I’m pretty sure there’s a giant black wasp lurking somewhere in my house.

The door to my driveway was open earlier today while I was repeatedly doing the domestic shuffle from house to garage, and I think it flew inside. I’m almost positive it’s the same pesky guy that was hanging around yesterday, looking for a place to build a nest. (Of course he was hunting over and over again for the perfect square inch of stucco right above the door. Excellent.)

He (?) inspired me to stand outside for 25 minutes yesterday afternoon while I waited for him to fly far enough from the door to where I could rush inside, but it took forever for that to happen. Just when he’d appear to be flying up and over the house, nope — just kidding. He’d do a U-turn when he got five feet away and would hover clumsily in the general vicinity of the door; I’d abort my mission to run inside, instead opting to do my own hovering at a safe distance while I kept my eye on him. We kept this dance up for what felt like an eternity.

I eventually made it inside, and promptly forgot about the dance we’d done until I noticed earlier this afternoon that he was back.

I busied myself in the yard and avoided the matter for a few hours until it got dark, then decided I’d try again to deliver my batch of homemade cookies to my neighbor who brings my trash barrels in for me. I hadn’t had any luck the last two days, and while I was debating just keeping them to nibble on here and there, I could see his windows were open. It was a sign (as though the scale isn’t sign enough) that I didn’t need the cookies, so I made my move.

His porch light wasn’t on, but the front door was ajar and I could see inside through his security screen. A small painting of the Virgin Mary hung on the wall and looked back at me. I rang the doorbell, but realized after doing so that it was broken. All I could hear was the portable fan he had positioned just inside; it was whirring so loudly that I wondered if he’d even hear my knocking. I knocked, which — to compensate for the fan — ended up being more of a pounding on the metal screen, and mustered a “Helloooooo” in my best friendly neighbor-standing-on-a-dark-porch-trying-to-deliver-cookies voice. I heard shuffling, followed by a, “Who’s there?”

“It’s Lauren,” I hollered back. He then appeared just inside the door, dripping wet and with a hastily donned plaid robe on. He was [thankfully] in the process of tying it shut, and explained that he’d just had a shower. I was jealous.

Before this goes into the gutter, I’d like to clarify: I’d just spent four hours planting flowers, on what — of course — has been perhaps the hottest day of the year so far. I’m not talking pansies, I’m talking relatively established flowers in large pots that called for deep holes which, of course, this genius who’s still recovering from knee surgery just had to dig. For someone who has never gardened before in her life, I’ve spent the last two weekends getting cozy with the flora — not to mention the unsavory-yet-very-helpful men in the garden center — over at Lowe’s. I was sweaty, stinky, my hair was held out of my face by a gnarly headband and, as I realized after the delivery of said cookies, my forehead was flaming red and rash-like from constantly wiping the sweat away. Bonus points for the streak of dirt across my cheek. Awesome. Good thing the Ziploc bag provided a relatively sanitary sheath for the cookies.

After the delivery, I settled in for the night and started to make dinner. The cat found his way into the kitchen, and it didn’t help my nerves that he’d go from sitting calmly on the kitchen floor to being fully alert, his attention clearly caught by something flying through the air.

I never saw what the cat was seeing, and while you’d think the buzzing of a small aircraft in the house would’ve been audible, there was none of that, either. I’m sure I’ll awake around 3am to some excruciating pain in my forehead, at which time I’ll realize that there’s a stinger and corresponding welt the size of Rhode Island dead-center. Can’t wait.

Thus, tonight I am simply thankful for the fact that my plaid robe-wearing neighbor is, in fact, a male nurse. Should the unthinkable happen during the wee hours, I shall pay my robe-wearing neighbor and the Virgin a visit, and pray that they’ll be merciful and provide speedy healing.

I went to the store yesterday evening and bought 32 items. Upon getting home, I thought I’d be productive and, before unbagging them, do some watering in the front yard.

I walked outside and pulled the door shut, also locking it after me as habit. I had no keys.

Immediately I realized what I’d done, and didn’t miss a beat as I walked two doors over to see if my neighbors had ever been given a key at any point during all the years my fam and I had lived here. Nope, out of luck.

My brother lives four miles away, so I borrowed their phone, dialed his number and hoped that he was out of work for the day. Success! He said he’d be on his way over in 30 minutes, so I chatted with the neighbors till he showed.

