Because of the full moon, the night was lit up like Times Square; it was so bright that we could see our shadows hiking right along with us up the mountain. The ocean was in front of us like a dark expanse of forever; from here, the Santa Monica Pier and its Ferris Wheel looked like nothing more than gerbil toys.

It was glorious, this hike.

And run.

I am not a runner, and yet I did so tonight.

We went five and a half miles.

I don’t hike or run five and a half miles, and yet I did so tonight.

And Jase was right when he told me that I wouldn’t need a sweatshirt.

And I was so wrong when I decided to wear two shirts, a fleece, a knit hat, and leg warmers. Oh gosh, I was so incredibly hot. And there are only so many things one can tie around their waist, is the thing.

And we talked the whole way. About life in general, though it broke down into the specifics of  people. And dreams. Blogs. How hope is a two-edged sword (but life would look very bleak without hope, is what we decided).  Whether or not snakes are sleeping or hunting at night (this makes a very big difference for two people who are currently out and about on a mountain at night). Men. And the stars.

My legs are tired.

I don’t usually run, see.

But I’m glad I did tonight.

And, man, the view from that mountain is the kind of thing that stays with you and makes you afraid to blink, for fear that you might miss some of the beauty that a lot of people just call earth.

And then there’s the Pacific Ocean.

It’s really something glorious, isn’t it?
Here, we step outside and see it.
It’s the kind of thing that makes one feel small.
Small and significant all at once.
It looks different at night, by the way.
It’s alive like that; changes with the time of day, the seasons.
It looked beautiful tonight, too, on our (what felt like a midnight hike, but it was much earlier than that, actually) walk up the mountain.
Oh, life.
It’s feeling kind right about now.

I woke up early, glued on some false eyelashes, and sang some songs for people sitting behind a table who do not know, nor care to know my middle name. Which is fine. There’s a big difference between the people who hire us and the people who love us, and it doesn’t do good things for our psyche when we start confusing the two.

I had what I consider to be a good audition, but now–10 hours after the fact–it’s easy to doubt. To wonder if it really went as well as I imagined it did. Oh well, I guess I’ll see. And there sure isn’t anything I can do about it while flying somewhere above…(this is the part when I pick a state between Atlanta and Los Angeles…any state between Atlanta and Los Angeles…)…um, Colorado? It’s probable I’m somewhere above Colorado right now, yes?

My pop handed me a book right before I left today. “For the plane,” he told me. Not entirely happy with the fact that it was hardback and weighed more than I wanted to carry, I protested. “Oh, Jess, it weighs a pound. You can carry it with one hand,” he said, and that was that.

And now I’m two hundred pages into a book on survival. Survival of all sorts of fantastical and dangerous scenarios. Knitting needles puncturing hearts. A fall off the Golden Gate Bridge. A brain bleed on the side of a mountain in sub-zero temperatures. A mountain lion ripping someone’s face off. A cyclist hit by a cement truck (which seems to be a trend, for some reason–watch out for those cement trucks!). And of course, lots of plane crashes.

You better believe that this time I listened to the safety instructions, read the safety manual, and made sure to know that I am exactly three rows away from the emergency exit aisle. Apparently, all of that stuff really matters. So does having a plan. As does exiting the plane within 90 seconds of a crash. Also–your chance of being killed in a plane crash is 1 in 60 million.

So, sigh of relief.

Also, short legged women and overly tall men have a harder time escaping a plane in under 90 seconds. Since I am neither a short-legged woman or an overly tall man, I feel pretty good about this statistic.

Side note: the captain. Nope, the pilot–yes, planes have pilots and ships have captains. Anyway, the pilot just said over the intercom that we’re flying over Dallas right now (hi, Mandy!), so I was wrong about Colorado, I guess.

Another statistic in this book (which is not written by a particularly religious man, by the way): people who attend a religious function regularly tend to live seven years longer than those who don’t.

Interesting.

Also: the number 3 is very important. Because, so says this book (The Survivor’s Club, Ben Sherwood. There, now you know):

The Rule of 3 States that You Cannot Survive:

3 seconds without spirit or hope
3 minutes without air
3 hours without shelter in extreme conditions
3 days without water
3 weeks without food
3 months without companionship or love

So yes, the book is fascinating. So is the fact that I was in NYC this morning, Philly this afternoon, and will be in LA in a few hours.

