Late Night Wonders

I am a piano song yet written, a sweet string of soft notes that might flow like poetry from an instrument, into people’s hearts and ears, penetrating their minds and imaginations as gently and strong as the stars shine bright in the night sky over Los Angeles, Arizona, Chicago and Washington, D.C., and other corners of this world.

I am a curious child, held earthbound but always wondering about the stars and where their path might lead me. Let the soil sink beneath my feet, the sand fit into the spaces between my toes, but my eyes will always end up rising to the star-scattered sky. I want to know why things are they way they are: why the orange rind has dimples just so; how sips of honeysuckle from my childhood taste like sugar water in my mouth; how skin can be soft like velvet.

Music monopolizes my mind and makes me freeze my daily tasks. Unpacking my suitcase, I’ll replay a song over and over; robotic; lay down to think about it, feel it, dream it, work my way through it. I wish I could spew music out my mouth the way I pour words onto this page, as easily as if they were dripping from finger, as though I’ve been cut and words flow from my veins, liquid-like, malleable, soft and warm.

I was told once that a person should spend at least a few years in a city in a lifetime. Now, here I am—Los Angeles has taken me in its hand with a tight grip, leading me along on my next adventure. Life is waiting.

Scattered

I'm driving home from the mall in Scottsdale yesterday when I get a call. "Maren's moving," Lisa says. "On Saturday." Saturday was just two days away. "Wait, is this a joke?" I asked. Nope. And like some sappy chick from a Hallmark commercial, I start bawling in the car.

"I don't even know why I'm crying," I sniffled, searching in my purse for a tissue. "I don't even live here anymore!"

"I know," Lisa said.

"God. Why am I crying?!" And where were my tissues? "I just feel....I feel like everything's fallen apart. I'm in LA. Noelle's in London. Tiffany's always gone. And now Maren's in Chicago."

"I know," Lisa said.

"Why am I crying?" I asked again. Then I had to rationalize. "I love Chicago. Maren's gonna love Chicago. This will be great for her. This is exciting."

That night we did dinner at a Mediterranean tapas place in oldtown Scottsdale. We met at Lisa's, and when Maren walked in, I had trouble looking at her eyes. We talked about Lisa's new furniture; Maren tried out the couch. "It's comfortable," she exclaimed. I pulled my jacket in closer to me and grabbed my car keys. "I'll drive, let's go."

We sat in the bar as we waited for a table. I tapped on the stem of my glass of pinot noir and Maren told me, "I don't know you did it, Jo." Her eyes filled with tears.

I told her she could always come home. I told her to think of it like it was a year abroad. I told her that the world is too big to stay in one place; there's too much exploring to do. I told her to imagine herself when she's 80 and wouldn't she regret not moving? Isn't there some truth behind that saying "You'll regret the things you didn't do more than the ones you did?" I explained that she'd make friends fast. I asked her how she would feel if her and her boyfriend broke up after she moved there, would she have regrets? No. I told her I knew I wouldn't either, before I moved to Los Angeles.

"Then go," I said.

I pictured her trudging through the snow. Did she have enough scarves? Gloves? What about a warm jacket? Would she walk to the grocery store or drive? I imagined summers in Chicago, that breeze that nearly knocked me over when I stood by the lake, how the night air would get chilly around me. I thought of the people I met when I was there; that one jolly bartender on State Street, the waitress at the pizza place that remembered me as I came in with a friend for a slice...for the third time in a short weekend. I thought about visiting her for long weekends and exploring the city on my own, like I did in New York. A part of me, a small part, was almost envious of the move; Chicago's always been on my list of cities to go to.

Over hummus and salad we talked about normal things. About Lisa's boyfriend, the guy I'm dating, what to do for New Year's Eve. When we finally left, the crowd at the bar had thinned, the parking garage nearly empty.

"So is this goodbye?" I asked Maren, as I parked outside of Lisa's place.

"I think so, I guess so."

The three of us hugged and shivered in the driveway, in the crisp desert winter air, underneath a sky sprinkled with golden stars. I choked out a few words about how I'm proud of her and told her we'd still have these nights, just not often. And then she was gone.

And then I thought about moving. About how big and wonderful this world is. I thought about where I'd end up with I grew tired of sprawling Los Angeles, with its sand and waves, flip-flopped crowds, its stories and hills and Hollywood secrets. I wondered if I ever would want to settle down, if moving could be addicting, like getting tattoos. And if one moves so much, are they moving to something or moving from something?

*Yawn!*

This weekend has been one filled with blankets, fires, naps; a retreat within myself. After going, going, going for five or six days straight, the body needs rest. Friday night after volunteering for The Giving Spirit here in Brentwood, a girlfriend and I went to Venice. I, sleepily, offered to drive. I wore black with my red coat, that bright red coat that everyone says something about. I wonder if people see me in that red pea coat and think I'm a firey woman, or just a brave blond? Venice brought me conversations with crazed artists (when I met this crazy artist, the rumors held true for me: they truly do have crazy, hungry eyes), awkward businessmen from Dubai, a quiet Redsox fan.

Saturday I thought about cleaning, running errands, doing laundry, even working for a bit. I slept in too late. I turned on a Christmas special, reverting back to being 9 years old (Frosty the Snow Man anyone?) and curled up with my book and a blanket. I missed the day and felt guilty. Night swept Brentwood too soon and I ended up an awkward Christmas party in Santa Monica. I was the baby of the group. Then off to a bar, later, with a friend, where I wandered the room and made friends with strangers.

Tonight, I made up for it, my laziness. Suddenly inspired to take a drive to Manhattan Beach, I found an amazing parking spot and shopped for a bit before stopping still on a sidewalk outside a coffee shop. Pulling my jacket in closer to me, I looked out to the water, and it shined back at me--softly--like an old mirror. I watched the sun set on the Pacific by myself as families and couples bustled about me; unfolding lawn chairs, dragging children in little red wagons, sipping steaming coffee, heads down, huddled together in preparation for a Christmas fireworks show.

The sun set quickly, an orange ball that the ocean greedily swept away; a dying fire in the sky; one last glowing ember before blackness rolled over the beach.

Hot & Homeless!

Tonight I am volunteering to put together packages to help the Los Angeles homeless community get through the winter. *Insert Image of Halo Here.*

Sammi: What are you doing tonight, Jo?

Jo: Helping the homeless.

Sammi: Then you want to go out after?

Jo: Yes. Hmm. Wine.

Sammi: Ok cool. I hope there's a lot of hot men there! Talk to you later.

Sammi: Wait. Not hot homeless men....

Jo: I love hot homeless men. So career driven.

Pizza and Wine = Dance Off!

Last night's Pizza and Wine Fest 2007 was great. After three or four bottles of wine, four of us ended up having a Dance Off and DJ-off (my music vs. Roomie's). The pizza turned out great, although I think I can work on the presentation a bit! Check it out:

Say Hello, Wave Goodbye

Life in slow motion somehow it don't feel real.
Snowflakes are falling I'll catch them in my hands
Snowflakes are falling I'll catch them in my hands…
Snowflakes are falling now you're my long lost friend
~David Gray

Last night I was at the Wiltern to see David Gray. I went with a good friend here in Los Angeles. We showed up the theatre late, missing the opening act and running in as the lights dimmed on and off, signaling David was about to take stage. We grabbed a cranberry vodka (literally the only drink the bar had left to offer, other than a lone Corona) and took our seats. As we sat I told her, “I know I will see Chris tonight,” and she just sort of laughed. But I knew.

