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.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Inauguration
History, despite its wrenching pain,
Cannot be unlived, and if faced
With courage, need not be lived again.
Lift up your eyes upon
The day breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream.
Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands.
Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts
Each new hour holds new chances
For new beginnings.
~Maya Angelou, Inaugural Poem, 1993
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
Monday, January 19, 2009
2009 Prediction: The year I get good at golf. Or at least, golf a lot
I think this will be a year of golf for me. I hit balls twice on Sunday, at two different courses. One of my closest girlfriends here bought golf clubs and we went to the range and she literally was pulling plastic off her Dunlops there, on the second tier of the driving range. Told me she got them on sale. Actually, an impulse purchase. She was strolling the aisles of Big 5 looking for a tennis racket, or some sort of racket, when she passed by the golf section and decided that she just must buy golf clubs. That day. Got them for under 200 bucks. She had initially told me her golf bag was pink and I envisioned a mass the color of bubble gum and cringed a bit. However, I was pleased to see it was actually more black and lavender.
This friend, she is a runner, and her body is a rail, a sturdy frame of bones and tight skin. Her pony tail was a dark curly mass of wildness, piled on top of her head. I watched as she perfected her grip before each shot, squinting her eyes and squatting just so. And then, every few shots or so, she’d try a new club, like a kid on Christmas morning. It was something to see! She’d pull off a sleeve of plastic and lop it on the ground. Within 30 minutes or so, we had quite the pile of trash.
It was a warm day and the sun beat down on us at the range. I was glad I had my PING hat on (another mon frère item) and I noticed something ever so “meat market-ish” about the range. Guys checked us out and seemed amused as we struggled with our bucket of balls, purses and other such gear. Eventually we got hit on by two orthodox Jews with curly facial hair, wire-rimmed glasses and skinny faces. We hurriedly packed up our gear (this took about 10 to 15 minutes) and moved down a level on the range to shake ‘em off our trail.
All went well until we were cleaning up and about to leave. She picked up her clubs, seemingly the correct way, yet the bag tilted towards the ground and her irons started to spill out. “Help me, Jo!” she cried. And then: “Don’t worry, Jo. Eventually, we won’t be so embarrassing.”
I nodded and smiled.
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.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
It's the simple things
It's yet another extraordinary day in Los Angeles. The sun is shining, people are outside just for the sake of being outside. There is little traffic on the streets and I have to remind myself, often, that it's just January 18. Well, I suppose this day is not quite so extraordinary since days such as this occur quite so frequently, but...you can't help but wake up with a smile.
Things are truckin' along here in LA. It's been a booze-less weekend. I've switched my glasses of red wine with movies, lots of 'em. My roommate and I have taken a joy in running every single vegetable we can unearth from the depths of our fridge into the food processor, grinding them up into a sort of homemade gazpacho. One meant for summer days, before fish and barbecues, but it seems just right for now.
In fact, every thing seems just about right, right now. Roomie and I went to a bar last night for a going away party and ordered two soda waters. It was absolutely divine to open my eyes to my 7 a.m. alarm this morning and jump out of bed feeling good. Maybe there is something to this raw thing, eh? I met my friend in Griffith Park to hit golf balls. I showed up 30 minutes late. Not because I was running late but because I was confused by the vastness of the park; it's LA's very own Central Park. And it was a delight to be late, driving on the narrow, winding roads into the hills. They were lined with trees red and yellow and crisp. It's January, yet Los Angeles just seems to be catching up on autumn.
When I returned to Brentwood, I drove past my turn and was suddenly inspired to buy a new tree. I killed my former tree that inhabited my apartment; perhaps the young hearty thing wasn't so hearty. Or perhaps I just don't have a green thumb. Anyway, so I drove to the nursery down the street, just a few sunshiney blocks, and I met a guy there. Mid 40s, long, garish hair that looked like someone had cut it with their eyes closed. Not a guy to date but a Tree Man. I looked at Tree Man and told him, "I need your help. I need a tree."
