Call me Jo

First day of school

2009-10-20T10:56:00.001-07:00

“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

2009-10-13T10:55:00.000-07:00

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?

2009-10-02T14:26:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-26T12:35:00.000-07:00

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

- Haviz

Friday bit

2009-08-21T16:31:00.000-07:00

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

- Roy M. Goodman

Jo vs. Chocolate

2009-08-20T23:16:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-18T15:40:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-15T23:45:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-02T14:13:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-07-30T23:27:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-07-27T15:00:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-23T23:24:00.000-07:00

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!?!

2009-07-22T15:26:00.001-07:00

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

2009-07-21T11:11:00.000-07:00

Sometimes creativity is a compulsion, not an ambition.

Ed Norton

Los Angeles Nights: Hollywood Bowl

2009-07-16T10:55:00.001-07:00

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

2009-07-07T23:37:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-06T15:32:00.000-07:00

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...

2009-07-01T14:11:00.001-07:00

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

2009-06-28T22:50:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-23T13:45:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-18T07:15:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-17T23:07:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-16T07:52:00.000-07:00

When we stop struggling
we float.

It's all blurring together

2009-06-14T21:55:00.000-07:00

"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.

2009-06-14T19:12:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-10T07:50:00.001-07:00

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

2009-06-10T07:37:00.000-07:00

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?

2009-06-09T07:57:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-31T14:39:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-29T12:43:00.001-07:00

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

2009-05-26T18:22:00.000-07:00

“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

2009-05-18T11:25:00.001-07:00

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!

2009-05-12T17:29:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-05T11:15:00.000-07:00

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!

2009-04-28T23:34:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-23T21:30:00.001-07:00

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

2009-04-20T15:19:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-15T16:36:00.000-07:00

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?

2009-04-07T11:25:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-01T13:32:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-17T11:05:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-11T17:20:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-10T22:56:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-03-06T12:01:00.000-08:00

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!

2009-02-18T14:52:00.000-08:00

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?

2009-02-17T08:29:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-09T07:00:00.000-08:00

“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

2009-02-08T14:27:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-02-06T09:43:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-04T17:35:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-02T17:18:00.000-08:00

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..."

Thursday afternoon musings

2009-01-29T17:17:00.001-08:00

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

2009-01-27T15:46:00.000-08:00

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!

2009-01-27T09:55:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-01-25T17:09:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-01-23T09:42:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-21T07:00:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-20T08:33:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-19T10:31:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-18T13:07:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-15T23:27:00.000-08:00

“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

2009-01-15T17:35:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-14T11:16:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-13T00:31:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-11T21:49:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-10T12:41:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-09T15:41:00.000-08:00

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!

2009-01-08T14:32:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-07T17:11:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-05T23:36:00.001-08:00

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.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

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.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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.

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

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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.

A peek inside Jo's head

2008-12-27T19:43:00.000-08:00

I can't help but become reflective this time of year. There is so much build up to the holidays and then in a mere few days Christmas simply passes. And now it is 35 degrees outside in Arizona and a cold wind blows across the moonlit desert and I am inside, new slippers on, trying to stay warm; thinking ahead to 2009.

If 2009 is anything like 2008, I have faith good things will happen. Although, I am a bit weary: 2009 has quite the challenge to beat this past year.

I am reflective on friendships. You can't stay in touch with everyone and in the year and a half I have been in Los Angeles I have discovered that it holds true for everyone, even myself, whom I've always prided "stays in touch with everyone." I came home for a week and a half this year, thinking what vast amounts of time that provided me, and no, in a few days I am gone. I didn't get to read all the books I wanted to read (see last post). I didn't see everyone I wanted to see. I had visions of creating another painting or charcoal drawing...nah. Running every day. Yeah, right. But I did see my best girlfriends, and I suppose that counts for something.

I thought about it, last night, as these girlfriends and I sat squished around a booth at one of the divest of dive bars in Scottsdale, a biker bar type of joint where thongs and the occasional bra hung from the ceiling. Anyway, that's where we ended up and I thought about how--although it's incredibly rare that the four of us are ever in the same room any longer--that I have had such unique experiences with these girls since moving. I have gotten to know my Chicago friend and her fiance in whole new ways, as I've come to see them a few different times and we've had the most grossly inappropriate late night conversations. Let's just put it this way...we share everything! (And I wouldn't have it any other way). My friend Lisa and I trekked to Croatia and she's come to Los Angeles three times now. We have so many memories and her loyalty shines through. Tiffany, who I thought was lost, has suddenly re-emerged from the ashes. She'll be road-tripping it back with me to Los Angeles in a few days and I'm reminded again, all over, why she was one of my first friends in Arizona.

My point is this: We are four different people and now our life experiences have taken us in separate directions. But together those experiences and our lives create a beautiful quilt, overlapping patterns and interwoven memories. These, I know, will be lifelong friendships. I am sure.

But what else am I reflecting on? What about 2009? I want this coming year to not be marked as a year of triumph or survival; not as a year of dramatic independence or bouts of faith set forth in a new city. No, this year won't be another 2008...

I want to cook more often and to cook more for others. Many of my greatest Los Angeles memories have been made in my tiny galley kitchen in Brentwood with new and old friends.

I want to make my health a greater priority. I want to join a new pilates studio so that I may go more often. I want to hike more in the green, lush, wild wonders which lie near the ocean. Drink more green tea and watch passersby and be content with just that.

I want to hammer out my LA List. There is still so much to do and time is always uncertain.

I want to keep my heart open but not allow time to waste away on the wrong person.

I want to surround myself and indulge myself in the simple pleasures in life. Plants and clean sheets and a nice glass of wine. Long walks in the afternoon. The New York Times at Peet's Coffee up the street. A luxurious afternoon of smut tivo. Sugar scrubs, museum strolls, the ocean's lullaby.

I want to travel, travel, travel.

I want to go to Omaha to see my relatives. I hardly know them. If I don't go in 2009, I'll never go.

I want to just try to be a good person.

And so, in two days, I'll embark on the six hour drive (well, sometimes 12) to Los Angeles with one of my crazy best friends. As soon as we arrive, I'll show her to the wine and then start to clean the apartment (I wasn't able to do so before I left since I was so sick). We'll go and get cheap manicures. I'll ring up the Brentwood crew. We'll eat some tasty Italian food. We'll....

Who would have thought, two years ago, that I would be ringing in 2009 in Los Angeles? Love it!

'Tis the season

2008-12-22T19:03:00.000-08:00

Just a few days ago I was having trouble walking. It hurt to turn my head. The pain made my eyes sting with tears; my entire body hurt. I haven't been in that much pain in about 10 years. The doctor said it was just a virus and there wasn't anything they could do to help me. I wouldn't have made it home to Arizona if my friend Eric had not driven me the entire 12 hours. Are all Erics good guys? Possibly so. And it's not always 12 hours. Only when a big rig decides to fall across an interstate highway, blocking Los Angeles traffic to a mere one lane glacier crawl.

Anyway, Christmas in Arizona is just the opposite of bitter cold, but this time of year still makes me want to curl up and stay inside. My mother has been baking Croatian goodies, sugar cookies, peanut brittle, cakes, chocolate chip cookies...God knows what else. My best friends are here. My brother is home. The dog is in a great mood. Life is good.

This is my time to read by the Christmas tree or with a glass of wine. With that in mind, here's my latest book list, besides The Last Temptation of Christ, which I am still working on.