As his opening song filled the crevices and corners of the theater and our minds, my friend leaned over to say, “This makes me think of ‘Billy,’ David Gray always does.” I didn’t say so at the time, but I thought, me too. Billy is an ex boyfriend of mine (well, we sort of dated, if you even want to call it that)…and hers. As the music played I thought about late nights in college with Billy; wandering down to the bars on Mill Avenue, talking about life and how we both wanted to leave Arizona. I didn’t know at the time, then, that I would be leaving for Los Angeles just a few years later. At the time I didn’t think I was an LA girl, and maybe I am now and maybe I’m not (what is an LA girl, really?) I always envisioned myself enjoying the balmy summers of the east coast or wandering the shops of Michigan Avenue in Chicago. Hell, I even thought of Texas, although I’d never been there. All I knew was that I wondered about the world beyond the borders of Arizona, past the cacti and sand and the magnificent storms of the monsoon season. And I knew, as I’ve always known, that I had some exploring to do.

David Gray sang and I thought about “Chris” - the real ex. Just to add to the irony of the night, not only did my friend and I both date the same guy in college, and now she is one of my closest girlfriends out here in Los Angeles, but “Chris” and “Billy” were and are actually best friends. (Folks, please save your “Joey from Dawson’s Creek jokes for later). David sang and I wondered whether I’ll always feel this alive. He sang and I thought about what it really meant to be young and I thought, maybe there’s something to that saying about thinking young and that’s all that matters. And then he sang the sad songs for me, or at least it felt that way.

The show ended and I sort of let out an internal sigh of relief that “Chris” and I never ran into each other; I still have some healing to do. But we came down the stairs onto the landing in the lobby and I stopped on the second or third step, knees shaking. He was there, right in front of me, maybe five or so feet away, talking to his friends. I could hardly move. He stood the way he always stands, doing the nod when people are talking and putting on his usual charm. I remember that shirt, I thought. I then grabbed my friend’s arm and said, “Don’t look, just move,” and off we went.

It’s strange passing someone from your past and not saying hi. It was like a movie reel was playing; as though I were seeing a ghost appear in front of me, so real you can almost touch but you’re afraid of what might happen. Or like watching an old sitcom rerun on television and laughing, oh, I remember that show, it was so good. But the whole time you’re watching, you know that show will never air live again.

It had its run.

People Travel in Clusters

I was standing with Flavia today, grabbing a late morning cup of hazelnut, when two women came into the kitchen behind me. They were trying to get into the fridge, so I had to shift my stance a bit. I glanced back and found myself staring into the eyes of Lisa, a woman from my writing class. We both squealed the obligatory exclaim, "OH MY GOD!"

Turns out she's freelancing for my company now (writing). I find this a bit funny since my writing class has become so much like group therapy, and now here we were standing, face to face, unable to hide. I told her that I want a bunch of us to keep in touch; to exchange writing drafts every 4 to 6 weeks or so and to meet for coffee and a good workshop session. She agreed but, "Not the guy who has a sex addiction!" How odd to find her in my kitchen at work, next to my Flavia, I was thinking, when she said aloud, "This is too odd...people must travel in clusters." And then I wondered who else was in my "cluster" that I'm not even aware of yet.

Anyway, tomorrow is the last writing class and we're having a potluck. I'm bringing Jo's World Famous Guacamole. I'm going to sign up for a class for 2008, I'm sure of it...I'm just not sure which class...something in the personal genre, that's all I know.

Tonight: David Gray at the Wiltern.

Ode to Flavia

My morning routine is pretty...routine. Nothing exciting there, but every morning on a weekday, as I stroll off the elevator on to Floor Four I make a beeline away from the receptionist's desk, away from where my desk and work await me, and head to a small kitchen toward the center of my floor, to the Flavia Coffee Machine. Let me back track here to my first encounter with beautiful Flavia. It was Day 2 on the job and I was eyeing Flavia, alone in that kitchen, admiring her fine craftsmanship, the way her many flavors of coffee and frothy treats were so tidy, all in drawers of their own. I counted: 18 coffees, teas, frothy treats. Keep in mind that my company in Arizona forced to you purchase your own coffee every day (suckers) and now I have Flavia.

Since that Day 2, I've been visiting Flavia faithfully each and every morning. Sometimes I turn the corner and duck my head into that small kitchen to find others visiting her, perhaps using all of her cream and sugar. Occasionally, the cups are gone and I'm left to scrounge about for a clean cup, another styrofoam. Flavia has introduced me to several coworkers. I judge every person I meet by what Flavia Flavor they have chosen. There was the time I stood there as my Hazelnut was brewing fresh and I tapped absently on the top of Flavia, tap, tap, tap. Behind me, the art director for our building commented.

"Oh, my, that smells wonderful," she said.
"Yes, it's my FAVORITE," I said. Was that pride in my voice? And what makes me a hazelnut woman?
"Hmmmm," she said. This is weird, I thought. And then:
"I'm Joanna," I said. (And no, I didn't say, "Call me Jo." Hardy har har.)
"I'm Andrea."
"What do you have?"
"Espresso. Straight up. Double," she declared. I nearly trembled in fear. That's hard core.
"Oh, uh...every day?"
"Yes, EVERY DAY," she said.

Then there's always the times when I'm with Flavia and a group strolls in, like their going to the club on a Friday night and lost their way. Damnit! We're in the kitchen again! Or when someone's trying to get into the fridge, and I'm just trying to reach Flavia and I accidentally rub against them on the way to Her. Awkward. I just want my hazelnut. And the time when I was hanging out with Flavia in the afternoon and the HR woman came in and posted a note on the machine. "For XXXX employees only," it read. Our eyes met. "It's hard to be a nazi," she said, and left the room fast.

People would battle for Flavia. Cross HR boundaries, let the lines blur between companies and floors, forge names and stay up late into the night to create fake badges. Start leaving their lunch in that shitty little refrigerator just to be close to Her. Swap their red swingline stapler just for a mere sip, a warm cup in their hand.

Night Falls in Los Angeles

Night falls early in Los Angeles. It creeps up the walls of the building where I work like a snake unfolding from a long nap, yawning, stretching. Like the blankets that cover me when I sleep at night, it envelops the window I sit next to. And, like the slow creek of an old door, or the soft whispers of an aging house, it slowly and gracefully gives into the darkness, changing from a dusty gray to a black night scattered with lights of buildings and billboards and cars, and the occasional star.

There's a chill, these nights, when you walk to your car by moonlight; a certain briskness that awakens you to the night, as though night and morning casually switched places. The drive home becomes crammed with others eager to get home to the warm, to food, to inside light. Under the awning of the tree-lined streets and bumpy Los Angeles sidewalks, joggers and walkers scatter the night like rats; their breathing and huffing and puffing heard as you lock your car door, walk up your steps.

