I did drinks last night with my old friends from college, at one of our old favorite drinking holes in Tempe. Of course, the group has shrunk now; there was a time when there were about 30 of us. When you could make just a few phone calls and then boatloads would show up, and we were all friends, and didn't have to ask how each other were doing because we already knew. We knew everything -- who was dating who, who was moving, who was sad at life, and so on.
And so this Thanksgiving, I let off the siren, sent an email out to the old crew, a request for their presence this Thanksgiving weekend, four years after we all graduated. I wanted to see their faces and hear their stories and see how they are. I have to ask now.
The group of 30 is no more. It was more like a group of 10 of us. We huddled close to the table and told anecdotes that began with "Remember when...?" and I marveled at the madness of it all, the passing of time, the enduring nature of change.
My friend Erik, who now lives in San Jose, grinned. I asked him if he was having a good time.
"I am!" he said. "It almost makes me want to move back here. Almost. But then I remember that all these people don't live here anymore."
And it's true. He's gone, up to the North bay, along with Arpit. Tracy's in the city. I am in Los Angeles. My brother in San Diego. Ben and Stacy have a kid now and their priorities have changed. Travis and Katie are in Virginia. Rachel and Justin are moving to Denver for the hell of it. Maren's in Chicago. Patrick and Bridget are itching to move and the right opportunity just hasn't come along yet.
Who else? Jason #2 is in Los Angeles. Derek went off a few years ago for something school related and I fail to recall his whereabouts now. The neighbor boys from college have moved back to Jersey. Brandon's in London. Other friends have ran off to New York.
These friends became restless and the world has sucked them into its wild path. They have gone off to wander and to explore and to live. We are now scattered across the planet like stars in the sky. I wonder at it all.
Despite any sadness that might accompany this wondering, I now have ski friends in Colorado. Access to London flats. Friends to ring for shenanigans in San Francisco. Blustery Chicago friends. People to celebrate the New York night.
But, yes. Erik was right. All these people don't live here anymore.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
My inner compass has returned.
Have you ever felt like you had a soundtrack to your life? That you were in a movie and some mysterious, far-off director was orchestrating your story from a magical control station behind the clouds? Only you don't feel out of control. You're not resisting and pushing it away; instead, things are just falling as they should. Like the beauty and grace of a seamless domino effect, a winning hand of cards; the clarity which unravels from allowing intuition be your guide.
My date on Monday night asked me why I'm so restless. Not an easy question to answer. I tried to explain that I'm a naturally curious person. I've always been one to look for the next best thing. I'm the person who gets a great job and updates her resume a few weeks into it, just to keep my eyes open. I constantly plan for the future while rolling the past around in my mind as though it were a stress ball in hand. I don't want to wake up one day and wonder why I didn't do this and that. I don't want to settle down in one place and wonder what else there was out there to explore. I'd rather end up alone and alive and independent than with the wrong person. If I don't get what I want, I refuse to be patient. Isn't life too short to spend it waiting?
I have a way of doing things. Things just have to be done my way, in my time. I know this.
I told my date how I wanted to move to Chicago, at one point, this past spring. How I woke up one day and it felt right and within 48 hours I was on the phone with recruiters. Sending my resume to contacts in the city. Even telling my family I was going to move. Was it really what I wanted or was it a bit of a "fuck you" to my ex boyfriend? In hindsight, I think a part of me was just resisting what was naturally occurring, just because it wasn't what I ever thought I wanted. And sometimes it's hard to admit that you aren't who you thought you were. I never imagined I'd be so happy in Los Angeles. I never considered myself a California Girl. I didn't think I could truly deal with the traffic and the lame-o cupcakes. The overrated celebrity sightings, overpriced restaurants, hipsters and balmy weather that brings ants into the apartment come autumn. I guess that stubborn person within went into Resist Mode and couldn't admit it: She was and is happy.
I wasn't thinking about a lot of things. About the kneading effect the ocean has on my psyche, just knowing it's close. The amazing hole-in-the-wall cafes where servers let you dine for four-plus hours, never complaining or pushing you out the door. The fact that Angelenos go to expensive steak houses in holed-up jeans and flip flops. The gourmet burger joints and endless neighborhoods, spread far into the hills. The fact that I can drive just a few minutes from my apartment and I almost feel as though I'm on the east coast, ducking tree branches and lush foliage as I hike into the clouds. That almost every guy I've dated here can cook--not to impress me but just because he loves it. The farmers markets and the diversity. Gay, straight, Asian, black, Indian, Hispanic, who cares, everyone is just so damn interesting! I want to hear their stories. I want to know what their names mean and what they cook for the holidays and why they are the way they are.
