A Single Flop

I keep a pair of flip flops on my back porch, right next to my kitchen door. Correction: I kept a pair of flip flops on my back porch, right next to my kitchen door. It's the wilderness out here in the wide open Mojave Desert, you don't want to be surveying your land in bare feet and you don't want to be tracking all that sand back into your house, so a pair of flip flops by the back door equals perfect solution. Until today. When I went outside this morning to water the trees, I found this:

I can't decide which thought is more disturbing. Something big enough to carry off my right flip was on my porch, just outside my kitchen door, while I carelessly slept. Or, that some poor something is wandering around the desert right now wearing a single flop.

Man, I loved those flip flops too! I've had them forever and they fit just right.

It will take every ounce of energy I have NOT to google "desert serial killer and flip flop thief".

An Even Wilder Kingdom

I realize I run the risk of becoming Marlin Perkins here, but I gotta tell ya, my yard is amazing! Yesterday, I discovered I don't just have the two roadrunner lovebirds living in my yucca bush, I also have both species of roadrunners, the Greater Roadrunner and the Lesser Roadrunner, in my yard. The lovebirds living in my yucca bush are the Greater Roadrunners, but I've seen an adorable little Lesser Roadrunner two days in a row now. It's kind of blowing my mind! I've had zero luck getting a good photo of either of these guys, but I've had lots of luck getting mediocre ones. Like this one of one of the lovebirds:

I spent the late morning and early afternoon today tearing down some old fencing and doing some general yard clean up. This involved lots of wire cutting and hauling and moving pieces of wood from one pile to another. That's where the scorpion comes in. He was having an afternoon nap or something underneath a previously discarded, but yet to be hauled away, fence post. I fear he might have the misfortune of being one of the Greater Roadrunner's dinner tonight. Again, no luck getting a good photo, but I think if you click on this one to make it bigger you'll find him, right smack dab in the center:

This evening I was sitting at my desk, listening to "Ted Quinn's Sunday Evening Variety Show" on Radio Free Joshua Tree and gazing out my big picture window when this sweet guy came hopping by for a visit:

Apparently, he was hungry:

Luckily for him, not for scorpions.

It was a really good day at the Double D Ranch and Wild Kingdom Desert Critter Sanctuary.

Wild Kingdom

My desert yard is teeming with wildlife: quails, jack rabbits, insects by the dozens, lots of birds I don't know the names of, and my favorite of all, roadrunners. I have two roadrunners. They live in the yucca bush next to my driveway. Roadrunners are usually solitary, but occasionally live in pairs and are known to mate for life. In fact, I swear the two in my yard were courting last month.  I see one, or both of them, every single day. And every single time I see them is a treat. They're wily little things -- which is funny if you think about it. They're quite shy. Quite skittish. And they don't stand still for more than a couple of seconds at a time. And when they move, they move pretty darn quickly. Which is also funny because they do indeed, run. I'm told it's great luck to have them around your house because they eat tarantulas, and scorpions, and rattlesnakes, as if just being completely adorable wasn't reason enough to love them.

Today though, I had a couple of quails put on a show for me. I was sitting at my desk which faces a large picture window that looks out at my side yard. The view is breathtaking and it's usually where I catch the glimpses of my roadrunners, and today, two quails came by for a late afternoon sand bath. I honestly thought the larger of the two was nesting. She (assuming it was a girl) went to town digging a hole in the sand beneath a small tree that's right outside my window and then proceeded to fling the sand and dust up and over herself in what can only be described as a little quail frenzy. Then she got up and moved to a new spot (same routine) and left the first hole to her smaller quail companion so he could have his way with the soft, cool spot she'd created. I'm guessing, just for him. They hung around for awhile, lounging in their holes, flinging sand, cooing, prancing around the tree. When the large one fluttered up to the top of a fence post I knew, that she knew, I was watching them. She was showing off. And she sat there for several minutes, posing, while I took her photo.