7 Habits of Highly Effective People, Stephen R. Covey. I have my Dad's version from the early 90s or late 80s, which offers an element of wisdom transcending the generations? Or maybe just the smell of an old book? Not sure. But whatever, the 7 habits haven't changed much in the last couple of decades so the message is still there.

Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway. I like the way Ernie writes. He's got a lot to say.

White Album, Joan Didion. I've read a lot of articles by Joan so I have no doubt I'll enjoy this collection of essays.

Start Your Own Business, Riva Lesonsky. It's just what it says.

Myths of the Ancient Greeks, Richard P. Martin. A topic I've been wanting to study.

Hope and I

2008-12-09T23:18:00.000-08:00

The Hope Hygieia. Photo courtesy The Getty, Los Angeles.

My two closest work friends and I were underneath the stars, rubbernecking the buildings and city lights that surrounded us, nibbling on manchego and dainty butter cookies. I thought to myself how urban Museum Row and Miracle Mile feels at night. Los Angeles, such a fickle city, managed to surprise me once again.

We were nestled in a courtyard at LACMA at a private reception and tour of the Hearst collection and Vanity Fair exhibit. I have decided, now, that I much prefer the museums at night. Tonight, LACMA was tranquil and warm. There was something inviting about the red glow of the lights inside the onsite cafe that led us in to have some wine pre-viewing. And our tour guide was knowledgeable, personal; a wonderful story teller. Can't these receptions be every month?

All of the art was fascinating, but one piece in particular I was drawn to. The Hope Hygieia, Goddess of Health. Our guide discussed details of Roman sculpture but one comment about The Hope made me smile. Our guide said, "See how she's standing, how she looks away. It's not that she is is avoiding your eyes. She just has other things to think about."

Isn't there something lovely about that?

Me

2008-12-08T22:40:00.001-08:00

Croatia - on the Island of Hvar.

I am outspoken and opinionated and brash but let me be shy. I will be shy if I like you.

I was told once that I duck my head just so, when I laugh, and my shoulders tighten with joy. Why dip my head to hide such a smile?

I am used to knowing the answers and being the overly confident one. Let me be unsure; let me be the Explorer. It is not that I am afraid; it’s that I adore the process of discovering the unknown.

My life is padded with friends. They catch me and enfold me; like palm fronds and grape leaves they shield me from the winds of life. They are my Light.

Don’t assume that I know. Let me be told I am beautiful because I am not always quite sure.

I care what people think but think that I don’t care. I work hard but am not always sure what I am working towards.

At night I count sheep to sleep. I count backwards sweetly, starting with 100, and then I might drift off to DreamLand sometime around 74.

Do I smile too much? Do I laugh too loud? Let me be clumsy and silly. Beneath the giggles is a brain that is addicted to the news; my mice wheel of thoughts that are never-ending and ever-dreaming.

I drink music in like caramel. I am the honey-glazed notes of a piano.

I’ve long debated whether I am a night person or a morning flower and I know now that I am one of Morning. I feel peace in the first light of day.

This is Me. I am sure.

The little things

2008-12-07T23:01:00.000-08:00

Today

I have spread wet linen
On lavendar bushes,
I have swept rose petals
From a garden walk.
I have labeled jars of raspberry jam,
I have baked a sunshine cake;
I have embroidered a yellow duck
On a small blue frock,
I have polished andirons,
Dusted the highway,
Cut sweet peas for a black bowl,
Would the tall clock,
Pleated a lace ruffle. . .
Today
I have lived a poem.

~Ethel Romig Fuller

Sometimes I find that it's the little things that are most satisfying. I seem to have tossed my to-do list aside this weekend. I didn't run the errands I wanted to; I didn't go into the office. I laughed until my throat ran dry at my work Christmas party on Friday night. I spent a lazy Saturday morning watching television with my roommate. I hiked alone through the lush green California hills. I had drinks with Infatuation and friends. Made tomato-cream soup, sprinkled with fresh basil. I slept in 'til nearly noon on Sunday. Had an afternoon glass of wine near the ocean with friends. Started to read a new book. Folded towels; held them to my face to breathe in the lavendar.

And that's all I needed.

Serenity

2008-12-06T20:04:00.000-08:00

Do you ever feel as though you just want a few hours alone, to clear your head, to loosen the knots that conquer your neck, your stomach?

As much of a social butterfly that I may be, today I escaped for a few hours to hike Temescal Canyon solo. I moved fast, wheezing and breathing hard up through the canyon trail. Sweat ran down my neck and dampened the back of my shirt. My body felt good to be in motion. I passed by other hikers, foreigners, couples, a man rehearsing his acting lines to himself. It was a sunshiney day, yet not bright.

When I reached the top of the ridge, it was as though a gift waited. Through the clouds that hovered over the Pacific, the sun shined down through one solitary hole in the atmosphere. The effect it had on the ocean was stunning. While most of the water was a green-gray, where the sun shone it sparkled like diamonds.

Although it's December, here in Los Angeles it's 70 degrees and gorgeous. The leaves are changing and falling but for the most part, the hiking trail is a brilliant green. One tree in particular was a cranberry-red. This photo reminds me of it (courtesy of Martin LaBar, Flickr).

Paradise.

An early morning run-in with my (ex) friend

2008-12-03T16:21:00.000-08:00

I’m standing in the security line at Sky Harbor Airport with my bright red carry-on bag, clutching my purse in one hand and my ID and boarding pass in the other. Every minute or so, the line crawls forward, slow and steady, filled with gluttonous post-Thanksgiving travelers on their way back home. Every few feet or so, I glance back to the middle of the line. My eyes quickly scan the faces there. Nothing. I then glance further down, to the tail, eyeing the men in line; their posture, hair style. What they’re wearing.

Nope, still nothing. I do not see my ex boyfriend.

Yet I continue to look, because my sixth sense is sending off sirens. He’s here! it says. But where?

I reach the security podium as though it were a finish line. As I am handing over my ID and boarding pass, I glance to my right. And there he is, just about five feet away from me, holding out his boarding pass as well. The timing was impeccable, as though it were rehearsed.

Our stares are a mixture of shock, familiarity, knowing. His face reads, “Oh shit, I don’t believe it.” We laugh.

“I knew it!” I said, “I just KNEW it! I was looking for you.”

“I was looking for you, too. I knew it,” he said, “I got here today and something told me: Something is amuck.”

Still at the podium, a sinking feeling hits me. “Are you,” I ask, “on the 8:30 flight to LAX?”

“Yes.”

Shit.

My flustered reaction is delayed. Suddenly I am aware I’m not wearing a lot of make-up. That I’ve gained 10 pounds. I fix my shirt, smooth my hair. I wonder what he sees.

We take different security screening lines. For me, it’s not to avoid him. The line I choose is shorter and I finish first. I stand awkwardly at the end of his line and when he emerges, I blurt out, “You don’t have to sit with me on the plane, you know.”

“No, Jo, I think it’s time we catch up.” I ignore my urge to ask why he doesn’t email or call if it’s time, why wait for a serendipitous airport run-in? But I keep these thoughts to myself.

He says something about needing to use the restroom and I proceed to our gate by myself. I don’t know whether to sit or stand, so I stand. A good five minutes passes and when he finds me he asks about work. I am a few details in with my update when I tell him, “It’s hard to look at you. I’m not sure if I can.”

“Nope, let’s do this. Right here,” he says, pointing to his eyes. I start again.

And that was all. The nervousness, the awkwardness, it all washed away. It was just liked it had always been. We sit down together on the plane and trade stories about our last year, of family and traveling; of work and friends. It is surreal and familiar all at once to receive an annual update from someone that I used to talk to several times a day.