And so tonight I came home after a long day from work. The novacaine had worn off from my dental work earlier in the day and my right side of my face simply ached. I had plans to take a former date out for his birthday, to a California cuisine joint in WeHo. I pinned my hair back and fixed my make up. I sat on the couch and watched tivo to kill time before I had to leave. I put on a pretty pink scarf. When I walked down into the garage, I could smell the oncoming rain through the ink-black night. Pulling onto Wilshire Boulevard sprinkles of water kissed my windshield and I nearly hooted. The traffic lights tonight were seldom. The song on the radio sang of waterfalls and rain and more waterfalls. And there I was, driving through it all, the world outside wet and vibrant. Smiling, thinking...
I'm right where I should be.
My date on Monday night asked me why I'm so restless. Not an easy question to answer. I tried to explain that I'm a naturally curious person. I've always been one to look for the next best thing. I'm the person who gets a great job and updates her resume a few weeks into it, just to keep my eyes open. I constantly plan for the future while rolling the past around in my mind as though it were a stress ball in hand. I don't want to wake up one day and wonder why I didn't do this and that. I don't want to settle down in one place and wonder what else there was out there to explore. I'd rather end up alone and alive and independent than with the wrong person. If I don't get what I want, I refuse to be patient. Isn't life too short to spend it waiting?
I have a way of doing things. Things just have to be done my way, in my time. I know this.
I told my date how I wanted to move to Chicago, at one point, this past spring. How I woke up one day and it felt right and within 48 hours I was on the phone with recruiters. Sending my resume to contacts in the city. Even telling my family I was going to move. Was it really what I wanted or was it a bit of a "fuck you" to my ex boyfriend? In hindsight, I think a part of me was just resisting what was naturally occurring, just because it wasn't what I ever thought I wanted. And sometimes it's hard to admit that you aren't who you thought you were. I never imagined I'd be so happy in Los Angeles. I never considered myself a California Girl. I didn't think I could truly deal with the traffic and the lame-o cupcakes. The overrated celebrity sightings, overpriced restaurants, hipsters and balmy weather that brings ants into the apartment come autumn. I guess that stubborn person within went into Resist Mode and couldn't admit it: She was and is happy.
I wasn't thinking about a lot of things. About the kneading effect the ocean has on my psyche, just knowing it's close. The amazing hole-in-the-wall cafes where servers let you dine for four-plus hours, never complaining or pushing you out the door. The fact that Angelenos go to expensive steak houses in holed-up jeans and flip flops. The gourmet burger joints and endless neighborhoods, spread far into the hills. The fact that I can drive just a few minutes from my apartment and I almost feel as though I'm on the east coast, ducking tree branches and lush foliage as I hike into the clouds. That almost every guy I've dated here can cook--not to impress me but just because he loves it. The farmers markets and the diversity. Gay, straight, Asian, black, Indian, Hispanic, who cares, everyone is just so damn interesting! I want to hear their stories. I want to know what their names mean and what they cook for the holidays and why they are the way they are.
And so tonight I came home after a long day from work. The novacaine had worn off from my dental work earlier in the day and my right side of my face simply ached. I had plans to take a former date out for his birthday, to a California cuisine joint in WeHo. I pinned my hair back and fixed my make up. I sat on the couch and watched tivo to kill time before I had to leave. I put on a pretty pink scarf. When I walked down into the garage, I could smell the oncoming rain through the ink-black night. Pulling onto Wilshire Boulevard sprinkles of water kissed my windshield and I nearly hooted. The traffic lights tonight were seldom. The song on the radio sang of waterfalls and rain and more waterfalls. And there I was, driving through it all, the world outside wet and vibrant. Smiling, thinking...
I'm right where I should be.
Warning: I might bite myself.
For some reason, I am afraid of dentists. I don’t like people coming at me with sharp tools. I don’t like the sound of the drill. I don’t like drooling and needing to swallow and being totally dependent on someone to stick a tube in my mouth to suck up my spit. I don’t like the splatter on my face when the dentist is working.
I had a cavity filled today and I am proud of myself for sticking it out. Chin up, eyes closed tight, jaw as relaxed as possible.
My face is numb and so is my tongue. That made spitting into the sink post-filling awkward. I tried to spit about five times while one of the assistants stood and watched. I kept thinking, “Why is she WATCHING me? Why doesn’t she just TURN AROUND?”
Finally, I just had to reach for a tissue and wipe my face off. The humility of it all.
Leaving the office, I texted a friend that I felt like I had down syndrome. I can’t talk properly and people smile at me in that condescending too-kind sort of way. Like they think I’m slow. Is this kind of like that experiment that they do on Dateline from time to time where skinny people put on costumes so that they know how fat people feel like? Anyway, I am sure my afternoon meetings are going to be fantastic. People will wonder who hired the me, that my company must just be filling their retard quota for 2008. I am sure I'll be poised and professional, as I randomly grope my face in hopes of catching strands of drool.
