It was a damp and chilly Friday night, one where I spent an hour in traffic to crawl from West LA to West Hollywood, and I memorized every Jimmy Eat World lyric from their latest CD on the way to my friend's place. The original plan was to eat at an Argentine Grill, but we had to bail since I was late, and we found ourselves at a bungalow-shack off of Sana Monica Blvd. It was called "Boulevard" (not be be confused with the club "Blvd 3") and although it looked like a half bungalow-half train car on the outside, inside it welcomed you with the warmth of walnut floors, candles sparkling and the sweet tones of Marvin Gaye. I found myself singing along to these and other oldies as I pulled meat from my lemon rosemary chicken and sipped a decent merlot.
After reclaiming my car from the valet and making sure my precious Scrabble game was still safe and sound in the back seat (don't ask), the night swept us to Hollywood. Not West Hollywood, but the real Hollywood, old-school style. We were headed to hear some live music, singer-songwriter types, at a place called Hotel Cafe just south of Hollywood Blvd, in the heart of where it all used to be. Antique neon signs glowed past my window as we drove, and hipsters and musicians and gays and crazies from all different compartments of life roamed the streets and let the night guide them to wherever they wanted to go, or didn't know they were going.
I liked Hotel Cafe before I even went inside. The front doors were sealed and we must have passed at least six signs telling us to "Go around back" and "Keep going" and "Door around the corner." Waltzing inside, late to hear my friend-of-a-friend's band play, I truly felt as though entering an old ghostly hotel, with lighting reminiscent of the 40s, checkered tile floors and a dimly lit oak-countered bar, complete with a bartender with a heavy pour. I was at home, in so many ways. The singer sang on stage with a grainy voice, an echo of David Gray, and we caught the last two songs before the next band stepped up to tune their guitars. The entire place couldn't hold more than 50 fans, so when people sang you felt as though they sang with you in mind, that you were receiving a private show.
A few hours passed and a group of us decided to explore. We walked across the street to a place called Beauty, the shell of what used to be a beauty parlor in the 50s. Once again, there was the checkered floors, and lining the side of Beauty were old beauty parlor chairs and hair dryers. The walls let off peach-aqua glows, soft and retro. A rebellious looking DJ with choppy punk black hair and thick eye liner played a stream of oldies that spoke to the time the bar was in the hair cutting business. The crowd was an ecclectic mix of preppies like myself out for a night not their own, men with painted nails, the frat boys I was with and girls laughing and laughing, mouths wide open with lipstick on thick, the shade of blood. In walked a man-woman off the street. It was a "he," I knew that much, but he was 6'3" and black with the body of a dancer. He wore eye make up, had his hair in a bob and a slinky black skirt touched the skin of his knees. He strolled into Beauty like he owned the place, started feeling the music, nodding that bob of his and he danced in front of the DJ, alone, for at least an hour. The best part is that heads turned only when he first walked in, just for the briefest moment, and then he became lost in Beauty.
There was a drink special there: 10 bucks for a drink and a henna tattoo. A steal!
Next: a place called The Room (not to be confused with The Other Room in Venice). Room was jazzy and oldies combined; burgundy leather; walls of wood; dark hallways and secret corners. People grooved to the music rhythmically; women walked by with too much cleavage; my friends and I danced our way to the back, exploring and observing and just being. I ordered a glass of pinot noir here since it felt appropriate, but I was told that I looked like I was drinking from a goblet, and that I should have the wine in one hand and a turkey leg in the other. I agreed.
After this, Big Wangs. I am pretty sure this is the local VT football dive bar. It smelled of fat: fried onion rings, burgers, fries. I felt like the people in the bar went along with the greasy food--they sloshed their beer enthusiastically, took over the red-and-white checkered tables like swarms of bees and pretended not to notice the hot air that suffocated us all. We didn't stay long.
Last, a gay bar called the Spotlight. The sign was a royal blue awning with a rainbow flag. Only four of us made it in; one of the frat guys turned around at the door, stating, "Awww, dude, I can't do this!" and turned around and left. The four of us sat down and we must have been the youngest four people in that bar. It was pretty dead. Sad music radiated from a jukebox up against the wall. It seemed as though everyone in that bar was sad, so sad, and as though no one but the four of us talked to each other and laughed.
We left as fast as we came, up the gritty streets of Hollywood, through the traffic, and into the hills.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Friday, January 25, 2008
Out of the Rain
Last night the rain poured on Los Angeles, like a cold water faucet turned on full blast. The city received a bath, and I was in that bath, running with a flimsy manila folder loosely covering my hair, wearing a pea coat, letting the water soak the rims of my jeans, across Bundy to Literati Café.
I live about a quarter of a mile away and I drove.
On any other night I would have enjoyed the walk, but I had to drive when bucket loads of liquid are falling from the sky. I did have an umbrella, once, but an old friend told me he’d hold it for me and then he left it on a subway in New York City. I wonder who is holding that umbrella now, whether some businessman picked it up to shield himself from the forces beyond his control; or if a homeless woman named Wanda has that umbrella to do the same, and then perhaps she uses it as a weapon from time to time, when in need.
If I had to choose, I hope Wanda has my umbrella.
Back to Literati Café. I ducked inside and was frazzled. I don’t like feeling that way. I felt as though my hair was a bee hive, a windswept craze, matted like a wet cat, perhaps. I wiped a few droplets from my face and found what I was seeking: my writers group.
