Thursday afternoon musings

My manager and VP are away, so the kids can play…

The nights are warm once again and the whole city is graced with light. Dinner with G last night at Katsuya was divine; not necessarily the plate but the company. Over sushi, saki and cedar-planked salmon G and I truly caught up on life, as we always do. We were surrounded by industry types and size zeros and models in dresses that hovered just a quarter-inch above Ass Crack. Our Katsuya Kuriosity is now satisfied and we can move on to the next thing, as there will always be next things in this city. Next!

Today it’s all about the simple pleasures. Sundress weather has returned to Los Angeles so that means afternoons are spent dreamily gazing out the windows, into the light. We snuck away to get a latte this afternoon, walking past block after block of Angelenos stuck in traffic, trapped in their auto-boxes—suckers! Back at the office, it’s headphones promptly placed and Pandora on, all day. Coffee and Pandora and email jokes passed back and forth; homemade jokes of silly banter and cut-and-paste Google images. That’s what gets us by.

Tonight I see those old familiar Maryland friends of mine, the ones that I rode the school bus with when I was just in third grade, give or take. Fast forward 15 years and here we all are, joined together in the same city to wine and dine on a Thursday night, as though not a moment has passed. We’re still US, we’re just…bigger. Isn’t that lovely?

I’ve been struggling with restlessness lately. Not restlessness in the way of job or moving, but just to travel, to book a flight—anywhere! To calm this monster inside, I’m planning a few random things to curb my cravings. I’m like a crack addict, but merely addicted to the stale air of planes and the junk food of airports, addicted to that routine of grabbing the suitcase from the storage closet and planning ahead. A group of us will go wine tasting up north come early March. Wine and shenanigans, that oughtta help. And next weekend, G and I are going skiing, just for the day and then later, perhaps a month or so from now, we’ll head up to Mammoth where the real powder lies.

G’s job is ending and he could be moving soon. He could be leaving Los Angeles in four weeks or four months, it’s all so uncertain.

I will miss my best friend and favorite dinner date.

The threes

I can’t say this often, but on days like today, I truly enjoy my job. I feel as though I am on the upswing of that bell curve of good days and bad; as though a bit of triumph lies within my grasp. When times are tough—as they have been—a more perfect team forms. There is no “first to arrive” and “last to leave” because it’s all of us. It’s all of us drinking the three to four cups of coffee a day. It’s all of us wishing to run outside, even into the rain, just to enjoy some air that didn’t come from a dusty duct of an 11 story building. It’s all of us who go goofy when the clock strikes three and slap-happy laughter ensues. It’s all of us who crowd into conference rooms and fight the urge to yawn and lean over the table to talk strategy.

And there’s something to appreciate in all of that.

I have a good friend in Los Angeles who I often talk to about work matters and business. He takes his career very seriously and has a work ethic that puts most people to shame. On several occasions he has mentioned to me the two sets of “threes” that Coach John Wooden went by:

Don’t lie, don’t cheat, don’t steal.
Don’t whine, don’t complain, don’t make excuses.

It’s going to be a tough 2009. I will reference the Two Sets of Threes often.

Food!

The belly rules the mind.
~Spanish Proverb

It’s Dine LA Week in Los Angeles! I’m not sure why they call it “week” when it’s actually two weeks of Foodie Heaven but week will have to do. I’m making the rounds at a few joints I’ve been meaning to indulge in to take advantage of special pre-fixe menus for mouth watering prices. First up : Katsuya in Hollywood tomorrow night, supposed superb Japanese cuisine and celebrity magnet. Next week is Ford’s Filling Station in Culver City, where the chef is none other than Harrison Ford’s son and I have heard nothing short of rave reviews. Yum!

And it's Sunday. Again.

The weekend, stream of consciousness:

Hipster bar in Venice on Friday night, where the girls wear black skirts and black tights and little make up. Stellar parking spot, no line. Fate. Drink of choice in the bar: martinis. My drink of choice: red wine. I met a girl there who owns a printing press from the early 20th century and designs her own prints, yet is afraid of color. She is engaged and refuses to pick colors for her wedding.

