I’m going through a cuff bracelet phase. I’ve had two for a couple years that I’ve worn off and on, and a few months ago, I started finally really digging their style.

[It generally takes me a while to catch up to fashion. For all I know, maybe the cuff phase is over.]

During the Christmas season, I found that Nordstrom had some beautiful bracelets that were heavily discounted. Score. I bought three online.

A couple of weeks ago, I found a wide, stretchy bracelet while I was grocery shopping at, of all places, Walmart. It was clearly from somewhere else in the store, but someone had discarded it near the eye makeup remover so, after it caught my eye, I picked it up, inspected it and ended up tossing it in my cart. I have yet to really figure out what it’s made of, but it looks like a metal cuff bracelet — just with the convenience of stretch. And while it looks heavy-duty, it’s not — and I fully expect that someday I’ll wash my hands in the ladies room, accidentally splash it with water and suddenly it (and my wrist) will be green. But whatever, it was on clearance for $1.97 — who am I to judge?

Shortly after my Walmart find, I went to Overstock.com (shameless plug) to see what I could find there. In a word? Tons! Three more items ended up in my cart, all at super fabulous prices.

There clearly isn’t a cuff-style bracelet I won’t purchase.

Two from Overstock came within a day of each other, and I realized about a week after ordering it that the third was lagging a bit. I thought I’d give it a little time to show up, and I truthfully had forgotten about it entirely until my mom came by for a visit and alerted me that there was a small box on my front porch.

Sure enough, it was the third cuff bracelet.

I opened the box and was overwhelmed by its beauty. It looked nice enough on the site, but it had a simple, handmade simplicity in person that could never be conveyed online.

Along with forgetting that it had yet to arrive, I also forgot that it was sold through an online, fair-trade marketplace called Novica that connects buyers with thousands of artisans around the world. In conjunction with National Geographic, Novica offers jewelry, home decor, sculptures, handbags, clothing — lots of things that are incredibly beautiful.

When it arrived on my doorstep, it was in a small, plain brown box. Upon opening it, I pulled out a sturdy, slightly smaller box which fit snugly inside the first, and which was covered in rich silk fabric.

The bracelet I’d ordered was inside, and as I pulled it out to marvel at its detail, I smelled what I thought was a campfire. It warmed me from the inside out, and I could envision artists hard at work on their craft with simple, old world tools at their disposal. I smelled the bracelet and that’s exactly where the scent was coming from. It was distressed leather, with a delicate floral design punched into the entire length. To close, one end tucked simply inside the other. It was breathtaking.

I wondered about the artist, and I wondered how long it took to make. I wondered whether it was a he or a she, if they had a family, and if they were young or old. Whoever they were, they had a beautiful craft to show off to the world, and I was holding a bit of it in my hands.

Tonight I am thankful for such a platform that affords artists around the world a chance to showcase their beautiful creations. I can’t imagine how much beauty and wonder of these simple, handcrafted items we’d be missing out on if this was pre-Internet. Traveling to Africa, Mexico, Bali or Argentina to see and purchase them is one thing, but for people who don’t have the means to travel, the online experience is a close second. What a world we live in where experiencing and having the chance to buy these things and support the livelihood of another is just a click away.

If you have a moment, please visit novica.com and spend some time taking in their unique items — I think you’ll be hard-pressed to not find beauty in the items you see.

And if you wind up with a full cart, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Have you ever met someone who had such a strong influence on your life — but you didn’t realize it at the time?

I might’ve written about her before, but even if I have, I’m going to write about her again tonight.

During high school, I wrote a few articles for an OC version of the Los Angeles Times. It wasn’t anything big, but I ended up trying my hand at it because there was a woman who came to my high school journalism class and told each of us about the opportunity. At the time I was eyeing my upcoming college years and thought I wanted to major in journalism, so this seemed like a great opportunity to me. Better yet, I didn’t ever think I’d have anything published in high school, but when I did — and when the check came in the mail with a lovely handwritten thank you note from this woman — I was floored.

