I'd be lying if I said that I loved the part before Thanksgiving dinner when someone (mom) announces that everyone must share something they are grateful for. Thank God, it usually gets seconded, but then voted down by the hungry masses led by someone's kid screaming "I'm hungry! When are we eating?!" I know I'm grown, but I'm sorry, I jut get uncomfortable when people get teary eyed in front of the cranberry sauce. Therapy prior to massive emotional eating? Doesn't make sense. Best to cry after the pie and too much wine, and then go home and call your therapist's answering machine. Of course, by then you can't remember your name through the food coma, let alone why you felt like a loser (only single person at the table). But nobody listens to me.

However, while, I'm not one for public displays of emotion I am not a complete ingrate.

I am grateful for....(in no particular order)...

1) plumbing. (Have you ever been to a third world country?)
2) that weird moment between when someone says something unexpectedly funny and people laugh.
3) that my emotional scars yield a never ending flow of creativity.
4) In n' Out.
5) firemen.
6) childhood friends.
7) the spellcheck on my blog. (Though, clearly, it can't save me).
8) terrible relationships for teaching me what not to do.
9) the Facebook like button.
10) inspirations and ideas that come to me when I'm doing mundane things like sweeping.
11) the endless amount of dirt in my apartment that needs to be swept.
12) family and friends who know when something is wrong without asking me.
13) psychic premonitions and instincts that I pay attention to.
14) psychic premonitions and instincts that I don't pay attention to, but that remind me in gentle and not so gentle ways to pay attention to my psychic premonitions and instincts.
15) my six aunts for teaching me so many different ways to be a woman in this world.
16) avocados.
17) my mom for always knowing when I need her.
18) amazing dances, dance partners, and music.
19) Peete's. (The coffee and the shop).
20) Guy friends who try to kiss you on the lip, but settle for the part just outside your lips. (Sorry.)

Just for today, I am grateful.

This morning I woke up to my mom's classic Head Sticking Through Ajar Door Wake-up Stare. I could be in the deepest REM dream-state and in some core place in my being know that my mom is staring me into consciousness. I know, I know...lock the damn door. Doesn't matter. Her stare shoots straight through wood, steel, and cement. It's, actually, come to think of it, a magical power. I can't blame her for making noise, because she's silent. And, yet, when I open my eyes, there is that head, staring at me.

"Are you awake?" she asks.

"I am now."

"Oh, ok."

She continues to stand there and stare me more awake.

"Did Donuts cry?"

(Donuts is the cat who recently had a stroke and is now "crazy.")

"A little."

She still stands there.

"What are you going to do today?"

"I don't know...call Rebecca and Emily (my friends)."

"Well, there's frozen waffles in the refrigerator."

"Thanks Mom."

"Ok, bye."

I am never going back to sleep.

Just for today, I am spending the holidays with family.

The best answer is don't sit in coffee shops. Stay home and avoid the world. Fortunately, or unfortunately, we are social animals, and as such, you may just find yourself unable tolerate the longed-for privacy that is the staple of the American dream. So, if you are female, underemployed, and crave human interaction while fearing it, heed this advice. [Please Note: Since the advent of alcoholic sobriety, coffee shops have become a place where middle-aged men can freely roam in the guise of drinking coffee, reading the newspaper, and seeking discussion on current events without causing too much alarm with a spouse and/or significant other.]

First off, total avoidance of these guys is about as impossible as the avoidance the people who stand outside of Trader Joe's and ask, "Are you a heartless asshole who doesn't care about homeless children?"

Why?

1) Peete's Perverts don't just make eye contact, they lock it. There's no getting past the gaze of a Peete's Perv, they will burn a hole through your brain before they let you casually browse the coffee mug display.

2) They will engage. Even if they do buy your fascination with the French Press products (and most won't), once you're seated they will find any reason to stick their head in front of your computer screen. One time, a guy came over and stuck his iPhone in my face. Another guy, literally peered into my computer and said, "Wasting time on Facebook?" The perseverance is top notch and if their energy were better channeled they would tracking down drug lords and serial killers instead of women who can't sit alone in their apartment.

So, what to do?! Here's what I suggest.

Step #1: Surrender. Yes, it's the only road to freedom. There's no fighting them, they will not be dismissed. Just look them in the eye and say "Good Morning!" Let them believe that they've taking you hostage, but have your escape route planned.

Step #2: Let them continue to engage you in conversation about flurry of topics of interest to old ladies (pet ferrets, internet browser speeds, parking ticket prices). Then, if you're seated, QUICKLY TURN YOUR HEAD BACK TO YOU COMPUTER, AS IF YOU'VE JUST RECEIVED THE MOST IMPORTANT EMAIL OF YOUR LIFE! Then start typing as if your unborn child's health and well-being depended on it. This will deter some, but mind you, the more experienced ones who have seen this before.