Cloudy Saturday morning so my friend and I ditched the bike idea but still headed for the beach. Panting and puffing up the stairs, up and down, up and down, until our legs couldn't stand it any more. Then we went running along the beach. Beautiful and wild and quiet.

Mounds of cleaning and laundry and then Infatuation came over and made me dinner. I drank wine and watched him chop vegetables and sear garlic and pour olive oil on this and that. Delicious. He is the first boy to ever make dinner for me, whole and pure and from scratch.

Today we went on a long walk around Brentwood and stopped for coffee at our favorite shop. We strolled through the farmers market and were disappointed the ponies and goats were gone.

Gamble House in Pasadena this afternoon. It smells of age, of wood. It is supposedly haunted.

Now: work.

Jo, rung out and drained.

I am exhausted. My face is taking on the color and shading of artificial office lighting, that sallow blandness of neutrals; those endearing smudges in the wall of business victories forged in a unpredictable economy; the blotchy nature of dreams grinded, like stains in the carpet. I awoke this morning and my body said, simply, “No!” It did not want to make that familiar 1.5 mile drive to the office, down that pot-hole ridden lane in the morning fog that Los Angeles manages to cough up come dawn and reclaim come dusk. My body, our bodies (Go Team!) are now struggling to fight muscle atrophy; my shoulders are leaning forward in an all too familiar gesture. My hands, they naturally reach out, seeking keyboard or hazelnut coffee, just to my left. My neck, it clenches a phone even after hours, when a phone no longer rests in the nook between ear and shoulder.

My energy, that wild beautiful tornado, is unraveling.

The days of the week tumble together like a child’s toy blocks. They collapse like dominoes and then it’s the weekend. I believe all of Los Angeles must be tired, even the sun is tired. She has been hiding for a few days now and when I look out at our floor-to-ceiling windows, it’s a vastness of gray.

Although I am tired, it is the weekend, almost, and that is something to celebrate. This weekend I will dust off that candy-apple beach cruiser of mine and head west until I see ocean waters. My friend and I, we will bike side-by-side and discuss our weeks and boys and jobs and food. We’ll pant and laugh and stop somewhere for lunch on the way back. We’ll dodge cars and old ladies walking, and the occasional bus. On Sunday I head north to the Gamble House in Pasadena to tour a home of brilliant craftsmanship. If you don’t know what the Gamble House is, Google will tell you.

And so it goes, life in Los Angeles.

Jo's favorite things

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens
Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens
Brown paper packages tied up with strings
These are a few of my favorite things

Cream colored ponies and crisp apple strudels
Door bells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles
Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings
These are a few of my favorite things
~ My Favorite Things by Rodgers and Hammerstein

Two occasions yesterday inspired this post. I was walking with a co-worker to get some lunch, and I mentioned to him that I was due to see an art exhibit this coming weekend.

"Do they serve wine there?" He asked.

"Wine? Is that what you said?" I replied.

"Yes, wine! Wine and art, aren't those two of your favorite things?"

And then, later that day, I was grabbing some coffee with another co-worker and Lord knows what I said, but he replied with a laugh, "I would love to have a store. A store with just Joanna's favorite things." He had the greatest, widest grin on his face.

And so, in honor of these two brief moments in time, the beginning of my Favorite Things List (in no particular order):

skinny hazelnut lattes
green tea (no sugar, no cream, nothing)
art
red wine
clean sheets
the smell of cotton
sugar scrub
a good night's sleep
golden retrievers
letters, old fashioned and hand written
saying "thank you"
naps
lilies and tulips
crisp white blouses
sundresses
peacoats
gouda, havarti and parmesan cheese
post-it notes
used book stores and libraries
school/academia
the news - in general (online, tv, etc)
champagne
bubble baths
candles
old friends
flip flops
tans
a clean kitchen
thin crust pizza
fountain pens
black and white photos
blankets
my eye mask for when I sleep
Aveeno lotion
povi
the smell of my parents' house
stars
red nail polish
details
honesty
hamburgers
golf hats
stationary
garlic
New York Times Sunday Magazine
local restaurants (non chain)
live music venues
sand in my toes
grapefruit

The list could go on and on and on....

