First day of school

“It will be interesting to see who is in my writing class,” I muse. “Last time I had a sex addict, a news anchor, a guy who waxed on about pornography. I had a rebellious 18-year old, who got grounded by her parents every other week. I had a doctor.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” she says. “All writers are a bit screwy.”

“Yup.”

She just stares at me.

it's tuesday

I fell asleep last night, laughing at the memories from this past weekend.

remember your soul is the one thing
you can't compromise
step out of the shadow
we're gonna go where we can shine
we're gonna go where we can shine
we're gonna go where we can shine

- David Gray

Where did the summer go?

Autumn is ever so subtle here in Los Angeles but now in the mornings when I wake it’s ink black outside, aside from the street lights sprinkled throughout Brentwood like stars, the stars themselves and the warm yellow glow, across the way, of a neighbor’s light on.

And in the morning when I go up and down those stairs in Santa Monica (up and down, up and down, up and down), the ocean fog lingers around and dips within the canyons.

And when I drive to work, a handful more shadows line the streets. The slightest of changes from the sunshine-white light of summer, but noticed nonetheless.

I’m in the mood for butternut squash soup, turkey and jackets. For boots and sweatshirts and hot steamy cups of tea. For crunchy vibrant red leaves and socks. I want cold air on my walks, holiday lights and the spirit of giving and love. The empowerment of renewal that fall brings.

Wednesday bit

Ever since happiness heard your name, it has been running the streets trying to find you.


- Haviz

Friday bit

Remember that happiness is a way of travel -- not a destination.


- Roy M. Goodman

Jo vs. Chocolate

I am home from a perfect date. Wait. It’s more like this: I am home after devouring the perfect dessert. Mom and Dad, please turn your heads in shame, as I was not such a lady tonight but more like a rabid rottweiler, attacking a velvety, rich, dark chocolate mess of a dessert, a pot of chocolate at a little Spanish tapas joint off of Santa Monica Blvd, where the legendary run of asphalt meets the ocean.

It was like this. It all started innocent enough. We were staring at the tapas menu. Tortillas Espinola? Patatas Bravas? Whatcha Maccallit? We pointed at sweet-looking delights in the window at the bar and asked, “What’s this? What’s that?” and at the end we ended up inhaling small bites of white asparagus and yellow squash. But when it came to the platos, I hesistated. Not like me to be quiet, so I wasn’t.

“I think…” Pause. “I think we need to leave room for dessert.”

I knew I liked him when he didn’t flinch at this suggestion, didn’t talk about calories or a morning run, oh-so common in Los Angeles. He just said: “Well, why don’t we get two?”

I protested. Weakly. Oh, it was so fake, why am I living in the shadow of Hollywood!? Oh no, I deplored, that’s far too much….okay….alright. Okay, yes. Yes!

The waitress downplayed the whole affair. If she were a cat and I were a cat, I’d take her out to the alley and outright fight her, swipe my paws her way for lying to me about the damn goodness of the thing.

“It’s dark chocolate. It’s rich. It’s good,” she said. Simply. Her voice flat and dull and carrying an air of nonchalance, longing for her shift to be over.

“I’m in, all in,” I said. When did I start playing poker? Wasn’t this a dinner date? We ordered the pot of chocolate and bread pudding.

The desserts came, side by side, passed to us over the food counter by the chef himself. The bread pudding looking more like a tart or crème brulee, square and carmelized and pretty on a little white plate. And the pot of chocolate, it…well, it was just that. It was a sassy chocolate filling, pudding-ish, in a mini mug of sorts with the faintest brush of fresh whipped cream kissing the top.

We dived into the pudding and exchanged pleasantries about the smoothness. He was used to more goo. More pockets of happiness and cream and chunks of bread. I get it, I get it, I shrugged it off. I was thinking….chocolate! Come to me!

I went for it, and it was so thick and stiff that at first I panicked, thinking my spoon wouldn’t return to me. Simply, it didn’t want to come back to me. It was stuck in that velvet ocean, that dark undertow where fat doesn’t exist and you just want to turn over and scream to the whole world that you found it. That you found something exquisite and extraordinary and happy in a tiny little pot.

And then I did it. I groaned in the restaurant and slapped my right hand down on the bar top, accidentally hitting the woman next to me. But all is fair in food and wine and so be it: man down, who gives a shit, because I was in heaven! And then I took another bite, and another, and another, and just ate the entire damn thing. My date gave me looks of surprise. Of delight, the occasional glance of admiration. Like he didn’t think I could do it.

Well, that just goes to show: he doesn’t know me yet.

Because when it comes to me and chocolate, I can always take it down.

I used to know you

I remember.

Riding bikes with you in the sticky Maryland summer
Our faces painted bronze
And the smell of cut grass stained into our shorts and elbows
Our feet black from asphalt and simply not caring.
Oh, old friend, where are you now?

You used to be my secret keeper.
Whispers and wishes that floated like bath bubbles
And drifted like unicorns, crashed like our matchbox cars at birthday parties.

The world is wide and you are out there, somewhere
Your heart beating among the millions
And I am here,
Wishing you well.

It's been a while

What have I been up to?

A dinner party in West Hollywood where we drank too much wine and ended up at a hip cowboy bar. (Yes, there is such a thing). Speak easy style!

Buying halibut at the Santa Monica fish market.

A restaurant opening where the bar stools were handmade and the wood left raw and unstained; the art walk in downtown that left no room on the sidewalk for my friend and I. Greasy burgers at Nickels Diner and a serenade of mac’n’cheese.

Wine at The Association. ‘Nuff said.

Falling asleep at the beach. Dreams are sweeter when dreamt on sand.

Hike among the greenery of Temescal Canyon.

Late night PinkBerry (I’m a big coconut fan!).

Business meetings at Cork Bar downtown.

Two-hour afternoon snoozes. Delightful.

Biking to the ocean.

Workouts at the Santa Monica stairs.

Brentwood Farmers Market.

The usual hazelnut latte at Peet’s in Brentwood.

Sushi in the marina (yellowtail, melting on the tongue!)

Rendezvous with Top Chef Stefan at his new restaurant on Olympic.

Hangin’ pictures in my kitchen.

French toast at Blue Plate on Montana (two days in a row. Sinful).

Dodgers games and too-expensive beer; long lines for the ladies room.

What is it about this place that makes me feel as though I am always on vacation?

Luxurious laziness

I can't remember the last time I spent a lazy weekend here in LA. Doing nothing. Lounging all day long in comfies with unwashed hair and glasses on. Wandering outside only for Peet's coffee and to allow the sunlight to warm my face, just for a while.

Well, this weekend was that sort of weekend. Nothing but good things and simple stuff and even as I type this now, I have some sort of urge to just hold on to it, as tightly as I can. After all, these types of days are rare and if they weren't so rare, I'd be clawing for something to do, like a mime in a cage. I'm flustered when busy (always) and get all the more antsy when I have no agenda. So it is.

I made dinner for a friend on Friday evening and then we wandered down to my local bar and I watched, amused, as he roamed the bar, singing Black Eyed Peas and trying to pick up girls. Later that night, sometime around 2 a.m., we delighted in bites of cheesecake and fresh strawberries and stayed up late talking. He talks quite loudly and I had to shhhh him, more than once, for fear of waking my roommate. He fell asleep on my couch, snoring happily. He awoke on Saturday morning with strawberry stains on his shirt and a massive hangover.

Brunch on Saturday in the Montana neighborhood with work friends. The French toast at Blue Plate is killer, it's the challah bread, it's gotta be. After, one friend and I moseyed on down to the 3rd Street area and I found myself at Hennessey's Books--art and architecture, baby! I could have stayed there all day, curled up among the books, not even reading, just happy to smell them and live among the paper and ink. I picked up a book I've been eyeing for a while, ever since I toured the Gamble House back in January, a coffee table-esque read on LA homes.

And then, well, I just read. All day. Nearly all night. Until 11 p.m. when I showered and threw on a sundress and headed north to Pasadena for drinks with mon frere and his entourage. I passed by the lights of downtown and I imagined the people squished on street corners and huddled within the caverns. I imagined the restaurant, bright and shiny and new, with its chrome-metal sign hung, just perfect, and its flag waving cheerfully outside on Spring Street.

And today, I read. And read. And read.

My current reading list:

Still reading.

It's confirmed: I'm in.

The first time I met with them, they just wanted to reimburse me for mileage. For the hassle of driving to downtown. They shook my hand at the end of the night. We performed cheeseball high-fives in the glow of the street light outside Chef’s condo.

Tonight, we met at the restaurant. We sat in an old ballroom and I presented my marketing plan. They sat there with sawdust on their jeans. Chef even went as far as to apologize for how bad he smelled. They gawked at me when I spoke of events and next steps, yadda yadda. My point is: Listen, they are putting everything they’ve got into this place.

I like it.

They spoke of girls they are dating. They told bad stories and even worse jokes. Nothing was politically correct and perhaps they were surprised that I didn’t care. They told dirty jokes and waited for me to cringe. Nope. This time, at the end of the night, they hugged me goodbye and gave me kisses on the cheek. Casual “See you soon’s” and “let’s grab a drink next week”.

And one of them walked me to my car, among the dirty and filth that is sometimes (oh, just sometimes!) downtown Los Angeles. And—again---he said they want to reimburse me for my mileage. Sure. But now they want to pay me. Every single day. And commission. Essentially, a retainer fee.

