A group of us went out this evening to have a few cocktails as we counted down my last few days at the agency. Drinks were had, a prime rib made a cameo here and there, and stories were shared. While somewhat bittersweet, it was one of the best Wednesdays ever.

Some in the gathering I’ve known longer than others, but all of them I adore. Some have given their freelance talents, while others have been there through thick and thin, late nights, all nighters and early mornings. Some are older than others, but all of them have touched my life in a way that they’ll never know. They’ve made me a better person on some days, made me wish I was a better person on others, some I wish I knew better, while others I’m confident I’ll continue to know for years to come.

I kept the cocktailing in check, but still managed to shuffle up to the mic for a karaoke tune. Billy Joel’s “New York State of Mind” is my go-to, and it was semi-slaughtered tonight. (I blame the show-off who brought his harmonica for making me nervous, and I blame the gal with the augmented girls sheathed in a black tube top for throwing me off my game.)

When I arrived earlier this evening, I’d forgotten that one of Torrance’s best restaurants/bars/lounges/dimly lit gems was also next to a pre-school named Happy Face. I suppose it’s a fitting name, as people who go there and bond with the bar for any amount of time likely leave with a smile on their countenance, and kids who attend the school probably can’t wait to get home so they can be more than 20 feet from such an establishment. Jokes aside, they do have a darned fine prime rib, tremendous atmosphere and my night was filled with happiness thanks to those I was honored to share a few post-work drinks with.

I thought the night was going great, and then Fisher and Laws showed up. The night went from great to stupendous. Fisher’s one of the first few people I met at the agency when I started as an intern way back when, so it’s fitting that he was there for goodbye drinks. And Laws helped launch our beloved client into the NASCAR truck series back in ’04, so it’s only natural that the end of an era which saw racing campaigns produced year after year after year was marked by his appearance this evening, as well. They’ve both moved on from the agency we all called home at one time or another, and each lives thousands of miles from Torrance. But their guest appearance in the area and at a familiar haunt tonight was the perfect reassurance that moving on is normal, part of life and that everyone can and should do it — in some form or another.

I’ll miss them all, but any season is a good season for change, and change is in the air. Happy faces were had by all tonight, and I’m beyond excited for new opportunities.

Tonight I am thankful for all the people who have made my career-to-date everything it has been (I’ve loved it), who made the night what it was (who says beverages on a school night aren’t a good idea?) and who reminded me that moving on is nothing less than an adventure (we all know it, but sometimes it’s so hard to do). It’s easy to forget that the spirit can thrive on change if we allow ourselves to embrace it, and it felt like everyone tonight made up my own personal cheering section.

I heart each of you.

One of my most favorite sounds in the world is when I’m in bed at night, trying to fall asleep, and I hear the furnace cycle on.

I’m not sure if it’s the white noise factor that lulls me to sleep, or whether it’s the memory of being all cozy and bundled up in bed on chilly evenings when I was little. It might be just knowing that some warmth is on its way. But I love it, and within minutes, I’m out like a light.

My love for that sound is further magnified if it’s a weekend and I don’t have to get up early the next day. Bonus points if it’s the sound that also gently wakes me up the next morning.

When I was younger, my bedroom had two large windows in it. My bed was usually positioned in some manner under one of them, as I rearranged my room often but still liked to be able to look up into the night sky while nodding off. It was the best during the Christmas season, when strands of our old-school C9 lights were hung just under the trim of the house. I would lay in bed, staring up at them with heavy eyes, trying to decide whether I wanted to count bulbs or sheep. Red, blue, green, white and orange lights kept watch outside. If it was raining, their colors would create a kaleidoscope of vibrant hues as they glimmered through the raindrops on my window.

While it never really gets unbearably cold in these parts of California, there are nights when you can feel the chill sneaking through a single-pane window. On December nights during my childhood when it would get down into the 30s or 40s, the heater would cycle on and there’d be a delightful fogging up of the glass that would take place. The Christmas lights would gradually appear more and more fuzzy, since the glass was slowly taking on a frosted appearance the longer the heater ran. It was like a Norman Rockwell painting where snow would rest gently on the glass window panes, the whole scene flanked by pine trees. Only in Southern California, it was the strategic fogging up of the glass — corners first — with a palm tree swaying in the breezy, damp air a few houses away.