If only I could get my roadrunners to cooperate like this!

The Sound of Silence

Holy cow! It's been a solid month since I've written a blog entry! Not good. Not good, at all. I knew I hadn't been feeling particularly "creative" lately, but jeez, a month is too long. So, so many things go down in a month's time. Where to begin?

The biggest news is that I am now officially a resident of Joshua Tree! Yes, another desert rat (or fox) is born. I've been house sitting on and off out here since mid-January, but as of this week I have my very own (well a rental, but still) desert pad. It's beautiful and quiet and cozy and quiet and remote and quiet and teeming with wildlife. Did I mention it was quiet?

I was back in my LA home last week for a couple of days and was quite suddenly struck at how noisy the place is. I grew up in the suburbs and I've lived in other cities including New York City for ten years, so I know from some noise, but I guess I'd already (and without really noticing) become accustomed to the "silence" of the desert. LA is car alarms blaring, trucks passing, airplanes flying, dogs barking, power tools buzzing, air conditioners running, people talking, cars beeping, neighbors doing what neighbors do. Joshua Tree is birds chirping, quails cooing, coyotes yelping, wind blowing even sometimes howling, the occasional fly or bee buzzing, and every now and then a boom from the military base many miles away. But mostly, when the refrigerator isn't humming and the air is still, there's actual, honest to goodness, silence.

Like nothing I've ever heard.

Buddha is Not Amused

It was Wizard of Oz windy in the high desert all day yesterday and through most of the night. The air and the sounds seem to find a way into the house through every possible and impossible entry point. The front door moans. The chimney and the swamp cooler vent hiss. And every window rattles and hums. At 2:30 a.m. the sleet and freezing rain sound like a gang of love-sick '50's movie teenage boys, pelting the house with stones to wake up their equally love-sick teenage girl counterpart. I was tempted to to get out of bed and open the drapes to make sure that wasn't the case. As if. But, I was warm and cozy in bed and knew if I climbed out of my body warmth cocoon it would take me the rest of the night to get it just right again. So I stay put, listening to the ice crystals pelt the windows, and wondering what the cactus and yucca trees and creosote bushes will look like after a night of winter weather. By the time I do finally summon the courage to face the world on the other side of my blankets, most of whatever had fallen overnight has melted or blown away. Snow doesn't last long out here, and I regret not getting up at 2:30 to see it while it weathered. But, there's still a bit of snow hanging onto some things scattered around the yard, so I go outside to take some photos and a little walk. Looking west, the storm clouds are huge and ominous and rolling over the mountain tops and into the desert valleys, headed east.  It's freezing in the desert this morning! I'm fascinated with the sight of the clouds and the mountains though, so I stand there, shivering, staring at nature, like I'm waiting for something unexpected, or dramatic, or magical to happen. But, Mother Nature doesn't care that I'm cold and waiting. She's gonna do what She's gonna do in her own sweet time. I know this wind is going to bring those clouds and that weather and whatever else She has in store for us desert rats, eventually. But right now, those clouds are perfectly content hanging onto that mountain top for dear life. It must be snowing like crazy up there!

My hands are frozen, my cheeks are bright red, and my hair is crazy. So, I go back inside and spend the next hour or so in front of the pellet stove and space heater and with a hot cup of tea, thawing out. The wind is howling still, but this afternoon I'm feeling a bit more like one of the little pigs than Dorothy.  The clouds are still moving past at a good clip, but the birds are chirping and the sun is out. It's going to be a cold, blustery day in the desert for sure, but somehow, She just can't keep from letting the sun shine down on us desert rats, eventually.

An Officer and a Gentlewoman

"I pulled you over because you were going 54 in a 40 mile an hour zone."

"Oh, sorry. I'm usually the one being honked at and passed on this road. Honestly, didn't realize I was speeding."

"What are you up to tonight? Where you coming from?"

"A friend's house. Bunch of ladies hanging out, swapping clothes. Good, clean fun."

