A peek inside Jo's head

I can't help but become reflective this time of year. There is so much build up to the holidays and then in a mere few days Christmas simply passes. And now it is 35 degrees outside in Arizona and a cold wind blows across the moonlit desert and I am inside, new slippers on, trying to stay warm; thinking ahead to 2009.

If 2009 is anything like 2008, I have faith good things will happen. Although, I am a bit weary: 2009 has quite the challenge to beat this past year.

I am reflective on friendships. You can't stay in touch with everyone and in the year and a half I have been in Los Angeles I have discovered that it holds true for everyone, even myself, whom I've always prided "stays in touch with everyone." I came home for a week and a half this year, thinking what vast amounts of time that provided me, and no, in a few days I am gone. I didn't get to read all the books I wanted to read (see last post). I didn't see everyone I wanted to see. I had visions of creating another painting or charcoal drawing...nah. Running every day. Yeah, right. But I did see my best girlfriends, and I suppose that counts for something.

I thought about it, last night, as these girlfriends and I sat squished around a booth at one of the divest of dive bars in Scottsdale, a biker bar type of joint where thongs and the occasional bra hung from the ceiling. Anyway, that's where we ended up and I thought about how--although it's incredibly rare that the four of us are ever in the same room any longer--that I have had such unique experiences with these girls since moving. I have gotten to know my Chicago friend and her fiance in whole new ways, as I've come to see them a few different times and we've had the most grossly inappropriate late night conversations. Let's just put it this way...we share everything! (And I wouldn't have it any other way). My friend Lisa and I trekked to Croatia and she's come to Los Angeles three times now. We have so many memories and her loyalty shines through. Tiffany, who I thought was lost, has suddenly re-emerged from the ashes. She'll be road-tripping it back with me to Los Angeles in a few days and I'm reminded again, all over, why she was one of my first friends in Arizona.

My point is this: We are four different people and now our life experiences have taken us in separate directions. But together those experiences and our lives create a beautiful quilt, overlapping patterns and interwoven memories. These, I know, will be lifelong friendships. I am sure.

But what else am I reflecting on? What about 2009? I want this coming year to not be marked as a year of triumph or survival; not as a year of dramatic independence or bouts of faith set forth in a new city. No, this year won't be another 2008...

I want to cook more often and to cook more for others. Many of my greatest Los Angeles memories have been made in my tiny galley kitchen in Brentwood with new and old friends.

I want to make my health a greater priority. I want to join a new pilates studio so that I may go more often. I want to hike more in the green, lush, wild wonders which lie near the ocean. Drink more green tea and watch passersby and be content with just that.

I want to hammer out my LA List. There is still so much to do and time is always uncertain.

I want to keep my heart open but not allow time to waste away on the wrong person.

I want to surround myself and indulge myself in the simple pleasures in life. Plants and clean sheets and a nice glass of wine. Long walks in the afternoon. The New York Times at Peet's Coffee up the street. A luxurious afternoon of smut tivo. Sugar scrubs, museum strolls, the ocean's lullaby.

I want to travel, travel, travel.

I want to go to Omaha to see my relatives. I hardly know them. If I don't go in 2009, I'll never go.

I want to just try to be a good person.

And so, in two days, I'll embark on the six hour drive (well, sometimes 12) to Los Angeles with one of my crazy best friends. As soon as we arrive, I'll show her to the wine and then start to clean the apartment (I wasn't able to do so before I left since I was so sick). We'll go and get cheap manicures. I'll ring up the Brentwood crew. We'll eat some tasty Italian food. We'll....

Who would have thought, two years ago, that I would be ringing in 2009 in Los Angeles? Love it!

'Tis the season

Just a few days ago I was having trouble walking. It hurt to turn my head. The pain made my eyes sting with tears; my entire body hurt. I haven't been in that much pain in about 10 years. The doctor said it was just a virus and there wasn't anything they could do to help me. I wouldn't have made it home to Arizona if my friend Eric had not driven me the entire 12 hours. Are all Erics good guys? Possibly so. And it's not always 12 hours. Only when a big rig decides to fall across an interstate highway, blocking Los Angeles traffic to a mere one lane glacier crawl.

Anyway, Christmas in Arizona is just the opposite of bitter cold, but this time of year still makes me want to curl up and stay inside. My mother has been baking Croatian goodies, sugar cookies, peanut brittle, cakes, chocolate chip cookies...God knows what else. My best friends are here. My brother is home. The dog is in a great mood. Life is good.

This is my time to read by the Christmas tree or with a glass of wine. With that in mind, here's my latest book list, besides The Last Temptation of Christ, which I am still working on.

7 Habits of Highly Effective People, Stephen R. Covey. I have my Dad's version from the early 90s or late 80s, which offers an element of wisdom transcending the generations? Or maybe just the smell of an old book? Not sure. But whatever, the 7 habits haven't changed much in the last couple of decades so the message is still there.

Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway. I like the way Ernie writes. He's got a lot to say.

White Album, Joan Didion. I've read a lot of articles by Joan so I have no doubt I'll enjoy this collection of essays.

Start Your Own Business, Riva Lesonsky. It's just what it says.

Myths of the Ancient Greeks, Richard P. Martin. A topic I've been wanting to study.

Hope and I

The Hope Hygieia. Photo courtesy The Getty, Los Angeles.

My two closest work friends and I were underneath the stars, rubbernecking the buildings and city lights that surrounded us, nibbling on manchego and dainty butter cookies. I thought to myself how urban Museum Row and Miracle Mile feels at night. Los Angeles, such a fickle city, managed to surprise me once again.

We were nestled in a courtyard at LACMA at a private reception and tour of the Hearst collection and Vanity Fair exhibit. I have decided, now, that I much prefer the museums at night. Tonight, LACMA was tranquil and warm. There was something inviting about the red glow of the lights inside the onsite cafe that led us in to have some wine pre-viewing. And our tour guide was knowledgeable, personal; a wonderful story teller. Can't these receptions be every month?

All of the art was fascinating, but one piece in particular I was drawn to. The Hope Hygieia, Goddess of Health. Our guide discussed details of Roman sculpture but one comment about The Hope made me smile. Our guide said, "See how she's standing, how she looks away. It's not that she is is avoiding your eyes. She just has other things to think about."

Isn't there something lovely about that?

Me

Croatia - on the Island of Hvar.

I am outspoken and opinionated and brash but let me be shy. I will be shy if I like you.

I was told once that I duck my head just so, when I laugh, and my shoulders tighten with joy. Why dip my head to hide such a smile?

I am used to knowing the answers and being the overly confident one. Let me be unsure; let me be the Explorer. It is not that I am afraid; it’s that I adore the process of discovering the unknown.

My life is padded with friends. They catch me and enfold me; like palm fronds and grape leaves they shield me from the winds of life. They are my Light.

Don’t assume that I know. Let me be told I am beautiful because I am not always quite sure.

I care what people think but think that I don’t care. I work hard but am not always sure what I am working towards.

At night I count sheep to sleep. I count backwards sweetly, starting with 100, and then I might drift off to DreamLand sometime around 74.

Do I smile too much? Do I laugh too loud? Let me be clumsy and silly. Beneath the giggles is a brain that is addicted to the news; my mice wheel of thoughts that are never-ending and ever-dreaming.

I drink music in like caramel. I am the honey-glazed notes of a piano.

I’ve long debated whether I am a night person or a morning flower and I know now that I am one of Morning. I feel peace in the first light of day.

This is Me. I am sure.

The little things

Today

I have spread wet linen
On lavendar bushes,
I have swept rose petals
From a garden walk.
I have labeled jars of raspberry jam,
I have baked a sunshine cake;
I have embroidered a yellow duck
On a small blue frock,
I have polished andirons,
Dusted the highway,
Cut sweet peas for a black bowl,
Would the tall clock,
Pleated a lace ruffle. . .
Today
I have lived a poem.

~Ethel Romig Fuller

Sometimes I find that it's the little things that are most satisfying. I seem to have tossed my to-do list aside this weekend. I didn't run the errands I wanted to; I didn't go into the office. I laughed until my throat ran dry at my work Christmas party on Friday night. I spent a lazy Saturday morning watching television with my roommate. I hiked alone through the lush green California hills. I had drinks with Infatuation and friends. Made tomato-cream soup, sprinkled with fresh basil. I slept in 'til nearly noon on Sunday. Had an afternoon glass of wine near the ocean with friends. Started to read a new book. Folded towels; held them to my face to breathe in the lavendar.

And that's all I needed.

Serenity

Do you ever feel as though you just want a few hours alone, to clear your head, to loosen the knots that conquer your neck, your stomach?

As much of a social butterfly that I may be, today I escaped for a few hours to hike Temescal Canyon solo. I moved fast, wheezing and breathing hard up through the canyon trail. Sweat ran down my neck and dampened the back of my shirt. My body felt good to be in motion. I passed by other hikers, foreigners, couples, a man rehearsing his acting lines to himself. It was a sunshiney day, yet not bright.

When I reached the top of the ridge, it was as though a gift waited. Through the clouds that hovered over the Pacific, the sun shined down through one solitary hole in the atmosphere. The effect it had on the ocean was stunning. While most of the water was a green-gray, where the sun shone it sparkled like diamonds.

Although it's December, here in Los Angeles it's 70 degrees and gorgeous. The leaves are changing and falling but for the most part, the hiking trail is a brilliant green. One tree in particular was a cranberry-red. This photo reminds me of it (courtesy of Martin LaBar, Flickr).