He let me in, we visited for a few, he glanced at my mid-sized grocery store receipt and asked if I got anything good.

I picked up the receipt and looked it over.

“Not really,” I said. “Out of the 32 items on this receipt, 28 of them were for the cat. Four of them are for me: super glue, two different bathtub drain stoppers — one in case the other one doesn’t fit — and a bouquet of roses. The 28 items are all of his favorite canned cat food flavors,” I said, motioning to the cat.

“Hm. Wow,” he said.

I’ve never had an issue being single, but now I felt…single-single. Like, crazy-lady-with-a-cat single. Receipt-being-scrutinized single (not that he was, but it just sounded so comical when spoken out loud). The only thing seemingly missing was a Martha Stewart Weddings magazine.

There’s a checker at Ralph’s who looks exactly like Cheri Oteri, but with maybe 10 more years on her. Whenever my mission is primarily to stock up on cat food, she’s the one whose line I always end up in, and over the years, she’s chatted me up about my cats (I only have one, but she never remembers). I reciprocate and ask how hers are doing, and suddenly it’s as though we’re two women sharing stories about our kids. She tells me how cute they are, how photogenic they are, how sneaky they are and how her cats always know when a picture is being taken (they pose and show off their better side, you see).

I smile, nod, take my roses and the stash of Mariner’s Catch, Tuna with Egg, Salmon Pate and Ocean Whitefish and head to the car.

As I’m thinking about my receipt and chatting with my brother, I’m also in the middle of making a cosmo. Vodka, triple sec, sweet and sour, lime juice and a splash of cranberry make their way into my shaker, then into my chilled martini glass. (I refuse to consider it a cosmo unless it’s in its proper vehicle.)

I then decide that dinner isn’t necessary, but that homemade cookies are — so that I can take them to my neighbors who kept me company and let me use their phone in the wake of my stupidity, as well as a batch for my other neighbor who always takes my trash barrels in for me.

I really, really heart my neighbors.

Brother left, I busted out my cookie ingredients, lit a fire in the fireplace, tuned into the 80’s channel on DirecTV and settled into my Friday night, looking forward to stealing some cookie dough here and there throughout the baking process.

I grabbed the receipt and tore it up before tossing it into the trash, and with it I also discarded any potentially lingering single-girl issues. After rewinding and reviewing last night — including the beginning part of the week (see Monday’s “The Joy of Growing a Pair”) — I’m thankful for being content, for being able to call a cosmo dinner whenever I want and for the peace that comes with knowing that if and when my life changes, it’ll be when it’s supposed to change.

In the last two days, I’ve noticed some people in need crossing the street.

Yesterday, a 30-something man crossed a busy street during rush hour when he shouldn’t have. No sign indicated it was safe to walk, no cars were stopped. He simply stepped off the curb and began making his way to the other side. Instead of honking, people slowed and waited patiently while he made it across. As he walked, he was gesturing wildly, yelling at nobody in particular and casting concerned glances skyward.

Today, I saw a homeless woman wrapped up in a puffy sleeping bag, slowly making her way in a crosswalk, walking with what appeared to be her life’s possessions in two small tote bags. Her hair was long, gray and matted. She had a brimmed hat on, and light blue jeans that looked more like khakis because of the dirt on them. She was also holding up traffic, but again, nobody honked.

A few paces away from her, an elderly man tried his best to hurry across the street to a waiting bus. When the blinking sign indicated, everyone else waiting to cross walked at a normal, if not slightly speedier pace. From his first step, he was falling behind. I was the first car waiting to turn left, and as people passed in front of me, I noticed the man with a pained expression on his face trying his best to keep up. I glanced back at the bus to see if it would wait for him, and it did. I wondered for a split-second if anyone had ever put their plans on hold to give a ride to someone who didn’t happen to make it onto their bus in time.

Seeing these three people made me wish I could give them a taxi, of sorts, to take them wherever they needed, or back to a time when things were better in their worlds. It’s impossible to look at someone and know what they’ve been through, why they’ve gone through it or for how long their life has been a certain way, but it’s not implausible to think that six months ago the woman with her sleeping bag was actually a woman with a family, a roof over her head and a job to go to each day.