"Have anything to drink tonight?"

"Had a glass of wine."

"What time was that?"

"What is it now, 10ish? Around 7."

"I'm gonna need to see your license."

"Okay. It's in my bag, in the back."

"That's fine. Step on out and get that for me."

"What are you, visiting?"

"Sort of. I'm house-sitting for a friend just up the road, off of Border."

"See the tip of my pen here? I'm gonna need you to follow that with your eyes. Don't move your head. Just your eyes."

"Ha. Oh, sorry. I thought you were gonna move it back over to the other side just then."

"You can step back in your car now."

"Here ya go. Take it easy on your speed, okay?"

"I definitely will. Thank you!"

Seriously, thank you, Officer Whoeveryouare, who looked young enough to be my offspring!
I owe you one.

A Very Big Deal

I stayed up late last night doing some freelance work. Not a big deal. I was happy to do it and happy to have the work. At 6:00 a.m. this morning, I got a text that woke me up. Not a big deal. I have the luxury right now of not having to get up and get going anywhere in the morning, so I rolled over and went back to sleep. Then I slept a little later than I meant too. Had lots to do today, but as I said, no where I had to be, so not a big deal. I got up, fed the fish and the tortoise and the lizard and myself. Made a cup of tea and hunkered down on what turned out to be a two-hour phone call with Time Warner. By the end of the call the wireless internet was working again. Last week it took my friends four days to get their internet back up and running, so my two hours, not a big deal. I got a lot of work done today. I soaked my sore, maybe broken, toe for a little while. I gazed out the window at the unbelievably beautiful light on the mountains just before sunset and wished I was a painter. I took a few not nearly representative enough of the beauty photos of the mountains, touched up my roots, took a shower, had a bite to eat, and then remembered it was take the garbage and recycling cans all the way down the driveway to the other side of the street night. It was already dark and chilly out and it's a long driveway, but not a big deal. I have a coat, and a flashlight app on my phone. Since I was outside anyway and already wearing my coat, I decided to take a quick trip to the grocery store, so I'd have something to eat for breakfast other than week old grapes. I drove down the driveway, made a right onto the dirt road, a left onto the next dirt road that becomes paved by the next block, and a right onto highway 62 heading east. A couple of blocks later, traffic came to a slow crawl. A traffic jam in the desert is a pretty rare thing. A misbehaving traffic light, possibly? A coyote crossing the highway, perhaps? A sobriety check-point, maybe? Whatever it is, not a big deal, not in a hurry, and chances are it won't take too long anyway. Ten minutes or so later, as the now single lane of traffic inched along, following the directions of the little orange cones that were leading us to detour off the highway and around the eerily quiet and now obvious but seemingly undramatic accident scene, I turned my head towards the dim lights of the police cruiser and saw it. A body, covered in a blanket, alone and laying in the middle of the two east-bound lanes of highway 62, just past Palm Trail. There were no mangled vehicles. There were no sirens blaring or lights flashing. Just a few police cars and officers politely directing the traffic and a fire engine or two. I don't even remember if I saw an ambulance or not. It was an oddly serene and thoroughly disturbing and absolutely heartbreaking scene. I turned off the highway initially to follow the traffic around and through the detour, but without really thinking about it, turned right instead of left and found myself headed absentmindedly back towards home. I drove up the driveway, walked into the house, made a cup of tea, turned off all the lights, and crawled into bed. I'll have week old grapes for breakfast. It's really not a big deal. Not a big deal at all.

Confessions of an Addict

The first month of this new year is on its last legs and I have slept in my own bed, in the year 2013, seven times! If I hadn't pulled out a calendar and actually counted the days, I would have guessed a lower number. And even though this current incarnation of "my" bed has only been mine for four months, I really like it, and I miss it when I'm away. It's a futon actually, on a raised and slatted platform, and my pillows (just two) are like little rectangular clouds under my weary head, so I get this whole firm and comfy-cozy thing going all at once. Add to this my organic cotton sheets, my handmade quilt (every inch of which was lovingly sewn and quilted by my second-oldest sister) and my extra blanket made from recycled saris, and you've got a pretty darn dreamy, sleepy-time adventure. So why, pray tell, when I'm nestled all snug as a bug in my proverbial bed rug, am I now pining away for something as silly as...television?