This evening when I got home, I flipped on a small light on in the family room, plugged in my twinkle light-adorned palm tree for extra ambience and caught up on some Sex and the City reruns. Maybe the dipping temperatures outside struck a chord, or maybe the tiny twinkle lights inspired my train of thought. Either way, the trip down memory lane was enchanting.

Tonight I am thankful for the inspiration to put up Christmas lights when the weekend after Thanksgiving rolls around, for the cooler nights that will be here in a few days and for the assurance that the familiar, comforting noise that lulled me to sleep for so many years will soon do its job once more.

And on a weekend, no less.

I have 32 pairs of shoes, three of which I wear 97% of the time. Of the remainder, 1% is spent in my Ugg boots after work, another 1% is spent in athletic shoes and the final 1% is devoted to my trusty, broken in Rainbows on the weekend, rain or shine. My brother calls Rainbows “the Cadillac of flip-flops,” and I do believe he’s correct.

I have no idea if 32 is a high or low number compared to other women, but I do imagine that focusing so heavily on three pairs isn’t the way to go. It’s certainly no way to get a decent date.

Today, I decided to give those three pairs some new friends. I should explain that the three I’m referring to aren’t the sexiest as they are, in fact, my post-surgery solution to footwear in the workplace. The maximum heel height of all three is maybe an inch-and-a-half, and one pair even came from Naturalizer. Sigh.

Sometimes I feel like I’m 35 going on 80. Not even two weeks ago, I purchased my first wide (gasp) pair of shoes, and I did so because my custom orthotics (gasp again) were making me look more clubfooted than sure-footed. It was likely because I was shoving them into my regular pair of Adidas shoes which, even with the insoles removed, weren’t too keen on accommodating them.

When the wide pair arrived, I begrudgingly brought them inside and placed the orthotics where the insoles used to be.

I swear to you, it was as though I’d won the lottery, been given an Aston Martin V12 Vantage and inherited a luxury villa on Lake Como. Those wide shoes had me over the moon, and I don’t know what’s more sad — that I was singing the praises of a wide, $35.00 pair of pink, gray and white Avia tennis shoes, or that I suddenly didn’t care about the shoes I wore to work (because I totally wanted to rock them in the office).

But I digress.

Seven pairs of shoes are on their way to my familiar three, courtesy of Zappos.com. It’s not that I lack the desire to go to a store to try on shoes, it’s that I feel really, really badly for the employees in the store that I visit — generally on a weekend when it’s most busy.

I’m indecisive.

I have weird feet. Sometimes I call them fat feet, but they’re not truly wide. They’re also definitely not a true medium. There’s a serious Goldilocks issue here, folks, and until I find my “just right,” I wouldn’t wish this scenario on any shoe salesman or woman anywhere.

With Zappos.com, I can fill my digital cart to its brim, walk away, come back 15 minutes later, review, delete, add and ponder, all while irking nary a salesperson. My busy little mouse is the one burning calories, not the store employees, and they’d thank me for it, I’m sure.

While I consider my feet “problem feet” and my healing knee the thing that keeps the problem — these days, anyway — front and center, I somehow refuse to spend more than $100 on any pair.

Which leads me to the title of this post.

“You get what you give” is a common phrase, because it’s true. While I was looking wistfully at a super cute $200+ pair of shoes that I have no business putting on, I wondered if they’d deliver everything those 20,000 pennies promised.

“Sure,” I thought to myself. “Why not?”

Then I remembered why not. Two words (in this case): designer label.

You’re not paying for a designer label to cradle your foot in a hammock of bliss, you’re buying it to say simply, “Hey, look at my designer shoes.” In the meantime, you’re walking around in pain, but what’s a little limp when cuteness is front and center?

