The Janna Monologues

introducing justjanna.com

2010-04-19T15:59:00.000-07:00

For a while now I have dreamed of getting my blog and website integrated, and thanks to Wordpress.com and my friend Jason, that dream has become a reality.

Viola: justjanna.com/blog. (Translation: please update your RSS!)

evidence of progress

2010-03-24T08:30:00.000-07:00

from an exercise in Real Simple, circa spring 2007.

my warm-up list for leaving the comfort zone:

try: traveling alone; to be more flexible

see: the big picture; positively; day by day, in the moment

taste: curiosity

listen: to classical music

visit: local museums

start: making new friends

stop: saying no for comfort's sake

organize: bathroom, i.e. eliminate unused toiletries and cosmetics

read: books in my library

play: my flute

learn: yoga

Adventures with Scottie, episode 5

2010-03-22T08:23:00.000-07:00

The next time I rode Scottie after his rescue mission, I was worried. On the way home from The Bicycle Business, Scottie seemed like he wanted to quit every time we slowed to a stop. So I rode in the right lane all the way, kept the throttle gunned at stops, and we did make it safely home.

I didn't ride him for several days after that. Mostly because I didn't need to, but also because I was worried.

Then on Second Saturday, some friends (who were originally supposed to meet me in Midtown) wanted me to meet them for dinner on the other side of town. It was too far to walk. It was dark. The streets were busy. It was cold.

Should I call it a night and stay home?

Should I ride Scottie over?

What if Scottie doesn't cooperate?

Well it's not that far. Even if we get there and Scottie doesn't want to come home, I'll be with friends and can get a ride back.

I text my friend: I'm coming.

I geared up and got Scottie.

He started right up. Just like last time. But this time, he died as soon as I gave him gas. He started right up a second time. Anticipating a second stall, I waited until there were no cars coming before pulling out onto the road.

We rounded the corner of my block and Scottie was pulling the same kind of want-to-quit business.

He probably just needs to warm up. We'll go around the block a few times.

He made it around the block twice and we were on our way.

J Street was packed, so we'll take G Street up to Alhambra.

We cross over 21st Street on G, just two blocks from home, and Scottie stalls. Only he doesn't stall out and die, just loses steam. I gas the throttle. He lunges and loses steam. Lunges and loses steam. I turn on the right blinker and we coast in the bike lane. Three cars pass us. We get to 22nd. I turn right to head back home.

At home on I Street, I park Scottie, put him on his stand and text my friend: Never mind. Scottie keeps stalling out.

Adventures with Scottie, episode 4

2010-03-19T07:54:00.000-07:00

With Scottie still stranded at The Bicycle Business, I didn't have have him to ride to class the next day. Thankfully it wasn't raining, so I walked 13 blocks, helmet in hand, to 16th and R and took the light rail.

The Meadoview line goes directly to Sacramento City College. But I wavered back and forth between getting off one stop early to rescue Scottie or to get him after class.

The problem: what if I went to Scottie first and he still felt sick? Then I'd be stuck rushing to campus a mile up the road. So I went to class and then walked from campus to The Bicycle Business afterward.

There was Scottie, just as content as could be. He had no clue how much heart ache he had caused me in the past 3 days. I took a deep breath, said a quick prayer and pushed his start button, slightly turning the throttle.

He started right up.

Good, Scottie. Now let's just get you home.

I cinched up my helmet strap and pulled on my purple driving gloves.

We rounded the corner in front of The Bicycle Business and Scottie hesitated. I pulled to the side of the road. His engine didn't die, but he still coughed. I gunned the throttle a little, and he seemed to take it just fine. I waited until the circle mirror reflected a clear road and pulled out.

We zipped off, over the light rail tracks, and we both made it home.

How to handle misbehaving clothes

2010-03-16T10:09:00.000-07:00

What to do when your favorite pair of jeans rip at the crotch:

1. Cry. Or curse. Whatever outburst comes naturally in the moment.
2. Banish the jeans to the corner for a day or two until they have learned their lesson.
3. Have a glass of wine.
4. Scold the jeans for taunting you from the dunce corner.
5. Take a nice long, invigorating jog to help release the tension caused by your fight with the jeans.
6. Download the MyFitnessPal iPhone app to track your calorie intake.
7. When you feel you can handle it, then, and only then, hang the jeans on your bedroom wall for visual motivation.

Risk-taking: It never hurts to ask

2010-03-12T09:48:00.000-08:00

You have not because you ask not.

We hear it so often that we can easily brush it off as cliche. But cliches are often true. Think about it: how often do you complain about something that you had the opportunity to change by simply asking.

•You didn't get that raise? Well, did you ask for what you deserve?
•The person who came in after you got the last fancy (fill-in-the-blank) that you REALLY wanted, but there weren't any on the shelf? Did you find a store representative and ask if there were any in the back?
•The barista made you the wrong drink and now you are going to be grumpy all day? Did you speak up and ask him to make you a new drink? (You might even get a "drink on us" for your next visit.)

So many times people complain about things like not getting paid enough, as if it's their bosses fault. Or complain that they got swindled out of the doodad by the guy who was behind them inline, or that their drink is wrong and it's the barista's fault. Maybe the barista did make a mistake, but if you didn't ask him to remake it, the only person to blame is yourself.