We don't have cable here in Casey in California's home in the Valley, but three out of the four homes I've slept in the other twenty-four nights this year, sure did. Philosophically, I'm not a fan of having a television in the bedroom, but man, I surely have enjoyed it -- philosophical viewpoint aside. It's sort of decadent, no? Burrowing into your nest for the night with the soft glow and low murmur of an old black and white movie in the background. Or the welcome company of a beloved film you've seen so many times you can recite the dialogue, word for word. Even just a well-worn anthology that feels like family or a long lost friend.

Ah, who am I kidding? Heading back out to the dez this morning which means woohoo! Project Runway tonight!

My January Daze

Have I really gone twenty-two days without posting a blog entry? Has this month really been that busy? The short answer is: yes.

The holidays are a distant blur and right after those wrapped up I flew to Baltimore for a ten-day visit. Even that seems like it was months ago! I spent every minute of those ten days hanging out with Jack and my family and my friends and watching some amazing kids play some badass rock and roll! Well, every minute except the 1,440 of them I spent having a stomach virus instead, but other than that, it was a good visit. I like Baltimore...let me rephrase that...I like my people in Baltimore and I like some things in and about Baltimore. Like the kid I saw in Hampden playing outside, hopping down Chestnut Avenue on his pogo stick. I mean seriously, where else but in that neighborhood are you going to spy a kid on a pogo stick? That's something to like, I think. And my people, I do like my Baltimore people. I miss my Baltimore people. I even had good weather while I was there. Which can be hard to come by in January in Baltimore. It was a good visit. Celebrated my mom's 89th birthday. Watched the Raven's win - twice! Made it through a twenty-four hour bug. Got my hair did. Got a new tattoo. Got to see my kid a lot. Spent some quality time with my family and my bff K and the X and my dog and my SLBC. And rocked out at eight (maybe nine, I lost count) SoR Baltimore shows in three days! It was a good visit. Exhausting. And illuminating. And confusing. And sickly. But good!

It was good to get back to Cali though, too. My bed and my stuff and my California people. I unpacked, did a few loads of laundry, and repacked, because three days after I got back from Baltimore, I dove straight into a twelve-day puppy sitting gig in the dez. Good work, if you can get it! The weather's been great. The puppies are adorable. The house is cozy. The friends are fantastic. And the hot tub is, well come on, it's a hot tub - in the winter - in the high desert - how do you think it is?

Although it's been busy and hectic and even a little unnerving, I can certainly think of worse ways to spend the month of January.

Run, Rabbit Run

Ah, the holidays, here and gone. I’m a bit thankful for the swiftness this year, though. Christmas and New Year’s 2012 had a little more heartache than I would have preferred, but they will ultimately be remembered for time well spent and time spent well in one of my favorite places with some of my favorite people.

I was driving from the desert back to LA yesterday, deep in thought about the year past and the year ahead and contemplating last year’s mantra, unfold. That was a really tough one for me. I do tend to try to make things happen, instead of letting events organically unfold, hence the year’s intentions. In retrospect, I recognized lots of times I was not as successful as I had thought I’d been, incorporating the concept into my daily life. As always, I had my iPod on shuffle and turned up to eleven, and as I was beating myself up about when and where I could have done better, a song came on, that on almost any other day I would have skipped, but for whatever reason, yesterday, I let it play:


Breathe, breathe in the air.
Don't be afraid to care.
Leave, but don't leave me.
Look around, choose your own ground.


And I realized, I just need to take it a step further. And I remembered a word that had resonated with me a few months ago, when I saw it painted on the side of a barn, in that favorite place of mine.

