awoke, the way someone earlier today said. I admire her endurance. Talk about going the distance. Daily.

I realized that I wasn’t in need of a double-mastectomy the way Giuliana was, as I learned during the first Giuliana & Bill episode I watched this evening (again, I’m often late to the TV viewing party which shouldn’t come as a surprise, given my penchant for reruns of The Golden Girls).

I realized that for as much as I wanted to whack my head against a doorjam before laying it peacefully on a pillow in the hopes of having either Mr. Sandman or the dull ache from said doorjamb take my focus off the headache, it really was only a headache.

My biggest issues today were that I accidentally scarfed a subpar cupcake and that I didn’t get to the dry cleaners in time to pick up my same-day order. Sorta defeats the purpose of having gone the same-day route, but it’s minor.

It’s all minor.

Completely, ridiculously, almost-not-worth-mentioning minor.

In the grand scheme of things, this particular headache takes up about as much time as the blink of an eye. It won’t be remembered next month, next year or likely even in a week. The only way it stands a chance of being remembered is if I happen to re-read tonight’s post.

And when there are so many other things going on across so many levels in the lives of people both in the public eye and off the radar, it’s occasionally astonishing to me that I even allow myself to be affected by them, being that I get them often. Perhaps I should greet them instead of medicating next time, and we can have a little one-on-one chat. I can tell it who’s boss, and that — while I appreciate it coming around again — all it really has to do in the future is appear in a TV commercial or after a festive night of drinking.

Tonight I am thankful for my annoying, long-lasting headache which has tapped me on the shoulder and reminded me what’s important, and what’s not.

It was one of the more painful taps I’ve ever received, but it was welcome. And worth it.

This evening I arrived home from work and planted my tiny pot of tulips in the back flowerbed.

They’re tulips that I found the week before Easter; they were nestled inside a “Congratulations” bag that was hanging from my back door. Inside the bag was a tiny bunch of fresh cut daffodils, along with a chocolate bunny and a card.

Everything was from my neighbor. He’d heard I’d gotten a new job, and included a note congratulating me. Since we were approaching Easter, everything was appropriately themed.

When I got them, my tulips were significantly shorter, and still closed tightly. Over the last two weeks or so, they fully opened up and embraced the holiday; they were becoming more beautiful by the day. They’ve also been standing incredibly tall; I think they’ve grown three inches since arriving at the casa. Plus, they’re an inquisitive trio — last Saturday I set them on the kitchen counter, gave them some water and went out to run some errands, only to come home and find that all three had bent their lime green stalks noticeably towards the light in a matter of 6 hours, soaking up every last drop of sunshine after the few rainy and gray days we had. Adorable.

I know their blooms won’t last much longer; one fell apart when I bumped it during planting, its petals floating down to the soil still damp from last week’s rain. I suspect I planted them too early from what I’ve read, but I spotted a gnat hovering around them yesterday afternoon, so I needed to set them free and move them to a more gnat-friendly (read: outside) environment. That aside, it’s happened before where I thought I might’ve prematurely ended a flower’s lifecycle, but have been pleasantly surprised when I get a bit of green emerging from its bulb and up through the ground a year later. I’m hopeful this is the case next spring.

I’ve never been the biggest fan of spring, as I’m generally still in mourning for winter and missing the Christmas holidays desperately. I prefer to fast-forward through the season and focus on a last-bloom-of-summer milestone like Labor Day, which I like mostly because it’s less than two months from Halloween, which is less than one month from Thanksgiving, which is approxiamtely one month from Christmas. In fact, just yesterday I said that I was in the mood for Christmas. Luckily for me, all I have to do is plug in the twinkle lights that adorn my potted palm in the family room and voila! Insta-merriment. But it’s not the same — not with a Christmas CD playing, not with a fire in the fireplace, and not with a peppermint martini adorned with a miniature candy cane.

This year it’s been slightly more pleasant to ease into spring. I’ve been doing gardening like never before, and it’s been a season of change in my personal life. I find that for as much as I wish I could learn right off the bat, the new job that I adore will take time.