Here's the thing: if you got a mocha, but you ordered a carmel mocha, what do you have to lose by asking for the carmel mocha? Even if the store manager is a jerk and he says, "Sorry, pal. Can't you see I've got 30 people in line out the door?", you still have the mocha. And the chances are that the barista will apologize profusely, make you the carmel mocha, and send you on your way. Now what are you going to do with 2 drinks? You are going to make someone's day at your office by giving her that mocha.

What about just asking on a larger scale? You'd be surprised at what people will agree to for no other reason than the fact that they hadn't thought of it until you asked. Example: a couple of years ago I threw a huge party to celebrate finishing grad school at a funky vintage boutique in Midtown called Bows & Arrows.

Would you ever think of asking a funky vintage boutique to let you host a party there? Why not? All I did was ask the store owners, and they said yes.

Risk-taking: shake the excuses out of your system

2010-03-08T09:01:00.000-08:00

A dear friend of mine is in the process of investigating changing careers, getting a new job or potentially going into business for herself. It's a scary place to be with a lot of unknowns. She's miserable in her current job, and her default mode is to scour the Internet looking for jobs and keeping track of how many resumes she's sent out.

She is wicked smart and I believe that she would be wildly successful if she went into business for herself. When I say this to her, she responds with things like:

"But I don't even know what I would do."
"I don't have enough experience."
"I could never make as much money as I'm making now."
"The market is saturated with people already doing what I do."

Maybe it's because I'm a whack-job and read too many blogs like I Will Teach You to Be Rich, Zen Habits and Penelope Trunk, where the writers espouse all kinds of anti-self-sabotage rhetoric that I just want to shake her to get all the excuses out of her system. (Ramit is forever going off about psychological barriers.)

Or maybe we're just wired differently.

So then I think, why is it that risk-taking is easy for me? No, easy is the wrong word. Essential, maybe? Whatever. The point is, I don't just enjoy taking risks, I crave them. When an opportunity presents itself I don't just sniff around to investigate, I sprint toward it. And yes, sometimes I run right off a cliff. That's the risk.

Why do I do this?

I think it has to do with how badly I want something. How badly do you really want to change your situation or achieve your desired goal? If you keep coming up with excuses and talking yourself out of it, then you must not want it badly enough.

Risk-taking requires the mind set where the goal, the thing you want to change, is more important than the comforts for your current situation.

Will you doubt yourself? Absolutely. Will you question your decision? Of course. But working through doubt and questions to the point of taking action is what makes a person a risk taker.

Adventures with Scottie: episode 3

2010-03-05T08:54:00.000-08:00

When we left Scottie last, he was dead, no gas and parked at The Bicycle Business on Franklin Boulevard.

I did go to rescue him the very next day. My childhood BFF, Sarah, who job-shares her first grade teaching position, happened to be off that day and ever so kindly picked me up and took me to Scottie.

Before she came to get me, I had to arrange for some gas. There's a gas station and convenience store (a.k.a Ghetto Mart) around the corner from my house. Good thing they have gas cans. I buy one, pay for the gas and go out to the pump.

A truck parked at the pump for which I had pre-paid. OK, do this quick, it's just one gallon. I struggle to rip plastic and pull the cap off the gas can. When it comes off with a yank, the pouring tube falls down inside the can.

Frick.

Instead of pumping gas when the truck man comes out, I am fiddling with the gas can, its tube rattling around inside. I try to use my pointer finger to press the tube against the side of the can to drag it out.

Fail.

I try to pinch the edge of the tube with my thumb and pointer finger.

Fail.

I try to shake the thing out.

Fail.

Truck man brings me a pair of needle nose pliers. We take turns trying to use them to grab the tube.

Fail.

The gas station lady comes out, and she tries to get the tube out. Well, she really just looks at it and hands it back to me.

Fail.

I take the can, turn it upside down and peer inside. The tube is resting right at the opening. I tap it slightly with my pointer finger, and it slides right out.

I pump the gas. Sarah comes to get me. And we go to rescue Scottie.

Except. Once Scottie had a full tank of gas, he didn't want to go. He started right up, but then died. We went about 20 feet, full throttle, and he sputtered out. We did this about 5 times before I told Sarah that Scottie must be mad at me for abandoning him.

I ask the bike guys if Scottie can stay there one more day and Sarah takes me back home.

Adventures with Scottie: episode 2

2010-02-25T11:46:00.000-08:00

In the last episode of Adventures with Scottie, we learned about the difference between unhelpful and helpful ways to approach a girl on a scooter. It was also raining in that episode.

It's raining again in today's episode. Only, it started raining right as I pulled away from the curb. Needless to say, my attire wasn't entirely appropriate: flat leather aqua shoes, dark denim jeans, green trench coat. The coat was perfect, but the shoes got completely soaked.

On my way to campus, I'm at a stoplight at 19th and N Streets. A while utility van is in the lane next to me. My eyes are fixed on the stoplight when I hear:

"It's slippery out there today."
I look over to see the utility van's driver side window rolled down and a salt-and-pepper comb-over.
I nod.
The light turns green.
I zip away.