My first marketing freelance client!

I was on such Cloud 9 that I continued to smile even as I heard the “thud” sound as I bumped into the car that was parallel parked behind me.

Eh, that can’t upset me tonight.

Food and I, we're friends.

It was about a month ago that I got on the phone with my parents. Despite the daily grind, I was feeling good about my career. Had a new perspective.

“I can’t tell you how or why, but I can just tell that things are coming together,” I told them. “I’m not going to start looking for another job, not yet, not in this market.”

I paused.

“But I can’t tell you why, but I just have this feeling that my next job is not going to be traditional. It’s not going to come from the usual sources. It’s not going to be from Monster or CareerBuilder. It won’t be a corporation.”

I continued. They were used to hearing about me and my so-called intuition.

“All I know is, it won’t be the normal thing. I’m going to meet someone. Maybe I’ll be out around the city. Maybe it’ll be through a friend. But I’ll meet someone that will need my help.”

And, again, I went on:

“I just want my next move to be for something I really LOVE. Not just for money and not just for any ‘ole marketing job.”

**********
And what do I love? I love food. Wine.

“You’re a foodie.” My Dad declared this once on the phone, like a judge. Like stating a black-and-white factoid, or as though reading something from the newspaper. “You need to start writing about food.”

“I know, I will, but…”

“Listen, you write in your blog about what you had for lunch! You put up pictures of picnics!”

“Yeah, I get that, I just…”

“You need to write about food.”

“Okay.”

And I’ll never forget when my boyfriend of three years and I broke up. The night that I drove down to the Marina, to his place, to get my things. I drove south on the 405 from Brentwood, choking back tears, wondering if I was going to be able to face him. I called him to let him know I was on the way.

“I’ll be there in 10 minutes,” I said. My voice broke on the phone, a fault line of emotion.

“Ok, I’ll come down. I have everything packed in boxes.”

“I can come up if you wan—“

“No, it’s best I just come down. I can meet you outside.”

“Okay,” I gave in. “But…did you pack the wine?”

Despite the live wires of emotion playing on the phone, he burst out laughing, a good, hearty sound.

“Jo, yes, I packed your wine. Don’t worry, you’ll get your wine.” He continued to chuckle.

“Even the Mosby stuff? Remember I bought a few more bottles than you—“

“Jo, yup, got your wine. You’ll get your wine back.”“Perfect.” Grin.

And what about just my pure, crisp memories of food? The night my first LA roomie and I man-handled a turkey in our kitchen sink; how we dropped it several times while screaming, how I refused to dip my hand in to grab the giblets?

How my friend’s fiancé woke up this morning, talking about the cream of tomato soup that I made them yesterday, how he can’t wait to eat it after he gets out of school late tonight.

And how I associate good times with food and wine. Stories with old friends, family dinners, celebrations.

After all, food is love.

********
And so it was that a week ago, I saw an ad online. It wasn’t well written. It was short and choppy. Not impressive in the least. It was a Chef, starting a new restaurant. A very well known chef.

But he was looking for an intern, and I thought, “Screw the intern, take me!”

And so I shot off a note, written in haste in between projects at work. I sent in my resume, which could have been updated more, could have been scanned just once more, but there was no time for that. I just shot it off blindly, shrugged.

Forgot about it.

And four hours later, as I was stretching before my kickboxing class, I saw the light on my Blackberry blinking.

Chef wanted to talk.

And then the next day, phone tag. I ran out of work, breathless when stepping off the elevators, to catch the calls.

It was so easy.

“We like you, we want to work with you. We’re excited about this,” I was told.

And so, last night, I pulled up to a loft condo downtown Los Angeles, Chef’s home. Checked my make up in the mirrors of my car. Straightened the dress I was wearing. Waited for him to come downstairs to fetch me, to cook me dinner, to welcome me to the restaurant.

There was a small group of us. They promptly gave me a business plan to read. Showed me the restaurant space and I wandered around and fell in love and left the site with sawdust on my black dress and in my hair. We bantered over the price of wine, the catering menu. Ran our hands alongside the bar and admired knots in the wood of the dining tables.

And I drove home several hours later, as though in a dream.

Maybe this is it. Maybe this is the beginning.

My time in the food industry.

Heard at the El Rey

Old friends are the best.
They always forgive you.

Eric Hutchinson tonight at the El Rey. Probably the most enthusiastic, happy singer-songwriter I've ever seen perform.

Happy....what!?!

My parents have been married for 37 years. Today is their anniversary. The two of them really inspire me because despite driving each other nuts occasionally, they stick it out and have got to be two of the most loving, genuine people I know.

And so, to recognize this great day, my Dad got up this morning and gave my sweet mother a big embrace.

“Happy Thanksgiving, sweetheart,” he said.

Mom, now would be the appropriate day to recycle an old Christmas gift, don’t ya think?

Hello, Tuesday

Sometimes creativity is a compulsion, not an ambition.

Ed Norton

Los Angeles Nights: Hollywood Bowl

If you live in Los Angeles and if its summer time, most likely you will find yourself nestled within the hills at night, with only the stars and faintest breath of clouds for shelter. That is where I found myself this past Sunday evening, listening to the ballads of Ray LaMontagne, that beautiful bursting of soul, at the Hollywood Bowl.

My friends and I parked in the stacked parking lot off of Highland Avenue, in the truest part of Hollywood, my Acura squished between thousands of other cars—absolutely trapped—until all of the surrounding vehicles would eventually drive away later that night. Annoying? Of course, but for $14 in Hollywood, and only a short jaunt to the outdoor amphitheatre, one can’t complain.

Girls dressed in delicate sundresses and billowy tops; men in board shorts and flip flops—we all made the stroll up Highland, through the underground tunnel, up the winding hill until you reach the amphitheater doors. Everyone arrives at the Bowl with picnics and wine and blankets. A man on the street played sad songs with his saxophone; we passed three hot dog stands on the way to the tunnel; college boys in the park next door tossed a football around.

We found our seats on those old wooden benches; really, you can’t help but sit there and touch thighs with your neighbor. But you don’t care, at least not for long, because soon you pour a glass of crisp summer wine and then—right away—you’re exchanging cheese and salami and other fun snacks with your seatmates and all is well.

Dusk fell on the hills and we sat there in the periwinkle glow, waiting for Ray. We were his congregation and when he stepped out on stage, it was as though an army of 18,000 children hushed and leaned forward, ever so slightly, like waiting for a bedtime story.

I first bought Ray’s music years ago at a dumpy music shop in Marina del Rey with my exboyfriend. We listened to it as I packed to go back home to Arizona. We smelled of summer in LA: chlorine, sunscreen and salty sand, and a lump started in my chest when I realized that I wanted to tell him that I loved him but I was too scared. Instead, I became awkward and quiet as I packed, bustling about, keeping my head down and thoughts to myself.

Years later, I would listen to Ray’s music when I moved out to LA from Arizona, in my car by myself screaming across the July desert on the I10 freeway, wondering what lies ahead.

And years after that, I would listen to Ray as I crafted sauces and bruschetta in my galley kitchen in Brentwood with Infatuation.

And, well, so there I was, listening to Ray, yet again, as I sat underneath the stars with a friend, enjoying the night in all of its simplicity.

It’s summer in Los Angeles.

Five years later

I drank beer at a divey beach bar this weekend on the fourth of July with two guy friends from college. We were just to the side of the Santa Monica Pier, bursting with tourists and locals and children clutching cotton candy. Sun fell upon my shoulders and it felt fuzzy and wonderful. We sat among surfer dudes and bikini-clad women and I fell in love, all over again, with Los Angeles. The three of us grinned at each other like kids and—later—meandered the LA streets late at night, nothing but us talking in the car, that cool evening breeze coming in from the window and brushing my hair back. I felt young and happy and alive.

These are two guys who have seen me sloshed beyond comprehension. They’ve escorted me to the bars, impromptu college shenanigans; game nights with cheap beer and bad poker hands; pub crawls from sundown ‘til bar close; they’ve stopped by my apartment and have helped me move.

Earlier in the day, we sat at a bus stop off of Wilshire. We hadn’t seen each other in a good year and we haven’t lived in the same city, us three, in at least five. I envision a wide and genuine smile crossed my face when I said, “Look, here we are. Five years ago we graduated college and now it’s the afternoon of the 4th of July and here we are! We’re sitting at a bus stop in Los Angeles! Together! What do you think about that?”

They laughed at me, at my smile, and there we were in the sun as the cars whizzed by on Wilshire. But what about it? Did they think about it? Did they think we’d be in LA together on the 4th of July, just five years ago?

There’s something so whimsical and wonderful about that, don’t you think? The crossing of paths, those well-worn friendship trails, after so many years. Overgrown and rough but, somehow, you manage to still navigate.

Happy Anniversary to me

It was two years ago on July 5 that I stood in a blue tank top and ripped up jeans outside my parents’ house in Arizona. I took a picture with my mom next to the UHaul that held my belongings. That picture is important because it may be one of the last times I ever move that my life fits, so nice and tidy, into a box on wheels. There’s such beauty in simplicity, in having and needing so little, and a large part of me hopes, now, that I will always have a bit of that in me. That I will always adore life’s smaller treasures. The scent of jasmine that hovers about Brentwood; the slicing of an orange; clean sheets on a Sunday.