"Well, we get new stock in on Thursdays. We might have better choices on Thursdays....or is this an instant gratification thing?"
I looked him straight in the eye. "I am set on bringing home a tree today. Instant."
I think he took a liking to the fact that I was so lost in the green house. He literally took my hand and led me through the winding green house. We spent a good 40 minutes--forty freakin' minutes!--picking out my tree. Of course I asked him far too many questions, something I get from my Dad. I wanted to know about sunlight. Trimming and pinching (did you know it's better to pinch a tree than trim?). I told him I wanted a pretty pot to put it in and we stepped outside, eventually, back into that gorgeous heavenly white sunlight, and together we stared at pots for another 20 minutes or so. He told me I was going to have to replant the tree into my new pot. I did a double take and then...shook my head.
"Plant? Nope."
"I could do it for you."
"That would be great. I'll pay you, of course."
"So you're a woman who doesn't like to get her hands dirty."
"That's right."
He showed me how to replant it. The mixing of soil and water. Told me to let it sit outside for a few days and give it a good water down. He seemed amused at my curiosity, my eagerness to learn, my unwilling nature to touch dirt.
"See, look here," Tree Man said. "See how I am loosening these roots? I wouldn't do it like you would, stomp on them with one of your stiletto heels. You seem to be that type. You don't want to shock the plant."
I ignored his comment about my footwear and then asked who I need to call and complain to in a week when my plant is shocked.
"Um....Emanuel," Tree Man said, looking at the Hispanic Dude behind the counter.
Anyway, now I have a beautiful new tree at home and there's something so cheerful about that.
And that is when it dawned on me. I don't think I need too much to be happy. This morning, when my friend and I finished hitting balls, we sat on a bench and stared out the beautiful hills and trees, just the vibrant green which surrounded us. I grabbed two little clementines from my golf bag and tossed one to him.
"I love the smell of these when you first open them," I said.
"Oh, me too. It's just so great."
"It makes me so happy."
He laughed. "The smell? It makes you happy?"
"Yeah, yeah it does."
And yeah, yeah it does. My tree makes me happy. My clementine makes me happy. I am happy to be at work now, not yet working, but listening to Pandora and taking care of my urge to write. I am happy my girlfriend out here bought a set of golf clubs and now I have a golfing friend who sucks at golf and lives close to me. I am happy that the veggies in the food processor tasted so fresh and good.
And that's just how it is.
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.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Mon frere
“So, I take it you and your brother are pretty tight?”
Tight. My hands pause over my keyboard before responding to my friend. Tight. My brother is one of my best friends, but…
“My brother is one of my best friends but…it’s not like we gab on the phone every day, you know? I mean, he doesn’t call me to gush about girls and I don’t call him to gossip.”
In between my online chatting, I browse my digital picture collection. There I find an image of my brother and I on the Santa Monica Pier, less than one full week after my boyfriend broke up with me. He traveled up from San Diego despite the fact that his girlfriend at the time sort of threw a fit about it. We are both holding ice cream cones, large and sloppy and double-scooped. It is a sunny day and crowds troll the beach behind us, in the distance, and the scent of cotton candy hangs in the breeze. His right arm is around my shoulders, something I usually have to remind him to do for photos, but not this time. I am wearing flip flops and the wind brushes my hair back.
We both have goofy grins on our faces.
* * * * * * * * * *
“How was your weekend in San Diego?” my friend asks.
Groan. “It was good, but Greg and I got into a fight.”
“About what?”
“Something really stupid. You know, those stupid sibling fights. I left early.”
He laughs. “C’mon, what did you fight about?”
“It was a misunderstanding. I told him to stop being a jackass and he told me I was being a fucking idiot.”
Laughter again. “I see.”
“No, but it was good though. I called him 30 minutes up the highway and we actually talked it out. His apology was kinda funny, too.”
“Oh, yeah? What was it?”