We laugh about memories. I tell him I remember the one time he ate so much ice cream at Disneyland, it was as though he was drunk. He teases me that I’ve “ruined” certain words for him, words I used often that every time he hears, he thinks of me. We banter back and forth about inside jokes, long ago locked away in velvet corners of our minds. We both are thinking of traveling to Peru next year, ironically.

I observe his face and the way he talks, and I remember. I look into his caramel-hazelnut eyes and I remember a time when that felt like a warm blanket. Now it’s looking into the face of an old friend. I see his two- or three-day unshaven face, how I used to tease him about it! I even inspect his shoes. Yes, I think he wore those when we were dating. I am a sponge, observing. Taking it all in.

But not once did I actually feel. Not once did I feel sad. Not once did I have regret. Not once did I think a wrong decision had been made.

And so, as our plane descends to Los Angeles, with scarcely five minutes left, I casually bring up what I once never thought I would say.

“So…are you…dating?” I say. Casual. Easy. “Anyone?”

He looks out the window. A long pause.

“Jo, let’s not go there.” He stares out the window. It’s a sunny day in Los Angeles. “Let’s not go there.”

“Okay.”

In LAX, things bounce back. We reach the baggage claim area, where he has to scour for his bag and I have to hop into a cab.

“Well, this was actually fun!” I can’t read his face anymore, can’t tell if he’s putting on his charm or being genuine. I choose to vote genuine.

“Yeah, me, too. I’m glad you’re doing well.” I smile. “That you’re happy.”

He gives me not one but two hugs, tight and long.

“Let’s not wait so long next time to catch up,” he says.

And then I’m off, washed away into the stream of people, swept out the door, into the city.

Later that day, I send him an email. I don’t care if he responds. I know we won’t be friends, but I send him a note anyway.

I don’t know if I ever explicitly said this, but thank you for a fantastic three years and for playing such a large part in my move to Los Angeles. I’m very grateful.

And I am.

And there were 10...

2008-11-29T08:48:00.000-08:00

I did drinks last night with my old friends from college, at one of our old favorite drinking holes in Tempe. Of course, the group has shrunk now; there was a time when there were about 30 of us. When you could make just a few phone calls and then boatloads would show up, and we were all friends, and didn't have to ask how each other were doing because we already knew. We knew everything -- who was dating who, who was moving, who was sad at life, and so on.

And so this Thanksgiving, I let off the siren, sent an email out to the old crew, a request for their presence this Thanksgiving weekend, four years after we all graduated. I wanted to see their faces and hear their stories and see how they are. I have to ask now.

The group of 30 is no more. It was more like a group of 10 of us. We huddled close to the table and told anecdotes that began with "Remember when...?" and I marveled at the madness of it all, the passing of time, the enduring nature of change.

My friend Erik, who now lives in San Jose, grinned. I asked him if he was having a good time.

"I am!" he said. "It almost makes me want to move back here. Almost. But then I remember that all these people don't live here anymore."

And it's true. He's gone, up to the North bay, along with Arpit. Tracy's in the city. I am in Los Angeles. My brother in San Diego. Ben and Stacy have a kid now and their priorities have changed. Travis and Katie are in Virginia. Rachel and Justin are moving to Denver for the hell of it. Maren's in Chicago. Patrick and Bridget are itching to move and the right opportunity just hasn't come along yet.

Who else? Jason #2 is in Los Angeles. Derek went off a few years ago for something school related and I fail to recall his whereabouts now. The neighbor boys from college have moved back to Jersey. Brandon's in London. Other friends have ran off to New York.

These friends became restless and the world has sucked them into its wild path. They have gone off to wander and to explore and to live. We are now scattered across the planet like stars in the sky. I wonder at it all.

Despite any sadness that might accompany this wondering, I now have ski friends in Colorado. Access to London flats. Friends to ring for shenanigans in San Francisco. Blustery Chicago friends. People to celebrate the New York night.

But, yes. Erik was right. All these people don't live here anymore.

My inner compass has returned.

2008-11-25T23:12:00.001-08:00

Have you ever felt like you had a soundtrack to your life? That you were in a movie and some mysterious, far-off director was orchestrating your story from a magical control station behind the clouds? Only you don't feel out of control. You're not resisting and pushing it away; instead, things are just falling as they should. Like the beauty and grace of a seamless domino effect, a winning hand of cards; the clarity which unravels from allowing intuition be your guide.

My date on Monday night asked me why I'm so restless. Not an easy question to answer. I tried to explain that I'm a naturally curious person. I've always been one to look for the next best thing. I'm the person who gets a great job and updates her resume a few weeks into it, just to keep my eyes open. I constantly plan for the future while rolling the past around in my mind as though it were a stress ball in hand. I don't want to wake up one day and wonder why I didn't do this and that. I don't want to settle down in one place and wonder what else there was out there to explore. I'd rather end up alone and alive and independent than with the wrong person. If I don't get what I want, I refuse to be patient. Isn't life too short to spend it waiting?

I have a way of doing things. Things just have to be done my way, in my time. I know this.

I told my date how I wanted to move to Chicago, at one point, this past spring. How I woke up one day and it felt right and within 48 hours I was on the phone with recruiters. Sending my resume to contacts in the city. Even telling my family I was going to move. Was it really what I wanted or was it a bit of a "fuck you" to my ex boyfriend? In hindsight, I think a part of me was just resisting what was naturally occurring, just because it wasn't what I ever thought I wanted. And sometimes it's hard to admit that you aren't who you thought you were. I never imagined I'd be so happy in Los Angeles. I never considered myself a California Girl. I didn't think I could truly deal with the traffic and the lame-o cupcakes. The overrated celebrity sightings, overpriced restaurants, hipsters and balmy weather that brings ants into the apartment come autumn. I guess that stubborn person within went into Resist Mode and couldn't admit it: She was and is happy.

I wasn't thinking about a lot of things. About the kneading effect the ocean has on my psyche, just knowing it's close. The amazing hole-in-the-wall cafes where servers let you dine for four-plus hours, never complaining or pushing you out the door. The fact that Angelenos go to expensive steak houses in holed-up jeans and flip flops. The gourmet burger joints and endless neighborhoods, spread far into the hills. The fact that I can drive just a few minutes from my apartment and I almost feel as though I'm on the east coast, ducking tree branches and lush foliage as I hike into the clouds. That almost every guy I've dated here can cook--not to impress me but just because he loves it. The farmers markets and the diversity. Gay, straight, Asian, black, Indian, Hispanic, who cares, everyone is just so damn interesting! I want to hear their stories. I want to know what their names mean and what they cook for the holidays and why they are the way they are.

And so tonight I came home after a long day from work. The novacaine had worn off from my dental work earlier in the day and my right side of my face simply ached. I had plans to take a former date out for his birthday, to a California cuisine joint in WeHo. I pinned my hair back and fixed my make up. I sat on the couch and watched tivo to kill time before I had to leave. I put on a pretty pink scarf. When I walked down into the garage, I could smell the oncoming rain through the ink-black night. Pulling onto Wilshire Boulevard sprinkles of water kissed my windshield and I nearly hooted. The traffic lights tonight were seldom. The song on the radio sang of waterfalls and rain and more waterfalls. And there I was, driving through it all, the world outside wet and vibrant. Smiling, thinking...

I'm right where I should be.

Warning: I might bite myself.