So this year’s mantra is similar to last’s, but maybe it’s just a way of giving myself a second chance. After all, that’s what New Years are all about, right?

My Ninety-third Day

So, what have a I learned living, working, and playing in and around the city of angels for the past three months? Well, this, for starters:

Not working is better than working.
Getting a paycheck is better than not getting a paycheck.
Not working and getting a paycheck is my goal for 2013.

The desert is better than the city.
The beach is better than the city, too.
The city is pretty great.

Traffic on the surface roads is better than the traffic on the freeways.
The surface road traffic is horrible.
There is no sufficient way to describe the horribleness of the traffic.

I really, really, really love the sunshine.
It never rains in California is a lie.
Even the rain is a little more tolerable here.

It's amazing how much stuff you can live without.
I regret selling and giving away some of my stuff.
I still have too much stuff.

There are some really interesting and cool people out here.
It's never too late in life to make new and amazingly great friendships.
Family comes is lots of different forms.

I miss my family, a lot.
I miss my friends, a lot.
I miss pizza and beer a lot too, but that has nothing to do with moving to LA.

Some people will never cease to disappoint you.
Most people will never cease to surprise and delight you.
People in southern California don't need an excuse to gather to eat and drink and be generally merry.

The holiday season is a bad time to move away from home.
There's probably not a really good time to move away from home.
Adventures are worth it, no matter when or where they take you.

I Am Not Miranda

Met Pumpkin and a few of his posse at a little holiday party last night in downtown LA. Went straight there from work, had a couple glasses of wine and nothing to eat, so was starving by the time I got home. And, that's when I almost choked to death on a bite of hotdog. I couldn't swallow it or cough it up. I couldn't speak or breath. For a split second I honestly thought, I'm going to choke to death, alone, in Casey in California's kitchen. How weird would that be? Those were the exact thoughts that went through my head. I was Miranda in that "Sex in the City" episode where she's choking on take out Chinese and throws herself onto the edge of the kitchen sink to dislodge the chicken and broccoli and then calls Carrie all freaked out that she's going to die alone in her new apartment and her cat will eat her. Luckily, Casey in California doesn't have a cat. I would have called K if it weren't for that damn time difference thing. Carrie and Miranda were always in the same city. Well, except when Carrie moved to Paris with Mikhail Baryshnikov. But, I digress. Clearly, I was in fact eventually able to cough the dumb dog up and out of my esophagus. Or trachea. Wherever it was. My throat still hurts. I may never eat another hotdog. Alone anyway.

I Love You

I come from a incredibly loving family. We show each other our love all the time. We gift thoughtfully always and lavishly when we can. We happily spend inordinate amounts of time together. And we are generous with our help and support. We don't, however, utter those three little, yet powerful words, linked together, to make that one perfectly wonderful statement.

The first time I remember my father actually telling me he loved me was a moment in 1989ish. I was living in New York City at the time, and it was the beginning of my dad's impending failing health. I had come home for a visit and because my dad was in the hospital. Most of the details of that particular trip home are no longer a memory, but I distinctly remember my father laying in his hospital bed, hooked up to dozens of tubes and machines and IV's. Visiting hours were ending for the night and I leaned down to say goodby and give him a kiss on the cheek and he kissed my cheek too and just said it, "I love you". Just like that. Like it was no big deal. My head exploded. I was angry. The only possible reason I could think of why he would say that to me was because he thought he was going to die and that scared the hell out of me. Growing up, I never questioned my father's love. He didn't need to say it for me to know it was there. Or so I thought.

