Scattered pieces

“Well, you want to move back to Maryland, right? Someday?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I really like it here, Jo.”

Matt and I were searching for his keys along Santa Monica’s inky night sidewalks, with little but the pale moonlight and the occasional headlights to guide us. We walked side by side, he tall and lumbering, sweaty from a run (But I applied extra deodorant for you, Jo, and I even was kind enough to squirt on some cologne before you came to pick me up). My unwashed hair was up on my head in pins and I sported sweat pants and an old t-shirt with paint splotches on it from four years ago when my parents and I painted my old room a pale yellow. He had made the mistake of asking me what’s new, and I told him I’m applying to jobs in Chicago (God, I love Chicago!), Los Angeles (the market here is just fantastic, a lot of opportunity), San Diego (I want to be close to my brother) and Phoenix (I want to buy a house; I want to be near my family).

I like it here, too. It’s just…I can’t be here forever. I dunno…the traffic. The housing prices. The…

Words failed me. I tried again:

But don’t get me wrong. I really like it here. But it’s just not my long term plan. Ya know?

Matt went on to explain his side of things. Here in Los Angeles, he doesn’t have allergies. He doesn’t care about buying a home right now. He likes the weather.

We strolled along, kicking leaves, dragging our feet in the dirt near thick tree roots in hopes of stumbling over his keys by blind feel. The night air was cool against our skin. Three miles away, on the deserted night beaches of Santa Monica the ocean roared on, an unchanging, reliable, enduring roar.

“My family’s not here,” I said. “And I’m sick of dating these industry…entertainment…FREAKS!” Matt smiled at this reference. “And…well, I guess the only big thing holding me here is friends. I’ve got a lot of really close friends here.”

And I thought about my friends. I thought about my first Roomie, how she and her boyfriend nearly adopted me and pride themselves on turning me into a funny pseudo Jew. I thought about the obvious friends that came out of this: the Maryland Four, friends who I once rode the bus with in elementary school. How is it that they came to find me all the way out here on the West coast? I thought about the surprises: that one of my ex’s past girlfriends is now one of my closest girlfriends here. And the even greater surprises: past friends from high school whom I once thought were lost but when I tell them I need them, they are there for me in such sudden bursts of compassion and true friendship.

If home is where the heart is, my heart is scattered into a hundred shiny pieces over the U.S. and across the Atlantic. Like tiny grains of silvery sand or brilliant broken stained glass bits. Scattered and shared and light and free.

“A lot of good friends,” I repeated.

“Yeah, and good friends. They aren’t a dime a dozen in Los Angeles, you know,” Matt said. “Well, they aren’t a dime a dozen anywhere.”

We were back at my car. I pushed the unlock button on my key chain, glanced up at the star-graced sky.

“That’s true.”

The Beautiful Unknowns

Over the course of this last month, I’ve had plenty of reasons to up and quit my job. There’s the mindless, “Death by Meetings” that seem to occur every time you get someone too smart in a conference room. Someone who can’t just make a quick decision but feels compelled to draw pretty graphs on white boards, complete with stick figures, plans, interim plans and then long-term plans. There’s the way I am told to “take the lead”—a phrase generally reserved for big action items and strategic projects—but in these cases it’s to set up meetings in outlook, check with the team to see what kind of take out they want for lunch. Or put in an order for supplies and other such intern-esque tasks.

There’s the numbers. I was a freakin’ journalism major! I didn’t go out into the real world to deal with spreadsheets, profit and loss statements, pro formas and the like! If I had known that this was my future, I would have taken something beyond college algebra, where my homework was a mere five questions a night, a task I did prior to the keg stands, sneaking alcohol into the dorms and other such things to continue my education.

And beyond the grumblings (we all grumble, we do), the lack of communication (just what IS our long term goal here?) and the fact that everyone seems to think it’s okay to call you when you’re home sick or out on vacation when they can’t locate a file or figure out how to use the presentation binder…it’s not all that bad.