And my parents just called to talk Thanksgiving Turkey Strategy with me. I think this says it all:
Dad: Sweetheart, be careful eating lunch.
Me: Okay, Dad.
Dad: You really do have to be careful. You got to be careful about biting yourself.
Me: Yeah, Dad.
Dad: And you have to be careful about choking.
Me: Okay.
Pause.
Laughter.
I had a cavity filled today and I am proud of myself for sticking it out. Chin up, eyes closed tight, jaw as relaxed as possible.
My face is numb and so is my tongue. That made spitting into the sink post-filling awkward. I tried to spit about five times while one of the assistants stood and watched. I kept thinking, “Why is she WATCHING me? Why doesn’t she just TURN AROUND?”
Finally, I just had to reach for a tissue and wipe my face off. The humility of it all.
Leaving the office, I texted a friend that I felt like I had down syndrome. I can’t talk properly and people smile at me in that condescending too-kind sort of way. Like they think I’m slow. Is this kind of like that experiment that they do on Dateline from time to time where skinny people put on costumes so that they know how fat people feel like? Anyway, I am sure my afternoon meetings are going to be fantastic. People will wonder who hired the me, that my company must just be filling their retard quota for 2008. I am sure I'll be poised and professional, as I randomly grope my face in hopes of catching strands of drool.
And my parents just called to talk Thanksgiving Turkey Strategy with me. I think this says it all:
Dad: Sweetheart, be careful eating lunch.
Me: Okay, Dad.
Dad: You really do have to be careful. You got to be careful about biting yourself.
Me: Yeah, Dad.
Dad: And you have to be careful about choking.
Me: Okay.
Pause.
Laughter.
Friday, November 21, 2008
24
I have no idea what made me think of doing this but I think it dawned on me last night, when I was thinking back to a certain date or memory, that I couldn’t recall the name of the guy I was with at the time. It bothered me. It dawned on me, then, that there have been many faces, now blurred, throughout my last 13 months of a single woman.
Call me a hussy. Call me a much less raunchy version of Sex in the City (okay, not raunchy at all!). Or just call me Jo (awwww). But there’ve been 24 dudes in my life in the last 13 months. That’s 1.8 guys a month. Not all have been actual dates. Some of been run-ins at the bar, late night seekers of shenanigans. But they’ve all played their part, big and small, in shaping up my last year or so. And I wouldn’t have changed this last year for anything in the world. I needed this year. This was my year. To be me. To be selfish.
So, to the 24 (Note: names may have been changed to protect the obvious and the innocent):
Peter: You tried and you’re intelligent, which I like. But when you made snooty remarks about my Maryland guy friends, you crossed the line. I need them but I don’t need you. Next!
Fish Guy: We were and still are two soldiers sleeping in the mud, my back propped up against yours.
Street: Fantastic on paper but “it” just wasn’t there. I’m glad we’re friends and occasional dinner dates. You’re a good person.
Foodie: Your tomato soup recipe is delicious. Thanks for sending me restaurant recommendations!
Aron: You’re a lot of fun to hang out with and my friend really liked you. But I don’t date cokeheads.
Long Beach: Long Beach is just too far away.
Wedding Guy: Maybe I’ll see you some time again, in Arizona or California. You’re a hoot.
Florida: Thanks for plucking me up off the floor of a bar in Santa Monica when I slipped. You’re quite the southern gent. Sorry I lost you somewhere in the Santa Monica night…
Charlie: You made the most erotic eye contact with me across the room, but when we finally went out you seemed shy and nervous. Do I scare you?
CJ: During our date, I couldn’t tell which one of us yawned more.
Jeff: You’re creepy.
Pilot: I’m happy to see that you’re happy. My curiosity has been satisfied.
Yu Dom Fok: You’re not my type. At all. But you are hilarious and I am looking forward to our dinner on Sunday!
Malibu: I think you might be gay.
Commercial Producer: Ew.
Writer: We’re better off as friends.
Vegas: I haven’t had that much fun singing songs with a random guy in a piano bar in a long time!
Investment Banker: I think you’re far too “LA” for moi. Not sure what it is…the crystals? Meditation? Hippie parents?
Halloween: You proposed to me right then and there in the bar, sliding my plastic spider Halloween ring onto my ring finger. You had no idea how old I was and sincerely thought I was 21. Thanks for that.
George: I am glad you’re back in my life in the way that you should be. I’ve missed you. You asked me once if we’ll know each other forever. Yes, always.
G: You are one of my best friends. If something were to happen, I suspect it already would have happened. I am so happy you are in my life.