It’s that simplicity that will make me always miss college and that old cruddy apartment that I used to live in just a block from Mill Avenue. Luxurious? Far from it. Disgusting? At times (roaches at midnight!). But home? Of course, and it was in that little room in the sky in Tempe that I changed and morphed and lived and experienced. As though it were a time machine, when I moved out of that box in the sky I was not the same girl I was when I moved in.

And the same goes for when I moved into my little Brentwood Box….*ahem*…the Brentwood Chateau, as I prefer to call it, just two years ago. Now is the sweetest of anniversaries because I shattered my life’s mold! I broke away from that one river I was swimming in and decided, instead, to move to the ocean. It was the autumn after I moved here that I timidly asked a new friend, “Do you ever think it’s too late to find yourself?” And they responded, quick and sure, “I want to say it’s never too late.”

I wonder who I would be if I hadn’t had come to this strange and contradicting city by the sea. Would I have such affection for food? Would it be just as common for me to ask my gay and lesbian friends about their dates this past weekend as it would be for me to ask my straight friends? Would the men I date be as cultured and just pure interesting as they are now (Art! Food! Wine! Travel!). Would I scoff at and shoot down all the stereotypes that exist about LA; would I have discovered that the people out here are not entirely fake and superficial but flip flop-wearing, sunshine-loving types who don’t sport a ton of make-up and would rather explore the hills any day of the week versus shop?

I can only speculate. I wonder how long I will be out here. This city is an undertow. My friends and I, we’ve come here from many corners and perhaps, that first year, there were stars in our eyes and a bit of resistance. “Oh, this is only for a year, maybe two.” But how funny that second year is, when you pull into your drive or walk around your neighborhood and you’re not sure what it is but you feel at home. You’re not the tourist any more but the tour guide.

And so it was last night that I sat at a wine bar in Santa Monica with a good friend and we played a game and sipped wine and laughed. And at one point, I paused and looked at her and thought to myself, “I’m so glad she’s in my life! How did this happen?” And I didn’t exactly take note of my two-year LA-versary but my heart took note and took pause.

And that’s it. I’m glad I am here.

Maybe it’s just that simple.

It must be something in that saltwater air...

I just wrote my first check for my business. $150 to pay for a portion of a logo. Ack!

Oh, it hurt so good. And it’s unfortunate—and thrilling!—that I’ll be shelling out more in the coming months. Can we say commitment?

It’s time to shake things up. You can only get so far thinking about things, twiddling your thumbs; moving your legs as if waddling through mud.

My trusty intuition (seriously, it’s extremely trusty!) is telling my next “day job” will not come from any fuddle dud traditional sources. I’ll meet someone when I am out for vino (perhaps downtown, tonight?). I’ll run into someone who needs help when I am grabbing my morning latte. I’ll hear of something from a friend…or a friend of a friend. Well, you know how that goes.

Something is culminating and I can’t quite pick up the pulse on what it is just yet. Is it my foodie Web site? (yet to debut, working on that). My tweet-tweet-tweeting? The late night shared recipes with the chef from the bar I went to last Friday? The fact that I met the most adorable golden retriever and its owner needs a walker? The energy from many fabulous friends who are starting to branch off on their own?

I am not sure. But I think I need to order myself some calling cards.

Another LA weekend

Friday night found me sitting at a small cruddy table (endearingly cruddy!) outside a divey sushi joint on the corner of Santa Monica and Barrington. Inside it was suffocatingly hot and so my date and I decided to make do with the small glass table out front, me on a bench and him on a chair and a tall bottle of unfiltered cold sake between us. Evening traffic sauntered by and a crowd of hungry customers gathered near us to wait for a table. The night was cool and fresh and divine.

We took turns making toasts.

He is tall with piercing blue eyes and the confidence and brass of an east coaster. He talks with his hands, loud and opinionated: the perfect sales man. The problem is I am just as opinionated and outspoken and confident and when I turned him down for a drink, the first time (it happened twice), he told me: I’m not used to being rejected. You’re a hard close.

Fast forward two hours and we’re at a different joint; a new neighborhood gastro pub on the western edge of Brentwood. I think I’m clever because I’ve decided to carry my four-inch heels and wear flip flops for the walking portions of the night. We sit at the corner of the bar and talk food with the owner until we shut the place down. We wax poetic the myriad ways to fix edamame; the ache when a sauce breaks; they exchange gossip over the owners of some of the best restaurants in Los Angeles. The owner pours me glass after glass of wine and in between it all, my date and I bicker, laugh, bicker, laugh. It gets late and he stubbornly says, “Okay, I’m either taking you home or we’re going dancing.” The nerve! I peer down at my delicate flip flops, consider my 7 a.m. hiking plans, and say, “Then I’m going home.”

I do get up at 7 a.m. to hike Griffith Park (no joke in the heat of the hills with a malbec hangover) and from the top, I can see the Hollywood sign, Griffith Observatory, the golf courses, the zoo and more. After, he and I talk on the phone.

“What’s wrong with us?” I say. “Why can’t we just relax.”

“We’re two bulls in a pen,” he replies. “You’re stubborn and I’m stubborn and neither of us will ever back down.”

“It’s kinda funny.” We laugh. “You called me a square last night! That’s hilarious!”

The rest of the weekend was taken up by four hours at my hair salon, an additional night of sushi and drinks in Brentwood and then Sunday night at Tongue and Groove at Hotel Café in old school Hollywood. It was the first time I’ve gone to see a live poetry and spoken word performance, pretty damn cool.

It’s soft summer now and being outside in any fashion is an absolute pleasure. Running errands and driving west towards the beach with the windows down; lounging outside my favorite coffee shop with the sun gracing my shoulders; this morning’s walk around the country club and through the farmers market.

The entire city glows, an electric bohemia.

Tuesday musings

Something peculiar occurred on Monday morning. Despite the fact that I woke up at 5 a.m. in Arizona (*groan*) to catch my flight back to Los Angeles, I actually felt….refreshed? Rejuvinated? Focused, perhaps… at work on Monday. Shocker, I know. I suppose I needed that day off work last week more than I realized.

I forgot what it’s like to feel good at work. I can’t say that things have been overly crazy lately, but I’ve had this general beat down feeling as of late. The nasty daily doldrums, boredom, a general sense of “why am I here? This is all there IS?!” Life is far too short to feel that way.
But for now, even for a teensy bit—that feeling has diminished. I have a new sense of time and purpose. It catches me off guard, that sense of comfort my little Brentwood Chateau bestows upon me and here I find myself back in my neighborhood and community and….well, that’s just it: here I am.

Part of this feeling of brief contentment might have to do with the fact that yesterday my office gathered around a center table, bursting with Kettle One, Crown Royal, margaritas, wine, beer—the list is endless. Catered food was there as well, all to make for a little in-office happy hour on a Monday afternoon. I am told that this will become a somewhat regular event, every other week or so! Funny how alcohol increases my job satisfaction.

But, also, here’s what’s happening: I have an embarrassing crush on the bikers (bikers as in those who ride “bicycles”) that hang out at Peet’s Coffee every morning. Yup, they are in spandex and they are sponsored by a bizzillion brands and they wear these awkward biker shoes that click-clack when the walk on the tile floor within the coffee shop. According to my sources (my poor attempt at eavesdropping) they take a 20-mile bike ride every morning through the hills and down through Sepulveda and they end up at Peet’s.

I am determined to date one of them…or a few. We’ll see.

Other developments: My little side business is coming to fruition! A web designer is designing and a print designer is imagining and dreaming up a logo and there’s something so lovely about each of those things.

And more: Seeing a show at Pantages Theatre tomorrow night in Hollywood with one of my best girlfriends here and we’re dining at my favorite Italian place; a joint birthday celebration of sorts. Yum. Sharing a pot of tea tonight somewhere between Brentwood and WeHo with a good friend I haven’t seen in ages…going on a date with a guy who has piqued my interest on Thursday evening (Italian in the Marina) and then another date with a fellow who is from California but I swear he talks like he is from New York on Friday evening (sushi and drinks in Brentwood). Saturday I am hiking in Griffith Park, a new trail, and Sunday I am going to a live poetry reading in old-school, gritty part of Hollywood.

And so it goes, life in LaLa Land.

But enough! Back to my green tea, Billie Holiday and marketing on this perfect Tuesday.

That 'ole intuition

A few nights ago I had a dream that a good friend and her boyfriend broke up and a few days after it happened, another friend told me about it. No inclination that a single thing was wrong in the relationship, or even a hint of unhappiness....

Also, dreamed in French last night. It's been about 10 years (since I've spoken good French!) since that's happened.

