It’s Friday!
That’s all I need to say about that.
This week has brought rainy days and gray skies to Los Angeles. I treated myself to a massage earlier in the week, as my back and shoulders have been aching. I told the receptionist at my usual massage place in Brentwood that no, I do not want a Thai massage. I’ve made the mistake of getting these gutsy little Thai massage women and just when I start to relax and zone out on the heated massage table, I get completely creeped out when I feel and hear them climb up onto the table behind me, place their knees on my ass and either press down extremely hard with their elbows into all of my knots and stress….or even get up and walk on me. My eyes usually shoot open wide (no one can see my eyes but the floor at this point) and I think in my head, “WTF is happening here?!” and I wonder how to tactfully tell them to get off my ass.
It’s the strangest thing. It must be another one of those Los Angeles things, because let me tell ya, they do NOT give massages like that in Arizona! You’re not in Scottsdale anymore, Dorothy!
I try to be good about it and just relax and go with the flow. I can’t converse because I have no idea what they are saying; their accents are too thick. To everything they say to me, I usually reply with, “Good!” and “Okay!” or “All right!”
Anyway, the woman earlier this week, she did not place her knees on my ass. She did get up on the table, but she did not get on ME, so I suppose this is an improvement.
In other news, I took my writer friend from work to lunch yesterday to get the details on her month in Croatia last summer. She brought her notebook to lunch and I saw every single photo. She was handing me business cards and brochures and phone numbers; she’s my personal travel guide! Apparently, we shouldn’t even bother with hotels because we can stay in gorgeous apartments overlooking the ocean for anywhere from $50 - $150 a night! She told me how to find the “kayaking dude that hangs out in the main square of Dubrovnik; he’s there all day,” and that “if you call this guy, he’ll pick you up from the bus stop – he’ll PICK YOU UP – and give you free breakfast and he’ll even take you on his own boat to the islands,” and “here’s this Canadian woman’s info, she gives good massages. She’s a former lawyer from Canada who fell in love with a Croatian on her trip there and now lives in Croatia,” and “here’s what kind of shoes you need to buy.” Whew! It was an overload of information. She’s even going to type it up for me.
Something tells me I might owe her another lunch, or at least cookies!
On another note, I received an invite to a poetry workshop tomorrow. It’s for a group that mentors troubled teenage girls through writing and I may become a regular volunteer. They hold one workshop a month on different genres. Workshops include panels of professional writers, writing drills, mentor-mentee sessions, book exchanges and more. I’ll be brushing off the inner poet! I haven’t written poetry in over a year!
Friday, February 22, 2008
Monday, February 18, 2008
To be Los Angeles
About six weeks ago:
My friend takes a bite of orange as she hovers over her cubicle trashcan, a clumsy attempt to avoid sugary and sticky dribbles of orange juice smearing over the creative pieces that lie scattered on her desk.
“Joanna, you would like him. He’s in his mid-thirties, lives in Santa Barbara most of the time, but has an apartment in Venice. He’s real business but he’s a schmoozer, too, you know, he works a crowd.”
I’m indifferent. I’m hardly listening. I’m staring at her picking orange seeds from her afternoon snack; she pecks at it and tends it as though a hawk nibbling on a snake. The way she hunches over the trashcan might make one think she were heaving up lunch if they weren’t paying attention. I wish I knew how to peel an orange like that. I can’t even peel a damn orange…
“He’s from Texas, so he’s got a bit of a drawl. He’s Texas, he’s a gentleman.”
I nod.
“He was a good manager when I worked with him. He surfs. He’s a vegetarian.”
I grimace. She’s peeling back the rest of the rind, almost done now.
“He’s laid-back. He’s close to his family. Texas, but you know, he’s also a bit Los Angeles.”
What exactly does that mean, to “be Los Angeles?” I’ve been wondering that since before I moved here. The people of Los Angeles drop that term like they drop pounds and inhale chicken tacos and let the sun stain their pretty faces.
I’m not sure I’ve completely figured this one out, but I’ve made a few observations. Natives of Los Angeles are tied to this city like it’s their umbilical cord; for the remainder of their lives they will feed the traffic that congests the 405, turn a smile to the face of smog, and worship the waves that lap at the coast. They may never know what it’s like to enjoy the crunch of fall leaves, run through a pumpkin patch or make angels in the snow. Beyond that, the non-natives and other such Angelenos make up a diverse sea of folks. They are the converse-clad men that walk into my office, their sneakers offset by a too-short tie that somehow looks okay on them anyway; the women walking down Wilshire in oversized sunglasses and flip-flops and outfits that don't match in the traditional definition of the term.