More, later.

Inauguration

History, despite its wrenching pain,
Cannot be unlived, and if faced
With courage, need not be lived again.

Lift up your eyes upon
The day breaking for you.

Give birth again
To the dream.

Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands.

Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts
Each new hour holds new chances
For new beginnings.

~Maya Angelou, Inaugural Poem, 1993

2009 Prediction: The year I get good at golf. Or at least, golf a lot

I think this will be a year of golf for me. I hit balls twice on Sunday, at two different courses. One of my closest girlfriends here bought golf clubs and we went to the range and she literally was pulling plastic off her Dunlops there, on the second tier of the driving range. Told me she got them on sale. Actually, an impulse purchase. She was strolling the aisles of Big 5 looking for a tennis racket, or some sort of racket, when she passed by the golf section and decided that she just must buy golf clubs. That day. Got them for under 200 bucks. She had initially told me her golf bag was pink and I envisioned a mass the color of bubble gum and cringed a bit. However, I was pleased to see it was actually more black and lavender.

This friend, she is a runner, and her body is a rail, a sturdy frame of bones and tight skin. Her pony tail was a dark curly mass of wildness, piled on top of her head. I watched as she perfected her grip before each shot, squinting her eyes and squatting just so. And then, every few shots or so, she’d try a new club, like a kid on Christmas morning. It was something to see! She’d pull off a sleeve of plastic and lop it on the ground. Within 30 minutes or so, we had quite the pile of trash.

It was a warm day and the sun beat down on us at the range. I was glad I had my PING hat on (another mon frère item) and I noticed something ever so “meat market-ish” about the range. Guys checked us out and seemed amused as we struggled with our bucket of balls, purses and other such gear. Eventually we got hit on by two orthodox Jews with curly facial hair, wire-rimmed glasses and skinny faces. We hurriedly packed up our gear (this took about 10 to 15 minutes) and moved down a level on the range to shake ‘em off our trail.

All went well until we were cleaning up and about to leave. She picked up her clubs, seemingly the correct way, yet the bag tilted towards the ground and her irons started to spill out. “Help me, Jo!” she cried. And then: “Don’t worry, Jo. Eventually, we won’t be so embarrassing.”

I nodded and smiled.

It's the simple things

It's yet another extraordinary day in Los Angeles. The sun is shining, people are outside just for the sake of being outside. There is little traffic on the streets and I have to remind myself, often, that it's just January 18. Well, I suppose this day is not quite so extraordinary since days such as this occur quite so frequently, but...you can't help but wake up with a smile.

Things are truckin' along here in LA. It's been a booze-less weekend. I've switched my glasses of red wine with movies, lots of 'em. My roommate and I have taken a joy in running every single vegetable we can unearth from the depths of our fridge into the food processor, grinding them up into a sort of homemade gazpacho. One meant for summer days, before fish and barbecues, but it seems just right for now.

In fact, every thing seems just about right, right now. Roomie and I went to a bar last night for a going away party and ordered two soda waters. It was absolutely divine to open my eyes to my 7 a.m. alarm this morning and jump out of bed feeling good. Maybe there is something to this raw thing, eh? I met my friend in Griffith Park to hit golf balls. I showed up 30 minutes late. Not because I was running late but because I was confused by the vastness of the park; it's LA's very own Central Park. And it was a delight to be late, driving on the narrow, winding roads into the hills. They were lined with trees red and yellow and crisp. It's January, yet Los Angeles just seems to be catching up on autumn.

When I returned to Brentwood, I drove past my turn and was suddenly inspired to buy a new tree. I killed my former tree that inhabited my apartment; perhaps the young hearty thing wasn't so hearty. Or perhaps I just don't have a green thumb. Anyway, so I drove to the nursery down the street, just a few sunshiney blocks, and I met a guy there. Mid 40s, long, garish hair that looked like someone had cut it with their eyes closed. Not a guy to date but a Tree Man. I looked at Tree Man and told him, "I need your help. I need a tree."

"Well, we get new stock in on Thursdays. We might have better choices on Thursdays....or is this an instant gratification thing?"