You never think of a loved one's terminal illness as being something to be thankful for, for any reason, until you meet or hear about someone, who lost a person they desperately loved, suddenly. X's dad just died in his sleep one night. X had spoken to him on the phone the day before, but rushed off because he was busy at work. Many year's later, he still hasn't forgiven himself. Jack's paternal grandfather choked to death in a restaurant while on a business trip. Jack's father never had the chance to say goodbye. People die in accidents and unceremoniously in their sleep every single moment of every single day. Amidst the devastatingly horrific events that unfolded in Newtown two days ago, among all the discussions concerning mental illness and gun control and random violence clamoring for attention in my head, the one thought I could not shake was the desperate hope that when those children and teachers left for school on Friday morning, that someone they loved who loved them right back said out loud to them, "I love you." Not just so they heard it, but also so the one's who love them, who now have to live without them, had had the opportunity to say it to them.

Calm and I were in the car one day awhile ago and he got a call from a friend. They had some business stuff and some friend stuff to discuss so spoke for a few minutes and at the end of the call, he said to his friend, "Great to talk to you, I love you, (insert name of friend here)." Simple, right? It was so effortless and so warm and so sincere and just, lovely. I was awestruck. I remember thinking at that moment, I could never say that, like that.

I had an overwhelming urge last Friday to call everyone I know and love to tell them, "I love you, (insert name here)," but I didn't make a single call. Except to my son. I tell Jack "I love you" all the time. Every chance I get. He though, is the exception to my "I love you" embargo. My entire life, I have, well to say I've struggled would be putting it mildly, it's practically a phobia, but struggled with saying those three little, yet powerful words, out loud to anyone. My family, my friends, or my significant others. Maybe the not hearing it made the sentiment too precious. Too important. Too scary, even. I'm not sure yet, what I'm afraid of exactly. Maybe it's as simple as being afraid of not hearing it back. But, the hearing it back isn't what's important, is it? I mean, hearing it back is wonderful, but it's the saying it out loud and meaning it. To tell someone "I love you" is indeed precious and important and yes, even a little scary.

My 2013 New Year's resolution will be to say those three little, yet powerful words, linked together, to make that one perfectly wonderful statement, as many times, to as many of the people I love, as I possibly can.

I could start today, I guess, and probably should, but like all good phobias, baby steps, people. Baby steps.

General or Otherwise

On my way to visit Pumpkin in the hospital, I was reminded why I love California:

Then, I was reminded how much I don’t miss a hospital.

Soul Salvation by Fiver

Last Friday would have been my brother’s sixty-first birthday. I can’t even wrap my head around that fact. In my mind, he is forever thirty-something. He was fifty-four when he died, but he was thirty-something to me, even then.

I didn’t remember my brother’s birthday on Friday. It’s the first time I didn’t remember his birthday, on his birthday. I was super busy on Friday, kid and puppy sitting for a friend all day long and then hideous traffic getting back to the Valley from West Hollywood that made my commute twice as long as it should have been. Had been planning on driving out to the desert that night, but by the time I finally made it home, I was too worn out to even pack. And, if that all sounds like bad excuses for missing my brother’s birthday, it’s because there’s no excuse for not remembering my brother’s birthday.

I remembered on Saturday, because Saturday would have been my dad’s eighty-eighth birthday. Or as my dad would have said, just to get a rise out of my mom, the first day of his eighty-ninth year. I was finally packed and on my way to the desert, and talking on the phone with my X when I realized. I was astonished. And devastated. X tried to make me feel better by telling me it was a good thing, it meant I was moving on or something like that. Nice try. But, I never want to move that far. I spent the bulk of the rest of my drive in tears, completely guilt-ridden.

My first stop in the desert was to pick up The Empress Mr. Chin. We were going to run some errands for her party the following day. I began unburdening my guilty soul to her the second she got into the car, when we turned the first corner from her house and there he was, my brother, in his usual form - a small, brown, adorable bunny. My heart and guilty soul felt lighter the second I saw him. I stopped the car and watched him hop across Mr. Chin's neighbor’s yard and into the bushes and realized I was smiling.

Happy birthday, big brother, and thank you, for letting me off the hook so quickly, and much too easily. It was just like you.

Intervention Anyone?