Paradise.

An early morning run-in with my (ex) friend

I’m standing in the security line at Sky Harbor Airport with my bright red carry-on bag, clutching my purse in one hand and my ID and boarding pass in the other. Every minute or so, the line crawls forward, slow and steady, filled with gluttonous post-Thanksgiving travelers on their way back home. Every few feet or so, I glance back to the middle of the line. My eyes quickly scan the faces there. Nothing. I then glance further down, to the tail, eyeing the men in line; their posture, hair style. What they’re wearing.

Nope, still nothing. I do not see my ex boyfriend.

Yet I continue to look, because my sixth sense is sending off sirens. He’s here! it says. But where?

I reach the security podium as though it were a finish line. As I am handing over my ID and boarding pass, I glance to my right. And there he is, just about five feet away from me, holding out his boarding pass as well. The timing was impeccable, as though it were rehearsed.

Our stares are a mixture of shock, familiarity, knowing. His face reads, “Oh shit, I don’t believe it.” We laugh.

“I knew it!” I said, “I just KNEW it! I was looking for you.”

“I was looking for you, too. I knew it,” he said, “I got here today and something told me: Something is amuck.”

Still at the podium, a sinking feeling hits me. “Are you,” I ask, “on the 8:30 flight to LAX?”

“Yes.”

Shit.

My flustered reaction is delayed. Suddenly I am aware I’m not wearing a lot of make-up. That I’ve gained 10 pounds. I fix my shirt, smooth my hair. I wonder what he sees.

We take different security screening lines. For me, it’s not to avoid him. The line I choose is shorter and I finish first. I stand awkwardly at the end of his line and when he emerges, I blurt out, “You don’t have to sit with me on the plane, you know.”

“No, Jo, I think it’s time we catch up.” I ignore my urge to ask why he doesn’t email or call if it’s time, why wait for a serendipitous airport run-in? But I keep these thoughts to myself.

He says something about needing to use the restroom and I proceed to our gate by myself. I don’t know whether to sit or stand, so I stand. A good five minutes passes and when he finds me he asks about work. I am a few details in with my update when I tell him, “It’s hard to look at you. I’m not sure if I can.”

“Nope, let’s do this. Right here,” he says, pointing to his eyes. I start again.

And that was all. The nervousness, the awkwardness, it all washed away. It was just liked it had always been. We sit down together on the plane and trade stories about our last year, of family and traveling; of work and friends. It is surreal and familiar all at once to receive an annual update from someone that I used to talk to several times a day.

We laugh about memories. I tell him I remember the one time he ate so much ice cream at Disneyland, it was as though he was drunk. He teases me that I’ve “ruined” certain words for him, words I used often that every time he hears, he thinks of me. We banter back and forth about inside jokes, long ago locked away in velvet corners of our minds. We both are thinking of traveling to Peru next year, ironically.

I observe his face and the way he talks, and I remember. I look into his caramel-hazelnut eyes and I remember a time when that felt like a warm blanket. Now it’s looking into the face of an old friend. I see his two- or three-day unshaven face, how I used to tease him about it! I even inspect his shoes. Yes, I think he wore those when we were dating. I am a sponge, observing. Taking it all in.

But not once did I actually feel. Not once did I feel sad. Not once did I have regret. Not once did I think a wrong decision had been made.

And so, as our plane descends to Los Angeles, with scarcely five minutes left, I casually bring up what I once never thought I would say.

“So…are you…dating?” I say. Casual. Easy. “Anyone?”

He looks out the window. A long pause.

“Jo, let’s not go there.” He stares out the window. It’s a sunny day in Los Angeles. “Let’s not go there.”

“Okay.”

In LAX, things bounce back. We reach the baggage claim area, where he has to scour for his bag and I have to hop into a cab.

“Well, this was actually fun!” I can’t read his face anymore, can’t tell if he’s putting on his charm or being genuine. I choose to vote genuine.

“Yeah, me, too. I’m glad you’re doing well.” I smile. “That you’re happy.”

He gives me not one but two hugs, tight and long.

“Let’s not wait so long next time to catch up,” he says.

And then I’m off, washed away into the stream of people, swept out the door, into the city.

Later that day, I send him an email. I don’t care if he responds. I know we won’t be friends, but I send him a note anyway.

I don’t know if I ever explicitly said this, but thank you for a fantastic three years and for playing such a large part in my move to Los Angeles. I’m very grateful.

And I am.

And there were 10...

I did drinks last night with my old friends from college, at one of our old favorite drinking holes in Tempe. Of course, the group has shrunk now; there was a time when there were about 30 of us. When you could make just a few phone calls and then boatloads would show up, and we were all friends, and didn't have to ask how each other were doing because we already knew. We knew everything -- who was dating who, who was moving, who was sad at life, and so on.

And so this Thanksgiving, I let off the siren, sent an email out to the old crew, a request for their presence this Thanksgiving weekend, four years after we all graduated. I wanted to see their faces and hear their stories and see how they are. I have to ask now.

The group of 30 is no more. It was more like a group of 10 of us. We huddled close to the table and told anecdotes that began with "Remember when...?" and I marveled at the madness of it all, the passing of time, the enduring nature of change.

My friend Erik, who now lives in San Jose, grinned. I asked him if he was having a good time.

"I am!" he said. "It almost makes me want to move back here. Almost. But then I remember that all these people don't live here anymore."

And it's true. He's gone, up to the North bay, along with Arpit. Tracy's in the city. I am in Los Angeles. My brother in San Diego. Ben and Stacy have a kid now and their priorities have changed. Travis and Katie are in Virginia. Rachel and Justin are moving to Denver for the hell of it. Maren's in Chicago. Patrick and Bridget are itching to move and the right opportunity just hasn't come along yet.

Who else? Jason #2 is in Los Angeles. Derek went off a few years ago for something school related and I fail to recall his whereabouts now. The neighbor boys from college have moved back to Jersey. Brandon's in London. Other friends have ran off to New York.

These friends became restless and the world has sucked them into its wild path. They have gone off to wander and to explore and to live. We are now scattered across the planet like stars in the sky. I wonder at it all.

Despite any sadness that might accompany this wondering, I now have ski friends in Colorado. Access to London flats. Friends to ring for shenanigans in San Francisco. Blustery Chicago friends. People to celebrate the New York night.

But, yes. Erik was right. All these people don't live here anymore.

My inner compass has returned.

Have you ever felt like you had a soundtrack to your life? That you were in a movie and some mysterious, far-off director was orchestrating your story from a magical control station behind the clouds? Only you don't feel out of control. You're not resisting and pushing it away; instead, things are just falling as they should. Like the beauty and grace of a seamless domino effect, a winning hand of cards; the clarity which unravels from allowing intuition be your guide.

My date on Monday night asked me why I'm so restless. Not an easy question to answer. I tried to explain that I'm a naturally curious person. I've always been one to look for the next best thing. I'm the person who gets a great job and updates her resume a few weeks into it, just to keep my eyes open. I constantly plan for the future while rolling the past around in my mind as though it were a stress ball in hand. I don't want to wake up one day and wonder why I didn't do this and that. I don't want to settle down in one place and wonder what else there was out there to explore. I'd rather end up alone and alive and independent than with the wrong person. If I don't get what I want, I refuse to be patient. Isn't life too short to spend it waiting?

I have a way of doing things. Things just have to be done my way, in my time. I know this.

I told my date how I wanted to move to Chicago, at one point, this past spring. How I woke up one day and it felt right and within 48 hours I was on the phone with recruiters. Sending my resume to contacts in the city. Even telling my family I was going to move. Was it really what I wanted or was it a bit of a "fuck you" to my ex boyfriend? In hindsight, I think a part of me was just resisting what was naturally occurring, just because it wasn't what I ever thought I wanted. And sometimes it's hard to admit that you aren't who you thought you were. I never imagined I'd be so happy in Los Angeles. I never considered myself a California Girl. I didn't think I could truly deal with the traffic and the lame-o cupcakes. The overrated celebrity sightings, overpriced restaurants, hipsters and balmy weather that brings ants into the apartment come autumn. I guess that stubborn person within went into Resist Mode and couldn't admit it: She was and is happy.

I wasn't thinking about a lot of things. About the kneading effect the ocean has on my psyche, just knowing it's close. The amazing hole-in-the-wall cafes where servers let you dine for four-plus hours, never complaining or pushing you out the door. The fact that Angelenos go to expensive steak houses in holed-up jeans and flip flops. The gourmet burger joints and endless neighborhoods, spread far into the hills. The fact that I can drive just a few minutes from my apartment and I almost feel as though I'm on the east coast, ducking tree branches and lush foliage as I hike into the clouds. That almost every guy I've dated here can cook--not to impress me but just because he loves it. The farmers markets and the diversity. Gay, straight, Asian, black, Indian, Hispanic, who cares, everyone is just so damn interesting! I want to hear their stories. I want to know what their names mean and what they cook for the holidays and why they are the way they are.

And so tonight I came home after a long day from work. The novacaine had worn off from my dental work earlier in the day and my right side of my face simply ached. I had plans to take a former date out for his birthday, to a California cuisine joint in WeHo. I pinned my hair back and fixed my make up. I sat on the couch and watched tivo to kill time before I had to leave. I put on a pretty pink scarf. When I walked down into the garage, I could smell the oncoming rain through the ink-black night. Pulling onto Wilshire Boulevard sprinkles of water kissed my windshield and I nearly hooted. The traffic lights tonight were seldom. The song on the radio sang of waterfalls and rain and more waterfalls. And there I was, driving through it all, the world outside wet and vibrant. Smiling, thinking...