On my way home, Scottie is acting up. He's hesitating as I ride down Freeport Boulevard. I look at my broken gas gauge, then at the mileage. 2,717. I'm supposed to fill up at 730. I'm gunning Scottie at full throttle, and he's hesitating, nearly lunging down the road, until he peters out.

I turn on my right blinker and coast to the next side street. I'm right in front of The Bicycle Business. I push Scottie up on to the sidewalk. Look at my phone. 4:00. Bridget teaches at the same time as I do on Tuesdays. Maybe she's just leaving too. Call Bridget. Voice mail.

"Hey, Bridget, this is Janna. I was just leaving campus and I'm on Freeport across from McClatchy High School. And, well, the scooter ran out of gas. I was gonna see if you're still near campus and could come pick me up. Call me if you get this in the next 15 minutes or so, otherwise I'll walk to Light Rail. Thanks."

I hang up and walk inside the bike shop. A bell rings. It smells like rubber. A guy comes out from behind the counter.

"Hey, do you guys have a parking lot?" I ask.
My phone rings. It's Bridget.
"Oh, just a sec. Sorry. Hello?"
Nothing.
"Hello?"
The call failed.
"OK, sorry. That was my ride."
"No problem. So, we just have a back alley, but we park back there," the guy says.
"So could I park back there? I ride a scooter, and just ran out of gas -- could I leave it here until I can come back for it?"
"Sure, no problem."

I go back out into the rain and push Scottie to the back of the building. Then I call Bridget and stand under the overhang in front of The Bicycle Business until she gets there.

How + Why = Core

2010-02-23T10:30:00.000-08:00

The one thing I find myself writing most often in feedback to student essays is: The answer to the questions HOW and WHY is the core of your essay. Answer those questions and you'll find your purpose and focus.

This is true of any message. Answer the question WHY to discover motivation, significance, connections between concepts or past experiences that affect each other, that affect you. Answer the question HOW to discover evidence of the why.

Example:

Why do I write? And how does writing affect my life -- how does it affect my day, my mood, my thoughts, the way I communicate?

Or:

Why do I believe what I believe? And how does that belief manifest itself in my life -- how does it affect my decisions, the choices I make, my behavior, my actions, the way I treat others?

Tough questions. But when we stop to think about them -- really process an answer that we can then articulate -- it's usually something that you can't stop reading.

Perspective

2010-02-18T09:46:00.000-08:00

(On freelancing/being in business for myself.)

Me: "I feel like I'm retreating."
Alejandro: "What do you mean by that?"
Me: "Well, if you use a battle analogy, when you're advancing, you're gaining ground. I feel like I'm retreating -- losing ground."
Alejandro: "But are you gaining ground in other areas of your life?"

10 reasons why I choose to freelance

2010-02-16T11:57:00.000-08:00

Something tells me (and I could be totally off here) that for most people the term "freelancing" conjures up a romantic ideal of someone who cherry-picks her projects, carefully selecting only the most interesting, most challenging or most lucrative, and subsequently brings in a nice chunk of change on a regular (consistent) basis.

If that's your romantic ideal, I hate to break it to you, but freelancing is NOT an easy gig. I have written self-pity diatribes before about how much freelancing sucks, how I'll never get ahead, how I'll never make it, and waah, waah, waah, poor me. (In my own defense, I do frequently earn less than I need to make ends meet on a monthly basis -- AND I have not one, not two, but three part-time jobs. That's in addition to freelancing, which is really more like being self-employed or owning and operating a one-person business. And, p.s., if you think running a business is hard, just think about how much harder it would be to run a business all. by. yourself.)

Note to self: In spite of your depressive tendencies (as I lovingly call them), here are 10 reminders why you continue to choose freelancing:

1. Wednesday: boyfriend had the afternoon off, so we set up shop together at The Weatherstone.
2. Wednesday: enjoyed lunch with friend and potential client, mixing business and pleasure.
3. Friday: Two-hour lunch with my friend Shawn, checking in on our 2010 plan. (Subsequent depressive tendency ensued, however I seem to be recovering.)
4. Friday: Spontaneous drive to Applegate (north of Auburn) after lunch to get a special surprise for the boyfriend with my friend Stephanie, who I seem to hardly spend any time with lately.
5. Monday: Spontaneous lunch with my friend Allyson (who had the day off) at Midtown Taqueria on J Street.
6. Monday: Normal Monday night class canceled (holiday). Finished everything on my to-do list by 4 p.m., and my friend Sarah offered to treat me to a massage at Happy Day Spa (definitely a different experience, but worth it for the price).
7. Tuesday: 10 a.m. coffee with the always-delightful Colleen from Sacramento Press.
8. Tuesday: prepped for class while getting a pedicure (special treat from the boyfriend).
9. Tuesday: grabbed a cup of coffee from Peet's on my way back to the office.
10. Tuesday: lunch in the sun on my balcony before a pleasant afternoon ride to campus with Scottie.

Now, to solve that whole cash-flow problem...