She didn’t have to run a journalistic endeavor aimed at teenage writers. She didn’t have to include any note with the check, and she didn’t have to handwrite it. She probably didn’t have to do a lot of things in life, but she had this vibe of being someone who just wanted to do, to inspire and to give people the nudge they perhaps didn’t realize they needed.

I’m writing about her [possibly again] tonight because she’s been on my mind a lot lately. I’d love to find her, and a month or two back, I thought I had. While I was home sick from work one day, I busted out my Blackberry and searched for her name on a professional networking site I’m part of. On that tiny handheld device, I could’ve sworn the text and the name that I was reading added to the same woman who I met once in high school, but today when I searched again during the lunch hour, I came up empty…the description and words that I found previously didn’t match her background.

I’m pretty determined to find her, as I’d like to tell her what an influence she had on my life. She might not care, but somehow I feel like she’d still appreciate hearing from people. While, yes, sometimes people do things because they want the recognition or praise in the end, others do things because they seem to be motivated by a greater good. And the latter is the feeling I got about this woman. I think many of the high school writers who she helped get published likely still feel this way about her to this day.

Today I am thankful for not only this woman who was briefly part of my life, but for the desire to reach find her, reach out and say thank you to her. I’m thankful for this desire on my part because, if I find her, I think — knowing the way the universe works — it just might come at the right time for her.

Or for me.

How often has someone appeared from your past at a time and provided a familiar shoulder to lean on, or patient ears to listen at just the right moment? How often have you put the pieces of the puzzle together and had the distinct feeling that, despite what others say, everything happens for a reason, in its own time and when it’s supposed to, and that nothing happens “just because”?

Without trying to bestow any negative happenings on anyone, maybe she’s been on my mind because she’s found herself wondering lately whether she’s ever had an effect on anyone. Maybe she’s wondering about her contribution to the world. Maybe she had children and something she’s experienced or gone through with them would resonate more — or be easier to deal with — if a person she once upon a time inspired came forward to say thank you.

Or maybe this is an exercise for me. Maybe it’s a test to see how far I’ll go to track down someone that I met once in person, but with whom I corresponded with just a few times only to have our brief interaction have a lasting effect on my life. Maybe it’s a test that’s meant to teach me about gratitude, or how to be verbally expressive instead of focusing so much on the written word. Maybe it’s meant to help me get back into the practice of saying thank you, or maybe this desire is meant, at the end of it all, to simply be a story to inspire others to reach out and, in our own unique, human way, say thank you to someone else in our life.

Whatever the reason, I am thankful for it. And I’ll let you know when I find her.

So there’s been this pimptastically janky Chrysler 300 parked in front of my house for at least 24 hours. I’ve seen it before in the neighborhood, and there’s no reason that it should be parked where it is. It’s usually parked on an adjacent street, but the other day when I left for work, I noticed it parked randomly in a different location on the opposite end of the street from where it usually is.

It appeared sometime during the middle of the night, and was there when I left for work; it was there when I came home, as well. Not amused, since — when I asked my neighbor if he knew what was up — he said that he noticed it, too, and thought it was someone I carpooled with.

Sheesh. Please.

I called the Anaheim PD and told them there was a suspicious (aren’t Chrysler 300s always semi-suspicious?) vehicle loitering in front of my beloved casa. Apparently a car is allowed to be parked somewhere for 72 hours before it has to move. Alright, fair enough — but if I go dying, I implore you all to scour my neighborhood for the tool that drives the 300 with ridiculously gaudy 24s (I swear they look that big) and handle business, if you know what I mean.

A while ago, I was sitting here wondering what to write, when a large, equally tool-esque and massively ginormous lowered silver Dodge truck pulled up right behind it. I scampered to the front living room window and peered out of the shutters, right after I gracefully rammed my foot into the dining room table, which caused me to fall into the chair that I was walking toward, at which point it slammed against the wall and probably tipped off said tool that he was being spied upon.