“He said, ‘Joanna, I am sorry I called you a fucking idiot.’ And then he paused. And then he said, ‘But you were really being a fucking idiot.’”
We both crack up.
“Hey, I thought it was cool. I took it,” I say.
* * * * * * * * * *
When I am home in Arizona I lie on my brother’s bed. This is something I tend to do, a trait both Walter (dog) and I share. I am not sure what it is. If it’s the fact that his bed is made and mine is not; or perhaps because it’s firm and the lighting in his room is a certain kind of softness.
It’s a twin bed, sort of interesting for someone who is 6’2”. I lie there on my back, usually, hands behind my head. Eyes to the ceiling.
Sometimes he strolls in and ignores me. He’ll go straight to his computer and browse the Web for an hour and pretend I’m not there. Other times, he’ll immediately say, “Joanna, can I have my room back?” He’ll even say these words, loudly, before he enters, when he is about 20 feet away. It’s gotten to the point that he just assumes I’m in his room, as though I am a sort of mold, or a pillow case, maybe. A shoe, stuck under the bed.
Yet, other times, he’ll come in and play music and I start to randomly dance, goofy and eccentric, to make him laugh. He tries hard not to smile.
The times I am not on his bed, I am attached to his computer. Not because it’s new and high-tech but because it’s simply ON and available.
“Joanna, this is getting weird,” he said one time when he saw me staring at the lighted screen.
“Yup, I know.” I sigh. “I think I have an online addiction or something.”
“You have a Greg’s Room Addiction.”
* * * * * * * * * *
I am wearing a shirt that my brother gave me, a purple golf shirt. I like the way it fits, the excessive buttons on the front. On my head sits a red TaylorMade hat, also from my brother. In my hands, I hold the driver he put together for me. I am at the driving range in Manhattan Beach and it’s a perfect sunny California day.
When I first pick up my clubs, I often think of him gluing them together late at night after work. I imagine him picking out the grips and the color, even the tees.
I pull back the driver and I imagine my ass sticking out, since Greg told me I do that sometimes. I can hear him telling me to keep my eyes on the ball, so I keep my head down. And with a quick twist (okay, barely a twist since we all know I don’t have the flexibility) my club makes contact with the ball and the result is that perfect ping!
“You’re hitting that driver pretty good,” my friend says.
And I think of my brother, two hours south from me, how impressed he might be if he could see it and hear it, too.
Tight. My hands pause over my keyboard before responding to my friend. Tight. My brother is one of my best friends, but…
“My brother is one of my best friends but…it’s not like we gab on the phone every day, you know? I mean, he doesn’t call me to gush about girls and I don’t call him to gossip.”
In between my online chatting, I browse my digital picture collection. There I find an image of my brother and I on the Santa Monica Pier, less than one full week after my boyfriend broke up with me. He traveled up from San Diego despite the fact that his girlfriend at the time sort of threw a fit about it. We are both holding ice cream cones, large and sloppy and double-scooped. It is a sunny day and crowds troll the beach behind us, in the distance, and the scent of cotton candy hangs in the breeze. His right arm is around my shoulders, something I usually have to remind him to do for photos, but not this time. I am wearing flip flops and the wind brushes my hair back.
We both have goofy grins on our faces.
* * * * * * * * * *
“How was your weekend in San Diego?” my friend asks.
Groan. “It was good, but Greg and I got into a fight.”
“About what?”
“Something really stupid. You know, those stupid sibling fights. I left early.”
He laughs. “C’mon, what did you fight about?”
“It was a misunderstanding. I told him to stop being a jackass and he told me I was being a fucking idiot.”
Laughter again. “I see.”
“No, but it was good though. I called him 30 minutes up the highway and we actually talked it out. His apology was kinda funny, too.”
“Oh, yeah? What was it?”
“He said, ‘Joanna, I am sorry I called you a fucking idiot.’ And then he paused. And then he said, ‘But you were really being a fucking idiot.’”
We both crack up.