Next steps = SHORT blog posts

2010-02-15T12:58:00.000-08:00

Shawn: "If your goal is to update your web site, what's the very next step?"
Me: blank stare.
Shawn: "Don't think about the 10 blocks you have to go, think about the very first step."
Me: blank stare. (Read: mind racing thinking through choosing new photos, re-writing copy on every page, updating portfolio, which work samples to include, collecting client testimonials, figuring out where to put client testimonials -- the autobiography page or the portfolio page? -- which clients should I ask for a testimonial?...)
Shawn: "Put down, 'write blog posts.' "

We're sitting next to each other at The Bread Store's window bar facing J Street. A guy wearing a Member's Only jacket walks up with a dog on a leash. He ties the leash to one of the metal outdoor tables. While he is inside ordering, his dog tries to chase some kids on skateboards and -- huge clatter -- nearly drags the table into the street. Last time I had lunch with Shawn at The Bread Store, we ran into Lesley and Ashlee. The time before that, I met my friend Adam for lunch and ran into my friends Lara and Lucas and their 6-week-old daughter, Molly. I order the same thing every time: 1/2 veggie sandwich on honey wheat bread and a cup of veggie chili.

Me: scribble "write SHORT blog posts."

Adventures with Scottie

2010-02-05T16:40:00.000-08:00

Scottie Scooterson makes rare appearances on this blog. I think it's time he starts to make more regular appearances. I often wonder about how I'm perceived by average passers-by when they see me scooting down the streets of Midtown.

Yesterday, I wore black flats, gray dress pants and a bright grass-green blazer, which was covered with my long, black jacket for the scooter ride. Does that trendy girl wearing tights under her shorts and round-toe pumps think I look like too much of a stuffy-business professional to be riding a scooter?

At the stoplight on the corner of 19th and J Streets, right in front of Starbucks, I clench the handbrakes through purple leather gloves. A guy wearing Chuck Taylors and a beanie with an orange strip skips right up to me.

"Hey, you look like a fun girl," he says holding out a flier.
"No, thanks, I can't really take that while I'm riding."
"Put it in your pocket," he insists, waving the flier at me.
"Not while I'm riding."
"Just put it in your pocket. Don't be a hater."

He continues to wave the flier at me. I take it just to get him to leave me alone. I try to get it into my pocket, which isn't working so well through thick-fingered gloves. The light turns green. There is a car behind me. I scoot away holding the crumpled flier against the handlebar all the way down 19th Street, past the Light Rail tracks and Safeway, through Land Park to Freeport Boulevard, past Freeport Bakery and McClatchy High School to Sacramento City College. All the way there, I am holding this piece of trash against Scottie's handlebar. I can't just toss it along the road. That would be littering.

When I get to campus, I pull into the designated scooter parking and kill Scottie's engine. I look at the trash in my hand.

Sorry, Boulevard Park and Musical Chairs. You may be playing at Old I on February 13, but this is a most unhelpful way to approach a girl on a scooter, even if she does look fun.

On my way home from class, it was -- arg! -- raining. The worst part about scooting in the rain is that you are blazing through the rain at top speeds of 40 mph and without face protection the rain is pelting your cheeks, nose, forehead, eyes. Yeah, sucks.

At the stoplight on 21st and Q Streets, right next to the Sacramento Bee, I see my friend Lori and a beep at her. Scottie's horn sounds oddly like the Road Runner's notorious meep-meep. There is a silver Honda in the left lane next to me. The passenger window rolls down. A guy with black curly hair leans out.

"Excuse me?"
I look over.
"Do you want some glasses? It's raining." He's holding out a pair of black men's sun glasses.
"You don't want them?"
"Nah," he shakes his head.
"Thanks."
I put the glasses on.
"How do I look?"
"Sexy."

That, my friends, is the most helpful way to approach a girl on a scooter.

My extra foot.

2010-01-12T14:48:00.000-08:00

My thighs are 6 inches thicker than they were two years ago. My waist, on the other hand, is just 3 inches thicker. But still. At this point ANY additional thickness is completely unacceptable.

What does this mean? Maybe I'm a tad overweight. I don't even know my actual weight, or the healthy average for my height/size. (In case you don't personally know me, I'm 5'10" and Italian. Translation: tall and lanky would not be an accurate description of me. I've often mused about how to calculate the weight of my breasts individually and subsequently their combined percent of my total weight. But that is a digression on which we need not dwell.)

Even if I am slightly heavier than I should be for my height/size, you probably wouldn't describe me as "fat" if you saw me, and I most certainly am not obese. (Anyone seen "The Biggest Loser" lately?) Why then, when I measured my thighs for the first time in two years last week, did the extra 6 inches send me into this downward spiral of fear and self-loathing? Correction: it's 6 inches per thigh, for a total accrual of 12 inches. Also known as 1 foot.

For the record: I don't know any woman (or man for that matter) in her right mind who would be comfortable with the knowledge that the widest part of her body was now AN EXTRA FOOT WIDER. Heck, I wear as size 10 shoe, and my feet are literally one foot long. How's that for perspective?