2008-11-25T12:33:00.000-08:00

For some reason, I am afraid of dentists. I don’t like people coming at me with sharp tools. I don’t like the sound of the drill. I don’t like drooling and needing to swallow and being totally dependent on someone to stick a tube in my mouth to suck up my spit. I don’t like the splatter on my face when the dentist is working.

I had a cavity filled today and I am proud of myself for sticking it out. Chin up, eyes closed tight, jaw as relaxed as possible.

My face is numb and so is my tongue. That made spitting into the sink post-filling awkward. I tried to spit about five times while one of the assistants stood and watched. I kept thinking, “Why is she WATCHING me? Why doesn’t she just TURN AROUND?”

Finally, I just had to reach for a tissue and wipe my face off. The humility of it all.

Leaving the office, I texted a friend that I felt like I had down syndrome. I can’t talk properly and people smile at me in that condescending too-kind sort of way. Like they think I’m slow. Is this kind of like that experiment that they do on Dateline from time to time where skinny people put on costumes so that they know how fat people feel like? Anyway, I am sure my afternoon meetings are going to be fantastic. People will wonder who hired the me, that my company must just be filling their retard quota for 2008. I am sure I'll be poised and professional, as I randomly grope my face in hopes of catching strands of drool.

And my parents just called to talk Thanksgiving Turkey Strategy with me. I think this says it all:

Dad: Sweetheart, be careful eating lunch.

Me: Okay, Dad.

Dad: You really do have to be careful. You got to be careful about biting yourself.

Me: Yeah, Dad.

Dad: And you have to be careful about choking.

Me: Okay.

Pause.

Laughter.

24

2008-11-21T10:47:00.000-08:00

I have no idea what made me think of doing this but I think it dawned on me last night, when I was thinking back to a certain date or memory, that I couldn’t recall the name of the guy I was with at the time. It bothered me. It dawned on me, then, that there have been many faces, now blurred, throughout my last 13 months of a single woman.

Call me a hussy. Call me a much less raunchy version of Sex in the City (okay, not raunchy at all!). Or just call me Jo (awwww). But there’ve been 24 dudes in my life in the last 13 months. That’s 1.8 guys a month. Not all have been actual dates. Some of been run-ins at the bar, late night seekers of shenanigans. But they’ve all played their part, big and small, in shaping up my last year or so. And I wouldn’t have changed this last year for anything in the world. I needed this year. This was my year. To be me. To be selfish.

So, to the 24 (Note: names may have been changed to protect the obvious and the innocent):

Peter: You tried and you’re intelligent, which I like. But when you made snooty remarks about my Maryland guy friends, you crossed the line. I need them but I don’t need you. Next!

Fish Guy: We were and still are two soldiers sleeping in the mud, my back propped up against yours.

Street: Fantastic on paper but “it” just wasn’t there. I’m glad we’re friends and occasional dinner dates. You’re a good person.

Foodie: Your tomato soup recipe is delicious. Thanks for sending me restaurant recommendations!

Aron: You’re a lot of fun to hang out with and my friend really liked you. But I don’t date cokeheads.

Long Beach: Long Beach is just too far away.

Wedding Guy: Maybe I’ll see you some time again, in Arizona or California. You’re a hoot.

Florida: Thanks for plucking me up off the floor of a bar in Santa Monica when I slipped. You’re quite the southern gent. Sorry I lost you somewhere in the Santa Monica night…

Charlie: You made the most erotic eye contact with me across the room, but when we finally went out you seemed shy and nervous. Do I scare you?

CJ: During our date, I couldn’t tell which one of us yawned more.

Jeff: You’re creepy.

Pilot: I’m happy to see that you’re happy. My curiosity has been satisfied.

Yu Dom Fok: You’re not my type. At all. But you are hilarious and I am looking forward to our dinner on Sunday!

Malibu: I think you might be gay.

Commercial Producer: Ew.

Writer: We’re better off as friends.

Vegas: I haven’t had that much fun singing songs with a random guy in a piano bar in a long time!

Investment Banker: I think you’re far too “LA” for moi. Not sure what it is…the crystals? Meditation? Hippie parents?

Halloween: You proposed to me right then and there in the bar, sliding my plastic spider Halloween ring onto my ring finger. You had no idea how old I was and sincerely thought I was 21. Thanks for that.

George: I am glad you’re back in my life in the way that you should be. I’ve missed you. You asked me once if we’ll know each other forever. Yes, always.

G: You are one of my best friends. If something were to happen, I suspect it already would have happened. I am so happy you are in my life.

Manhattan Beach Lawyer: You’re incredibly disgusting. Hire a maid.

Gym Boy: I like your Midwest roots but you’re socially awkward.

Infatuation: I am having a great time getting to know you. I hope you stick around for a while.

And so it goes

2008-11-20T09:27:00.000-08:00

And so it goes in Brentwood. The sun is shining. It's low-70s and breezy and gorgeous outside. I slept like a baby last night and woke up to the dawn. Too early but feeling great nonetheless.

Work has been crazier than ever, but in this economy I'm happy about that. I slide through my meetings, hazelnut coffee in hand, scribbling notes and nodding and spouting out a "yes" there and a "uh huh" there. And despite the pure nuttiness (is that a word?) things are smooth and there's a sense of synergy. Good, no?

My best friend is coming to visit this weekend. Ditto with mon frere.

I'm looking forward to going home to Arizona for a long Turkey Day weekend.

I finally caved and read that tween hit vampire book, Twilight. I am going to see the movie this weekend. Should I bring garlic into the theatre with me?

I've had quite an obsession as of late with felafel pitas for lunch.

I feel like I don't have that much time to write lately and, really, not that much to say. Everything is going quite all right.

Things are...wonderful.

*Knock on formica.*

It's been a week

2008-11-14T15:20:00.000-08:00

It's been quite the week. I've been too busy to write. I've been roasting a turkey. My roommate and I drank too much wine while we cooked last weekend and we both fell asleep on the living room floor, only to wake up at 5:30 a.m. to stagger off to our rooms. I hiked and climbed a mountain to see the pristine ocean once I reached the top. There I stood amid wild flowers and rock and looked out across the city. I shopped and read. I stayed at work until midnight one night. I took a good friend out for a belated birthday feast at one of my favorite joints in Santa Monica. I had Date #2 with Mr. Infatuation (and I'm still infatuated!). I went on an art walk in downtown Los Angeles last night where G and I ate delicious, greasy pizza and caught up on our last week. We mingled among the hipsters and slipped in and out of galleries where the art was dark and somber. We ended the night at a charming downtown bar, another favorite, sipping wine and listening to jazz, wondering to ourselves, Why don't we come here more often?

And now, here we are. Here I am. It's Friday yet again. Work has been quite chaotic this week. No turkey tonight for moi. Actually, no big plans for the weekend.

I think it's time for some Jo Time.

Infatuated

2008-11-10T09:00:00.000-08:00

I've only had just one date with this person, but I am pretty sure he is perfect.

Perhaps I will regret these words in just a month, but in all my honesty, I am thinking them now.
Tall and dark and handsome. Sarcastic and business savvy. Independent and starting his own business. Not in the entertainment industry. Strong and athletic. Calls me out on my bullshit. Intelligent. Funny, witty. Close to his family. Inquisitive. Not an "LA Pretty Boy" but likes to camp and hike and sweat. He can cook. He's insecure and has told me why. He wants to know about my life and my career and where I am going. He's asked about my family. Successful. Direct. He says what he means. Charming and sweet.

That's what I've gathered in just a week.

