This is not my story. My foot merely swirled in this story's black waters. I brought my face close enough to this pond's edge to feel its moisture cling to my face; its heavy breath and shroud of sadness hovered near like a weeping fog.
But it didn't start like that. It began like any fantastic evening, one in which in a connection is made across a room; one in which a chorus of laughter rings true and light throughout Brentwood; one in which friends gather in a small apartment on Los Angeles' West side to share stories and tease each other and just all around live.
Roomie Deux and I hosted a fete at the Brentwood Chateau. I came home and we poured chilled white wine and cooked a feast of crab cakes and guacomole and cheese plates in the tiny galley kitchen. We had slipped past that awkward stage of small talk by then to the comfort of silence and the slicing of knives; the beautiful colliding of dishes in the sink and dirty spoons hitting a pan's edge. Outside, neighbors were arriving home from work and that salty sweet California air floated in. One of those perfect evenings licked from the bottom of summer's bowl.
Fast forward three, four hours or so. Our friends left after an evening of wine and chatting and I'm in the kitchen washing wine glasses when Roomie Deux pops in to tell me about a stranger that she met at a work event that day.
"She asked me if I am an only child," Roomie Deux started. I froze. Stopped washing dishes and turned to face her, absently putting my soapy hands on my hips.
"And?"
"And I paused. But I waited too long. She sensed that something was wrong. So I told her."
"I'm listening."
"And I think I want to hang out with her again. But I'm not sure if it's because I told her or if it's because I trust her. Or both. I don't usually tell."
And this is the part where I don't know what to say, so I say nothing. And just listen. Because when you're Roomie Deux and your 18-year old brother died when you were 20 years old, what does one say to that?
We sat in the living room. It was already nearly midnight and my eyes were tired but Roomie Deux had drifted to another place within that nostalgic, sad mind. She told me everything. How she fainted and fell down a flight of stairs when she got the phone call telling her that her brother died. How no one knows the exact day he died. How confused she is on the timing of major life events in the year after his death.
"I moved a month after he died," she said.
"In August?"
"Yeah."
"But didn't he die in February?"
"Oh. Yeah. I guess it was more than a month then."
She told me the grief her father wears on his face and holds heavy on his shoulders, each and every day. How he hasn't moved on. How all she can recall in the days following the death is her Dad playing his guitar. She didn't eat for a week. She just listened to the music. James Taylor and Joni Mitchell and the Beatles. She told me that she forgets that he's dead sometimes, that she'll be out a late night from time to time and might try to call him.
"He's dead, Roomie Deux," her friends will say.
"What!? You're joking!" and she'll laugh. "You're ridiculous."
"Roomie Deux," they'll repeat. "He's dead now."
"No. You're joking." But this time, her voice is just a bit weaker. Doubtful of her own words, reality sinking its claws into her heart.
Roomie Deux and I stayed up into the middle hours of the night, the early morning. I had work the next day, but I couldn't leave her just yet. The next morning I took off for a business trip and she to a bachelorette party. I, not knowing how to let go and not knowing the right words, wrote her an email and told her thanks for sharing with me. For letting me into that forbidden door of sadness and things rather forgotten.
She never wrote me back.
And that's okay. I still come home from work and we still cook together and we still don't have to talk. And when her iPod turns to "Sweet Baby James" by James Taylor or "Yesterday" by the Beatles--when she starts singing softly to these songs--I just listen.
And when I walk into her room to throw her mail on her bed and look at the wall to see a painting of two blond tow-headed kids, a sweet-faced young girl and a boy about two years younger, I remember.
And the next time she wants to talk until three in the morning, that's all right with me.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Monday, September 29, 2008
It's good to be back
My friend came to visit for a three-day weekend in LaLa Land and now I feel as though I must give my body at least a week to cleanse itself; detox; wash away that food and alcohol and late nights spent roaming about in Hollywood.
It's easy to be happy. It's easy to be happy here in Los Angeles, this big playground. Someone once told me, "You have to insist on happiness in life." Well, damn it! I insist!