I thought it might be best to delete four pairs of the shoes in my cart and replace them with two really, super quality [non-designer and uber-sensible] shoes, but I couldn’t do it.

I don’t know that I’m ready just yet to spend a solid wad of cash on a pair of shoes that I, as history has taught me, may very well push to the back of my closet because I prefer others instead. Maybe someday, though.

$100.00 and under is more than a way to filter your search on a shoe website. It’s a life lesson that reminds us that if we take a chance on something that could promise more — more style, more comfort, more of anything — we’ll get more.

Now, whether “more” ends up manifesting itself in the form of foot pain, credit card debt or — since it’s not impossible — the most comfortable pair of shoes you’ve ever owned, the learning (good or bad) often times is exponentially higher the more you invest.

Tonight I am thankful for the little reminder that my choice-narrowing filter gave me. Go less, and you’ll get less — of something. Go big, and you’ll get big — of something else. And if you’re most comfortable in the middle-ground, don’t forget about those bigger things out there. They’ll be ready for you when you’re ready for them.

As I made my way through the living room earlier tonight, en route to the front porch so I could turn the sprinklers on, a familiar scent made its way to my nose.

There’s really no reason it should have been in the air.

When I was around 6 years old, I remember being sent home from school on occasion with order forms and small catalogs. I can’t remember if it was a fundraising thing or for something else, but I do remember often selling candles in little tins.

I could always count on my parents and grandparents to purchase something so that I wasn’t turning in a blank slip. One year, my grandma ordered a vanilla-scented candle in a square tin about 4 or 5″ high. I remember seeing it each time I’d go to her house; the familiar pattern would greet me. I can still see it in my mind’s eye today — the tin had a cream-colored background, and a pale green lattice pattern trimmed the top and bottom. Soft turquoise and pale pink butterflies adorned each side.

Year after year, the candle hung around. (She must not have lit it very often; I noticed each time I took its lid off to smell it that the wick never got any shorter.) As I turned the sprinklers on, more memories came back to me. I remember when my grandpa and grandma drove over in their new car during the early 80s — my grandpa had purchased a sporty white Mazda RX-7. They rolled into the driveway, and as I glanced over at it — empty in the evening darkness — I could picture the car there as though it was yesterday.

Another favorite memory of them that we all have is when they’d come over on Saturday mornings and sit around the kitchen table chatting with my parents. They’d usually bring donuts, as there would often be a pink box generally found at small mom n’ pop shops on the kitchen table. In time, my brother and I would wake up and make our way into the kitchen to join them. Looking back on it, and now that I’m the age my mom was when I was 5, I imagine those mornings when just the four of them sat visiting — before my brother and I were awake and monopolizing their time — were exactly what my mom and dad needed after a long week of working and taking care of kids, pets and home.

My grandmother had been a big smoker, and the end of her life was unfortunately dotted with oxygen tanks, labored breathing and assisted living. One Christmas break when I was home from Michigan State, I knew she wasn’t doing well. I meant day after day to go over to see her, knowing that she probably didn’t have much longer, but visiting her room where she’d live out the rest of her life was difficult. It was at a place that was next door to a school I’d attended when I was in grades 6-8. At that school, we were assigned a senior friend to visit each week. While it was a really nice facility, complete with individual apartments — if a resident was able to live on his or her own — the heaviness in the air, the smells, the sounds and everything about that place meant one thing to me: nobody there had much time left. The visits we’d make in junior high were difficult. I had no idea that within 10 years, my own grandmother would be living there.

Towards the end of my holiday break, I squeezed in a hair appointment because my roots were getting pretty shabby; fresh highlights were a must before flying back for the spring semester.

The phone rang while I was at the salon, foils on head, and I knew she had passed. It was, in fact, the news that came through the line. Devastated isn’t the word that begins to describe how I felt, coupled with selfish and avoidant. Selfish me couldn’t bring myself to go over to see her any earlier than I felt it was absolutely necessary to do so, and I’d missed my opportunity entirely.