I'm right where I should be.

Warning: I might bite myself.

For some reason, I am afraid of dentists. I don’t like people coming at me with sharp tools. I don’t like the sound of the drill. I don’t like drooling and needing to swallow and being totally dependent on someone to stick a tube in my mouth to suck up my spit. I don’t like the splatter on my face when the dentist is working.

I had a cavity filled today and I am proud of myself for sticking it out. Chin up, eyes closed tight, jaw as relaxed as possible.

My face is numb and so is my tongue. That made spitting into the sink post-filling awkward. I tried to spit about five times while one of the assistants stood and watched. I kept thinking, “Why is she WATCHING me? Why doesn’t she just TURN AROUND?”

Finally, I just had to reach for a tissue and wipe my face off. The humility of it all.

Leaving the office, I texted a friend that I felt like I had down syndrome. I can’t talk properly and people smile at me in that condescending too-kind sort of way. Like they think I’m slow. Is this kind of like that experiment that they do on Dateline from time to time where skinny people put on costumes so that they know how fat people feel like? Anyway, I am sure my afternoon meetings are going to be fantastic. People will wonder who hired the me, that my company must just be filling their retard quota for 2008. I am sure I'll be poised and professional, as I randomly grope my face in hopes of catching strands of drool.

And my parents just called to talk Thanksgiving Turkey Strategy with me. I think this says it all:

Dad: Sweetheart, be careful eating lunch.

Me: Okay, Dad.

Dad: You really do have to be careful. You got to be careful about biting yourself.

Me: Yeah, Dad.

Dad: And you have to be careful about choking.

Me: Okay.

Pause.

Laughter.

24

I have no idea what made me think of doing this but I think it dawned on me last night, when I was thinking back to a certain date or memory, that I couldn’t recall the name of the guy I was with at the time. It bothered me. It dawned on me, then, that there have been many faces, now blurred, throughout my last 13 months of a single woman.

Call me a hussy. Call me a much less raunchy version of Sex in the City (okay, not raunchy at all!). Or just call me Jo (awwww). But there’ve been 24 dudes in my life in the last 13 months. That’s 1.8 guys a month. Not all have been actual dates. Some of been run-ins at the bar, late night seekers of shenanigans. But they’ve all played their part, big and small, in shaping up my last year or so. And I wouldn’t have changed this last year for anything in the world. I needed this year. This was my year. To be me. To be selfish.

So, to the 24 (Note: names may have been changed to protect the obvious and the innocent):

Peter: You tried and you’re intelligent, which I like. But when you made snooty remarks about my Maryland guy friends, you crossed the line. I need them but I don’t need you. Next!

Fish Guy: We were and still are two soldiers sleeping in the mud, my back propped up against yours.

Street: Fantastic on paper but “it” just wasn’t there. I’m glad we’re friends and occasional dinner dates. You’re a good person.

Foodie: Your tomato soup recipe is delicious. Thanks for sending me restaurant recommendations!

Aron: You’re a lot of fun to hang out with and my friend really liked you. But I don’t date cokeheads.

Long Beach: Long Beach is just too far away.

Wedding Guy: Maybe I’ll see you some time again, in Arizona or California. You’re a hoot.

Florida: Thanks for plucking me up off the floor of a bar in Santa Monica when I slipped. You’re quite the southern gent. Sorry I lost you somewhere in the Santa Monica night…

Charlie: You made the most erotic eye contact with me across the room, but when we finally went out you seemed shy and nervous. Do I scare you?

CJ: During our date, I couldn’t tell which one of us yawned more.

Jeff: You’re creepy.

Pilot: I’m happy to see that you’re happy. My curiosity has been satisfied.

Yu Dom Fok: You’re not my type. At all. But you are hilarious and I am looking forward to our dinner on Sunday!

Malibu: I think you might be gay.

Commercial Producer: Ew.

Writer: We’re better off as friends.

Vegas: I haven’t had that much fun singing songs with a random guy in a piano bar in a long time!

Investment Banker: I think you’re far too “LA” for moi. Not sure what it is…the crystals? Meditation? Hippie parents?

Halloween: You proposed to me right then and there in the bar, sliding my plastic spider Halloween ring onto my ring finger. You had no idea how old I was and sincerely thought I was 21. Thanks for that.

George: I am glad you’re back in my life in the way that you should be. I’ve missed you. You asked me once if we’ll know each other forever. Yes, always.

G: You are one of my best friends. If something were to happen, I suspect it already would have happened. I am so happy you are in my life.

Manhattan Beach Lawyer: You’re incredibly disgusting. Hire a maid.

Gym Boy: I like your Midwest roots but you’re socially awkward.

Infatuation: I am having a great time getting to know you. I hope you stick around for a while.

And so it goes

And so it goes in Brentwood. The sun is shining. It's low-70s and breezy and gorgeous outside. I slept like a baby last night and woke up to the dawn. Too early but feeling great nonetheless.

Work has been crazier than ever, but in this economy I'm happy about that. I slide through my meetings, hazelnut coffee in hand, scribbling notes and nodding and spouting out a "yes" there and a "uh huh" there. And despite the pure nuttiness (is that a word?) things are smooth and there's a sense of synergy. Good, no?

My best friend is coming to visit this weekend. Ditto with mon frere.

I'm looking forward to going home to Arizona for a long Turkey Day weekend.

I finally caved and read that tween hit vampire book, Twilight. I am going to see the movie this weekend. Should I bring garlic into the theatre with me?

I've had quite an obsession as of late with felafel pitas for lunch.

I feel like I don't have that much time to write lately and, really, not that much to say. Everything is going quite all right.

Things are...wonderful.

*Knock on formica.*

It's been a week

It's been quite the week. I've been too busy to write. I've been roasting a turkey. My roommate and I drank too much wine while we cooked last weekend and we both fell asleep on the living room floor, only to wake up at 5:30 a.m. to stagger off to our rooms. I hiked and climbed a mountain to see the pristine ocean once I reached the top. There I stood amid wild flowers and rock and looked out across the city. I shopped and read. I stayed at work until midnight one night. I took a good friend out for a belated birthday feast at one of my favorite joints in Santa Monica. I had Date #2 with Mr. Infatuation (and I'm still infatuated!). I went on an art walk in downtown Los Angeles last night where G and I ate delicious, greasy pizza and caught up on our last week. We mingled among the hipsters and slipped in and out of galleries where the art was dark and somber. We ended the night at a charming downtown bar, another favorite, sipping wine and listening to jazz, wondering to ourselves, Why don't we come here more often?

And now, here we are. Here I am. It's Friday yet again. Work has been quite chaotic this week. No turkey tonight for moi. Actually, no big plans for the weekend.

I think it's time for some Jo Time.

Infatuated

I've only had just one date with this person, but I am pretty sure he is perfect.

Perhaps I will regret these words in just a month, but in all my honesty, I am thinking them now.
Tall and dark and handsome. Sarcastic and business savvy. Independent and starting his own business. Not in the entertainment industry. Strong and athletic. Calls me out on my bullshit. Intelligent. Funny, witty. Close to his family. Inquisitive. Not an "LA Pretty Boy" but likes to camp and hike and sweat. He can cook. He's insecure and has told me why. He wants to know about my life and my career and where I am going. He's asked about my family. Successful. Direct. He says what he means. Charming and sweet.

That's what I've gathered in just a week.

This last year I've viewed dating as a chore. I can't remember all of the names, but I remember walking out my door. Lipstick on, hair perfect, mind set. Ready to interview and be interviewed (because let's just call it what it is) and ready to brush the guy off and move on to the next. And that's what I've always done.

But this guy. I have a thousand questions I want to ask him. And can't wait to ask each and every one.

I haven't felt this excited since my ex boyfriend.

And, perhaps, that's all that matters.

Office amusements

A few things occur within my office and organization that I think are strange.

People will send interoffice mail to another person even if that person sits a mere 20 feet away. It's not a shameful thing. The Equation is big on this, suggesting that I interoffice to a person's office I could easily walk to.

We are "tight on budget" but spend about $500 on Sprinkles Cupcakes for birthday and anniversary celebrations. This occurs every week or two.

Our IT team tried to change the time on our phones for daylight savings, but that task was too difficult. Now our entire voicemail system is broken and shut down. IT sends out updates about three times a day to update us on the progress (or lack of progress). I'd prefer they just leave me a voicemail once it's fixed.

My VP, a black man, heard that I was a super hero for Halloween a few years back. He told me he was, too.

What were you, which super hero?

Black Man!

Are you serious?

Yup! I had a cape and everything.

Oh.

People take the elevator to Floor 2.

We regularly interrupt important meetings to discuss food.

More to come...

Let's get one thing straight here

I've been trying to avoid saying anything but I can't keep it in.

For all of those dimwits who are saying that last night was the "best night of my life," let's clear this up: you need to get out more often; your sentiments make me gag. To the Cat Lady in my apartment complex this morning who assumes, because I am young and live in California, that I am a Democrat, who told me "Today is a new day!" this morning: Screw You. To my Facebook friend who said she no longer needs to flee the country because Obama won: get a life.