Okay, now I’m back to reading why the best place to have a heart attack is in Vegas.

Go figure.

Whenever I am sad, their solution is to take me to something Civil War-related. This works out just fine for me. Especially since Harper’s Ferry is an idyllic little spot, nestled in a mountain right where the Shenandoah and Potomac rivers meet.

But at that confluence, they become simply the Potomac River, and the Shenandoah abruptly ends. “Sounds like a codependent relationship,” I observed, as soon as I heard about the fate of the poor Shenandoah.

I like to find out of the way doors. I like to pretend not to understand signs that say things like, DO NOT ENTER.

And then I enter anyway.
Or I peak my head in places that do not encourage peaking.

Or I climb Jefferson Rock and decide to stretch.

Even though the signs may or may not discourage that kind of thing.

“Do you think Thomas Jefferson did a straddle on his famous rock?” I asked my parents. “Doubtful,” they both agreed.

Win, I thought.

And then I told my parents I was gonna practice my headstand.

“In a cemetery?” my pop asked, incredulously.

“Dead people do not care,” I explained.

And tried not to feel jealous. Because I care; I still care. Everyone tells me this is a good thing; and yet, sometimes it just feels painful.

“Do you think this year will be a good one?” I asked my parents.

Dumb question. They have to think that. And I know this. I wanted to hear someone tell me that this year will be good. They did not disappoint, because, right away, they smiled and assured me that it would be better than I can imagine.

Okay, then.

Bring it.

No, we are watching The Godfather. A movie I have never before seen, which will just not do, so says my parents. Not when I am the granddaughter of Charles Marion Odorizzi, born in Italy, and who, I am told, had similar mannerisms to the Don himself (sans the killing part).

So Happy Thanksgiving. Let’s eat and tell each other why we’re grateful and remember that we’re Italian (or whatever it is that you are, if you are not Italian).

A BUN.

This has not happened for a long time. And whenever it does, I always say to myself that it will never happen again. And then it does. And the vicious cycle continues. But as cycles go, the hair-in-a-bun-then-never-in-a-bun-again-then-SURPRISE!-it’s-in-a-bun-cycle is not so bad.

But I had to put my hair in a bun because I had to take Nutcracker pictures today. And I still have the makeup all over my face to prove it. I will get to washing it off later. Have I mentioned that’s the worst part of putting makeup on? It is. I guess it’s kind of like how it’s super fun to make a mess (usually, anyway) but not so fun to then have to clean it up.

But about Arabian: something has to change with that headpiece. Cause it was burrowing in my head like it was mad at me and trying to get to my brain to press the eternal off button. It hurt so bad. I am gonna have to talk to someone about this because my feet are already bleeding from the variation and I think that is enough. I think being dead might be too much. On top of already bleeding feet, I mean. Maybe one or the other, but both is just over the top. Just kidding about that. I don’t want to be dead. And isn’t it a wonderful feeling to not want to be dead? Yes. Yes it is.

But I guess the costume isn’t so bad, because as I was walking by the Snow King (I know, when I reference him, it does sound like I visited Candyland today, doesn’t it? Oh and Princess Lolly sends her warmest regards, by the way) I overheard him say that my costume is fierce. In case you were wondering, this is a very good thing. And then he asked someone, “And she’s dancing it barefoot?!”

“Yes,” that someone replied.

“That’s legit.” he answered.

Fierce and legit. These are two good things. I can only hope that I will be those things when I dance the piece, rather than just walk around in a hallway. I can only hope that I will be fierce and legit when I go to an audition tomorrow. I can only hope that I will be fierce and legit if I ever have to fight a mountain lion, because I am pretty sure that a mountain lion is especially fierce and I cannot really doubt its legitimacy. I mean, it’s not exactly like you can ask a mountain lion for its papers, right?

I know, it’s brilliant.

There really aren’t words.

And today, I decided to walk to my yoga class. It was just down the mountain a little ways. Plus, I didn’t have a car, which really made my decision an easy one. And it was a nice little stroll, too.