Why spend 500 bucks on a class at UCLA when I have these guys to keep me in line? (Okay, I would very much like to spend 500 bucks on another class at UCLA but with Croatia, I realized I can’t have it all…) But still, this will do the trick for me. I ordered a hot chocolate that arrived in a cup about the size of my head, and I drank every last drop, and I loved it.
Beyond the hot chocolate, we actually did discuss writing. These writer friends are thoughtful in nature and in critique. They bring up valid points and through their stories I am once again experiencing other parts of the world and life that I would otherwise not understand: saying the wrong thing and regretting it for a lifetime; the frustrations of being a teacher; coming of age stories of just wanting to understand who you are at any given time. I enjoyed the moments and will let their feedback brew for a bit before I edit my work.
We meet again in five weeks.
Moving on….I received an unexpected delight in my inbox this morning from a co-worker, just a nice thought to receive on Friday, but these words would have made any day just a bit sweeter. This co-worker has caught a glimpse of my glow; she sees how happy I am. This is what she said:
It's true what they say when you do things for your self, feeding your soul, you are at your happiest. I'd have to say, you are doing an excellent job of that and totally independent of a man. Far too often women seek that in someone else.
It's true, it's true.
I live about a quarter of a mile away and I drove.
On any other night I would have enjoyed the walk, but I had to drive when bucket loads of liquid are falling from the sky. I did have an umbrella, once, but an old friend told me he’d hold it for me and then he left it on a subway in New York City. I wonder who is holding that umbrella now, whether some businessman picked it up to shield himself from the forces beyond his control; or if a homeless woman named Wanda has that umbrella to do the same, and then perhaps she uses it as a weapon from time to time, when in need.
If I had to choose, I hope Wanda has my umbrella.
Back to Literati Café. I ducked inside and was frazzled. I don’t like feeling that way. I felt as though my hair was a bee hive, a windswept craze, matted like a wet cat, perhaps. I wiped a few droplets from my face and found what I was seeking: my writers group.
Why spend 500 bucks on a class at UCLA when I have these guys to keep me in line? (Okay, I would very much like to spend 500 bucks on another class at UCLA but with Croatia, I realized I can’t have it all…) But still, this will do the trick for me. I ordered a hot chocolate that arrived in a cup about the size of my head, and I drank every last drop, and I loved it.
Beyond the hot chocolate, we actually did discuss writing. These writer friends are thoughtful in nature and in critique. They bring up valid points and through their stories I am once again experiencing other parts of the world and life that I would otherwise not understand: saying the wrong thing and regretting it for a lifetime; the frustrations of being a teacher; coming of age stories of just wanting to understand who you are at any given time. I enjoyed the moments and will let their feedback brew for a bit before I edit my work.
We meet again in five weeks.
Moving on….I received an unexpected delight in my inbox this morning from a co-worker, just a nice thought to receive on Friday, but these words would have made any day just a bit sweeter. This co-worker has caught a glimpse of my glow; she sees how happy I am. This is what she said:
It's true what they say when you do things for your self, feeding your soul, you are at your happiest. I'd have to say, you are doing an excellent job of that and totally independent of a man. Far too often women seek that in someone else.
It's true, it's true.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Say it With Me: CROW. A. SHA.
Croatia, you fools!
It's BOOKED! This is huge. I am filled with glee right now (and lots of wine). Lisa and I finally booked. Rather than just talking about this trip over dinners or casual emails, or dreaming about it and wishing for it, we're DOING it.
But it took a while.
It's raining in Los Angeles, so much for those sunny days. I decided to pack up my stuff at work and take things home, where I could work from the comfort of my desk (kitchen table), with a homecooked mean (pasta) and lots of good cheer (cheap wine). Lisa and I made a phone date to discuss the booking of tickets.
Keep in mind we haven't really researched yet. But we're very much excited and confident that we made the right choices!
We're flying in and out of Dubrovnik, the quaint town by the sea. The one we dreamed of. The one where we splash with fish all day in clear white-blue waters, where it's a requirement to be hot to be a kayak instructor. The dream where we actually dip our toes in to that pond and kayak. Where we eat fish at night, drink a lot of wine and mingle with the locals. The dream where they see my last name on my American Express and give me a nod of respect, like "Man, this girl is LOCAL. She's CROATIAN." The dream where we have tan cheeks and brown arms from laying out all day, and when we're not in the waters we're in sundresses oooohing and ahhhhing at it all.
We've got much to do. We now have to figure out how to get from Dubrovnik to Zagreb or wherever the heck we decide we want to roam.
Eh, details.
It's BOOKED! This is huge. I am filled with glee right now (and lots of wine). Lisa and I finally booked. Rather than just talking about this trip over dinners or casual emails, or dreaming about it and wishing for it, we're DOING it.
But it took a while.
It's raining in Los Angeles, so much for those sunny days. I decided to pack up my stuff at work and take things home, where I could work from the comfort of my desk (kitchen table), with a homecooked mean (pasta) and lots of good cheer (cheap wine). Lisa and I made a phone date to discuss the booking of tickets.
Keep in mind we haven't really researched yet. But we're very much excited and confident that we made the right choices!
