As a follow up to the highly acclaimed “A Single Gal’s Receipt” post, allow me to share with you my stellar Saturday night.

First, let’s ease into things with a brief revisiting of my day. I didn’t get out of my jammies till 4pm which, for me, is always awesome. I was up late last night, and therefore slept in late. When I awoke, I did a load of laundry, cleaned up the place a tad, and then realized that When Harry Met Sally was going to be on (so of course I had to watch it).

After that, I cleaned some more, did another load of laundry and before I knew it, it was 4pm. Time to tackle the day — and not a moment too soon.

I showered, then felt compelled to clean the bathroom, as well, so I did so with towel on head. The awesome part about this ridiculous scene is that I realized my hair styles way better the longer it’s in a towel, so long as it’s not bone-dry once said towel comes off. Reading between the lines here, this means I had a great hair evening, and I paraded my coif through Michael’s, Starbucks and Walmart before coming home at the early-bird hour of 9pm.

At this time, I’d like to point out that had I not been the recent recipient of a bizarre batch of dates with a guy who liked to dress up like a pirate, I probably wouldn’t be so hermit-y.

But I was, so I am.

Michael’s was a pretty excellent excursion because, while I was in the shower, I felt compelled to try to make cake pops tonight. I had to buzz the cake decorating aisle for essentials like melting candies for the outer coating, lollipop sticks and a hunk of styrofoam to stick ’em all into. Thanks to their Easter displays, I also caved and had to purchase a few table decor items since I’m hosting on Easter Sunday. Plus, I can never ignore a cute display of cupcake pan liners. I bought mini and regular in fabulous colors.

After my $80 trip to the holy grail of arts and crafts stores, Starbucks was my stop for my pre-dinner appetizer. The dude who took my order had this amazing voice that oozed a sort of zen calmness. I told him he should go into radio — or maybe not, since people driving would likely be lulled to sleep by him. I snagged my iced coffee and headed over to the holy grail of cheap eats: Walmart.

I’ve started doing all my grocery shopping there because, interestingly (sadly?), their produce is way better than my neighborhood Vons and Ralphs, not to mention their bakery is hella-huge and uber-fresh. Divine.

I came home, fed the cat, lit a fire, turned on the 80s channel on DirecTV and whipped up a cake as step one to making the cake pops. Spent some time texting the BFF who arrived safely in NJ today after a five-day drive, decided to hop onboard the Draw Something bus and proceeded to engage in a few games with people around the country who I don’t know, all while realizing that I draw a terrible Dracula, and that sketching “ringtone” is more tricky than it might seem.

If this isn’t a single, hermit-y gal’s Saturday night, I don’t know what is. That aside, the past 12 hours have been pleasant, I’ve managed to stay on my diet all day (check back when I’m done making the cake pops) and my headache that I woke with is nowhere to be found. With rain and a little Nordstrom retail therapy in the near future, Sunday should be just as divine.

Tonight I am thankful for the lack of Mr. Pirate, for the good hair evening, for my spectacularly clean bathroom and for the time to experiment with the making of cake pops. Ridiculous, yes — but hey…it’s the little things that keep us going, oui?

Sometimes I’ll know nothing about a band, or very little — except for the way they sound, and as soon as a peek behind the curtain is granted, I’m a fan.

Going just beyond the surface of something that you thought was one way can be a magical, enlightening journey. Going even further can be life-changing.

Tonight while channel surfing, I came across Live from the Artists Den on PBS. I flipped over to it right as it was beginning and, having never seen it before, I assumed it was akin to Inside the Actors Studio. In a way it was, minus the interview-heavy format. But it provided a similar intimate setting, gave you a peek inside the musicians’ lives thanks to the commentary interspersed throughout the program and made you feel as though you had a great seat and were about to embark on a great evening.

The Fray hasn’t been a band that I’ve been a huge fan of for reasons that aren’t terribly important. What is important was the way that the things that held me back from liking them immediately disappeared the second I bothered to pause on the program. Removing their band-ness and plunking them down in the middle of a terrific venue in New York to talk about their story and how they felt playing in the space they were in was just enough to make them relatable, and — for me — therefore likeable.