I looked him straight in the eye. "I am set on bringing home a tree today. Instant."

I think he took a liking to the fact that I was so lost in the green house. He literally took my hand and led me through the winding green house. We spent a good 40 minutes--forty freakin' minutes!--picking out my tree. Of course I asked him far too many questions, something I get from my Dad. I wanted to know about sunlight. Trimming and pinching (did you know it's better to pinch a tree than trim?). I told him I wanted a pretty pot to put it in and we stepped outside, eventually, back into that gorgeous heavenly white sunlight, and together we stared at pots for another 20 minutes or so. He told me I was going to have to replant the tree into my new pot. I did a double take and then...shook my head.

"Plant? Nope."

"I could do it for you."

"That would be great. I'll pay you, of course."

"So you're a woman who doesn't like to get her hands dirty."

"That's right."

He showed me how to replant it. The mixing of soil and water. Told me to let it sit outside for a few days and give it a good water down. He seemed amused at my curiosity, my eagerness to learn, my unwilling nature to touch dirt.

"See, look here," Tree Man said. "See how I am loosening these roots? I wouldn't do it like you would, stomp on them with one of your stiletto heels. You seem to be that type. You don't want to shock the plant."

I ignored his comment about my footwear and then asked who I need to call and complain to in a week when my plant is shocked.

"Um....Emanuel," Tree Man said, looking at the Hispanic Dude behind the counter.

Anyway, now I have a beautiful new tree at home and there's something so cheerful about that.

And that is when it dawned on me. I don't think I need too much to be happy. This morning, when my friend and I finished hitting balls, we sat on a bench and stared out the beautiful hills and trees, just the vibrant green which surrounded us. I grabbed two little clementines from my golf bag and tossed one to him.

"I love the smell of these when you first open them," I said.

"Oh, me too. It's just so great."

"It makes me so happy."

He laughed. "The smell? It makes you happy?"

"Yeah, yeah it does."

And yeah, yeah it does. My tree makes me happy. My clementine makes me happy. I am happy to be at work now, not yet working, but listening to Pandora and taking care of my urge to write. I am happy my girlfriend out here bought a set of golf clubs and now I have a golfing friend who sucks at golf and lives close to me. I am happy that the veggies in the food processor tasted so fresh and good.

And that's just how it is.

Mon frere

“So, I take it you and your brother are pretty tight?”

Tight. My hands pause over my keyboard before responding to my friend. Tight. My brother is one of my best friends, but…

“My brother is one of my best friends but…it’s not like we gab on the phone every day, you know? I mean, he doesn’t call me to gush about girls and I don’t call him to gossip.”

In between my online chatting, I browse my digital picture collection. There I find an image of my brother and I on the Santa Monica Pier, less than one full week after my boyfriend broke up with me. He traveled up from San Diego despite the fact that his girlfriend at the time sort of threw a fit about it. We are both holding ice cream cones, large and sloppy and double-scooped. It is a sunny day and crowds troll the beach behind us, in the distance, and the scent of cotton candy hangs in the breeze. His right arm is around my shoulders, something I usually have to remind him to do for photos, but not this time. I am wearing flip flops and the wind brushes my hair back.

We both have goofy grins on our faces.

* * * * * * * * * *
“How was your weekend in San Diego?” my friend asks.

Groan. “It was good, but Greg and I got into a fight.”

“About what?”

“Something really stupid. You know, those stupid sibling fights. I left early.”

He laughs. “C’mon, what did you fight about?”

“It was a misunderstanding. I told him to stop being a jackass and he told me I was being a fucking idiot.”

Laughter again. “I see.”

“No, but it was good though. I called him 30 minutes up the highway and we actually talked it out. His apology was kinda funny, too.”

“Oh, yeah? What was it?”

“He said, ‘Joanna, I am sorry I called you a fucking idiot.’ And then he paused. And then he said, ‘But you were really being a fucking idiot.’”

We both crack up.

“Hey, I thought it was cool. I took it,” I say.