This last year I've viewed dating as a chore. I can't remember all of the names, but I remember walking out my door. Lipstick on, hair perfect, mind set. Ready to interview and be interviewed (because let's just call it what it is) and ready to brush the guy off and move on to the next. And that's what I've always done.

But this guy. I have a thousand questions I want to ask him. And can't wait to ask each and every one.

I haven't felt this excited since my ex boyfriend.

And, perhaps, that's all that matters.

Office amusements

2008-11-06T13:55:00.000-08:00

A few things occur within my office and organization that I think are strange.

People will send interoffice mail to another person even if that person sits a mere 20 feet away. It's not a shameful thing. The Equation is big on this, suggesting that I interoffice to a person's office I could easily walk to.

We are "tight on budget" but spend about $500 on Sprinkles Cupcakes for birthday and anniversary celebrations. This occurs every week or two.

Our IT team tried to change the time on our phones for daylight savings, but that task was too difficult. Now our entire voicemail system is broken and shut down. IT sends out updates about three times a day to update us on the progress (or lack of progress). I'd prefer they just leave me a voicemail once it's fixed.

My VP, a black man, heard that I was a super hero for Halloween a few years back. He told me he was, too.

What were you, which super hero?

Black Man!

Are you serious?

Yup! I had a cape and everything.

Oh.

People take the elevator to Floor 2.

We regularly interrupt important meetings to discuss food.

More to come...

Let's get one thing straight here

2008-11-05T15:37:00.000-08:00

I've been trying to avoid saying anything but I can't keep it in.

For all of those dimwits who are saying that last night was the "best night of my life," let's clear this up: you need to get out more often; your sentiments make me gag. To the Cat Lady in my apartment complex this morning who assumes, because I am young and live in California, that I am a Democrat, who told me "Today is a new day!" this morning: Screw You. To my Facebook friend who said she no longer needs to flee the country because Obama won: get a life.

All of my vacations and weekends and wine trips and nights out with friends and family were greater moments in my life than last night. And that goes for no matter what party line I fall upon, for any winning scenario.

And to the Republicans who are mourning and touting that this is a "national tragedy": c'mon, it's not a tragedy. Stop crying, move on. It's not that big of a deal. Have a tissue.

For any person to think that one person has the power, the lever, to change this country day to night and to change the world - that is absurd, at least in this country. What about Congress? What about your city council and propositions and even just your local PTO board?

A hair-owing experience

2008-11-04T10:39:00.000-08:00

When Roomie Deux told me about her hair chick at the Paul Mitchell School in Sherman Oaks, I was skeptical yet intrigued. As a woman who pays $200 to $250 on her hair stylist in Brentwood, the thought of paying closer to $80 was appealing.

“Did she need the instructor to help her a lot?” I asked.

“Nope, not at all,” Roomie Deux said.

“Did she seem confident? She’s not questioning herself all the time, is she?”

“Nope.”

“And you really like her? She doesn’t seem like an idiot?”

“No, Jo, she’s not an idiot.”

“Sold.”
So we made the arrangements. The girl, Liz, was due over to our place last night to cut and color both of our hair. I was up first, the guinea pig.

When Liz arrived, the first thing I noticed about her was how young she was. Baby face and her body hadn’t yet developed hips. I eyed her bag of hair tools suspiciously.

“Need help with that?”
“Uh, no…” she said, glancing from my narrowed eyes to her bag and back again.

She forgot hair foils. I sat there and made conversation with her as she cut foil from what stock I had in my pantry. I laid down a free surfboard-shaped towel I received at the Del Mar race tracks this past summer near the kitchen table and then placed a chair on top. My palms were sweaty. I felt as though I was prepping for my execution. Liz mixed color in my cereal bowls (my cereal bowls!) and I giggled nervously, making some lame comment about how the color looked like paint tubes. Who says that?

“Okay, I’m ready. Sit down.”

Who was this hussy to order me around? Suddenly, I felt the situation was getting hostile.

“I’m going to do color all over.”

“All over, huh? Do you really need to—“

“All over. Color all over,” Liz repeated.

“Yes.” I said. She was holding a brush with bleach on it, like a gun to my head. I couldn’t argue.

She was swift with the hair color. I cringed every time she pulled a chunk of hair and brushed it, prepping it. I imagined giant tiger stripes, purple tresses. Orange chunks. When she finished she told me to sit tight for a while.

“You know, my hair, it takes to color really fast,” I said.

“Just sit there for a while.”

“Okay.”

15 minutes later my roomie came home. I sat there as Liz checked my foils.

“Wow, your hair is getting way blonde!”

“Way blonde? Like white blonde? I don’t want to be white blonde!”

“Just sit there.”

“Okay.”

Pause.

“Roomie Deux? There’s a bottle of open wine on top of the bar.”

“Are you…saying you want me to pour you a glass of wine, Joanna?” Roomie Deux asked.

“Yes. Please pour me a big glass.”

Eventually I was allowed to take the color out of my hair. I couldn’t tell through all of the chemicals and junk and liquid what it looked like but Liz exclaimed over it as though it were fabulous. She applied something-or-another to my hair and told me to sit near here so my hair “doesn’t turn purple.” I poured another glass of wine and tried not to squirm.

Eventually, I was able to take out the something-or-another. Liz cut my hair and compared to the color experience, the hair cut was a breeze. I was three glasses of wine in deep then and couldn’t have cared less if she gave me a military-style buzz cut.

“Are you going to give me layers?”

“We talked about that already. Don’t you remember?”

“Yeah." Pause. "Wait...No. I don't.” Sip.

She blow-dried my hair straight and shiny and smooth. I had no mirror in front of me and I figured the damage was done. No sense in going crazy on Lizzy-Hair-Doo-Doo at this point.

“It looks so pretty!” Liz said.

“Good! Great!” Did I sound nervous? I sounded nervous. Roomie Deux shot me a warning look.

“It looks like peanut butter!” Liz said. Sweet Jesus. I didn’t want my hair to look like a jar of Skippy!

At the end, it doesn’t look bad. It looks okay. It looks good.

But it doesn’t look good enough for me to go through that again. I’ll be calling up my friendly old expensive lesbian hair lady in Brentwood in about a month. She’ll have no idea how happy I will be to see her.

Love wagon

2008-11-02T11:28:00.000-08:00

I woke up this morning at 6:30 to hear the softness of the rain washing down the streets of Los Angeles. And—for whatever reason—I started thinking about the people in my life that I love, and I wondered if that list has some sort of capacity limit. I imagined a Love Wagon of some sort. Is there only room for a certain amount of people? As people fall off the Wagon as the years trickle by—as you lose them to traffic and accidents and tragedies and the stream of life--and others hop on for the ride, does it just even out somehow?

I wondered if there was a weight limit. I can only pull so much. I thought of emails I have to write and people I owe a call to and the minutes and the hours in a day.

I thought of friends I had in college. These people are still in my life, of course, but not in the same aspect. These friends were made for late night phone calls and shenanigans at the bars that lined Mill Avenue. They were built for barbeques and sparkling New Years Eves and quiet study sessions, just the sound of breathing and the occasional page turning of a textbook. If they called me now, if they needed me now, I will be there. But are they there for a lifetime?

Some of them are, yes.

I thought of the friends I have in my life that I without a doubt know are there for a lifetime. The girls who call me Dr. Jo and come to me for advice even when they know I may not have the answers. The ones I snuck out with in high school (out the back door, near the guest room, around the corner to the side gate). I thought of the firsts and the silliness of high school problems. Boys and dates and trying not to eat to be skinny. The looming shadow of college.