This is what it's all about

This is for the girls of my fake book club. I see you every six weeks and tell you everything, you are my human diaries. This is for Kevin who lives up the street from me, a Brentwood fellow, thanks for inviting me to your birthday bonfire tonight. The ocean roared behind me and I felt safe and small and warm. And high above me, planes occasionally flew in and out of LAX and I felt like such a speck of sand, or like one star shining among many. This is for Sammi, I respect you more than any one, you are so young yet so wise. This is for the singers who break my heart when I listen to them at Hotel Café in Hollywood on a Friday night, you are so soulful and earnest. This is for my writer friends, sprinkled all throughout the city and into the valley, so alive and interesting. This is for Lana at Peet’s Coffee Shop, I hardly know you but I know you are strong and I am drawn to your energy. This is for Marcy one block over, for the walks and the yogurt and the Monday beach volleyball invite. For the Maryland Kids, you remind me how life is so circular—we’re all moving and changing but we’ve never truly left each other. This is for Dan from the Bus Stop, thanks for asking me out; thanks for asking me out again after I shut you down and for telling me I am interesting and intriguing. This is for Sarah at the massage joint in Brentwood for her amazing Thai technique. This is for Bay Cities Deli in Santa Monica for the best damn sandwich I’ve ever had. This is for Lauren and Graeme, I know I will know you forever and ever and ever. This is for the woman who sells gourmet olive oils at the farmers market, you make my Sunday mornings, along with those fresh strawberries and hazelnut lattes. This is for Jen, you might be the goofiest girl I know and I dig our Venice nights. This is for Pycher making films in Hollywood and telling me secrets on a Friday night out at Jones Café. This is for Tim, for the cocktail art gallery opening and the entertainment insight. This is for downtown Los Angeles, for the stories and the lights and the art walks. This is for Leah, you are filled with light. For the #2 bus line, for providing 75-cent Saturday night shenanigans. For Sabine at the gym, you gentle monster. For Asian Equation, for being so hard on me; I hate you now but I’ll thank you later. For Don Antonio’s $1 tacos. For Harold at the driving range, you and your blessed golf advice! For Street, you saavy business man. For Hannah, for calling me to ask “Where have all the writers gone?” For Brentwood, I felt at home here long before I moved here.

Good morning

When we stop struggling
we float.

It's all blurring together

"Hey Monkey, where you been? This lonely spiral I've been in....Hey Monkey, when you open up your blue eyes..." ~ Counting Crows

I started making a list tonight, a list of important events and moments in my first year here in Los Angeles. I want to write it down and capture it all before the years start to blend and blur together, as life tends to do.

It absolutely blows my mind the events, moments, memories and people who played such an important part in my life in Year One in Los Angeles. What a journey I have been on! I think about how much I have grown since moving and how that was the best thing for me. My entire world has opened up to this city, to the culture and diversity and music and moments, ones that make life worth it.

Calmly sipping wine, happily, with my friend just a few days post-breakup....my first "first date" in three years...staying up 'til three in the morning to survive my work place...reuniting with old high school friends like it was the most natural and meant-to-be thing that life has to offer....losing Grampy...the sweet chaos and adventures of Croatia...my hilarious dating stories...becoming addicted to all things FOOD, starting my own business...dance competitions in my little Brentwood Chateau...the slew of dinner parties...

I want to know: who was that girl who was so scared to move? Who was the girl who was skeptical of moving to Los Angeles, scared she'd never find a group of friends like she had in college? Who was the one who doubted herself at work when it came to the financial aspect of marketing? Who was the one that was a bit uncertain of the future?

I don't know her any more.

I feel whole.

If you want to understand my weekend, I’ll start off by saying that at approximately 4 p.m. on this past Saturday afternoon, I sat in my kitchen in jammies, sipping a beer (yes, a beer, not wine!) and munching on a shrimp cocktail. I did this as I worked through a business plan. Typical? Nope. But amazing? Yes! There is something about Los Angeles that makes me feel as though I’m on a perpetual vacation…even while I work.

I live in a city of millions of opportunities and I am reminded each and every day of this. Boy, am I fortunate. If only I was a sponge, I would absorb each and every precious moment and hold it near my heart for always.

This weekend was one of pampering. Jo Time. Massage. A bit of sleeping in. That beer and shrimp. Making a simple meal on Friday evening to be shared with a good friend over a bottle of red wine. Running into a writer-actor friend at my favorite coffee shop in Brentwood. Cocktails in a Venice beach bar. Taking a walk through the neighborhood and having an impromptu brunch. Meeting a new marketing guru and future friend while I sipped my morning latte.

And now here I am, writing and watching the Lakers game while I munch on homemade bruschetta. Outside it is sunny and bright still, only about 70 degrees. It smells of garlic and basil in here and tonight I will sleep on clean sheets.

I can’t think of a single thing to complain about.

Reach for it

Me: I'm 5'3" and one quarter.

Sammi: Jo, you count the quarter?! You're like a little kid!

Me: I'm hoping for 5'5".

Becky: Jo, when was the last time you grew? When were you last measured?

Me: Um...not sure. Maybe for my golf clubs?

Becky: But Jo...when was the last time you grew? Recently?

No comment.

Dreamer

He felt that is whole life was some kind of dream and he sometimes wondered whose it was and whether they were enjoying it.

~Douglas Adams

Am I Croatian American?

I was born in America and I am white. I do not call myself a Croatian American; I am third generation for God's sake! Living in Los Angeles and having numerous black friends, I do know that they prefer to call themselves black. I think this is an interesting topic however, because I always sort of stumble when I am speaking with a new friend or at the office...to use "black" or "African American?"

Interesting stuff here.

'Lil weekend recap

I see skies of blue and clouds of white
The bright blessed day, the dark sacred night
And I think to myself what a wonderful world.
- Louis Armstrong, "What a Wonderful World"

Friday night on a bus to Venice, to Venice, to Venice. Trolled the bars of Abbott Kinney and made a new friend named Juan. I ended up at a hipster bar where no one has a normal hair color and the drinks are strong and cheap. I danced with a black guy who kept saying, “Damn girl, you got energy!” only it sounded more like: “Daaaaayeeeeem GIRL! You got Inner-G! Day-em!”

Bought some new clothes on Saturday (because I’m shrinking! I really am!) and went to see one of my closest friends try on wedding dresses so she could make a final decision. I caught myself off guard by crying in the dressing room when I saw her step through the doorway, all in white and glowing.

Beautiful and vibrant.

Walked to sushi in Brentwood on Saturday night for dinner and beat two guys into the restaurant. They ended up sharing a table with my friend and I and we did saki bombs like I was still in college. They bought us dinner. We had plans to go downtown to scare of some shenanigans but promptly canceled and hopped a cab on Wilshire to an Irish bar down the street. There, we danced to 80s rock and made friends with the bartender.

Got up this morning for a pilates class and climbed the rock wall at the gym. The sky here looks like it’s holding its rainy breath; I wish it would just pour already. It’s a gray day, this last day in May.

I am happy; I am strong. Life is good.

Venice is calling tonight

I want to know what became of the changes
We waited for love to bring
Were they only the fitful dreams
Of some greater awakening
I’ve been aware of the time going by
They say in the end it’s the wink of an eye
And when the morning light comes streaming in
You’ll get up and do it again
Amen
~ From “The Pretender,” Jackson Browne

And we are no longer

“C’mon! Everyone up!” screams the man in front of my brother and I at the baseball game this past weekend. “It’s our turn!”

We are doing the wave. I turn to my left and squint up into the bleachers next to us, and see the crowd rise and fall with spirit. Our turn. Though my body feels as though I’m wading through mud, I stand up. Fling my arms over my head. Smile. Sit down. Turn to my right, see the wave start all over again.

And then it comes back to us, and I rise and fall. Rise and fall. Rise and fall.

And that’s how it works. Things keep going on and you keep moving. I marvel at this concept.

But what other choice is there?

**********

The night prior, Infatuation had come over and I had greeted him with the biggest, longest hug I could muster. Little did I know that 15 minutes later he would tell me he didn’t know what he wanted, didn’t know how to do all the things a boyfriend should do. Worthless, in his words.

I was lying on my back on my bed and I sat up when I asked him if he wanted this, and he said, “I don’t know.”

I swallowed hard. Fought that urge to panic, to gasp for breath. Just nodded.

*********

This is unlike all the other times. All the other times, I was the one saying, “This isn’t working.” I was the one in charge, the one ending it. And there’s always been a reason, some sort of fact that I can gnaw on for a bit, savor and think, “Oh yes, this is WHY we don’t belong, this is it. Of course.”

But this time was different, and in so many ways it’s sadder than a long relationship and I can feel the weight of “Might Have Been” on my shoulders. We had just about six months; a time period that even I would just shrug at. But we didn’t have the fights and the resentment. We didn’t have the “this is the same old thing” a relationship of several years can sink into. We had the newness and the excitement and the wonder; we had hope and the curiosity and chemistry.

But I don’t hate him and I am not angry. I will place our memories together into that soft and velvety spot in my heart of No Regrets. I will tuck him away into the file of “A Reason” because he was not for a season nor for a lifetime. I will consider him a good person and wish him great fortune because I respect him and care about him.

I will try to understand.

*********

There are no goodnight calls to miss. There are no pictures for me to take down; barely any mementos to tuck away into a shoe box high on a closet shelf. There are no toothbrushes for me to throw away. No great plans to cancel or rearrange.

Just Jo.

*********

I will think of him when I go downtown and walk among the old Los Angeles buildings and sit in a corner wine bar. I will consider what his ideas might have been when I read a business article. I will think of him when I shop for groceries and flip through cookbooks. I will think of him when I read Hemingway or Steinbeck; eat pizza; walk barefoot outside; when I am in the sunshine and feeling wonderful.

Tucking it all away, tucking it all away. That quiet, velvety box of memories long spent; often recalled with light laughter and underlying weight; the undercurrent of mysterious reasons that I have yet to understand.