That’s right. It’s not all that bad.

I have to admit that. I was giving my job some thought this week, and all things considered: it just ain’t that bad. I have a good salary. I have a nearly non-existent commute. I have a pretty green corporate card and a brand new notebook and matching leather bag. But the biggest thing is: I get to travel to fun places.

Next month I am out of town for four weekends in a row. It all starts off in Phoenix and then from Phoenix I fly to DC for a week. I’m back in Los Angeles for just four days before hopping a flight to Chicago. Then, later in September I am in Dallas. In October I spend a sweet five fabulous nights in New York City and then take a train down to Philly. It feels good for me to book these trips on a credit card other than my own.

And this leads me to yet another conclusion. Despite my love for wandering and trekking and being on a plane (well, wait. I am sort of scared to fly). Okay, being in an airport. Meeting strangers. Seeing new things. Walking down that road not knowing where it’s going to lead me. Despite all of that—I am a control freak.

And I think that’s what led to all of this “Must Move” business. I am not sure I can handle uncertainty so well. When I came to Los Angeles I was certain, or near-certain, of my life. I thought I knew what the next year held in store for me. And then within three-month’s time all of that got swept away. I didn’t know where my home was anymore (Phoenix? Los Angeles? Some city on the east coast?)

But what I am discovering, slowly, in a hand-holding way, is that it’s okay to not know. Someone told me that I’m on a journey and that from the outside, looking at me, she sees a beautiful thing. My chaos? Beautiful? I am not so sure. But that’s what she said.

And talking to my friend Matt last night as we walked the dark sidewalks of Santa Monica looking for his lost keys, he’s not so sure of things. And he’s okay with that.

And my friend Eric over in Chicago is okay with all of the unknowns and uncertainties.

And my friend Brandon in London ran away to Europe because he prefers the unknowns.

Why am I feeling like the only one so set on having a plan? And isn’t that a contradiction since I seem to love adventure all the same? Don’t people call me a free spirit? Is it true that I only like adventure if I am in control of it, a sort of planned chaos?

To be continued.

(But yeah, I guess my job isn’t so bad).

Let there be light!

It was time to switch things up. That's all.

(I know. I am sooooo spontaneous and crazy!)

Earthquake

I brought leftovers into work today to reheat for lunch. I had just walked into the kitchen area when the sound of creaking iron, crunch of foam, what sounded like heavy footsteps came from above. I ignored it at first, thinking, “Gee, someone up there is really moving around loudly.” And then I realized that no man could make noises like that, and my thoughts became, “The construction noise in this building is just so disruptive—what are they drilling into now? Are they knocking down a wall?” (They really are doing remodeling to my high-rise office building, so I did have good reason to think that it was construction noise).

I put my food in the microwave but before I could even press the start button, I looked up at the ceiling wearily. Crunch, crunch, smash! I held on to the counter top; the floor was trembling. I wondered, just for a quick moment, if the ceiling was going to fall through, but then I realized that such a thought was crazy. I hit the “Start” button on the microwave and as my spaghetti whirled around, it dawned on me: We’re having an earthquake.

It took me 10 or 15 seconds to even realize it.

The kitchen shook and continued to tremble and I just kinda stood there, alone, listening to the whiz and hum of the microwave, feeling the floor roll and sway beneath my feet.

The ding noise, symbolizing my food was done reheating came and it apparently also sounded the end of the earthquake, rated a 5.8 on the reichter scale.

I walked out to the general office area and no one was alarmed. Men stood near windows (the last place you should stand, really, in an earthquake), probably observing the other high-rise buildings swaying. People laughed. I heard someone say, “Now, isn’t THAT fun!?” The lights hanging from the ceiling swung back and forth like pendulums.

And then it was back to business. I hopped on a work call and started discussing Web strategy. Back to the grind.

