to the stickiest of all sticks

I told him, warned him really, that sorry, I just don't ever want to live in 'the sticks.' Then that robbery happened. A man in my house. A skinny black stranger. Rooting through my panty drawer. Throwing stuff around. Stealing my things. Making off with my Macbook. My bag. Wallet. Passport. Every scrap of personal identification. Meanwhile, upstairs, trying desperately to make that 911 call, the phone wouldn't work. It was like a slow-motion nightmare, a scream you can't scream, a run you can't run, a frozen terrified heart-pounding fuck you, you fucker of all fuckers. You violating scum, how dare you come in here. If I had a gun, I'd kill you, in one breath, in one quick regretless click. Days later, I consider the reasons for your theft and I'd feel compassion. We all have mouths to feed. Who were you trying to save? What life were you trying to live, certainly not the one you're forced into enduring. I'd waver on these emotions. Back and forth. Fantasies of his face down on the floor, gun drawn. Fantasies of bringing the big banks down and ending this horrible disparity between us. But I digress.

Lately, many days spent in the country, through rolling gorgeous vineyards and farmland, amid tiny, hippie, sweet towns full of artist-types, and away from a dark, hostile, nothing-to-do neighborhood now bring me clearly identifiable endless calm. I look at the late day sun and the moon and stars and trees and plants and wildlife and outdoor quiet in the country and I think: yes. Yes, please.

It's not the sticks. Or as I call it 'the stickiest of all sticks.' It's something else to me now. A sense of place. A change for the better. It may seem like an escape, a surrender even. But I see it more a kind of unexpected evolution. I grew up in the country. In a small, charming town. But the moment I was old enough to leave, I left with vigor. For the big city. For another big city. For city after city. Town after town. Searching for something to make me feel connected. Or important. Or cool. Or whatever I thought I was supposed to be or do.

San Francisco was a move I always thought I wanted to make. And, indeed, it is a city in which I could easily live. But it's chilly. And I like the sunshine and warmth. Don't really mind a good sweat. My blood is still thin from years in Florida. Being half-naked all the time so as to ward off the impending, inevitable wet that one lives in from moment to moment, resigned to a constant, insistent heat, the sultry kind that beads at the back of the neck and trembles upon the brow: that intensity immerses you at all times. And I honestly miss it. I weirdly crave it's oppression.

But I also love the dry and easy warmth that is unfolding here now. After a long winter filled with sickness and cold dampness and loneliness and a pervasive sense of treading water, just keeping my head above it, just barely not drowning in the overwhelming aloneness, and only one tiny shift away from becoming a full time cat lady. One tiny move away from being a full on weirdo who embraces their oddity and voluntarily drowns it in cheap wine and shots of brown liquor that somebody at some friendly bar buys as a very intentionaly happy gesture of rounds, one for you, one for all, one for everyone of us seeking to feel just a little bit....less.

But the warmth embraces me now. I can breathe again in a way I'd forgotten I could even breathe. I feel safe for the first time in years, the sort of safe that one feels in a twin bed at one's parent's house. (Except with requisite nudity and passion, oh thank you, hell yes). And I look forward to seeing this person now when the weekend comes and it's not just some coworker, not just a person with whom I can vent and booze and bitch about an office situation or a lack of man in one's life (thankfully the assfire phase is over), but someone I look forward to seeing. Genuinely. Excitedly. Warmth that isn't a season or a temperature but a wholly encompassing reason to live.

The moment we met, and hugged, and said hello, so cool we have this friend in common and how great to meet you too, in that small lonely hearts and emo-kid bar full of overpriced mixologist drinks and snail-slow service, at the moment I saw his face all lit up, always so lit up with aliveness and thoughtfulness and humor and well-read wit mixed with goofballness, with an infectious smile, I knew, right then and there that I liked him and yes, probably, ok definitely, I'd sleep with him. I told him this very thing. It takes about twenty seconds to size these things up and they are unconscious. And eleven weeks later, after a weekend of small joys, he asked me to marry him. And it just gets warmer every day.