Houses and apartments, once just regular and perhaps boring, are creeping out from hibernation to don strings of twinkling Christmas lights. From windows and doorways flows music and smells of hearty dinners. Down the street, a group walks to the bars and restaurants on Wilshire, laughing, arms linked. Perhaps, even further down Wilshire, a homeless person sits in a doorstep of an abandoned business, seeking warmth, food, money. Company. A girl waits on the corner to be picked up by her date, maybe, or maybe her parents. Through a window I see a man reading by the light of a lone lamp.

Perhaps, in the dark corners of the night, a secret is being told, hands are being held. Perhaps tears are streaming down someone's face like train tracks. Perhaps, somewhere, in the night, someone is inspired like an artist; awakened from sleep by a dream; or up late, with eyes wide open, wondering about life and this great big world.

Avoiding the Monday Morning Number Crunch

Numbers...on a Monday? I suppose I'll write first, instead.

I'll start with last Thursday night. Banana Man (if you recall - my friend who drives a Banana Boat and enjoys the occasional dress-up in a Banana Suit) and I decided to do happy hour in West Hollywood. Bright idea, we thought. Brilliant. We chose the West Hollywood Standard Hotel, a location on our lists of LA To-Dos (we both really do have lists, by the way). Anyway, this plan fell apart before we could even put it into action. A few things:
1. Banana Man parked his boat so far away that he ended up back in his neighborhood parking zone - he was able to use his permit to park.
2. Valet was 8 bucks an hour.
3. Happy Hour was ruined because....the Standard in Hollywood has no happy hour. I guess this is the most important point here.

So, we wound up across the street at a little shack called Cabo Cantina. For those of you in Arizona, this is just like Dos Gringos - literally. A little shack with good tacos and two-for-one margs that bring back memories of crazy nights in Tijuana...if you have those memories. This was one of several places along our little section of the Sunset Strip that we figured we could get into trouble that night. A Mexican Shack, and just down the way, a restaurant that is literally a train caboose (forget the name) - but with a sign outside advertising the "Best Hot Dogs in LA!" (Damn, they smelled good.) And, further west on the strip, a cowboy's dream: Saddle Ranch.

After eating at the Shack..er, Cabo, we walked down to Saddle Ranch, passing Jon Lovitz on the way, standing beside his beautiful black Mercedes. We entered the Ranch through velvet curtains and I entered cautiously, pushing just my arm through first, wondering if someone was going to smack me in the face upon entry, since you can't see through. After entering said Ranch, Banana Man and I looked at each other with glee - this was our dream: a rugged ranch, complete with hokey chandeliers, a true log cabin feel, and a mechanical bull in the middle of the room.

We sat outside. Our server shows up with crazy slanted eyes and a hat down low, a devious grin.

"So...when do people get on that bull?" I say.

"Oh, in about an hour or so. Once people get drunk, it goes non-stop all night." he says.

"Okay."

He shows up with shots for us.

"I buy my tables SHOTS!" he says, proudly. We drank them, promptly.

About 15 or 20 minutes goes by and our server stops by again.

"What else do you guys want to drink?" he says. I am sipping my wine at a snail's pace. "If you're going to ride the bull, we've got to get you another drink."

"No, I don't think I'm going to ride the bull tonight," I protest.

"They all say that," he said, giving me a knowing look.

I never did ride that bull, that crazy bull. But I think Banana Man and I appreciated the attentive service from our server...and I have no doubt we'll be back to the Ranch on a Friday or Saturday night, perhaps for Banana's birthday party.

To share or not to share?

It's funny the secrets that people will allow themselves to pour out in a writing class such as mine. Since it's a personal essay class, every thing we write about is essentially true. Knowing this, a group of people can get close pretty quick. Tonight, for example, I had to critique a classmate's 15-page essay on his obsession with porn...which was...quite graphic. I wondered, as I scribbled comments and edits in the margins, how this essay might be perceived by another classmate, who in the first month admitted to having a sexual addiction problem. And what would Seth, another classmate, who said on the first day "Seth likes sex!" be thinking? Or the woman who is all about Jesus and always sits in the corner?

It truly is like therapy. A safe room where we can tell anything, or nearly anything, to each other.

Anyway, I'm feeling like a fatty post-Thanksgiving. I know I've reached a certain point when I suggest to my roomie that we need to hit the gym. But the weekend was fantastic, filled with just the right amount of food, classic family potty humor, rest and beautiful weather.

"Joanna, when you putt, you look like you're sitting on the toilet."

Ah...family!

One more thought

A friend told me that when you're with someone, you can imagine your whole life with that person. You just do.

But when it's over, suddenly you feel like you have a world of opportunities open to you. So many doors.

It's true.

Gobble Gobble!

Thanksgiving is just a few days away. I always thought Christmas was my favorite holiday but Thanksgiving is coming up a close second. Can a holiday get any simpler than just giving thanks and being with your family and friends? No need for the materialism and stress that Christmas may bring: just eat and reflect on what you're thankful for this year. Awesome!

Tomorrow I'll be leaving work early to hop on the crowded I10 with a friend to head east to Arizona for the feast. This is my first time driving home since moving to Los Angeles so I'm sure it'll be an interesting...and long...ride. I've already charged my iPod in preparation for the six plus hour drive. If we're lucky it'll be six...so I'm sure to be sleepy and achey tomorrow night, ack.

This past Sunday Roomie and I hosted a successful pre-Turkey Day celebration for 17 Brentwood friends. We'll...90% of them were from Brentwood and at that point, who cares. The turkey came out golden brown. This is after Roomie and I once again struggled to hold that slimy bird down and pull out those guts. There was screaming again. And that neck...pulling out the neck. Horrid!

Anyway - I'm still not sure how we managed to squeeze that number in our little apartment....or, for that matter, how we managed to even find the space on our 1960s-style kitchen counters for the insane amount of food, but we did. Another victory: none of our cheap wine was spilled throughout the night. We also ended up bonding in some odd way with our remarkably formal and sweet upstairs neighbor. We weren't sure what age she was (we guess anywhere from 5-1o years old, given her poise and manners), but she's actually younger. You just sort of want to shake her to see if she'll get sort of wild. But she came in handy, allowing us to use her oven to warm up side dishes.

Tonight I've got to pack and run errands and make it to writing class. I've got one week to come up with a clever longer piece to share with the class and to be critiqued. Yikes. Any ideas on what I should write about?

Happy Thanksgiving!

A lifetime of faces

My email on my incredibly modern computer keeps locking up and crashing, so I thought I'd write a little. Only the finest, most modern tools for the employees at my company, I tell you!

I got my hair cut by a lesbian named "Robin" last night with crazy spiraled hair (straight out of the 80s) and a voice that could be Hugh Grant's sister's. I was happy that the event lasted three and a half hours (record-breaking!) so that I could listen to that accent, soak up the conversation. She had unusually large eyes, kind eyes, and a dark olive skin passed down to her through her half English, half-Jamaican bloodlines. She was passionate about hiking (yah, LA is not all about Hollywood, she said). She went on a rant, naming six or seven trails I could do by myself and I wondered, as she sliced through my hair quick with her scissors, if she realized just how out of shape I am. I told her I was going to her mother country this spring, and that when I come back to see her after the holidays for another slice-fest, that I'd bring a notepad and she'd have to tell me where I should go in London. Funny the things you can find out about your hair lady, eh?