All of my vacations and weekends and wine trips and nights out with friends and family were greater moments in my life than last night. And that goes for no matter what party line I fall upon, for any winning scenario.

And to the Republicans who are mourning and touting that this is a "national tragedy": c'mon, it's not a tragedy. Stop crying, move on. It's not that big of a deal. Have a tissue.

For any person to think that one person has the power, the lever, to change this country day to night and to change the world - that is absurd, at least in this country. What about Congress? What about your city council and propositions and even just your local PTO board?

A hair-owing experience

When Roomie Deux told me about her hair chick at the Paul Mitchell School in Sherman Oaks, I was skeptical yet intrigued. As a woman who pays $200 to $250 on her hair stylist in Brentwood, the thought of paying closer to $80 was appealing.

“Did she need the instructor to help her a lot?” I asked.

“Nope, not at all,” Roomie Deux said.

“Did she seem confident? She’s not questioning herself all the time, is she?”

“Nope.”

“And you really like her? She doesn’t seem like an idiot?”

“No, Jo, she’s not an idiot.”

“Sold.”
So we made the arrangements. The girl, Liz, was due over to our place last night to cut and color both of our hair. I was up first, the guinea pig.

When Liz arrived, the first thing I noticed about her was how young she was. Baby face and her body hadn’t yet developed hips. I eyed her bag of hair tools suspiciously.

“Need help with that?”
“Uh, no…” she said, glancing from my narrowed eyes to her bag and back again.

She forgot hair foils. I sat there and made conversation with her as she cut foil from what stock I had in my pantry. I laid down a free surfboard-shaped towel I received at the Del Mar race tracks this past summer near the kitchen table and then placed a chair on top. My palms were sweaty. I felt as though I was prepping for my execution. Liz mixed color in my cereal bowls (my cereal bowls!) and I giggled nervously, making some lame comment about how the color looked like paint tubes. Who says that?

“Okay, I’m ready. Sit down.”

Who was this hussy to order me around? Suddenly, I felt the situation was getting hostile.

“I’m going to do color all over.”

“All over, huh? Do you really need to—“

“All over. Color all over,” Liz repeated.

“Yes.” I said. She was holding a brush with bleach on it, like a gun to my head. I couldn’t argue.

She was swift with the hair color. I cringed every time she pulled a chunk of hair and brushed it, prepping it. I imagined giant tiger stripes, purple tresses. Orange chunks. When she finished she told me to sit tight for a while.

“You know, my hair, it takes to color really fast,” I said.

“Just sit there for a while.”

“Okay.”

15 minutes later my roomie came home. I sat there as Liz checked my foils.

“Wow, your hair is getting way blonde!”

“Way blonde? Like white blonde? I don’t want to be white blonde!”

“Just sit there.”

“Okay.”

Pause.

“Roomie Deux? There’s a bottle of open wine on top of the bar.”

“Are you…saying you want me to pour you a glass of wine, Joanna?” Roomie Deux asked.

“Yes. Please pour me a big glass.”

Eventually I was allowed to take the color out of my hair. I couldn’t tell through all of the chemicals and junk and liquid what it looked like but Liz exclaimed over it as though it were fabulous. She applied something-or-another to my hair and told me to sit near here so my hair “doesn’t turn purple.” I poured another glass of wine and tried not to squirm.

Eventually, I was able to take out the something-or-another. Liz cut my hair and compared to the color experience, the hair cut was a breeze. I was three glasses of wine in deep then and couldn’t have cared less if she gave me a military-style buzz cut.

“Are you going to give me layers?”

“We talked about that already. Don’t you remember?”

“Yeah." Pause. "Wait...No. I don't.” Sip.

She blow-dried my hair straight and shiny and smooth. I had no mirror in front of me and I figured the damage was done. No sense in going crazy on Lizzy-Hair-Doo-Doo at this point.

“It looks so pretty!” Liz said.

“Good! Great!” Did I sound nervous? I sounded nervous. Roomie Deux shot me a warning look.

“It looks like peanut butter!” Liz said. Sweet Jesus. I didn’t want my hair to look like a jar of Skippy!

At the end, it doesn’t look bad. It looks okay. It looks good.

But it doesn’t look good enough for me to go through that again. I’ll be calling up my friendly old expensive lesbian hair lady in Brentwood in about a month. She’ll have no idea how happy I will be to see her.

Love wagon

I woke up this morning at 6:30 to hear the softness of the rain washing down the streets of Los Angeles. And—for whatever reason—I started thinking about the people in my life that I love, and I wondered if that list has some sort of capacity limit. I imagined a Love Wagon of some sort. Is there only room for a certain amount of people? As people fall off the Wagon as the years trickle by—as you lose them to traffic and accidents and tragedies and the stream of life--and others hop on for the ride, does it just even out somehow?

I wondered if there was a weight limit. I can only pull so much. I thought of emails I have to write and people I owe a call to and the minutes and the hours in a day.

I thought of friends I had in college. These people are still in my life, of course, but not in the same aspect. These friends were made for late night phone calls and shenanigans at the bars that lined Mill Avenue. They were built for barbeques and sparkling New Years Eves and quiet study sessions, just the sound of breathing and the occasional page turning of a textbook. If they called me now, if they needed me now, I will be there. But are they there for a lifetime?

Some of them are, yes.

I thought of the friends I have in my life that I without a doubt know are there for a lifetime. The girls who call me Dr. Jo and come to me for advice even when they know I may not have the answers. The ones I snuck out with in high school (out the back door, near the guest room, around the corner to the side gate). I thought of the firsts and the silliness of high school problems. Boys and dates and trying not to eat to be skinny. The looming shadow of college.

I mulled over the friends I have made in Los Angeles. Some of them, the Marylanders, I am tied to by the past. These faces that I rode the bus with in Maryland and now they have reappeared to become my neighbors in this big city. Others are purely random friends and I will be honest and admit: I love some more than others.

I wondered why.

My ex Roomie and her boyfriend, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for those people. They are of the purest sort, hearts of gold and they are lifetime friends. This I know. My friend S, it’s as though I am tied to her with a rope. She is my soulmate friend. She was made for wild nights and concerts and saki and parties.

And, last, I wondered about the guys I have loved (and I have been lucky to have loved a few). The Ex who I loved and knew it wasn’t right. The high school boyfriend that I grew up with. The one I said, “I love you” to in college and when he told me he loved me 7 months later, it was too late. Jo, think we’ll know each other forever? Maybe, maybe, I don’t know.

Maybe my love isn’t a wagon after all. Maybe it’s a giant cake. And the icing lays in crinkles and ripples and soft buttery waves, and perhaps it just all evens out in the end.

Awesomeness

Why everything is wonderful:
1) We're starting to drink at work at about 3:30. Catered Halloween fete complete with beer and wine and delicious, fattening treats!
2) I'm seeing Ray LaMontagne at the Wiltern this weekend!
3) Roomie and I roast our first turkey (stress on the "first" part) next week! We're dressing up as pilgrims and Indians, too.
4) I brought home a bundle of beautiful lilies from work last night
5) Brunch plans in WeHo this weekend, plus a hike!
6) It rained last night
7) Someone brought in pumpkin flan to my pilates class this morning
8) I don't travel anywhere (via plane) til Thanksgiving (but might hop down to San Diego to see mon frere)
9) Went to dinner last night at one of my favorite restaurants in Santa Monica with my favorite dinner date
10) Did I mentioned it rained last night!?

Apparently, I have the humor of a 60-year old man

It’s Book Club time (aka “Excusetodrinknumerousbottlesofwine night”) and the girls and I are gathered at my friend’s place in WeHo, snacking on cheese and dips and desserts in our comfy clothes and socks, curled up on couches and sprawled out across the floor. It’s gotten to the point in the night where we shift into Goof Mode and we’re all several glasses of wine in, telling stories and jokes.

“Wait! I have a joke!” I said. Everyone turns to look at me.

“Okay,” my friend says. She sorta rolls her eyes.

“No, really! I have a JOKE!” I say.

“Okay, Joanna, tell the joke,” Roomie Deux says. She might as well say: Get it over with.

“Okay, okay,” I grin, and take a breath. “There are two brooms hanging out in the closet…”

Everyone moans and laughs at the same time.

“What? It’s a great joke!”

“I know it!” Roomie Deux says. “You tell all the same jokes my Dad does. I know this.”

“You’re comparing me to your Dad? Your Dad’s jokes?”

“Well, you and him tell all the same cheesy jokes.”

Fantastic.

As we approach Thanksgiving...

Sometimes all it takes is a single email to change your perspective for the day. I logged into my work email this morning and within the hour received this:

My uncle had a heart attack last Thursday and died on his flight home from Reno…It is weird how the saying “it happens in three’s” always seems to be true…. My dad’s friend had a heart attack two weeks ago and my mom’s aunt passed away a week and a half ago.

It’s also ironic that last night on the long plane ride from the east coast back to Los Angeles I couldn’t sleep. I have a slight fear of flying so it’s not strange that as I was cruising 22,000 feet above ground that I thought about death. I brooded and ruminated the night away in my half-awake mode as I looked out into the darkness beyond my airplane window, at the lights and city streets far below that looked like electric veins, or a million little Vegas strips dotted across the land.

I thought about how we’re both stronger than we realize and vulnerable and weak, too.

I thought about how we complain about taking the stairs but shouldn’t we be grateful that we have legs that are healthy and work that we can take the stairs with?