We're flying in and out of Dubrovnik, the quaint town by the sea. The one we dreamed of. The one where we splash with fish all day in clear white-blue waters, where it's a requirement to be hot to be a kayak instructor. The dream where we actually dip our toes in to that pond and kayak. Where we eat fish at night, drink a lot of wine and mingle with the locals. The dream where they see my last name on my American Express and give me a nod of respect, like "Man, this girl is LOCAL. She's CROATIAN." The dream where we have tan cheeks and brown arms from laying out all day, and when we're not in the waters we're in sundresses oooohing and ahhhhing at it all.
We've got much to do. We now have to figure out how to get from Dubrovnik to Zagreb or wherever the heck we decide we want to roam.
Eh, details.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Joanna: The 2006 Model
I wanted to write tonight, I wanted to let words spill out onto this screen, or page, or notebook or napkin, back of receipt, whatever. Seeking inspiration, I opened up my word documents on my notebook (for those of you non-technies, notebook = notebook computer). I briefly read some old poems and essays and random assortments of thoughts; stories and dreams and old cover letters and past resume versions. I dumped tons of old work documents (I seemed to have blocked from my brain the amount of hours I'd work and write for work from home!).
But I found something that interested me, a document titled "2006 Goals." I'm sort of embarrassed that I'm even sharing this. It'd be one thing if it was a journal entry from fourth grade...but this is just two years ago, and it's looking pretty lame. Check it out:
1. Take the GMAT exam & pass; be satisfied with the score.
Okay. I wasn't even confident in my ability to pass let alone get a good score. Mom, if you're out there reading this, hold a big "L" to your forehead and say it with me: LOSER! And who says, "Be satisfied with the score?" Would I say it in a British accent as I sip my tea?
2. Take a new class. An art class, pottery, French, etc. Try something new.
Done, done, done. Always done.
3. Become more physically active, on a regular basis.
Ha! All I can do is laugh.
4. Write a personal mission statement.
This one almost concerns me the most. Where the hell did I come up with this shit? What business book was I reading? Who was I fooling? Did I write this after I came home from a good happy hour? Did I just have an unusually good day at work? Either way, I'm concerned that my 24 year old self was into mission statements instead of one night stands.
5. Try to be less judgmental of others, but rather focus on how I can change and become a better person.
Ha! All I can do is laugh.
6. Achieve balance in life.
Dunzo.
But I found something that interested me, a document titled "2006 Goals." I'm sort of embarrassed that I'm even sharing this. It'd be one thing if it was a journal entry from fourth grade...but this is just two years ago, and it's looking pretty lame. Check it out:
1. Take the GMAT exam & pass; be satisfied with the score.
Okay. I wasn't even confident in my ability to pass let alone get a good score. Mom, if you're out there reading this, hold a big "L" to your forehead and say it with me: LOSER! And who says, "Be satisfied with the score?" Would I say it in a British accent as I sip my tea?
2. Take a new class. An art class, pottery, French, etc. Try something new.
Done, done, done. Always done.
3. Become more physically active, on a regular basis.
Ha! All I can do is laugh.
4. Write a personal mission statement.
This one almost concerns me the most. Where the hell did I come up with this shit? What business book was I reading? Who was I fooling? Did I write this after I came home from a good happy hour? Did I just have an unusually good day at work? Either way, I'm concerned that my 24 year old self was into mission statements instead of one night stands.
5. Try to be less judgmental of others, but rather focus on how I can change and become a better person.
Ha! All I can do is laugh.
6. Achieve balance in life.
Dunzo.
Monday, January 21, 2008
I'm Nixing Nic's!
Sometimes I wonder what I am doing. Saturday night was one of those nights. I put on a little black dress, made myself a vodka concoction and then strolled over to the Maryland apartment for the evening's festivities: a dinner party at Nic's in Beverly Hills.
Nic's is known for its martinis, supposedly the best in Los Angeles, but who knows how objective that rating is, or if Nic's advertised in the magazine that gave them such praise. They are also known for worldly cuisine and extravagant ambiance: over sized chandeliers, walls painted in candy-colored stripes and other such peculiarities. They also have something called a VodBox: essentially a glass-walled walk-in freezer where they house tons of vodka. They give tours of this freezer and offer the ladies fur coats to fend off the 20 degree chill, or however cold it is. We never made it to the freezer (strange to say!) but I'm not sure if I'd be the best vodka taster, so that was okay with me. I'd probably embarrass myself by giving my best Russian impression.
I liked the scene at Nic's. I thought it was charming and cozy and warm and inviting, all the things it should be. The stripes on the walls weren't obnoxious like I envisioned them to be; even the fat orange ones were of a subdued hue. Their martini list was extensive, but I am not a martini whiz. My pomegranate martini, or "Pomegraniting" was delicious, but I'll admit: what do I know? I don't order martinis often when standing in a bar, because I'll be the first one to spill it--the glasses are such an awkward design, and require balance and a clear head. Wine suits me fine.
I wasn't impressed with the service or the food. A friend of mine ordered soup and a sandwich and the sandwich was literally the size of a single bite (teeniest little sandwich I ever did see, but it was in fact a sandwich: two pieces of bread with a dab of cheese in the middle). We took a picture, and if I had that image, I'd post it here to show you. It was one bite. That means I'd need to order about 20 sandwiches to fill my tummy and feel sort of full. No wonder those Beverly Hills women are so skinny...they must eat at Nic's. My monkfish (yes, monkfish) was just okay. I'm indifferent to it. A flaky butter fish or tender halibut would have done just fine. Maryland kids ordered ahi but it came with potato chips, which I found odd. The menu mentioned something about roasted potatoes...