Another update - So I sent my ex boyfriend (not that one, you fools! an ex-boyfriend from my college days) an email yesterday. He goes to law school at USC. You can tell we're great friends now when I can email him to tell him that I'm newly single and that he'll have to introduce me to his cute law school friends. He wrote back promptly and agreed, and I was touched by his sweet note. He was really nice about the whole thing, asking when we could get together, that his friends will really like me, etc.

I'm reminded, when I receive notes such as those, why I do stay in touch with just about everyone. I still talk to the girl I used to live next door to in Maryland when I was 12 and under. I email my sophomore-year college professor who taught me about writing reflective essays. I'll write a note to a friend I went to school with in seventh grade, "How's your new job treating you?" and give advice to the girl I used to ride bikes with in sixth grade, or cry with her over dinner when she tells me about the death of her father, after not having seen her in more than two years. I wonder why I seem to hold on so much; does a part of me live in the past? And when the Maryland kids moved in around the corner from me in Brentwood, I didn't just run into them at the market, I knew they were coming...because I had been in touch this whole time, with these old, familiar faces that I used to wait with at the bus stop back east.

And how strange is it that my first date "post-Chris" was with a guy just a few houses over from my parents' home in Maryland? And he tells me stories from high school and I say, "Oh, I remember them, I remember him," but when he tries to tell me the street names, how the road curved a certain way, or about a housing development a few miles down the road, that is where I get lost.

I just remember the faces and the names.

Banana Man

Things are really busy but it's good. Tonight Roomie and I have lots to do for our Roast of the Virgin Bird come Sunday. Tomorrow night we're hosting a Book Club - the first meeting ever. But we both have never read the book (haven't even purchased it!); neither have half the girls we've invited.

And my friend Grant is showing up at my turkey fest on Sunday in a banana suit and turtle neck/sweater-vest combo; a collage of his Halloween outfit and classic Turkey Day attire. You'd think he is joking...but I really think I'll open up the door on Sunday to find a Banana Man standing on our new doormat. I'll let you all know how that one goes. I just wonder if he'll get hot in that banana suit. And how will he go to the bathroom? Even for a guy, that's gotta be tough. The day will be interesting.

"Is that a cup of smiles you're drinking?"
"No, it's a vodka tonic."

Adventures in Hollywood

This weekend was an interesting one. A friend was in town so I suppose there was that sort of pressure, in a way, to go big. I told her that I felt like I was a sophomore in college again, like we were roommates again, where we'd be studying and just look at each other from across our hallway and say, "Want a drink?" That sort of nostaligc sense of doing anything just to do it, just because you're alive.

After her plane landed on Friday an old friend of ours came over and the three of us had a bottle of wine. Then we took his banana boat to Santa Monica, laughing the whole way. "Field trip!" he'd shout. We ate greasy quesadillas at the Library Alehouse on Main; He ordered the most strange sounding beer he could find on the menu. We then ended up in Venice at the Other Room, a beer and wine bar where good looking guys hang out at night and the girls seem normal, not so much make up, not so overly done up. We squeezed into a dark corner of the bar where we were lucky enough to find seats because everyone else thought it to be VIP and huddled down for a good conversation. It was at this point that Old Friend started to order cokes instead of beer, and I insisted that he sleep on my couch in the Brentwood Chateau so he ditched the cokes quick. Later, we went to the Brig down the street, braving the cold ocean air for the chance of something new. The red-orange glow of the Brig illuminated the hippies and ex-band members, artists and scarf-clad crowd (although - it's not yet THAT cold in LA) and that's when I was told I was drinking a cup of smiles.

It was "FIELD TRIP!" again at 7 a.m. when we had to drive Old Friend back to his car in Venice. I could see the beach and I saw that it was empty; I told my friend we should go there. We rolled up our pajama pants and let the ocean water hit our toes. We felt lazy as a group of about 100 marathon runners in training passed us, our faces blocked by large sunglasses, messy hair in pony tails. After a full day of shopping we tagged on to a group of girls going to Geisha House in Hollywood. We sat on the cold plastic-ish chairs there, munching on udon noodles, sushi and chicken skewers. A limo picked us up outside Geisha and we blasted music and drank vodka redbulls. The best part of the night was that I didn't plan a thing - the whole evening was out of my hands.

Although I enjoyed the lights of Hollywood and the crazy night, the girls in too-short dresses and the guys who tried way too hard -- I think I'm much more at home in a dive bar with a beer (ok...wine).

Roomie and I cooked the Bird tonight. Test Bird. I had to pull out the disgusting INSIDES - the liver and heart and I-don't-want-to-know-what-else. Gross. She held the slimy thing down in the sink, felt that Bird all over, making sure it was really thawed out. We screamed the whole time, jumping back as though we could get pecked, right then and there in my Brentwood Chateau. I thought to myself how I could never have lived on a farm in a past life, I just know it. We threw any herb that sounded good into a bowl with olive oil and brushed it all over that 9 pounder. And I wondered, then, if I would always remember having my first turkey in my little Brentwood place, with this girl I didn't know just five months ago. My first turkey.

It was really great.

Peace

Another gray Friday in LACA. Where has the sun gone? Lisa comes in tonight and we're going to do it up big. Lester will be in town as well. I can't wait. We'll probably stick to the westside tonight and then hit Hollywood tomorrow. Who knows. All I know is that I LOVE my friends and I can't wait to see them!

Happy! This is such a great time of year. I have so much to be thankful for this year. I'm alive, aren't I? I can get up in the morning and walk and breath on my own. I have a great job (well, that depends on the day, but you know what I mean). It's challenging, I can say that. I can afford to travel and do interesting things, take my writing class, enjoy nice dinners. I have a family who loves me and supports me, friends who are like family (I would do anything for my friends; I just love them so much). I've lucked out to have quirky, fun neighbors and it seems like every day I meet another person, another face to know in Brentwood, someone else to run into on San Vicente and along Wilshire. I'm living in this cool hybrid of city meets ocean, this strange place where you put on flip flops to go out to a steak dinner, wear uggs in summer, wake up each morning to feel the cool air coming through your window. I'm grateful that I've reconnected with old friends here, who I once thought were lost, but I suppose they never were. But I look at their faces when we laugh together and I think to myself -- and told them, too -- "You make me feel like I'm at home." I'm lucky because I know who I am at the core of me, and I am so much at peace with that.

In fact, I suppose there's no other way to describe how I am feeling right now in life other than PEACE. I know this is where I should be, and I know who I am. It doesn't matter that I don't know where I am going because I'll find my way, just like I've always done.

Moving on up!

This is a very gray week in Los Angeles. My roommate is dying of the cold, I can tell. I come home to find her bundled up in blankets and socks. Me...I just walk around icey cold hands 'cause I'm tough like that. And by tough I mean trembling.

A few updates: Got my things back last night from the ex. It was tough but it went okay, as well as it can go. Now I don't have to think about it anymore, that I have reclaimed my jammies , perfume, and crock pot. That's right: no more slow cookin'! I'll need that crock pot for our roast of the Virgin Bird, anyway.