Manhattan Beach Lawyer: You’re incredibly disgusting. Hire a maid.
Gym Boy: I like your Midwest roots but you’re socially awkward.
Infatuation: I am having a great time getting to know you. I hope you stick around for a while.
Call me a hussy. Call me a much less raunchy version of Sex in the City (okay, not raunchy at all!). Or just call me Jo (awwww). But there’ve been 24 dudes in my life in the last 13 months. That’s 1.8 guys a month. Not all have been actual dates. Some of been run-ins at the bar, late night seekers of shenanigans. But they’ve all played their part, big and small, in shaping up my last year or so. And I wouldn’t have changed this last year for anything in the world. I needed this year. This was my year. To be me. To be selfish.
So, to the 24 (Note: names may have been changed to protect the obvious and the innocent):
Peter: You tried and you’re intelligent, which I like. But when you made snooty remarks about my Maryland guy friends, you crossed the line. I need them but I don’t need you. Next!
Fish Guy: We were and still are two soldiers sleeping in the mud, my back propped up against yours.
Street: Fantastic on paper but “it” just wasn’t there. I’m glad we’re friends and occasional dinner dates. You’re a good person.
Foodie: Your tomato soup recipe is delicious. Thanks for sending me restaurant recommendations!
Aron: You’re a lot of fun to hang out with and my friend really liked you. But I don’t date cokeheads.
Long Beach: Long Beach is just too far away.
Wedding Guy: Maybe I’ll see you some time again, in Arizona or California. You’re a hoot.
Florida: Thanks for plucking me up off the floor of a bar in Santa Monica when I slipped. You’re quite the southern gent. Sorry I lost you somewhere in the Santa Monica night…
Charlie: You made the most erotic eye contact with me across the room, but when we finally went out you seemed shy and nervous. Do I scare you?
CJ: During our date, I couldn’t tell which one of us yawned more.
Jeff: You’re creepy.
Pilot: I’m happy to see that you’re happy. My curiosity has been satisfied.
Yu Dom Fok: You’re not my type. At all. But you are hilarious and I am looking forward to our dinner on Sunday!
Malibu: I think you might be gay.
Commercial Producer: Ew.
Writer: We’re better off as friends.
Vegas: I haven’t had that much fun singing songs with a random guy in a piano bar in a long time!
Investment Banker: I think you’re far too “LA” for moi. Not sure what it is…the crystals? Meditation? Hippie parents?
Halloween: You proposed to me right then and there in the bar, sliding my plastic spider Halloween ring onto my ring finger. You had no idea how old I was and sincerely thought I was 21. Thanks for that.
George: I am glad you’re back in my life in the way that you should be. I’ve missed you. You asked me once if we’ll know each other forever. Yes, always.
G: You are one of my best friends. If something were to happen, I suspect it already would have happened. I am so happy you are in my life.
Manhattan Beach Lawyer: You’re incredibly disgusting. Hire a maid.
Gym Boy: I like your Midwest roots but you’re socially awkward.
Infatuation: I am having a great time getting to know you. I hope you stick around for a while.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
And so it goes
And so it goes in Brentwood. The sun is shining. It's low-70s and breezy and gorgeous outside. I slept like a baby last night and woke up to the dawn. Too early but feeling great nonetheless.
Work has been crazier than ever, but in this economy I'm happy about that. I slide through my meetings, hazelnut coffee in hand, scribbling notes and nodding and spouting out a "yes" there and a "uh huh" there. And despite the pure nuttiness (is that a word?) things are smooth and there's a sense of synergy. Good, no?
My best friend is coming to visit this weekend. Ditto with mon frere.
I'm looking forward to going home to Arizona for a long Turkey Day weekend.
I finally caved and read that tween hit vampire book, Twilight. I am going to see the movie this weekend. Should I bring garlic into the theatre with me?
I've had quite an obsession as of late with felafel pitas for lunch.
I feel like I don't have that much time to write lately and, really, not that much to say. Everything is going quite all right.
Things are...wonderful.
*Knock on formica.*
Work has been crazier than ever, but in this economy I'm happy about that. I slide through my meetings, hazelnut coffee in hand, scribbling notes and nodding and spouting out a "yes" there and a "uh huh" there. And despite the pure nuttiness (is that a word?) things are smooth and there's a sense of synergy. Good, no?
My best friend is coming to visit this weekend. Ditto with mon frere.
I'm looking forward to going home to Arizona for a long Turkey Day weekend.
I finally caved and read that tween hit vampire book, Twilight. I am going to see the movie this weekend. Should I bring garlic into the theatre with me?
I've had quite an obsession as of late with felafel pitas for lunch.