I believe she passed away on her wedding anniversary; my grandfather — her husband — had passed in the late 80s, and she spent too many years without him. They were a magnificent couple. I really think that what they say is true: sometimes people wait for a certain date to roll around before they’re ready to pass on. I think my grandma waited for her anniversary, and wanted to give my grandpa the best anniversary gift ever: her joining him again.

All of these thoughts ran through my head in the 30 seconds or so I had stepped on to the porch, turned on the sprinklers and walked back inside. I expected the familiar smell in the living room to be gone by the time I came back in, thinking that I either had imagined it or mistaken it for a different smell.

It was still there. And it was the scent of that old, well-known vanilla candle inside that butterfly-adorned tin. It lingered just long enough to where a thought crossed my mind. Maybe, in my room full of cranberry and pomegranate scents, vanilla had paid me a visit as a reminder that although she’s gone, and although I wish quite often I could’ve redone my own actions during the last days of her life, she’s only as far as a memory.

Tonight I am thankful for the years I had with my grandparents — my dad’s parents — even though they were too few in number. I don’t know that I’ve ever really forgiven myself for not making time to see her before she passed, but the memories I do have of her — and of them both — are the most divine, heart-warming ones a girl could ask for.

I have a morning routine that I rarely stray from.

I make my way into the kitchen shortly after my alarm goes off, look for the cat, give him his breakfast, defrost an English muffin, toast said muffin, doctor it up with a little peanut butter and blackberry jam on each side and then make a mug of instant coffee — heated at exactly 40 seconds in the microwave.

When the coffee is out and ready for its Splenda and powdered creamer, I can’t help but notice the way in which the stuff starts out like a snowy miniature mountain, then — as the coffee swallows it up — the mountain often becomes nothing more than a half-moon; it looks like part of an atoll that you’d find in the middle of the South Pacific.

I carry my mug of morning sanity back into the bathroom with me and place it on the counter so that it’s cooled down and ready for drinking by the time I’m done showering. It’s a maddeningly simple routine, and one whose simplicity seemingly implies that it could be broken at any time.

Not so.

In its simplicity rests great peace, and starting out my day not only with coffee — but also with a helping of comfort — is mandatory.

Check out a little bit regarding the atolls online. I find them fascinating. Aside from the fact that I’ve always been fascinated by the word “lagoon,” I was even more enchanted when I found out many years ago that this weird thing called an “atoll” is a coral island that either fully or partially encircles one. Lovely.

While mesmerized by my dwindling mountain of powdered creamer this morning, the dissolving halted at its usual place — right as there was a small sliver of reef left in my sea of coffee. It stuck around and didn’t seem like it was going anywhere. I waited for about 20 more seconds to see if something would end up swallowing it up, but nothing did.

Impatient and ready to get on with the morning, I gave it a stir and my small island was demolished as instantly as my freeze-dried coffee grounds had been a few moments before. Something in my brain decided to go uber-random (read: haywire) and made me start thinking about our lives here, and — really — how small they are.

Who’s to say we’re not the human equivalent of Dr. Seuss’ Horton Hears a Who! and we’re in our own little world, oblivious to the fact that others may know we exist? Maybe the duration of time that we’d consider a lifetime is equivalent to a lifetime in the world of something that gets swallowed up every morning by my coffee in mere seconds.

OK, not likely, and maybe I’m just struggling for something to write about late on a Saturday night. The point is that we don’t know when it’s all going to end — either for ourselves, or for humanity as a whole. Maybe humanity won’t ever, or if it will, maybe we’ll never see the day. But everything has an end, and we’re all getting closer to our own — whether it’s 5 years or 50 years away.

Not to be morbid, but tonight I’m thankful for the reminder that everything could be swallowed up and cease to exist — even ourselves — without so much as a moment’s notice. Atolls didn’t get there overnight, just as our lives as we know them weren’t created in the blink of an eye. And they’ll keep on changing, either expanding or dipping just under the surface of the water here and there.