I thought about how we love our quesadillas and our pizza and the thousand other dishes that are terrible for our bodies but when it comes down to a single moment, or a heart attack, it’s too late.

I thought about grouchy days and phone calls ended without an “I love you,” or a “Thank you,” or those simple humble words: “I’m sorry.” How silly those moments are.

In the shower this morning I towel dried myself off and thought, “I can do this myself. Isn’t that amazing?” I can move my arms and reach around my back and bend my legs--and I took note that I recognized that perhaps one day I won’t be able to. Hopefully I will be an old, old woman when and if that days comes.

I thought about how we take moments, seconds, for granted. Feeling the wind on our face, the sun on our arms. The sip of a good cup of coffee. The voice of an old friend. The kindness of a stranger.

We’re approaching the season for being thankful. For being grateful for our health and our families and our friends and the hundreds of other things that create a happy and healthy life.

Be thankful. Be kind.

Not just any guy

I'm in New York. I'm having a great time on my company's dollar, and while I'm enjoying the city (and the wine! and the food!) I'm more excited about tomorrow than anything else. Tomorrow I am seeing someone who is very special to me. I haven't seen him since I was here last year and I'm just thrilled that he can make it into the city to see me.

Nope, he's not anyone I'm dating. He's not a romantic interest in the least. Not an ex-boyfriend or business friend.

He's Josh. One of my closest and dearest friends from college.

Josh and I were best friends instantly. Like any good story, I can remember the night we met. We were both working part time at this call center at ASU our first year there. He was corny and raunchy and completely inappropriate. His hair was dyed pseudo blonde and it didn't suit his tan skin and skinny face. He made passes at me and within weeks I put an end to it. "Cut that shit out! I won't be friends with you if you keep up that crap."

And he did cut it out. And we just became the best of friends. He and I started hanging out all of the time. We'd go to see plays together and I went to watch him perform in several skits. That year, he was the only guy my overly protective boyfriend didn't mind me hanging out with. I brought him home to my parents' house several times for dinner. I helped him move. We'd find each other on campus among the crowds of people and just give each other a hug and then bitch to each other about our day. We would stroll in silence with coffee in hand, complete understanding of the others' mood.

As the years went on in college, some friends dropped in and out of my life but Josh stayed. The night I broke up with my boyfriend of nearly four years, it was Josh who I called first and foremost, before anyone else.

"It's over," I started sobbing into the phone.

"Hey, Jo. You want to come over? Sure, that's cool."

"No, it's over."

"Sure! Come over!"

"No, Josh!" I started laughing through my tears, in pure exasperation. "It's OVER. O-V-E-R. I broke up with him."

And then we both just started laughing so hard on the phone that we couldn't speak. To this day, we still joke about it.

We've spent several Valentine's Days and New Year's Eves together. He's been my surrogate boyfriend so many times I've lost count. I remember one Valentine's Day he came over to my apartment and I dyed his hair in my sink, of all things to do! We dyed it black and he dirtied all of my towels. And then we went out to dinner, just the two of us, and then to see a romantic comedy.

Josh might as well be a girlfriend to me. I would call him moaning about cramps and he'd bring me food. I once went bra shopping with him. He'd spend the night at my parents' house after dinner parties and would even put up with the dog occassionally humping his leg (sorry, Walter!).

After college he moved to Scottsdale, within a mile of me and it was often that I'd find him at our local sports bar. I'd meet him for a beer on a random week night and we'd eat greasy food and catch up on life. Things were just that simple.

He moved to Jersey just a month after I moved to Los Angeles. We don't talk nearly as often. We certainly hardly ever see each other. But we send each other random emails and texts of adoration.

"Josh, I miss you!"

"Jo, I miss you more than Britney Spears misses her hair."

And that's my Josh.

Tomorrow at 1:00 I'll be done with my business meetings. I won't check my email. I won't take phone calls. I'll be hanging with Josh.

Writers, Cessnas and Brooklyn, oh my!

I have to laugh, just in anticipation of New York. The friends I am seeing in New York are quite an eclectic bunch and I suspect good times will be had. Two of my good girlfriends are there, and the interesting thing about them is that although I went to high school with them, we didn't become close until mid-college. Another friend, from Jersey, is one of my closest and dearest friends from college, a dude. But he knows me so well and we are so close that if I could stuff him in a bridesmaid's dress one day I would.

Anyway, last time I was in New York, it was post-breakup, a year ago. My one girlfriend in the city was busy working three jobs at the time. She had just moved there a few months prior, having moved there to become a writer, brave girl. The other one was so entrenched in the advertising world at the time that she was busy that weekend with photo shoots and commercial filming. That left me to hang out with my friend's older boyfriend. We had quiet breakfasts together in Brooklyn before I would grab my coat and go off alone. I got a manicure from a Philippine woman. I exchanged business cards with the owner of a wine bar in the West Village (I hope to see him again, this trip!). I went to MoMA by myself in the rain on a Friday night. It was fabulous.

This trip will be different. The guy is coming in from Jersey on Saturday to see me. The writer girl...well, she's writing! And for none other than the New York Times, damn it! And the advertising chick is now a Publishing Chick and she's got much regular business hours. Her boyfriend is now a licensed pilot and she wrote me this morning to see if I wanted to fly this weekend.

He wants to know if you have any interest in going flying...we would have to go to Morristown, New Jersey. It takes about half a day to do. It would be in a small Cessna. Feel free to say no. He is so excited about flying in general he wants to take everyone...it is cute!

I started laughing when I read this, because I envisioned myself in a teeny Cessna flying to God-knows-where on the east coast. Of all things to do during a trip to New York! And for many, that might be unusual or seem strange, but for myself and these friends, not really.

Anyway, I don't really have plans when I am there. But I'm excited to go. And to see these friends, this eclectic, funny bunch that I love so much.

Monday Schmonday

So I’m back in Los Angeles. I was away in Phoenix for a long weekend. It was supposed to be a normal weekend but I kept adding on the days and then it just turned into one long weekend. I needed it.

I got up at 4:30 this morning to catch my flight so I’m just barely hanging in there right now. I’m buzzed from the hazelnut coffee.

It’s hard to come back to Daily Crap Grind after a nice long weekend away. It’s difficult to drive through the morning LA fog to the office where politics await and management is all jittery and anxious over profits being down. I feel like I’m in that movie Groundhog Day. I ate at the same restaurant down the street for lunch as I did last week. I ate with the same people. I ordered the same thing. I’m even having repeat conversations with The Equation.

It’s hard to focus, I won’t lie.

So I’m not.

Instead, I’m going back and forth with my friend over a business venture. (Details to come!) I booked a trip to Austin. Ever been? I haven’t. It’s been on The List for a while so it’s about time. I hear there’s good music there, good food. Heck, they even have ghost tours! Yeeee Haw!

In two days I sneak away to New York for a bit. I’ll see friends there, yes, but not until Friday. Wednesday night I’m looking forward to exploring the city solo. Perhaps a little shopping. Maybe some wine. A good book and a long walk. Thursday and Friday I’m in meetings for the most of the day but Equation and I are going to see Phantom of the Opera so that’ll be good.

Not hard to sit in the dark, eh? Excel sheets, they can’t find me there.

A letter

I wasn't sure if I wanted to write this. I didn't want to give the event weight; I didn't want it to be a significant part of me, define who I am. But I figure--it's only what I make of it. It is what it is. And it's over.

Dear Ex Boyfriend,

A year ago today I woke up in the morning feeling as though I'd been punched in the stomach. My body was having a physical reaction to the fact that we had just broken up the night before. I lost my appetite and couldn't sleep.

At the time I was preparing to go to New York for business and I was overwhelmed. Since I couldn't focus during the day, the week prior to my trip I was up 'til three in the morning each night. I felt as though I was in over my head, didn't know what I was doing--at work or in Los Angeles.

That lasted a week. It was one crappy week. That's all.

This past year is incredible to me in so many ways, and I do believe that I will hold this year sacred, forever. For many years, I had talked about all of the things I wanted to do with my life, all of the places I wanted to live and go to, where I wanted to travel and what I wanted my career to be. But I was scared, and largely because of you, I ended up in Los Angeles, finally took that leap. Thank you.

In the time since we broke up, I've been twice to Chicago and DC. I've been to Vegas, several times to San Diego, to Dallas, Philadelphia, San Francisco and, of course, back home to Phoenix often. I finally went to Croatia and crossed that one off my life list. I went wine tasting, my first time doing so without you. And now I'm preparing to go to NYC once again, just like I was doing this time last year. Only this time, I'm prepared. I know what I am doing and I am ready and confident and relaxed.

And it dawned on me, when I was driving home the other day, that Los Angeles is no longer strange to me. I know my way around. Even more, I'm a part of the community. I'm not simply a stranger in a big city. I remember driving home one night in Arizona, months and months before I moved to Los Angeles, and telling you that I was scared I was never going to find a loyal and loving group of friends in LA like the group I had in college. But I did. And now the weekend rolls around and my calendar is always full. And when I go out to the grocery store, or to a bar, or on a jog, I pass by people I know and I wave. I am a part of a neighborhood, of the city. I'm a part of a writer's community, volunteer community, professional community. My roots have taken place; when I feel like reaching out to someone, I have so many to reach out to. And for that I am grateful. Thank you.