It’s not absurd to imagine the elderly man as a vibrant retiree 15 years ago.

It’s not impossible to think that the 30-something man might’ve been the valedictorian at his junior high or high school graduation, after which life might’ve dealt him a few bad hands that added up to the situation he’s in today.

Yes, part taxi, part time machine would be grand. To help people who can’t walk quickly enough to a waiting bus — or who shouldn’t have to rush after having lived such a long life; to give people a chance for a do-over, to help people start over when maybe they don’t have the strength or energy to do it on their own in the present.

Tonight I am thankful for all that I have, and for seeing the patience that people exhibited towards these three in need. Even if we can’t be part taxi, part time machine, we can pay the patience forward and make someone’s existence a little less frenetic, less stressful — even if only for a few moments.

I don’t know if it was the combination of people in the room, or the way the sky looked through the blinds.

I don’t know if it was because it was close to 5 o’clock, or because today is my Friday.

It might’ve been because the cup of coffee I’d just made was the best I’d had in a long time, or maybe it was because I was in a good mood because I finally got in a solid night of practice last evening before band rehearsal tonight.

Maybe it was because of a discussion about new opportunities that I’d had earlier with a colleague.

Or it could’ve been the way the words filled the room.

We were in the middle of talking about our target for an upcoming campaign, and whether they were more about the journey or the destination.

“The journey,” we all agreed.

Yes, they were definitely journey people. They savored their moments alone, with friends or with family. They enjoyed the smallest parts that make up each day. They busied themselves with things that made their souls sing, their hearts swell and their minds curious.

I knew what the distinction was between journey versus destination, but never really felt like I was the former.

Until today.

Maybe it was the way the sky looked through the blinds that made me realize there can be equal joy not only the blue sky days, but also in the ones where clouds cast a shadow. It’s less about the majesty in our sunrises and colors in our sunsets, and more about the arc of the sun through the sky each day, the birds on the wind, the breeze through the trees and their leaves that change ever so slightly from season to season. Today I knew I had nothing I wanted to fast-forward to, nothing that I wanted to bypass — and nothing had felt this serene for years. Or if it had, it hadn’t made itself known.

Having spent the last two decades focusing on my destinations along the way and glossing over the best part each day offers on my way to getting there (wherever “there” happened to be), tonight I am thankful for finally feeling more like a journey person. For slowing down, for breathing and for simply being.

Have you ever stopped and wondered how much room for error exists in the world?

Don’t do it.

Too late? My bad.

It’s scary to think about, right?

I had knee surgery in December and recently got a bill from the anesthesiologist. It was oddly worded, and of the columns available for filling in, it was made very clear that insurance had not covered any part of it and that the balance was my responsibility.

$1,350.00

They said anesthesia wasn’t covered (as though anyone would ever opt to have surgery without it?) and the “pay this amount” box was glaring at me.

OK, so maybe my plans for plantation shutters could wait — although I wasn’t really ready to just roll over and send ’em my hard-earned cash.

The same day I received this bill, I received one from a place that had made my orthotics for my running shoes (which I’m now walking — not running — in). Long story short, I insisted the place who would be making them call multiple times to confirm they were covered, as they can be upwards of $600 and I wasn’t about to have them made if they weren’t (Dr. Scholl’s would have to suffice if that ended up being the case).

The orthotics people called three times, and each time they were told by my insurance that they were, in fact, a covered benefit. My portion was a mere $40. Not too bad.

Not bad, that is, until I opened the bill for them a couple of days ago — months after they’d been made — for another $400. On the bottom of the statement it read, “Service denied as not a covered benefit, Shannon, Ext. 1300.”

Thanks, Shannon.

I called my insurance folks today and asked how I could go from being told three times that orthotics were covered to suddenly having to pay for them. The nice gal who took my call had me on hold for a less-than-nice-but-ultimately-worthwhile 25 minutes while she investigated, and when she came back on, I heard the following: “I’m so glad you called – it was a system error. You’re completely covered, and we’ll send payment out today.”

A “system error”? Sounds more like it could’ve been a Shannon error to me.

At any rate, while I had her on the horn, I asked about the anesthesia bill. She did some poking around, looked some things up and came back on to say, “We actually sent payment to them a few weeks ago, and you’re only going to be responsible for $36.”

