We all go a little mad sometimes...

Maybe it's because Halloween is right around the corner. Maybe it's the crazy weather going to her head and the extra ash inhalation. But Lord help me, PLEASE tell me my neighbor is not in a cult.

It might be best to begin with the myriad of annoyances that have already befallen me due to the woman next door in my new West LA apartment. For instance, the fact that I swear this woman is purposefully trying to drive me mad. Smokes-a-lot-lady, as I affectionately refer to her, began her slow and grating elimination of my sanity with her constant singing. Not real songs, mind you - mindless humming, with no rhyme or reason, designed to make a person fall slowly and painfully into complete and utter insanity.

If she's not singing she's talking, which is interesting in itself, since I'm nearly positive she lives alone. At 1:30AM on my first sleepless nite living next door to the American Idol, I dragged my haggard ass out of bed and outside, to determine if it was my upstairs or next door neighbor I needed to plot to murder. Lucky me, I hear the culprit's beautiful voice immediately, just on the other side of my bedroom wall. And then - wait for it - I hear THIS: "We need to get you your medicine!"

A: Crazy woman has a cat or bird.

B: Crazy woman has a child that stays up way too late.

C: Crazy woman, most likely, is effing crazy, and reminding HERSELF to take her medicine.

In addition to these adorable traits, Ms. SmokesALot has a beautiful hacking cough that could wake the dead. Which brings me to the moment when I finally realized which person in my neighborhood lived next door - as you might imagine, naturally, she looks a little bit like this:

And yes she has that pipe.

Now imagine this woman in all her glory, and fast forward to tonite. It's 8pm on a Wednesday evening. I step out of the shower, and immediately hear a methodic chanting floating through the wall. "Oh, no big deal, it's just the cult next door. Wait, WHAT?!" I further my investigation and step outside, only to find that it is indeed the good madam to my right. An eery and unnatural light glowed in her apartment, and I hope to Baby Jesus she was participating in a more intense yogo sesh than I've ever myself experienced.

But because it's me, and it's MY neighbor...it's probably more likely that I live next door to a witches' coven. This is in turn what led me to Google "coven," and remind me that I want to purchase HOCUS POCUS stat, because that movie rules all.

For now, I'll just long for Smokey McAshtray to go back to the singing. Compared to the sounds of the occult, sensless humming ain't so bad.

Your pencils are creating a health hazard.

I've somehow crossed that barrier between having a "job" and having a "career" - so why do I want to go back? I think the thrill of the chase goes for boys AND futures, but it's pushing off the starting block that proves to be the most challenging part.

I miss jobs. I miss getting yelled at for not saying "hello" to a customer instead of getting yelled at for saying "hello" too casually to a client. When do I get to go back to the days of teaching swimming lessons and effing around all day? UH, NEVER. There comes that definitive moment that you leave your job and start your future, and it seems you can never go back. It's almost a sort of pergatory, an in-between part of life that leaves you constantly wondering if you've made the right decisions, and waiting to mess up badly enough to ruin the good ones you've managed to sustain.

But while I can long for sunscreen and sneakers there is still something so thrilling about tasting the first bit of career. Even though when I look at myself in the mirror before treading off to work in the morning, I hardly recognize the business-in-the-front, party-in-the-back-me - until now I've always been party all around. I still find it difficult to resist telepone sarcasm and swearing in the workplace, but I'm getting there.


I can "hold please" and "leave word" all day long, manage four script requests while juggling three phone lines and printing labels, type notes on a call with the speed of - something really fast, and make up reasons my boss is not available like it's my job. Oh wait - it is my job....Sad...But now I'm also in a place where I can listen to the magic happen every day, the magic I someday hope to be mine, and envision the moment that I get to call my agent and shoot the shit about effing around in the writers' room all day. Hey - I guess everything can come full circle afterall...Never say never.

As a last antecdote that may very well dictate the way my career will go thus far, someone ACTUALLY said the following on the phone today: "Her dress was so short she had an extra set of cheeks to powder and more hair to comb, if you know what I mean."

I DO know what he means. And when did he see me over the weekend?