Angelenos do not walk fast, they are unhurried as opposed to our east coast companions, New Yorkers. Angelenos stroll like grass might sway in the wind, their yoga pants falling loosely over their hips, a short dog on an even shorter leash at their sides.
Angelenos live in their cars. They may struggle to pay rent month to month, and work assistant jobs, but they still toss the valet keys of their Lexus and BMWs to the valet guy on a Friday night.
This is not to say that Angelenos aren’t down to Earth. In some ironic way, these same Lexus types can still be found with a chili dog in hand, fresh from a street vendor. They’ll still shop at Albertsons versus Ralphs to get the better deal. They let the salt water bathe them on weekend mornings all year long, allow the sun to forever nurture their tans as they jog on the beach, and ride with surfboards sticking out of car windows and sunroofs.
Their calendars are colorful. From punk music venues to Friday nights at the Getty, where they sip wine and let the images of art percolate their brains, I’m finding many Angelenos are chameleon-like in their agendas, if not natures.
Angelenos are educated about movies; perhaps snobby in film taste. They refer to the television and movie industry as “The Industry” as though there is nothing else.
They like their organic foods, their Whole Foods, their Real Foods, Their Urth Cafes and Literati Cafes and farmers markets. They enjoy their Trader Joes. I went to Trader Joes a few weeks ago and made the mistake of being nice. I said “excuse me” and “sorry” and “thank you” but those TJ bitches ran their carts into mine; the joggers were more aggressive than I with the fruit; the wine aisle too crowded for an Arizonan like me to peruse. “You gotta always keep moving,” my roommate told me when I explained that I was bullied at the supermarket. “Always move.” But what if I don’t know what I want? What if I don't know where the pita chips are located?
Los Angeles doesn’t care; the city will not wait for me.
They are aggressive drivers. At every single intersection, at least two to three cars run the red light. This is normal, almost to the point of being safe. When traffic gets so bad that there is no where to move and you’re left in the intersection, they will either let you in or just wait. And there are many occasions, many, where some idiot in the back honks, as though the noise might create precious space.
Although completely and utterly dependent on cars, Angelenos walk often. They walk to lunch and to the market and to coffee shops. They walk to farmers markets and to the beach and the shops on Third Street in Santa Monica.
Angelenos are obsessed with health, at least the ones in my office. Each lunch brings conversations of how many calories in that, and this is bad for you, that’s not and blah dee dah. That’s not to say they don’t enjoy their chocolate chip cookies catered in, specialty cupcakes delivered in a dozen different flavors and French pastries from down the street. They do. They eat all these things. And then run it off later.
I have a new bag that I bought from a boutique in Westwood. Los Angeles is supposed to be best in the nation for boutique shopping. I’m proud of my honkin’ big blue bag, large enough to slug someone with. Angelenos, they love their boutiques.
A friend’s mom went to school in Los Angeles and seemed to enjoy my Brentwood stories this past weekend. I told her I won’t be here forever, but it’s good for now; it’s temporary, I figure.
She oooh’d and ahhh’d over my bag and gave me a tight hug goodbye.
“You’re Los Angeles,” she said. “You’re an LA girl, Joanna. I know this.”
My friend takes a bite of orange as she hovers over her cubicle trashcan, a clumsy attempt to avoid sugary and sticky dribbles of orange juice smearing over the creative pieces that lie scattered on her desk.
“Joanna, you would like him. He’s in his mid-thirties, lives in Santa Barbara most of the time, but has an apartment in Venice. He’s real business but he’s a schmoozer, too, you know, he works a crowd.”
I’m indifferent. I’m hardly listening. I’m staring at her picking orange seeds from her afternoon snack; she pecks at it and tends it as though a hawk nibbling on a snake. The way she hunches over the trashcan might make one think she were heaving up lunch if they weren’t paying attention. I wish I knew how to peel an orange like that. I can’t even peel a damn orange…
“He’s from Texas, so he’s got a bit of a drawl. He’s Texas, he’s a gentleman.”
I nod.
“He was a good manager when I worked with him. He surfs. He’s a vegetarian.”
I grimace. She’s peeling back the rest of the rind, almost done now.