We went out, like one big happy drunken circus, a stream of 30 of us, to a new "it spot" in Santa Monica where she met a good lot of my friends. She wore chunky heels that put her a solid foot above my short stature. She wore a vest that I despised and made embarrassingly funny jokes. Since I was so short, she leaned down to me to talk, in a baby voice--Jojo, is that you down there? How you doing, Jo? Use your big words!--as though I were a mentally challenged three-year old. But it's cool. That's what I love about this girl. She's strange and bold and doesn't give a shit what others think.
On Saturday we sat beach side in Redondo and ate fresh lobsters, red and bright and delicious. Lobster juice and bits of butter splattered on my yellow and blue sundress. She braided my hair and I sat there, just content with my toes in the sand beneath the white plastic table, sipping my chardonnay amongst the crowd of beer drinkers. Just like in college. The lone wine-o.
That night we went to a club in West Hollywood where my friend got rejected by a pirate-like fellow working the bar. Ultimate grunge (I was in horror!) but we danced to 80s tunes and the tab at the end of the night was just twenty bucks, so geesh, we can't complain.
Sunday we nursed our hangovers at the Brentwood Farmers Market. I bought avocado-cilantro hummus and fresh pita bread (better than what Roomie #1 gets at the Jew Market!). We admired the orchids, their proud pose; we tasted various dipping oils and balsamics aged 18 years; we elbowed our way in to taste organic peaches. We glowed. The sun was just there to assist.
We then went to my neighborhood bar to "watch football." Anyone who knows me knows I don't watch football. I'm the annoying girl who shows up in a cute dress to watch guys who watch football. We drank beer and made friends with other Brentwoodians before heading to Santa Monica to drink margaritas at a sidewalk bar. We stopped at the occasional shop and watched street performers display their various talents: body-twisting; ballroom dancing; soul singin'. Sucked into the eye of LA's culture storm, we popped into a gourmet cupcake shop and devoured a cupcake each on the spot, wiping sprinkles off our faces, licking chocolate frosting from our fingertips. Worth each and every ass-enlarging calorie.
A writer-actor friend invited me to watch him perform at a comedy club on Sunset. We stole a corner spot in the small room at the top of the well-known venue and, there in the candle-lit blackness, the actors tested their jokes on us. And we laughed. And laughed. And laughed. We said we'd call it an early night in Brentwood but we made friends at a bar later and before you know it, we arrived home in the late hours of night. Well, early hours of morning. Exhausted. And with the most hilarious moments captured on camera.
So easy to be happy in Los Angeles. Especially with one of your oldest friends in town.
It's easy to be happy. It's easy to be happy here in Los Angeles, this big playground. Someone once told me, "You have to insist on happiness in life." Well, damn it! I insist!
We went out, like one big happy drunken circus, a stream of 30 of us, to a new "it spot" in Santa Monica where she met a good lot of my friends. She wore chunky heels that put her a solid foot above my short stature. She wore a vest that I despised and made embarrassingly funny jokes. Since I was so short, she leaned down to me to talk, in a baby voice--Jojo, is that you down there? How you doing, Jo? Use your big words!--as though I were a mentally challenged three-year old. But it's cool. That's what I love about this girl. She's strange and bold and doesn't give a shit what others think.
On Saturday we sat beach side in Redondo and ate fresh lobsters, red and bright and delicious. Lobster juice and bits of butter splattered on my yellow and blue sundress. She braided my hair and I sat there, just content with my toes in the sand beneath the white plastic table, sipping my chardonnay amongst the crowd of beer drinkers. Just like in college. The lone wine-o.
That night we went to a club in West Hollywood where my friend got rejected by a pirate-like fellow working the bar. Ultimate grunge (I was in horror!) but we danced to 80s tunes and the tab at the end of the night was just twenty bucks, so geesh, we can't complain.
