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.

Tina Fey Shows Up In My Dream. Living My Dream...But does that mean I'm asleep?

Tina Fey.
Tina Fey was in my dream. I wouldn't say I was dreaming about Tina Fey, I was dreaming, and Tina Fey shows up. I'm standing on the rooftop in some area of NY (Queens or Brooklyn or somewhere) and it's raining. I must have been there with a couple of friends standing around and I'm holding an umbrella. And then I notice that there's a handful of people shooting some footage on top of the roof and all of sudden there's Tina. And I'm thinking, what are you doing in my dream, Tina Fey?
And then I start to wonder if she needs another writer on her genius TV series...and then I wake up.

These are the dreams you sometimes have when you're a struggling Hollywood Assistant/aspiring writer/me. Sometimes you have a convoluted mess of symbolism and literary motifs. Other times, Tina Fey shows up in your dreams.

And then I wondered if Leo and Joseph G-L were going to get here soon - you know, to portray the respective romantic interests. (Naturally.)What? I can't have them even in my own dream? Boo you.

I think about the past; I reminisce. I have a cup of my Dunkin' Donuts brewed coffee in hand and begin to wax introspectively. Goals are dreams that are reached for and, in due time, achieved. (Or failed and then achieved. Or failed multiple times and then achieved. Or just failed relentlessly. Or never attempted, which I find saddest of all.) That's all they really are. Sometimes they seem absolutely impossible, and then, one day, you find that you are sitting somewhere you've only dreamt about. So - not that I'm trying to sound cheesy, but dreams become reality. Not just for me, but for many other people.

Dreams.

I once dreamt of living in Los Angeles. Then I moved 3,000 miles and it became so.

I had a dream of working for a major television network. After a roundabout way, I landed myself in that spot.

Ever since I studied abroad in Spain, I have always wanted to share it with my family. I finally got the chance to go last year.

Goals.
I supposed these could also be found under some of your New Year's resolutions list, if you have one.

Improv classes. I took them this year. It was terrifying and painful but I did it.

Take a tango class. This one I checked off last week.

Finish a particularly pesky short story I kept shelving. That one I was able to take off my desk last month.

Find a one-bedroom apartment close to work, with parking, central air, a pool, and affordable rent. Thank goodness.

Meet a tall, intelligent, romantic, and charming gentleman who speaks four languages, knows how to salsa, cook, and make me laugh. Massage therapy training a plus.

Sleep, Dark Chocolate, & Music.

Sleep.
I lovelovelove my bed. Yep. I tripled up on that.

Beds=comfort.
Beds=rest.
Beds, thus, entail a form of escape - the R&Rs, peace, security of getting enveloped in something physically while getting enveloped mentally. Taking a trip to the almighty Dream Land.

Maybe I should change the colors at the desk in my apartment. Something that'll help me stay awake, think freely, keep my eyes open to as many things as possible. I wonder what the ideal writing space is for most writers. I wonder where Tina Fey sits, if she faces a window overlooking some gorgeous view of Manhattan while she whips up her creative genius.

It's 9:30 p.m. and I'm ready to hit the hay.

There's a box of See's candies' dark chocolates sitting on the counter of my kitchen. I finally redeemed a gift card I received last Christmas. I also have a bowl of dark chocolates, a bar of chocolate, and some fruit. The bowl started out as a fruit bowl. But events have transpired such that the contents are no longer what they once were. Because now, sometimes, many times, anytime, dark chocolate=love.

I'm sitting in my apartment, grinding out a few story ideas - actually getting some writing done this evening, albeit the time devoted may be little, and the energy level with which it is done may be low, after a long day of work and people and pounding on a treadmill and running errands and cleaning up after dinner.

I close my eyes. I play a bit of Bach. A solo cello suite No. 1 in G Major. It is a sweet sound.

In conclusion, sleep=love. Dark chocolate=love. And music=love.

Maybe I should focus on surrounding myself with these elements that I love, eh?