“Hey, I thought it was cool. I took it,” I say.
* * * * * * * * * *
When I am home in Arizona I lie on my brother’s bed. This is something I tend to do, a trait both Walter (dog) and I share. I am not sure what it is. If it’s the fact that his bed is made and mine is not; or perhaps because it’s firm and the lighting in his room is a certain kind of softness.
It’s a twin bed, sort of interesting for someone who is 6’2”. I lie there on my back, usually, hands behind my head. Eyes to the ceiling.
Sometimes he strolls in and ignores me. He’ll go straight to his computer and browse the Web for an hour and pretend I’m not there. Other times, he’ll immediately say, “Joanna, can I have my room back?” He’ll even say these words, loudly, before he enters, when he is about 20 feet away. It’s gotten to the point that he just assumes I’m in his room, as though I am a sort of mold, or a pillow case, maybe. A shoe, stuck under the bed.
Yet, other times, he’ll come in and play music and I start to randomly dance, goofy and eccentric, to make him laugh. He tries hard not to smile.
The times I am not on his bed, I am attached to his computer. Not because it’s new and high-tech but because it’s simply ON and available.
“Joanna, this is getting weird,” he said one time when he saw me staring at the lighted screen.
“Yup, I know.” I sigh. “I think I have an online addiction or something.”
“You have a Greg’s Room Addiction.”
* * * * * * * * * *
I am wearing a shirt that my brother gave me, a purple golf shirt. I like the way it fits, the excessive buttons on the front. On my head sits a red TaylorMade hat, also from my brother. In my hands, I hold the driver he put together for me. I am at the driving range in Manhattan Beach and it’s a perfect sunny California day.
When I first pick up my clubs, I often think of him gluing them together late at night after work. I imagine him picking out the grips and the color, even the tees.
I pull back the driver and I imagine my ass sticking out, since Greg told me I do that sometimes. I can hear him telling me to keep my eyes on the ball, so I keep my head down. And with a quick twist (okay, barely a twist since we all know I don’t have the flexibility) my club makes contact with the ball and the result is that perfect ping!
“You’re hitting that driver pretty good,” my friend says.
And I think of my brother, two hours south from me, how impressed he might be if he could see it and hear it, too.
JoRawMa Updates
Never eat more than you can lift.
~Miss Piggy
My coworkers at first insisted that they work from home while I complete my raw food fast, lest I transform into some hungry, crazy bitch. It’s either that or they were going to keep a steak on hand and toss it to me if I get feisty, like I’m some sort of wolf.
They’ve taken to calling me JoRawMa. That didn’t take long.
The fast isn’t really that big of a deal. I feel full but I’m not satisfied. I want warm bread and pasta sauces and I happen to like my veggies sautéed. But it is what it is and I actually do feel pretty good. I’ve been eating spinach salad and clementines; a handful of almonds here and there; homemade hummus and broccoli. Tonight Roomie and I are concocting homemade raw lasagna out of almonds that have been soaked for 48-hours. Look, it doesn’t make my mouth water. But I feel great, have more energy and am losing weight, so…*shrug.*
I’m also pretty excited about my wholesome weekend. Weekend lineup includes a hard core Scrabble tourney on Friday night after munching on sunflower seed veggie patties. Drink of choice? Water, of course. I’m going to see a movie on Saturday and then I actually will pick up my fantastic set up clubs and hit balls again or play golf!
I’ll also be working at least one of the days, if not both. C’est la vie.
~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.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
I've gone raw
I’ve gone raw.
My roommate read the book Skinny Bitch, a book written in a really bitchy tone about what it takes to be skinny.
And we want to be skinny.
Rather, I want to be the weight I was when I moved to Los Angeles. That was 12 pounds ago.
Anyway, the book promotes fasting and we’re not going to be that drastic but we are doing a 7 to 10 day raw diet. Only fresh veggies, fruits, nuts. It’s Day 1, Hour 5 and I’m already craving beef. Or at least a falafel.
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?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