Anywho, the person shut the engine off, got out of the truck and walked up to the car. He (assuming by the gait, since he was covered in a hooded sweatshirt and walking around in the dark) rummaged around inside, got out, shut the door, walked around to the rear, unlocked what I saw was a pack-rat-ified trunk and began rifling through stuff with flashlight in hand. I guess the good news is that this individual didn’t have to break into it to rummage through all the junk. The bad news is that he got whatever it was that he wanted to get — or leave behind, got back in his truck and drove off.

The car remained.

It doesn’t appear as though the 300 is going to move anytime soon, so I’m hoping that the street sweeper does its job in the morning and properly tickets the thing. Then I hope that the person comes back again tomorrow night and, under cover of darkness, rifles around some more, misses the fact that there’s a street sweeper ticket under the windshield wiper and then leaves again — which would give me permission to have the police finally be able to do something about it.

Apparently the only thing they can do is “mark” the vehicle, after which point I’m not sure what the next steps would be…but I assume removal would be in order at some point?

Tonight I am thankful for neighbors that are as suspicious as I am, for the Anaheim PD who so kindly informed me of the 72-hour rule and for the impending street sweeper. May the shady 300 be on its way before too long — if not by its own doing, then by that of a tow truck.

They say it takes 30 days to form a habit.

They say that whether you think you can or you think you can’t, you’re right.

They say that the secret to writing is writing.

Einstein said that the woman who follows the crowd will usually go no further than the crowd, but that the woman who walks alone is likely to find herself in places no one has ever been before.

One of the things I absolutely adore about writing is that it can be an incredibly solitary yet personally fulfilling exercise. I’ve tried my best to write from my heart, in my own voice and about things that I am truly grateful for each day (some things have clearly been more serious than others), and I’m happy to report that Einstein was right. Along my quiet path of daily writing, you’ve helped me find this place that I’ve never been in before, and it’s been a lovely journey so far.

At first, thinking about writing every day for a year was daunting. Sometimes it still is. Occasionally I get home from work and want nothing more than to fall face-first into bed and sleep for 12 hours straight, but this little blog and the exhilaration that I’ve come to enjoy each time I successfully post continues to stoke the fire within. I don’t know when exactly the habit began, but I know I’m going to do my best to keep it up. After all, it’s already been 100 days. Why not 265 more?

And it’s true that the secret to writing is writing. Sometimes I have no idea what I’m going to write about when I sit down at the computer each night. Other times I’ve made an effort to think about it during the day. Some posts have skewed toward the ridiculous end of the spectrum, others have been more philosophical, others more spiritual. But all are laced with gratitude that comes from setting down a word here and a word there, and before I know it, all the words have formed a path that leads to my daily thing, event or person that I’m thankful for.

Tonight on my 100th consecutive day of writing (which means I’ve somehow managed to do it every day since I started this thing on January 2nd), I am thankful for your support, your comments — both public and private — and for the simple act of a “like” that I sometimes see the next morning when I wake.

Blogging on a daily basis for an entire year is something I set out to do for nobody else but myself — but along the way you all have made it one of the most rewarding parts of my day. The silly satisfaction that comes from clicking “publish” and the drive to write something and get it posted by midnight even when I’m in a different time zone is infectious.

And when I think back to that first day I set up my Posterous > Facebook auto-post functionality and how I was fairly nervous about putting my writing out there for you all to read — compared to today when I’m more comfortable allowing you all a tiny peek into (most of) my thoughts, my dreams and my musings — I have you all to thank for your kindness. Without it, I’d still be hesitant.

So — thanks, y’all. To 265 more. XO.

Yesterday, my right boob awoke as though it was any other day. My left one woke up, as well, but the right one had no idea the day that was immediately before it.

The Girls and I gardened outside, worked up a sweat, and I managed to stab my hands and torso numerous times as I planted a rose bush out front.

I was so exhausted after working in the yard that I opened the patio door into, yes, my right boob. It’s not like it needed any re-attaching, but it still didn’t feel too good, either.

We (The Girls and I) did some tidying up of the house, quickly showered and then primped before people started arriving for Easter dinner.

Note: I speak of them as though they’re a force to be reckoned with, but they’re not. They’re unobtrusive and unremarkable, but hey — shirts fit me, and when I gain weight, they do too.