I certainly am not comfortable with being an extra foot wider. So I decided to punish myself by getting up at 6:30 a.m. to work out with my good friend Jess, who routinely kicks my ass at the gym. Example: I ride my bike to the gym (1.7 miles). Depending on what time I get there, I will walk/jog another 0.5-1 mile on the treadmill. Then stretch. Then do any number of exercise combinations including (but not limited to): lunges, planks, squats, burpies, abs, and all kinds of weights and conditioning for every muscle imaginable, which I would list to further emphasize my point, but I don't even know the names of the muscles that hurt.

I hurt. Plain and simple. Every time I make even the slightest movement, I hurt. Typing hurts. Sitting hurts. Walking hurts. I just hurt.

Why do I punish myself so? Because somehow in the past 2 years, I have allowed myself to expand by one foot. One foot, I tell you.

Gross.

But -- what does this mean? What is the larger significance of these 12 inches?

Those 12 inches symbolize horrible, awful things that I despise: Complacency. Indifference. Overworked. Underpaid. Over-committed. Undervalued. Procrastination. Laziness. Carelessness. Unmotivated. Apathy. Sub-par.

Yet, I have succumbed to those things, and I carry them around with me every day. Somewhere along the way, slowly, over the course of the past 2 years, I have lost sight of things that are important to me, and I now have an extra foot.

Shitty First Drafts

2010-01-05T10:14:00.000-08:00

A friend asked me just last week for the best piece of advice I could give to a person who wanted to be a better writer. My response?

Don't be afraid to write shitty first drafts. (Disclosure: this is not a new concept.)

On the first day of every semester, I hand my students an excerpt from Anne Lamott's book Bird by Bird called "Shitty First Drafts." This is especially effective in freshman comp, and not just because I am saying the word "shit" on the first day of class (the students never fail to snicker when I say it), but because most 18-year-olds these days come to college programmed with the 5-paragraph-essay formula. What a horrible, horrible thing to program high school students with.

Sometimes I even make them read an essay called "Un-teaching the Five Paragraph Essay." But that tends to be a bit over their head, what with the pedagogical theory and all. They just want me to tell them what to write about, tell them how to write it and then tell them how to fix it.

Sounds kinda like the simplified version of the 5-paragraph essay: Tell 'em what you're gonna tell 'em, tell 'em, tell 'em what you told 'em.

Except not every writing problem can be solved with the 5-paragraph formula.

Look!

I'm already on paragraph number 8 and, what do you know? One of those paragraphs is only one sentence long, and another is only (gasp!) one word!

Whatever is an 18-year-old in freshman comp going to do with that? Worse yet, what is a 30-something grad student who never un-learned the 5-paragraph essay going to do?

Write shitty first drafts, I say!

When I talk to people who say they have a "hard time writing," most often it's because they won't get out of their own way. It's the perception that as soon as something is written, it has to be perfect and final. But nothing is farther from the truth.

Here's the thing: if you want to improve your writing, you have to have some writing to improve. There is nothing to improve on a blank page. So get some shit down on the page, and then work on improving it. It really is that simple. As long as you let yourself write some shit. YOU have to let yourself write some shit.

I'm not saying it's easy. But I am saying that if you can be OK with less-than-perfect even for just a little while, your writing will improve exponentially.

Buy (me) some wine already.

2009-12-22T13:02:00.000-08:00

I know what you're thinking. Wine is expensive, especially if you want to class it up with something a step or two above the obligatory Two Buck Chuck. And I happen to be a huge proponent of local wine, which isn't (nor should it be) cheap.

That said, people really need to get used to spending money on the value of good wine AND supporting the local industry. But what if you have the same brilliant idea that I have and want to give bottles of wine as gifts?

Well, since you've already copied my brilliant idea, you could just do what I did and buy a case from the Sacramento Natural Foods Co-op.

I already knew that the Co-op had the wine I wanted: Real Deal Red from Boeger Winery. Regardless of my bias, at $9.99 a bottle, this is an incredible bottle of wine for the price.

But I didn't know about the bonus: 10% off when you buy a case. Also: the wine manager informed me that, as long as she can get your wine of choice from one of her regular distributors, she can arrange for special orders. Good to know.

No fear. Is there such a thing?

2009-12-15T18:33:00.000-08:00

Every time I read Penelope Trunk, I get one-ounce more empowered with some of the ideas that I have for writing.

And that's simultaneously awesome and frustrating. Because basically I want to be Penelope Trunk. Well. OK, not literally. But I aspire to be the woman writing fearlessly so as to inspire other women to lead fearless lives.

Problem: I am not fearless.

When an idea comes to mind and I think, "Oh, I should write about that," depending on the subject matter, the next immediate thought is, "What if Dad read it?" followed by an unending list of names: or Tony, or Sean, or Scott, or Ryan, or Ryan…

Wait a second. All those names are men. What the eff does THAT mean??

I guess that's gonna have to be a blog post.

For now the point is that there does exist a host of people whose reaction I worry about. Example: faith. Or politics. What if I write stuff that contradicts the way Dad raised me and then he reads it? Then what? Then I have to face the harsh reality that I'm a 30-year-old woman still seeking Daddy's approval. And what does that say about me? Or, another example: sex. What if I had to write about sex? Penelope writes about sex all the time, but SHE's Penelope.