Insta-fondness aside, I started wondering about the allure of concerts. What exactly is it about paying good money to be in a venue where the vocals aren’t clearly understood, singing is occasionally lackluster and/or off-key, people are often rude and it’s more difficult to see the band than it would be if you’d just stayed home and watched a concert DVD?

I’ve decided it’s the sensory immersion.

For me, it’s similar to how I can transport myself to my own little world by blasting my favorite music in the car with all windows up and messing with the audio controls until it’s a veritable assault on the ears.

And I couldn’t be happier.

Large venues aren’t so good. Small ones are ideal. If neither large nor small venue is available, the next best thing is a live album cranked way up in my venue-on-wheels.

The first time I went to a concert, I had no idea my floor seats would be next to the massive soundboard. As soon as the first few notes started to play, I could feel emotion welling up inside of me.

People do this for a living?

The drums started, then the bass. The soundboard was doing its job, as every note, every beat and every ounce of energy the band was putting out reverberated throughout my body.

And then I started to cry. I can’t really explain why, except that I’m sure it was something that surpassed even extreme elation.

There was something indescribable about the sound that filled the arena, the pulsing through my body, even the smell of beer that had been spilled on the floor and was evaporating — similar to steam rising off a lake…all of it provided a solid, trance-like state for a good three hours.

When I put in a live DVD and give my mobile-venue’s speakers a run for their money, they do a good job at recreating the atmosphere I still remember from my first concert as though it was yesterday. And I try to relive that experience multiple times a year.

If you ever ask me a question and I seem to not hear you, now you know why.

Tonight I am thankful for that first experience that has led to countless others, and for the more I know are yet to come. They’ve all provided their own, unique magical journey for the evening, and each has never failed to be both enlightening and life-changing…exactly the way immersing yourself and going beyond the surface should be.

Whenever I go to my local Walgreens, the receipt urges me to take part in their monthly sweepstakes for a chance to win $3,000. It’s right there at the bottom, beckoning to me: “How are we doing? Visit www.tellwag.com within 72 hours to take a short survey.”

If all I have to do is fill in a few bubbles, why not?

It’s a pretty painless process that leads to a potentially uncomfortable one at the very end. After filling in bubbles about my shopping satisfaction, how clean I felt their store was, whether I was pleased with the employees’ assistance and — once again — filling in a “no” when asked whether I dropped of film for developing (…does anyone do this anymore?), it got to the part where I needed to fill in some personal details.

A few years back, I used to have a bit of an issue when I filled them in. Not because I had any issue with them knowing my info, but because on the screen in front of me, stuff wasn’t adding up to where I thought I should be.

Sometimes I’d feel my age bracket was too high as compared to my salary bubble.

Other times I’d simply wonder whether I’d ever fill in the ‘married’ button, or whether ‘single’ would always be the way I roll.

People, including myself, living at my address with me? Yep, that’d be me. One. Singular, mono, uni.

In the end, I’ve felt grateful each time to be able to fill in the ’employed full-time’ bubble.

Tonight, I realized I’d graduated to the next age bracket. No longer 25-34, I was now selecting the 35-44 bubble. And it felt good.

Aside from the obvious (being on the younger side of the category, of course), the next bubble felt — in a way — like the start of a new chapter.

I remembered back to when I was 25. Oh, the angst, the young love, the immaturity. The recklessness, the finding-my-way-ness. The late nights, the late mornings, the wasting time, the dreaming too much and doing too little. The overall, generally pervasive feeling of wishing-I-was-older-and-could-just-fast-forward-ness.

And here I am. Sometimes I’m amazed I made it out of the last age bubble and lived to see the one I’m currently in.

I have no idea what the next bubble will bring. Maybe a new residence, maybe a husband, maybe [gasp] a child, maybe another cat, or maybe a dog. Maybe fewer lbs, or maybe not. Maybe more lbs, but here’s hoping definitely not. Maybe a relocation to another state — or country, maybe a sold stageplay, screenplay or book. Maybe more long-distance travel, maybe more weekend trips, maybe I’ll finally visit Nelson, British Columbia because I’ve found it charming since the first time I saw the movie Roxanne. 