* * * * * * * * * *
When I am home in Arizona I lie on my brother’s bed. This is something I tend to do, a trait both Walter (dog) and I share. I am not sure what it is. If it’s the fact that his bed is made and mine is not; or perhaps because it’s firm and the lighting in his room is a certain kind of softness.

It’s a twin bed, sort of interesting for someone who is 6’2”. I lie there on my back, usually, hands behind my head. Eyes to the ceiling.

Sometimes he strolls in and ignores me. He’ll go straight to his computer and browse the Web for an hour and pretend I’m not there. Other times, he’ll immediately say, “Joanna, can I have my room back?” He’ll even say these words, loudly, before he enters, when he is about 20 feet away. It’s gotten to the point that he just assumes I’m in his room, as though I am a sort of mold, or a pillow case, maybe. A shoe, stuck under the bed.

Yet, other times, he’ll come in and play music and I start to randomly dance, goofy and eccentric, to make him laugh. He tries hard not to smile.

The times I am not on his bed, I am attached to his computer. Not because it’s new and high-tech but because it’s simply ON and available.

“Joanna, this is getting weird,” he said one time when he saw me staring at the lighted screen.

“Yup, I know.” I sigh. “I think I have an online addiction or something.”

“You have a Greg’s Room Addiction.”

* * * * * * * * * *
I am wearing a shirt that my brother gave me, a purple golf shirt. I like the way it fits, the excessive buttons on the front. On my head sits a red TaylorMade hat, also from my brother. In my hands, I hold the driver he put together for me. I am at the driving range in Manhattan Beach and it’s a perfect sunny California day.

When I first pick up my clubs, I often think of him gluing them together late at night after work. I imagine him picking out the grips and the color, even the tees.

I pull back the driver and I imagine my ass sticking out, since Greg told me I do that sometimes. I can hear him telling me to keep my eyes on the ball, so I keep my head down. And with a quick twist (okay, barely a twist since we all know I don’t have the flexibility) my club makes contact with the ball and the result is that perfect ping!

“You’re hitting that driver pretty good,” my friend says.

And I think of my brother, two hours south from me, how impressed he might be if he could see it and hear it, too.

JoRawMa Updates

Never eat more than you can lift.
~Miss Piggy

My coworkers at first insisted that they work from home while I complete my raw food fast, lest I transform into some hungry, crazy bitch. It’s either that or they were going to keep a steak on hand and toss it to me if I get feisty, like I’m some sort of wolf.

They’ve taken to calling me JoRawMa. That didn’t take long.

The fast isn’t really that big of a deal. I feel full but I’m not satisfied. I want warm bread and pasta sauces and I happen to like my veggies sautéed. But it is what it is and I actually do feel pretty good. I’ve been eating spinach salad and clementines; a handful of almonds here and there; homemade hummus and broccoli. Tonight Roomie and I are concocting homemade raw lasagna out of almonds that have been soaked for 48-hours. Look, it doesn’t make my mouth water. But I feel great, have more energy and am losing weight, so…*shrug.*

I’m also pretty excited about my wholesome weekend. Weekend lineup includes a hard core Scrabble tourney on Friday night after munching on sunflower seed veggie patties. Drink of choice? Water, of course. I’m going to see a movie on Saturday and then I actually will pick up my fantastic set up clubs and hit balls again or play golf!

I’ll also be working at least one of the days, if not both. C’est la vie.

I've gone raw

I’ve gone raw.

My roommate read the book Skinny Bitch, a book written in a really bitchy tone about what it takes to be skinny.

And we want to be skinny.

Rather, I want to be the weight I was when I moved to Los Angeles. That was 12 pounds ago.
Anyway, the book promotes fasting and we’re not going to be that drastic but we are doing a 7 to 10 day raw diet. Only fresh veggies, fruits, nuts. It’s Day 1, Hour 5 and I’m already craving beef. Or at least a falafel.

Can you tell I live in LA now?

A stranger passing

Stranger, if you passing meet me and desire to speak to me,
why should you not speak to me?
And why should I not speak to you?

- Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

I arrived to find him sitting at the bar. I could tell it was him from his profile; hard to put your finger on it but there was something so sturdy about him. I tapped him on the shoulder and he immediately scooted over one stool, making room for me and my awkwardly large purse (it had its own stool). He wanted to know if I wanted some wine and of course, my fast and ready answer: Yes! He then challenged me to order for the both of us, two glasses of wine from a daunting menu, fashioned in the style of a book of about 75 pages.

It took me only 30 seconds--longest--to settle on a reserve Spanish rioja. Delish.

He wanted to know where I was from. Rather, what were my roots? My origins? I told him to guess.

His eyes narrowed, ever so slightly and he dipped his head slightly to the right before speaking. "You know, I could tell...." he said, "I could tell within five minutes of talking to you that you were like this."

"And what am I like?"

"Well, you know...straightforward..." He seemed to search for words. "Challenging?"

"Feisty?" I offered.

"Yes!" He grinned. "And I like it."

* * * * * * * * * * * *
Fast forward 45-minutes and we're seated at a table against the side wall. The restaurant is warm and dimly lit. Romantic, I'll admit. It's busy but not too crowded and little does he know that I am just as familiar with the menu as he. It's tapas again; I'm on a tapas streak!

He hands me the menu and tells me to go for it but that's not necessarily what I am comfortable with. I spout out about 10 tapas that sound good to me. He names another and I veto. He then ditches a couple of my choices but not before commenting, "You know, there's a lot of overlap in our tastes."

"Yes."

"A good thing, no?"

"Sure." And then I dive into our cheese tray.

He wants more wine. I suggest it's his turn to choose.

* * * * * * * * * * * *
"Do you have a sweet tooth?"

"Yes!" Both the server and I answer at the same time. I glance up at her.

"Well," she says to my date, "She's a woman, of course she has a sweet tooth. She loves chocolate."

I can only nod.

He orders a chocolate hazelnut (hmmm) torte. It comes with a side of warm chocolate.

"Mind?" I hold it up and grin.

"Go for it. Go crazy."

I pour it over the torte and it oozes down into the crunchy grooves. We both go for a bite and our spoons hit in the middle.

* * * * * * * * * * * *
"This was fun!"

"Yes, thank you so much!"

The night in Venice has turned brisk and I wrap my arms around myself. I didn't bring a jacket; my soul is craving sundress weather (if I could wear a sundress every day of my life, I would!). He valeted and I parked my car around the corner.

"Let's do it again sometime," he raises his eyebrows.

"Yes!" I say.

But I spoke too soon. My intuition, that stubborn inner compass of mine, it was giving me a nudge.

I knew I didn't want to see him again.

Sunday photos

I believe that I can say that today was a perfect day. I left my friend's apartment at 7 a.m., performing the walk of shame that often occurs after a late night out in Hollywood; strutting back to my car in the soft morning light wearing last night's shirt and make up, heels in hand. Just a few hours later I was listening to music and cleaning when my friend knocked on my door to pick me up to go practice golf in Manhattan Beach. I hit 'em good! Then we split a perfect Denver omlette at a restaurant that is literally overlooking the ocean, and proceeded to have numerous afternoon cocktails near the sea. When we tired of that, we walked into the water and then fell asleep in the sand.

After my friend dropped me off, I literally got into another friend's SUV and jetted off to LACMA to check out the photography display. We then indulged in a candle lit dinner in a private curtain-enclosed booth at Luna Park.

A friendship, revisted

Text to G: I'm doing drinks with work people to celebrate a new account. May have to push our dinner to 8:30 instead of 8.

G: Congrats on the account! Okay, see you at 9!

G: J/k!

* * * * * * * * * * * *
"Where is it? Do you remember which way to go?" I'm scanning the sidewalk cafes and restaurants for the tapas place.

"I know it. Keep going this way. No, swing a left."

"I don't trust your sense of direction."

"Neither do I."

We arrive at the tapas place and instead of $10 valet, a parking spot is sitting out front for us, as though it had been reserved. I look at the clock. 8:01.

"We're on time?" I say. "And have amazing parking. This isn't like us. What the hell is going on?!"

He laughs.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *
"What's wrong with you?" I ask. His eyes are clear and tired. He is trying to smile and not yawn.