“He’s laid-back. He’s close to his family. Texas, but you know, he’s also a bit Los Angeles.”
What exactly does that mean, to “be Los Angeles?” I’ve been wondering that since before I moved here. The people of Los Angeles drop that term like they drop pounds and inhale chicken tacos and let the sun stain their pretty faces.
I’m not sure I’ve completely figured this one out, but I’ve made a few observations. Natives of Los Angeles are tied to this city like it’s their umbilical cord; for the remainder of their lives they will feed the traffic that congests the 405, turn a smile to the face of smog, and worship the waves that lap at the coast. They may never know what it’s like to enjoy the crunch of fall leaves, run through a pumpkin patch or make angels in the snow. Beyond that, the non-natives and other such Angelenos make up a diverse sea of folks. They are the converse-clad men that walk into my office, their sneakers offset by a too-short tie that somehow looks okay on them anyway; the women walking down Wilshire in oversized sunglasses and flip-flops and outfits that don't match in the traditional definition of the term.
Angelenos do not walk fast, they are unhurried as opposed to our east coast companions, New Yorkers. Angelenos stroll like grass might sway in the wind, their yoga pants falling loosely over their hips, a short dog on an even shorter leash at their sides.
Angelenos live in their cars. They may struggle to pay rent month to month, and work assistant jobs, but they still toss the valet keys of their Lexus and BMWs to the valet guy on a Friday night.
This is not to say that Angelenos aren’t down to Earth. In some ironic way, these same Lexus types can still be found with a chili dog in hand, fresh from a street vendor. They’ll still shop at Albertsons versus Ralphs to get the better deal. They let the salt water bathe them on weekend mornings all year long, allow the sun to forever nurture their tans as they jog on the beach, and ride with surfboards sticking out of car windows and sunroofs.
Their calendars are colorful. From punk music venues to Friday nights at the Getty, where they sip wine and let the images of art percolate their brains, I’m finding many Angelenos are chameleon-like in their agendas, if not natures.
Angelenos are educated about movies; perhaps snobby in film taste. They refer to the television and movie industry as “The Industry” as though there is nothing else.
They like their organic foods, their Whole Foods, their Real Foods, Their Urth Cafes and Literati Cafes and farmers markets. They enjoy their Trader Joes. I went to Trader Joes a few weeks ago and made the mistake of being nice. I said “excuse me” and “sorry” and “thank you” but those TJ bitches ran their carts into mine; the joggers were more aggressive than I with the fruit; the wine aisle too crowded for an Arizonan like me to peruse. “You gotta always keep moving,” my roommate told me when I explained that I was bullied at the supermarket. “Always move.” But what if I don’t know what I want? What if I don't know where the pita chips are located?
Los Angeles doesn’t care; the city will not wait for me.
They are aggressive drivers. At every single intersection, at least two to three cars run the red light. This is normal, almost to the point of being safe. When traffic gets so bad that there is no where to move and you’re left in the intersection, they will either let you in or just wait. And there are many occasions, many, where some idiot in the back honks, as though the noise might create precious space.
Although completely and utterly dependent on cars, Angelenos walk often. They walk to lunch and to the market and to coffee shops. They walk to farmers markets and to the beach and the shops on Third Street in Santa Monica.
Angelenos are obsessed with health, at least the ones in my office. Each lunch brings conversations of how many calories in that, and this is bad for you, that’s not and blah dee dah. That’s not to say they don’t enjoy their chocolate chip cookies catered in, specialty cupcakes delivered in a dozen different flavors and French pastries from down the street. They do. They eat all these things. And then run it off later.
I have a new bag that I bought from a boutique in Westwood. Los Angeles is supposed to be best in the nation for boutique shopping. I’m proud of my honkin’ big blue bag, large enough to slug someone with. Angelenos, they love their boutiques.
A friend’s mom went to school in Los Angeles and seemed to enjoy my Brentwood stories this past weekend. I told her I won’t be here forever, but it’s good for now; it’s temporary, I figure.
She oooh’d and ahhh’d over my bag and gave me a tight hug goodbye.
“You’re Los Angeles,” she said. “You’re an LA girl, Joanna. I know this.”
Sunday, February 10, 2008
G is for Grateful
After a month of too much work and too little Joanna Time, Friday night I ended up at the Maryland apartment where we had a few drinks. Then just one Maryland friend and I went to our local Brentwood watering hole. He bought me a drink and then we did a lap around the bar, and he proceeded to launch into how he won’t meet any girls because it looks like we’re together, yadda yadda yadda. I stopped him as we were going down a flight of stairs.