Seriously?

Completely glad I don’t have to hack off an arm or fork over a kidney to these people, but is the world really this out of whack?

Yes. The answer is yes.

I’ve been revisiting the Robert Plant/Alison Krauss album “Raising Sand” the last few days, and there’s a song on it called “Let Your Loss Be Your Lesson.” It’d been playing over and over again in my mind since opening these two bills, and I had almost resigned myself to the fact that my loss would be of the cash variety, and the lesson learned would be to never set foot in a doctor’s office or hospital ever again.

(OK, not that extreme, but you get the idea.)

After today, my new takeaway is this: allow your voice to be lost, and the ramifications could be far greater.

Fail to speak your mind to your spouse, boyfriend or girlfriend and it could set you up for months of unhappiness or years of mismanaged expectations.

Fail to ask what something means because you don’t want to feel silly asking and it could set you up for a bad habit of continuing that trend for decades to come.

Fail to speak up when you know a situation is wrong and suddenly bad treatment is expected — and accepted.

Tonight I am thankful for not losing my voice, but instead for my choice to simply ask. It’s amazing how such a short word was able to yield a long list of things to keep in mind in the future. Human error or system error, it really is true when people say you are your own best advocate.

We used to have dogs.

When I was little, our two pups were strays that we’d taken in. We gave them a warm home, many-a-kibble, an obscene amount of human food and a one-size-fits-all doggie door. They were happy. And so were we.

Fast forward to 2012, when I am living in the house I grew up in. It holds many memories for me, and I love it so. It’s just me and my cat (shocking, no?) and he has come to adopt the doggie door as his own. He’s an indoor/outdoor cat — comes in when he wants food, a comfy bed and a warm lap on weekend mornings, and goes out when he wants to party, sprawl in the sunshine, relieve himself and rule the neighborhood. He’s excellent.

Tonight, I walked in the back door and was greeted by tufts of fur on the family room carpet. Black, soft, freshly-torn-out-of-a-cat’s-body tufts. Ouch.

What the…?

I turned on the lights to make sure what I was seeing was real.

Cat fight tufts? Inside the house?

The doggie door is one that took him a while to figure out. A while, that is, until he realized he’d need to use it to get fed. Food outside = ants. Food inside = a cat that uses the doggie door.

I wondered if a stray I saw on the patio a few weeks back had also learned how to use it. Was it possible the stray had come inside, only to be followed by my cat who decided to show it who’s boss?

(Or perhaps the other way around, given the fur clumpage.)

I thought I smelled cat, er, “odor” upon arriving home, but wasn’t sure if it was the mature stargazer lily fumes from my kitchen table bouquet or cat stink that I was picking up. Yes, tonight I decided the two smelled similar.

I put the tuftage out of my mind and walked through the house to see what else I could see. Nothing much. Until I came to my old bedroom, which is now a guest room.

The curtain rod was down. And when I say “down,” I mean that somehow it had leapt off the three U-shaped brackets it was resting lazily in, plummeted 4.5 feet to my dresser and knocked over a small lamp.

Did the possible cat fight extend into other areas of the house? Was there an earthquake? Did the plantation shutter lady who recently came to give me a quote have to move the rod for some reason, after which she put it back incorrectly and it just happened to fall today?

Heck if I knew.

All I had were tufts of fur and a fallen rod.

Thankfully my shining friend (see post from 2/15) was back in town and was on his way over to give me the low-down on his 3,000-miles-away interview. I greeted him and immediately sent him looking for stray cats, dead cats, ghosts, murderers and anything else that might’ve been hiding in my casa. I was relieved when he found nothing.

(Still, it didn’t stop me from just doing another once-over around the house after he left.)

Bottom line, tonight I am thankful for friends who keep me safe, for pets who keep me on my toes and for stray cats that haven’t yet decided to call the inside of my peaceful casa their personal home. Here’s hoping a quiet night of sleep is ahead of me, with no more cat shenanigans to be had and no more tuftage to be found in the morning.

Creepy.

And PS – it was the stargazer lily.

One of the greatest things we’re capable of as human beings is the ability to stand firm and stay true to our convictions.

It’s beyond easy not to do this, and I’ve wavered plenty of times. I probably waver on a daily basis, multiple times a day.