I've had sleep issues for as long as I can remember. More specifically, lack of sleep issues. Does anyone have too much sleep issues? Narcoleptics, I guess. These days though, I seem to have given up sleep altogether. Unless it's the morning, when I should be getting up. Then I could sleep like the proverbial baby, well except for the daily trash truck and/or recycling truck and the incessant gardening with power tools. I don't know what the neighbors are growing out here in the valley, but they certainly do enjoy landscaping in the early a.m. hours, with as many pieces of motorized equipment as they can possibly get their hands on.

But actually going to bed and sleep at a respectable time of night? What's that? You would think this lack of sleep pattern would translate into blog postings, wouldn't you? Lots of late night/early morning ruminations on all the oh so deep thoughts swirling around in my head that are seemingly the cause of my awakeness? Nope. Apparently, I just desperately need to get caught up on The Tudors or Breaking Bad or Weeds or 30 Rock or...I haven't even started Downton Abbey yet! #addictedtostreamingnetflix #helpme

So Much Sweetness

A friend posted an article on Facebook where Bill Murray tells a story about physically carrying Gilda Radner around at a party when she was already quite ill. She was tired and ready to leave, but the group hadn't been seeing her much and didn't want her to go. So they took turns carrying her around and saying goodbye to her, over and over, and she was laughing and loving it. It turned out to be the last time he saw her. It's an amazingly sad visual and yet, I'll bet he smiles at the memory. I know I do.

Christmas day, December 25, 2005, one month and one day before my brother's death. We would have traditionally had Christmas at my mom's house or at my sister, Betsy's, house, but my brother, Bobby, was too ill to go anywhere. In fact, too weak to even walk from his upstairs bedroom to the living room downstairs, for the family holiday festivities. We took turns hanging out with him in his bedroom for most of the afternoon, but he really wanted to be downstairs with everyone, all together. My brother wanted his family together, pretty much at all times. I'm relatively sure he was the one who instigated the Sunday family dinners. He also made sure to spend at least one other night of the week (usually Wednesday's for some reason, probably because it was midway between the Sundays) at our parent's house throughout his adult life, and through years and years of cancer and chemo and radiation and whatever clinical trial he was putting himself through, right up until he could not physically get himself over there. Bobby expected the gang to gather not just for all Sundays, but all holidays (I do mean all - not just the big ones), all birthdays (and we're +/-20 strong, so on average two a month), and just about any other reason he could come up with (the Preakness comes to mind).

When I was 24, I bought a one-way ticket to Europe. I planned on backpacking around the continent for about three months -- or as long as my money held out. The only place I knew I would be on any specific date was Paris, two days after my 25th birthday, so my family sent me birthday cards to the American Express office there. One of my fondest memories of that three-month adventure is sitting on the steps of The Palais Garnier on that beautifully sunny, but chilly November 18th afternoon, and opening my cards. My brother's card was so completely and perfectly him: "Happy birthday, little sister. You better be home in time for Christmas or I'm coming to get you. Love, your big brother." I made sure to be home in time for Christmas.

On that Christmas day in 2005, we carried my big brother from his upstairs bedroom, up the narrow hallway, down the flight of stairs that twisted to the right on the way down, through the foyer, to the living room, and into the comfiest chair available. Where he sat and watched his family open gifts and talk and eat and laugh and play and endured photos and enjoyed us being all together until he was too exhausted to sit up any longer. Then we picked him up from that comfy chair and carried him out of the living room, through the foyer, up the flight of twisting stairs, down the hallway, and back into his bedroom and bed. We took turns hanging out with him in his bedroom for the rest of the evening. Never, in a million years, would I have ever thought we would carry my strong, strapping, 6' 2", big brother anywhere, but the memory of carrying him down and up those stairs that Christmas day makes me smile. I think it's because I know how happy it made him. And although I remember, at the time, feeling so completely devastated at how slight and frail he had become and how light he felt, I was happy to carry him wherever he wanted to go, even if it was just down and back up the stairs. There may be tears streaming down my face, but there's a smile on my lips just the same.