Hello country, hello sticks, how are you? How have you been? I do believe I am coming home. It's been a good long while. It'll be nice to know you again.

ass fire

I wonder why I am so difficult to 'get.' I am starting to think that maybe I truly do just march to the beat of that goddamn lame-ass so-called 'different' drummer. A percussionist fuckbag who keeps fucking with my life. Thanks drummer boy. You suck.

But yeah, here's the deal: So I sit in those long, stupid meetings, and look around, incredulously, at all the seriously serious, brow-beaten faces and think to myself: Are you fucking kidding me? Is this really happening? Are we really wasting our lives on this precious Earth debating the color (should it be orange or pink? Hmm wow, now that's a doozie…) for a 'Lowest Prices of the Season' printed weekly circular?!?!

I think: dude, that circular is the liner of a goddamn birdcage. That is not going to matter a hill of beans difference to ANYONE. Your audience is already captive. They're gonna clip your coupons no matter if your banner is blue or pink or cow shit brown. For everyone else, it's paper kindling or a birdcage liner. And how in hell do you stop these damn mailbox cloggers from coming every week anyway? I can't help but think so far beyond these details, I am utterly incapable of being transfixed by minutiae. I don't mean to not fit in, I just f--ing don't. I try and I try. And I just don't.

I hate to continue to disappoint. But I am a square peg. I just am.

And so here we are again.

Nerd girl with a nice rack and a good sense of humor (do I see a personals ad in my future) finds herself unemployed. One nice-racked nerd-girl seeks knight in shining corduroy for long walks on the beach and infinite shining storytelling (uttered from my nerdy, however glossy and refined, lips).

I just need to be able to pay my bills. What else can I do to make money?

(Stripping is out. Retail doesn't pay. I am a terrible waitress…)

One of my good friends was laid off last week. But he found something better, hopefully - he is going to work with our old boss who started his own shop. This is a constant creative battle for all of us, the financial details, the lack of quality work required, and I just don't want to beat myself up about it. I can't and I won't.

But I am tired and burned out, on this weird little world I keep trying to fit myself in. It's like a fat girl trying to squeeze into a skinny girl's dress. Nah, it's more like a smart, worldly, open-minded and openhearted girl trying to pretend she likes driving a Ford Aspire.

Or, as my ex-sister-in-law used to call it: the Ford Ass Fire.

No thanks.

Not happenin'.

No Ford Ass Fire for this girl.

I will, however, ASPIRE.

And that's what's gonna keep me going. And going.

Stay tuned, friends. All three of you. I appreciate your love and concern. Really I do.

But we all know, like Popeye, 'I 'yam what I 'yam'" and there's little we can do to change that.

Acceptance.

This is my one life. I'm happy I have more chances than most to experience more and more and more, and it's never been boring to be me. Never boring.

So even if I died tomorrow, I could honestly say that I've had richer, more varied, more amazing, crazy, wonderful, awful, and life-charging-ahead experiences than most. And who's to say that's not what we're here to do? Who said we're supposed to step into a neat, tidy box and decay there? Surely not I.

And don't call me Shirley.

New Easy Meetings - Ch 1

My friend said, 'Oh, wow, look at that guy.'

He had suddenly arrived, a tall, blue-eyed, sandy-haired stranger in a dark suit jacket, underneath which peeped a crisply pressed white woven button-down. He pulled anxiously and anonymously up to the bar for a covert craft beer. He was not entirely fair-haired but he was significantly light-eyed, bright-eyed.

His manly beauty required a double take.

This level of attractiveness, from head to toe is rare, anywhere.

We caught eyes. I smiled, thin lipped, polite, keeping my distance, not my way.

I am much friendlier than this but his stress was arming.

He appeared, quite obviously, angsty.

I said as much.

'Are you alright?'

He seemed taken aback, albeit graciously, unaware, clearly, of his own demeanor.

'Yes,' he said warmly in his thick, well-studied German accent, 'Yes, thank you I'm fine."

