Back in September, I brought home an eight week old kitten on a Saturday afternoon. That evening, I named him Othello, only because a Shakespearian name suited him well.

Sam liked the name fine, though calling Othello by it never came natural. Within his first week at the Agsar-Biddlecombe residence, Othello had a nickname. He looks like a tiny baby chicken, Sam would tease. Baby Chicken became The Chicken. In time, The Chicken became Chicken.

Tonight, all was well in the Agsar-Biddlecombe apartment. I was nursing the end of a cold, ate two ice cream bars and made an excellent soup. Sam came home early from work. The Beverly Hills housewives were getting along in Hawaii, and I decided to comb Othello and give him a flea treatment.

Ten minutes later, he was drooling all over the place. To say I panicked would be an understatement. Sam braved the kitten’s claws and tried to rinse off the flea medicine, while I called around to find an emergency clinic open at 10 at night. I couldn’t speak correctly, jumbling my words, losing my train of thought, maybe even stuttering a little. Before too long, I swaddled my twitching kitten in a fuzzy blanket, ready to face the coldest winter night in Florida this year.

At the clinic, Sam filled out the intake papers while I held Othello in my lap. I looked over and saw

Name: Chicken

Age: 6 months

Breed: Siamese Mix

Color: Seal Point

In many cultures older and wiser than ours, names aren’t given immediately at birth. Or, names are given later in life, when an event of true significance worthy of a new identity takes place.

Two hours, and $200 we didn’t have later, the kitten is sleeping peacefully in bed. From this day forward, he shall be known as Chicken.

Sometime in the last week or so, an interesting little aphorism popped up on my Facebook timeline:

Don’t make resolutions. Resolutions don’t work. Create rituals. Rituals work.

I like the idea, but the word “ritual” isn’t quite right. It’s a little too empty, too religious, too going-through the motions, not enough in the present. For me, “routine” is much more fitting.

Create routines. Routines work.

I can dig that.

2011 started a bit rough, with exciting changes right around the corner. The dynamic of daily life changed for the better–going from eight hour days at a desk to mornings spent pedaling to school, afternoons in class and most evenings at yoga. I brought a kitten home, as well as my first “real” camera. Sam and I celebrated our fourth Christmas together. Our family and friends are healthy and happy.

My hopes for 2012? Live simply, and cultivate change. Start journaling again. Live moment-to-moment.

[Oh, and write a thesis/land a reporting job.]

Photo by Anders Adermark. Original words of wisdom by Peter Shankman.

The jars are processing–10 minutes in a boiling water bath. Already, my mind and body and hands start something else.

Last night I gathered cucumbers and onion and mason jars and spices from three different stores. I left a bottle of cheap champagne on ice–prepping the pickles in lieu of attending a party. Thinking, and acting on the impulse to be quiet and alone.

Prep time was an hour of slicing thinly cucumbers and red peppers and Spanish onions. I take a break during the onions, since my eyes are on fire and these things can’t be rushed.

This morning, I follow the recipe my grandmother typed so many years ago (for friends, with love). The paper, aged with decades and smoke is made timeless with her handwritten notes. These corrections and helpful hints could have been written any 15 or 20 or 25 or more years ago.

Living in an age of instant gratification, I’m still surprised if I follow the recipe correctly, I’ll be rewarded with the correct results. 8-9 pints (9 pints), as predicted, with no cucumber or vinegar going unused.

This post is not a post about not posting, though I do apologize for the delay.

This post, rather, is about a phenomenon of the upmost importance. Something that has been happening the past three years I’ve called the Gulf Coast of Florida my home.

EVERYONE I KNOW VISITS FLORIDA, BUT NO ONE COMES TO SEE ME.

It sounds pathetic, but it’s true. And happened way too many times not to notice.

Here’s the backstory: I’m from the Buffalo by way of New York City. That should be enough information you need to know why my family and friends turn up in the general vicinity around the winter months.

Perhaps it’s because I live approximately 95 miles from the happiest place on earth. (Which is another argument entirely … why, as a consenting adult, would you spend your hard earned money so irresponsibly? Go see a new country, for Buddha’s sake. Re-living your childhood is not only disappointing, but creepy. And unnecessarily expensive.)