Sunday we nursed our hangovers at the Brentwood Farmers Market. I bought avocado-cilantro hummus and fresh pita bread (better than what Roomie #1 gets at the Jew Market!). We admired the orchids, their proud pose; we tasted various dipping oils and balsamics aged 18 years; we elbowed our way in to taste organic peaches. We glowed. The sun was just there to assist.
We then went to my neighborhood bar to "watch football." Anyone who knows me knows I don't watch football. I'm the annoying girl who shows up in a cute dress to watch guys who watch football. We drank beer and made friends with other Brentwoodians before heading to Santa Monica to drink margaritas at a sidewalk bar. We stopped at the occasional shop and watched street performers display their various talents: body-twisting; ballroom dancing; soul singin'. Sucked into the eye of LA's culture storm, we popped into a gourmet cupcake shop and devoured a cupcake each on the spot, wiping sprinkles off our faces, licking chocolate frosting from our fingertips. Worth each and every ass-enlarging calorie.
A writer-actor friend invited me to watch him perform at a comedy club on Sunset. We stole a corner spot in the small room at the top of the well-known venue and, there in the candle-lit blackness, the actors tested their jokes on us. And we laughed. And laughed. And laughed. We said we'd call it an early night in Brentwood but we made friends at a bar later and before you know it, we arrived home in the late hours of night. Well, early hours of morning. Exhausted. And with the most hilarious moments captured on camera.
So easy to be happy in Los Angeles. Especially with one of your oldest friends in town.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Scribbles from Dallas
I'm in Dallas. No, no, not another trip, just a night away (one night doesn't count). I didn't even have to pack my bright red carry-on bag; instead I opted for a small duffle. Efficient. Light. *shrug*
I like Dallas. Nothing glamorous here, but good restaurants and good shopping from what I can tell. I appreciate the rolling hills and shady trees sprawled across corporate campuses.
A few things:
1) I was never a huge fan of Holiday Inn Expresses....but they give me a free cookie when I check in! So I can't complain.
2) I work with a bunch of foodies. My parents think I am a foodie but I'm convinced that 80% of Angelenos are foodies. You should hear how my team at work disects each and every meal, analyzes every recipe. Debates on what to order at dinner. It's exhausting and delicious!
3) I won't sit by The Equation on flights for business travel. Because I don't want to work. She can work. I'll be in some seat several rows away doing the air plane head bob people do when they are falling asleep.
4) One of my best friends is coming to visit Los Angeles this weekend! Agenda includes a Lobster Festival (yum!), Santa Monica Farmers Market, comedy club on Sunset, dinner in K-town, and who knows what else....yay!
5) I meet with a writers group in a few weeks...must think of something to write about...ahem.....
Night, y'all.
I like Dallas. Nothing glamorous here, but good restaurants and good shopping from what I can tell. I appreciate the rolling hills and shady trees sprawled across corporate campuses.
A few things:
1) I was never a huge fan of Holiday Inn Expresses....but they give me a free cookie when I check in! So I can't complain.
2) I work with a bunch of foodies. My parents think I am a foodie but I'm convinced that 80% of Angelenos are foodies. You should hear how my team at work disects each and every meal, analyzes every recipe. Debates on what to order at dinner. It's exhausting and delicious!
3) I won't sit by The Equation on flights for business travel. Because I don't want to work. She can work. I'll be in some seat several rows away doing the air plane head bob people do when they are falling asleep.
4) One of my best friends is coming to visit Los Angeles this weekend! Agenda includes a Lobster Festival (yum!), Santa Monica Farmers Market, comedy club on Sunset, dinner in K-town, and who knows what else....yay!
5) I meet with a writers group in a few weeks...must think of something to write about...ahem.....
Night, y'all.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Life in the city
I am back in Los Angeles, yet again. I flew home last night from Chicago, thousands of miles up in the misty air, flying above canyons and mountains and tiny square homes, sprinkled across the vast Midwest like confetti on cupcakes, or stars exploded in the inky night sky. I thought of On the Road and of all of the winding and lonely roads that create the veins of the Midwest and I imagined the wind, the smell of manure. And great fields of corn sprung high and oceans wide.