Regardless of what it brings, I hope that it brings the contentment that generally only comes when one is comfortable in their own skin. I feel like I finally am, and it’s more than I could ever ask for. Tonight I am thankful that filling in bubbles reminded me that no matter how much my life may or may not change in the next nine years, the important thing is to feel as good about it when it does — if it does — as I do right now.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve noticed my affection for drama-free programming. And by drama free, I’ll cut to the chase: I spent the last couple of hours watching Animal Planet.

Initially I tuned into it because nothing else looked appealing. Nothing good was on Food Network. The Golden Girls weren’t on. I would’ve watched The Shawshank Redemption, but I did that the last two nights since it’s been on for the last 48 hours. No programs that showcased wedding dresses, nothing decent on VH1C and I wasn’t in the mood for The Weather Channel.

I came across something called The Secret Life of Elephants, and it was beyond amazing. Seriously — you need to watch it. I’m not even going to try to describe it, because you’ll just end up thinking, “Wow! This sounds great! I must watch it!” So, just watch it. Trust me on this one.

After that, the next hour-long show was A Lion Named Christian.

W. O. W.

Has anyone seen this? Why have I never heard of this story before? Two Australian men in London buy a lion cub from Harrods in 1969, try to raise it in the city, do remarkably well until the cub starts growing like a weed — at which time the men try to find a better, more suitable environment for Christian. Christian is ultimately accepted into a Kenyan compound where he’s reintegrated into the wild by a conservationist.

Long story short, the men leave Christian in Kenya, miss him dearly and return a year later to see how he’s doing — only to be met by the biggest, warmest welcome they could’ve imagined. After a hesitant approach, Christian remembers his two owners. If he was a human, he would’ve jumped into their arms. He did the next best thing, and stood on his hind legs giving them lion kisses and “hugging” them both, his massive paws on their shoulders.

It was one of the most beautiful things I’ve seen in a long time. It left me in tears (I seem to be doing a lot of crying lately…cat passing away, best friend moving to NJ, Christian the Lion…what next?) and it made me think of those people in our lives who are so important that even after going a year, or possibly more, without seeing them, their presence makes us want to practically jump into their arms.

Usually we just settle for giving them the biggest, most amazing hug ever.

Either way, tonight I am grateful for those people whose presence will always inspire a flood of joy, whose arms will always be made for leaping into and whose spirit will never be extinguishable.

I was chatting with someone earlier today about my love of stars.

“The ones in the sky? Or the shape?” she asked.

“The shape,” I said, but then in my head debated whether it was really both.

I decided it was both.

When I was little, I remember being home with my brother. Mom and dad were out for the evening, and he was babysitting. I was probably in 1st grade, and my room was dark but I’d opened my mini blinds and was staring at the stars in the western sky. It was a crystal clear night, and one star in particular (maybe it was a planet?) was shimmering in the darkness; it seemed to change from blue to white to pink to yellow to green.

My brother must have heard me up and moving around, because he came in to check on me. I pointed out the brilliant, twinkling star that couldn’t decide on a color and he came over to look. We stared at it in silence for about 10 seconds, and finally he let out a quiet, “Hm,” as if to say, “Yeah…weird. But pretty.”

Somewhere around 4th grade, maybe, I decided I wanted a telescope. Santa brought one for Christmas that year, and I spent many nights with it looking at the moon. It didn’t work as well with stars, so those I simply admired from afar.

A few years back, I became the proud recipient of a diamond necklace for Christmas…in the shape of a star. It’s beautiful and sparkles nicely, but will never be as awe-inspiring as the real ones.

I brought home my office decor last Friday, and among my various knickknacks were five stars. Three are meant to be hung on a wall, two are upright votive holders with star-shaped, tin cutouts that have tiny holes punched in them; they’re meant to be backlight by the glow of a candle. I may need to introduce one or more into my new space, minus any wall-hanging — for now, anyway.

Last summer, I stumbled across a site called SkyMaps. It provides a lovely way to more easy find your way around the constellations and such by allowing the user to print a paper map that you then hold above your head, as though you’re using a map on a roadtrip. Sure enough, it’s spot-on. Jupiter and Venus are super cozy and neighborly right now in the west, Mars — mid-sky — feels left behind and is trying to crash their party (but won’t catch up anytime soon), and in a few months the summer triangle consisting of Altair, Deneb and Vega will appear. Something about those three makes me want to BBQ late into the night. I’m not sure why.