“Matt, can’t we just have FUN?”
“Huh?”
“Let’s just have FUN tonight. Can’t we just do that?”
“Oh, okay, yeah, Jo.”
We sat up at the bar, but when he went to the bathroom eventually, a guy appeared on my right and we got into a long conversation about life and work and dreams. I was supposed to be holding the chair on my left for Matt, as well as watching his drink, but when I turned around, too late, there’s a black guy in the seat and I thought, “Gee, that doesn’t look like Matt…” and there’s an empty beer glass. I tapped the guy on the shoulder.
“Excuse me?”
“Yeah, girl?”
“That’s my friend’s chair. You don’t have to move now, but you might have to move when he gets back. I don’t want to be mean about it, but I’ve been a bad friend. I was supposed to watch his chair.”
“Oh okay, yeah no problem.”
“Another thing…”
“Yeah?”
I point to the empty glass. “Did you drink my friend’s beer? You can tell me. I won't be mad.”
He denied it. I believed him. I bought Matt another drink but didn’t really buy him a drink because I put it on his tab.
I owe him a few.
Saturday I went in to work but I never made it up to the fourth floor, to that Flavia Machine, to my notebook. I didn’t have the right pass that would get me through the 9 million security checkpoints, and I failed at charming the security guard into letting me up like I've done the last few weeks. But I didn’t fight it. Destiny didn’t want me to work on Saturday, I suppose. If my foot was feeling better, I would have been at the ocean, feeling the sun on my face.
The day was a treasure, a summer day that came early, like a movie sneak preview. It was a day for naps on sand, farmers markets, barbeques, flip flops and sundresses and crisp salads and shrimp and iced coffees. It was a day to pull your hair back and get on a bike, for afternoon hikes in Runyon Canyon, to let the windows open and the breeze flow through the apartment.
Since I couldn’t use my stupid foot (ack!), I decided to cook instead. I made homemade pasta sauce and bought bread and cheese and hummus. The Maryland kids came over for dinner and so did Roomie’s Boyfriend and we drank wine and ate too much food. The Maryland kids were tan from the beach and tennis. I left the windows open and the cool Los Angeles air came in to soothe our faces and whisk the heat from the kitchen.
We ended up at a bar in Santa Monica where Roomie and Roomie’s Boyfriend (RB) declared every guy there “not good enough!” for me. We danced on the Tiniest Dance Floor There Ever Was and RB spun us each on a different hand, as he’s been inclined to do these days. They taught me new Jewish words and toasts and we took a lot of papparazi-style photos. Later, a six buck cab ride brought us back to Brentwood to our local bar where “there’s better quality people for Joanna.” Those two, they dote on me like I’m their kid.
This is a time in my life to be thankful, and if I had to narrow my thanks to just focus on Los Angeles, the spotlight would narrow in even more to shine on the friends I have here. I understand this, I’m realizing it and living it. I’m thankful for the Maryland Kids and their summer faces. I’m thankful for my Roomie who has now declared me to be half Jewish, like a proud Jewish mother. I’m thankful for her boyfriend who always makes room for me to dance and seems very particular about the guys I date. I’m thankful that they eat the food I cook and were understanding that time I set off the smoke alarms.
I’m thankful for my good friend at work, who said, “Call me,” when I cried to her the day after the breakup, stating, “I don’t know who I am going to call before BEDTIME now! Who's gonna be my last call of the day?” and she said, “Me, Jo, call me. We’ll call each other!” and I looked at her when she said this and found she was crying, too.
My life, it has worked out in a strange and wonderful and mysterious way. And it's still in the process. Maybe it should have exploded a few months ago, or maybe it did explode. But if so, it’s exploded into the most beautiful of fires, into a million stars and happy little pieces. And in that rubble, I’ve discovered so many treasures.
“Matt, can’t we just have FUN?”
“Huh?”
“Let’s just have FUN tonight. Can’t we just do that?”
“Oh, okay, yeah, Jo.”
We sat up at the bar, but when he went to the bathroom eventually, a guy appeared on my right and we got into a long conversation about life and work and dreams. I was supposed to be holding the chair on my left for Matt, as well as watching his drink, but when I turned around, too late, there’s a black guy in the seat and I thought, “Gee, that doesn’t look like Matt…” and there’s an empty beer glass. I tapped the guy on the shoulder.