But the music almost made up for the night. A live band filled a large portion of the bar with the sweet sounds of jazz-rock fusion. The music might make Nic's worthy of a return visit, but only for a drink...
Nights like Nic's makes me wonder what type of person I am. I enjoy life's luxuries, but sometimes I feel I'm kidding myself and am most at home in the chaos of our local dive bar, where I'll become best friends with whomever is sitting near me that night, can be wearing something far warmer than a dress and meet a normal guy. Not those ones who look prettier than I, with hair with too much gel, waxed eyebrows and expensive shirts that make me want to ask what cup size they are.
Nic's is known for its martinis, supposedly the best in Los Angeles, but who knows how objective that rating is, or if Nic's advertised in the magazine that gave them such praise. They are also known for worldly cuisine and extravagant ambiance: over sized chandeliers, walls painted in candy-colored stripes and other such peculiarities. They also have something called a VodBox: essentially a glass-walled walk-in freezer where they house tons of vodka. They give tours of this freezer and offer the ladies fur coats to fend off the 20 degree chill, or however cold it is. We never made it to the freezer (strange to say!) but I'm not sure if I'd be the best vodka taster, so that was okay with me. I'd probably embarrass myself by giving my best Russian impression.
I liked the scene at Nic's. I thought it was charming and cozy and warm and inviting, all the things it should be. The stripes on the walls weren't obnoxious like I envisioned them to be; even the fat orange ones were of a subdued hue. Their martini list was extensive, but I am not a martini whiz. My pomegranate martini, or "Pomegraniting" was delicious, but I'll admit: what do I know? I don't order martinis often when standing in a bar, because I'll be the first one to spill it--the glasses are such an awkward design, and require balance and a clear head. Wine suits me fine.
I wasn't impressed with the service or the food. A friend of mine ordered soup and a sandwich and the sandwich was literally the size of a single bite (teeniest little sandwich I ever did see, but it was in fact a sandwich: two pieces of bread with a dab of cheese in the middle). We took a picture, and if I had that image, I'd post it here to show you. It was one bite. That means I'd need to order about 20 sandwiches to fill my tummy and feel sort of full. No wonder those Beverly Hills women are so skinny...they must eat at Nic's. My monkfish (yes, monkfish) was just okay. I'm indifferent to it. A flaky butter fish or tender halibut would have done just fine. Maryland kids ordered ahi but it came with potato chips, which I found odd. The menu mentioned something about roasted potatoes...
But the music almost made up for the night. A live band filled a large portion of the bar with the sweet sounds of jazz-rock fusion. The music might make Nic's worthy of a return visit, but only for a drink...
Nights like Nic's makes me wonder what type of person I am. I enjoy life's luxuries, but sometimes I feel I'm kidding myself and am most at home in the chaos of our local dive bar, where I'll become best friends with whomever is sitting near me that night, can be wearing something far warmer than a dress and meet a normal guy. Not those ones who look prettier than I, with hair with too much gel, waxed eyebrows and expensive shirts that make me want to ask what cup size they are.
Friday, January 18, 2008
Croatia Bound
All signs point to Croatia.
Ever since The Breakup, things in my life have been pointing to Croatia. Lisa and I need to book our tickets ASAP before life whips us up in its big mixing bowl and we get drowned in the mixture of work and parties and vacation days and money lost.
I was invited to a big writer's benefit next week for a Los Angeles organization that mentors teenage girls and holds writing workshops for them (yup, I'm signing up!). The writer of Juno was supposed to be there and several other cool people whose names I offhand don't know. But that's not the point. Ironically, that same night, my writer's group is scheduled to meet and since I'm the one that started the group, I can't bail now.
So I walked into this woman's office today to kindly return the nice printed cocktail party invitation, and she asked me where I'm from. I thought she was going to say I have a bit of an accent, as I've been told. (My doctor told me I have a twang. Not sure if I like that word...twang). But she asked about my skin, instead, telling me it's beautiful. Am I from the midwest, she asked. Nope. But where? I told her I'm CROATIAN and she immediately agreed and understood and said, "Yes, yes, I can see that now..." and other such things.
She spent a month there last year. She said she kayaked every day. The waters are clear and blue, the people are kind (English is their second language, French their first...good think I speak French...er, used to!). She said she found rooms ranging from $20 to $50 a night; that she's never seen a place more beautiful than Croatia, even Italy and Greece. I told her London was on our agenda too but she said, "Oh, skip London! Stay in Croatia!" She showed me images of her trip, of the islands and white sands and drool-worthy tan and hard-bodied kayak instructors.
We're booking the trip. This weekend. Mother Country, get ready for JoMamma!
Ever since The Breakup, things in my life have been pointing to Croatia. Lisa and I need to book our tickets ASAP before life whips us up in its big mixing bowl and we get drowned in the mixture of work and parties and vacation days and money lost.