But I didn't really buy it.

My friend regarded me with raised eyebrows as if to say, 'what a stress case.'

We both pondered the 'is he on coke or speed' possibility. His stress level seemed that high but his outward appearance didn't align with that at all.

He went away momentarily only to return to our sides with a forced smile, at which point I asked, 'What's up with you? You seem so upset.'

And then the unload began.

The person in the suit coat and pressed shirt came alive then. He told us he had this job, this job where he had to analyze the economic psychology of a company and determine what was working and who had to go. And he hated this. This was his daily torment. He was wracked with guilt on a daily basis. About who he had to fire. About their family and their lives.

Of course, he decided that knowing me would somehow alleviate his pain.

I gave him my number.

if i was filthy rich from writing filth...hmm

When I was 25 or so, I thought certainly I'd be famous by now. I just had this 'feeling' that I was meant to be famous. For what, I don't know. Acting maybe. During my delusions of grandeur phase when I was a size 2 with a head full of pissy vinegar and no wear on my tires. Yeah, then.

But I had met so many famous people in my younger years I sort of figured I'd turn out to be one of them myself. Possibly by association but, in my hopeful brain, ideally by talent.

Now, as I've spent much more time being alive, that's pretty much the last thing in the world that I want. It's not that the fame itself would bother me, it's that I no longer see it as any kind of necessary validation for who I am in the world - the way I once did.

Yet here I write this semi-private blog that's fairly hard to find online. It's hard to find because that's how I like it. But, all the same, I'm absolutely tickled when someone actually reads it. And even more pleased when they tell me they like it and I can tell they're not lying.

I feel, even in some miniscule way, that something I feel or express is noticed or matters to someone. And I like that.

I am in the fourth month of living in the Bay Area. I am a total newbie in every way but it feels right.

Berkeley reminds me of Cambridge, MA. I get that. The buzz of intellectualism and some of the same architectural simliarities makes me feel right at home. Oakland reminds me of Los Feliz circa 1997. I'm no longer afraid to buy gas down the street or even go in and buy a water or a Slim Jim (yeah I actually bought one of those recently, how gross I know) from behind the bullet proof glass. I smile at people as I come and go. They smile back. I could be in Boston, Jersey, Indiana. With a sparkling, hilly view.

San Francisco, however, is like nowhere else I've ever lived or visited. In my humble opinion, I think it is the most beautiful city in America. From the elegantly Bay spanning bridges to the crooked and steep streets, from the iconic buildings that define the foggy cityscape to the more intimate structures that mark the inner heart, it is a city that pounds with uniqueness with so much beauty that no one, and nothing, can take that away from it.

I don't care if I'm ever famous, living or dead. I just want to do something worthwhile while I'm here. Sometimes I think I could make a pretty penny writing some craptastic sex book like that hideously written (not even that shocking, sorry) book 'Fifty Shades of Grey.' Dude, anyone who has ever glanced into the nether regions of the interwebs can find much deeper, darker filth than that. So I'd be rich, quite possibly famous, but embarrassed at how it happened to be so? Or would I, lollygagging and being massaged endlessly from my private hut in Tahiti, care at all what anyone thought?

I'd actually only be in Tahiti for short stretches. The rest of the time I'd be traveling and touring and reading and learning and teaching and listening and....being. The idea of just...being is so wonderful to me. And by being I don't mean sitting around and eating and lying on the couch. I really mean...BEING. What a gift that would be.

Should I do it? My mom always used to say why don't you just become the next Danielle Steele? (I think some of her stories, particularly when I was in my formative years, were pretty entertaining, albeit full of romantic slop). Here I am, living in her city (well, 11 miles outside) and I think, hmm, why not. Not to be rich. Not to be famous. But to see if, maybe, just maybe, I could.

After all, I can always write a 'real' book later, right? I mean, lofty literature can wait. Tahiti is calling.

And New Zealand after that.

And Hong Kong after that.

And....