But while we have our heads above water, don’t we owe it to ourselves to enjoy the sun, the waves, the seabirds — or any grouping of things that we consider equally rejuvenating? Maybe it’s knitting, reading or gardening. Perhaps it’s yoga, a quiet cup of tea and painting. For me, these days it’s music, playwriting and a tie between driving aimlessly and a great glass of wine. It’s a nice reminder, indeed, to find our passions and enjoy them while we can. Our powdered creamer atoll’s time is ticking.

Where do I begin?

A few weeks back, I came home from work one night to find tufts of black cat hair on the family room carpet, as though there’d been a cat fight inside the house. My cat, not really much of a clump-shedder, had apparently been in a fight of some sort. While he’s a smart one and knows how to use the dog-turned-cat-door, I was hoping that a stray hadn’t also figured it out. But if it had, I was hopeful that my beloved had kicked some furry butt and been the victor, despite the fur everywhere.

That same night, I continued through the house and found that a curtain rod had fallen off its incredibly stable perch. The rod appeared to have had enough bonding with the valance and tried to make an escape. I found it teetering on top of a dresser, where it had also managed to knock a lamp over. Feisty, feisty rod.

These two occurrences were also the day after an individual with a preference for homeopathic remedies and a penchant for dressing up as a pirate had stood me up on what was to be the fifth date.

(In retrospect, I’m not sure why there was more than one date, given my lack of interest in playing dress-up, and also because I’m someone who’ll happily take three Advil PM and wash ’em down with a glass of wine. Homeopathic, shmomeopathic.)

I have a neighbor across the street who I swear trains his scraggly little dog to make a beeline for my grass so it can pee on it daily. There’s a very green, very fertile patch of grass as proof of dog’s shenanigans. Mr. Neighbor often waves at me in the mornings, donning a wife-beater tank and ill-fitting shorts, letting out a neighborhood-awakening, “Hola!” (natch), then makes a labored attempt to shuffle over and remove the dog from the yard. I swear it’s all an act, because really, it happens most mornings. That aside, he’s fairly harmless, apparently nice and hey — the dog has to go somewhere. If it was #2, then we’d have a problem.

Last weekend, I noticed that Mr. Neighbor was having a cold one with the guy in the house next door to his own. They sat in the garage with the door open, chatting for about 15 minutes, then they went their separate ways. I thought it was nice they’d become buddies.

Till a couple of days ago.

I came home from work and walked into my bedroom, flipped the ceiling light switch and…nothing. I thought it was really weird because there are two light bulbs in the fixture and, unless one had already bit the dust, it seemed near impossible that they’d both burn out at exactly the same time.

Hm.

I hopped up on the little bench at the end of my bed to try to unscrew the whole fixture to see if a bulb needed replacing, but everything was put together too tightly. I figured I’d wait till the weekend.

Which brings us to today.

I finally had time to wrestle with the light fixture. There’s a round silver ball that screws onto the bottom and holds everything in place, and for the life of me I couldn’t get it off. I was trying my darndest to twist it loose and decided to bend some of the metal leaves around the base to see if it would help me get a better grip on the thing (it’s a vine-y, crystal-y fixture). No luck. I busted out a beefy pair of pliers and wrapped a rubber band around the ball to see if the band would provide some grip.

Still no luck, and hey — lookie there. Now I’ve scratched the once pristine silver ball that’s visible when you look up at the fixture from any point in the room. Awesome.

I was starting to break a sweat and removed myself from the frazzling situation long enough to turn the A/C on. I came back to the fixture and decided to try turning it the other way.

It worked immediately. Dur. I was happy, but annoyed at myself.

After I got the whole thing taken apart, I removed the two lightbulbs and shook them gently. Nothing was tumbling about inside, so I was even less convinced that it was an issue with them. I’d purchased two new ones at the store earlier today and I fetched them anyway, screwed them in and flipped the switch.

Nothing.

Now I was just plain confused. Why did my ceiling light suddenly not work?

Was it somehow tied to that day I found cat fur tuftage in my family room, also the same day when I spotted the fallen curtain rod?

Could it be that The Pirate was somehow involved?