Step #3: When they still don't leave, but simply wait while you address some life changing situation, DON'T SAY ANYTHING. Yes, it's an awkward stand-off. If they do have the social skills to understand that total absorption in your computer = the end of the conversation, smile at them. Such positive reinforcement will ensure the boundary.

Step #4: When you see them again (and you will), say "Hello! Good to see you!" in a friendly tone. And then go back to your life changing emails.

Remember, they will not be ignored or avoided.

Just for today, I have healthy boundaries.

I woke up this morning, and, in that hazy half-dream state realized that I didn't know how old I am. First I thought I was 24, and then was horrified to realize that I'm 32. Except, I'm really 38. And then, once I got fully awake, I realized that some morning, I could wake up and forget my age, and think I'm 24, but will really be 65! If I'm lucky, that is. Holy shit, that will be a sucky morning.

Just for today, I have to stop and think to remember my age.

A few weeks ago, I was fixing some broken-ness on this site, when I noticed my text link ads below. I had signed up for ads a few centuries ago, and as a result every year I get a check for $50. It's not the amount so much, as the idea of a check of unexpected money showing up in my mailbox.

Anyway, as I was scrolling down my site, I noticed the following ads:

Russian Mail Order Brides
Philippino Mail Order Brides

My site advertises MAIL ORDER BRIDES?!

Yes, I deleted the code immediately. But not before I got a check in the mail for $50. Not only was I unwittingly promoting the traffic of sex on my blog...I mean, the traffic of women looking for true love in America...but somebody was using my blog to find their mail order bride of choice....THAT IS SO GROSS! Excuse me, I have to go take a shower.

Ironically, I dressed as a pimp for Halloween.

Just for today, I'm giving my blog a shower, too.

I recently organized a reading of my play. Two people fell asleep. I take full responsibility. My goal for the next reading is that only one person falls asleep.

Lofty dreams aside, I would rather stick needles in my eyes than keep re-writing. This always happens when I get too entrenched in a writing project...I eventually want to bail. Seriously, though, who am I kidding? When in life do I not want to bail? It's just easier to bail on something that garners no income and that the world could live without than say...I don't know...rent.

But what would F. Scott Fitzergald do? (Besides drink gin). What would Tennessee Williams do? (Besides drink gin) What would Shakespeare do? (Besides drink a pint of ale...no, seriously, though what the hell did Shakespeare drink?!.

What would fucking Madonna do? (Besides work out).

They would keep working.

Did Tennessee Williams ever say to himself, "Well, I know this Stanley Kowalski character and Blanche DuBois have some falling out...but I'm just so damn burned out of this story...how 'bout I have Stella just push Blanche in front of a speeding streetcar, and I call it a day?" Did F. Scott Fitzgerald ever say to himself, "Do I really need to make a statement on the loss of the American dream...would it kill anyone if Gatsby just cashed in his drug money, bought a yacht, and took off with Daisy to Mexico? " Did Shakespeare ever consider having Hamlet go to therapy get his shit together, kill his stepfather, and take his rightful place on the throne?

No....these writers stuck it out through the abyss because they wanted to unveil and expose the dark underpinnings of the collective unconscious. So what if they all drank themselves into a coma in the process? Who said that alcoholism doesn't yield anything positive?

Just for today, I'm inspired to continue writing.

Everywhere I go in LA there are these large, shiny, metallic mechanical objects flying past me, in front of me, cutting me off....it's a relentless and horrible hindrance to quiet and a sense of peace, and, yet, I am loathe to admit that I own one of these things and use it in ways I despise.

However, my car broke down last Saturday. Just after the gas leak drama, a flu shot (that $%# gives you the flu!), day 1 sugar withdrawal, and a general The World Is Coming To An End emotional spiral. The alternator was just the symbolic representation of my alternator, and the added dent getting a new one would make in my Freelance! bank account. (I say "Freelance!" because that's how it sounds more optimistic than unemployed). So my car broke down in the parking lot of a Mexican restaurant whose theme is slightly wax museum-ish rendition of Casa Blanca. It's dark and some of the pictures look like they need to be dusted, but they have fantastic flour tortillas (if you eat flour...which I don't). All I could think to do was go inside and order some shrimp ceviche. It was the least I could do for breaking down in their parking lot.

Eventually, the AAA guy towed my car to my mechanic's garage and I was left a car orphan for the rest of the weekend. Ok, I'll just say it. The idea of renting a car seemed like a waste of a perfectly good opportunity to mooch rides. Adult and responsible, but wasteful just the same.

As it turns out, I was right. Who thought being carless would be so much fun? A friend drove me to a party, another to a salsa club, another home, and my neighbor gave me a ride on her brand new Harley-Davidson to get my car (it's not just middle aged men who ride them). By the time I got my car, I was kind of bummed. What's so fun about driving around by yourself?

I have to say, Single Car Owner Syndrome is a very "white" thing. I love how Latino immigrants are natural car poolers. How many times do you see small compact cars with six white heads sticking out?

My carless weekend was yet another chink in my anti-car movement.

Just for today, I yearn to go carless.