Dear Orlando – Part 2 (An overview of some of my favorite places),

It's true.

The five years we spent together were pretty sweet in many ways….

I really appreciated all the wonderful things I saw and experienced, the incredible people who fell into my life, and the happy places I frequented with them.

Here are some of my favorites….and I thank you for keeping these places alive. When you mix the right people with the right places, magic happens. There was magic, in one way or another, in each of these places for me. And no, none of that magic had pixie dust on it or was in any way related to Disney. My experience was an authentic Orlando experience, the one the tourists don't get to see, the one that's worth moving there for, or staying for, or, eventually, leaving but leaving with a warm and full heart.

This is a little tribute to you, Orlando. Thank you for the magical times. I hope we have some more.

In no particular order:

Blue Door – Santiago huckleberry candles (for: imparting irresistibleness via a convenient wax tub that you ignite in your home in order to create optimal appeal for someone you'd like to seduce at some point), Hudson jeans (lending a buttshape to the buttshapeless), tie-dye hair ties ($1 each)

Jewelry – Be on Park – I pretty much want everything in there.

Sandwiches – Sandwich Bar, Pom Pom's

Best server – Dee-lite at Pom Pom's – sweetest girl ever. If you don't know the reference to Dee-lite, look it up you child.

Coffee and people – Stardust Video – this is the best feng shui spot for freelancers – I got more work done there than anywhere else

Best coffee – Stardust Video – perfect every time. The ratios are beautiful. Mathematicians would find this breathtaking. Like there's jesus in every cup. But there's not. There's just several long haired beauties behind the bar making the goodness.  And one willowy, beautiful short-haired one, Emily. Go there. Get some.

Second best Coffee – Drunken Monkey – although no one is drunk and there are no monkeys. Sometimes the people are not so nice and the service is maddeningly slow. But the breaktfast burrito things are very good and it has really decent vegan stuff. Oh, and pure cane sugar soda pops in glass bottles. Tasty and refreshing. None of that corn syrup shizznit.

Vegan Stuff – Ethos. Yum! I love the bruschetta. It's the best $5 vegan lunch in town.

Used Cds, irreverent cards – Park Ave CDs

Italian food – Armando's in Hannibal Square. Slow service but calm down. Pretend you're in Europe. The owner is Sicilian. The food tastes as if it is. So relax. Yeah, it's a little slow. But what's the rush?

Best local place with wonderful people – Maxine's on Shine – beautiful wine list, delicious everything, amazing desserts, sweet owners, fun vibe, great locals

Best Dessert – Maxine's on Shine – get the caramel buttercream cake. I'm not even a sweet tooth person and this is one I absolutely crave!

Best Vietnamese – Little Saigon – great food, really friendly, no atmosphere but who cares, good food

Best massage therapist/healer – Kathleen Quinlan

Best dive bar – Hideaway. They never heckled me even when I wore my Patriots jersey. It may be a dive bar but the peeps in there have class.

Other places to hide – P.R.s in Winter Park, Burton's

Best sushi – Amurra

Other good sushi – Shari in Thornton Park, Lola's in College Park

Best Park Ave fun – Prato – the food is a little overrated, but here's what to get: order the meatballs (there are only 3 so don't bother to share, make it your order alone), share (or not) the salad with the cheese and the apples or pears (lunch and dinner are different), and then just enjoy the décor and the pretty people. They have a garden on the wall, folks. A garden. Their typeface is beautiful. Their logo is modern. Like it for being a cool place to be.

Best yoga studio – Orlando Power Yoga. Hands down, downward dog down, heart open. Whatever. This is the best yoga studio by far. One of the best I've been to in the US. I used to go to Full Circle but when Louis left, it just wasn't the same. OPY is a wonderful place.

SUP – and best yoga studio on a paddleboard – Paddleworks. Go there. Get on the water. Get all stretchy. Be outside. Laugh. Tip over, maybe. Wonder why, the next day, your sides ache. Because you just had a bass ass core workout without even noticing! Try this one if you haven't already!