But when someone does something so contrary to what you’d do to someone else — when they break the golden rule of treating others the way you’d want to be treated — you can either walk away and quietly be done with them, or you can say something.

For the first time in a long time, I decided to say something tonight.

I’m not a big fan of dating, as a lot of it seems to be nothing more than game-playing. It wears me out and, really, work leaves me with low energy at the end of each day as it is. If I want a game, I’ll bust out Twister. Or play Bejeweled. Or fling an Angry Bird. I don’t think relationships should be work. Too often, in fact, I feel they’re forced. Someone has marriage on the brain. Someone’s clock is ticking. Someone feels left out because all their friends are partnered up, so shouldn’t they? In a word, no.

Be still, people. Everything in its own time.

But back to dating. Occasionally, I do hop back in the saddle, and it might be for a variety of reasons. Maybe I figure it would just be good to get some practice. Maybe I think the person is worth the risk if I’m hurt by them. Maybe there’s just a general interest to see what could be, and if the answer ends up being “nothing,” then I’d like to think that two people could be emotionally mature enough to know what’s up, identify the lack of whatever-magic-makes-two-particular-people-click, discuss it in an adult manner and move on. True, nobody owes anyone anything, but I would argue that as human beings who might’ve given it a go, we owe each other the courtesy of being, well, courteous.

After a mere four dates, I was stood up by someone last night. Not cool that yesterday’s phonecall and text about our plans that were supposed to be last night went unreturned until 9:30 this morning, but OK — I can improvise and find other things to do with my time. Details aren’t necessary, but when the final outcome doesn’t even include the decency of an apology, it’s just not right.

My old self would ignore it, not return calls, not reply to texts and be done.

Apparently this new self has a bit of a diplomatic side.

We had two phonecalls this evening. The first was odd and full of lengthy, silent pauses. A strange explanation and rambling about the matter that kept him completely occupied yesterday was given. I listened and hoped for an apology about his going MIA, but it never came. The call ended fairly quickly, which I can thank my confusion-fueled silence for.

I went in to bake some chicken for dinner, then wondered to myself, “Why am I baking chicken?” The question wasn’t so much about its method of preparation as much as it was about why I wasn’t irritated. I should be, right? It was clearly a case of “I’m just not that into him,” and I thought that a text to nip everything in the bud and put whatever was before us out of its misery would be best.

No, on second thought, a phonecall seemed the more mature thing to do.

I called back and asked if he had a moment. He said he did. My surprisingly calm delivery went something like this [ahem]:

“I just wanted to say thank you for the four dates we had, but I don’t think we should continue. It sounds like you have a messy situation on your hands, and I hope things work out.”

Him: “…oh, OK.”

(Awesome.)

Me, continuing the calm: “I also find the lack of communication yesterday somewhat appalling when we had plans, so I’m pretty much done.”

Him: “OK, I understand where you’re coming from,” followed by more rambling about the situation that kept him incommunicado.

(Awesome.)

Me: “OK, well good luck. Goodbye.”

Clearly he just wasn’t that into me, either.

While I never planned on writing a Thanky about a downer of a situation like this, tonight I am thankful to have seen a series of events for what it was, what it lacked, for not telling myself it was OK and for taking the road that I always hope someone will give me the courtesy of if and when the time comes.

I am also thankful for the writing fodder.

(Really…who makes chicken?)

When I was little, I used to think, “Maybe when I’m older, such-and-such will happen.”

Interestingly, I still think in these terms.

Such-and-such could’ve been — and still is — anything. Maybe my skin will look better, maybe my eyebrows won’t be so weirdly shaped, maybe I’ll actually have long hair, maybe I’ll lose my Del Taco tummy, maybe I’ll move to Seattle, maybe I’ll move to Portland, maybe I’ll become stronger in my faith.

Maybe my guard will come down, maybe my defenses will soften, maybe I’ll stop joking around so much because I think the quiet me isn’t very interesting, maybe I’ll find an amazing bra, maybe I’ll get better about recycling, maybe I’ll clean my shower every week.