Also - there was a pepper spray incident at work last night. This will give you all an idea of the healthy work environment here. I was not around for said spraying, but according to my co-worker, she accidentally sprayed a bit of it - one itsey bitsy spray - toward a co-worker last night. "Goofing around," "assault" -- whatever you want to call it. Anyway - before she knew it, everyone in our huge area was coughing and getting sick. She was mortified. One of the VPs came out and told everyone to go home - evacuate! So - between the occassional pepper spray and sewage leaking down cube walls, I'd say I'm just a few steps shy of the corner office! This is all very ironic given the fact that my writing class read an essay last night by Hunter Thompson about his experiences at the Kentucky Derby in the 70s, where he sprays the drunken crowd, the "beasts," with mace.

Cheers!

It's Friday! It's a misty morning here in LA but it should burn off in a few hours. After a crazy last few weeks of preparing for presentations, traveling and just pure exhaustion, I am ready for the weekend.

On a random note: You know when you're working a bit too much when you get up from your toilet at home and wait for it to flush automatically (like the ones at work do). What's that say? On an even more random and gross note...the bathrooms at work are not working on our floor, so everyone must use the ones on the ground floor. Which is all fine and dandy, but my manager just told me she heard that there was a leakage into someones CUBE on Floor 1! Sweet Jesus! How sick is that!?

On yet another note - I am in a great mood despite the sewage issues at work. I am going through this Post Breakup Re-invent Self Mode. It's fantastic. I am writing more than ever, like the old Jo would. It's feels great to focus on myself - what I want to do, my writing class, enjoying the amazing friends I have out here, and next week: golf lessons perhaps. I told an old friend of mine that I feel just excited about LIFE. It's like I am in the best part of a movie and it got paused...so I can't wait to see what happens next. Or like a great book that I just can't put down. And in the spring - a trip to London and Croatia (my mother country!) This is my time to be me, to be selfish.

Oh, New York Part 2

Yes...oh New York. I left off at the risotto, but I believe I failed to mention yesterday's activities. After an amazing brunch in Brooklyn with Olav and Betsy, Betsy and I went to midtown to meet up with an old friend, Josh. He took the bus in from Jersey. We then headed to Ground Zero. I thought there'd be more to see, but there truly isn't much to view yet - it's a huge chunk of space left empty in the chaotic city. Although pretty empty, it did leave a lasting impression on me, just being in that area and remembering that day. It was a somber morning. We peeked into the construction area as much as we could (it was blocked off pretty well) and then strolled into St. Paul's Chapel which is located right across the street. St. Paul's acted as a sanctuary for the rescuers, families of victims and volunteers of 9/11. Inside St. Paul's you can see the posters and flyers and notes that people scattered around the city in the days following 9/11. Viewing these artifacts, you couldn't help but tear up and feel the sadness. (On a sidenote, it was pretty embarrassing when I strolled in to the church as quiet as a ghost, since that is how you are supposed to be, I thought. But then I promptly knocked over a "Caution" sign that was placed on the wet floor, creating a loud SMACK!!! noise; all eyes on Jojo, forever the klutz).

We then strolled through the financial district and eventually wound up in the East Village. We grabbed a drink at the Telephone Bar, this crazy bar filled with telephone booths (could you guess?) and British paintings. Betsy ran to catch a conference call and Josh and I made our way up to Central Park, where we strolled among the sunset-colored leaves and shade of the towering trees. To me, Central Park is Peace. I could have stayed there all day. Eventually we found ourselves at a diner in the Upper Eastside, where I drank the Tiniest Milk Shake There Ever Was and Josh inhaled an egg salad sandwich. Let's just say...not impressed. And then Josh was off for Jersey once again and I on a train bound for Brooklyn to meet up with the girls.

Today I got to play Local. Another fabulous brunch with Olav in Brooklyn (skillet french toast!) and then wandering the streets of the lower east side solo. I discovered some charming shops. I met a woman who collects old books, a man who wanted me to pick a purse that "complimented me" and "brought me up." He held my jacket while I tried on purse after purse and I felt guilty in the end for not buying on. I stumbled upon a nail salon and joined the herds of NYU ladies for a Sunday afternoon manicure. After, I met Raymond, the owner of a wine bar in the East Village. I drank a flight of high end reds at a candle lit table; he took my picture so I could remember. The wine bar itself was original, very New York, but the name was clever only in its simplicity: Wine Bar.

I enjoy New York, but I know I'm not done in LA. New York has a sense of grittiness to it, this feeling of never being done and never being clean. When it rained this weekend, I felt like I needed to shower 20 times a day. Everyone is in such a rush. No one gives a shit where you are coming from and who you are, what you are wearing. Olav gave me a great example: In LA, if someone spoke to you, one might think "Screw you." In New York, you say hi to man on the street, and he actually says, "Screw you." I do like that everyone here has a story; they have this sense of cool that I know I'll never have. It's infused in their posture, how they glance at you when you get on the F Train, the way their sneakers are worn from walking miles and miles of New York streets.

I'm not ready for New York yet, Los Angeles is it for me, for now. I think if I were to leave Los Angeles tomorrow, I would miss it very much.

I'll post pictures when I return from the east coast. Tomorrow afternoon a train will take me to Philadelphia, land of the fashionless and miserable (or, so the newspaper says). Til then.

Oh, New York

I'm sitting here in Betsy's kitchen in Brooklyn, in her historic one-bedroom pad, drinking a glass of pino while she makes mushroom risotto. She and Olav, her boyfriend, have a pretty big one bedroom place considering this is NYC. The place is ancient and amazing. Their landlord has restored the maple floors to their original look and feel, and in the lobby you can see all sorts of ornate detail in the molding and ceiling. The stairway itself is incredibly narrow and that alone makes you feel like you're walking back in time. Lugging my suitcase up that narrow passage was no fun.

Their street in Brooklyn is occupied by families and eclectic Brooklyners (what do you call people from Brooklyn?). A few blocks down, a bakery makes fresh bread daily, and the smell floats down the street, guiding you in. Random clothing stores, vintage wine shops and sidewalk cafes give this place color and personality. I like it here.

Yesterday Betsy had to work, as did Ricer, so I took the train in to Manhattan to catch Free Fridays at MoMA. The line wrapped around the building; the turnout almost made me suffocate. But the museum is neat; a great solo outing. Afterwards, I had just seated myself at a bar near Radio City Music Hall when Betsy called me and I left in a hurry to meet her in the lower east side at Barmarche for dinner. Tasty pesto mashed potatos, bistro salads and wine.

More later...time for some risotto action.

Drained

I worked 'til 2 a.m. last night and then came into the office at 7 a.m. I'm not sure how I'm standing right now. Still need to pack.

Blah. But NYC is waiting!

The Other City

Tomorrow night I am off to "the other city," just that small town they call New York. I haven't been since I was a little tyke with a fading perm and my first pair of glasses. That was the summer my aunt and uncle took my brother and I to NYC, where we took many a walking tours, and I somehow managed to have the perpetual hiccups each time. Between the hiccups and flashes of embarrassment, we managed to do the whole laundry list of touristy stuff: carriage ride through central park, climbing to the tippity top of the Statue of Liberty (what a gal!), literary walking tours, ghost walking tours, Empire State Building, nights spent at the Plaza (when it was still that classic old Plaza!)...and my hunt for my then Hollywood crush, McCauley Caulkin. If you haven't figured it out yet, I was a pretty cool kid!