I was rained out in Chicago. It’s as though the city heard my siren calling and decided to test my backbone. My friend and I made the trek for deep dish pizza but only got two blocks from her condo before my jeans were soaked up to my mid-thigh and I could hear the squish of water in my puma shoes. Drenched, we sat down at the nearest pizzeria we could find (not too hard, I suppose, in Chicago) and we shivered in the air conditioning as we ate and chatted.
The next day my umbrella broke. I had been pushing on the “open” button too hard and then the stubborn thing gave out on me. Refused to open unless I twisted it and pulled it as hard as I could. I toured Wrigley Field in the gray drizzle with a half-open umbrella, my gray sweatshirt spotted with rain, my hair pulled back against the wind.
Such is life in Chicago, I suppose.
I snoozed on the plane back to Los Angeles. I awoke after an hour or so embarrassed to find my mouth hanging open, literally, and I hoped the man next to me didn’t notice my limp face and sleepless twitches. Within the confines of the yellow-lit cabin and hum of the engine, I ached to write. I ached to travel even more and I ached for Chicago. I ached for the big wide world and all of the things I couldn’t have, didn’t yet have and didn’t even know I wanted.
But again, this morning I was launched back into Brentwood life. In my morning pilates session women more than twice my age and with insanely tight asses spoke of brunches in Westwood and tapas in Encino. I had parallel parked in the Village area and jogged to class, greeting the black lab that hovers outside our studio door with an enthusiastic grin. I was back to discussing green tea (shrink and drink!), indie films and whatnot while the morning California white-yellow light churned through the ceiling-high window panes.
Such is life in California, I suppose.
And yet, still. I still checked online ads last night for jobs both in Los Angeles and Chicago. Like poison, Chicago has worked itself once again into my veins and it's running through me now, proud and stubborn and strong.
And so it goes.
Back in Brentwood. Many dinners this week with friends, book clubs and writers groups and hiking this week in the Santa Monica Mountains, high up where I can see the ocean and wild flowers below.
I was rained out in Chicago. It’s as though the city heard my siren calling and decided to test my backbone. My friend and I made the trek for deep dish pizza but only got two blocks from her condo before my jeans were soaked up to my mid-thigh and I could hear the squish of water in my puma shoes. Drenched, we sat down at the nearest pizzeria we could find (not too hard, I suppose, in Chicago) and we shivered in the air conditioning as we ate and chatted.
The next day my umbrella broke. I had been pushing on the “open” button too hard and then the stubborn thing gave out on me. Refused to open unless I twisted it and pulled it as hard as I could. I toured Wrigley Field in the gray drizzle with a half-open umbrella, my gray sweatshirt spotted with rain, my hair pulled back against the wind.
Such is life in Chicago, I suppose.
I snoozed on the plane back to Los Angeles. I awoke after an hour or so embarrassed to find my mouth hanging open, literally, and I hoped the man next to me didn’t notice my limp face and sleepless twitches. Within the confines of the yellow-lit cabin and hum of the engine, I ached to write. I ached to travel even more and I ached for Chicago. I ached for the big wide world and all of the things I couldn’t have, didn’t yet have and didn’t even know I wanted.
But again, this morning I was launched back into Brentwood life. In my morning pilates session women more than twice my age and with insanely tight asses spoke of brunches in Westwood and tapas in Encino. I had parallel parked in the Village area and jogged to class, greeting the black lab that hovers outside our studio door with an enthusiastic grin. I was back to discussing green tea (shrink and drink!), indie films and whatnot while the morning California white-yellow light churned through the ceiling-high window panes.
Such is life in California, I suppose.
And yet, still. I still checked online ads last night for jobs both in Los Angeles and Chicago. Like poison, Chicago has worked itself once again into my veins and it's running through me now, proud and stubborn and strong.
And so it goes.
Back in Brentwood. Many dinners this week with friends, book clubs and writers groups and hiking this week in the Santa Monica Mountains, high up where I can see the ocean and wild flowers below.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Chicago, Wahoo!