Penelope also writes about how her fiance's (or ex-fiance?) family prints out her blog posts and mails them to each other. How does a woman even show up at Thanksgiving after that? And then proceed to write publicly about the very family that prints out her blog posts and mails them to each other? I mean, how does a woman continue to write fearlessly after that?

I haven't even figured out how to write fearlessly without any reverb. But considering that my post from yesterday got a mere 3 comments, I guess the only people's reactions I have to worry about are James, Matt and Suzanne's. I just might be able to handle that.

Dear Readers,

2009-12-14T13:01:00.000-08:00

Confession: when I sit down to write a blog post, I do not think about you, my readers, whoever you are. (Bad Janna!) It's completely contradictory to what I teach my students about writing. I am forever beating the audience-message-purpose drum with them -- all. semester. long.

Yet, when I write here, I am mostly writing for the audience of one: me. It's kind of a release in some ways. And, as you know, I often forget about important stuff that's right in front of my face. Or, I should say, I just don't make time to blog about important stuff that's right in front of my face.

Perfect example: the $2/day eating challenge I participated in over the last two weeks. The challenge ended yesterday, and did I write about it at all? Nope. Well, I introduced the challenge, but that's it. Nothing about my personal experience or my personal struggle.

If you're wondering, it was a little bit of deja vu for me -- for Lent this year, I abstained from alcohol of any kind. And if you know me, you know how much I love wine. Needless to say that another 2 weeks sans wine was, well…not fun. Not fun because I missed drinking wine, yes, but more so because it's hard to come to terms with the fact that I'm spoiled. Flat out spoiled. Even when I'm making only $1,100 a month sometimes (like this month), I'm still spoiled in the grand scheme of things. And what do I do now, with that realization?

But I digress. The point is that I'm working on a personal plan for 2010, and one thing that needs to be worked into the plan is blogging. Only I don't know where to go with it. So for once I am considering my audience and asking the questions:

Who are you?
Where are you?
Why do you read my blog?
What do you like and dislike about it?
What would make it more interesting?
What do you want me to write about?

How much food can you buy for $2?

2009-12-04T16:29:00.000-08:00

Do you ever stop to calculate how much you spend on food in one day? What about for one month? Considering that we live in a culture of consumption and convenience, the answer is probably a resounding "no."

Thinking about what I consume even beyond food is a journey that began for me about two years ago. It was part circumstantial, part spiritual. And I don't believe in coincidence, so I would say that even the circumstances were divine.

At the end of 2007 and into the beginning of 2008, there was a period of about 6 months where I wasn't working. I chose to not work while finishing grad school, but I didn't expect to not find work right away. I payed bills with credit cards (which I'm still paying off), but beyond that I didn't spend money on anything that wasn't an absolute necessity.

Those circumstances forced me to critically analyze the word "necessity." It forced me to ask the question, "How much can I do without?" How many things do you categorize as "necessity," that are actually luxuries? How many things do you categorize as "necessity," that are actually conveniences? A fancy $4 espresso drink that you buy every day. Pizza to-go for lunch. An iPhone. Your car, even.

As it turns out, we pay a lot of money for luxury and convenience. As it turns out, I can do without a lot of things, including a car (which I've been without now for almost 2 years).

Fast forward to now.

Some friends of mine and I are participating in a challenge: to eat for 2 weeks on only $2/day. We will then collect the money we would normally have spent on food during those two weeks (grocery shopping or eating out) and give it to Empowering Lives International, an organization with the mission to empower the poor and oppressed in Africa. We're giving our money specifically to feed starving children that attend one of ELI's schools in Bukavu, DR Congo.

For two weeks, we choose to eat less to provide food for starving children. As it turns out, you can buy a lot of food for $2. But it's not convenient.

Albatross

2009-12-03T16:19:00.000-08:00

Debt sucks. And I have a lot of it. I try to not talk about it as much as possible because, well, it's just damn depressing. More than that, I don't want to sound like a whiner. (The only person who hears me whine about money is my boyfriend, and sometimes my family.) I take full responsibility for getting myself into this situation, and I have to get myself out.

But can I just say how incredibly demoralizing it is to be taking care of stuff, setting up automatic payments, getting on payment plans, cutting my expenses to the bare minimum and yet still feel completely helpless when something happens like what happened today:

I own a townhouse in Cameron Park, which is where I used to live. It's currently in foreclosure and I've applied for a loan modification. The payment has to be paid by certified funds, and December's payment was due today. No problem. I walk to Rite Aid, where they have Western Union. Problem: can't pay for a wire transfer with a personal check. Problem #2: because I do EVERYTHING online, I don't have checks or an ATM card for the house bank account. Problem #3: the closet bank is at least 10 blocks away; I don't have a car; and the scooter won't start.

Deep breath.

Call the bank and wait on hold for 15 minutes to find out if I can make a wire transfer over the phone. No. OK, can I make it online? Yes. Back to the computer. Log in to bank account. Click to make a transfer. Have to set up an outside account to receive the transfer first. Click to do that. Need mortgage company's bank account info. Call mortgage company. Get bank info. Back to online banking. Session timed out. Re-log in. Enter info.