I have done more things in Los Angeles in the way of appreciating the city and exploring its many corners than you have in your numerous years living here. I have "my hike," a trail that I love and know. I've gone to several museums and festivals and farmers markets and other events. We loved live music when we were together and I love it still and continue to discover new stages to look upon, new music to hear. I'm buying a ticket package to Pantages Theatre, going on an art walk downtown next month. I've been to the Griffith Observatory. All the things we talked about doing and never would have done, I have done and am doing. Thank you.

It felt strange to date after you, and I'll admit: I feel as though I owe the first guy I dated post-Us an apology. I was just too awkward and shy and scared and he probably didn't know what he was getting into. But now I've dated more guys than I care to name. Actually, I can't name them all because I simply can't remember them all. Only a few, I feel, have been worth my time longer than that first date, but I do know this: they have all treated me well, have been kind. There hasn't been anyone that has made me linger like you did, made me stop being so restless--but I do know that eventually there will be. And because of our years together and all the dates in the past year, I know what is worth stopping for, who is worth my time. Thank you.

A part of me wants to tell you: if you knew me now, you wouldn't know me. But of course you would know me! You always will. But I am a happier, more fulfilled, more curious and empowered Joanna. My life has rounded out in a beautiful way. I am more happy in Los Angeles than I could have ever predicted. Thank you.

I heard somewhere that the beginnings are always scary (and it was) and endings are always sad (and it was). And the middle part is always the best (and it was).

I hope you're happy and enjoying life as much as I am.

Cheers,
Jo

Baby turtles and wine

It's a good week, good week. The 10+ hours I worked this weekend has paid off and today was fabulous. My presentations for New York are done! I actually left work on time! (*gasp!*) And I am loving this fall weather we're having in Los Angeles. It felt so good tonight to be out with Roomie strolling around the B-wood, especially when my ears started to freeze and go numb. God, I love that.

We stumbled upon a baby turtle on our walk. I almost stepped on it and then literally hopped out of the way. I think I startled Roomie, but as I stepped back to reveal that there was a baby turtle in the walk way, she leaned down and said, in a baby voice, "Ohhhh. Baby TURTLE!". I told her to kick it to see if it was alive and she looked at me like I was Ultimate Asshole. But then she kicked it and we realized it was a mere lost Turtle Toy. Plastic. It was only 10 minutes later, as we're walking back to our homes, that I told her, "Not once did we stop to think that there aren't turtles roaming about Brentwood naturally. We fell for that crap."

I'm writing this as Roomie Deux and I are having our Wine and Smut TV night. I've gotten used to the way she talks to the television. The first few weeks I was thrown off, not quite sure if it was me or the Gossip Girls that she was talking to. But now, as I write and she randomly shouts at the TV and joins in the TV dialogue, it's all becoming quite like white noise to me.

We've decided to roast a turkey once a week leading up to Thanksgiving. Each time we're making different side dishes and desserts and hosting a different group of friends. The greatest thing we have in common is a love for food and recipes and mysterious kitchen gadgets. When we're in that teensy tiny kitchen, we're like two sailors on a ship. We shuffle around, spill flour on the floor, and occassionally utter a "Taste this," or a "Right behind you," or an "I got it!". We scoot back and forth and contort our bodies so that when cabinets are open above and the fridge door is open below we still manage to shuffle and shift and get the job done. It's wonderful.

I've been lucky here in Brentwood, in all aspects, but--especially--when it comes to roommates.

Get ready for the stream

of consciousness.

What can I say? Except that there's not that much to say. I have nothing to say. Riveting, I know.

The week was good. Work hard, play hard. Got my drink on Friday night with Maryland crew and others. (God, I love the Maryland Crew!) It was a fantastic night in Santa Monica. Read to kids on Saturday morning for a volunteer thing. Second graders. So adorable that I could eat 'em up. Had a dinner party tonight. I made that cream of tomato soup that Gay Date told me about. It was the best tomato soup I've ever had. Better than Spago. Not to toot my own horn or anything (Toot! Toot!) but it was just....delicious.

Yeah. Nothing much to say. It was and is a weekend of simple pleasures. Afternoon coffee and chit chat with Roomie Deux. Loungin' and workin' in the 'ole PJs. Cooking with good music and even better wine.

It's cold here now. Well...not cold, but you know. High of 60. We had a fire tonight. I wore a sweat shirt when we ran up to San Vicente at 11 for a movie.

I've been lighting lots of candles.

I'll be a witch for Halloween.

I've decided I'm addicted to yogurt and granola parfaits.

I'm good.

That's all. For now.

A perfect match

"I'm making soup tonight. I'm undecided between two recipes. One is a traditional cream based, and the other uses bell peppers to add a certain twist."

And so began my second date this weekend. I went on two dates. One went really well (the first) and I had a great time. But "well" is boring. So I'll talk about the second date.

While the second date went equally as well as the first, I am pretty sure the guy is gay. If he isn't gay, he's extremely metrosexual and--let's just face it--eventually I'll either scare him or he'll just annoy the hell out of me. It won't go anywhere.

We went to this joint by the ocean in Malibu. I have to give him points for his planning skills, because it was a great location. How can you beat this? Mid-70s, sipping mojitos on a deck overlooking the ocean, lounging on huge white seaside ottomans in the sun. At one point, we even stopped chatting for a good five minutes to admire the dolphins' swimming pattern in the water.

We talked food the entire way to Malibu. I knew, by the time the 15-minute ride was over, that it wasn't going to work but I relished in our discussion of tomato soup and summer squash. I was tickled. Knowing it wasn't going to work, I sighed and stretched my legs out from beneath my white sundress in a relaxed manner, adjusted my sunglasses and grinned. We got out of the car and I immediately pounced on his shoes--Where did you get them? I love them!--and I could tell by his facial expression that he marinated within the current of the compliment. Macy's. A 60-percent off sale. Plus, they were mismarked in price so I got an even better deal.

And there it goes. The begining of our story, a match. Only not a romantic one.

He criticized the mojitos. Normally, they crush the mint. It appears they compensated the no crushing by adding an extra handful of leaves. If you crush the leaves with your straw, Joanna, it should help. He was making grilled cheese to go with his tomato soup that night and wanted my advice. What sort of cheese do you typically use? I'm thinking swiss. He inquired after the grocery store in my neighborhood. Should I go there to pick up supplies? What do you think of it, pretty nice or no?

And all the while, I swam through the conversation in glee. I laughed and he laughed right along and I saw myself smiling back at me in my reflection within his Gucci sunglasses.

We analyzed restaurants. He went on about some French-American fusion place he went to on Friday night. I ordered the house cocktail, a gibson. And then we had poached quail eggs and...and I swam, and swam just like the dolphins in his words.

A success? I think so.

After the date, I spoke to my parents on the phone.

"Did you get a lot of work done today?" my Dad asked.

"No! I had some cocktails in Malibu and I think my date is gay, but--"

"Gay!? Why is he gay?"

"I just think he is. But nevermind about that, he's my new foodie friend."

"Jeanne!" Dad called across the house to Mom. "Hear this? Joanna went on a date with a gay guy and has a new foodie friend!"

And I couldn't be more happy about it.

The G Word

It's a cool Sunday morning in Los Angeles. The sun is out but the air is brisk and it reminds me of winters in Arizona, a sunny sort of cold.

I spoke with a close friend this morning and we said goodbye. Goodbye. We don't know how long it will be before we talk again. This person used to be my version of a live journal of sorts, my human diary, a human reservoir that could hold my outpourings of life and hope and fears and sadness and wants and dreams. A challenger and poet and Believer in the Good.

They say, "A reason, a season, a lifetime," and I have yet to discover which jar I shall categorize this friend in, years from now when I am graced with the perspective and wisdom to make that decision.

We are leaves floating in the river and I've been pulled away by one current, and my friend, another.

You are strong and mighty (like me) and you are weak and vulnerable (like me) and in those ways we are forever linked.

Distracted

Our nights here in Los Angeles have transcended, become crisp yet heavy and chilled; a cold soup, like air which hovers over a cool pond; my dog’s wet nose. Somewhere in the serene and wild desert of Arizona the temperatures might be falling to ninety-something. And there, across the great Midwest, the Indian summer is waning and wilting in Chicago; and in New York City the winds might be sweeping Manhattan and all of the people of Manhattan, like tiny flustered ants, might be clutching their pumpkin lattes in a panic.

Tonight, I’ll need a jacket. And tomorrow I’ll require an umbrella. The first storm of the fall is due to Los Angeles and it is in that rain that I’ll be slushing about; and it is indoors, warm and dry, that I’ll feel safe and content while the water splashes and pouts at the window.

It’s Friday. It’s been a strange day. I’m ready for the weekend.

Note to Fern

My brother sent me an email this morning.

Subject line: Fernando (His name for me. Don’t ask).

What’s up? You’ll never believe what happened to me last night.

I can’t, of course, tell you what happened to him last night since it is not my place to share. But I’m just sorta on Cloud 9 knowing, of all the people in the world he could tell, he decided to share his experience with me.

*grin*

The good stuff

Today is a good day.

I have time to breathe at work. I have decided to put in a load of work on a Saturday (boo) but the upside is this week has now turned into a fantastic, much less stressful week.

I got my eyes examined today in Westwood and wandered around the village area. I admit – I was looking for Dee Dee Reese’s cookie shop – but failed to find it.

My car is now squeaky clean.

Tonight I feast on tapas or gourmet Chinese food (game time decision) with one of my nearest and dearest friends here. Wine, wine!