“Excuse me?”
“Yeah, girl?”
“That’s my friend’s chair. You don’t have to move now, but you might have to move when he gets back. I don’t want to be mean about it, but I’ve been a bad friend. I was supposed to watch his chair.”
“Oh okay, yeah no problem.”
“Another thing…”
“Yeah?”
I point to the empty glass. “Did you drink my friend’s beer? You can tell me. I won't be mad.”
He denied it. I believed him. I bought Matt another drink but didn’t really buy him a drink because I put it on his tab.
I owe him a few.
Saturday I went in to work but I never made it up to the fourth floor, to that Flavia Machine, to my notebook. I didn’t have the right pass that would get me through the 9 million security checkpoints, and I failed at charming the security guard into letting me up like I've done the last few weeks. But I didn’t fight it. Destiny didn’t want me to work on Saturday, I suppose. If my foot was feeling better, I would have been at the ocean, feeling the sun on my face.
The day was a treasure, a summer day that came early, like a movie sneak preview. It was a day for naps on sand, farmers markets, barbeques, flip flops and sundresses and crisp salads and shrimp and iced coffees. It was a day to pull your hair back and get on a bike, for afternoon hikes in Runyon Canyon, to let the windows open and the breeze flow through the apartment.
Since I couldn’t use my stupid foot (ack!), I decided to cook instead. I made homemade pasta sauce and bought bread and cheese and hummus. The Maryland kids came over for dinner and so did Roomie’s Boyfriend and we drank wine and ate too much food. The Maryland kids were tan from the beach and tennis. I left the windows open and the cool Los Angeles air came in to soothe our faces and whisk the heat from the kitchen.
We ended up at a bar in Santa Monica where Roomie and Roomie’s Boyfriend (RB) declared every guy there “not good enough!” for me. We danced on the Tiniest Dance Floor There Ever Was and RB spun us each on a different hand, as he’s been inclined to do these days. They taught me new Jewish words and toasts and we took a lot of papparazi-style photos. Later, a six buck cab ride brought us back to Brentwood to our local bar where “there’s better quality people for Joanna.” Those two, they dote on me like I’m their kid.
This is a time in my life to be thankful, and if I had to narrow my thanks to just focus on Los Angeles, the spotlight would narrow in even more to shine on the friends I have here. I understand this, I’m realizing it and living it. I’m thankful for the Maryland Kids and their summer faces. I’m thankful for my Roomie who has now declared me to be half Jewish, like a proud Jewish mother. I’m thankful for her boyfriend who always makes room for me to dance and seems very particular about the guys I date. I’m thankful that they eat the food I cook and were understanding that time I set off the smoke alarms.
I’m thankful for my good friend at work, who said, “Call me,” when I cried to her the day after the breakup, stating, “I don’t know who I am going to call before BEDTIME now! Who's gonna be my last call of the day?” and she said, “Me, Jo, call me. We’ll call each other!” and I looked at her when she said this and found she was crying, too.
My life, it has worked out in a strange and wonderful and mysterious way. And it's still in the process. Maybe it should have exploded a few months ago, or maybe it did explode. But if so, it’s exploded into the most beautiful of fires, into a million stars and happy little pieces. And in that rubble, I’ve discovered so many treasures.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Cocka-Doodle-Dooooooooo!
Today a co-worker wished my Chinese manager a Happy New Year. Specifically, “Hey Happy New Year to you and your peeps!” ‘Tis the year of the Rat, my friends, that furry bucktoothed munching creature that ladies scream at and men kick at and others hit with brooms. I’d be a broom beater if I had to classify myself.
Anyway, I’m no rat and I’m not Chinese, last time I checked. But I was born in the Year of the Rooster. I know this because I was told this by the same co-worker who is so aware of the Chinese New Year. I also know this because I was in the middle of creating a stellar presentation and checking some last minute financials when I received an email with the subject line: Rooster – 2008. Check it out:
The Rooster in 2008
Early Riser, What’s Your Fortune?
This is a powerful year to reorganize your life. The year of the Earth Rat encourages the completion of outstanding projects. Rat energy is busy and encourages communication. You will enjoy so much activity. A wise Rooster will be cautious about taking on too many commitments at once. Allow plenty of time to accomplish your work. Remember that you will be most effective scheduling time for a good mix of both work and play. Be strong in the face of foolish gossip. You risk unnecessary arguments and drama if you fight back. Do not be afraid to let other people help you.
