A Cry for Help, Coffee Types, and The Day You Didn't Get To Eat Lunch.

A Cry For Help
There are certain pieces of evidence that indicate a cry for help.

For me, it's not smoking or drinking. For me - it is downing multiple cups of caffeine concoctions. Grande cups of chai lattes across consecutive weekdays happen when things are amiss. It means I need an extra kick in the morning, a bit of caffeine-intoxication-induced motivation to jolt me onwards.

What Your Coffee Says About You. And Your Type.
I judge people sometimes by how they take their coffee. But - there is a fine line between arbiters of taste.

My friend orders a Vietnamese iced coffee.
"Strong and sweet," she says. I nod slightly.
"Just the way I like it," she continues. I am pretty sure this is the same description I would give of her type of guy that she generally finds attractive.

I reflect on the fact that some people have had very simple or very complex coffee drinks during my days slinging espresso @ The Buck. Tall drip. Red eye. Black eye. Grande-half-caf-nonfat-extra hot-upside-down-no-foam-caramel macchiato. But some days I feel like a tall drip. And sometimes, the other intricate versions. I wonder, for some people, if their stress levels rise, their drink orders tend to get more complicated. Or less. Or if they've never tried anything else on the menu - you know, that type.

So...how was it that you take your coffee?

The Day You Didn't Get To Eat Lunch
Was not a good day. It was one of those rare days where you were so busy, and things were so incredibly hectic at work, that you didn't get a chance to EAT anything or take a BREAK all freakin' day. You tried to - but events transpired throughout the day such that that opportunity never presented itself. And THEN you finally left work and grabbed something to eat and put some bit of fuel in your stomach, and by THAT TIME, your body is already exhausted from having gone all day working and starving all day. And then your friends ask you why you didn't answer your phone that night - because, you say, I was asleep by 7:00pm, and I was freakin' exhausted

So...Why?
Why didn't you get a chance to eat? Why didn't you get yourself a break?

Big Sticks, Suspect The Old Lady, and Touch-ups.

Big Sticks
Some old dudes carry long sticks or thick branches while they walk along the trails that I frequent @ Griffith Park. I never really gave it much thought, other than, hey, old dudes kind of like walking sticks, I suppose.

While on a rare phone call with my tersely versed father, I mentioned to him that I had started going on regular jogs at the park. He immediately went into overprotective-of-my-daughter-mode. What did he say? He asked if I saw dogs at the park, and I replied, yes, I often see people walking their dogs at the park. He then informed me that I should be going on my runs with a big stick, in the event that I get attacked by a dog.

I shit you not.

My Dad gets more paranoid as time passes He even surprises people, with new, unexpected sources of paranoia that you should definitely consider, apparently.

Always Suspect the Old Lady (or Man)
If you were planning on seeing Devil in theaters, be forewarned of a spoiler. So - went to a screening of the horror movie, about a handful of folks trapped in an elevator in a busy Center City office high-rise in Philadelphia. Who's the guilty one causing all this ? The devil is none other than - spoiler alert! - the harmless-looking old lady. Yup - that's right - suspect the old ladies.

Scene: Urth Caffe in West Hollywood on a late Friday afternoon.
My friend and I catch-up over some lattes. Little did we know, an old man in his 60s was eavesdropping on our entire conversation, taking it upon himself to rise from his status sitting at a table solo to rude old dude nosing his way into our conversation and abrasively questioning and analyzing the facets of our friendship. After a few minutes, we went from slightly interested to annoyed at the rude tenacity of the senior citizen. Nobody cares, we're not interested, find some other women that are younger and more gullible and actually have time in the world to give a shit. 'Cause we ain't them.

Touch-ups.
I'm sitting on the floor of my living room, an opened bottle of OPI's Blue My Mind resting nearby as I touch up the polish on my toes. I wonder for a moment who has the job of naming nail polish colors, because that would be such a fun gig.