I mulled over the friends I have made in Los Angeles. Some of them, the Marylanders, I am tied to by the past. These faces that I rode the bus with in Maryland and now they have reappeared to become my neighbors in this big city. Others are purely random friends and I will be honest and admit: I love some more than others.

I wondered why.

My ex Roomie and her boyfriend, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for those people. They are of the purest sort, hearts of gold and they are lifetime friends. This I know. My friend S, it’s as though I am tied to her with a rope. She is my soulmate friend. She was made for wild nights and concerts and saki and parties.

And, last, I wondered about the guys I have loved (and I have been lucky to have loved a few). The Ex who I loved and knew it wasn’t right. The high school boyfriend that I grew up with. The one I said, “I love you” to in college and when he told me he loved me 7 months later, it was too late. Jo, think we’ll know each other forever? Maybe, maybe, I don’t know.

Maybe my love isn’t a wagon after all. Maybe it’s a giant cake. And the icing lays in crinkles and ripples and soft buttery waves, and perhaps it just all evens out in the end.

Awesomeness

2008-10-31T10:11:00.000-07:00

Why everything is wonderful:
1) We're starting to drink at work at about 3:30. Catered Halloween fete complete with beer and wine and delicious, fattening treats!
2) I'm seeing Ray LaMontagne at the Wiltern this weekend!
3) Roomie and I roast our first turkey (stress on the "first" part) next week! We're dressing up as pilgrims and Indians, too.
4) I brought home a bundle of beautiful lilies from work last night
5) Brunch plans in WeHo this weekend, plus a hike!
6) It rained last night
7) Someone brought in pumpkin flan to my pilates class this morning
8) I don't travel anywhere (via plane) til Thanksgiving (but might hop down to San Diego to see mon frere)
9) Went to dinner last night at one of my favorite restaurants in Santa Monica with my favorite dinner date
10) Did I mentioned it rained last night!?

Apparently, I have the humor of a 60-year old man

2008-10-30T09:56:00.000-07:00

It’s Book Club time (aka “Excusetodrinknumerousbottlesofwine night”) and the girls and I are gathered at my friend’s place in WeHo, snacking on cheese and dips and desserts in our comfy clothes and socks, curled up on couches and sprawled out across the floor. It’s gotten to the point in the night where we shift into Goof Mode and we’re all several glasses of wine in, telling stories and jokes.

“Wait! I have a joke!” I said. Everyone turns to look at me.

“Okay,” my friend says. She sorta rolls her eyes.

“No, really! I have a JOKE!” I say.

“Okay, Joanna, tell the joke,” Roomie Deux says. She might as well say: Get it over with.

“Okay, okay,” I grin, and take a breath. “There are two brooms hanging out in the closet…”

Everyone moans and laughs at the same time.

“What? It’s a great joke!”

“I know it!” Roomie Deux says. “You tell all the same jokes my Dad does. I know this.”

“You’re comparing me to your Dad? Your Dad’s jokes?”

“Well, you and him tell all the same cheesy jokes.”

Fantastic.

As we approach Thanksgiving...

2008-10-28T09:50:00.000-07:00

Sometimes all it takes is a single email to change your perspective for the day. I logged into my work email this morning and within the hour received this:

My uncle had a heart attack last Thursday and died on his flight home from Reno…It is weird how the saying “it happens in three’s” always seems to be true…. My dad’s friend had a heart attack two weeks ago and my mom’s aunt passed away a week and a half ago.

It’s also ironic that last night on the long plane ride from the east coast back to Los Angeles I couldn’t sleep. I have a slight fear of flying so it’s not strange that as I was cruising 22,000 feet above ground that I thought about death. I brooded and ruminated the night away in my half-awake mode as I looked out into the darkness beyond my airplane window, at the lights and city streets far below that looked like electric veins, or a million little Vegas strips dotted across the land.

I thought about how we’re both stronger than we realize and vulnerable and weak, too.

I thought about how we complain about taking the stairs but shouldn’t we be grateful that we have legs that are healthy and work that we can take the stairs with?

I thought about how we love our quesadillas and our pizza and the thousand other dishes that are terrible for our bodies but when it comes down to a single moment, or a heart attack, it’s too late.

I thought about grouchy days and phone calls ended without an “I love you,” or a “Thank you,” or those simple humble words: “I’m sorry.” How silly those moments are.

In the shower this morning I towel dried myself off and thought, “I can do this myself. Isn’t that amazing?” I can move my arms and reach around my back and bend my legs--and I took note that I recognized that perhaps one day I won’t be able to. Hopefully I will be an old, old woman when and if that days comes.

I thought about how we take moments, seconds, for granted. Feeling the wind on our face, the sun on our arms. The sip of a good cup of coffee. The voice of an old friend. The kindness of a stranger.

We’re approaching the season for being thankful. For being grateful for our health and our families and our friends and the hundreds of other things that create a happy and healthy life.

Be thankful. Be kind.

Not just any guy

2008-10-23T20:23:00.000-07:00

I'm in New York. I'm having a great time on my company's dollar, and while I'm enjoying the city (and the wine! and the food!) I'm more excited about tomorrow than anything else. Tomorrow I am seeing someone who is very special to me. I haven't seen him since I was here last year and I'm just thrilled that he can make it into the city to see me.

Nope, he's not anyone I'm dating. He's not a romantic interest in the least. Not an ex-boyfriend or business friend.

He's Josh. One of my closest and dearest friends from college.

Josh and I were best friends instantly. Like any good story, I can remember the night we met. We were both working part time at this call center at ASU our first year there. He was corny and raunchy and completely inappropriate. His hair was dyed pseudo blonde and it didn't suit his tan skin and skinny face. He made passes at me and within weeks I put an end to it. "Cut that shit out! I won't be friends with you if you keep up that crap."

And he did cut it out. And we just became the best of friends. He and I started hanging out all of the time. We'd go to see plays together and I went to watch him perform in several skits. That year, he was the only guy my overly protective boyfriend didn't mind me hanging out with. I brought him home to my parents' house several times for dinner. I helped him move. We'd find each other on campus among the crowds of people and just give each other a hug and then bitch to each other about our day. We would stroll in silence with coffee in hand, complete understanding of the others' mood.

As the years went on in college, some friends dropped in and out of my life but Josh stayed. The night I broke up with my boyfriend of nearly four years, it was Josh who I called first and foremost, before anyone else.

"It's over," I started sobbing into the phone.

"Hey, Jo. You want to come over? Sure, that's cool."

"No, it's over."

"Sure! Come over!"

"No, Josh!" I started laughing through my tears, in pure exasperation. "It's OVER. O-V-E-R. I broke up with him."

And then we both just started laughing so hard on the phone that we couldn't speak. To this day, we still joke about it.

We've spent several Valentine's Days and New Year's Eves together. He's been my surrogate boyfriend so many times I've lost count. I remember one Valentine's Day he came over to my apartment and I dyed his hair in my sink, of all things to do! We dyed it black and he dirtied all of my towels. And then we went out to dinner, just the two of us, and then to see a romantic comedy.

Josh might as well be a girlfriend to me. I would call him moaning about cramps and he'd bring me food. I once went bra shopping with him. He'd spend the night at my parents' house after dinner parties and would even put up with the dog occassionally humping his leg (sorry, Walter!).

After college he moved to Scottsdale, within a mile of me and it was often that I'd find him at our local sports bar. I'd meet him for a beer on a random week night and we'd eat greasy food and catch up on life. Things were just that simple.