I feel like I don't have that much time to write lately and, really, not that much to say. Everything is going quite all right.
Things are...wonderful.
*Knock on formica.*
Friday, November 14, 2008
It's been a week
It's been quite the week. I've been too busy to write. I've been roasting a turkey. My roommate and I drank too much wine while we cooked last weekend and we both fell asleep on the living room floor, only to wake up at 5:30 a.m. to stagger off to our rooms. I hiked and climbed a mountain to see the pristine ocean once I reached the top. There I stood amid wild flowers and rock and looked out across the city. I shopped and read. I stayed at work until midnight one night. I took a good friend out for a belated birthday feast at one of my favorite joints in Santa Monica. I had Date #2 with Mr. Infatuation (and I'm still infatuated!). I went on an art walk in downtown Los Angeles last night where G and I ate delicious, greasy pizza and caught up on our last week. We mingled among the hipsters and slipped in and out of galleries where the art was dark and somber. We ended the night at a charming downtown bar, another favorite, sipping wine and listening to jazz, wondering to ourselves, Why don't we come here more often?
And now, here we are. Here I am. It's Friday yet again. Work has been quite chaotic this week. No turkey tonight for moi. Actually, no big plans for the weekend.
I think it's time for some Jo Time.
And now, here we are. Here I am. It's Friday yet again. Work has been quite chaotic this week. No turkey tonight for moi. Actually, no big plans for the weekend.
I think it's time for some Jo Time.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Infatuated
I've only had just one date with this person, but I am pretty sure he is perfect.
Perhaps I will regret these words in just a month, but in all my honesty, I am thinking them now.
Tall and dark and handsome. Sarcastic and business savvy. Independent and starting his own business. Not in the entertainment industry. Strong and athletic. Calls me out on my bullshit. Intelligent. Funny, witty. Close to his family. Inquisitive. Not an "LA Pretty Boy" but likes to camp and hike and sweat. He can cook. He's insecure and has told me why. He wants to know about my life and my career and where I am going. He's asked about my family. Successful. Direct. He says what he means. Charming and sweet.
That's what I've gathered in just a week.
This last year I've viewed dating as a chore. I can't remember all of the names, but I remember walking out my door. Lipstick on, hair perfect, mind set. Ready to interview and be interviewed (because let's just call it what it is) and ready to brush the guy off and move on to the next. And that's what I've always done.
But this guy. I have a thousand questions I want to ask him. And can't wait to ask each and every one.
I haven't felt this excited since my ex boyfriend.
And, perhaps, that's all that matters.
Perhaps I will regret these words in just a month, but in all my honesty, I am thinking them now.
Tall and dark and handsome. Sarcastic and business savvy. Independent and starting his own business. Not in the entertainment industry. Strong and athletic. Calls me out on my bullshit. Intelligent. Funny, witty. Close to his family. Inquisitive. Not an "LA Pretty Boy" but likes to camp and hike and sweat. He can cook. He's insecure and has told me why. He wants to know about my life and my career and where I am going. He's asked about my family. Successful. Direct. He says what he means. Charming and sweet.
That's what I've gathered in just a week.
This last year I've viewed dating as a chore. I can't remember all of the names, but I remember walking out my door. Lipstick on, hair perfect, mind set. Ready to interview and be interviewed (because let's just call it what it is) and ready to brush the guy off and move on to the next. And that's what I've always done.
But this guy. I have a thousand questions I want to ask him. And can't wait to ask each and every one.
I haven't felt this excited since my ex boyfriend.
And, perhaps, that's all that matters.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Office amusements
A few things occur within my office and organization that I think are strange.
People will send interoffice mail to another person even if that person sits a mere 20 feet away. It's not a shameful thing. The Equation is big on this, suggesting that I interoffice to a person's office I could easily walk to.
We are "tight on budget" but spend about $500 on Sprinkles Cupcakes for birthday and anniversary celebrations. This occurs every week or two.
Our IT team tried to change the time on our phones for daylight savings, but that task was too difficult. Now our entire voicemail system is broken and shut down. IT sends out updates about three times a day to update us on the progress (or lack of progress). I'd prefer they just leave me a voicemail once it's fixed.
My VP, a black man, heard that I was a super hero for Halloween a few years back. He told me he was, too.
What were you, which super hero?
Black Man!
Are you serious?
Yup! I had a cape and everything.
Oh.
People take the elevator to Floor 2.
We regularly interrupt important meetings to discuss food.
More to come...
People will send interoffice mail to another person even if that person sits a mere 20 feet away. It's not a shameful thing. The Equation is big on this, suggesting that I interoffice to a person's office I could easily walk to.
We are "tight on budget" but spend about $500 on Sprinkles Cupcakes for birthday and anniversary celebrations. This occurs every week or two.