Unfortunately when I lose weight, they’re the first things to peace out — along with a chin or three.

But anywho…

I was busily chopping carrots yesterday when my parents and grandparents showed up. My grandmother has looked more and more thin over the years, but make no mistake — the woman can give a serious hug. And yesterday she was on a mission to do exactly that.

As she came towards me in the kitchen, I was wielding a knife and she was wielding a beautiful corsage above her left bosom. It was purple-y, pinkish in color, and had a lovely ribbon around it. I was still admiring it and trying to figure out what sort of flower it was as she went in for a hug, and just at that moment —

“HOLYMOTHEROFHAYSOOS! What the F?!”

I shoved her away from my person as quickly as she’d gone in for the kill.

Yes, friends, my right boob had just been impaled by — no joke — her three-inch-long corsage pin. And it felt like all three inches had just copped a seriously mighty feel.

She was still stunned and stood there blinking, wondering what she’d done. I whipped open my cardigan and we saw blood emerge from the scene of the crime. She shrieked what sounded like a half-laugh, half-“what, who me?” Fortunately I’d worn a strapless dress which was steering clear of the mess, lest I be forced to take bloody rags to the dry cleaners.

The boob spent the better part of the afternoon cowering, and likely preferred from that moment on that I be wearing chainmail instead of a Nordies sweater. But we made it through most of the dinner without further incident, so all was mostly well with the world.

Long about dessert, after after one too many glasses of wine, my eyes were taking some mental notes about the dining room we’d all been sitting in. Note to self: adjust one of the crooked, tiny shades perched on the chandelier. Straighten one of my framed pictures on the wall. Pick up the giant pin staring back at me from the carpet and sticking straight up as though it was a damn compass needle that’d gone haywire and broke through its housing.

REALLY?!

I’m not quite sure how the corsage — which she removed shortly after the pin tried to murder me — wound up needle-less and with the thing mere inches from my bare foot. It was protruding from the carpet and I only saw it because the afternoon light was casting some serious sparkles off the thing.

Unreal.

I snatched it up off the floor, shrieking and scolding whoever wanted to listen. I think most were amused rather than genuinely concerned. In a weird way, this was my youth that was getting back at me.

You see, I used to make hair scrunchies (yeah, yeah — laugh it up) back in the 80s. Or maybe it was the 90s. Either way, I used to have a great time buying remnant fabric and stitching it around a small piece of elastic. Voila! Insta-scrunchie. Except that I was also repeatedly turning my dad into a human pincushion, since my location of choice for said sewing was on their bed.

So I might’ve lost a needle here and there. I knew it would always turn up again. (And it did, usually when the ‘rents climbed into bed for the night and found it with a calf, a thigh or their bare feet. Oops.)

Tonight, my boob and I are thankful for a few key things: 1) I’m thankful I don’t have implants, because it surely would’ve been punctured yesterday, 2) I’m thankful for the universe reminding me that what goes around comes around (sorry, dad), and 3) I’m thankful that the day didn’t get any worse and that the boob was able to sleep in relative peace. This evening, I’m treating it to an early bedtime for putting up with yesterday’s shenanigans.

Night, y’all. 

Yesterday I was at the store looking for a few tasty non-alcoholic options for Easter dinner, and I came across a brand of flavored sparkling water called Sparkling Ice — and it was on sale. Score. I decided to purchase the Black Raspberry and Pink Grapefruit and see if they were as amazing on the palate as the packaging was to the eyes.

Delicious, indeed!

It was a suitable stand-in for something more adult that I’d normally prefer to enjoy, but since I was hosting Easter dinner, I figured it best to steer clear of the libations so as not to ruin the entire meal. Nobody likes leathery ham or veggies whose texture is more along the lines of a puree.

Earlier in the morning — around 7am, to be exact — I decided to not repeat my usual Lowe’s song and dance. That being, I go to the garden center, buy plants, bring them home, go inside to do something and entirely forget, usually until the next weekend, that I have plants that need planting.