Other than the guy who drove by me, pulled a u-turn and then coasted nice and slow right next to me. He kept telling me that he was here for me and I didn’t need to walk. I was like, “Thanks, but I’m good.” Then he assured me that he was a cop. But see, he was driving a really beat up old car. He had super long grey hair. And teeth that made me think of a shark or something. I just got the feeling that he wasn’t a cop. And that I didn’t want to get in his car. Call me crazy.

And then I happened upon this little store.

I love how it let’s you know the hours, but then specifies that it runs on “Topanga Time.” That just made me smile.

I met the owner of the shop, too.

It’s all local handmade pieces. And the shop is called Red-Handed. This is because two redheads own it and it’s all handmade. Cute. After we talked for a while, she looked at me quite seriously and asked if I was a “real redhead.” I got the feeling that this was really important to her, being a redhead, and I wished in that moment that I could tell her that I was.

But alas, I said I wasn’t and her look of disappointment wasn’t lost on me.

Oh well, perhaps I will go back and buy something and therefore restore her faith in me.

And then I saw this as I was walking home.

I liked it so much that I crossed the street to snap a picture.

And I wrote a song yesterday. There’s something about the air here in the mountains; makes you want to sing about just nearly everything.

Forgive me, I haven’t yet memorized the lyrics, so I am reading the words on my computer screen.  But to make up for it, you get to see Jason and Darby’s bathroom, which is a real treat.

enjoy.

You know, in the mountains.

And I passed that sign again–the one about the mountain lions that hunt in the area. Okay, so it didn’t say hunt, but that was the point. And then I read that you shouldn’t hike alone and I thought, Ohhhhh shoot. Cause I was totally alone.

And then I abruptly turned around and headed back to my family’s house. Where there aren’t mountain lions and where I am not alone. But I didn’t get there before every little squirrel that happened by scared me, cause I was sure that it was something not nearly so innocuous.

I usually pride myself on not feeling very afraid of nature, but it seems you hear enough about the folk singer getting eaten by coyotes in Canada and the little twin babies getting mauled by a fox in Britain and the lady getting struck by lightening and killed in North Carolina, and suddenly my imagination goes a little wild when I’m by myself and outside.

Not head dance wild, but wild, nonetheless.

Anyway.

Today was the kind of day that is gonna make me sleep and sleep right well tonight.

We went to the beach and the weather! oh, it was divine. The sun was not shy at all and there was a slight breeze and enough warm sand to keep you from being cold. Especially when a small boy accidentally dumps a whole shovel-full of sand right on your head. Just like you are simply the beach and a little bit more sand moved around when there’s already tons there is no big deal. But instead you are a person and now your scalp is covered in enough sand to make you wonder if you should perhaps suggest that some people park their umbrella right here, right on your noggin, should the beach get too crowded.

But really, it was just funny. And gave me even more incentive to get in that water. Which I did, along with my boogie-boarding peers, Jase and Lyric.

And man, was it fun.

And man, does a wetsuit really make a difference in terms of actually being able to stay and enjoy the ocean cause look! my teeth aren’t chattering and oh! I can feel my legs and haven’t yet lost a toe from frostbite.

We caught some glorious waves and were not caught by any glorious sharks, so win win.

For us, though. Probably not the sharks.

And then we went riding around on bikes, which was, in plain old English, a blast.

Except for the part when a lot of people around here see the words BIKE PATH and, though they have no bike at all, proceed to stroll on it. Luckily Jenna was with us and she has no problem at all with reminding them of the meaning of those two words; that there’s a lot of beach all around that is perfectly useful for walking on, whereas bikes really cannot ride on the sand, so please–MOVE.

But really, it was lovely.

And you’re probably thinking, whoa! that sounds like an amazing day. The only thing that could make it any better is a monkey…

And you’re right.

Which is why, upon my brother’s urging (and funding, I may add), I decided to shake a monkey’s hand on the Santa Monica Promenade. Again. I had already done this magical thing once before, but when it comes to shaking this monkey’s hand–once is never enough.

Trust me.

But don’t take my word for it–take a look for yourself.

monkey!

*and please pay no mind to the fact that I am dressed like a wannabe ninja, thankyouverymuch.

**and please DO pay mind to the fact that the monkey tips his hat after he shakes my hand. Adorable.