I just stepped outside and breathed in the night air. The red point of light overhead, Mars, was bright and glimmering. It may not get close to Jupiter and Venus anytime soon, but all of my starry memories, decor and baubles keep me close to them.

Tonight I am thankful for the magical mindset that stars bestow. Whether they’re objects in a room, sparkles around my neck or the real thing high above, they bring a calm warmth that an old friend would bring, a lightness to my step and a brightness to my thoughts.

Across lanes of traffic, I saw a homeless man using a bus stop bench as a bed as I drove to work. It was bitterly cold for a California morning, and there was no shelter around it to protect him from the wind and the noise of commuters’ cars.

A block further, I saw an older man bundled up but walking slowly, as though putting one foot in front of the other was as much as his spirit could take. His eyes were fixed on nothing in particular — maybe just the sidewalk ahead of him — and they looked as lifeless as the frigid concrete on which he walked.

The sun was shining after a weekend of rain and wind, with snow and hail in other parts of the area. Small beans compared to the devastating weather that other parts of the country are dealing with.

I was on my way to a new job, and one that came immediately following one I’d just left. There was no layoff to contend with, no unemployment to collect. No worry about where the next dollar would come from, or my next meal, and I was able to afford a few new pieces for the ol’ wardrobe.

Everything I was so fortunate to have in that moment seemed to weigh me down the most, and all I was able to do was think a quiet prayer for those whose problems — perhaps more true than most of us will ever know — stare them down each day.

Tonight, it’s a short and simple post. I am thankful for the one thing we are each so lucky to have an abundance of, even if it sometimes seems otherwise:

Blessings.

Plentiful, bountiful, life-warming, energy-providing blessings.

Let’s count them up — the small, the big, even the things that are weighing on our mind. The latter are really just blessings that are donning the mask of life’s tests. They’re there to remind us to look a little deeper, to appreciate a bit more and to share what we can. Because to us, our little extra — our surplus — could be the best thing all day, all year, or in the lifetime of someone in need.

I got in my car this afternoon after saying farewell to one of my best friends who’s moving across the country. His drive starts tomorrow, and it’s hard to believe the day has come. So much change has come about in the past couple of weeks for him, and for me, that it’s nothing short of amazing — but not surprising. The feeling that something was about to shift was so palpable; the sensation was heavy in the air for a week or two before things were actually set into motion.

When I was on my way to his house earlier in the day, I had my music turned down low so I could focus on the chaos that is L.A. traffic on Melrose. I wasn’t sure what song it was on, and I didn’t care. I was busy maneuvering my way around cars that were parked when they shouldn’t have been, people slowing to hand money to the homeless, other motorists who weren’t sure of their surroundings and just generally trying to avoid having my bumper hit for the third time in slightly over a year.

We drove around the area for a while, then ended up on Sunset and finally settled on a place for a mid-afternoon lunch. My heart was sad, and my head was only halfway present. The conversation was good, yet there was so much more I wanted to ask — but couldn’t — for fear of bursting into tears. While I’m beyond ecstatic for this new chapter in his life, I’m human, and the selfish part of me will miss my friend.

Our two hours flew by, and before I knew it I needed to head out to be somewhere else by 5p. All emotions were in check until the hug, and then the floodgates opened, complete with breathing that was more akin to gasping for air and a nose so runny it could’ve doubled as a waterslide.

Quite an attractive way to say goodbye, yes?

I was thinking yesterday about the last time we had to say goodbye. For a second I thought it was back when I was returning to college in Michigan, then I remembered it was just six years ago when I moved to Connecticut. I remember bawling my eyes out on the plane. I kept my head permanently turned toward the window as we went wheels-up out of LAX; nobody needed to see the smeared eye makeup and the mess I was making on my cheeks, on my shirt…practically everywhere.

A kind, older man next to me put his hand on my knee — something that normally would’ve freaked anyone out — and simply said, “You can always come home.” The brief, gentle touch and his words were those of an angel. He didn’t know me. We hadn’t made any small-talk on the plane while we were boarding. He didn’t know whether I was from the area or not, but at that moment, it was as though he knew…the situation, my heartbreak over leaving — even though I was excited — it was as though he knew everything.