I’m not going to name names, but in the past three years, I’ve driven two and a half hours each way on a Sunday for a brief visit with a parental, missed best friend by an hour and a half drive more than once, carted other unnamed persons here there and everywhere. Peeked at photos taken of friends in my near-backyard.

And you know what? No one has asked if they can visit me. Because they’re on vacation, and I’m at work or school. Or at the beach. Because I live near the beaches everyone wants to vacation on. In the city that holds the Guinness World Record  for consecutive days of sunshine. 768! 768 days of sunshine in a row!

I call bullshit.

And I make an early resolution for 2012: Im staying put. You can find me in sunny St. Pete.

(Photo by ferret111)

Which is a little scary if you’re used to asking the questions. Like, shaking hands, two Appleton Estate-on-the-rocks scary.

Many of you might remember my adventures in video storytelling from earlier this year. A couple of Sundays ago, I had the pleasure of working in front of the camera with my video partner Andrea Lypka, and her very talented colleague Dennis Ramos.

Do you live in the Tampa Bay area? Need your portrait done? Hit them up, they’ll make you look good (contact links above). I hear they even do weddings.

When the last time you tried something completely new, and were really, really, really bad at it?

A month of so ago, I wouldn’t know what to tell you. But now, two or so weeks after I should have passed my sailing test, I’m ready to admit my failure.

The timing was bad, I must admit. Back from a whirlwind Buffalo vacation, less than one week into my new job as a pawn shop girl, freelance work piled high and a late term paper for my independent study on travel writing on the American rails still due.

But I was excited–five weeks of spending my Friday afternoon learning to sail in the little harbor around USFSP, basking in the sun and cooling off in the ocean. What could go wrong?

Our first learn-to-sail class started inauspiciously on a stormy July afternoon, with raging thunderstorms, blowing wind and never-ending rain. We learned to tie knots, and rig our boats. Class one was great, and I couldn’t wait to get out on the water.

Our second Friday meeting included a swim test. No problem, not even treading water for five minutes. (One time at summer camp, I vowed to tread water in the murky lake for the entire swim period–45 minutes–to the lifeguards’ horror.)

Everything changed, though, when we got out on the water. Paired with an equally clueless classmate, we fended for ourselves, learning to steer and move with the wind, which always wants to blow you in another direction. While my stern, unforgiving undergraduate classmate yelled at me, I crashed into a dingy, and beached our boat on a sandbar. I was done at the helm, and as much as I wanted to jump ship and swim for the docks, I got the hang of crewing while she steered.

Week three brought summer squalls. Out of our class of 10, three didn’t return, including two guys who couldn’t swim, making me the weakest link. I paired myself with whom I thought was a sweet and forgiving guy, but as we sailed into the channel, the wind blowing like crazy and a storm upon us, he lost his cool. I lost my cool, holding on for dear life as a huge mantra ray jumped in front of the boat–good motivation not to capsize. I was promptly scooped up by the instructor, who knew I was scared even though I wouldn’t admit it. It’s not that I didn’t like sailing, I just didn’t know what to do to make the boat go.

I can’t remember being so ashamed. I couldn’t handle being the worst at something, and was so intimidated by my classmates that I didn’t want to try, try again. I sat in the safety boat, sulking, again with the same instinct to jump ship, swim back to the docks, leave and never come back.

After class, I pedaled home in near-tears, and saw Sam, who was supposed to be at work, driving toward me down 1st Street. He bought me gelato, told me it was okay, and that I would do better next week. But I knew there wouldn’t be a next week.

It’s still a sore subject–so much so that I’m thinking about taking private lessons before too long, with a real life instructor in the boat with me, telling me what to do and letting me mess up, crack my head with the boom and keep steering.

When’s the last time you tried something new, and were no good at it?

[Photo of my arch nemesis, the Flying Junior Sailboat, by mali mish.]

Red lentil, chickpea and tomato soup adapted from this Kalyn’s Kitchen crockpot recipe.