Most of the time, we underestimate how big an impact we can have on the lives of others.

It was Senior Night at the football game. Time for all the seniors to be specially recognized for their contributions before it was time for them to head off in their own directions.

As a member of my high school’s marching band (insert band geek joke here), I got to stand on the football field, shivering in the late autumn chill with the other senior band members, and have a carnation pinned to my band uniform during half time.

After the football game, there was the usual Friday-night dance in the gymnasium. I remember that a close friend of mine, Adam, had been especially quiet and moody for a couple months. He sat on the floor of the gym, leaning against the wall, brooding by himself.

We all knew that there was something wrong with Adam, but he wasn’t much interested in talking to any of us. He was downright rude when another friend tried to push him to talk. So we all left him alone and figured that he’d get over whatever was bothering him in time.

I felt bad for him. I went through some tough things in high school too. Sometimes it was hard to explain to anyone what was going on.

At some point during the dance, I went over and sat beside Adam on the floor of the gym and held his hand. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to make him mad. I didn’t want to make him talk. I just wanted him to know that I cared about him and was there for him. I sat there for a few songs. Then I took the carnation from my shirt and gave it to him. I kissed him on the forehead and went back to dancing with my friends.

I didn’t really think much about it. It didn’t seem like a big deal.

I didn’t find out until years later how much it meant to Adam.

It turned out that he had been brooding about suicide. He truly felt that awful about himself and about his life. Somehow, me handing him a carnation made him realize that he really did have something to live for.

When Adam told me about this, he had a hard time putting it into words. He tried to talk to me about it twice, and finally wrote me a letter that I treasure.

It was a simple gesture. It cost me nothing. I didn’t know how dark a place he was in and how much a pin prick of light would mean. I didn’t know it would turn his whole life around. By the time we got to school on Monday, Adam was his old self.

And that is how I gave Adam, and myself, a reason to believe in miracles.

My baby sister (who hates it when I call her that) came out to Southern California for a visit. She wanted to go to Sea World. I did not want to go, but I felt obligated to show her a good time since she did travel all the way across the country.

Really, I didn’t so much enjoy myself at Sea World. We watched several animal shows and I found myself sitting there brooding over the sad fate of these majestic animals, reduced to spending their lives in small tanks, performing the same tricks over and over for the delight of sunburned tourists.

Probably the highlight of the day was when the trainers pulled a young girl up from the audience during the dolphin show to have her pet one of the dolphins. “What does his skin feel like?” the trainer asked. “He feels like a hot dog,” the little girl answered, and we all got a good laugh.

Later we paid $4.00 for a little paper plate of fish to feed to the dolphins. The rules were simple. You fed the dolphins the fish one at a time and got to pat them on the head once for each fish you fed them. In case you forgot the rules, no worries, because the dolphins had them down pat. In fact, the dolphins had even figured out that there were five fish on each paper plate. They would obligingly let you pet their heads after fishes 1 through 4, but immediately after you fed them fish number 5, they would shoot off across the tank. I can only imagine them laughing underwater at their own cunning. There’s a reason why they always look like they’re smiling.

In case you’re wondering, they do, indeed, feel exactly like hot dogs.

We also visited a couple other interactive exhibits. At a tide pool exhibit, we were allowed to pick up and pet sea stars, sea urchins, and sea anenomes. There was also a sting ray exhibit, where we got to run our fingers over squishy, slimy, de-stingered sting rays. We also got to flirt with the cute biologist on duty at the sting ray exhibit, repeatedly making him show us the proper way to pet the sting rays.

Don’t bother with the Shamu cookies. Bleh.

I say April 2009 because that’s when we officially filed for our LLC, even though it’s not a business that supports anyone full time just yet. Still, it’s our own business, and we’re our own bosses, for better or for worse.

I’ve always wanted to have my own business. I’ve always had a plan or an idea or something in the works. When I was 10, it was an ice cream soda shoppe. In junior high school, it was Dynamic Duo Designs, and my best friend and I sold custom hand-painted T-shirts to our friends. I also tried getting a Babysitter’s Club put together.

There’s also been starting my own magazine (I’ve actually come back to that one several times), custom hand-knits, baking and catering, and finally my latest idea and venture, web and graphic design.

This is one that’s been a work in progress for most of my life, and it’s nice to see it finally come to fruition. There’s been many bumps and unexpected surprises on the road, but we’re all hanging in there, determined to make Purple Pen Productions a great success.

Well, she’s no Mustang, but she sure is cute.

Thanks to NaNoWriMo (NAtional NOvel WRIting MOnth) and NaNoEdMo (NAtional NOvel EDiting MOnth), I finished a novel. I spent November 2004 writing and then spent March 2005 editing. As a reward for my hard work, I have a second rough draft of my very own novel, Loving Marilyn.

A few manuscripts went out to friends for feedback, and it will need several more revisions before it’s anywhere near ready to send to a publisher, but it’s written.