Lately I've broken out of my usual Ugly Betty mold - the daily rush to the office and the no-frills attitude of an individual who just doesn't care how she looks and goes for substance over style and whatever's convenient. So, my attitude which stemmed from high school of not caring about what people thought of how I dressed and being on the casual/sloppy side, now being a young professional, now correlates to pure laziness when it comes to getting dressed. And laziness is quite possibly the biggest turn-off ever.

People actually noticed. I just wanted to add a little spring to my step, a refresh, another push of the 'Restart' button. Amazing how monumental effects can result from minor moves.

I've pulled out the dresses and skirts from the forgotten corner of my closet, cleared out the items I would be embarrassed to be wearing in a car accident, and dusted off the make-up compacts and eye colors. No really - I mean DUSTED OFF. I wonder if Tina Fey does the same thing.

I Want To Go To There, Restoring Order, and Watching TV in the Bathroom.

I had second thoughts about putting this blurry picture up. The truth is - what you say (and write/blog) is pretty personal - which makes me hesitate because what you reveal about yourself, well, leaves you feeling a bit exposed. So - considering the fact that I've been pretty candid in this blog (albeit for names concealed to protect all those involved) - I kind of still feel that much of what I've shared here is kept among a select group (i.e. the five people that read my blog). So here we go - no turning back now, I suppose.

This is a photo of a couple items pinned to the walls of my cubicle - actual photo from my desk. The quote is from 30 Rock and says, as you can tell,"I want to go to there." It is tacked onto the wall, along with a subway map. A subway map of...a certain city in Europe. I kid you not. If you were to pass by my desk on any given day, you would find - no photographs of friends or family - but you would find these items here, tacked up behind me, whom you'll see rolling calls or printing documents or filing or reading emails.

I never really thought about it until today - this forgotten piece of paper and hard stock card, pinned up behind me on the walls surrounding my daily cluster of hustle-and-bustle. A completely abandoned thought, yet probably the one place in the world I would know to go to given the chance and the omission of obstacles such as time and money. I wonder if my boss has ever noticed it.

Where do you want to go?

Restoring Order, and Watching TV in the Bathroom
I kind of like doing the dishes. Take it easy - MY OWN dishes, that is. Out of all the household chores, I don't mind doing this one. Cleanliness is achieved; balance is restored - instant gratification. Laundry takes at least two hours. Dishes only take a moment. It's cathartic - to see the results of your work immediately - a little soap and water, some scrubbing, and order is attained. Control freak much?

I wish I had a flatscreen TV in my bathroom. I used to think that it was a luxurious piece of evidence that you were a spoiled rich kid - I mean bona fide aristocrat. But now - not so much. Why do I want a TV in my bathroom? You know, so I can finish watching my shows while shaving my legs. This is likely because I'm a product of the '80s and Saved By The Bell and The Fresh Prince of Bel Air and I like to multitask (can get the Philly girl to the West Coast, can't get the overachiever gene out of the girl).

No, really - TV in the bathroom. Think of the time you could save!

"Why?"

Why. It is the question of relentless, inquisitive small children.

But I think those questions run more rampant, in reality, in adulthood. Well, just a bit more complicated. You begin to ask yourself why you want something, or why people are the way they are, or what you want and what are the things that make you happy. Why do I reach for the big mama buttery croissant some days and not others? Not that happiness is this finite thing that anyone fully grasps - well, I won't get into that now. So many questions of why. Why do we watch Jersey Shore? Why do we watch horrible car accidents?

I'm sitting down after a long, busy day at work, reading up on how the economy's still in the hole, and boy does that help kick up your gratitude at simply being employed! Not to mention what it does to your confidence in the global marketplace, and the blows it strikes to your courage in the face of fear and taking risks.

Why we do things. Speaks volumes. About who you are - because even the things you don't do are choices that you make.

Damn sometimes I wish I wasn't a writer. Maybe that would mean I wouldn't think about everything to death. And maybe I'd get a piece of that "ignorance is bliss" cake. Tell me, what does it taste like? I can only imagine.

Take, for example the people we talk to. Our friends, colleagues, acquaintances, romantic interests. The ones we call. The ones we think about calling but ultimately decide not to. Who am I talking about, now, hmmm? Wouldn't you like to know.