For whatever reason, I was not afraid. This is my second earthquake here in LA. The first, I woke up in the middle of the night. In typical Joanna Goofball nature, I thought I was dreaming and didn’t realize that the bed quivering beneath me and the clinking noise of items on my dresser moving about was real.

*shrug.*

Me Thai, You Thai, We all Thai!

Tonight was a Thai feast in West Hollywood with my favorite dining partner. He chose the restaurant; I navigated the Los Angeles traffic (which, in my point of view, has dramatically decreased since gas prices rose so much) to his 'hood in WeHo. I got a call as I turned onto his street notifying me that he was running late so I grabbed a spot on Santa Monica Blvd and ducked my head into a corner bar called Jones Cafe. And fell in love.

Stepping into Jones' is like stepping into a 1920s mob-run bar, only warm and charming and welcoming. Indie rock whined through the speaker and the red-yellow lighting made me feel sophisticated and mysterious. I thought to myself, "If I was a big time Bollywood star, this is surely where I would hang."

Unfortunately, I only had literally 10-minutes to down my Chianti on my leather-clad stool at Jones' because my dining date called to say he was outside. I ran to the intersection, busy now with dusky lighting and the humming energy of cars and bikers eager to get home, and off we were to Kinaree Thai Bistro.

No greasy peanut sauce for us. We feasted on shrimp spring rolls in a thick sauce, hot but sweet. We dived into fried rice with lump crab, basil and chil chicken and veggie stir fry. Hmmm. Kinaree's was a basic no bullshit restaurant. No frills. The tables were simple and square, the floor just a polished concrete; the wine list nothing to brag about. But the fare was fresh and tasty; the conversation heart-warming.

Yum.

Getting all Bussied Up

I think it’s time that folks from Chicago, New York and Philly get out to the West coast to teach us Angelenos the ways of public transportation. With Los Angeles being a huge sprawled-out concrete jungle and gas prices roaring high, for those interested in saving their wallet and the environment, Los Angeles doesn’t offer too many choices. Car pools in some dude’s Porsche coupe? Nah. The metro (yeah, Los Angeles actually does have one!). Nope; it only branches out to a few select areas of mighty LA. The bus?

Yes. The Bus. Dah Bus.

Of course, I speak of all of this as though it’s my problem. I have barely a 1.5 mile drive to work and I fill up my car merely once a month. I would walk to work if I didn’t have to walk past the U-Haul rental center where a bunch of shady dudes (20 of ‘em!) line up each day for some hardcore labor and cat call to the occasional passerby; and on the other side of the street a pack of homeless folks sleep and rummage about. I could ride my beach cruiser to work if I didn’t think I might get jumped later for looking so damn dorky. But for other excursions and weekend adventures…yes…there’s…Dah Bus.

Roomie Deux (as opposed to the original Roomie, the OG) and I are fascinated by this concept. Roomie Deux’s boyfriend takes the bus from Santa Monica to work downtown. He saves the atrocious parking fees of the city and can zone out on the bus with a book, music or nap. Last weekend, he and Roomie Deux took the bus from the beach to my beloved LACMA for a buck-fifty each, round trip. Roomie Deux reported that, other than the occasional complaint and holla from someone stuck in an undesirable location, it wasn’t too bad.

Now, my experience with public transportation varies. In NYC and DC, I’m all about the train. I whiz on it like a kid on a merry go-round. In Chicago my first experience with the train was waiting for the train to arrive and seeing a homeless man fall into the tracks as the locals took cell phone pictures and laughed. I have since ridden the “El” there and it’s been far more peaceful. In San Francisco I take BART into the city (although usually the wrong way a couple times before I get it right). I did take the San Fran bus once, since I was there on a weekend a few years back and I am all about “being local” when I visit a new city. But ooze from a bum’s garbage bag leaked onto my leg and that sorta tainted the ride for me. Taxi!