Our IT team tried to change the time on our phones for daylight savings, but that task was too difficult. Now our entire voicemail system is broken and shut down. IT sends out updates about three times a day to update us on the progress (or lack of progress). I'd prefer they just leave me a voicemail once it's fixed.
My VP, a black man, heard that I was a super hero for Halloween a few years back. He told me he was, too.
What were you, which super hero?
Black Man!
Are you serious?
Yup! I had a cape and everything.
Oh.
People take the elevator to Floor 2.
We regularly interrupt important meetings to discuss food.
More to come...
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Let's get one thing straight here
I've been trying to avoid saying anything but I can't keep it in.
For all of those dimwits who are saying that last night was the "best night of my life," let's clear this up: you need to get out more often; your sentiments make me gag. To the Cat Lady in my apartment complex this morning who assumes, because I am young and live in California, that I am a Democrat, who told me "Today is a new day!" this morning: Screw You. To my Facebook friend who said she no longer needs to flee the country because Obama won: get a life.
All of my vacations and weekends and wine trips and nights out with friends and family were greater moments in my life than last night. And that goes for no matter what party line I fall upon, for any winning scenario.
And to the Republicans who are mourning and touting that this is a "national tragedy": c'mon, it's not a tragedy. Stop crying, move on. It's not that big of a deal. Have a tissue.
For any person to think that one person has the power, the lever, to change this country day to night and to change the world - that is absurd, at least in this country. What about Congress? What about your city council and propositions and even just your local PTO board?
For all of those dimwits who are saying that last night was the "best night of my life," let's clear this up: you need to get out more often; your sentiments make me gag. To the Cat Lady in my apartment complex this morning who assumes, because I am young and live in California, that I am a Democrat, who told me "Today is a new day!" this morning: Screw You. To my Facebook friend who said she no longer needs to flee the country because Obama won: get a life.
All of my vacations and weekends and wine trips and nights out with friends and family were greater moments in my life than last night. And that goes for no matter what party line I fall upon, for any winning scenario.
And to the Republicans who are mourning and touting that this is a "national tragedy": c'mon, it's not a tragedy. Stop crying, move on. It's not that big of a deal. Have a tissue.
For any person to think that one person has the power, the lever, to change this country day to night and to change the world - that is absurd, at least in this country. What about Congress? What about your city council and propositions and even just your local PTO board?
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
A hair-owing experience
When Roomie Deux told me about her hair chick at the Paul Mitchell School in Sherman Oaks, I was skeptical yet intrigued. As a woman who pays $200 to $250 on her hair stylist in Brentwood, the thought of paying closer to $80 was appealing.
“Did she need the instructor to help her a lot?” I asked.
“Nope, not at all,” Roomie Deux said.
“Did she seem confident? She’s not questioning herself all the time, is she?”
“Nope.”
“And you really like her? She doesn’t seem like an idiot?”
“No, Jo, she’s not an idiot.”
“Sold.”
So we made the arrangements. The girl, Liz, was due over to our place last night to cut and color both of our hair. I was up first, the guinea pig.
When Liz arrived, the first thing I noticed about her was how young she was. Baby face and her body hadn’t yet developed hips. I eyed her bag of hair tools suspiciously.
“Need help with that?”
“Uh, no…” she said, glancing from my narrowed eyes to her bag and back again.
She forgot hair foils. I sat there and made conversation with her as she cut foil from what stock I had in my pantry. I laid down a free surfboard-shaped towel I received at the Del Mar race tracks this past summer near the kitchen table and then placed a chair on top. My palms were sweaty. I felt as though I was prepping for my execution. Liz mixed color in my cereal bowls (my cereal bowls!) and I giggled nervously, making some lame comment about how the color looked like paint tubes. Who says that?
“Okay, I’m ready. Sit down.”
Who was this hussy to order me around? Suddenly, I felt the situation was getting hostile.
“I’m going to do color all over.”
“All over, huh? Do you really need to—“
“All over. Color all over,” Liz repeated.
“Yes.” I said. She was holding a brush with bleach on it, like a gun to my head. I couldn’t argue.
She was swift with the hair color. I cringed every time she pulled a chunk of hair and brushed it, prepping it. I imagined giant tiger stripes, purple tresses. Orange chunks. When she finished she told me to sit tight for a while.
“You know, my hair, it takes to color really fast,” I said.
“Just sit there for a while.”
“Okay.”
15 minutes later my roomie came home. I sat there as Liz checked my foils.
“Wow, your hair is getting way blonde!”
“Way blonde? Like white blonde? I don’t want to be white blonde!”
“Just sit there.”
“Okay.”
Pause.