His words calmed me instantly, as well as for the rest of the flight. I realized he was right. It would be only a 5-6 hour flight if I wanted to come home or have visitors, and sometimes the drive from the LA area to Vegas takes longer than that. Even driving to LA on a Friday or Saturday night can take upwards of 2 hours for me when I come from OC.

Today as we hugged goodbye, we made small talk through my sniffling. Drive carefully, watch out for the weather, let me know how the drive goes, stop when you’re getting tired, I’ll let you know if I’ll be back there for work, let me know when you’ll be back for a visit…

And then it hit me — the word “visit” imparted an internal sigh of relief within. Of course he’d be visiting. And I could, too.

When I got in my car, I cried for another minute or so, then turned up the music a bit as I drove off. My favorite Keane song, “Everybody’s Changing,” was on. It couldn’t have been more fitting. He’s changing, and making a move to stay in the game. I’m changing, and starting a new job tomorrow. Everybody’s changing.

Tonight I am thankful for my friend’s opportunity that is incredibly, amazingly well-deserved, beyond overdue and one at which he’ll “kick maximum ass” (a favorite phrase of his). The degree to which I already miss him pales in comparison to the degree to which I know he’ll embrace, own and run with this next chapter in his life.

XO, dear friend.

Earlier today, I was talking to a friend who needed a little space. Not from me, but from someone else in her life. Without going into detail, the space was necessary because there were — figuratively speaking — some recent wounds that needed some attention. Without giving them the time they need to heal a bit, nothing except that fresh injury would continue to be present.

We decided to describe it as needing some Band-Aid time. Time to do your own thing, to let the passing moments be the very things that form a cover over the wound and then, in a few days, the bandage would be ready to come off.

So many times, we don’t allow ourselves to enjoy a Band-Aid. Sometimes others don’t, either. One person may take the space personally and try to squeeze their way back in before the other person is ready, while other times the person needing the space may decide to not give themselves the separation that’s so desperately needed to heal a situation — maybe they want to have the last word, or maybe they think they don’t need it anymore.

But one thing’s for sure: nobody ever worth being around is going to have an issue with you taking the time you need for yourself. And if they do, perhaps it’s time to reconsider their place in your life.

Band-Aid time is time that is meant to do a lot of good in the long run. Interestingly, the long run can go a couple of ways.

You may reflect back on the very thing that caused you injury and decide it was uber-minor in the grand scheme of things, and perspective may be restored. Both parties may come back together with a stronger bond, or with a better understanding of each other or a situation.

Or the Band-Aid time may be just enough to nudge you in a different direction — a direction that says maybe you’re better off without something or someone in your life.

One scenario is far more positive than the other, but either one is capable of doing a lot of good. If a permanent vacation occurs, you’ve still put yourself first, and that will always be a good thing.

Tonight I am thankful for my friend’s realization that Band-Aid time was necessary, and for our conversation that served as my own reminder that a little solitary confinement can be good for the soul. I am sure that when her Band-Aid is ready to be removed in a few days, the wound will be healed and all will be well with the world.

We’re familiar with a season lasting for a few months, but there are so many more lengths to them — in large part because they can be related to anything.

I’m in the middle of a season right now where screenwriting and playwriting are a pretty big part of my life. I don’t know how long this season will last, but it’s going on three years now. I hope there are many, many more years to come.

Another season ended almost two weeks ago, and that was the season of our life that we spent with Maxine, our cat who passed away recently. The season we shared with her lasted 12 years.

A season for my hair is generally four weeks, at which point I drag my body back to the salon chair like an addict looking for a fix. I get it with my new colors and monthly trim, then promptly leave looking forward to the next appointment. Today marks the end of one season, and tomorrow marks the start of a new one. Good thing, too — my roots are looking pretty ripe up top.

Today, a different kind of season ended for me. It was (this time around) a six-year season spent at an ad agency where we did some awesome work, forged some great friendships, spent many-an-exhausted-day following many-a-late-night and got through it all together. I don’t think it’s hit me that I’m gone, despite the four boxes of office stuff that are sitting on my family room floor.