Yesterday I decided that the freesia and kangaroo paw I planted a month and a half ago needed to be in the backyard instead of the front, but that I also needed something to fill up an empty area that begged for something larger and more substantial than delicate spring blooms. I went to Lowe’s and found a white iceberg rose bush and an Indian hawthorne plant — both of which would be joining previous generations that already graced the front of the house, but that weren’t fully continued around on the side.

Until this weekend.

I also snagged a couple of geraniums — not my favorite flower in the world, but they’re hardy, so I caved after months of vowing I’d never buy them. I brought the loot back to the casa yesterday and decided to watch some TV. And when I went to bed last night, I realized I had stuff that needed to be hanging out in the dirt — not on my patio. Ugh.

I woke up early to not only transplant the freesia and kangaroo paw to the backyard, but also to properly weed the area that was going to be getting the rose bush and Indian hawthorne (I did a solidly half-assed weeding job the first time around, so now it was time to make up for my slackerdom). While I was out there, I also decided that a previously planted Indian hawthorne was looking a little anemic and needed to hit the trail, so I dug it up.

With things transplanted, geraniums in the ground and the flowerbed in the front of the house finally filled out, it was time to speed clean the house, prep the pre-dinner munchies and get dinner on deck.

I also managed to get ready in less than one hour, and if anyone here knows how long my routine normally takes, you’ll realize that this fact alone is reason why mention of my primping time gets its own line.

To think I was digging, planting and transplanting things 15 hours ago seems incomprehensible. But let me tell you…my back feels everything that this morning had to offer. Sitting down here to type was a chore in itself. Why I saved so much work to do until the day of Easter when guests would be arriving six hours from when I started playing in the dirt — as well as the day before work (I’ll be feeling this tomorrow, I guarantee it) — is beyond me. I seem to do this a lot lately. Veg on Saturday, then bust a serious move on Sunday…which leaves me feeling like I’ve busted or sprained something on my person, and it stays with me most of Monday, Tuesday and sometimes into Wednesday.

Oh, Advil PM, how I love thee.

At any rate, after guests had departed, I cleaned up a few remaining dishes and glassware and realized that I still had a little pink grapefruit Sparkling Ice left. I finished it off, and took a moment to admire the packaging.

“As in life, chill for best results” was written along the side of the bottle.

Ah, so true.

Note(s) to self: don’t save the cleaning o’ the casa until the morning of a gathering.

Don’t decide to dig massive holes the morning of an afternoon gathering.

And don’t decide to remove a gnarly shrub while I’m at it, either. Chances are, the head-spinning from too much crammed into one day will catch up to you.

As it did to me.

Tonight I am thankful for the bottle’s reminder to me that for as much as I didn’t want to repeat my usual Lowe’s routine of buying then forgetting to plant my flowers/bushes/etc., a better reminder is to properly plan ahead, space things out, tackle things a few at a time and to leave time to enjoy parts of the day or weekend, for Monday comes all too soon.

In other words, chill for best results.

I went to the grocery store today to stock up on frozen veggies, and as I was looking over the selection, an elderly man shuffled towards me down the aisle. He was carrying an empty grocery basket while talking on his cell phone, and I could hear his side of the conversation.

“Yes, I know the size of the bag. The small one, right?”

He seemed good-natured and had a distinct accent — perhaps Irish — and was engrossed in trying to find what he’d clearly set out to hunt and gather.

“Oh, OK. The large one then. I got it.”

I saw him open the freezer doors and pull out broccoli.

“Oh, this isn’t it,” he realized. The person on the other end must’ve asked what he’d picked up instead. “Well, it’s a big bag of broccoli. No, no I know you don’t eat broccoli, that’s why I’m putting it back this instant.”

I snickered. He realized he had an audience, looked at me, pretended like he was going to put the giant bag of broccoli in his basket anyway, then winked as he put it back in the freezer. He went back to looking at the offerings as he continued talking.

“OK, well I’ll see you at home then. Goodbye.” He hung up and asked if I could see the peas and carrots.

“Together in one bag, or separate bags?” I asked him.

“One bag,” he said.

“I was afraid you’d say that,” I said. “I see separate bags, but not a bag that’s mixed.”