I was invited to a big writer's benefit next week for a Los Angeles organization that mentors teenage girls and holds writing workshops for them (yup, I'm signing up!). The writer of Juno was supposed to be there and several other cool people whose names I offhand don't know. But that's not the point. Ironically, that same night, my writer's group is scheduled to meet and since I'm the one that started the group, I can't bail now.
So I walked into this woman's office today to kindly return the nice printed cocktail party invitation, and she asked me where I'm from. I thought she was going to say I have a bit of an accent, as I've been told. (My doctor told me I have a twang. Not sure if I like that word...twang). But she asked about my skin, instead, telling me it's beautiful. Am I from the midwest, she asked. Nope. But where? I told her I'm CROATIAN and she immediately agreed and understood and said, "Yes, yes, I can see that now..." and other such things.
She spent a month there last year. She said she kayaked every day. The waters are clear and blue, the people are kind (English is their second language, French their first...good think I speak French...er, used to!). She said she found rooms ranging from $20 to $50 a night; that she's never seen a place more beautiful than Croatia, even Italy and Greece. I told her London was on our agenda too but she said, "Oh, skip London! Stay in Croatia!" She showed me images of her trip, of the islands and white sands and drool-worthy tan and hard-bodied kayak instructors.
We're booking the trip. This weekend. Mother Country, get ready for JoMamma!
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Is it still a potluck if almost all the food is catered?
It’s fascinating what food can do to people’s moods and attitudes and amicability.
We had our International Potluck (IP) today. Or, as the Japanese might say: Happy Food Fun Time Yeah! It was a classic Office Space moment around 10:30 a.m. when K-Dizzle the Receptionist (name changed so that he may remain anonymous) and I were in a tizzy. We examined the IP sign-up sheet and noticed that out of about 50 people, only eight or so signed up to bring food, and it was all desserts. I ran my finger down the list and found my name: Joanna – Baklava or something sort of Eastern European, it read. “Ha! Well, that’s a joke! I’m not bringing no baklava!” I also snapped my fingers when I said this and ended it with a “hmmm hmmm.”
To compensate for lack of food, we catered in sandwiches, so many damn sandwiches! We also ordered a huge salad, fruit platters, pizza, fried chicken. The food was arranged neatly on a huge table in the center of the office. At some point I commented that it looked a lot nicer than our old potluck (the one where I choked up half my food), and a co-worker said, “That’s because it’s all been bought. I ain’t eating no food from people’s HOUSES.”
But even more interesting was what happened when K-Dizzle announced in a sing-song voice, “Okay, children, it’s lunch time! I say, LUNCH IS SERVED!” Many little heads popped up, like little gophers peering shyly from their cube caves. People of all different sizes and colors and backgrounds started slobbering, like starved wolves, and gathered around that big table, so overloaded with food and goodies and wonderful smells.
And suddenly we were all friends. The Web nerds started talking to the writers. The strategy team joked with the designers. People started caring about one another. It was like world peace had occurred in our little corner of the office. I heard comments like:
“Hey Bob, those Swedish meatballs were delightful!” and
“I saw your presentation last week, it was wonderful, I really need to think about…” and
“Shirley, have you lost weight?”
As I was gnawing on a piece of fried chicken, someone asked me where I live. I thought, You know my name? and put a protective hand around my red velvet cupcake before I answered.
Hours went by. The office became a sort of screwed up, cracked out playground. People were giddy over the sugar, the decadence of it all. I felt like I was in some lame musical, and wondered who was going to bust out in song first.
Projects became fun. I tried to figure out a problem with a Web site with some co-workers and someone asked me why the problem occurred. Nearly drunk with sugar, I replied, “Why is the sky blue?” I turned to the Web coordinator for a response, and she replied, just as intoxicated with sugar-love, “Why is fat hanging over my jeans right now?” And then we just went on and on with the silly drunk whys. Why?
People ate fruit tarts into the late afternoon hours. Like chimps on a scavenger hunt, I saw the Webbies sneak over to steal an extra chocolate chip cookie. Others moaned in delight over the toffee pudding cake.
Little acts of kindness occurred. I noted them all, stealth-like, from the safety of my corner. I saw someone lend someone socks for the gym. Their SOCKS! “Take them! They’re clean!” I offered to cover a meeting, a meeting so boring that it makes me want to stick pens in my eyeballs! A designer scrambled to fix an error with a smile, “No problem!”
Tomorrow, perhaps, things will go back to normal, but today it was a whimsical carnival of food and thought and cheer.
We had our International Potluck (IP) today. Or, as the Japanese might say: Happy Food Fun Time Yeah! It was a classic Office Space moment around 10:30 a.m. when K-Dizzle the Receptionist (name changed so that he may remain anonymous) and I were in a tizzy. We examined the IP sign-up sheet and noticed that out of about 50 people, only eight or so signed up to bring food, and it was all desserts. I ran my finger down the list and found my name: Joanna – Baklava or something sort of Eastern European, it read. “Ha! Well, that’s a joke! I’m not bringing no baklava!” I also snapped my fingers when I said this and ended it with a “hmmm hmmm.”
To compensate for lack of food, we catered in sandwiches, so many damn sandwiches! We also ordered a huge salad, fruit platters, pizza, fried chicken. The food was arranged neatly on a huge table in the center of the office. At some point I commented that it looked a lot nicer than our old potluck (the one where I choked up half my food), and a co-worker said, “That’s because it’s all been bought. I ain’t eating no food from people’s HOUSES.”