Tucking it all away…

How we are

We are in my kitchen, his back is to mine and we work at opposite counters to do one of the things we love most: crafting simple and satisfying meals. The air is on and it’s as though summer has hit Los Angeles too soon: the high was ninety degrees that afternoon. The air conditioning hums along but it’s not enough; we’ve pulled back the sliding door, the large kitchen window and flung back the blinds in every room. A soft evening breeze saunters through.

We are quiet. Miles Davis is heard from my notebook, soft and soothing and it’s just Us. The scent of raw garlic and the chop-chop sound as he slices bell peppers and zucchini. The curling crisp crunch as I peel an onion.

We move quietly and in tandem to fetch spices, wine glasses, a fork. He places his hand on my stomach and his arm curls around me in a halfway hug as we swirl and switch places.

Outside, my neighbor laughs. Someone walks by the open window and glances in. And there we are, humming about inside like two lightning bugs in the glow of the tiny galley kitchen.

Chop-chop.

**********
We are on our way to a show at Troubadour. The night is an ink black and we are surrounded by the city lights of West Hollywood. I flip on the seat warmers in his car.

“I knew I was going to like you the night we met,” I blurt out.

“You’re just drunk,” he teases.

“Nope.”

There’s a long pause as he maneuvers through an intersection.

“I can still remember the way you smelled. That night,” he says.

“My perfume? That night?” I didn’t realize we were still talking about it.

“Yeah.”

And then he tells me to look for parking, his voice nonchalant.

In the darkness of his car, I shine.

*********

“You truly are a simple creature, aren’t you?” he observes.

“If you can’t enjoy the simple things in life, what else have you got?”

We’re shopping for food. Pizza supplies and vegetables and beer. We are walking through the dairy aisle and he grabs chocolate milk.

He casually opens the milk as we shop and stroll the aisles, passing the bottle back and forth. We look wild and disheveled, both wearing torn up jeans and sneakers, him in a hat, his face tan and tired, a reminder of long days spent beachside. Tonight was my first night riding on his scooter through Brentwood, zooming across the expanse of apartments and condos, among the yuppies walking at dusk.

We get to the parking lot and he puts my helmet on and I feel like a child. He buckles the strap tight underneath my chin, though we’re going just three blocks. My hair sticks out from the helmet and I stand there with the chocolate milk. He laughs and I give an impish grin.

He snaps a cell phone photo and we’re off.

Back at the Brentwood Chateau we feast on bruschetta with just one light on, we’re too tired to turn on any more. Our fingers are greasy with olive oil and we devour the mess of tomatoes and garlic and basil.

“What would our time together be like if we didn’t cook?” he asks.

“I am not sure.” I say.

And then: “I am pretty sure I will always think of us and think of food.”

********

I am on a swing and pumping my legs and it’s as though I am eight-years old again. Higher and higher I swing, I can’t go high enough. The night air is heavy with traces of salt water and in front of me a gray-black mass roars and gurgles: the ocean. To the right of me the lights of the Santa Monica Pier shine and I hear cries from the tourists riding the ferris wheel. The electricity of it all spills over, onto the beach, into the waves, pumped into the sand, through my body and into my legs.

And then I let go of the chains and push my body forward. My hair flies back and I am plunged into the night darkness. I catch my breath just before I land on all fours in sand.

He is already there, lying on his back about five feet from me, panting and staring up into the night sky. It’s hard to tell who has flown farther. I crawl his way and look down at him.

“Again.”

And again we sit on the swings and we swing in unison. Two silhouettes swinging at night on the same pendulum. We do this over and over and later and later until we drag our bodies back to Third Street and realize we’ve missed the last bus home.

We are tired and happy, with sand in our toes and on my dress.

It's Tuesday, let's celebrate!

Why must conversions always come so late? Why do people always apologize to corpses? ~David Brin

Every day is an opportunity to make a new happy ending.
~Author Unknown

Today was a good day, a productive day. Let the death of a loved one serve as a reminder that days are limited, that time is always later than we realize.

If I could squeeze out the happy moments within a day, I would. I’d ring out the wishes and the breaths and the laughter and the sighs like droplets from a sponge.

I strive to live a balanced life. It’s not worth it to work so hard that you don’t sleep well at night. You need so much sleep, so much food, so much work and so much friend and family time. I’m thinking of a big gorgeous pie, cut into a million perfect slices.

Tonight, perhaps I’ll drink some sparkling wine.

Simply because it’s Tuesday.

Almost taco time

How far you go in life depends on your being tender with the young, compassionate with the aged, sympathetic with the striving and tolerant of the weak and strong. Because someday in life, you will have been all of these. ~ George Washington Carver

Happy Cinco de Mayo! This day and the above quote are not linked in any direct fashion, I just saw this quote and thought I would share.

Today I am feeling energized and optimistic. For two to three weeks now, my insomnia has been hiding! I wake up well rested and could sleep nine to 10 hours every night, easy. I’m getting spoiled!

And perhaps the economy is taking a turn in the upward direction: my company seems to be doing quite well these days.

I also cleaned out my closet this past weekend and threw away lots of jeans and things that no longer fit me anymore, it feels great! To wear clothes that I have not worn again in several months—it’s as though I’ve gone shopping. It’s getting warmer and warmer here in Brentwood and my winter coats have been packed away for good for a while now. It’s fully sundress and tank top weather: time to indulge my sundress fetish!

Last, tonight I feast on homemade shredded chicken tacos and margaritas with good friends.

Things are good.

And it's only Wednesday!

Listen, People, it's one of THOSE weeks. This ain't gonna be pretty.

It all started out on Monday morning. After an amazing and relaxing weekend wine tasting up North, I get into my Acura, place the key in the ignition and turn. Nothing but a few weak flashing lights and the "Goodbye" electronic message lighting up in front of my steering wheel. Not really what I want to see at about 9:30 a.m. when I had decided to snooze versus rolling into work on time. I promptly run through my roledex of Men in Brentwood who I can ring at times such as these and call up Infatuation (I'm still struggling with the "boyfriend" terminology"). Within 10 minutes, he's in my parking garage and he's jump-started my car. Problem solved.

After a full 10 hours of pretending to work, I decide to head to the grocery store. I'm hungry and I've been out of town the last three weekends and a girl needs to eat. Now, anyone knows it's absolute silliness to grocery shop when you're hungry, but I have to go. What I didn't think about is that I am also PMSing. So after I fill up my cart with bright, fresh produce--apples and zucchini and leafy greens--I find myself stopped dead in my tracks in the dairy aisle like a moose in heat. I reach over and throw cookie dough into my cart. I am like the freakin' terminator! I Need. Cookie. Dough. All the while it's a nasty game of Good Angel-Bad Angel occurring in my head. Jo, Don't do it. And: C'mon girl, it ain't so bad! I agree with the "ain't so bad" comment and move on to the wine section. Enough said.

I'm home and I promptly eat three cookie dough squares. I text Infatuation.
Me: Can you make bruschetta on Wednesday? It sounds good.
Him: Sure I can. Is that dinner or were you thinking we should do something else, too?
Me: No, dinner is going to be halibut in a white wine caper sauce. Do you like asparagus.
Him: Yes, I do like it. But do you really think we need a heavy appetizer, too?

I pause. Try to put myself in check.

Me: Are you saying that we should hold on bruschetta for the weekend? That is fine.
Him: I'm just trying to not be a fatso! :-)

I grab another cookie dough square.

Me: Okay, yup. Me too. Sounds good.

Tuesday. I wake up and I feel like a fatso. I head to work armed with cottage cheese and strawberries. Since my car battery died the day before, my audio system in my car needs to be reprogrammed and thus, I have no radio. Instead, I repeat a simple mantra in my head: Today is going to be a good day. Today is going to be a good day.

I pretend to work for several hours. Just after lunch, I swing into a conference room to interview someone for a senior management position. Wait. Let's be clear here: the senior management position my coworker and I both got passed up for. I lick my cottage-cheesy chops and can't wait to rip this interviewee a new one.

However, I find it hard to rip him a new one when I find out he has less marketing experience than myself and a masters in hotel management. I think he's a goner. But I find out one hour later that they are making him an offer.

It's at this time I get a phone call from my landlord. The one who fancies herself an artist and wears army boots and blue eye liner on her cheeks.

I'm replacing the microwave this afternoon, I just wanted to let you know. I'll be letting myself into your apartment to supervise the work.

I'm thinking: Sweet! My current ghetto-fab microwave, circa 1982, will be gone and in its place will be something shiny and new. It won't match the 20+ year old appliances in the least, but at least it won't blow up and smoke in my face.

That night, I meet a friend in WeHo for some down-home BBQ. You know the drill: creamed spinach, sweet potato mash, cole slaw and mac'n'cheese. It's PMS diet 101 and it's incredible. I return to the apartment that evening happy but feeling like a fatso. I unlock my deadbolt and then push. The door doesn't budge. I try again. Nope. Nothing. The bottom part of the door is locked and it's at this point that I remember that the locks were changed about a month ago and new keys issued. New keys that my roomie and I don't use.

"What the f..."

It's 10-something at night. I calmly buzz my landlord's apartment. Then I calmly buzz her again about 10 more times. Calmly. Nothing. I call her. Nothing.