He moved to Jersey just a month after I moved to Los Angeles. We don't talk nearly as often. We certainly hardly ever see each other. But we send each other random emails and texts of adoration.

"Josh, I miss you!"

"Jo, I miss you more than Britney Spears misses her hair."

And that's my Josh.

Tomorrow at 1:00 I'll be done with my business meetings. I won't check my email. I won't take phone calls. I'll be hanging with Josh.

Writers, Cessnas and Brooklyn, oh my!

2008-10-21T09:41:00.000-07:00

I have to laugh, just in anticipation of New York. The friends I am seeing in New York are quite an eclectic bunch and I suspect good times will be had. Two of my good girlfriends are there, and the interesting thing about them is that although I went to high school with them, we didn't become close until mid-college. Another friend, from Jersey, is one of my closest and dearest friends from college, a dude. But he knows me so well and we are so close that if I could stuff him in a bridesmaid's dress one day I would.

Anyway, last time I was in New York, it was post-breakup, a year ago. My one girlfriend in the city was busy working three jobs at the time. She had just moved there a few months prior, having moved there to become a writer, brave girl. The other one was so entrenched in the advertising world at the time that she was busy that weekend with photo shoots and commercial filming. That left me to hang out with my friend's older boyfriend. We had quiet breakfasts together in Brooklyn before I would grab my coat and go off alone. I got a manicure from a Philippine woman. I exchanged business cards with the owner of a wine bar in the West Village (I hope to see him again, this trip!). I went to MoMA by myself in the rain on a Friday night. It was fabulous.

This trip will be different. The guy is coming in from Jersey on Saturday to see me. The writer girl...well, she's writing! And for none other than the New York Times, damn it! And the advertising chick is now a Publishing Chick and she's got much regular business hours. Her boyfriend is now a licensed pilot and she wrote me this morning to see if I wanted to fly this weekend.

He wants to know if you have any interest in going flying...we would have to go to Morristown, New Jersey. It takes about half a day to do. It would be in a small Cessna. Feel free to say no. He is so excited about flying in general he wants to take everyone...it is cute!

I started laughing when I read this, because I envisioned myself in a teeny Cessna flying to God-knows-where on the east coast. Of all things to do during a trip to New York! And for many, that might be unusual or seem strange, but for myself and these friends, not really.

Anyway, I don't really have plans when I am there. But I'm excited to go. And to see these friends, this eclectic, funny bunch that I love so much.

Monday Schmonday

2008-10-20T15:11:00.000-07:00

So I’m back in Los Angeles. I was away in Phoenix for a long weekend. It was supposed to be a normal weekend but I kept adding on the days and then it just turned into one long weekend. I needed it.

I got up at 4:30 this morning to catch my flight so I’m just barely hanging in there right now. I’m buzzed from the hazelnut coffee.

It’s hard to come back to Daily Crap Grind after a nice long weekend away. It’s difficult to drive through the morning LA fog to the office where politics await and management is all jittery and anxious over profits being down. I feel like I’m in that movie Groundhog Day. I ate at the same restaurant down the street for lunch as I did last week. I ate with the same people. I ordered the same thing. I’m even having repeat conversations with The Equation.

It’s hard to focus, I won’t lie.

So I’m not.

Instead, I’m going back and forth with my friend over a business venture. (Details to come!) I booked a trip to Austin. Ever been? I haven’t. It’s been on The List for a while so it’s about time. I hear there’s good music there, good food. Heck, they even have ghost tours! Yeeee Haw!

In two days I sneak away to New York for a bit. I’ll see friends there, yes, but not until Friday. Wednesday night I’m looking forward to exploring the city solo. Perhaps a little shopping. Maybe some wine. A good book and a long walk. Thursday and Friday I’m in meetings for the most of the day but Equation and I are going to see Phantom of the Opera so that’ll be good.

Not hard to sit in the dark, eh? Excel sheets, they can’t find me there.

A letter

2008-10-16T08:27:00.000-07:00

I wasn't sure if I wanted to write this. I didn't want to give the event weight; I didn't want it to be a significant part of me, define who I am. But I figure--it's only what I make of it. It is what it is. And it's over.

Dear Ex Boyfriend,

A year ago today I woke up in the morning feeling as though I'd been punched in the stomach. My body was having a physical reaction to the fact that we had just broken up the night before. I lost my appetite and couldn't sleep.

At the time I was preparing to go to New York for business and I was overwhelmed. Since I couldn't focus during the day, the week prior to my trip I was up 'til three in the morning each night. I felt as though I was in over my head, didn't know what I was doing--at work or in Los Angeles.

That lasted a week. It was one crappy week. That's all.

This past year is incredible to me in so many ways, and I do believe that I will hold this year sacred, forever. For many years, I had talked about all of the things I wanted to do with my life, all of the places I wanted to live and go to, where I wanted to travel and what I wanted my career to be. But I was scared, and largely because of you, I ended up in Los Angeles, finally took that leap. Thank you.

In the time since we broke up, I've been twice to Chicago and DC. I've been to Vegas, several times to San Diego, to Dallas, Philadelphia, San Francisco and, of course, back home to Phoenix often. I finally went to Croatia and crossed that one off my life list. I went wine tasting, my first time doing so without you. And now I'm preparing to go to NYC once again, just like I was doing this time last year. Only this time, I'm prepared. I know what I am doing and I am ready and confident and relaxed.

And it dawned on me, when I was driving home the other day, that Los Angeles is no longer strange to me. I know my way around. Even more, I'm a part of the community. I'm not simply a stranger in a big city. I remember driving home one night in Arizona, months and months before I moved to Los Angeles, and telling you that I was scared I was never going to find a loyal and loving group of friends in LA like the group I had in college. But I did. And now the weekend rolls around and my calendar is always full. And when I go out to the grocery store, or to a bar, or on a jog, I pass by people I know and I wave. I am a part of a neighborhood, of the city. I'm a part of a writer's community, volunteer community, professional community. My roots have taken place; when I feel like reaching out to someone, I have so many to reach out to. And for that I am grateful. Thank you.

I have done more things in Los Angeles in the way of appreciating the city and exploring its many corners than you have in your numerous years living here. I have "my hike," a trail that I love and know. I've gone to several museums and festivals and farmers markets and other events. We loved live music when we were together and I love it still and continue to discover new stages to look upon, new music to hear. I'm buying a ticket package to Pantages Theatre, going on an art walk downtown next month. I've been to the Griffith Observatory. All the things we talked about doing and never would have done, I have done and am doing. Thank you.

It felt strange to date after you, and I'll admit: I feel as though I owe the first guy I dated post-Us an apology. I was just too awkward and shy and scared and he probably didn't know what he was getting into. But now I've dated more guys than I care to name. Actually, I can't name them all because I simply can't remember them all. Only a few, I feel, have been worth my time longer than that first date, but I do know this: they have all treated me well, have been kind. There hasn't been anyone that has made me linger like you did, made me stop being so restless--but I do know that eventually there will be. And because of our years together and all the dates in the past year, I know what is worth stopping for, who is worth my time. Thank you.

A part of me wants to tell you: if you knew me now, you wouldn't know me. But of course you would know me! You always will. But I am a happier, more fulfilled, more curious and empowered Joanna. My life has rounded out in a beautiful way. I am more happy in Los Angeles than I could have ever predicted. Thank you.

I heard somewhere that the beginnings are always scary (and it was) and endings are always sad (and it was). And the middle part is always the best (and it was).

I hope you're happy and enjoying life as much as I am.