But even more interesting was what happened when K-Dizzle announced in a sing-song voice, “Okay, children, it’s lunch time! I say, LUNCH IS SERVED!” Many little heads popped up, like little gophers peering shyly from their cube caves. People of all different sizes and colors and backgrounds started slobbering, like starved wolves, and gathered around that big table, so overloaded with food and goodies and wonderful smells.
And suddenly we were all friends. The Web nerds started talking to the writers. The strategy team joked with the designers. People started caring about one another. It was like world peace had occurred in our little corner of the office. I heard comments like:
“Hey Bob, those Swedish meatballs were delightful!” and
“I saw your presentation last week, it was wonderful, I really need to think about…” and
“Shirley, have you lost weight?”
As I was gnawing on a piece of fried chicken, someone asked me where I live. I thought, You know my name? and put a protective hand around my red velvet cupcake before I answered.
Hours went by. The office became a sort of screwed up, cracked out playground. People were giddy over the sugar, the decadence of it all. I felt like I was in some lame musical, and wondered who was going to bust out in song first.
Projects became fun. I tried to figure out a problem with a Web site with some co-workers and someone asked me why the problem occurred. Nearly drunk with sugar, I replied, “Why is the sky blue?” I turned to the Web coordinator for a response, and she replied, just as intoxicated with sugar-love, “Why is fat hanging over my jeans right now?” And then we just went on and on with the silly drunk whys. Why?
People ate fruit tarts into the late afternoon hours. Like chimps on a scavenger hunt, I saw the Webbies sneak over to steal an extra chocolate chip cookie. Others moaned in delight over the toffee pudding cake.
Little acts of kindness occurred. I noted them all, stealth-like, from the safety of my corner. I saw someone lend someone socks for the gym. Their SOCKS! “Take them! They’re clean!” I offered to cover a meeting, a meeting so boring that it makes me want to stick pens in my eyeballs! A designer scrambled to fix an error with a smile, “No problem!”
Tomorrow, perhaps, things will go back to normal, but today it was a whimsical carnival of food and thought and cheer.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
The Other Stairs
This weekend I decided to check out the Santa Monica Stairs, or "The Stairs." I wanted to get some exercise and find out what the big deal was. People here talk about these stairs like I should put 'em on my LA To-Do List. Read about the stairs here.
I was not impressed. I actually started chuckling (yes, chuckling, not to be confused with laughing) to myself in my car as I parked on the one-way street that marks the top of The Stairs. Not only is it difficult to find parking (that's where my parallel parking skills came in handy), but I wanted to post a sign, scream...perhaps even picket; I wanted to tell everyone on those stairs, "Hey, buddy, did you know that there are other stairs in Los Angeles?" I am not sure what Stair Committee chose this certain flight as THE stairs for LA, but now it's become so much hype, such a meat market, that I'm sure it'll be that way for many years to come.
What The Stairs did offer was a great view overlooking the hills of Santa Monica and the ocean (click for a larger view):
I was not impressed. I actually started chuckling (yes, chuckling, not to be confused with laughing) to myself in my car as I parked on the one-way street that marks the top of The Stairs. Not only is it difficult to find parking (that's where my parallel parking skills came in handy), but I wanted to post a sign, scream...perhaps even picket; I wanted to tell everyone on those stairs, "Hey, buddy, did you know that there are other stairs in Los Angeles?" I am not sure what Stair Committee chose this certain flight as THE stairs for LA, but now it's become so much hype, such a meat market, that I'm sure it'll be that way for many years to come.
What The Stairs did offer was a great view overlooking the hills of Santa Monica and the ocean (click for a larger view):
After my less than enthusiastic intro to The Stairs, I went to the Santa Monica beach. I walked along Ocean Blvd and I found Another Set of Stairs that leads down to the sand, at the intersection of Montana and Ocean. Another Set of Stairs offered a crystal clear view of the water, and it seems like no one really knows about Another Set of Stairs, because they weren't crowded at all, were just as long and worthy as The Stairs, and probably wider. I wonder if Another Set ever feels lonely sometimes, perhaps second best?
I walked along the water for more than two hours, just thinking and feeling the sun on my face. I expected the sand to be filled with dots of sunbathers, but there were just a few, though the day offered pristine beach weather. Families on bicycles rode past me, with neon hats and tourist grins. Two teenagers dug in the sand, seeking treasure. On the Santa Monica Pier I heard the giddy screams of those riding the roller coaster, the scent of pretzels and funnel cakes hovered in the air. A team of street hockey players rested on benches, water in hand. Couples walked the beach lazy-like; toddlers let the waves kiss their toes and splash at their bottoms.
By the time I felt the sun start to sting my cheeks, my legs were tired. I climbed Another Set of Stairs, bid farewell and roamed my way back to Brentwood.
It was a perfect afternoon.
I walked along the water for more than two hours, just thinking and feeling the sun on my face. I expected the sand to be filled with dots of sunbathers, but there were just a few, though the day offered pristine beach weather. Families on bicycles rode past me, with neon hats and tourist grins. Two teenagers dug in the sand, seeking treasure. On the Santa Monica Pier I heard the giddy screams of those riding the roller coaster, the scent of pretzels and funnel cakes hovered in the air. A team of street hockey players rested on benches, water in hand. Couples walked the beach lazy-like; toddlers let the waves kiss their toes and splash at their bottoms.