Best burger – Ravenous Pig – dude, it's amazing, plus it comes with stick thin truffles fries served in a pint glass. Yumtasticness. I recommend ordering it without the bleu cheese. Not needed. 

Runners up – Johnny's Fillin' Station, Graffiti Junktion

Best colorists – Hira Anees at Dolce Vita, Jay Johnson at Nube Nove

Best stylist – Hira Anees ( her cuts last and last, she's meticulous and wonderful)

Plants, flowers, pots, inspiration – Palmer's

Best old school steak and 70s retro bar – Linda's La Cantina – just awesome. Get the steak without the bacon. It's better that way. And be sure to eat in the charmingly lit sunken bar with the strange pond thingy. You'll feel like Lonnie Anderson might sit down next to you and ask you to buy her a martini and light her smoke. 

Best cupcakes – Rhapsody Bakery – seriously, right? Vegan ain't my thang babay but these are delish. No joke. I'm a butter girl and these are just to die for.

Pom Pom's also does cupcakes the traditional butter way and are also divine. But Rhapsody has just a little more magic in there, I think. Not sure what it is exactly.

Best away from it all bar – The Imperial – good wine and craft beers – plus the furniture and décor is all for sale. So it's good inspiration. A moveable feast. A living, breathing Pinterest explosion of desire.

Best music venue – The Social

Second Best – The Beacham

Best pizza – Anthony's

Best margarita – Hillstone's (the BEST margarita anywhere. Ever. Maybe even in Mexico)

Best house painter – Ananda Walker – amazing, fast, affordable, responsible – what more can you ask for? Call this girl. She's amazing. Email me for her number.

Best sweet treat – Chocolate covered popcorn on Park Ave. – seriously addictive. They also have chocolate covered bacon popcorn. No joke. I have not tried it. It was on back order. It's on back order every day. The people come. The people eat. The people wait. I'll have to get back there when I visit.

That's it for now.

Orlando, I miss you. I really do. Actually, I really just miss the people I went to all these places with (and yes, I know I just ended a sentence with a preposition).

Keep being fun.

I'll be back to visit.

Much love,

Jess

a love letter to orlando - part 1: stardust coffee

dear orlando,

thank you for five 
{mostly good, often trying, bewilderingly strange, incredibly confusing, laugh-filled, sleep-filled, sleep-deprived, overworked, underworked, raucous, boring, crazy, wonderful} 
years....

now that i've described our relationship fairly adequately, let's move on.

i'd like to focus on the good things. an old romance will do that. as you gaze back at it, all you can see are the pretty parts, the soft, hazy sweet moments that made the time worthwhile.

so, with that in mind, i'd like to thank you for all the yummy goodnesses, the prettying up places, the sounds and the sights.

and i'll just start....in the middle...kind of like life. just...NOW.

the dust

i wish i'd discovered this place much earlier in my tenure...but, at least i discovered it. that place is stardust...

look close, the wall art is always enticing. like drawings of girls in granny panties.

i spent a lot of time sitting in that little room with my laptop, tapping away on my MacBook. i was able to focus really well here, unlike so many other places i tried. as a freelancer, this really made all the difference. and it got me out of my house. and i loved the familiar faces.

this is where i sat for my Skype job interview.

and this cat. i put a mustache on the cat at one point. or maybe someone else did.

beautiful. and good.

and the coffee....the coffee is really the best in town, in my opinion.


Oh, and did you know...the movement TWLOHA all started in florida...

here in CA i see people wearing these tees everywhere


yes, it began in melbourne but the movie was filmed in orlando...on my parents' street actually. i was out running one day and ran by the set.

kat dennnings as renee

here's jamie tworkowski and the real renee

i never knew how common this was until i learned about it living in Orlando

this is just the first installment in my love letter to orlando.

there's so much more to come.

it is a complicated relationship.

so there's a lot to it.

come back for more. i'll be adding to it very soon.

xoxoxo

all my love,

do you realize?

Oh my darlingest world of wonders.