But seriously, I loved it. I told my aunt that summer that I felt like I had lived there in a past life, if such a thing exists. I loved walking the streets and watching the people, looking into their eyes and wondering where they've been, where they're going.

This trip it's work that brings me out east and friends await me in a quaint home in Brooklyn, where I'll stumble in early Friday morning after my red-eye flight. I'll fall onto a blow up mattress with my friend "Ricer" to catch up on sleep, while Betsy heads off to face the advertising world in Manhattan. I know these girls are the best of old friends when I can just show up so early on a Friday morning and simply sleep for a few hours before I explore. Josh will take the train in from Jersey for an afternoon of NYC surprises and familiar talk and catching up...only this time in a NYC coffee shop, or perhaps at a street corner as we wait for the light to turn.

If you don't hear from me for a few days, assume the city has snatched me up and entwined me in one of its thousands of tales. I'll be taking my pathetic work notebook (the reason why I am now working from home at nearly midnight on my personal computer; don't get me started on that one) so perhaps I'll squeeze in a blog entry or two. After a Monday morning business meeting in Manhattan, I catch a train with Asian Equation for Philadelphia, to return to the west coast for Halloween festivities (so festive, I don't know what they are yet).

Back to some late night number crunchin' and diet coke.

Tales of the Virgin Bird

Roomie and I are hosting a pre-Thanksgiving feast at our Brentwood Chateau. By chateau I mean our tiny abode, with antique appliances and charming decor! One might refer to said feast as the Roasting of the Virgin Bird. We've never made a turkey before, but somehow we thought it'd be a great idea to cram a bunch of friends, cheap wine and some down-home cooking into a Sunday afternoon in November. Bring your own Pepto!

We're excited. If anyone has any good recipes they'd like to share, don't bother sharing them with us and just bring it, ok?

So much to be thankful for this year.

Note: Virgin Bird Feast does not occur for a few weeks but I thought I'd let the anticipation begin now. Stay tuned. A test turkey is on the way...

Fire Fire!

Check out this picture that I took this weekend from the Santa Monica pier (or rather, my brother took this picture). Can you believe that smoke?

Thank God for Girlfriends

I'll say it again: Thank God for Girlfriends. Last night was a great night in Brentwood. I treated myself to a massage (and it was a strange massage - more on that later) and came home and made myself dinner. No pity party for Jo. My friend invited me to an event for the CW Network, but I didn't feel like putting up with the Hollywood types and playing that game "Who knows the most celebrities." Also - I don't know any celebrities, so I wouldn't win. And losing is never fun. My guy friend invited me to drinks in Westwood...but I didn't want to be around new people; I just wanted to be comfortable. And as I was making dinner, I could tell Roomie and her boyfriend didn't want to leave me alone, especially when they threw out a last minute invite to a dinner party they were off to.

But I was really happy. I had a great day yesterday. As I was walking around my neighborhood I couldn't help but smile. My friend ended up coming over and we drank a bottle of wine, and later Roomie came home to help us finish another. What a simple night, and that's all I needed: to laugh with my friends, who will always be there.

But about that massage. I was told that the woman who was going to be my massage therapist, my masseuse....la Massager, if you will--that she used a combo of Swedish, deep tissue and Thai techniques. Sure, I said on the phone, I can hang with that. And it started off just great. But I guess I was unprepared for the DEPTH of her deep tissue (I feel like I lifted weights all night last night), plus...that Thai technique. I was unprepared for her to literally climb up onto the table and put nearly her whole body weight on me. Damn, that hurt. Hurt so good.

On another note, got a phone call from Grammy about The Breakup. I know I've reached some strange point in my life when Grammy calls to tell me she is praying for me and that "if a man can't commit within a year, he isn't a man!"

To change--and there will always, always be change--and to knowing who you are. To being at peace with change when life seems to unfold in the most mysterious and curious ways....

Late Schmate

My boss emailed us all last night to say that she'll be in late today...at 9 a.m. This wouldn't be unusual for a company that has business hours of 7 a.m. or even 8 a.m. But people at the Flower Shop stroll in anywhere from 8 to 10 on any given day. So what is she trying convey here: I Am Better Than You. That is what the subject line should have read. Or: My Work Ethic is Amazing. You all Suck.

The better part of it was that the guy who ALWAYS comes in at 10:30 a.m., give or take, replied all to the e-mail and told us that he'd be in late, too, at 10 a.m.

It's a beautiful day here in LaLa Land. Slept wonderfully last night. Might have to do with the fact that I actually had a comforter on my bed, rather than looking like a homeless person curled up under a bundle of random blankets...and those ugly pink fuzzy socks (but hot damn! They are warm!)

blah

I hope that wherever he is, whatever he is doing right now, I hope "Chris" is okay. I was at the mall tonight. It was the first time I was there on my own, without him. It felt awful and empty. But now I am "reprogramming" as a co-worker calls it - remaking all of my LA memories and turning them into something of my very own, ones that do not include boyfriends but good friends and just myself.

Hope he is ok.

Also..

I forgot to mention that I can listen to Britney Spears' song about "I am stronger than yesterday!" And blast Beyonce's "I'm a survivor!"

On another note, my uncles have officially dis-invited "Chris" to Thanksgiving dinner. As my brother and friends have been telling me, this is Chris' loss. As Grammy would say: That SUCKER!

Day 2

Day 2. There were no tears last night, no tears this morning. I literally cried all day at work yesterday (quite embarrassing), and was crying so much that I had to leave early. But I think I got enough tears out yesterday to last me a while, and I probably exhausted myself. I was shocked when I was able to talk to friends last night about the situation without crying. But it all comes down to one question that everyone asks: WHY?

I am not sure I’ll ever understand that. I know that we fought, but I also know it was not frequent. And everyone says things in a fight that they don’t necessarily understand or mean…but isn’t that what an argument is? Even beyond that—everyone has their bad days, when they are grouchy and say the wrong thing. Does “Chris” not understand that? My mom said something to the effect of, “Jo, if you weren’t opinionated and outspoken, you wouldn’t be YOU!” And that’s probably true. I hope Chris thought long and hard about this. He will have another relationship one day. They will fight. Hurtful things will be said. Will he be able to handle it? Someone pointed out, “If he can’t get through this, how will he ever get through a REAL problem?” I don’t know, I don’t know.

Once again, I am just so grateful that I have my friends and family, near and far, to get me through this. And despite all the tears, I’d like to point out the shards of silver lining that are emerging from this process.
1. I’ve lost a pound. Just one, I know, but it’s a pound and I still have several more days to go. Can anyone say: single and sexy? Hot JoMamma!
2. I learned how to make pizza from scratch last week at a cooking class with my Mom. Now, I can make homemade, delicious pizza. And eat it all by myself. Said pizza may add one pound.
3. I live in Young People Land (Brentwood). Young men abound—whole herds of ‘em! “Chris” lives in what I’ve heard referred to as Old People Playground. (That is true). It’s cougar country over there…he better get ready for hunting season!
4. I was going to get him a lavish birthday present. I had it all planned out. I was going to go above and beyond this year. But now I’m going to opt to buy myself an expensive coat, purse and manicure. Happy Birthday to Me!
5. Now when I go to the movies, I won’t have to argue with anyone about whether to see Transformers or a chick flick.
6. We were going to go up north next month to celebrate our three years. But now can anyone say “Vegas, baby, Vegas!”
7. Now, instead of filling up my car with gas every 2-3 weeks, I can go every 3-4 weeks. He didn’t live far, but considering that I hardly ever drive, it felt like I was crossing the Sahara to see him. An eco-friendly break up, I tell you.
8. I’m going to get my groove on. I’m going to listen to all the stations with the best jams, since “Chris” listened to the “deep stuff.” Before you know it, I’ll have braided my hair and have grown one kick-ass booty, while driving around in my low-ridin’ Acura.