It’s supposed to rain this weekend. I’m pretty excited about it.

The team and I at work just took an hour break to go eat Pinkberry.

Couple dates coming up.

I am sore today from pilates. Hurts to move.

Tomorrow is Friday!

Weekend plans include working, massage (courtesy of work), possible hike, afternoon cocktails at a seaside bar in Malibu, a birthday celebration in Venice and reading.

Today is a good day.

Who would you be today?

This is not my story. My foot merely swirled in this story's black waters. I brought my face close enough to this pond's edge to feel its moisture cling to my face; its heavy breath and shroud of sadness hovered near like a weeping fog.

But it didn't start like that. It began like any fantastic evening, one in which in a connection is made across a room; one in which a chorus of laughter rings true and light throughout Brentwood; one in which friends gather in a small apartment on Los Angeles' West side to share stories and tease each other and just all around live.

Roomie Deux and I hosted a fete at the Brentwood Chateau. I came home and we poured chilled white wine and cooked a feast of crab cakes and guacomole and cheese plates in the tiny galley kitchen. We had slipped past that awkward stage of small talk by then to the comfort of silence and the slicing of knives; the beautiful colliding of dishes in the sink and dirty spoons hitting a pan's edge. Outside, neighbors were arriving home from work and that salty sweet California air floated in. One of those perfect evenings licked from the bottom of summer's bowl.

Fast forward three, four hours or so. Our friends left after an evening of wine and chatting and I'm in the kitchen washing wine glasses when Roomie Deux pops in to tell me about a stranger that she met at a work event that day.

"She asked me if I am an only child," Roomie Deux started. I froze. Stopped washing dishes and turned to face her, absently putting my soapy hands on my hips.

"And?"

"And I paused. But I waited too long. She sensed that something was wrong. So I told her."

"I'm listening."

"And I think I want to hang out with her again. But I'm not sure if it's because I told her or if it's because I trust her. Or both. I don't usually tell."

And this is the part where I don't know what to say, so I say nothing. And just listen. Because when you're Roomie Deux and your 18-year old brother died when you were 20 years old, what does one say to that?

We sat in the living room. It was already nearly midnight and my eyes were tired but Roomie Deux had drifted to another place within that nostalgic, sad mind. She told me everything. How she fainted and fell down a flight of stairs when she got the phone call telling her that her brother died. How no one knows the exact day he died. How confused she is on the timing of major life events in the year after his death.

"I moved a month after he died," she said.

"In August?"

"Yeah."

"But didn't he die in February?"

"Oh. Yeah. I guess it was more than a month then."

She told me the grief her father wears on his face and holds heavy on his shoulders, each and every day. How he hasn't moved on. How all she can recall in the days following the death is her Dad playing his guitar. She didn't eat for a week. She just listened to the music. James Taylor and Joni Mitchell and the Beatles. She told me that she forgets that he's dead sometimes, that she'll be out a late night from time to time and might try to call him.

"He's dead, Roomie Deux," her friends will say.

"What!? You're joking!" and she'll laugh. "You're ridiculous."

"Roomie Deux," they'll repeat. "He's dead now."

"No. You're joking." But this time, her voice is just a bit weaker. Doubtful of her own words, reality sinking its claws into her heart.

Roomie Deux and I stayed up into the middle hours of the night, the early morning. I had work the next day, but I couldn't leave her just yet. The next morning I took off for a business trip and she to a bachelorette party. I, not knowing how to let go and not knowing the right words, wrote her an email and told her thanks for sharing with me. For letting me into that forbidden door of sadness and things rather forgotten.

She never wrote me back.

And that's okay. I still come home from work and we still cook together and we still don't have to talk. And when her iPod turns to "Sweet Baby James" by James Taylor or "Yesterday" by the Beatles--when she starts singing softly to these songs--I just listen.

And when I walk into her room to throw her mail on her bed and look at the wall to see a painting of two blond tow-headed kids, a sweet-faced young girl and a boy about two years younger, I remember.

And the next time she wants to talk until three in the morning, that's all right with me.

It's good to be back

My friend came to visit for a three-day weekend in LaLa Land and now I feel as though I must give my body at least a week to cleanse itself; detox; wash away that food and alcohol and late nights spent roaming about in Hollywood.

It's easy to be happy. It's easy to be happy here in Los Angeles, this big playground. Someone once told me, "You have to insist on happiness in life." Well, damn it! I insist!

We went out, like one big happy drunken circus, a stream of 30 of us, to a new "it spot" in Santa Monica where she met a good lot of my friends. She wore chunky heels that put her a solid foot above my short stature. She wore a vest that I despised and made embarrassingly funny jokes. Since I was so short, she leaned down to me to talk, in a baby voice--Jojo, is that you down there? How you doing, Jo? Use your big words!--as though I were a mentally challenged three-year old. But it's cool. That's what I love about this girl. She's strange and bold and doesn't give a shit what others think.

On Saturday we sat beach side in Redondo and ate fresh lobsters, red and bright and delicious. Lobster juice and bits of butter splattered on my yellow and blue sundress. She braided my hair and I sat there, just content with my toes in the sand beneath the white plastic table, sipping my chardonnay amongst the crowd of beer drinkers. Just like in college. The lone wine-o.

That night we went to a club in West Hollywood where my friend got rejected by a pirate-like fellow working the bar. Ultimate grunge (I was in horror!) but we danced to 80s tunes and the tab at the end of the night was just twenty bucks, so geesh, we can't complain.

Sunday we nursed our hangovers at the Brentwood Farmers Market. I bought avocado-cilantro hummus and fresh pita bread (better than what Roomie #1 gets at the Jew Market!). We admired the orchids, their proud pose; we tasted various dipping oils and balsamics aged 18 years; we elbowed our way in to taste organic peaches. We glowed. The sun was just there to assist.

We then went to my neighborhood bar to "watch football." Anyone who knows me knows I don't watch football. I'm the annoying girl who shows up in a cute dress to watch guys who watch football. We drank beer and made friends with other Brentwoodians before heading to Santa Monica to drink margaritas at a sidewalk bar. We stopped at the occasional shop and watched street performers display their various talents: body-twisting; ballroom dancing; soul singin'. Sucked into the eye of LA's culture storm, we popped into a gourmet cupcake shop and devoured a cupcake each on the spot, wiping sprinkles off our faces, licking chocolate frosting from our fingertips. Worth each and every ass-enlarging calorie.

A writer-actor friend invited me to watch him perform at a comedy club on Sunset. We stole a corner spot in the small room at the top of the well-known venue and, there in the candle-lit blackness, the actors tested their jokes on us. And we laughed. And laughed. And laughed. We said we'd call it an early night in Brentwood but we made friends at a bar later and before you know it, we arrived home in the late hours of night. Well, early hours of morning. Exhausted. And with the most hilarious moments captured on camera.

So easy to be happy in Los Angeles. Especially with one of your oldest friends in town.

Scribbles from Dallas

I'm in Dallas. No, no, not another trip, just a night away (one night doesn't count). I didn't even have to pack my bright red carry-on bag; instead I opted for a small duffle. Efficient. Light. *shrug*

I like Dallas. Nothing glamorous here, but good restaurants and good shopping from what I can tell. I appreciate the rolling hills and shady trees sprawled across corporate campuses.

A few things:

1) I was never a huge fan of Holiday Inn Expresses....but they give me a free cookie when I check in! So I can't complain.

2) I work with a bunch of foodies. My parents think I am a foodie but I'm convinced that 80% of Angelenos are foodies. You should hear how my team at work disects each and every meal, analyzes every recipe. Debates on what to order at dinner. It's exhausting and delicious!

3) I won't sit by The Equation on flights for business travel. Because I don't want to work. She can work. I'll be in some seat several rows away doing the air plane head bob people do when they are falling asleep.

4) One of my best friends is coming to visit Los Angeles this weekend! Agenda includes a Lobster Festival (yum!), Santa Monica Farmers Market, comedy club on Sunset, dinner in K-town, and who knows what else....yay!

5) I meet with a writers group in a few weeks...must think of something to write about...ahem.....

Night, y'all.

Life in the city

I am back in Los Angeles, yet again. I flew home last night from Chicago, thousands of miles up in the misty air, flying above canyons and mountains and tiny square homes, sprinkled across the vast Midwest like confetti on cupcakes, or stars exploded in the inky night sky. I thought of On the Road and of all of the winding and lonely roads that create the veins of the Midwest and I imagined the wind, the smell of manure. And great fields of corn sprung high and oceans wide.

I was rained out in Chicago. It’s as though the city heard my siren calling and decided to test my backbone. My friend and I made the trek for deep dish pizza but only got two blocks from her condo before my jeans were soaked up to my mid-thigh and I could hear the squish of water in my puma shoes. Drenched, we sat down at the nearest pizzeria we could find (not too hard, I suppose, in Chicago) and we shivered in the air conditioning as we ate and chatted.

The next day my umbrella broke. I had been pushing on the “open” button too hard and then the stubborn thing gave out on me. Refused to open unless I twisted it and pulled it as hard as I could. I toured Wrigley Field in the gray drizzle with a half-open umbrella, my gray sweatshirt spotted with rain, my hair pulled back against the wind.

Such is life in Chicago, I suppose.