My crazy-tired mind turns to the 6-foot high wooden fence surrounding my back patio. Could I jump it? I envision myself to be my own hero! Jumping my fence and breaking in through the kitchen window to safety and warmth. But then I recall a scene from my childhood. I'm in sixth grade and my dear old kitty cat decided to hop the wall surrounding my parents' backyard in Arizona. My heroic father jumped the wall after the cat. After passing the cat back over the wall and into my loving arms, my father could not get back over the wall himself. We passed him a stool but it was no use; my brother had to drive around to get him. Recalling that legendary tale, I shake my head. There's no way this fatso is gonna make it over a 6-foot fence in Brentwood.

I then barter with a 24-hour locksmith on the phone. He sounds like he just crossed the border and I debate whether to give him my real address, for fear of break-in or swine flu. He wants to charge me nearly $200 to let me back into my apartment and then I figure, hey, the Acura ain't so bad. But luckily it didn't come down to that. I drive one street over and I end up at my Favorite Couple's Place and figure I'll crash on the couch and deal with Jose again in the morning if I need to.

They have American Idol on and my stomach is rumbling from all of that damn BBQ and I think I'm never going to get a moment alone! Just when I am starting to silently curse creamed spinach, my phone rings and it's my Nazi-like landlord. She's home and will let me into my apartment. I suspect she's stoned.

I'm smiling to myself when I buzz her apartment just five minutes later. I'm thinking I'm so happy I could hug her. She stumbles down the stairs and those damn army boots are clinkin' and clangin'. I am still smiling until she comes close and then I nearly gasp. Without her smeared blue eye liner and overdone hairsprayed hair, she is a dark haggard angel. I back away.

Once inside my Brentwood Chateau, I'm thinking: I'll just put these two fatso days behind me. I'm thinking I'll check out my new micro and then hit the sheets. I turn into my galley kitchen and I do a double take. There is NO new microwave. It's the same old piece of shit from 1982.

Tomorrow, no more cookie dough. More cottage cheese. And I have to figure out where that new microwave went.

Goodnight.

It's here

Hardly any time at all to pour out a blog post, yet I have an urge to write.

Tonight it was deja vu. I sat in the upscale Italian restaurant near my office and sipped wine with friends in the dim yellow-orange light of the jazz bar, and it was just like all the times before and all the times that haven't happened yet. We are like a record that turns and changes and morphs, yet, at the end of the night, it's still the same song title, just a fusion-esque version.

And last night there I was, sitting next to a bright yellow wall of a divey sushi joint on Santa Monica and Barrington, munching and chatting with a favorite friend. I wore my flip flops and ripped jeans and Jesus!--when did LA happen to me? The check took too long and we sipped plum wine (far too sweet) and I felt as though I had just seen her and have hardly seen her at all.

Everything that has happened is happening again and it's better the second time around. In a nostalgic way, in a way that oozes reflections and thoughts. Think: leftovers. Ratatouille, so much better after the juices have sat a while.

And tonight, it's again, it's happening. The Maryland Kids have rung and right now they are on Wilshire, driving east, back to Brentwood. In just 10 minutes I'll be at their place and I'll have a glass of cheap wine with Aubrey and perhaps Matt will want to play a card game. We'll open the windows like we did last summer, like we did last spring, like we did last fall. I'll wear pajamas because I don't know how to arrive at their doorstep any other way.

And on Saturday morning, I'll be hitting that soiled and toiled wine trail of California's shining Central Coast once again. Is this the fifth time? Sixth? I can't keep count. I will wake up and there will be the gentlest of fogs hovering outside my bedroom window. My neighbors will be snoozing, most of them, and Infatuation and I will grab the best coffee in Brentwood, to go, and hit the road. We'll start on the 405, dip into the Valley and the weave in and out of green mountains and hills, vines as far as I can see.

Here we are again. It's spring time in Los Angeles.

Trapped

After two weeks in a row of travel and four-day work weeks, you would think I’d come back to the office refreshed and ready to tackle the marketing world. You would think I’d have a good attitude. I believe in those. After all, they can make or break you.

But instead, I feel stripped and raw. It’s sunny and 90 degrees outside in Los Angeles, too hot and too soon. The sun and bright sky give me hope but the heat is almost crushing and here I am sitting inside my drab gray cube and I’m feeling a bit trapped.

But I am not complaining—that is, to anyone but you. Our little secret, yes? *smile.* I do believe that I am in control and that if I am not happy, I shall seek happiness elsewhere, but that is difficult to do in this job market. It’s difficult to pick yourself up every day. To sift through the daily doldrum of a job that makes you, often, want to scream. To scrape your sanity off the floor and thank yourself when others do not do it for you.

A part of me, a small part, wishes she could hit a fast forward button and push to Q4, or even 2010, when there might be a tiny shred of a chance that I can make an escape.

And that’s it. That’s all.

Momentum

I am expending energy; my mouse wheel is forever turning. I sleep to dream and at night I awake with imaginary bubble poofs of ideas floating above my sleepy head and tousled pillow-creased hair. I am working harder than ever and thinking more than ever and perhaps it’s really true: what you put in, you get out.

I say this because this past week I’ve discovered clarity.I visualize the past two years of life and I see floating puzzle pieces and just recently they’ve all begun to find each other. They are the stars orbiting in the fog-ridden Los Angeles night sky. They are intermingling at a social for the divine and right and true.

At some point, some gray area between now and then, want and reality, dreams and possibility, I have transitioned in the last six months or so. I’m not sure when it happened but I am haunted by it. Did it happen in New York this past October, in the early morning dawn before I caught the train into Manhattan? Or that night at the Crown Bar in WeHo when my best friend and I slung back shots and fizzy champagne and danced the night away? But what about the sweet late summer mornings in Brentwood when my alarm clock was the sun coming through my open window, the rustling of paper sacks being carried by my neighbors on their way home from the farmers market?

It doesn’t matter.

What makes you happy?

Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. It turns what we have into enough, and more. It turns denial into acceptance, chaos to order, confusion to clarity. It can turn a meal into a feast, a house into a home, a stranger into a friend. Gratitude makes sense of our past, brings peace for today, and creates a vision for tomorrow.
~Melody Beattie

How's this for your daily dose of perspective?

What makes you happy? What are the things you find rewarding in this recession? What are the simple pleasures in your life that you've become reacquainted with?

For me it's my 1.5 mile drive to work. That when I spilled cover all over my pants, shirt, ass (yes, really. I'm still not sure how it got back there...), crotch, etc. that I was able to run home and change in 10-minutes' time.

It’s my Pandora radio list at work; my ability to tune out my team members when I need to.

It’s my non-fat hazelnut lattes in the morning once or twice a week. Sure, $3.45 a pop, but the taste and smell make it a real treat.

Many meals in on weeknights. Quiet nights spent trying a new bottle of wine and a new recipe. Creating something tasty and tangible in the tiny galley Brentwood kitchen.

Free museums.

Walks around the Brentwood Country Club.

I’ve rediscovered the library. Have we forgotten the library? It’s that big building that houses a bizzillion FREE books!

Healthy lunches ate in, pounds lost.

$15 tickets to the Troubadour for Saturday night’s show—a steal!

Clean sheets and the rare occasion I get to sleep in.

I've fallen in love

I am told that when I was a little girl I used to eat oranges. And I have no clue if this blur of a memory is something my eccentric mind has simply conjured, yet I somehow recall sitting on the steps in my parents’ home in Maryland when I was a wee one and munching on a bowl full of orange slices. True? Not sure.

I also know—for a fact—that I had a bit of an obsession with frozen pizza. Cheese only, usually. Sometimes pepperoni. I liked the clean look of a frozen pizza, the dependable crunch with every bite; the perfection the circular shape offered. I would duck away from bites of fresh pizza and wonder why we weren’t eating “the good kind.”

Fast forward many moons and I’m sitting on a couch in Brentwood and my friend invites me to have an orange slice. I start to shake my head and then think, “Why not?” No need to wonder if I enjoyed that slice of Orange Heaven: fast forward a day later and I come home from the market with a bag full of oranges, prepared to indulge in my latest food love. One of such simplicity, such amateur nature.

I have no such defining moment with pizza but now pizza is something that I prepare homemade every few weeks.

Los Angeles, in some ways, is oranges and fresh pizza.

Let me explain. Flash back to about four or five years ago, I’m losing count, to when my ex-boyfriend invited me to come visit him in Los Angeles. This was, of course, before he was my ex-boyfriend and before he was my boyfriend. I had no idea, no image, no dream, of what Los Angeles might mean. I had no visual aid in my head to imagine. City? Yes, a city. But not like New York. Beach? Yes, but when I thought of beach, I envisioned Maryland and its charming boardwalks and diners and wild horses.

My mind was a blank slate when it came to Los Angeles.

The first year I came out here, doing long distance with my boyfriend, I kept an open mind but I didn’t fall in love instantly. Los Angeles had to romance me first. I was confused by the curving of the roads, the vastness of the city, the many choices of neighborhoods. I kept trying to place Los Angeles in a category of sorts. Charming? Formal? Laid back? Beach town or city? Dirty or clean? Superficial? Los Angeles refused to be categorized.

Eventually, I knew I would be happy here and so I moved. I figured it was a good three-to-five year plan for me. I figured it was good for my career. An urban experience but still a cheap one-hour flight back to Arizona suburbia and home sweet home.