And that’s all for now.

I will get through this. I will get through this.

Phone Breakup

Who breaks up with their three year girlfriend on the phone? I was feeling really crappy about this, and I do miss "Chris" a lot - but a good friend pointed out to me that if he had really cared, he would have grown a pair of balls and broken up with me in person. (Nothing like a phone call to really show you care). Second, if he has so much built up resentment toward me....that doesn't just grow in a few months. He should have said something BEFORE I picked up my things to move to LaLa Land.

I am going to hang in here and get through it. I deeply believe that everything that happens is meant to be. I am not going to just drop LA and quit because he is here. Everything in this city reminds me of him, because I went through it with him, visited it with him, experienced it with him. But I will change that. I have other people in my life who care about me deeply, and I am so grateful to have them in my life, especially at times like this. And I didn't move for a crap job, I'm here for a reason and am building my resume.

This isn't going to be easy. This may take a lot of tissues boxes. Hell, it'll take a lot of wine. But I'm going to try to look on the brighter side. Here's to new beginnings, wonderful friendships and just being grateful for what you have, each and every day.

To being single. To just being....Jo.

nightmare

I'm living a nightmare. After three years of being in love with who I thought was the guy of my dreams, he has broken up with me. I am in complete shock. I am still not completely sure of what went wrong. All I know is that I was not the person who can make him happy. I feel awful, like our history with each other was a lie.

I feel alone and empty. I know I will miss him very much. He was my best friend.

The Mondays

“I’ve got a case of the Mondays,” I declared this morning, reciting the famous line from the movie Office Space. And I did. Or so I thought. I could hardly sleep last night, tossing and turning, and a bit cold (my comforter is at the dry cleaners due to said slim fast shake spill last week) and the sky seems to be holding off on raining; there’s a morning mist in the air. And it’s a typical Monday here in the Flower Shop. It’s me and the two creative coordinators in the office. Apparently our other teammates don’t see a need to waltz in to the office until about lunch time these days. Plus, I tried for about 20 minutes, unsuccessfully, to plug in my archaic work notebook (probably one of the first versions of a notebook ever to be built) into its equally ancient docking station. On top of that, before I can even log into my computer, I receive a flood of calls about IT issues over the weekend and other problems.

It was about 30 minutes into the day, that one of the coordinators emailed me and told me: Sorry to be so crabby....I'm actually very sad. I went into the emergency with my Mom at midnight on Friday until 4:30 in the morning. She was experiencing major dizziness and a headache on top of her head. She was fearful of a stroke coming on or maybe just a side effect to the antibiotics she has been taking for a stomach virus. After four hours, the doc found "a spot" on the xray in her head. She needs to take a full MRI sometime this week with her regular doc to figure out what the heck "the spot" is. It's the size of a nickel.”

So I wrote her back and told her I feel like such a jerk for complaining about my minor problems while she was going through such a hard time. But it puts things into perspective. This is a woman who lost her father before she even graduated college. And now she is thinking the worst and is terrified of losing her mom, too. And I’m complaining about my shitty docking station.

So, I can’t complain anymore. And if you’re out there having a “case of the Mondays” maybe you shouldn’t be complaining either. A reminder: Don’t sweat the small stuff.

JoJo's Pancake House

I knew last night was a good night. I woke up this morning with an ugly pair of pink fuzzy socks on, my make up from last night slightly smeared and the stamp from the bar still holding strong on the back of my left hand. Good stuff. Last night it rained in LA. While I usually like to hole up when it rains, I had other plans.

Maryland kids and I swung down Wilshire until we reached the ocean, and then made our way through the night of Santa Monica to Main Street. I liken it to a Mill Ave back in Arizona. We grabbed dinner and drinks at the Library Alehouse (for those of you in Arizona - this Library is not like THAT library on Mill!) and then rain through the water to World Cafe for more libations.

Anyway, I made pancakes this morning. I burnt quite a few since I can't seem to handle our gas stove, but other than that, I'd call 'em tasty. Dad would be proud.

Since I get thousands of hits to this site (catch the sarcasm?), I know everyone must be wondering why I changed my blog title and background color. "Why did you do such a thing, Jo?" you might ask. "Because maybe I didn't want it to be JUST about LA," I'd answer. It bothered me, the whole "Goodnight LA" thing. Maybe I thought it was cool at first, but maybe I was trying too hard. And then every time I'd post, I'd think "Oh, man, it's got to be about LA." Now it's just about Jo, with a whole lotta LA.

Rest of the day: walk around Brentwood and work. It's a beautiful day.

Yuck!

I spilled my morning slimfast shake all over the place this morning. I was looking for my remote control....and tipped over the shake onto my:
- Nightstand
- Part of my comforter
- Down the wall behind the nightstand
- There a big chocolate-colored stain on the floor UNDER my nightstand
- And on to a variety of books and trinkets.

HAPPY FRIDAY!

Needless to say, I never did get to drink that shake, and am now at work enjoying "Bagel Friday." So much for eating well! I'll have to work on that stain later.

On an another note, it is going to rain today, which I really like, especially since I missed the monsoon season in AZ. Tonight - possibly the bars in downtown Santa Monica.

Too Cool for School

I love school. That is why I sent my resume to one of the directors of marketing at UCLA a little more than a year ago, when I was just starting my Los Angeles job search. In response to my snail-mailed letter and plea for a job, I got a phone call and a request for an interview. Nothing ever came of it then (there wasn’t really a position open) but she and I have stayed in touch, and I finally met with her this morning for a cup of coffee.

I took the winding, shady drive up Sunset Blvd, which led me through Brentwood, Bel Air and, finally, to the lush green campus in Westwood—all of these neighborhoods in just short of 10 minutes. Once again, just parking on campus and walking by students buried in their oversized sweatshirts, lugging their book bags in the early morning, gave me a thrill. I found the director in the back of a small cube-infested office and made myself at home in a chair with the fabric sliced on one end. Eventually we made our way up to a café for coffee, where I proudly whipped out my freshly updated resume.

It was a short cup of coffee. We talked for a bit, but it didn’t take her long to announce that I wouldn’t be happy with UCLA’s smaller salary scale. She also told me that many people romanticize about working in an educational environment, that she just thinks I wouldn’t be challenged there; I’d grow frustrated, bored. I thanked her honesty and after about ten more minutes, I was left to finish my coffee, still steaming, by myself.

What is it about school that people romanticize about so much? Why is there such a draw, for some, to the academic environment? Being on such a classic campus makes you feel as though you’re in a film. Everything is set just as it should be: the red brick buildings and ivy-covered walls; the manicured lawns; just being surrounded with those who possess a desire to learn. Maybe I think about school so much since I miss it. Since I’ve gotten through it, and—like anything in the past—maybe you hold on to it because you simply survived, and grew from it.