By the time I felt the sun start to sting my cheeks, my legs were tired. I climbed Another Set of Stairs, bid farewell and roamed my way back to Brentwood.
It was a perfect afternoon.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
The water better be working at the office next week.
I should be sleeping right now. Or at least trying to sleep. My attempt to sleep would include wearing a certain pink fluffy eye mask that smells of lavender. I’d lie on my back and imagine my limbs becoming water like the Pacific ocean that laps at the sandy shore, just three miles from my front door. My knots would uncoil, stubbornly, and then perhaps all of the thoughts that run through my head and keep me up at night would float away, like little cloud puffs that hover above my bed, then drift up and out into the darkness that is Night.
I can’t sleep because I’m so damn happy. I wish I could attribute it to work stress or anything else, but I stay up late at night planning and getting excited about things. LIFE. It’s all happening and I’ve got to catch it before it goes by in a swirl of blurred colors, delicious scents, echoed voices. So much to do, so much to do.
But moving on: My work is having a potluck next week. Some of you out there might be turning up noses at such a thing as a potluck (snotluck more like it!), others might be like I once was: in awe. Food? Lots of different kinds? And I get to try ‘em all? I’m there!
Well, that’s what I thought last time my work had a potluck. I tried a lot of different foods then (ok, I only tried about five things out of 60. My eyes are much larger than my stomach). I had Jack Daniels meatballs. People RAVED about them, so I took three. But whoever made them forgot to cook off all the Jack and I couldn’t choke a whole meatball down. It was embarrassing. I felt like an old drunk as I gasped and choked for a napkin, anything to save me. I also had some pasta that had been sitting out for a while getting stiff, a delicious carrot cake and some ghetto cheese dip.
My stomach thanked me about 15 minutes after that potluck.
But I digress.
I got an email at work today, one of those mass memos in a too-large font with clip art that screams 1985. It read something like: INTERNATIONAL POTLUCK. Bring a dish that symbolizes where you’re from or your ethnicity.
Immediately I got excited, but then terrified. Looking around my very “cultured” office, I thought of all the shit that was going to be at this potluck. Fried chicken. Crawfish. Chinese dumplings. Polish sausages. My eyes darted back and forth, as though I had Turrets, the possibilities racing through my head, while my stomach churned in angst. It’s either going to be one eye opener of an afternoon, or what my Dad’s friend Dave likes to call a “United Nations Meeting.” More on that later.
I’m Croatian. I’ve got to bring some Povitica, or for all of you non-Croatian fools out there: Nut Bread.
I must find an Eastern European bakery in these hills of Los Angeles. The journey starts tomorrow.
I can’t sleep because I’m so damn happy. I wish I could attribute it to work stress or anything else, but I stay up late at night planning and getting excited about things. LIFE. It’s all happening and I’ve got to catch it before it goes by in a swirl of blurred colors, delicious scents, echoed voices. So much to do, so much to do.
But moving on: My work is having a potluck next week. Some of you out there might be turning up noses at such a thing as a potluck (snotluck more like it!), others might be like I once was: in awe. Food? Lots of different kinds? And I get to try ‘em all? I’m there!
Well, that’s what I thought last time my work had a potluck. I tried a lot of different foods then (ok, I only tried about five things out of 60. My eyes are much larger than my stomach). I had Jack Daniels meatballs. People RAVED about them, so I took three. But whoever made them forgot to cook off all the Jack and I couldn’t choke a whole meatball down. It was embarrassing. I felt like an old drunk as I gasped and choked for a napkin, anything to save me. I also had some pasta that had been sitting out for a while getting stiff, a delicious carrot cake and some ghetto cheese dip.
My stomach thanked me about 15 minutes after that potluck.
But I digress.
I got an email at work today, one of those mass memos in a too-large font with clip art that screams 1985. It read something like: INTERNATIONAL POTLUCK. Bring a dish that symbolizes where you’re from or your ethnicity.
Immediately I got excited, but then terrified. Looking around my very “cultured” office, I thought of all the shit that was going to be at this potluck. Fried chicken. Crawfish. Chinese dumplings. Polish sausages. My eyes darted back and forth, as though I had Turrets, the possibilities racing through my head, while my stomach churned in angst. It’s either going to be one eye opener of an afternoon, or what my Dad’s friend Dave likes to call a “United Nations Meeting.” More on that later.
I’m Croatian. I’ve got to bring some Povitica, or for all of you non-Croatian fools out there: Nut Bread.
I must find an Eastern European bakery in these hills of Los Angeles. The journey starts tomorrow.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
6 Months...Really?
Tomorrow (or today, depending on where you are) will be my six month anniversary at my job to the day! (GASP!) I have survived the analytical, financial, titillating world of numbers and math and ROI for six months.
Now, who would have thunk it? A short blond girl like me from the desert?
Anyway, beyond career, I've also been in Los Angeles for six months. This is exciting and unnerving at all once because (1) time really does go by too fast and (2) I feel like I've only just begun my exploring and (3) my brother thinks I've become allergic to clean air since living here.