Or maybe it was my neighbors! Instead of them just sitting across the street sharing a beer, maybe they’d installed some sort of hidden perv camera. Maybe the whole time I was wrestling with the light fixture, my face and [minimal] cleavage were front and center because the mini-cam was mere inches above my head. Maybe the perv camera was tied to the electricity that should’ve been making my ceiling light work!

As a last ditch effort (and with fingers crossed for my sanity’s sake), I went outside to see if I’d blown a fuse in that bedroom.

Nope, everything was in order.

I readied myself to start accusing my neighbors of their pervy ways.

Instead, I decided to call my dad. It’s still their house, so maybe he had some weird electrical or wiring insight that he’d be able to share with me from his 33 years of living here.

My mom answered the phone, and passed it to my dad. I asked him if he ever remembered having an issue with the ceiling fixture in the bedroom not working. He repeated a few words to process what I was asking him, and my mom was able to overhear. I explained that I struggled with the fixture, eventually got it taken apart, removed the “old” bulbs, put in new ones and that I still had no luck.

Somewhere in there, my mom had an epiphany. I heard a faint, “Oh! Tell her I flipped the switch on the other wall when I was there the other day. I knew I shouldn’t have, but it looked funny to me and I wanted it in the off position. So I turned it off.”

AH!

Seriously? After all that, it was this random “ghost” switch on the opposite wall — a switch whose existence I never really understood but that I didn’t bother to mess with, either — that simply needed flipping back to the “on” position?

I shuffled over, phone in hand and with dad on the line. I braced myself for the results as I flipped it up.

Success.

I think I let out a curse word or two.

The good news is that, once again, I have light.

The bad news is that the light fixture is easily taken apart, but not easily put back together by one person. I’ll need a helper for that, and said helper (if it’s mom) will not be going anywhere near the ghost wall switch.

Tonight I am thankful that the casa has not, in fact, been infiltrated with any perv cameras (that I know of), and that I’m once again able to get dressed not in the dark. I’m sure others thank me for that, too.

The day of my 64th Thanky post, a.k.a. this last Monday, was also the start of a week full of new beginnings.

Yesterday, one of my best friends got a job offer (see “My Shining Friend” post from February 15). He’ll be moving across the country in just over two weeks. I will miss him dearly, but am thrilled for his opportunity.

Two days before his offer, I received my own. I’ll be starting a new job on Monday the 19th. Super excited doesn’t even begin to describe me.

Tomorrow, another of my best friends is coming into town. This weekend will bring wedding dress shopping. Nothing better than an amazing gown to celebrate the beginning of her new life with a new husband.

More comically, the drooping bra strap issue that I was obsessing over last month has been remedied — but the cups, if you will, are exactly the size of an NBA basketball cut in half. They’re huge. Stupid-huge. The whole contraption, when on, might as well double as a turtle-neck because it comes up so high. And so an additional new beginning involves yet another search — either for a better option for the girls, or for a really talented alterations place to, er, scale back the option that I have.

I look back on this week, which isn’t even over yet, and I’m amazed at the amount of change that’s happened in such a short amount of time. It made me wonder if this much change — or maybe even more — happens all the time (and maybe we’re just not tuned into it) or whether it comes and goes in waves.

I had no idea when I finished the 63rd post last Sunday night that the 64th would be the start of a week so great even I couldn’t have imagined it or written it into a story. But now that everything’s set in motion and the story’s presence made known, its evolution and culmination are yet to be seen.

Here’s to enjoying the ride — all of us. Tonight I am thankful for the adventure that accompanied 64.

I think we all have those movies that, when they’re on TV, encourage us to skip whatever activities we had planned.

When I was younger, it was The Princess Bride. These days (although I realize it’s nearly 20 years old), it’s Sleepless in Seattle.

On TV, they allow 2.5 hours for it. When it’s on back to back, that’s a whopping five hours it consumes. And I enjoy every minute of it.