Okay, so this is my fourth weekend in a row of traveling. Yesterday I thought I had lost it. I thought I was so tired and worn down that I couldn't do it. My 12-hour day at work was spent lost in an excel sheet, my brain and tired body scrambling to put together a presentation. Instead of getting stressed or pissy, I became utterly goofy and giddy and stupid. And, damn, I had FUN!
But today, I'm put together. I've made a packing list. I'm ready for the weekend, to see my friends and be in that Chicago rain. I even have a new umbrella, courtesy of a random hotel guy in DC!
Come Friday afternoon at approximately 1:00, when my business meeting is over, I am a free woman! You'll find me at a bar sipping wine or drinking beer until one of my best friends gets off work.
Wahoo, Chi-town!
But today, I'm put together. I've made a packing list. I'm ready for the weekend, to see my friends and be in that Chicago rain. I even have a new umbrella, courtesy of a random hotel guy in DC!
Come Friday afternoon at approximately 1:00, when my business meeting is over, I am a free woman! You'll find me at a bar sipping wine or drinking beer until one of my best friends gets off work.
Wahoo, Chi-town!
Monday, September 8, 2008
The contagious glow
I sincerely hope that I am not jinxing myself by putting this out there. But...for the first time in a while, I am feeling really happy. Centered!
Not that I ever wasn't happy. I'm happy and optimistic by nature. I think I was feeling more restless, more than anything.
But yeah...things are going well. Fantastic. For the last two months or so something has shifted in my life. It's as though I was off-roading for a while. Stuck in the dirt. And now I've once again come out of the woods, dusted myself off and found the path once again, map in hand, compass in heart.
I'm sitting here at my kitchen table, totally content in my quiet apartment with a glass of wine and half-eaten bowl of pasta. Couldn't be more satisfied. And I'm about to open up an excel document and crunch out some numbers and think deep about marketing this-and-that and I'm okay with it.
I think I enjoy it.
And I just got back from a long jaunt through Brentwood with Roomie #1 and once again, I came home feeling just so happy that I met her. Reminded myself again how lucky I am, that I'd throw myself in front of a bus for her (but the LA buses don't move so fast, so it's not really that big of a sacrifice). And my ears were cold from the night, how it approaches faster now. And my feet dirty after stepping in mud to avoid a homeless dude. And I was a happy cat.
And in the last few months I've reconnected with old people in my life. Not lost, just a bit less familiar. I received such a thoughtful email from my high school boyfriend tonight. We're going to grab a drink in October together in either San Diego or Arizona, wherever I may be. And my mentor (one of them) in Colorado has invited me to her baby shower and I can almost feel her preggo glow through her emails that she writes. Her tail bone has shifted because of the way the baby is sitting; she's on bed rest; she's fat, she says. And she's glowing.
It's contagious.
And tomorrow is date Number Three with a guy I met several weeks ago. Somehow he has managed to keep up with my pace, my traveling and hectic schedule. He is tall and sarcastic and intelligent. He's not from Los Angeles and is not in the entertainment industry (huge bonus). The night we met, we argued about public transportation in LA, why the metro doesn't run through Beverly Hills. He had the nerve to call me a diva. And then, for whatever reason at the end of the night, I scribbled my cell number on a napkin. Borrowed a pen from the bartender and just wrote it down, sloppy and big. And I told him to call and handed the paper to him like I was handing over court orders.
And he never even asked for it.
Regardless, he called and I am actually excited to see him. So I'm just going to enjoy it for what it is, live in the moment.
And my pilates sessions are keeping me going. I admit that I don't see any difference in my body but I feel the difference. My teacher is a woman named Doreen. A raging liberal who appears as though she's of Indian descent. She's got an adorable black lab that lies outside the Brentwood Village studio door, enjoying the misty gray California mornings. Doreen is a pseudo actress who really wants to live in Manhattan but is now dating an actor. After 20 years in LA, she is settled. She is goofy and laughs loud and hard and I feed off her energy.