In Brentwood I can walk most places. Last night Roomie Deux, a Maryland Chick and I walked 30-minutes to one of my favorite Mexican joints on the border of Brentwood and Santa Monica. We walk to the bars. We walk to restaurants, the library, my hair place, dry cleaners, yadda yadda.

But Roomie Deux and I are determined to take Dah Bus. We’re going to a 4-course wine tasting dinner in a few weeks in Westwood and we’ll be bussin’ it. We’re also going to try to take Dah Bus to a bar or two the next weekend I am home, but of course, we’re sticking to West LA and we’ll bring her 6’6” boyfriend for the first ride.

The Pegster

Weddings. A time of joy and tears, of love and rejoicing. A time of drunken electric sliding and groomsmen a’fighting.

Just kidding. The wedding I went to this past weekend didn’t have the electric slide.

I took a girlfriend of mine as a date to a wedding this weekend in Long Beach. I thought about taking a guy friend but on second thought, I decided against it. While the guys in my life are wonderful surrogate boyfriends, they ain’t the real deal and I wanted someone else to toast champagne with and make goofy faces at as I flung my arms in the air to the “YMCA!” song.

It was during cocktail hour, however, that the real treat came in the form of a sassy woman in her 60s in a bright pink dress, waving a glass of chardonnay in one hand and waving the other hand in colorful gestures to accompany her enthusiastic speech. Peggy. The Pegster, as I would later affectionately call her in the ladies restroom. But I digress.

Peggy sat down next to my friend and I and as soon as proper introductions had been made said, “So why don’t you ladies have a fella?”

I explained that I just wanted a fun date to the wedding, but before I could finish, Peggy leaned in close and said, “Do you want to know how to get a man?”

My friend and I exchanged a quick look and did an awkward sort of nod. Sure.

Peggy lifted her chin up high and said, “Well, first thing. You gotta do the Slut Face.”

Peggy then gave me the biggest smile she could muster and counted slowly to five. One thousand…two thousand…three….

I shifted in my seat. I couldn’t avoid those eyes staring at me, that wide smile.

“Uh, Peggy. Don’t you think that’s an awful long time to do the Slut Face?”

She ignored me and flipped her hair the other way, saying “And then, when you’re done with the Slut Face, you flip your hair like this”—and she flipped again, that wild red bob of her’s—“and you look the other way. That’s how you do it.”

She went on, later, to discuss all sorts of other rules and tricks and ways of the dating warrior. After a few drinks, I declared I’d attempt the Slut Face, but all I could do was smile at the cute guy in the blue tie and say excuse me as I walked past him. I am not even sure if I go to the two-thousand count.

But later, we danced and he didn’t mind when I stole a bit of his wedding cake, and teased me about being an LA Girl. So I suppose we all have our own set of rules…

G is for Gratitude

No need for a recovery today – last night I probably didn’t drink more than two glasses of wine. Wine! I believe I have had more wine this week than I have had a in a long time. Between the wine tour, wine with my Arizona friend, wine with new Roomie and then wine last night, I might be wine-tuckered-out.

Or maybe not.

Last night was one of those sweet nights where you live in the present and you just appreciate how things are. You’re not planning ahead or lamenting the past, you just ARE. And that’s how I felt, surrounded by the clink-and-clank of friends’ silverware as they dove into their rich pasta dishes and got to know one another. We took over the entire restaurant, our large group, and the host seemed so happy that we were there that he gave us an extra bottle of chianti on the house, and clapped along with my friends as they sang me “Happy Birthday” over a candle-lit tiramisu—my favorite Italian dessert.

I feel lucky.

It was a Happy Day.

Walter Speaks Again

It never fails to amaze me, the skills of my family's golden retriever, Walter. He's got to be the smartest dog ever. Look! He even uses email! This is what he wrote me today:

Hey Girl!!

Mom is letting me use her email because I just haven't had time to set up my own account. She's also typing this as I have one heck of a time with my paws. Anyway, just wanted to tell you Happy Birthday. Can't wait to see you in a couple of weeks. Maybe we can go swimming!