I snoozed on the plane back to Los Angeles. I awoke after an hour or so embarrassed to find my mouth hanging open, literally, and I hoped the man next to me didn’t notice my limp face and sleepless twitches. Within the confines of the yellow-lit cabin and hum of the engine, I ached to write. I ached to travel even more and I ached for Chicago. I ached for the big wide world and all of the things I couldn’t have, didn’t yet have and didn’t even know I wanted.

But again, this morning I was launched back into Brentwood life. In my morning pilates session women more than twice my age and with insanely tight asses spoke of brunches in Westwood and tapas in Encino. I had parallel parked in the Village area and jogged to class, greeting the black lab that hovers outside our studio door with an enthusiastic grin. I was back to discussing green tea (shrink and drink!), indie films and whatnot while the morning California white-yellow light churned through the ceiling-high window panes.

Such is life in California, I suppose.

And yet, still. I still checked online ads last night for jobs both in Los Angeles and Chicago. Like poison, Chicago has worked itself once again into my veins and it's running through me now, proud and stubborn and strong.

And so it goes.

Back in Brentwood. Many dinners this week with friends, book clubs and writers groups and hiking this week in the Santa Monica Mountains, high up where I can see the ocean and wild flowers below.

Chicago, Wahoo!

Okay, so this is my fourth weekend in a row of traveling. Yesterday I thought I had lost it. I thought I was so tired and worn down that I couldn't do it. My 12-hour day at work was spent lost in an excel sheet, my brain and tired body scrambling to put together a presentation. Instead of getting stressed or pissy, I became utterly goofy and giddy and stupid. And, damn, I had FUN!

But today, I'm put together. I've made a packing list. I'm ready for the weekend, to see my friends and be in that Chicago rain. I even have a new umbrella, courtesy of a random hotel guy in DC!

Come Friday afternoon at approximately 1:00, when my business meeting is over, I am a free woman! You'll find me at a bar sipping wine or drinking beer until one of my best friends gets off work.

Wahoo, Chi-town!

The contagious glow

I sincerely hope that I am not jinxing myself by putting this out there. But...for the first time in a while, I am feeling really happy. Centered!

Not that I ever wasn't happy. I'm happy and optimistic by nature. I think I was feeling more restless, more than anything.

But yeah...things are going well. Fantastic. For the last two months or so something has shifted in my life. It's as though I was off-roading for a while. Stuck in the dirt. And now I've once again come out of the woods, dusted myself off and found the path once again, map in hand, compass in heart.

I'm sitting here at my kitchen table, totally content in my quiet apartment with a glass of wine and half-eaten bowl of pasta. Couldn't be more satisfied. And I'm about to open up an excel document and crunch out some numbers and think deep about marketing this-and-that and I'm okay with it.

I think I enjoy it.

And I just got back from a long jaunt through Brentwood with Roomie #1 and once again, I came home feeling just so happy that I met her. Reminded myself again how lucky I am, that I'd throw myself in front of a bus for her (but the LA buses don't move so fast, so it's not really that big of a sacrifice). And my ears were cold from the night, how it approaches faster now. And my feet dirty after stepping in mud to avoid a homeless dude. And I was a happy cat.

And in the last few months I've reconnected with old people in my life. Not lost, just a bit less familiar. I received such a thoughtful email from my high school boyfriend tonight. We're going to grab a drink in October together in either San Diego or Arizona, wherever I may be. And my mentor (one of them) in Colorado has invited me to her baby shower and I can almost feel her preggo glow through her emails that she writes. Her tail bone has shifted because of the way the baby is sitting; she's on bed rest; she's fat, she says. And she's glowing.

It's contagious.

And tomorrow is date Number Three with a guy I met several weeks ago. Somehow he has managed to keep up with my pace, my traveling and hectic schedule. He is tall and sarcastic and intelligent. He's not from Los Angeles and is not in the entertainment industry (huge bonus). The night we met, we argued about public transportation in LA, why the metro doesn't run through Beverly Hills. He had the nerve to call me a diva. And then, for whatever reason at the end of the night, I scribbled my cell number on a napkin. Borrowed a pen from the bartender and just wrote it down, sloppy and big. And I told him to call and handed the paper to him like I was handing over court orders.

And he never even asked for it.

Regardless, he called and I am actually excited to see him. So I'm just going to enjoy it for what it is, live in the moment.

And my pilates sessions are keeping me going. I admit that I don't see any difference in my body but I feel the difference. My teacher is a woman named Doreen. A raging liberal who appears as though she's of Indian descent. She's got an adorable black lab that lies outside the Brentwood Village studio door, enjoying the misty gray California mornings. Doreen is a pseudo actress who really wants to live in Manhattan but is now dating an actor. After 20 years in LA, she is settled. She is goofy and laughs loud and hard and I feed off her energy.

She is my morning power line.

And so, I am at home here in Brentwood. I'm anxious to be done traveling. I'm in Chicago this weekend and then that weekend after, it's mine. I will go to the farmers market and drown in fresh strawberries and remember my dad, the way he inhaled that organic peach. I will walk to the bar around the corner and reunite with the Maryland Kids. I will cook dinners and bake for my coworkers.

I will glow.

Back in the saddle

And wishing I could fall off my horse and take a nap! Work blows.

The most commonly used words at my office: "In theory," "correct" and "leverage."

Hearing "in theory" makes me just want to pull out my hair. Gag. Puke up a calculator.

A typical conversation with The Equation:

Me: So I was thinking that we should try to remarket to the customers from--

Her: Correct.

Me: But for the creative, do you prefer this ad or that one?

Her: In theory the first ad appeals to the greater demographic, but we should leverage the targeting aspect of the second ad. In theory, that would be better.

Me: Ok, sure, I will--

Her: Correct.

Correct, correct, correct! Ack!

Hello, DC. It's been a while. You look fabulous!

Dear Washington, D.C.,

I flew in last night and I couldn't have been more excited. I wanted to tell my obnoxious co-worker to shut up in the cab so that I could just be thoughtful and nostalgic; so that he could allow me that quiet time to swim and sink deep into all of our old memories. Because, don't you know? Some of the best times of my life have been spent with you.

The September night was soft as ever and the warm night air wrapped around my shoulders like a cloak. I miss these trees, that green, these historic streets. If I could, if I had the right opportunity, I might be tempted to come here, to explore you once again...

Today I slept in as much as I could, let that eastern sun come shining through my walls of windows to wake me, natural and sweet. We set up our booth at the convention center and then enjoyed a long delicious lunch at Ulah's on U and 13th. The exposed brick walls and honey-colored maple floors made me ache. Ever more, the oldies and Marvin Gaye oozing from the stereo made us sway as we ate your crab cakes, chomped on the arugula, sipped wine in the yellow September afternoon.

Tonight I will stroll your streets in the balmy and inky dark. I will see the capitol glow and I will remember. I will remember all of those wonderful weekends my parents brought me into the city to appreciate the moments, the history. I will remember the wonder I felt then. I will remember.

And next time? I won't let it go so long before I've come to see you, again. I will be back, D.C. Because you're in my blood.

Yours, always,

Jo

The men in my life

Relationships, all kinds, end for one reason or the other. Sometimes this world is just too big to make it work and before you know it, you are launched into the wide expanse of wonder this life has to offer, and there you go, off to explore and to live in another crevice. Other times it can be the dramatic obvious that kills it off, like lying and cheating, yadda yadda. And then, yet again, things might just crumble. What was once young and fresh and exciting can't stand the weight of time passing by and caves to dust, silver sand beneath feet.

So many are bruised by the past. We might leave relationships scrappy and cynical, tails between our legs.

I consider myself one of the lucky ones. I've emerged from relationships with just a scratch here and there, nothing that a bandaid can't heal. And every single guy that I've ever dated is still in my life today. Well, all except one.

A few months ago I ran into my first boyfriend from high school at a restaurant in Tempe. He didn't look different at all and it wasn't awkward, at least not on my end. He sat with me the entire meal through and a few months later when he was in California, he looked me up and invited me to dinner with his family and his current girlfriend. Weird or absurdly healthy? It was good to see him and I admit: I am really proud of him and happy that he's finally grown up.

When my most recent ex and I broke up, an ex boyfriend from college who now lives in Los Angeles shot me an email. Jo, are you okay? it read. You've got to come out with us this weekend. I have a lot of really great friends and I know they will love you. He followed up with a phone call and still calls me every couple of months to check in. He has a new girlfriend now, but occassionally I'll get a random late night call. Jo, I had so much fun with you in college. I really did. Are you dating anyone now? Why are you single? I bet the guys are all over you.

Actually, no. Not really, but thank you College Ex, for that Self Esteem Boost.

And then there is someone who I consider to be one of the closest people to me in my life, and we barely talk monthly, if that--and he now lives an ocean away. Someone who was undefinable in my college years, that mysterious gray area between Friends and Boyfriend...we still talk. I still see him when he is home. We give each other advice about everything and just simply care.

And what about all of the In Betweens and Randoms that I see when I am out and about? And it's never the awkward look away or Pretend I Don't See You. Instead, it's a big hug and we might have a drink together. We introduce each other to our friends.

These are not dates. It's platonic and pure and something deeper than the average friendship.

See, when I love you, I don't know how to let go. I'm going to love you forever in one way or another. And especially if I really, truly respect you (because that's what this really comes down to) I'm going to always be rooting for your happiness. It won't just wash away, what we had. It'll become this shiny, brilliant friendship that I will treasure for always.

Just because things didn't work out doesn't mean I scorn you and wish you ill. This is how it is, so be it.

I wouldn't have things any other way.