But something has happened to me since moving to Brentwood about a year and half ago. I’ve fallen in love with Los Angeles. I never thought I’d be a California girl but now I can’t imagine it any other way. I feel as though I’ve opened up a box and discovered the sweetest of surprises. My walks around the Brentwood country club, the hiking in the canyons. The foodie nature of Angelinos with all of the restaurants and wine tastings and farmers markets. Jogging alongside the ocean. Peet’s Coffee & Tea (the best!). The boutiques you can’t find anywhere else. The birch trees that line Sunset Boulevard as you drive west. Sitting in meetings at work and seeing the ocean on a clear day. The appreciation for the arts.

Now this has me wondering what else I will fall in love with in five years. I was sitting at my kitchen table last night talking to my Mom…

“Just got my latest Netfix movie. It’s so much fun to just open up your mailbox and find a MOVIE!” I said.

“Joanna, I never thought the day would come when you got so excited over a movie rental,” she commented.

Movie rentals. Oranges. Pizza. Los Angeles.

I guess you never know.

It's happening

It was a week or so prior to college graduation and in an effort forged by fear, naivety and steel will determined to “stick it to the man” my friend, “BP” and I found ourselves at the Borders off of Mill Avenue in Tempe late one night. We were on the floor, nestled on the carpet in various yoga-like poses and surrounded—literally—by book after book on how to start your own business. We had pens in hand, paper on floor, and we were lost among the titles, among our dreams, completely unperturbed when customers politely stepped over us to get to a neighboring shelf. We were euphoric on waves of motivation and want but faced those whimsy things armless, sans tools and knowledge.

In the coming months we graduated. We got jobs. We worked 8 to 5 and 9 to 5 and everything in between. We found comfort in a steady paycheck, climbed the so-called ladder and then…

“This is it?” we asked each other, one night over wine in San Francisco. “This is what it comes down to? Living in Arizona and working a regular job and….what about everything else?”

And so we went at it again, this time smarter. Slower. More thoughtful.

This summer it’ll have been a year since BP and I clinked champagne glasses to starting our own business together. It will have been one year since we had 3 a.m. negotiations with a man in Europe, fighting fiercely over the price of a domain name we told ourselves we needed. It will have been a year since we created databases, resource lists, reached out to a Web developer. It will have been a year since we once again opened up those new business books we bought late that night in Tempe, nearly five years ago. A year since we talked copyright law, logo creation and brand. Created FAQs. Brainstormed over brunch with mimosas and laptops.

It started off slow and then something—and I’m not sure of the what or the why—happened and now it’s this daily disease of emailing back and forth. Sneaking research time here and there at work. Afternoon texting of inspiration and the flicker of bright ideas. The pooling of resources and the mutual respect and the underlying hum of faith that we can do this.

Somewhere within the slum of this economic downturn and the daily drivel of my job, which has become robot-like and often sits in my life like a molding fruit, I haven’t been this happy with my “work” in a long time.

My LA List just got bigger

Since moving to Los Angeles about a year and a half ago, I've strived to cross off a thing or two on my "LA List" at least once a month. So much to do here, so much to explore.

But who knew--Los Angeles has 87 neighborhoods!!--and this map doesn't even count neighborhoods that I "count" like Little Tokyo and Larchmont.

My list just became super-sized.

Check it out.

A collage

A collage of thoughts, images and memories from the past few days, past weekend.

The view of West Los Angeles as I left work on Friday, the crisp dark night air in my face and a city of sprinkling lights before me. My new roomie’s face lighting up in the kitchen as she unloaded groceries, when I asked her if she wanted to go grab a drink. The bartender I hadn’t seen in about two months saying hello and sending over several rounds of drinks, “These are on me.”

The hum and chug of the washing machines and Infatuation’s now-familiar voice on the phone. Sitting in a car parked in red on busy Lincoln Blvd to get some of the best damn Italian sandwiches I have ever had. Traffic, never-ending traffic, in Santa Monica. The drive up to Malibu on the famous PCH with the windows down and sun filtering through my dirty car windows. Eating those “best damn sandwiches” pool-side at the Getty, as though we lived in Florence thousands of years ago, and I ate passionately and had mustard at the corners of my mouth. Sips of wine in the soft sun.

Kneading of pizza dough and simmering of the sauce. Early evening naps, let the dough just rise! Vibrant toasts meant for a summer’s night. Quick phone calls, reaching out like spider legs to the LA network to see what the dark night might bring. The walking to the bars, the gibber-gabs, the shenanigans and the crowding of asses on benches and in booths. Silly declarations of adoration, profound musings and late night secrets.

Errands in Westwood, wine sales and the purchasing of fun home accessories like glasses and candles. The scrubbing and cleaning that Sunday often brings. More hum of laundry and more kneading of the dough—pizza number two!—the gentle placement of pepperoni slices, the soft grating of cheese. A quiet night of a sentence said here and there, the glow of the computer screen, the clacking noise made by my blinds as the gentle evening breeze sauntered in.

Monday morning chaos and 8 a.m. conference calls. Need caffeine. The quick walk three blocks down to the Starbucks on the corner where they’re starting to know my usual, “Skinny latte?” “Please.” The tensing and untensing of shoulders and growling of the stomach. Margaritas and wine late-night at a taco joint catching up with an old friend. Pear tequila underneath an electric pink glow. A familiar smile and unfamiliar stories.

5:30 a.m. wake up calls to do THE STAIRS in Santa Monica. The huffing and puffing and groaning of the body at dawn, working and pumping underneath an orange moon, lazily hanging above the Pacific. 9 a.m. conference calls, too-sweet Chinese food. Leaving of work satisfied and accomplished. An evening jog through Brentwood with close friends in the lavender light of the magic hour.

Oh, the joys of daylight savings.

It's Friday. I'm wiped.

I have been MIA but things have been moving so quickly that I have not had much time or energy to write!

Since my last post, I have:
- Flown to Arizona for one of my best friend’s engagement parties. I’m a bridesmaid!
- Been asked to be a bridesmaid in a different best friend’s wedding—I’m honored!
- Been cooking and entertaining quite a bit: red snapper, creamy tomato sauce, halibut, garlic green beans, more picnic plates…
- Planned trips back to Arizona for Easter weekend, Chi-town in April
- Gone skiing just about an hour and a half outside of Los Angeles to Big Bear. To be honest, the mountain kinda sucked but my snow cravings are satisfied and hopefully I’ll make up to Mammoth before this season is over.
- Gone jogging several times alongside the ocean
- Gotten into a weekly habit of stopping by Peet’s Coffee in Brentwood a few times a week in the morning to pick up a non-fat hazelnut latte before work—such a treat!
- Gotten a new roommate. My old roomie told me she was moving out, I found a new roommate and she moved in—all within one week’s time period. And the new girl is amazing! I have no idea where my roomie luck comes from but somewhere there is a Roommate Fairy who likes me. This is roommate #3 at the Brentwood Chateau.
- Unfortunately had to cancel my wine trip (was supposed to be tomorrow) but now it’s late April; that’s just fine. Instead we’re going to the Getty in Malibu and we’ll be picnicking and sipping wine among art, gardens and ocean views. Not a bad substitute (and it still involves wine).
- Made significant progress with a good friend on a business we are starting.
- Worked insanely long hours at work.

That’s it, for now. It’s Friday. It’s a good day. It’s clear and sunny and bright outside, mid 60s here in Los Angeles but the blue sky makes you want to lie down besides the ocean. It’s a busy day and the office is a symphony of busy fingers tip-tapping across keyboards and phones. We had our usual catered in Friday breakfasts: omelettes and breakfast burritos and yogurt and granola. It’s a busy day at work. Things are unpredictable around here but the morale is high. Tonight I get to come home to a clean apartment, eat delicious leftovers and I may get a drink with a Maryland friend.

It’s a good day.

Doh!

I finally have a moment to breathe. If the following tell you anything about how this week or last week has gone, I hope it conveys how hectic things have been!

• I bring my gym stuff to work almost every day but haven’t been able to go


• I got a steaming cup of hot green tea and ran straight into a wall while talking with two co-workers, sloshing the tea all over my right hand


• I get a stellar parking spot on the third floor of the garage versus the usual seventh floor because I arrive so early


• I have been in nearly four hours’ worth of meetings today to go over a proposal and have to sit there and fight the urge to scream while people mull over whether they prefer to use “They’re” or “They are” and so forth.


• Yesterday I had five cups of coffee. This time last year I was drinking one a day.
  

I have a job. I have a job. I have a job.

P.S. I also have a roommate—found her in 24 hours! Classic Jo.

Is it Friday yet?

Things are a bit crazy here. This past weekend was the calm before the storm. Quiet dinners of roasted chicken and red snapper and homemade lasagna—we eat well at the Brentwood Chateau! But now the rain is coming down in a steady stream. Not an Arizona monsoon rain but a steady drip-drop all across Los Angeles. There’s something I love about the rain, but I must say: I am done! It’s been too much these last few weeks. Sunshine, where are you?

Now work is nuts once again (job security!) and my roommate is moving out (oh well), so things are a bit mucky. C’est la vie.

Not much time to write anything else but wanted to share a poem.