Mojave Desert High

Rumor has it I've been neglecting this thing. I guess it's true. Although maybe not technically neglect since I think that would indicate some sort of malice on my part, but it's been brought to my attention (more than once) that I've perhaps not been tending to it as much as I should. A girl's been busy! Just spent four glorious days in the high desert this past weekend with little to no phone or internet service and then there's those two pesky new jobs. How in the world did I find myself so quickly right back in the trap of working too much? Granted, my definition of working "too much" has changed a little, but seriously, it's almost like I can't help myself. But, I will make a better effort to pay more attention to the documenting of the adventures! I'm thankful that anyone is actually reading.

My holiday weekend didn't start as well as it could have. I stayed out too late last Wednesday night at a friend's art opening and was so lazy to get moving the next morning. This, of course, got me on the road later than I had planned. The traffic was atrocious and I was sorely missing my family and a particular friend or two, or three, or four, and listening to much too sad music for much too long of a drive. You know, it's quite a skill to cry your eyes out and talk on the phone and text and shuffle your iPod to only the sad songs and inch along in bumper to bumper traffic, all at the same time. After two detours and three freeway parking lots, what should have been at most a two and a half hour drive ended up taking me four. Although, now that I think about it, maybe it was a good thing I had such bad travel karma. It gave me plenty of time to blow my nose and fix my makeup, and I got to talk to my kid four times! So, that's something to be thankful for.

By the time I got to the Thanksgiving feast at the Joshua Tree home of friends of Pumpkin's, I was all cried out and honestly feeling better for it. I was also simply happy to be out there again. There's just something about that place. The light and the air and the landscape and the stars and the wide open spaces, I can't spend ten minutes there without finding myself dreaming and scheming about buying some little piece of it to call my own. One day. One day soon, I hope. The sun was just about setting when I finally arrived and the evening ended up being a complete embarrassment of riches: gorgeous weather, wonderful people, delicious and abundant food and drink, and an absolutely rockin' after-dinner Quonset disco hut! There was a lot to be thankful for.

Friday, I had leftover giant turkey wings, gf chocolate pecan pie, and pomegranate mimosas for breakfast and we spent the afternoon cruising around the high desert in the back of a pickup truck. I'll take all of that over standing in line at the mall every single time. I hit the local music hot spot, met W&L's two brand new and adorable puppies, had lots of good girl-talk time with the lovely and lovable and newly nicknamed MR. Chin, did a wee bit of personal birthday shopping, and dined and wined and played board games with a charming group of gentlemen. The entire weekend was a gold mine of food and drink and conversation - with a smattering of thrifty retail therapy thrown in - with new friends and old friends and newly best friends. I headed back to LA early Monday morning exhausted, and yet rested at the same time, and feeling eternally thankful for every single moment.

The Giving of the Thanks

I have so much to be thankful for on any given day that on THE day for giving thanks, I’m finding it impossible to express the breadth of my gratitude. So, I’m going to let Albert Schweitzer do it for me:

“In everyone's life, at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit.”

Word.

Frozen Hot Chocolate

Serendipity – “a happy accident” or “a pleasant surprise”. Who would have thought a cancelled international flight could be either of those things?

My bff, K, had flown from Baltimore to Los Angeles yesterday, the first of two flights en route to a three-week vacation in Australia with her friend, Jenny. She had only had an hour layover though, so no time for an California reunion, but just as I was getting home from work last night, I got a call from her saying their flight from LAX to Sydney was cancelled! Turns out a late night airport pickup, a bottle of wine, and some catching up with a best friend is just about as perfect as an evening can get.

We stayed up too late and slept in too long, but the day was too beautiful to waste, so we squeezed in a hike and a meal before I took them back to the airport tonight for their rescheduled flight. They may have lost a day in Sydney, but they gained a day to play in LA.

Serendipity? Or perspective? Are they different?