“Yes, I noticed those and was wondering if I could get away with bringing them back,” he said. “But not only are they not mixed, the bag isn’t even the right size!”

He spotted a store employee at the other end of the aisle and shuffled towards him, calling out in his lovely accent. I went back to trying to decide between the carrots and the asparagus. Seconds later, the employee and man were back in front of the freezers, determined to find peas and carrots in a single, large bag.

I scoured the selection with my eyes, quietly trying to help them. I couldn’t see anything of the sort. Okra, broccoli, carrots sans-peas, peas sans-carrots, mixed vegetables, edamame, cauliflower and broccoli together, and black-eye peas stared back at me. I was beginning to lose hope for the man.

Suddenly, the young employee found the peas and carrots. “Here they are!” he said.

“Oh, well would you look at that. Peas and carrots together at last,” said the man as he made a grand gesture befitting of the stage. “But,” he said with a dramatic pause, “the bag is small.”

He seemed dejected, but then I realized he was just playing around.

“I’ll bet three of those would be more than fine to take home,” I said.

The man inspected the bag, nodded and looked at me, then ended his agreement with another wink. He left with a cheery, “Well, that’s a wrap. Have a nice day!”

Tonight I am thankful for my small encounter with that man today, and for the charming interaction we had. He brought a lightness to my afternoon that I didn’t realize was lacking, and I’m thankful for the employee who was able to find the man’s sole grocery item that someone was counting on him to bring home. Broccoli would’ve been no good, and separate bags could’ve been mixed, but his determination and subsequent elation at finding the combo bag was nothing short of adorable.

This evening I found myself reflecting on the people around me whose hearts are brave, and who repeatedly give love a chance time and time again. And because they do, many have found it.

I think each of us has a stack of relationships and related baggage that rivals the size of a novel that we easily pick up and thumb through when we need a reason as to why we shy away from becoming a plus one. I know that I do, and a few of my closest friends have had books of similar size, as well.

And yet one of my best friends is getting married in a few months, and her journey is proof that the human heart is a resiliant, beautiful thing. The words of Tolstoy in Anna Karenina remind me of them, as they embody the honest, pure love that so often eludes others: “If one loves anyone, one loves the whole person just as they are and not as one would like them to be.”

Another of my besties is currently dating someone who makes her smile more brightly than I’ve ever seen her smile before, and of whom she talks in a calm, easy manner — something I’ve never heard her do before until him. If I had to describe the perfect guy for her — and I did, a year or so before they met — it would be him. I was not one bit surprised that when I finally met him, he matched the description perfectly.

Other friends willingly and without hesitation allow love to grow over thousands of miles, something that I’ve tried before but failed valiantly at. I admire their lack of hesitation and their ability to not give the distance a second thought.

They say that it’s easy to fall in love, but hard to find someone to catch you. I agree that the latter is most certainly difficult. But if the former is what’s holding some of us up, perhaps shelving those issue-laden novels is in order so that our hands are free to hold those of another instead of our own baggage.

Tonight I am thankful for those of strong heart around me, for they remind me that if you want something — if you’re ready to go after it and if you’re open when it finds you — you can find great love.

Remember the scene from When Harry Met Sally when Meg Ryan says to Billy Crystal during her pity party for one, “And I’m going to be 40!”

“When?” he asks.

“Someday,” she says.

“In eight years!” he reminds her.

Yesterday was BFF’s birthday, and he turned 36. I found myself thinking back to when we met; I was 20, he was 21. We’ve known each other for 15 years, and yesterday I told him I hope we go another 15 — if not 15 x 3.

When I look back 15 years…wow. So much change has happened, and yet not so much at the same time. I still love hair color, but I’ve graduated from the boxed hair color in Aisle 7 at CVS to salon color. I still love to write, but then it was poetry and now it’s plays, blogs and the like. I had the best time with him then at silly places like Claim Jumper or Starbucks or camping in the middle of nowhere, and these days it’s sushi, dive bars or a game of pool. Except now he’s living across the country, but no matter — the shenanigans will pick up where they left off soon enough, I’m sure.

