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.