“Roomie Deux? There’s a bottle of open wine on top of the bar.”
“Are you…saying you want me to pour you a glass of wine, Joanna?” Roomie Deux asked.
“Yes. Please pour me a big glass.”
Eventually I was allowed to take the color out of my hair. I couldn’t tell through all of the chemicals and junk and liquid what it looked like but Liz exclaimed over it as though it were fabulous. She applied something-or-another to my hair and told me to sit near here so my hair “doesn’t turn purple.” I poured another glass of wine and tried not to squirm.
Eventually, I was able to take out the something-or-another. Liz cut my hair and compared to the color experience, the hair cut was a breeze. I was three glasses of wine in deep then and couldn’t have cared less if she gave me a military-style buzz cut.
“Are you going to give me layers?”
“We talked about that already. Don’t you remember?”
“Yeah." Pause. "Wait...No. I don't.” Sip.
She blow-dried my hair straight and shiny and smooth. I had no mirror in front of me and I figured the damage was done. No sense in going crazy on Lizzy-Hair-Doo-Doo at this point.
“It looks so pretty!” Liz said.
“Good! Great!” Did I sound nervous? I sounded nervous. Roomie Deux shot me a warning look.
“It looks like peanut butter!” Liz said. Sweet Jesus. I didn’t want my hair to look like a jar of Skippy!
At the end, it doesn’t look bad. It looks okay. It looks good.
But it doesn’t look good enough for me to go through that again. I’ll be calling up my friendly old expensive lesbian hair lady in Brentwood in about a month. She’ll have no idea how happy I will be to see her.
“Did she need the instructor to help her a lot?” I asked.
“Nope, not at all,” Roomie Deux said.
“Did she seem confident? She’s not questioning herself all the time, is she?”
“Nope.”
“And you really like her? She doesn’t seem like an idiot?”
“No, Jo, she’s not an idiot.”
“Sold.”
So we made the arrangements. The girl, Liz, was due over to our place last night to cut and color both of our hair. I was up first, the guinea pig.
When Liz arrived, the first thing I noticed about her was how young she was. Baby face and her body hadn’t yet developed hips. I eyed her bag of hair tools suspiciously.
“Need help with that?”
“Uh, no…” she said, glancing from my narrowed eyes to her bag and back again.
She forgot hair foils. I sat there and made conversation with her as she cut foil from what stock I had in my pantry. I laid down a free surfboard-shaped towel I received at the Del Mar race tracks this past summer near the kitchen table and then placed a chair on top. My palms were sweaty. I felt as though I was prepping for my execution. Liz mixed color in my cereal bowls (my cereal bowls!) and I giggled nervously, making some lame comment about how the color looked like paint tubes. Who says that?
“Okay, I’m ready. Sit down.”
Who was this hussy to order me around? Suddenly, I felt the situation was getting hostile.
“I’m going to do color all over.”
“All over, huh? Do you really need to—“
“All over. Color all over,” Liz repeated.
“Yes.” I said. She was holding a brush with bleach on it, like a gun to my head. I couldn’t argue.
She was swift with the hair color. I cringed every time she pulled a chunk of hair and brushed it, prepping it. I imagined giant tiger stripes, purple tresses. Orange chunks. When she finished she told me to sit tight for a while.
“You know, my hair, it takes to color really fast,” I said.
“Just sit there for a while.”
“Okay.”
15 minutes later my roomie came home. I sat there as Liz checked my foils.
“Wow, your hair is getting way blonde!”
“Way blonde? Like white blonde? I don’t want to be white blonde!”
“Just sit there.”
“Okay.”
Pause.
“Roomie Deux? There’s a bottle of open wine on top of the bar.”
“Are you…saying you want me to pour you a glass of wine, Joanna?” Roomie Deux asked.
“Yes. Please pour me a big glass.”
Eventually I was allowed to take the color out of my hair. I couldn’t tell through all of the chemicals and junk and liquid what it looked like but Liz exclaimed over it as though it were fabulous. She applied something-or-another to my hair and told me to sit near here so my hair “doesn’t turn purple.” I poured another glass of wine and tried not to squirm.
Eventually, I was able to take out the something-or-another. Liz cut my hair and compared to the color experience, the hair cut was a breeze. I was three glasses of wine in deep then and couldn’t have cared less if she gave me a military-style buzz cut.
“Are you going to give me layers?”
“We talked about that already. Don’t you remember?”
“Yeah." Pause. "Wait...No. I don't.” Sip.
She blow-dried my hair straight and shiny and smooth. I had no mirror in front of me and I figured the damage was done. No sense in going crazy on Lizzy-Hair-Doo-Doo at this point.
“It looks so pretty!” Liz said.