It will take patience.

It will take its own season — and in a year when my spring flowers reappear, I will look forward to seeing what next spring brings in the way of knowledge gleaned, learning remembered and reflections pondered.

I’ll be able to look back on the freesia that I first planted this year and see its bright colors as they once again fill the yard with their heavenly scent. I’ll be able to see how the rose bush planted on Easter is filling out the front of the house, and how well its neighbor — the Indian Hawthorne bush — is holding down the fort on the outer perimeter of the yard. I’ll have junior geraniums by then instead of wee ones, a new iris that returns for its annual, friendly visit and hopefully a beautiful wall full of creeping fig.

And, of course, my friends the tulips.

Tonight I am thankful for my neighbor’s thoughtful gift; it carried more meaning for me than he likely knew. Tulips are to a year what sands are to an hourglass. They’re around for a while, and they can easily start over once they work their way through the cycle. They’ll adapt to a year in their own way, they’ll hold on through the cold of a winter and patiently wait until their time to once again peek out and look around. Just like I can’t wait to do.

Many years back when I lived in Redondo Beach, I’d often cruise down to the Starbucks in the Village and grab a cup of coffee before heading out to run weekend errands. It’s routine that I’ve continued for years, and something about having such a comforting, “grounding” (for me, anyway) beverage along for the ride and for the tackling of the to-do list always made the weekend that much better.

One particularly chilly weekend, I was fortunate to find a coveted spot in one of the few spaces right in front of the main door. As I scurried inside to evade the cold, my eyes fell on a less fortunate homeless man a few feet away who was rummaging through the discarded Starbucks cups resting toward the top of a full trashcan. He was pouring the remnants of each one into his own, hoping to make a full cup of something that was at least partially warm. My heart broke.

As I ordered inside, I added something extra to my order: a grande mocha for the homeless man outside. The barista asked if I wanted whipped cream on it, and I couldn’t think of a reason why someone who was homeless and rummaging through the trash wouldn’t want such a topping on a warm, happy beverage. I said yes.

I paid, walked outside and approached the man, only then wondering what my offering would be met with. Gratitude? Anger? Frustration? Maybe he’d pass on it altogether, but I sort of figured he wouldn’t.

He’d since sat down on a bench just outside the Starbucks and was drinking from the cup he’d just managed to fill. I walked up to him and, although I can’t remember exactly, probably apologized for intruding and said that while I wasn’t sure if he liked mochas, I’d gotten him one. Regardless of what I said, I’ll remember his response forever. He looked at me, then looked at the cup that I was holding out for him to take. As he reached for it, he said, “Thank you. You’re beautiful — thank you.”

His words made me tear up, and they were indicative of his gratitude. I was both happy that he was touched by the gesture and grateful he accepted it. After that weekend, I never saw him again.

Today as I set out to run my errands, I buzzed my neighborhood Starbucks. As I waited in line behind one person in front of me, I was aware that he was an older gentleman who was rambling on about the croissants they often sold there, and how much he liked them. Whenever I thought he’d be on his way and that I’d be able to order, he’d continue talking to the barista who was patiently listening to the man. This went on for a few minutes, and as I observed the situation a bit more closely, I realized that the man, who had done his best to maintain a clean, respectable appearance, was homeless and had managed to come up with enough change from passersby to buy a warm beverage.

I tuned in to listen some more just as the barista had managed to covertly swipe some change from their tip jar and handed it to the man. As he gave him the money, he said, “Well, here — I’m glad you like them so much. When we have them tomorrow, here’s something that might help.”

Before I could consider how to add to the barista’s contribution, the man had shuffled out the door and was on his way.

Again, years later, my heart broke. And yet it was comforted that the guy behind the counter — one that I’d seen so many weekends in a row for so many years — was willing to empty a bit of their tip jar to help someone in need. I don’t think it’s the first time he’s done it and, gladly, I don’t think it will be the last.