She is my morning power line.
And so, I am at home here in Brentwood. I'm anxious to be done traveling. I'm in Chicago this weekend and then that weekend after, it's mine. I will go to the farmers market and drown in fresh strawberries and remember my dad, the way he inhaled that organic peach. I will walk to the bar around the corner and reunite with the Maryland Kids. I will cook dinners and bake for my coworkers.
I will glow.
Not that I ever wasn't happy. I'm happy and optimistic by nature. I think I was feeling more restless, more than anything.
But yeah...things are going well. Fantastic. For the last two months or so something has shifted in my life. It's as though I was off-roading for a while. Stuck in the dirt. And now I've once again come out of the woods, dusted myself off and found the path once again, map in hand, compass in heart.
I'm sitting here at my kitchen table, totally content in my quiet apartment with a glass of wine and half-eaten bowl of pasta. Couldn't be more satisfied. And I'm about to open up an excel document and crunch out some numbers and think deep about marketing this-and-that and I'm okay with it.
I think I enjoy it.
And I just got back from a long jaunt through Brentwood with Roomie #1 and once again, I came home feeling just so happy that I met her. Reminded myself again how lucky I am, that I'd throw myself in front of a bus for her (but the LA buses don't move so fast, so it's not really that big of a sacrifice). And my ears were cold from the night, how it approaches faster now. And my feet dirty after stepping in mud to avoid a homeless dude. And I was a happy cat.
And in the last few months I've reconnected with old people in my life. Not lost, just a bit less familiar. I received such a thoughtful email from my high school boyfriend tonight. We're going to grab a drink in October together in either San Diego or Arizona, wherever I may be. And my mentor (one of them) in Colorado has invited me to her baby shower and I can almost feel her preggo glow through her emails that she writes. Her tail bone has shifted because of the way the baby is sitting; she's on bed rest; she's fat, she says. And she's glowing.
It's contagious.
And tomorrow is date Number Three with a guy I met several weeks ago. Somehow he has managed to keep up with my pace, my traveling and hectic schedule. He is tall and sarcastic and intelligent. He's not from Los Angeles and is not in the entertainment industry (huge bonus). The night we met, we argued about public transportation in LA, why the metro doesn't run through Beverly Hills. He had the nerve to call me a diva. And then, for whatever reason at the end of the night, I scribbled my cell number on a napkin. Borrowed a pen from the bartender and just wrote it down, sloppy and big. And I told him to call and handed the paper to him like I was handing over court orders.
And he never even asked for it.
Regardless, he called and I am actually excited to see him. So I'm just going to enjoy it for what it is, live in the moment.
And my pilates sessions are keeping me going. I admit that I don't see any difference in my body but I feel the difference. My teacher is a woman named Doreen. A raging liberal who appears as though she's of Indian descent. She's got an adorable black lab that lies outside the Brentwood Village studio door, enjoying the misty gray California mornings. Doreen is a pseudo actress who really wants to live in Manhattan but is now dating an actor. After 20 years in LA, she is settled. She is goofy and laughs loud and hard and I feed off her energy.
She is my morning power line.
And so, I am at home here in Brentwood. I'm anxious to be done traveling. I'm in Chicago this weekend and then that weekend after, it's mine. I will go to the farmers market and drown in fresh strawberries and remember my dad, the way he inhaled that organic peach. I will walk to the bar around the corner and reunite with the Maryland Kids. I will cook dinners and bake for my coworkers.
I will glow.
Back in the saddle
And wishing I could fall off my horse and take a nap! Work blows.
The most commonly used words at my office: "In theory," "correct" and "leverage."
Hearing "in theory" makes me just want to pull out my hair. Gag. Puke up a calculator.
A typical conversation with The Equation:
Me: So I was thinking that we should try to remarket to the customers from--
Her: Correct.
Me: But for the creative, do you prefer this ad or that one?
Her: In theory the first ad appeals to the greater demographic, but we should leverage the targeting aspect of the second ad. In theory, that would be better.