“Good! Great!” Did I sound nervous? I sounded nervous. Roomie Deux shot me a warning look.
“It looks like peanut butter!” Liz said. Sweet Jesus. I didn’t want my hair to look like a jar of Skippy!
At the end, it doesn’t look bad. It looks okay. It looks good.
But it doesn’t look good enough for me to go through that again. I’ll be calling up my friendly old expensive lesbian hair lady in Brentwood in about a month. She’ll have no idea how happy I will be to see her.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Love wagon
I woke up this morning at 6:30 to hear the softness of the rain washing down the streets of Los Angeles. And—for whatever reason—I started thinking about the people in my life that I love, and I wondered if that list has some sort of capacity limit. I imagined a Love Wagon of some sort. Is there only room for a certain amount of people? As people fall off the Wagon as the years trickle by—as you lose them to traffic and accidents and tragedies and the stream of life--and others hop on for the ride, does it just even out somehow?
I wondered if there was a weight limit. I can only pull so much. I thought of emails I have to write and people I owe a call to and the minutes and the hours in a day.
I thought of friends I had in college. These people are still in my life, of course, but not in the same aspect. These friends were made for late night phone calls and shenanigans at the bars that lined Mill Avenue. They were built for barbeques and sparkling New Years Eves and quiet study sessions, just the sound of breathing and the occasional page turning of a textbook. If they called me now, if they needed me now, I will be there. But are they there for a lifetime?
Some of them are, yes.
I thought of the friends I have in my life that I without a doubt know are there for a lifetime. The girls who call me Dr. Jo and come to me for advice even when they know I may not have the answers. The ones I snuck out with in high school (out the back door, near the guest room, around the corner to the side gate). I thought of the firsts and the silliness of high school problems. Boys and dates and trying not to eat to be skinny. The looming shadow of college.
I mulled over the friends I have made in Los Angeles. Some of them, the Marylanders, I am tied to by the past. These faces that I rode the bus with in Maryland and now they have reappeared to become my neighbors in this big city. Others are purely random friends and I will be honest and admit: I love some more than others.
I wondered why.
My ex Roomie and her boyfriend, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for those people. They are of the purest sort, hearts of gold and they are lifetime friends. This I know. My friend S, it’s as though I am tied to her with a rope. She is my soulmate friend. She was made for wild nights and concerts and saki and parties.
And, last, I wondered about the guys I have loved (and I have been lucky to have loved a few). The Ex who I loved and knew it wasn’t right. The high school boyfriend that I grew up with. The one I said, “I love you” to in college and when he told me he loved me 7 months later, it was too late. Jo, think we’ll know each other forever? Maybe, maybe, I don’t know.
Maybe my love isn’t a wagon after all. Maybe it’s a giant cake. And the icing lays in crinkles and ripples and soft buttery waves, and perhaps it just all evens out in the end.
I wondered if there was a weight limit. I can only pull so much. I thought of emails I have to write and people I owe a call to and the minutes and the hours in a day.
I thought of friends I had in college. These people are still in my life, of course, but not in the same aspect. These friends were made for late night phone calls and shenanigans at the bars that lined Mill Avenue. They were built for barbeques and sparkling New Years Eves and quiet study sessions, just the sound of breathing and the occasional page turning of a textbook. If they called me now, if they needed me now, I will be there. But are they there for a lifetime?
Some of them are, yes.
I thought of the friends I have in my life that I without a doubt know are there for a lifetime. The girls who call me Dr. Jo and come to me for advice even when they know I may not have the answers. The ones I snuck out with in high school (out the back door, near the guest room, around the corner to the side gate). I thought of the firsts and the silliness of high school problems. Boys and dates and trying not to eat to be skinny. The looming shadow of college.
I mulled over the friends I have made in Los Angeles. Some of them, the Marylanders, I am tied to by the past. These faces that I rode the bus with in Maryland and now they have reappeared to become my neighbors in this big city. Others are purely random friends and I will be honest and admit: I love some more than others.
I wondered why.
My ex Roomie and her boyfriend, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for those people. They are of the purest sort, hearts of gold and they are lifetime friends. This I know. My friend S, it’s as though I am tied to her with a rope. She is my soulmate friend. She was made for wild nights and concerts and saki and parties.
And, last, I wondered about the guys I have loved (and I have been lucky to have loved a few). The Ex who I loved and knew it wasn’t right. The high school boyfriend that I grew up with. The one I said, “I love you” to in college and when he told me he loved me 7 months later, it was too late. Jo, think we’ll know each other forever? Maybe, maybe, I don’t know.
Maybe my love isn’t a wagon after all. Maybe it’s a giant cake. And the icing lays in crinkles and ripples and soft buttery waves, and perhaps it just all evens out in the end.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