We are sitting at a little two-top table trying not to laugh at our situation: we are surrounded by gay couples and gay groups and also appear to be the youngest couple in the restaurant.

He picks at the bread and takes another sip of his red wine.

"Well, I don't want to make this dinner a downer, but..." And he launches into eight weeks of missed events and details, cleaning out the dusty cruxes of his life and laying them out on the table for me to observe and analyze.

And there he is. One of my LA best friends telling me he's having a hard time. And I'm worried about him.

* * * * * * * * * * * *
"So do you like this guy?" G asks.

I shrug. "Yes."

"I don't care about what he wants. What I'm concerned about is what you want."

* * * * * * * * * * * *
"So are you two serious?" I ask G. He's been dating a chick for about six months. I haven't met her yet.

"No. I don't want to get serious, I mean, I could be moving to Europe or Australia. I don't want serious for like 5 to 10 years."

I sip my wine and chew on this a bit. We are now in Jones Cafe and Kings of Leon and Rolling Stones blare from the speakers. We're on a sofa snuggled between hipsters and rockers and industry types.

"What if..." I pause. "What if I had said I wanted something, this past summer. What if I had told you I wanted us to see if we could make it work?"

He is quiet for a minute. "I don't know, Jo."

"That's fair."

* * * * * * * * * * * *
"Let's get everyone we know in Los Angeles together and get sloppy," he says.

"Deal. A pub crawl through Hollywood!"

"Done."

And we're back. On an inseparable track where our grooves intertwine and we are the closest sort of friends: we can talk about anything and reveal all and still like each other the next day.

It's 5 o'clock somewhere

Whoever is happy will make others happy, too.
~Mark Twain

I can think of nothing less pleasurable than a life devoted to pleasure.
~John D. Rockefeller

Passe moi la champagne! ‘Tis Friday! I’m having such a good day I’m about to burst. Work has been a major crap shoot this week (classy term, I know) but it’s ending on a high note. We just got a new account—predicted to be our largest—and it’s all MINE and the deal is done! So we’re having a toast after work at the Italian joint next door to celebrate.

Beyond my Spanish tapas adventure this evening, I’m getting my hair done by my favorite lesbian hair dresser in Brentwood on Saturday morning. I cheated on her a few months ago. Well, that’s what it felt like when I went to someone new last time around. But now I’m back and ready to vow that I’ll never do such a silly thing again! And then hopefully Saturday afternoon I’m doing a stair workout by the ocean. Outside, by the waves, sweating with one of my closest girlfriends…can’t be it.

But Sunday is what I’m really anxious for. A friend is picking me up quite early and we’re going to hit golf balls in Manhattan Beach and then we’re roaming the beach town and drinking margaritas for the large part of the day. How divine! How lazy! And then Sunday night I’m due for another LACMA rendezvous and dinner on Museum Row.

It’s not often you get such a perfect weekend. It’s supposed to be mid-70s to 80 degrees. I hope my high expectations don’t disappoint me.

I doubt they will. It doesn't take much to make me happy.

Fever!

I am a summer baby after all. I have the most stubborn case of spring fever, which is ridiculous, I know (I live in Los Angeles, three miles from beach and here it is beautiful all year). But perhaps it’s my crazy work schedule this week or the fact that I am getting sick of these boots of mine. But I want…

I want

Toes in the sand, salt on skin

Warm strolls through the farmers market, where I might brush past sweaty runners and spandex-clad bikers

Where I might buy a bunch of wild flowers and lilies

Where they might sit on my kitchen table next to grapefruit and lemons

I want

Glowing skin, graced by the western sun

To hit golf balls with an ocean view

To see the sails in the distance, small triangles in the horizon

I want

A colorful collection of flip flops and pretty painted toes

Simple sundresses, feminine and loose and comfortable like skin

Deep slumbers and long naps with the windows wide open

I want

Margaritas to the sound of the waves

Tacos (enough said!)

