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.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Monday, July 27, 2009
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.
“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.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
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.
They always forgive you.
Eric Hutchinson tonight at the El Rey. Probably the most enthusiastic, happy singer-songwriter I've ever seen perform.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
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?
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?
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Thursday, July 16, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
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?”
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.
Monday, July 6, 2009
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’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.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
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.
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.
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