Have a great day -- my tail is wagging just thinking of you!!!

Love You -- Walter

Time to make a wish

A year ago today I started work at my current gig in Los Angeles. I was 5 pounds lighter (okay, I think more like 10 but let’s not focus on that) and I waltzed into work that morning after having successfully parallel parked in the street (a big deal for moi), ready to take on a new challenge.

I didn’t tell anyone it was my birthday that day. Asian Equation did her calculating acrobatics and I met a collage of new people and could hardly remember any names. But the kicker came in the afternoon when out came a giant chocolate cake from the depths of the office kitchen. I squirmed. Did they know it was my birthday? How did they know that chocolate was my favorite? I ducked my head down at my desk, acted as though I didn’t see that big delicious chocolate creation parading my way.

Then Asian Equation said it was time to sing Chrissy Happy Birthday. Chrissy!? My co-worker and instant soul sista (yes, “sista,” sans the “er” at the end).

And that is the day that I found out I was not the only one born on July 9. Hmph. I’ll ignore it.

I’ll also ignore my brother’s myspace bulletin stating that I [Fernando] was born in a Wyoming cave.

Work is bringing in cupcakes from some la-dee-daa expensive bakery from Beverly Hills (that's what they do in Los Angeles). To celebrate my birth, friends and I are going to a hole-in-the-wall Italian joint in Westwood. It’s a great place, I discovered it on a date. The date was so-so but the food was fabulous so at least I got that much. There are barely enough tables in the place to hold 20 people and the waiters speak with such an authentic Italian accent, they must actually be Italian or just the really good kind of actor.

There will be chianti! There will be vodka sauce! There will be a candle! And a wish!

Back from the Wine Trail

The 4th of July weekend was a blur of days and wine, tasty meals in Los Angeles sidewalk cafes and the faces of strangers, shopping stores running together and corny car ride games played to pass the time.

A great friend from Arizona flew into LAX last Wednesday night. After a detour through the less-than-attractive portions of Los Angeles, we ended up at one of my favorite restaurants in Santa Monica. We called it a quiet night because the next day friends swung by Brentwood to pluck us up and off we were to the Santa Ynez Valley! We drove straight North on the 101 freeway, the smoke from the Goleta fires just north of Santa Barbara snarling on our right, the pretty ocean view sparking on our left. We passed by quaint towns with sleepy hotels and sandy restaurants, lonely piers leading to where ocean waters run deep and steep green mountains folded around the shoreline like long arms.

After an “authentic” pancake breakfast at a Danish pancake house (we still don’t understand the difference between American and Danish pancakes? Wider? Flatter? Tastier? Hmph. We can’t tell!) we met an Escalade at our hotel. The Escalade was accompanied by a dude named Eric in flip flops and a shirt reminiscent of Maui: our guide.

We tasted some great wines, velvety and smooth; seductive; sincere. We asked a lot of questions: Define cuvee! Where are these grapes from? Can we eat the grapes raw? Our favorite vineyard by far was Mosby, where a woman behind the counter with a raspy voice and crazy-strewn white hair talked of wine in a second-nature sort of way. In a campfire tales sort of way. She gave us an extra pour each so that we could take a proper photo of us all toasting. That’s my girl!

Back at the hotel we grew sleepy and restless. Someone fell asleep and didn’t wake even when we nudged him with our feet. I fell asleep by the pool with my sundress hiked up, only to wake to the voice of my friend yelling at me to take off my sandals so I don’t get a sandal tan line. Too late! (But what about a dress tan line?) We had a pillow fight in the hotel room. The Sleeper slept still.

The next day we took our time moseying back to the city. We played car games like a family and listened to some good tunes. When I caught my friend’s eye in the back of the car, we couldn’t help but burst out laughing.

Our trips, they are always a bit crazy and off the beaten path.