I was going through a weird transitional time of my life when I first stumbled into yoga. You know what I’m talking about. One of those times when you’re not who you were, but not yet who you’ll become. I was in the midst of change and wasn’t really sure where it was going yet or how it was going to turn out. I walked into a bookstore and there was a book, Yoga for Women sitting on the shelf. I bought it and took it home to try it out.

At first it felt awkward and strange. My body felt stiff. But it helped. It helped me concentrate and focus on one thing at a time when it was hard for me to hold my attention on one thing. I still have that book, I’ve owned it for over 10 years now. And for a long time, it was the only yoga that I knew and practiced. I tended to pull out the book and work through the poses whenever I was feeling lost.

Then I discovered videos, dvds and TV shows. I still found myself falling in and out of yoga practice, using it only to ease myself through times of change and unrest. Practicing it diligently every day for weeks or even months, but then going for weeks or months without it.

Finally, I tried a class. It was intense. A 2-hour class in Yin Yoga. It was challenging and relaxing and it felt good to be in a room with so many other people who were enjoying the same thing. I had always been afraid of going to a class, afraid that I wasn’t “doing it right” or afraid that I somehow wouldn’t fit in. It was nice being there though. The studio was warm, lit by floor-to-ceiling windows, and filled with all different kinds of people in comfortable yoga clothes.

I still fall in and out of yoga practice, and am currently regularly attending classes with my dear friend, Kim at least once a week. I find the classes challenging, especially in the beginning when I’m frazzled and stressed and can barely stand to be in my own skin when I’m suddenly expected to be still and hold a pose for a minute or two. But by the end, I feel good – relaxed, open, focused, and tired in a good way.

It was the holiday season. Each year, someone in my department stepped up to the plate to organize some sort of charitable event in which we all participated. 2001 was my year. Squirrel and I organized what had become known as the annual Holiday Project. We contacted the local food bank and found out that they actually preferred cash or gift certificates for local grocery stores over donated food, which tended to consist of a lot of cans of creamed corn and fruit cocktail.

We placed containers throughout the department and collected change from everyone. When it was time for our holiday break, we had raised $200. Squirrel made the trip to the grocery store to buy the gift certificates, and I took them to the Food Bank over my lunch hour. The director was so pleased, she wrote a thank you note to everyone and let me know that the gift certificates would be put to good use.

I was surprised at the wonderful selection available at the Food Bank. Though it was very small (just a small room located in one of our local churches), there were several grocery carts full of canned and dry goods in the hallway and wire shelves full of fresh breads and produce inside.

Sometimes it’s hard to imagine not having enough food. When you look around at the huge portions served in restaurants, the huge amounts of food that are wasted by the average household, and then all-you-can-eat buffets, how could anyone be hungry?

The Friday after Thanksgiving, me and three girlfriends (who will remain nameless) decided to take ourselves out for a nice dinner. We chose an adorable little Italian restaurant. We ordered a bottle of wine and shared a divine salad as our starter.

The cook sent us a delectable little plate of tasties to try.

We ordered entrees and another bottle of wine. We flirted with the waiter.

He decided that it was one girl’s birthday. He brought us a dessert and each a glass of sweet dessert wine.

Then he joined us at the table and we took turns singing songs and drank another bottle of wine, a sweet sparkly red wine.

Finally, we decided to go to a local hotel to use the hot tub. We invited the waiter to come along. Two girls actually went inside to the reception desk and asked for towels. We stripped to bras and underwear and lounged in the tub. The waiter thought we should play a game.

Here’s the game he thought up: He would close his eyes and one of us would kiss him, then he would have to guess who had kissed him. He insisted that they always played this game in Italy. We went along with him, giggling and shoving each other to kiss him.

Then we decided we should teach him an American game: light as a feather, stiff as a board.

It’s always a bad idea to play light as a feather, stiff as a board in a hot tub with a waiter who is wearing tighty whities.

We lifted him out of the water, then all screamed and let go of him, dropping him down into the water. He came up shaking the water out of his hair and said, “Now what?”

“Oh, that’s it,” we said. “Game over.”

“That’s it? That’s a stupid game,” he said.

Then we all pulled on clothes over our wet underclothes and dropped the waiter off at his car at the restaurant.

I wrote a letter to my very favorite magazine, Real Simple. They had this *great* article in their Winter 2001 issue that featured 50 Christmas gifts for under $50. Easy enough to figure out on your own, but they had found such clever things! I was so impressed. So, I wrote to the editor to tell her about it.

The good news is that my letter (or at least an excerpt from it) was published in the magazine! Yay! Not only that, but it was the very first letter published in the Letters column for the February 2002 issue.

I actually did this for my sister. She used to be in the Navy and one time, shortly before she left for a six-week trip, she got a beautiful bunch of red roses from her boyfriend. Since we were roommates at the time, I got to enjoy the roses after she left.

But I felt bad for her. I thought that she should be able to enjoy them too, so I hung them upside down one by one from a clotheslines with clothespins and let them dry for a few days. Then I collected them up into a pretty vase and had them ready for her when she came home.