I am definitely in a reorganizing my life, reevaluating perspective. I even thought to myself this morning about how I need to clean my closet this weekend to the sounds of Sinatra and with candles lit, lots of candles. I have no idea what it is about cleaning my closet, but it puts me in a cozy mood.
And I do take on too many commitments at once, it’s a Jo Thing. I get too excited about life and I go into full-blown planning mode and you can’t stop that train once it starts. Okay, Rat, you might be onto something there, you sneaky rat. You filthy….
Be strong in the face of gossip? Do not fight back? Does this rat know who this rooster is?
I’m wiped after a long day. I feel drunk with sleep and chocolate lips. You know, the cheeseball Valentine’s candy; there’s also big chocolate keys….the KEY to my HEART! Get it, Mom? Key? Heart? I grimace since I know it’s cheesy. But I just love it so much.
I just went to the bathroom. But I didn’t have to go to the bathroom, I just went to be alone. It’s weird when someone walks in and I’m just hanging out there. Kinda creepy, I get that. I looked in the mirror and no one told me my hair was all over the place.
Anyway, I’m no rat and I’m not Chinese, last time I checked. But I was born in the Year of the Rooster. I know this because I was told this by the same co-worker who is so aware of the Chinese New Year. I also know this because I was in the middle of creating a stellar presentation and checking some last minute financials when I received an email with the subject line: Rooster – 2008. Check it out:
The Rooster in 2008
Early Riser, What’s Your Fortune?
This is a powerful year to reorganize your life. The year of the Earth Rat encourages the completion of outstanding projects. Rat energy is busy and encourages communication. You will enjoy so much activity. A wise Rooster will be cautious about taking on too many commitments at once. Allow plenty of time to accomplish your work. Remember that you will be most effective scheduling time for a good mix of both work and play. Be strong in the face of foolish gossip. You risk unnecessary arguments and drama if you fight back. Do not be afraid to let other people help you.
I am definitely in a reorganizing my life, reevaluating perspective. I even thought to myself this morning about how I need to clean my closet this weekend to the sounds of Sinatra and with candles lit, lots of candles. I have no idea what it is about cleaning my closet, but it puts me in a cozy mood.
And I do take on too many commitments at once, it’s a Jo Thing. I get too excited about life and I go into full-blown planning mode and you can’t stop that train once it starts. Okay, Rat, you might be onto something there, you sneaky rat. You filthy….
Be strong in the face of gossip? Do not fight back? Does this rat know who this rooster is?
I’m wiped after a long day. I feel drunk with sleep and chocolate lips. You know, the cheeseball Valentine’s candy; there’s also big chocolate keys….the KEY to my HEART! Get it, Mom? Key? Heart? I grimace since I know it’s cheesy. But I just love it so much.
I just went to the bathroom. But I didn’t have to go to the bathroom, I just went to be alone. It’s weird when someone walks in and I’m just hanging out there. Kinda creepy, I get that. I looked in the mirror and no one told me my hair was all over the place.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
When Sleep Ceases...
What to write about? It’s a Wednesday morning and it’s business as usual in Los Angeles, only the sun is shining its lovely rays this week, it’s now February and 2008 is well on its way…
*Yawn* I didn’t sleep well last night. I should have suspected; after four delicious, satisfying nights of solid coma-like sleep, I should have known I’d gotten spoiled. The Sleep Gods would never allow that! They like having their Joanna a bit of an insomniac. It keeps me on the crazy side, brings out my inner Goof, makes my eyes tear up when I laugh at every little black and white number on a spreadsheet when the clock hits 3 at work. My one co-worker seems to especially enjoy this, I know he does.
“Joanna, do you have the giggles?”
“No…” *snort!* *Giggle!*
“Joanna, what are you giggling about?”
“I don’t knoooooow.” *Giggle*
“You’re happy, aren’t you, Joanna?”
“Maaaaaybeeeeee…” *Giggle*
When this conversation occurs…oh, every other day, I start to feel like my dog, Walter, the most human golden ever to roam this earth. Now I have a sense of what he must be feeling when we talk to him.
“Hi, Walter.”
Hi, again.
“Oh, Wally, you’re SUCH a good boy! You’re a GOOOOOOD boy, aren’t you?”
I guess so. Walter rolls his eyes.