Maybe I’ll actually learn how to play bar chords well. Maybe I’ll record a CD of my own music. Maybe I’ll become a runner, maybe one of my big toenails that endured an unfortunate and gnarly childhood injury will stop its penchant for becoming ingrown, maybe I’ll outgrow my fondness for ugly pajamas, maybe I’ll have better dating luck, maybe I’ll stop eating after 7pm, maybe I’ll start buying proper (read: pricey) footwear for a woman of my age and maybe I’ll stop getting weirded out by the fact that the word “woman” does, in fact, apply to me. (I’ve always been fond of the word “chick,” but maybe I’ll someday realize how immature of a word it really is.)

The facts are these: my skin will always be flawed, and I will always tweeze when I’m bored. I’ll never have long hair because my addiction to volumizing products means my ‘do would be the size of Texas during the grow-out stage, plus I lack the patience to grow it out. I’ll never stop feasting on Del Taco and I’ll likely never move out of state again, though I would like to make Seattle and Portland more frequent vacation spots. I’m still working on my faith.

My guard will never come down, and I’ve come to like it that way. My defenses will never soften, and while I wish they would, they make me feel safe. It’s a false sort of security, but I find strange comfort in it. I won’t stop joking around because it’s a habit; I’ve come to find that people think I’m in a bad mood when I’m quiet (not the case), so it’s behavior I’ve adopted over the years. The bra thing will eternally be a challenge — unfortunately not because the girls are large and in charge, but because I have rebellious shoulders which find amusement when my straps fall down…which is every day…awesome. I’ve gotten better about recycling and I’m proud to say that I’m a weekly shower cleaner instead of letting it go, well, longer than a week.

I’ve yet to sit down for any length of time and put effort into learning bar chords, and I’m still merely dabbling in the music thing with no steady drive towards making my own CD; I’m in idle most of the time, with periods of 15-20mph here and there…then back to idling. I’ll never be a runner, because my orthopedic surgeon told me so. My toenail will likely go another 25 years before it’s fully — if ever — done being ridiculous. I’ll probably always wear ugly pajamas, since I’ve yet to see a cute pair that is a) warm b) without feeling like I’m wearing a flannel straightjacket. Successful dating will probably always elude me but, in the meantime, the bad stuff makes for great fodder. My sweet tooth means I’ll always have a knack for eating after 7pm, I’ll perhaps someday work toward improving my shoe stash, “woman” will always make me feel 60 years old and “chick” will continue to be my go-to word in any setting. It makes me laugh.

Now that I’m older, with hopefully many more days ahead of me, my “maybe when I’m older” thoughts bring a smile to my face. I’m quick to consider them my flaws, but it’s only me who’s put them in that category. Flaws or not, I’m thankful for them. If they weren’t there, who’s to say that my hobbies I find so much joy in would still be my hobbies? Who’s to say that my friends who I appreciate so much would still be my friends? Tonight I am thankful for them all, for they’ve had a hand — whether big or small, directly or indirectly — in making my life rich and my heart full.

“Every moment and every event of every man’s life on Earth plants something in his soul.” -Thomas Merton

Today I found some time to purchase and plant four double impatiens, two African iris, two creeping fig and one yellow kangaroo paw. Save for a few weeds that I needed to pull prior to letting my new friends get situated in their new home, the backyard flowerbed was bare. It needed some love, and I think it got it.

I’m looking forward to seeing everything settle in and get comfy — especially the creeping fig. The 5′ block wall at the rear of the flowerbed isn’t the most beautiful thing to look at when you’re trying to get a lush, serene feel, and I knew I wanted something to cover it up since a new fence isn’t in the cards. After wandering through my local Lowe’s garden center for what felt like an eternity, I decided the frilly creeping fig was the way to go. Bonus points that it apparently grows like a weed, too.

Despite all the plant talk, I’ve never had the greenest of thumbs. If there’s a potted flower inside, I generally manage to kill it swiftly, and as though I’d been subconsciously plotting against it the whole time.

Freshly cut flowers are my ideal, and I try to buy them weekly. They beautify, and they’re guilt-free.

Guilt-free?

Indeed. They rule. They’re not hanging out in dirt, which I like because dirt implies the promise of a long life, assuming you’re able to take care of them properly. It’s like a little ecosystem, which I promptly annihilate by overwatering. Overwatering leads to massive amounts of guilt, likely because of my personal fear of drowning — which I’ve just done to the plant.

(I realize I may need therapy for my indoor flower issues.)