Perfection Wasted
And another regrettable thing about death
is the ceasing of your own brand of magic,
which took a whole life to develop and market --
the quips, the witticisms, the slant adjusted to a few,
those loved ones nearest
the lip of the stage, their soft faces blanched
in the footlight glow, their laughter close to tears,
their tears confused with their diamond earrings,
their warm pooled breath in and out with your heartbeat,
their response and your performance twinned.
The jokes over the phone. The memories packed in
the rapid-access file. The whole act.
Who will do it again? That's it: no one;
imitators and descendants aren't the same.

~John Updike

A friendship come full circle

“Hey, Babe!” my boyfriend greets me at the curb at LAX. “So…who did you meet this time?”

As soon as I decided I was moving to Los Angeles, it was as though something inside of me became magnetic. People were pulled towards me in seemingly coincidental ways. Contacts popped up in my email inbox. Friends and friends of friends decided they were moving to Los Angeles, too. My phone rang of job interviews.

The magnetic pull seemed to intensify at airports. Strangers smiled at me outside of the gate. Each and every flight would bring about a new contact, job opportunity or friend. I met investment bankers from the Marina, ditsy sorority girls from Manhattan Beach; newly relocated twenty-somethings; writers and inventors. It got to the point that I’d sit down on a flight and smile, almost smug-like, just waiting to see who I’d meet next. Effortless.

“So...any new friends?” my boyfriend probed.

“Yup.” I threw down two business cards on the leather seat of his Mustang. “A psychologist and an Australian guy who is moving to the states in a few months.”

It was this eerie, effortless manner in which people came into my life during that next year that led me to believe; it was the graceful way plans folded together, especially those last few months; with every business card collected, I knew. I was meant to move to Los Angeles.

* * * * * *
It’s a fall day in 2006 and I’m on a Southwest flight sitting on an LAX runway. It’s late and the night is ink-black outside the oval air plane windows. I’m sitting in the aisle and to the right of me, at the window, a girl about my age. She has long brown hair and freckles the color of the desert.

She appears terrified.

It isn’t until about 10 minutes after takeoff, when the plane is bouncing giddily in the air that she turns to me, hands gripping the arm rest.

“I don’t think the plane should be moving like this,” she says. Her voice shakes. “This isn’t right.”

I smile. “I’m sure it’s just fine.”

But I speak too soon. The plane suddenly jolts and shudders in the night air, somewhere far over southern California. She grabs my arm.

And that’s how I met Emily. A girl my age who was doing long distance with her boyfriend between Los Angeles and Arizona. She went to ASU, like me. And, like me, she was moving to Los Angles that next summer and did not want to move in with her boyfriend. And she needed a roommate. Like me.

Bingo.

* * * * * * * * *
I never did move in with Emily. We met for happy hour a few times in Arizona but our moving timelines shifted and I ended up in Los Angeles before her.

When she finally arrived in Los Angeles, we were dedicated to emailing each other updates. Our emails were lengthy and detailed. We tried several times to get together for dinner but it just never worked out with our hectic schedules.

When she asked how I was doing one fall day, via email, and I mentioned casually that my boyfriend and I had broken up, her kindness and sincerity caught me off guard.

Are you okay? That is crazy. I'd like to talk about this in person, but I've got to imagine that living in the same state was a huge change that came with a lot of wake-up calls…

I shook my head, thinking, “I just met this girl on a plane.” And it’s in this beautiful, random way when a stranger reaches out that you know that this life isn’t truly about coincidence and chance.

* * * * * * * * * *

Fast forward a year and a half and I’m at LAX waiting to board my flight to Phoenix. Emily and I have lost touch and haven’t spoken in at least a year. I’m on the phone with my Dad when I see a girl about 25 feet from me flip her long brown hair. She’s on her cell phone as well and from time to time her eyes dart in my direction.

“Dad, you’re never going to believe this,” I said. “But I think I’m staring at a girl that I met on a flight more than three years ago.”

Just then my phone beeps at me. A text message.

Are you at LAX right now? It’s Emily.

I hang up with my Dad a few minutes later and text her back. I see you!

We laugh at the pure absurdity of it all, when we see each other. We are like best of friends, only we’re still strangers. After all, we’ve only seen each other two or three times. We sit by each other on the plane and she buys me a glass of wine. She wants to know what I am doing, who I am dating, how work is going. I admire her engagement ring and she tells me that her fiancé, who is in the Air Force, is waiting to find out where he is stationed next. They’ll have to move in August.

“I am scared,” she confides. “It’s probably going to be in some small shit town, and what am I going to do for work?”

We make plans to do dinner next week. She wants to know about my book club; I tell her of course she is always invited. We exchange pilates stories - the pain! She wants to move to Brentwood if they don’t have to leave LA.

When the plane lands, a small part of my heart is just a bit sad, knowing that she might be leaving Los Angeles in a few months when we’ve only just reconnected. The selfish part of me wants to keep her.

We’re in touch a few days later.

“Em, where did Jeff get stationed?”

“Biloxi, Mississippi,” she says. “I am freaking out.”

“We’ll talk about it at dinner next week,” I reply. “It isn’t forever.”

I go online that afternoon to buy her a Mississippi guide book. I can’t find a book right away (It’s Mississippi for God’s sake) but keep looking. This is her next great adventure in life: three years in a small town with her new husband.

She was there for my adventure.

Now it’s my turn to return the favor.

Indoor picnic

After a weekend away, or a weekend with a guest in town, I go into homebody mode. My desire for a wild late night slows to a simmer and instead I turn to laundry, cleaning, bill paying and just getting things done. I want clean sheets and squeaky floors. I want watered plants, lit candles. My pile of junk mail disappeared, old food thrown away.

Part of this slowing down involves food (of course). I associate food with comfort, good memories, love, warmth. It's been a bit chilly here in Los Angeles and the raining on and off makes me want to stay in and cook all day and read. I don't have the time to cook all day but tonight I am making a veggie lasagna with homemade marinara sauce. I'll put on my glasses and sweats and dive into 100 Years of Solitude.

During the week, when I have even less time, I've been making picnic plates. Gouda and Granny Smith apples sliced super thin; dry salami; perhaps a clementine. Infatuation and I will stand in the kitchen and work our way through salty parmesan and asiago. This past week we even devoured an entire stalk of celery. Gone, every last crunchy bite. Something about a good glass of red wine and a European-style picnic plate, even if eaten standing in my teeny galley kitchen, makes for a perfect ending to a stressful work day.

The above photo is a picnic plate from a wine trip up north last summer.

Somewhere in LA, in the rain.

It’s Friday. That’s a good thing no matter where you work but for me, it’s especially wonderful. Today it is raining and our building doorman greeted us with doors held open and mats put firmly in place to ward off muddy boot prints. Breakfast is catered in and I can see the building across the street from me, the way it appears caked with moisture, the water running down its brown exterior like a delicious chocolate sauce.

On rainy days I tend to work harder. No spring fever for me, no dreams of sundresses and bare toes. I cozy up with the hazelnut coffee or green tea and actually focus.

Last night was my last Dine LA dinner, at Ford’s Filling Station in Culver City. My dates were my “work spouses,” my two closest friends at work. One of them, Bear, is tall and chubby and gay and happy. He delivers good news with a smile. I can’t imagine him angry, or—if he was angry—he’d shout at you with a big grin on his face. Liz is the other. Probably the most independent girlfriend I have. She is so happy with herself and her life and doesn’t feel the need to be attached-at-the-hip with her boyfriend. She is so incredibly level-headed and driven. She is pencil thin and “LA cool” – flip flops and designer jeans and long, loose sweaters.

Dinner was amazing. Ford’s is now on my fave list of LA restaurants. Yum.

And then the rain started to come down harder, after dinner. I slept through the night. I don’t recall tossing and turning or dreaming. It was a night that I sunk deep into my bed, limbs still, mind peaceful.

And now, here I am.

Happy Friday.

Planning the escape

I sat in an hour long meeting yesterday and I found myself day dreaming. It wasn’t that the discussion wasn’t interesting. It was, actually. The meeting was about a very complex, challenging project. But, nevertheless, I was daydreaming. My eyes grew heavy despite my two cups of hazelnut coffee and I somehow got a case of the Yawns. My head was tilted—as if pulled by string, puppet-like in nature—towards the window and my eyes scanned the Santa Monica mountains. It was a gorgeous, unusually clear day.

My VP’s voice droned on and became a white noise to my imagination.

We then moved to an office next door and continued our discussion, only this time standing. This made it harder for me to drift off as I had to concentrate on standing upright and looking like I was interested. I found a mini fridge to lean against and I plopped my butt right down. The support of the fridge helped but not enough. At some point, my back started to hurt and I stopped gazing so much at the mountains and thought about new jeans I wanted to buy. I thought about weekend plans. I thought about tomato soup and the beach and lovely naps on a Sunday afternoon. I thought about red wine.

I thought, Screw this.

I dream for things beyond the corporate world and quite frankly, I don’t give a poop about my industry. We may be in an economic slump, but I’m on a motivational high. A motivational high and long-term day dream to be my own boss and to zone out the Equation, the fizz of the white noise of BS.

So while I occasionally open up a blank word doc at work to write and lay structure to my thoughts, perhaps I’ll be writing less and researching more. Maybe I’ll be working my way through less beach reads at home and more business strategy books.

Because there won’t always be a mini fridge to hold up my fat ass when I get bored at work.

This image gets me through the day

When things get rough at work, all I gotta do is look at the above and I lose it. "What really brought down the plane into the Hudson..."