“GOOOOOD boy!”
Didn’t you just say that?
“I love you so much, Walter! You’re SUCH a good boy!”
You’re making me want to piss on the rug.
“Want to play a game, boy? Here’s a ball! Yeah!”
I’m going to bite you in the ass.
This likeness to Walter concerns me since my brother frequently compares me to the dog, especially since Wally and I share the golden hair and everyone else in the family is dark. I shake this one off. (Wait…SHAKE it off?) It doesn’t get really bad until the occasional Sunday when I’m lounging on my parents’ couch and Brother walks in the room and throws a toy and then looks at me, expectantly, with eager eyes like, “C’mon girl, you can do it!” I won’t get completely paranoid about this until I find mini milk bones in my stocking come Christmas.
I’ve had a life this last week, since I’ve last updated my blog, I swear. I’m just too tired to write about it. That Flavia machine at work and I have been getting super close this week. I’ve had many awkward kitchen encounters that I could write about. Kitchen show-downs, more like it! The kind where I have to fight for fridge space! Become Queen of Froth! Use my ass a protective barrier!
I went to see Wicked last week with my roommate. She’s become my regular date. And I was in Arizona this past weekend at the FBR Open. If you saw pictures of an obnoxious drunk blond at the 16th hole, her mouth open while mouthing the words “CHUG IT!” that might have been me.
I took a picture at that 16th hole….it was an image I won’t soon forget. It was a picture of a toe, the ugliest toe I’ve ever seen in my life! It was a witch’s claw-toe, I just know it! Said toe made my friends and I tremble. These are the things nightmares are made of. I could tell you about it, but I won’t, I just can’t.
*Yawn* I didn’t sleep well last night. I should have suspected; after four delicious, satisfying nights of solid coma-like sleep, I should have known I’d gotten spoiled. The Sleep Gods would never allow that! They like having their Joanna a bit of an insomniac. It keeps me on the crazy side, brings out my inner Goof, makes my eyes tear up when I laugh at every little black and white number on a spreadsheet when the clock hits 3 at work. My one co-worker seems to especially enjoy this, I know he does.
“Joanna, do you have the giggles?”
“No…” *snort!* *Giggle!*
“Joanna, what are you giggling about?”
“I don’t knoooooow.” *Giggle*
“You’re happy, aren’t you, Joanna?”
“Maaaaaybeeeeee…” *Giggle*
When this conversation occurs…oh, every other day, I start to feel like my dog, Walter, the most human golden ever to roam this earth. Now I have a sense of what he must be feeling when we talk to him.
“Hi, Walter.”
Hi, again.
“Oh, Wally, you’re SUCH a good boy! You’re a GOOOOOOD boy, aren’t you?”
I guess so. Walter rolls his eyes.
“GOOOOOD boy!”
Didn’t you just say that?
“I love you so much, Walter! You’re SUCH a good boy!”
You’re making me want to piss on the rug.
“Want to play a game, boy? Here’s a ball! Yeah!”
I’m going to bite you in the ass.
This likeness to Walter concerns me since my brother frequently compares me to the dog, especially since Wally and I share the golden hair and everyone else in the family is dark. I shake this one off. (Wait…SHAKE it off?) It doesn’t get really bad until the occasional Sunday when I’m lounging on my parents’ couch and Brother walks in the room and throws a toy and then looks at me, expectantly, with eager eyes like, “C’mon girl, you can do it!” I won’t get completely paranoid about this until I find mini milk bones in my stocking come Christmas.
I’ve had a life this last week, since I’ve last updated my blog, I swear. I’m just too tired to write about it. That Flavia machine at work and I have been getting super close this week. I’ve had many awkward kitchen encounters that I could write about. Kitchen show-downs, more like it! The kind where I have to fight for fridge space! Become Queen of Froth! Use my ass a protective barrier!
I went to see Wicked last week with my roommate. She’s become my regular date. And I was in Arizona this past weekend at the FBR Open. If you saw pictures of an obnoxious drunk blond at the 16th hole, her mouth open while mouthing the words “CHUG IT!” that might have been me.
I took a picture at that 16th hole….it was an image I won’t soon forget. It was a picture of a toe, the ugliest toe I’ve ever seen in my life! It was a witch’s claw-toe, I just know it! Said toe made my friends and I tremble. These are the things nightmares are made of. I could tell you about it, but I won’t, I just can’t.
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