For me, the routine — whether at home, at work or while I’m out and about — of making or ordering a cup of coffee has always had a sort of peaceful, calming effect. If I feel a headache coming on, all I need is a little caffeine to help get me back on track. If it’s a cold, blustery day, it adds the liquid equivalent of a warm, cozy blanket to my afternoon. If I’m running around and stop in for a cup, I can take a few minutes to gather my thoughts, refocus and continue on with the rest of my to-do list. While it’s a stimulant that many of us know and love, for me, it’s incredibly grounding. It may not be the right word to use, but it’s the one I feel is most accurate.

I wondered today whether the two homeless men and countless others who — no doubt — have frequented their local Starbucks or other coffee joint have also felt this way in better times. Perhaps they, too, had a routine that took them out on the weekend after a week of work and allowed them to effortlessly pay for a cup of coffee. Maybe now they’ve fallen on hard times, but still are drawn to the place that was always a bright spot for them.

Maybe. Maybe not. But I like to think that something in them appreciates the warmth of a hot cup of coffee, of a warm mocha topped with whipped cream or the comforting aroma of a fresh, buttery croissant — because, in a way, maybe it lends a sense of grounding and calm to their lives, as well.

Tonight I am thankful for good people like todays’s barista who are too few and far between in this world, and for the extra change he gave the homeless man so that he can be a bit closer to his simple goal of buying a croissant. I’m also thankful for the awareness that he brought to my simple, quiet life; if I see him again, I’m thinking I’ll give him money for a croissant, but tell him to give it to the homeless man when he comes in again or when he sees him wandering nearby. It’s heartbreaking to think that what could be one of our three meals in a day — or a snack that we mindlessly munch on during a meeting, only to discard the remainder — could be the one thing that a homeless man is able to eat over the course of many days. But what’s heartbreaking on one hand provides opportunity on the other. Here’s to paying such kindness forward.

For a number of years now, I’ve debated as to whether or not I should embrace the right-hand diamond ring thing/phase/fad/brilliant marketing scheme.

I’m a fan of rings, I’m a fan of diamonds, and since no dude is rushing out anytime soon to purchase some bling for my ring finger, sometimes a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

I’ve worn a ring most of the time since junior high, although it’s usually been one that had a home on my left hand middle finger. A few years ago, I remember driving through Huntington Beach by myself. I was simply out driving around on the weekend, enjoying some tunes and planning nothing more for the afternoon than to maybe stop for a coffee. Or not. The afternoon was mine, and I was minding my own business. This truck full of dudes pulled up along the driver’s side of my car at a red light, and I probably had my hand up to block glare from the setting sun. I was wearing a simple silver band that had a gentle bend to it, and when the dudes waved at me and I waved back, I’ll never forget how mortified they were that a woman who was “taken” would actually reciprocate.

Clearly I wasn’t married, and clearly they were clueless as to which finger a wedding or engagement ring belonged on. Mine was on my middle, and it looked nothing like either an engagement or wedding ring.

Tools.

At any rate, the right-hand diamond ring is one that, according to a quick Google search, can be defined as a diamond ring that a woman can buy for herself, and which signifies her confidence and sense of style.

Works for me.

Today — admittedly on a whim — I bought my first right-hand ring. I say “first” because after seeing how this thing sparkles, I’m pretty sure it won’t be my last. It’s wide, whimsical, has flowing lines that intertwine and it’s dotted with joyous diamonds.

Apparently it used to be considered inappropriate for a single woman to wear a diamond ring, but as times evolved, the thinking shifted so that it became OK for a gal to reflect her personality and personal flair. I like to think that the ring which — if you squint — looks sorta like a sparkly, jumbled, twisty mess, is a darned good reflection of me: occasionally an aimless wanderer, but usually prone to staying within the lines. Good times.

This afternoon’s simple post is about me being thankful for the shift in jewelry meaning and etiquette, and for a gal’s freedom and ability — whether she’s single or not — to show what she’s all about. She might be free, flying solo and single — or content to be partnered up but still free to purchase a little ice here and there if it makes her happy.

Either way, now that I’ve finally snagged one of my own, I think this right-hand ring thing is right on.

Rock on, ladies.