I've learned/done a few things:
1. I can change my own light bulbs now (even the ones high up!)
2. I've had a Major Math Refresher with my job (haven't had that since algebra in college, which was a joke)
3. I am still scared of spiders, but if I really have to kill one on my own, I can (throwing a book at said spider from afar...it's gotta be a book I don't like).
4. Started a writer's group & book club...so now I can hang out with more nerds who might understand me, just maybe.
5. I've learned I'm really out of shape
6. Dinner parties with too much wine and a hookah can be a great way to pass a Wednesday night.
7. Never to put pizza dough in a dishwasher and expect it to be okay.
8. I can spin a dradle like a Mother
9. How to parallel park...well...I might have to be a lifelong learner with that one.
10. I can peacefully sleep through what's gotta be the loudest plumbing in all of Los Angeles.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Woot Woot Weekend!
Can I get an amen for the weekend? I hope all of my Arizona friends and family are doing well. It's raining hard here in Los Angeles tonight, and I am content as a cat full of fish to be snuggled and cozy inside the Brentwood Chateau; the raindrops are taunting me outside my window pane. I smirk.
Friday night it was raining hard and after the gym I came home to find Roomie snuggled up on the couch, TV remote in hand. I couldn't resist the thought of Comfies (sweat pants), so I showered and changed. By the time Maryland Boy asked if I'd be up for a few drinks at the local Brentwood bar, I declined and told him I was in for the night. Roomie and I made breakfast for dinner (yum!) and had a Sex & the City DVD marathon. Could it get any better? Maybe. But I like to think not.
Saturday I drove up to Encino (a mere 15 minutes north of Brentwood if there's no traffic) to see my friend Chrissy's new condo, which is gorgeous. She made me a Greek feast for lunch and we saw that movie Juno in Woodland Hills. (Laughed a lot! I recommend). My brother came up from La Jolla in the afternoon and was seeking a hot Hollywood night. Okay...he didn't say that. What he said was more like, "Gee, I wouldn't mind going to Hollywood," but I knew what he meant. He wanted to see hot Hollywood women. And so it was. We hit up Hollywood, in between raindrops and traffic; sipped on vodka-redbulls and blended into the good looking crowd. I left the bar early because I wasn't feeling too great, but right after I left Vince Vaughn and Drew Barrymore arrived, so I misssed out on that, but I won't cry about it. (I've never been a huge Hollywood star gazer, I just don't care as much as others do).
Today I went to the Los Angeles County Museum of Art (LACMA) with a good friend, an old PR friend. We strolled the galleries of Monet, Renoir; of ancient Egyptian mummies; Japanese calligraphy; impressionism; angels in oil; daggers dug up from mud and dusted off at burial sites; colonial period pottery and jeweled chalices. It was fantastic. We sipped on lattes in the damp courtyard and mingled with Dali lovers beneath the overcast Los Angeles sky. The last (and first) time I had hit up LACMA was three years ago, almost to the date. Must it always rain in Los Angeles in January? Yes, Virginia, it must.
We wanted to hit up the Getty; we desired those gorgeous gardens; those beautiful buildings (purchased high upon a mountain!), the serenity of it all. But that will be saved for a sunshiney day.
Cheers! Goodnight, Arizona. Goodnight, LA.
Friday night it was raining hard and after the gym I came home to find Roomie snuggled up on the couch, TV remote in hand. I couldn't resist the thought of Comfies (sweat pants), so I showered and changed. By the time Maryland Boy asked if I'd be up for a few drinks at the local Brentwood bar, I declined and told him I was in for the night. Roomie and I made breakfast for dinner (yum!) and had a Sex & the City DVD marathon. Could it get any better? Maybe. But I like to think not.
Saturday I drove up to Encino (a mere 15 minutes north of Brentwood if there's no traffic) to see my friend Chrissy's new condo, which is gorgeous. She made me a Greek feast for lunch and we saw that movie Juno in Woodland Hills. (Laughed a lot! I recommend). My brother came up from La Jolla in the afternoon and was seeking a hot Hollywood night. Okay...he didn't say that. What he said was more like, "Gee, I wouldn't mind going to Hollywood," but I knew what he meant. He wanted to see hot Hollywood women. And so it was. We hit up Hollywood, in between raindrops and traffic; sipped on vodka-redbulls and blended into the good looking crowd. I left the bar early because I wasn't feeling too great, but right after I left Vince Vaughn and Drew Barrymore arrived, so I misssed out on that, but I won't cry about it. (I've never been a huge Hollywood star gazer, I just don't care as much as others do).
Today I went to the Los Angeles County Museum of Art (LACMA) with a good friend, an old PR friend. We strolled the galleries of Monet, Renoir; of ancient Egyptian mummies; Japanese calligraphy; impressionism; angels in oil; daggers dug up from mud and dusted off at burial sites; colonial period pottery and jeweled chalices. It was fantastic. We sipped on lattes in the damp courtyard and mingled with Dali lovers beneath the overcast Los Angeles sky. The last (and first) time I had hit up LACMA was three years ago, almost to the date. Must it always rain in Los Angeles in January? Yes, Virginia, it must.
We wanted to hit up the Getty; we desired those gorgeous gardens; those beautiful buildings (purchased high upon a mountain!), the serenity of it all. But that will be saved for a sunshiney day.
Cheers! Goodnight, Arizona. Goodnight, LA.
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