Thanksgiving, of course, is that time of year when we consider the things we appreciate. Like everyone, I am thankful for my family and friends, having a roof over my head, my education and food on my plate. But there are so many little things that I’m also thankful for…

1. I can afford to visit friends over the holiday season.
2. The complete and comprehensive coverage of National Public Radio.
3. Having all five senses (though some may be a bit lacking).
4. Days when I don’t have bad songs stuck in my head.
5. Big words.
6. I’m not allergic to strawberries, peanut butter or cats.
7. My light eco-footprint. Read More…

Most people dread getting mail. One of my best friends only checks hers a few times a month because, like most people, snail mail means bills, catalogs, and solicitations. E-mail—while still a Mecca for endless rounds of junk—also means two-line notes from Aunt Betty and news flashes letting you know a new comment waits on MySpace.

Unlike many of my acquaintances who hang mercilessly onto every Blackberry chime, I relish handwritten mail. I always have and—if I’ve made it this far into the information age without losing my love for the labor of a letter—I always will.

A few days ago a well-worn envelope arrived in the mailbox from my sister. The stamp was peeled at the edges, a small tear crept up the back flap, and a series of computerized numbers had been printed across the bottom of the white envelope. Like most of the letters she sends, the envelope is peppered with a sticker collage. Read More…

I often meet Gray Kitty on my way from my car to my front door. She perches on the neighbors’ porch wall, soaking in the sun. Her gray fur is only punctuated with white stripes down her nose and around her eyes. Sometimes she looks sad or forlorn as her eyes follow me down the sidewalk and up my stairs, but I greet her every day. She’s a part of my day, just as I’m a part of hers.

Gray Kitty lives in the courtyard, which is also the home of Lumpy Tail Cat and two striped kittens we’ve watched grow up during the last few months.

Throughout the rest of our apartment complex there are a number of other cats who have hunkered down. We’ve met a fluffy, Siamese-type cat who looks like a slightly toasted marshmallow with fur; an overweight tabby who follows people around meowing (this sounds strangely like a cat who lives in my own home); and a feisty black and white feline who likes to stalk pigeons. Read More…

I was on the treadmill at the gym the other day, strolling along at 3.8 MPH reading my book, when I heard a shout from the set of treadmills on my right. I glanced over. A 30-something, fit woman sped along at cheetah speed. Well, almost. Her speedometer read 8.5 MPH, significantly faster than my piddly running speed of 6.2 MPH.

“Push it! Push it!” she hollered. My suspicions were confirmed. This woman – besides being a speedy runner for a surprisingly long amount of time – was very clearly, very loudly serving as her own cheerleader as well.

I’m reminded of some of the personal struggles I’ve faced over the years – giving speeches to rooms crowded with people, writing “just one more page” of that dreaded paper in college, pushing through another mile as I trained for a marathon. Read More…

Three women sit at the lunch table next to me.

“I saw this thing on TV last night about this teenage girl,” one woman begins. “She was coming home drunk from a party and she met some guy on the road. Within a half-hour of leaving the party, she’d been raped and tortured. Her brain matter was spread out all around her.”

The other two women shake their heads in disbelief and disgust.

“That reminds me,” another woman says, “of this story I heard about this guy on Route 66. Apparently this car of teenagers broke down on Route 66 and this guy came out of nowhere and offered to help them.”

“They should have been suspicious of a guy who just appeared from nowhere,” the third woman breaks in.

The other women nod in agreement.

“Anyway,” the second woman continues, “he offered to take their car back to his place and fix it. It started to get late and cold, so he offered them some hot chocolate. They were drugged and all the teenagers passed out.” Read More…

My husband and I went to a party this past weekend. We’ve come a long way since we were 21. Instead of drinking cheap beer and munching on chips, we sipped martinis and dunked strawberries into chocolate fondue. We don’t digress into the latest gossip among mutual acquaintances but rather chat about the hottest topics in pop culture, politics, and travel. And instead of dwelling on what we want to do when we “grow up,” we are grown up. Now we talk about buying houses and mortgages, career satisfaction and health insurance, and, ultimately, the current status of our family planning.

For my husband and me, this topic of conversation is one with a definite answer. We never have, and never will, have any interest in having kids.

In making this decision, we’ve labeled ourselves as being childless in America. Read More…

For a lot of people, Sunday is a day to renew faith, give thanks to a higher being, and gather with like-minded people to enhance themselves spiritually. Sunday is traditionally God’s day – a day I’ve never truly understood. Though I’ve tried to appreciate and respect the needs people say they meet on Sunday mornings, I still feel that the day forces people to contain their own ways of expression in order to blindly follow a predetermined doctrine defined at a predetermined place and time.

I did not grow up religious nor was I told how to define my spirituality. Perhaps subconsciously, though, it is on Sundays that I find myself deep in thought about who or what empowers me and how I can justify and appreciate the place I’ve been given on this earth.

Over the years I’ve found that I find peace in nature. Though we seem to be destroying the natural heartbeat of our land at an increasingly rapid pace, I still find the time and energy to appreciate the gifts Mother Nature has given us. Without nature, there is no water, food, and shelter. Without nature, we cannot exist. Read More…

A 20-something, thin blonde walks by, her eyes sunk in and bloodshot. She rubs her nose, adjusts the shorts sitting low on her hips, and scoops her tiny Chihuahua from the yard. Her collarbone pokes obtrusively from beneath her tank top.

She sneaks home to her apartment in the early hours of the morning as I leave for my early-morning gym workout. Her day is my night. My schedule is dictated by sunlight and office hours. Hers, I assume, by bar closings and booty calls.

The girl and I live in two separate but colliding worlds. She is my unnamed neighbor. I am hers. We park near each other. We both pay our monthly rent. My relationship with her is coincidental – a result of time and place. It’s a relationship I have with many of my neighbors. I know them by habits, routines, characteristics. Read More…

When my husband and I recently decided to make Las Vegas our home, everyone told us there are two different cities here: one for tourists and one for locals. With the flash of a driver’s license, we get discounts at clubs and events. I’ve yet to witness a sunless day, there is always a good show or concert in town, and I’ve met lots of interesting people. If you live far enough from The Strip like we do, you hardly notice that this is Las Vegas at all.

But with all the great things that come packaged in the Las Vegas move-in parcel, there is one I’ve been struggling with since day one. We live in the fastest growing city in the nation with a 29.2 percent growth rate from 2000 to 2006. Nearly 72,000 residents move here a year. But Las Vegas is also a transient town – people either love it or hate it, and the ones that hate it hit the road running, though not at the same rate as those coming in. Huge corporations make Las Vegas their home, and the hotels and resorts are the lifeblood for many people in the city. Many of the larger companies have monstrous human resources departments and entire buildings devoted to hiring and training employees. Read More…