Tonight’s post is short and sweet. There are probably a handful of people that each of us can picture by our side as the years roll on, and he’s one of mine. Yes, I’m going to be 50, but not for another 15 years. Regardless of when it comes, I hope my BFF is still right next to me, no matter how many changes the next 15 years bring.

Maybe he’ll have less hair, and maybe I’ll have a big, happy spare tire around my mid-section that I’ll be trying to get rid of by entertaining my 23rd round of Nutrisystem. Maybe we’ll be neighbors living in Southern California again, or maybe we’ll be farther apart than we are now. Maybe we’ll still be going to races and dive bars together, or maybe we’ll be meeting infrequently for a civilized glass of wine to catch up. Maybe one or both of us will have a spouse, maybe we’ll be single. Regardless of the maybes that can add dimension and color to a life, they’ll only be adding to what he’s already brought to mine.

Tonight I am thankful for the people who stand the test of time, and who wind up in the plans and things we picture ourselves doing next year, the year after, in five years or even ten years down the line. We’d probably all have a good enough time ticking off those items on our to-do lists by ourselves or with a new friend or two, but wouldn’t it be more fun to reminisce about “that time 30 years ago”?

I agree.

The woman who works at my dry cleaning place is really nice. We make small talk whenever I stop by, and she knows most of her customers’ last names without having to ask. She works hard, logs some long hours, seems to want to make the best life she can for herself, her husband, her three daughters and her grandson. She and I are both 35.

I can’t imagine having a grandson at the age of 35.

She became a grandmother at the age of 33, actually. Her situation is a tricky one, because her daughter and grandson moved out right after the daughter had her baby at 16. Daughter, from what mom says, apparently didn’t want to live by any rules, so she found a different place to call home. I get updates every few months about the daughter’s living situation, and I believe she’s on her fourth residence.

Week before last, I stopped in and the woman was beaming. I asked how she was, and she told me she had news; she asked me to guess what it was. One of her daughters was a few feet behind her, working and draping some plastic over a few garments. I noticed she quickly glanced up at me, then went back to what she was doing.

I couldn’t guess, so I asked her to tell me.

“I’m pregnant!” she exclaimed.

She seemed pretty excited, so I mirrored her enthusiasm and congratulated her. I tried to engage her daughter in the conversation and asked if she was excited, too. Wrong thing to ask.

Her daughter didn’t speak a word and didn’t crack even the faintest of smiles, but instead shook her head and walked off in the opposite direction.

Tonight’s post isn’t about judging anyone or any aspect of their life, because Lord knows mine could also be easily examined, scrutinized, judged and whispered about in some circles.

Instead, it’s about being grateful that the life I have is exactly the life I want. I didn’t always feel this way about it, but now that I do, I tend to be overly protective of it. I insulate myself a bit too often, and I prefer to cocoon versus carouse (most of the time). No, it’s not about judging anyone or anything. It is, however, about wishing that same peace and contentment that I now feel upon others. Because there’s nothing that I’ve wanted to do more than escape every last ounce of turmoil by any means possible when those days were plentiful and daunting.

I felt badly for the woman’s daughter who was working alongside her that evening when I stopped in. I wondered if she walked away because she was upset, or whether she was on the verge of tears. Maybe she was just done with the day and ready to go home. I wondered if she was so unexcited about the situation that she’d also eventually extricate herself from the situation and become the second daughter under the age of 18 to move out of her parents’ home. I wondered why the daughter was so upset, although a few possibilities come to mind.

I wondered whether her mother was concerned at all about her daughter’s reaction.

I wondered about the woman’s third daughter who was younger still, and whether she was excited or also upset.

Tonight’s writing is about more than the gratitude for my own life. I wish a sense of peace for the woman’s daughter who is constantly on the move with her baby, and I wish peace for the other daughter who was so visibly upset the night I stopped in. I wish peace for the mother of three — soon to be four — and grandmother of one, for I’m sure that as overjoyed as she is at the fact that she’s expecting, her joy would be multiplied one hundred times more if her entire family was together under one roof and sharing in her excitement.