I have a drawer full of chick flicks — Sleepless, You’ve Got Mail, the Bridget Jones movies, Must Love Dogs — and while I’m glad they’re there to watch whenever I please, there’s something about flipping channels after a long day and finding one of your favorites on the tube. It’s as though the programming gods planted it there to be discovered and the fact that it’s on — seemingly at a time when you probably need it the most — makes it that much more enjoyable.

Sometime last fall, WEtv hoarded those five hours on a Saturday when I’d planned to be productive. I pushed laundry duty aside, skipped the grocery store and missed out on getting a fresh bottle of root lifter from the salon.

I’d never been more content to not have clean sheets, to have bare cabinets and flat hair.

The next morning, I got back on track with the laundry, buzzed the grocery store and visited the salon so that I’d, once again, be able to amplify my roots.

Last weekend, I was hoping I’d stumble across any of the above movies while I channel surfed. Nothing. Not even Family Feud reruns or The Golden Girls. My lower right eyelid had a case of the work blues and had been twitching for weeks. It was weary, and I’m confident a chick-flick would’ve made it happy.

I settled for some cooking shows. The twitch carried on.

And again through Sunday, although it did relax and chill out somewhat while enjoying wine the night before.

Tonight, sometime between the end of the first Sleepless in Seattle and the middle of the second, I realized it was gone. Nothing a little chick-flick movie magic can’t cure.

This evening I’m thankful for the calming effect those little things in life provide. Whether they bring the heart rate down, help us sleep easier at night, encourage us to slow down and smell a rose or two or if they just stop a pesky eye twitch, they save us, to a degree. And that’s their magic.

It’s a tough thing to lose a pet who’s been such a part of every moment of every hour of every day for the last 10 years. 10 years isn’t the longest life, but it’s certainly a good run.

We got Maxine when she was a couple years old and in need of a new home. Two friends I worked with weren’t able to move to places that allowed cats, so — true to form — I unknowingly volunteered my parents, they initially resisted but promptly fell in love with her and she quickly had a new residence.

My parents had her for most of the time, and as she entered a more difficult period in her life sometime last year, with medication being given and bloodwork being done, I think we all knew we wouldn’t have her forever — but we also didn’t realize how soon she’d be gone.

She hadn’t been eating much the last few weeks, nor drinking much, and she’d been doing things typical of cats who know it’s “their time.” Looking for places to crawl into, hide under and just be away from everything. Thing is, she was mostly an indoor cat, save for a few chaperoned excursions in the backyard under the watchful eyes of my parents.

Sometimes I’d go up to their house to visit, and she’d be in the backyard with us. She’d sit on the swing and enjoy its motion, finding peace in the gentle back and forth. Or she’d sit on the grass under the bright sun, eyes closed and head lifted skyward with her nose working overtime, delighting in the different smells that drifted on the breeze. Such new and exciting scents for a mostly-indoor kitty!

So many memories with so few photos. Why does it seem we always wish too late that we’d taken more photos when someone or something is in the winter of its life? I suddenly thought back to a photo I had of Max that I showed her previous owners shortly after we adopted her — maybe a year or two later. They said she had gotten chunky; we thought she looked quite happy. I have no idea where that photo is, but it’s in my memory.

I found a photo of her tonight from when she was 3 years old or so, and she had those funny glowing cat eyes so often captured by a camera’s flash. Not the most flattering look for such a pretty girl, but she was happy to have posed for the picture.

In recent months, I’d learned she’d taken to crawling up on my dad’s chest for some quiet time in the evenings or on the weekends as he relaxed, stretched out in his recliner. She had dropped a lot of weight over what must’ve been a year or so; she’d gotten so bony, down to just over four pounds. I wondered earlier tonight if she found comfort in laying on him because of the warmth from his body, or because she felt maybe she felt a strong, sure heartbeat when her own health was on the decline.

Despite her health issues, she never lost her desire to communicate when she entered a room, generally emitting a dainty yet slightly raspy sound that seemed to be a combination of a regular meow, mixed with a cat’s version of, “Hey, how’s it goin’? And what am I missing out on in here?”