Error message: Account suspended from transfer service.

Call bank a second time. Another 20 minutes on the phone only to find out that they can't lift the suspension on the account for 5 business days.

Frik. Frik. Frik.

Decidedly Uninspired

2009-11-25T10:50:00.000-08:00

A lot of good things have happened lately. I even remembered to blog about some of them.

I pulled out my list of goals for 2009, and while I didn't accomplish most of them, I have accomplished (with a lot of help) the two that were the biggest, most ambitious and most time consuming:

1. Establish a coworking space. Viola: The Urban Hive
2. Facilitate/host a creative retreat. Viola: Freelance Camp Sacramento

Still. For some reason I find myself decidedly uninspired lately. Why is that? And how do I fix it?

The first question I should probably ask is, what inspires me?

Ideas. Talking and dreaming about possibilities recharges my batteries and makes me want to zoom off into action. But that's the key -- I can only talk about ideas so much before I get antsy. If people just sit around and talk all the time, well, then, nothing happens. And that drives me nuts. Get up and go DO something. What is the thing that gets people to act on ideas? Is there A thing? Or is it hardwired inside a person's brain? For me, a stimulating conversation gets me fired up to go work on my ideas, develop them, make them better, and fine tune them until they are ready to present to the big wide world.

Creativity. I almost labeled this one art, but it isn't really art that inspires me. Besides, art is so subjective. We just had a conversation about this very topic last week at CinemaSpeak -- how do you determine if a motion picture is a film or a movie? Some folks said there's a definite answer to this question, but others argued that there's no way to know the creator's true intent. But anyway, the point is that regardless of the product or end result, it's the creativity of others that inspires me. The process of taking an idea from abstract to birthing it into a tangible manifestation. It relates back to ideas and possibility, because creativity in others gives me hope for the possibility of my own creativity.

Organization. This may sound crazy, but organization inspires me in the most nerdy way. Some nights, I would rather stay home to rearrange my books than go out for dinner. That doesn't mean I actually stay home to organize, but the desire is definitely there. A lot. It works for me on a couple of levels. First, it's something of a challenge: how much can I get rid of? How can I rearrange my closet to make the most use of the space? And who doesn't love a good challenge? Second, organizing is oddly calming. There is something about quietly putting away laundry, folding socks just the way I like them, making sure all the tank tops are systematically folded and stacked in order of color from dark to light. It's a routine and it's comforting. Third, putting things away in their rightful spot moves my mind from chaos to order. It's like after you've been wine tasting all day and you have to clear your palette if you want to keep tasting and distinguish new flavors. So organizing clears my mind and I come up with some of my best ideas as a result.

Now back to the original question: why am I uninspired and how do I fix it? (Side note: I think I just came up with my next blog post.)

In the meantime, what inspires you?

Webosphere Overload

2009-11-17T11:14:00.000-08:00

Warning: Long post to follow. (I have been stewing on this for some time now.)

A new problem has come up for me, and I'm calling it Webosphere Overload. What is it? Well, firstly, I invented the word "webosphere." (If you don't believe me, see my post from yesterday.) The meaning of the word is all things Web 2.0/social media -- that is: Twitterville, bloggerville, Google apps, Google docs, Google reader, Google groups, online communities/discussion boards/forums, LinkedIn, Facebook, social networking sites all lumped into one huge World Wide Webosphere.

When you work on your computer pretty much all day long like I do, The Webosphere can be simultaneously totally AWESOME and utterly annoying. Awesome because without The Webosphere, my Google calendar wouldn't sync with my iPhone. Awesome because without the Webosphere, most of the freelance editing work that I've been doing lately wouldn't exist -- I have several clients with high-traffic blogs, not to mention that Twitter has resulted in multiple project leads and so far one new client.

The simultaneously annoying side: Twitter is so damn distracting when I'm trying to work. So is Google reader -- because right at the top it tells me how many unread items I have (839?!). So is Google groups (sometimes), because that is a whole host of other unread items, most of which require a response of sorts if the group is to be the least bit useful.

There are very specific aspects of The Webosphere with which I am currently annoyed: tools, trade and (for lack of a better word) Twitter.

Tools (Why can't I streamline my calendar and to-do list??)
Google calendar: I use it religiously. Even though I work on a Mac, I have never used iCal because I wanted to access my calendar from any computer, hence the genius that is Google.
Google tasks: My to-do lists are always by day of the week -- I look at what all I have to do for the week and divvy it up by what I'll do each day. So when Google tasks integrated with Google calendar, I threw a party. No other task app that I have found does this, except for Remember The Milk (which I will get to next). It's fabulous when I am on my computer. Not fabulous when I am on my iPhone.
Remember The Milk: I used RTM before Google tasks integrated with Google calendar, because, yes, it syncs with Google calendar. But not as efficiently as Google tasks, of course. It gives you a little blue check mark that you have to click on for your task list to show. I would rather have the task showing all the time so that it is right in front of my face when I look at the calendar. Alas, RTM does not do this. On the other hand, RTM iPhone app rocks. BUT it will not sync with my Google tasks.