In looking through the things I kept and brought home, it’s amazing to me how many are my own personal effects that I’d decorated the office with, and how many are things related to other people — cards given to me, pictures, small gifts and souvenirs from photoshoots or TV shoots. I adore stars, so the three that were on my wall are now in a box, and the two that are tiny votive holders sitting proudly atop my filing cabinet are in there next to them. They looked so much better — happier — when they were elevated and up where they belong.

When you think of winter, spring, summer or fall in the context of a year, the need for — and the steady occurence of change — is communicated loud and clear. We expect it because we know about sunlight and the Earth’s axis and elliptical orbit. We know when to look for falling leaves, a gentle snow and spring’s blooms. But so often as we embark on a new season in our own lives, we may resist it, or just be caught off guard by it. We forget that a little change is necessary to get us to that next season. Sometimes you need to go through a winter so that you can realize what the spring and summer bring. That’s the joy of our own, personal seasons. They’re nothing like those neatly defined times within a year, because there are so many other influencing factors — the least of which is a season itself.

With the close of this season comes the beginning of another — a premiere, if you will. It starts Monday, and I can’t wait to get started. I’m ready for the role I’ve been cast in, and I hope my years of preparation will pay off. The lights will be bright, the audience will be watching intently, but such a premiere doesn’t come around every day — so let’s roll it and get this show on the road.

Tonight I am grateful for my last season and for everyone who I worked alongside with, tilling the soil and making great things grow. I am also thankful and beyond ecstatic for my season premiere and a new role coming on Monday. They say life isn’t a dress rehearsal, and they’re absolutely right. Let’s bring it — every day, like it could be our last day. It’s what a season premiere deserves.

Posterous was down for a while earlier tonight, and for a few moments I started writing a Facebook note in the event Posterous doesn’t let me get my blog done by 12am. It’s not the most ideal situation, as Facebook’s formatting within their notes is icky, at best, so here’s hoping Posterous stays up and running till I’m down with clicking the “publish” button.

One of the things about leaving my current job is that my Blackberry is connected to the agency’s email system, but in the past few months (maybe more?) it’s adopted this newfangled security deal where I have to enter a password every time it’s been idle for a few moments. It’s frustrating, but whatever — no harm, no foul. The funny thing is that when the access to work email disappears from my Blackberry upon my leaving work tomorrow evening, the passcode feature — which was added to my device automatically per company guidelines — sticks around.

Why?

Boo.

It got me thinking about things that you can download, add and remove — either in life, or on a mobile device.

Sometimes we make a conscious choice to add them, other times they add themselves. We may live when them for a while and enjoy them, and then we may decide to keep them around so that we can access them when the mood strikes. Other times we may tolerate them or realize fairly quickly that we’re annoyed by their presence, but there’s generally something we get out of them. Maybe it’s the realization that we like something we didn’t think we’d like, and therefore our lives are tuned into a new area.

Or if we’re annoyed at something, we’ve still managed to learn what to avoid in the future. Always a good lesson.

Either way, having the option to delete something on your own is a great thing. It’s a free country, and last time I checked, we’re supposed to make ourselves happy. So often, however, we’re not — because we haven’t bothered to take stock so we can see what needs cleaning up, or if we have, it might be difficult to get rid of.

Case in point with this weird password feature. So instead of being able to ixnay it myself, I have to go to the place where I got the phone, and/or call a customer service number, and have them reset something-or-other. (Clearly I’m really well-versed as to what’s going on with the phone, as well as my next steps.)

Excellent.

A few people I know are going through some things right now. I won’t call them tough times, but they’re just things that need to be sorted through. If it was as easy as going to the add/remove programs section on a computer, it would probably simplify things a lot. Since we can’t do this with life stuff, however, we therefore need to spend some time with the difficulty itself, and find a way to fix it, make it tolerable or identify a workaround.

Technical or not, truly a difficulty or not, and life-related or not, nothing lasts for ever — and this too shall pass, as they say.

Tonight I am thankful for the reminder that nothing is permanent and that anything can be fixed with some time, even though it may not be the first-choice solution you’d hoped for.

Keep the faith, people.