If there’s a pot of flowers outside, I also kill those — again by overwatering.

But if there’s a pothos in the house, I usually do OK with them — mainly because the more I forget they’re around, the more they thrive.

Fake plants might be the best ever. (Alright, not really. But they do hang around for quite a while, and they tolerate my multi-surface Pledge quite nicely whereas the live ones always seem to have a problem with the stuff. Odd.)

Everything aside, I’m pretty sure what I planted outside in the dirt will do well — primarily because I had guidance from a Lowe’s garden lady, not because I’m smart or anything.

So what’s the deal with the plant/flower post tonight? It was a cathartic and therapeutic way to pass the time, planting was. Even weeding got me into a tranquil state of mind, although my back and the knee aren’t too happy with me right now. But in a week when I’m able to see the difference, or in a month — or in six months’ time, I can look back and remember the calm they brought on the day they were planted.

They definitely had their demands, though. They couldn’t be planted too closely together, they needed more room in the ground than their container currently allowed them, and they needed potting soil to kickstart everything. They need watering, maybe some Miracle-Gro now and again and they need pruning.

It’s not unlike us, is it? I know that I’m similar. I don’t immediately like a crowd, but if you give me the space and I’m allowed to ease into something, no gathering is too big. If you put me somewhere, I’ll stay for however long — but I need some wiggle room and a comfy, nourishing environment to really take off. I need the basics, with maybe a dash of R&R and me-time here and there, and when my plate gets too full, I’ll be the first to clear parts of it.

Tonight I am thankful for a flowerbed full of new beginnings. Here’s to a wide-open life ahead of us, and a chance to plant our own new beginning each day.

I’m having a bit of an issue lately, and I’m hoping it doesn’t plague my weekend because I have big plans for it. It all ties back to my dabbling in the self-doubt arena.

There’s a playwriting organization that I’m trying to join. “Trying” because it entails an audition, of sorts. Read: I must submit completed plays. I have more than a few in progress, but right as I’m nearing the end of the first act or just when things are starting to proceed nicely in the second, I take a break.

Like, a months-long break.

It would be one thing to finish them and email them off for review, but that doesn’t do much to make me think I’d be putting my best foot forward. I find myself wondering far too much. Wondering whether they’re good, bad, whether they show a breadth of emotion, whether they’re too shallow, too surface, too typical, too young, too current, too common or maybe even too controversial.

I wonder if I keep the general storyline but overhaul the characters. Maybe I scrap them entirely. Maybe I should step back and look at everything to see if anything can be merged.

In all of this wondering, I wonder if I’ll end up writing for those people, or writing for me. I can only hope that the latter wins out, as I try my best to do exactly that whenever I put pen to paper…er, fingers to keyboard. If ever there was a time to do it, it seems like now is that time. It feels mandatory. After all, why audition if you’re not going to bother to be in character?

After submitting the plays, they’re reviewed by a panel of people who have formed this organization. They’re smart, they’re direct, they’re honest in their communication and I wish there were more people like them in other areas of my life — not just in this particular extracurricular endeavor, which I may or may not ultimately end up being a part of. Not being around these people would be a tragedy. For me. A personal, growth-stunting tragedy.

They’ve written, they’ve directed and they’ve acted in plays on both larger and smaller stages. They’ve taught, been praised in articles, been sought out for additional works and have been produced many times. They know what they’re doing.

I don’t.

Or maybe I do.

The thing about anything is that you don’t know what you can do until you take a step. Pick a direction, any direction — then take a step. I can practically hear the carnival barker in my head, hollering, “Step right up, folks, step right up. You, ma’am — you look like you need to come this way.”

Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’ll feel the ground give way a little differently than my last step; maybe it’s giving way as a means of encouraging me to keep going.

Or maybe if I pick another direction, I’ll emerge from a shadow I didn’t know I was in, suddenly finding part of my face instantly flushed and heated by sunlight.

Step over here — just a bit more this way — and I might see something off in the distance that’s now more in view than before. Its no longer the partial structure I thought it was, but it sprawls and has a welcoming, inviting feel. It, too, is hoping I’ll continue making my way toward it.

This weekend will be a weekend of direction-picking. I don’t know where I’ll end up come Sunday night, but this evening I’m thankful for the blank canvas before me, and nothing but time on my side.