My house has never looked so fine. Painted, stained, cleaned, beloved. My house never looked so fine until the day I locked it five years later and said farewell.

As for me, I am feeling ever so fine. I am sufficiently exfoliated, highlighted, toe-painted, and naturally bedazzled in healthy glowingness.
Cheers to you, oh you sweet Origins products. (Or their placebo effect. It's all the same to me).

'Did you ever look so nice?' ask The Samples all these years later.

Gosh if I know.

My dear friend so-and-so (who calls it 'creepy' when I secretly write about him in my blogs as if I would ever leave any identifying marks, whatever, I have to have SOMETHING or SOMEONE to write about, to inspire my trivial musings, right? Right? Oh f-off you so-and-so and deal with it. Go get flattered by it or something).

...oh yeah, what was my point? My dear friend (who calls me creepy to my face for writing about him in my blogs and yet reads them several times in pure enjoyment) says that he can ever remember how old I am even though I've half-told him a thousand times or more. Perhaps it is our desert expanse of digit difference that scares me and that he, in turn, finds comforting. Thumb suckage. Mama? Dunno. Who cares.

Anyway, oh thee darlingest world of wonders, here I have landed.

Upon a hilly landscape with a sunny clear, and yet muted, view of my new life.

In Oakland, California.

It's always this way, isn't it?  Clear, yet muted, from one moment to the next.

This is the greatest gift actually.

In the getting lost and subsequently getting more lost while seeking to find - you realize that you are constantly living - IN THE MOMENT.

Wow man.

I mean, seriously WOW.

How often does that happen?

How about like... almost never? I mean, I'm no Buddha or meditation guru. In shavasana, while lying there listening to Ben Harper's rendition of 'Beautiful Boy,' everlastingly grateful that I'm no longer sweating wet blazing bullets onto my yoga mat and holding some crazy ass pose with all my might and concentration and will and love and breath; in shavasana, I am thinking about some guy's beautiful kiss, or whether I should make guacamole later with that overripe avocado on the counter, and oh damn, did I remember to put the wet clothes in the dryer. Shit like that. I can't just lie there, all peaceful-like, and focus on my breath. Oh hell no.

But move me across the country - with only a few possessions to claim and garments to cover my naked body and a fancy pedigreed, longhaired, fur-log barfing diva 'tude cat (with a sweet soul) that I shoved under the seat in front of me for seven long hours - and hey, check it out,  I'm right here, right now, in a way I wish I could live more often.

I suppose it's a bit of survival mode kicking in. Of course it must be. I sleep like a log. I wake up easily. I am energized by endorphins and newness. It's like a fantastic high, I guess. Only it feels much, much calmer than I've felt in a while. My expectations are not grandiose. They are realistic and real and true and not generated from an ego-driven place. Because I focused on this sense of wellness, I willed it into being, I prayed for it. (Yes, me, who isn't religious, I prayed to the universe, on my knees, and into my pillow at night, I prayed for change, for a better life).

Within these moments of feeling undeniably ensconced in a sense of being a stranger in a strange land, I am quite peaceful. I get what that feels like to experience all that's around me. Surely, this is for the first time so it's hard not to notice. But, what's key is to remember what it FEELS like to experience things for the first time: their sounds, their shadows and light, their beauty and ugliness, smell, taste and touch, and revel in all of it. Just let it wash over me in a wave.

Can I learn to do this all the time?

With practice, maybe.  A lot of practice.

May I encourage whoever may be reading this now: in your apartment or house, look around at all that's familiar and see it like you've never seen it before. It's like how you feel when you return home from a long trip away. Everything's familiar and yet it's all new again.

Life can be this way, I believe.

It just takes opening your eyes. And that beating bloody ceaseless thing in your chest. Feel that. Breathe into it. And don't forget that your life is finite. As The Flaming Lips remind us 'Do You Realize?"

So do you?

I do.

Welcome to this new world of awakeness. Welcome. It feels pretty alright to be aware. I'll try live in this moment - as long as I can.