Drives with the windows open up the PCH to Malibu

Wine tasting ventures into the sultry hills north of Los Angeles

I'm a tired bear

It’s 4-something here in the afternoon and I am a bit worn down and tired. Filled with carrots and German chocolate cake (don’t ask), my body is telling me it’s nap time rather than work time. While debating whether to have yet another cup of my favorite hazelnut coffee, I will write. Some Jo Mamma Updates:

Someone hit my car on New Year’s Eve and so I am driving around in an Acura with its left front bumper half ripped off. I feel as though people are judging me. “There’s the girl who must be a real shithead driver.” In parking lots, people avoid me if they can (quite a difficult thing to do in Los Angeles) and I avoid eye contact at stop lights. I know what they’re looking at! Anyhoo, I am quite anxious to get it fixed and very grateful that I ended 2008 that way, rather than starting a new year with the wrong kind of bang!

My favorite dinner date and I are hitting up a Spanish tapas joint in WeHo on Friday night. I’m not sure what is going on with me, but it’s tapas, tapas, tapas. I can’t get enough of small plates, small bites and tapas. When I was in DC this past spring, I went to a good Spanish tapas restaurant in Georgetown so I am anxious for more. While Los Angeles lacks many of what I would consider to be traditional wine bars (cozy, more wine than meals, more seats than tables), they are abundant in the tapas space. In my mind, tapas offer the perfect drawn out dinner with an old friend, an ideal date environment or the perfect late night snack.

Moving on…my travel schedule is a bit hectic for 2009. I calendared it out last night and it felt strange for me to look at a calendar—an entire year!—and to say to myself, “Gee, things are getting tight. There’s just not enough time.” Time, time, time. Coming up on my travel docket for 2009, here goes (and bear in mind I’m excluding the 8 + Arizona trips): upstate New York, Maryland, Miami, Vegas (two-three times, yikes!), hopefully Nebraska, ski trip (I can handle just northern CA if I can’t fly anywhere) and a few drop-ins to San Diego. For work I’ll be off to Minnesota, NYC, Chicago, DC and Philadelphia. Possibly San Francisco. Most of these trips are for work or for other people, but what do I want? Wine tasting! Skiing! I wanted to swing a quick trip to Europe.

I can’t and won’t do it all, that is for sure. *shrug* Boo.

Back to the grind.

Ruminations after a 15-hour work day

I work all day for...what? To throw my expensive Tiffany's pen into a cheap Staples cup holder and enfold myself within a red peacoat; sit back in my ergonomic chair and close my eyes and breathe. To keep a job rather than be inspired by a career.

Today was not a bad day. It was a fantastic day. But that's just how it is. Sometime in 2009 it will be time for me to make a career shift. And I will. I will.

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This past weekend I made cream of tomato soup sans the cream. I made it for a sick friend. We nibbled gouda grilled cheese and drank pinot noir, whilst planning our trip to the Huntington Library in Pasadena.

It was breathtaking.

I watched a girl of about three run through the wild grounds after her father. He made his arms long and wide like an airplane. A girl was sprawled out in the grass near the lily ponds, enjoying sushi. The waterfall amid the Chinese bamboo flowed endlessly.

"This is a place to be grateful," my friend said.

But I thought, "To find peace." And then I said so.

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It's a cold night in Brentwood and the breeze makes my nose red and runny. I am happy when we find a seat inside the restaurant rather than on the patio.

"Oh, I know what I meant to tell you. I was in the grocery store in Palm Springs and..." his voice trailed off.

"And?" I took a bite of salad.

"And this old lady walked by. And she smelled like you. I thought about texting you but then I thought twice."

I inhaled my field greens. "Good. No girl my age wants to be told she smells like an old lady. Don't say it again."

And later--

"You have boney knees. And ankles."

I mulled. "Well. I suppose that's a compliment. I mean...I'm anything but boney--"

"Oh my GAWD! They're so boney!"

"Thanks...I guess?"

And today--

Text: I had fun last night.

Text Back: Boney, so did I. I thought about it a bunch.

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Starting the 14th I am going on a raw food fast. Just for a week, give or take. More to come.

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Clean sheets are a simple creature's luxury and tonight I am a simple creature. I will lie down and smell my pillow at least five times before quieting my wondering brain. Hmmm. Lavendar.