Cheers,
Jo

Baby turtles and wine

2008-10-13T21:19:00.000-07:00

It's a good week, good week. The 10+ hours I worked this weekend has paid off and today was fabulous. My presentations for New York are done! I actually left work on time! (*gasp!*) And I am loving this fall weather we're having in Los Angeles. It felt so good tonight to be out with Roomie strolling around the B-wood, especially when my ears started to freeze and go numb. God, I love that.

We stumbled upon a baby turtle on our walk. I almost stepped on it and then literally hopped out of the way. I think I startled Roomie, but as I stepped back to reveal that there was a baby turtle in the walk way, she leaned down and said, in a baby voice, "Ohhhh. Baby TURTLE!". I told her to kick it to see if it was alive and she looked at me like I was Ultimate Asshole. But then she kicked it and we realized it was a mere lost Turtle Toy. Plastic. It was only 10 minutes later, as we're walking back to our homes, that I told her, "Not once did we stop to think that there aren't turtles roaming about Brentwood naturally. We fell for that crap."

I'm writing this as Roomie Deux and I are having our Wine and Smut TV night. I've gotten used to the way she talks to the television. The first few weeks I was thrown off, not quite sure if it was me or the Gossip Girls that she was talking to. But now, as I write and she randomly shouts at the TV and joins in the TV dialogue, it's all becoming quite like white noise to me.

We've decided to roast a turkey once a week leading up to Thanksgiving. Each time we're making different side dishes and desserts and hosting a different group of friends. The greatest thing we have in common is a love for food and recipes and mysterious kitchen gadgets. When we're in that teensy tiny kitchen, we're like two sailors on a ship. We shuffle around, spill flour on the floor, and occassionally utter a "Taste this," or a "Right behind you," or an "I got it!". We scoot back and forth and contort our bodies so that when cabinets are open above and the fridge door is open below we still manage to shuffle and shift and get the job done. It's wonderful.

I've been lucky here in Brentwood, in all aspects, but--especially--when it comes to roommates.

Get ready for the stream

2008-10-12T00:07:00.000-07:00

of consciousness.

What can I say? Except that there's not that much to say. I have nothing to say. Riveting, I know.

The week was good. Work hard, play hard. Got my drink on Friday night with Maryland crew and others. (God, I love the Maryland Crew!) It was a fantastic night in Santa Monica. Read to kids on Saturday morning for a volunteer thing. Second graders. So adorable that I could eat 'em up. Had a dinner party tonight. I made that cream of tomato soup that Gay Date told me about. It was the best tomato soup I've ever had. Better than Spago. Not to toot my own horn or anything (Toot! Toot!) but it was just....delicious.

Yeah. Nothing much to say. It was and is a weekend of simple pleasures. Afternoon coffee and chit chat with Roomie Deux. Loungin' and workin' in the 'ole PJs. Cooking with good music and even better wine.

It's cold here now. Well...not cold, but you know. High of 60. We had a fire tonight. I wore a sweat shirt when we ran up to San Vicente at 11 for a movie.

I've been lighting lots of candles.

I'll be a witch for Halloween.

I've decided I'm addicted to yogurt and granola parfaits.

I'm good.

That's all. For now.

A perfect match

2008-10-05T18:36:00.000-07:00

"I'm making soup tonight. I'm undecided between two recipes. One is a traditional cream based, and the other uses bell peppers to add a certain twist."

And so began my second date this weekend. I went on two dates. One went really well (the first) and I had a great time. But "well" is boring. So I'll talk about the second date.

While the second date went equally as well as the first, I am pretty sure the guy is gay. If he isn't gay, he's extremely metrosexual and--let's just face it--eventually I'll either scare him or he'll just annoy the hell out of me. It won't go anywhere.

We went to this joint by the ocean in Malibu. I have to give him points for his planning skills, because it was a great location. How can you beat this? Mid-70s, sipping mojitos on a deck overlooking the ocean, lounging on huge white seaside ottomans in the sun. At one point, we even stopped chatting for a good five minutes to admire the dolphins' swimming pattern in the water.

We talked food the entire way to Malibu. I knew, by the time the 15-minute ride was over, that it wasn't going to work but I relished in our discussion of tomato soup and summer squash. I was tickled. Knowing it wasn't going to work, I sighed and stretched my legs out from beneath my white sundress in a relaxed manner, adjusted my sunglasses and grinned. We got out of the car and I immediately pounced on his shoes--Where did you get them? I love them!--and I could tell by his facial expression that he marinated within the current of the compliment. Macy's. A 60-percent off sale. Plus, they were mismarked in price so I got an even better deal.

And there it goes. The begining of our story, a match. Only not a romantic one.

He criticized the mojitos. Normally, they crush the mint. It appears they compensated the no crushing by adding an extra handful of leaves. If you crush the leaves with your straw, Joanna, it should help. He was making grilled cheese to go with his tomato soup that night and wanted my advice. What sort of cheese do you typically use? I'm thinking swiss. He inquired after the grocery store in my neighborhood. Should I go there to pick up supplies? What do you think of it, pretty nice or no?

And all the while, I swam through the conversation in glee. I laughed and he laughed right along and I saw myself smiling back at me in my reflection within his Gucci sunglasses.

We analyzed restaurants. He went on about some French-American fusion place he went to on Friday night. I ordered the house cocktail, a gibson. And then we had poached quail eggs and...and I swam, and swam just like the dolphins in his words.

A success? I think so.

After the date, I spoke to my parents on the phone.

"Did you get a lot of work done today?" my Dad asked.

"No! I had some cocktails in Malibu and I think my date is gay, but--"

"Gay!? Why is he gay?"

"I just think he is. But nevermind about that, he's my new foodie friend."

"Jeanne!" Dad called across the house to Mom. "Hear this? Joanna went on a date with a gay guy and has a new foodie friend!"

And I couldn't be more happy about it.

The G Word

2008-10-05T09:45:00.000-07:00

It's a cool Sunday morning in Los Angeles. The sun is out but the air is brisk and it reminds me of winters in Arizona, a sunny sort of cold.

I spoke with a close friend this morning and we said goodbye. Goodbye. We don't know how long it will be before we talk again. This person used to be my version of a live journal of sorts, my human diary, a human reservoir that could hold my outpourings of life and hope and fears and sadness and wants and dreams. A challenger and poet and Believer in the Good.

They say, "A reason, a season, a lifetime," and I have yet to discover which jar I shall categorize this friend in, years from now when I am graced with the perspective and wisdom to make that decision.

We are leaves floating in the river and I've been pulled away by one current, and my friend, another.

You are strong and mighty (like me) and you are weak and vulnerable (like me) and in those ways we are forever linked.

Distracted

2008-10-03T17:18:00.000-07:00

Our nights here in Los Angeles have transcended, become crisp yet heavy and chilled; a cold soup, like air which hovers over a cool pond; my dog’s wet nose. Somewhere in the serene and wild desert of Arizona the temperatures might be falling to ninety-something. And there, across the great Midwest, the Indian summer is waning and wilting in Chicago; and in New York City the winds might be sweeping Manhattan and all of the people of Manhattan, like tiny flustered ants, might be clutching their pumpkin lattes in a panic.

Tonight, I’ll need a jacket. And tomorrow I’ll require an umbrella. The first storm of the fall is due to Los Angeles and it is in that rain that I’ll be slushing about; and it is indoors, warm and dry, that I’ll feel safe and content while the water splashes and pouts at the window.

It’s Friday. It’s been a strange day. I’m ready for the weekend.