Maybe I’ll rule out working at UCLA for now, but not forever. I’ve sent that director some flowers this morning, and she’ll be getting a Christmas card from me. And an email about every six months after that.

Back in the Saddle

"Writing is the greatest, and writing the truth in particular. Your little slice of it. You've got that, and you've got your body, and I think that's it." - Michelle Tea

I realize that I haven't written in a while. In fact, an angry fan shot me an email this morning (oh, you know who you are!) begging for more. (I wish!) Well, here it is. I wish I had an excuse for not blogging, but I don't. I was in Arizona this past weekend, and that's all I've got for you. Going back to Arizona is like taking a resort vacation. In the desert, I don't worry about laundry, about cleaning, errands I need to run. There, I sleep in my old bed that smells of home, I get to snuggle with Walter and I have access to a chocolate cookie stash that rivals Mrs. Fields (I like to think my recent 5 lb. weight gain was due to all the food at work, but I think it's been concentrated on those few weekends I've come home. Thanks, Momma!)

Anyway - back to the point of this blog. I realized I needed to write more, so I figured a blog would help. And it has. But not enough...I can't even post everyday. To take things a step further, I signed up for a writing class at UCLA: Writing the Personal Essay. I think that's always been the genre bucket I fall into: personal stuff. Journaling. Essays. Random poems. Commentary. Even long-winded emails might count. The class is every Tuesday night for the next 10 weeks and I have already fallen in love with it; it's like therapy. Tonight I walked into a room of others that are like me in the sense that they share the love for this craft, but they are unlike me in so many ways: The long-haired rocker that appeared to have not taken a shower in several weeks, a songwriter, he calls himself; the graphic designer girl with the high pitched voice; the anesthesiologist that took care of wounded soldiers during Vietnam. The guy named Seth who proudly declared, "Seth loves SEX!" during the ice breaker name game. And a clinical psychologist that starts the story, yet can never finish, and who wants to tell tales of lessons she's learned....from the other side of the couch. Regardless, we're all there for the same reason, and writing about personal things - sharing those personal things - can make a person very vulnerable. I think I'm going to hear a lot of interesting things in this class, and they may not all be happy.

It felt amazing to be on campus, to have walked into that old brick building UCLA calls Royce Hall, to carry a backpack and actually write with my HAND and not with a keyboard (my hand cramped up after two paragraphs - pathetic.) It just feels great to feel inspired again. I knew that I belonged in that classroom tonight.

To writing on Tuesday nights. And getting to know yourself just a little better.

Goodnight LA.

Pass the Ketchup

Last night the Maryland Kids and I decided to check out Ketchup, the upscale, comfort food, diner-style joint located on the Sunset Strip. Of course, we refuse to admit that we wanted to go there because the ladies from one of our favorite reality TV shows (The Hills) were there on a recent episode…but that might have had something to do with the 9:00 reservation Aubrey made.

We arrived late, but were seated promptly in an upstairs corner. Our all white table was adorned with eggshell leather chairs on one side, and a sleek, smooth booth the same color on the other side. Glancing around the restaurant, you can get the color theme real fast: white and red. Red globe lights—or, shall I say “tomato-shaped”—hung from the ceiling, radiating a warm red glow. This was convenient because the Maryland Kids were tomato-red themselves after a day at Manhattan Beach; they blended. Instead of flowers on the table, clear cubes held a single tomato. I tried to convince Matt to stick it in his pocket for a Sunday afternoon snack, but I think I embarrassed him instead.

On to the food. We ordered too much. It was almost disgusting, but how often are we out at place such as Ketchup, where ladies arrive in little black dresses to inhale kobe beef sliders, rich and creamy lobster mac ‘n’ cheese and parmesan-dusted onion rings? We wanted it all. Besides the above, we orderd the Waldorf Salad (little but full of nutty flavor), the Young Chick (too plain – chicken and veggies – boring!), and thick tomato-soup and grilled cheese on marble-rye bread. The sliders were quite tasty, besides being just plain adorable—an all-American classic mini-burger. All time favorites had to be the lobster mac ‘n’ cheese, which tasted just rich and heavenly, and the tomato soup, which was still steaming even at the end of the meal.

Mondays bring half priced meals at Ketchup, so we’re sure to be back.

Ketchup
8590 Sunset Blvd.
West Hollywood, CA
www.dolcegroup.com/ketchup

C is for Change

It’s interesting to think back to two, three years ago….no, even just one year ago, and to imagine myself in Los Angeles. Now, here I am in the land of Hollywood and smog, of sunshine and traffic, in my little two-bedroom abode in the neighborhood of Brentwood, and I have to say that I feel quite at home.

It’s been nearly three months since my father and uncle spent an entire summer’s day loading up my u-haul in Scottsdale with my starter furniture and odds and ends, and now, here I am! For those of you who I have not been as in touch with as I should have been, I’ll fill you in…

I live in an older building, a charming building. I’ve decided that it has the loudest plumbing system in Los Angeles, and I wake up promptly at 6 a.m. each day when the kind neighbors above me decide to take a shower or flush the toilet. But its home, and I love it. Until the weather took a turn tonight for the cold, I’ve been keeping my bedroom window open each and every day, and in drift bit and pieces of the conversations of passersby, neighbors and cars. Patterns have started to emerge here. At night, I’ll overhear my German upstairs neighbor chatting loudly on his patio. Dusk, the Cat Lady neighbor making conversation with others on the sidewalk (she takes her cats out every day to play). And, sometimes, I’ll hear the girl who lives just over the way arguing with her boyfriend: “Don’t you KNOW how much I LOVE you? No, Don’t TALK to me!” Ah. Peace.

My roommate couldn’t be more perfect, nor could her boyfriend, who proceeded to unload my entire truck after he met me on the sidewalk outside my new place the day I moved in. They both have the pleasure of walking to work every day; he, to San Vicente and she to Wilshire. You’d be amazed at just how many people walk in Brentwood. Brentwood is like a happy little bubble, protected from the rest of the city. Everything we need is here, within a few blocks: grocery, dry cleaners, coffee shops, restaurants, hair salons—even a neighborhood bakery and dim Italian-style pizzerias. I live just short of two miles from my office. I told myself that I’d be walking to work at least several times a week, but after taking the drive through a few very “interesting” blocks just south of Brentwood, I decided against the idea and opted for the safety of my car.

I work in an office not too unlike a flower shop. It’s not unlikely that on any given day, the office will be brimming with fresh-cut flowers, unused vases and peculiar objects used in background photo shoots for flower ads. About once every other week or so, the receptionist will shout “PRODUCT!” and all of us will make way like a cattle herd toward the lobby, where trays and buckets and arrangements of flowers will be waiting to be taken home, or perhaps given away. The people are eccentric, funky, genuine and colorful in every way. The work is challenging. I can’t complain.

I hope that this blog documents my experiences as I delve into the new. This move has been like a fresh of breath air for me, and I realize now more than ever how important this time in my life will be for me. I know if I can do this here (move), I can do this anywhere. I know I will grow in Los Angeles and these experiences and memories will be looked back on for a lifetime, like a wonderful secret, something uniquely my own.

Goodnight, family, goodnight friends. Goodnight, LA.