Me: Ok, sure, I will--
Her: Correct.
Correct, correct, correct! Ack!
The most commonly used words at my office: "In theory," "correct" and "leverage."
Hearing "in theory" makes me just want to pull out my hair. Gag. Puke up a calculator.
A typical conversation with The Equation:
Me: So I was thinking that we should try to remarket to the customers from--
Her: Correct.
Me: But for the creative, do you prefer this ad or that one?
Her: In theory the first ad appeals to the greater demographic, but we should leverage the targeting aspect of the second ad. In theory, that would be better.
Me: Ok, sure, I will--
Her: Correct.
Correct, correct, correct! Ack!
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Hello, DC. It's been a while. You look fabulous!
Dear Washington, D.C.,
I flew in last night and I couldn't have been more excited. I wanted to tell my obnoxious co-worker to shut up in the cab so that I could just be thoughtful and nostalgic; so that he could allow me that quiet time to swim and sink deep into all of our old memories. Because, don't you know? Some of the best times of my life have been spent with you.
The September night was soft as ever and the warm night air wrapped around my shoulders like a cloak. I miss these trees, that green, these historic streets. If I could, if I had the right opportunity, I might be tempted to come here, to explore you once again...
Today I slept in as much as I could, let that eastern sun come shining through my walls of windows to wake me, natural and sweet. We set up our booth at the convention center and then enjoyed a long delicious lunch at Ulah's on U and 13th. The exposed brick walls and honey-colored maple floors made me ache. Ever more, the oldies and Marvin Gaye oozing from the stereo made us sway as we ate your crab cakes, chomped on the arugula, sipped wine in the yellow September afternoon.
Tonight I will stroll your streets in the balmy and inky dark. I will see the capitol glow and I will remember. I will remember all of those wonderful weekends my parents brought me into the city to appreciate the moments, the history. I will remember the wonder I felt then. I will remember.
And next time? I won't let it go so long before I've come to see you, again. I will be back, D.C. Because you're in my blood.
Yours, always,
Jo
I flew in last night and I couldn't have been more excited. I wanted to tell my obnoxious co-worker to shut up in the cab so that I could just be thoughtful and nostalgic; so that he could allow me that quiet time to swim and sink deep into all of our old memories. Because, don't you know? Some of the best times of my life have been spent with you.
The September night was soft as ever and the warm night air wrapped around my shoulders like a cloak. I miss these trees, that green, these historic streets. If I could, if I had the right opportunity, I might be tempted to come here, to explore you once again...
Today I slept in as much as I could, let that eastern sun come shining through my walls of windows to wake me, natural and sweet. We set up our booth at the convention center and then enjoyed a long delicious lunch at Ulah's on U and 13th. The exposed brick walls and honey-colored maple floors made me ache. Ever more, the oldies and Marvin Gaye oozing from the stereo made us sway as we ate your crab cakes, chomped on the arugula, sipped wine in the yellow September afternoon.
Tonight I will stroll your streets in the balmy and inky dark. I will see the capitol glow and I will remember. I will remember all of those wonderful weekends my parents brought me into the city to appreciate the moments, the history. I will remember the wonder I felt then. I will remember.
And next time? I won't let it go so long before I've come to see you, again. I will be back, D.C. Because you're in my blood.
Yours, always,
Jo
Monday, September 1, 2008
The men in my life
Relationships, all kinds, end for one reason or the other. Sometimes this world is just too big to make it work and before you know it, you are launched into the wide expanse of wonder this life has to offer, and there you go, off to explore and to live in another crevice. Other times it can be the dramatic obvious that kills it off, like lying and cheating, yadda yadda. And then, yet again, things might just crumble. What was once young and fresh and exciting can't stand the weight of time passing by and caves to dust, silver sand beneath feet.
So many are bruised by the past. We might leave relationships scrappy and cynical, tails between our legs.
I consider myself one of the lucky ones. I've emerged from relationships with just a scratch here and there, nothing that a bandaid can't heal. And every single guy that I've ever dated is still in my life today. Well, all except one.