She was a people kitty. And we were kitty people.

We learned after some tests that our little girl was dealing with anemia, and enlarged kidney, enlarged spleen and a large, unknown mass in her abdomen, and in the end my parents were with her when she went to be in a better place. She passed away today surrounded by as much love, if not more, than she gave us all these years. My mom’s face was near hers, and my dad was petting her from the other side.

Tonight I am teary-eyed but beyond thankful for the memories we have of our talkative kitty Maxine, a.k.a. Max, a.k.a. Fuzz, a.k.a. Merow. I had my collection of names for her depending on her mood, but she’ll always have but one place in our hearts.

“I don’t always watch TV. But when I do, I prefer drama-free programming.”

(Say that in the voice of the Most Interesting Man in the World for proper dramatic effect.)

Those who know me best know that my preference for TV shows skews toward the uncomplicated end of the spectrum. Family Feud is right up there, as is The Golden Girls and most anything on Food Network or Cooking Channel. PBS’s offerings are pretty solid, The Weather Channel is great for white noise (not to mention their awesome instrumental music during their Local on the 8s forecasts) and I do love the occasional documentary on VH1C (I highly recommend catching “Rush: Beyond the Lighted Stage“). Recently, I’ve branched way out and also become a fan of Alaska State Troopers, Gold Rush and catching Jewel’s clan in Alaska: The Last Frontier. The most drama I can take is saved for Friday nights when new episodes of Say Yes to the Dress debut. Will she buy the dress? Won’t she? Will her mother hate it? What about the mother-in-law? What about her best man and his impeccable taste — will he approve?!

Whew, almost getting excited just talking about them.

All are fine choices for a big night in. Tonight I had a lovely reminder come my way, courtesy of The Golden Girls.

Assuming nobody else is a fan like I am, here’s the recap: Blanche’s father, a.k.a. Big Daddy Hollingsworth, decided he needed to live out a few dreams, namely becoming a country singer in his old age. He’d had these aspirations all his life, but when he met Blanche’s mother — who, in the episode, had recently passed — he said he knew when he was younger that being with her was a time to be responsible, and not a time for chasing rainbows. After her passing, he realized all he had was a big, empty house and her tombstone, and he was set on going out and having his adventures.

While aspirations of becoming a famous singer late in one’s life might seem laughable, who’s to say they don’t hold immense value for the person who dares to live out their dreams, regardless of their age?

Blanche is convinced he’ll go nowhere with his dreams, and at first she wonders why he’s bothering with such a silly quest when people are making fun of him. He can’t sing, and he can barely play his guitar. When he explains that this is his time to do what he’s always wanted to do, despite what other people think, she understands.

The episode ends with both of them singing some lyrics together.

“It ain’t gonna worry me for long, it ain’t gonna worry me for long. I’ll get up in the morning, and I’ll still be singing my song.”

A few years ago I tried out for Don’t Forget the Lyrics! at Barney’s Beanery up in West Hollywood. Let’s forget for a moment that I was actually supposed to go with a guy I had a massive, Texas-sized crush on (but who, as fate would have it for the second time in my life, was actually gay…d’oh!). We were going to make a night out of it, and I was convinced that at the end of it all, I’d find him to be a great kisser.

To this day, I still have absolutely no gay-dar.

Despite this, I got a ton out of the experience. I knew I wouldn’t make it onto the show, that my throat would tighten up and that I’d choke on my karaoke song, but that’s beside the point. Wanting to do something, and actually doing it — regardless of the outcome — was huge for me. It was a school night and I didn’t make a beeline for my house so that I could watch an hour or two of TV before going to bed on time. Instead, I was set on making a fool out of myself so that I could say I actually tried — instead of always wishing that I had.

There was a rainbow out there (no pun intended), and it was time to do some chasing in West Hollywood.

Puns and hilarity aside, tonight I am thankful for the rainbows that appear, not unlike the real ones, after spells of inclement weather — right at the time we seem to need a little dose of inspiration.

What’s your rainbow? And, better yet, isn’t it time to get after it?