A stranger passing

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

- Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

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

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

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

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

"And what am I like?"

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

"Feisty?" I offered.

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

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

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

"Yes."

"A good thing, no?"

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

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

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

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

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

I can only nod.

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

"Mind?" I hold it up and grin.

"Go for it. Go crazy."

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

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

"Yes, thank you so much!"

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

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

"Yes!" I say.

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

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

Sunday photos

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

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

A friendship, revisted

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

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

G: J/k!

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

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

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

"Neither do I."

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

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

He laughs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I shrug. "Yes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's fair."

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

"Deal. A pub crawl through Hollywood!"

"Done."

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

It's 5 o'clock somewhere

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fever!

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

I want

Toes in the sand, salt on skin

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

Where I might buy a bunch of wild flowers and lilies

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

I want

Glowing skin, graced by the western sun

To hit golf balls with an ocean view

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

I want

A colorful collection of flip flops and pretty painted toes

Simple sundresses, feminine and loose and comfortable like skin

Deep slumbers and long naps with the windows wide open

I want

Margaritas to the sound of the waves

Tacos (enough said!)

Drives with the windows open up the PCH to Malibu

Wine tasting ventures into the sultry hills north of Los Angeles

I'm a tired bear

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

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

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

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

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

Back to the grind.

Ruminations after a 15-hour work day

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

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

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

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.