A few months ago I ran into my first boyfriend from high school at a restaurant in Tempe. He didn't look different at all and it wasn't awkward, at least not on my end. He sat with me the entire meal through and a few months later when he was in California, he looked me up and invited me to dinner with his family and his current girlfriend. Weird or absurdly healthy? It was good to see him and I admit: I am really proud of him and happy that he's finally grown up.
When my most recent ex and I broke up, an ex boyfriend from college who now lives in Los Angeles shot me an email. Jo, are you okay? it read. You've got to come out with us this weekend. I have a lot of really great friends and I know they will love you. He followed up with a phone call and still calls me every couple of months to check in. He has a new girlfriend now, but occassionally I'll get a random late night call. Jo, I had so much fun with you in college. I really did. Are you dating anyone now? Why are you single? I bet the guys are all over you.
Actually, no. Not really, but thank you College Ex, for that Self Esteem Boost.
And then there is someone who I consider to be one of the closest people to me in my life, and we barely talk monthly, if that--and he now lives an ocean away. Someone who was undefinable in my college years, that mysterious gray area between Friends and Boyfriend...we still talk. I still see him when he is home. We give each other advice about everything and just simply care.
And what about all of the In Betweens and Randoms that I see when I am out and about? And it's never the awkward look away or Pretend I Don't See You. Instead, it's a big hug and we might have a drink together. We introduce each other to our friends.
These are not dates. It's platonic and pure and something deeper than the average friendship.
See, when I love you, I don't know how to let go. I'm going to love you forever in one way or another. And especially if I really, truly respect you (because that's what this really comes down to) I'm going to always be rooting for your happiness. It won't just wash away, what we had. It'll become this shiny, brilliant friendship that I will treasure for always.
Just because things didn't work out doesn't mean I scorn you and wish you ill. This is how it is, so be it.
I wouldn't have things any other way.
So many are bruised by the past. We might leave relationships scrappy and cynical, tails between our legs.
I consider myself one of the lucky ones. I've emerged from relationships with just a scratch here and there, nothing that a bandaid can't heal. And every single guy that I've ever dated is still in my life today. Well, all except one.
A few months ago I ran into my first boyfriend from high school at a restaurant in Tempe. He didn't look different at all and it wasn't awkward, at least not on my end. He sat with me the entire meal through and a few months later when he was in California, he looked me up and invited me to dinner with his family and his current girlfriend. Weird or absurdly healthy? It was good to see him and I admit: I am really proud of him and happy that he's finally grown up.
When my most recent ex and I broke up, an ex boyfriend from college who now lives in Los Angeles shot me an email. Jo, are you okay? it read. You've got to come out with us this weekend. I have a lot of really great friends and I know they will love you. He followed up with a phone call and still calls me every couple of months to check in. He has a new girlfriend now, but occassionally I'll get a random late night call. Jo, I had so much fun with you in college. I really did. Are you dating anyone now? Why are you single? I bet the guys are all over you.
Actually, no. Not really, but thank you College Ex, for that Self Esteem Boost.
And then there is someone who I consider to be one of the closest people to me in my life, and we barely talk monthly, if that--and he now lives an ocean away. Someone who was undefinable in my college years, that mysterious gray area between Friends and Boyfriend...we still talk. I still see him when he is home. We give each other advice about everything and just simply care.
And what about all of the In Betweens and Randoms that I see when I am out and about? And it's never the awkward look away or Pretend I Don't See You. Instead, it's a big hug and we might have a drink together. We introduce each other to our friends.
These are not dates. It's platonic and pure and something deeper than the average friendship.
See, when I love you, I don't know how to let go. I'm going to love you forever in one way or another. And especially if I really, truly respect you (because that's what this really comes down to) I'm going to always be rooting for your happiness. It won't just wash away, what we had. It'll become this shiny, brilliant friendship that I will treasure for always.
Just because things didn't work out doesn't mean I scorn you and wish you ill. This is how it is, so be it.
I wouldn't have things any other way.
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