Why is there no good app that syncs with Google tasks? And if someone knows of one, why have you not told me about it??

Trade (Are any of these sites really worth my time??)
Guru.com: One of my coworkers at The Urban Hive says that he uses Guru.com to hire freelancers all the time. So I checked it out, and it just seems like the same deal as any other social networking site: you create a profile (let me copy and past my summary/overview/resume for the ONE-thousandth time), and you're off into this special portal of The Webosphere. Except if you want full access to this special portal, you have to pay. It took me a full half-day to create my profile (and it's not even finished) before I found out about the paying part. And I can't for the life of me figure out what is so very special about this one portal.
Elance.com: Basically the same rant as above, except I don't know anyone with personal experience using the site.
Sutie101.com: What do you know? I applied and was approved as a contract writer. But the contract terms require you to write 10 articles every 3 months and you get paid per click on the ads relating to your articles. How much will that be? There is no way to know.
Constant Content: It's similar to Suite101.com in that probably anyone can submit content, but it is not an "online magazine." It is more of an archive of content that anyone can buy if/when the need arises. At least with this site writers set their own rates, and I do know someone who has used it and recommends it. But, again, is it worth my time?

Twitter (How many damn social media profiles does a person really need??)
Social Media: This section really should be titled "social media," but then I would lose the alliteration, wouldn't I?
Twitter: I joined somewhat begrudgingly and got quickly addicted. Slowly, I am becoming less addicted and am on the verge of un-following everyone.
Facebook: What would happen if I deleted my profile?
LinkedIn: I am never on it. What is the point?
Brazen Careerist: Can I say what a huge fan I am of Penelope Trunk without sounding like a kiss-ass? Maybe not, and that's OK. Brazen Careerist is the newest of my myriad Social Media Alter Egos, and it has the potential to be the best. But right now it just feels like one. more. thing. to. maintain. I don't have time to read all the comments and forum posts. I can't keep up with all the new people who join the freelancing group that I created, let alone participate in the other groups that I joined.

See? Webosphere Overload.

So here I am vacillating in Webosphere Overload and so beyond frustrated because isn't the World Wide Web supposed to make life easier and more fun? Isn't social media supposed to help me be more connected to people? Isn't the iPhone supposed increase my productivity AND solve all my problems?

Too many choices. Too many decisions. O.ver.whelmed.

Social Media Weekend (again, better late than never)

2009-11-16T10:07:00.000-08:00

When I wrote last that an event like Social Media Weekend is exactly the type of stuff that Sacramento needs if it's going to propel to the next level of legitimate metropolitan cultural hub, I really had no idea what I was talking about. I mean, how can you honestly predict the way something will turn out when it's a first time event?

It was a statement based on one part intuition, one part knowing Alejandro's track record, and one part sheer hopping for the best. No, sheer hoping that the event would exceed my expectations.

It did.

It was two days of keynote speakers and panel discussions featuring some of Sacramento's finest in the webosphere. To name a few: Jessica Smith of Jessica Knows spoke about the need for humility in business and how to apply humility to social media. Gordan Fowler from 3 Fold Communications spoke about using social media to interact with different demographics. Some of our very own Urban Hivers (Jeff Marmins and Jason Michaels) were panelists, speaking to their area of expertise in relation to social media. I had the honor to sit on a panel with one of The Urban Hive partners, Brandon Weber, along with Colleen Belcher from Sac Press and CJ Alvarado.

Sacramento SXSW, here we come!

OK, so Sacramento will probably never compete with the awesomeness that is SXSW, but that doesn't mean that this city can't (or shouldn't) have it's own unique something that provides not just a central location, but a common theme for people to rally around.

When I say "something," I envision an event of sorts that takes place over a period of time (not simply a one-day thing). Something of similar ilk to Austin's SXSW or San Francisco's Lit Quake, among others. It has to be multi-faceted and multi-media, appealing to cross-sections of multiple demographics -- see a common thread here? MULTI-fill-in-the-blank.

Of course it won't appeal to EVERYone. Anything that is successful can never appeal to everyone, because then it's trying to do too much and be too much to too many people. Then it just gets convoluted and confusing and NO one is interested, because NO one can figure out what the heck is going on.

That is why SXSW is so successful. I think. I've never been to SXSW (though I hope to go for 2010). But I read about it and I talk to a lot of folks who have gone. I also know the caliber of person that appears there as talent -- whether that be as keynote speaker, panelist, performer, whatever. The point is that the main focus of the festival is technology, music and film. At first glance, those three things might seem wildly unrelated. But stop and ask yourself: how has technology affected both music and film? The answer is obvious.

The focus is very specific, but there is a lot of freedom within that narrow focus. It allows things like non-stop music in every venue imaginable, even on the street corner, to create one of the coolest experiences that is exclusively unique to Austin, Texas. (Who knew that Texas could be so cool?)

Another aspect that (I assume) makes SXSW such a success is that the CITY is on board. And by "city," I do not mean the city government. I mean the people who make up the city -- its residents and business owners. These are the people who have to be willing to support the event because they are directly affected by the influx of people for 10 days. Imagine the traffic and parking nightmare. Your favorite local hangout is all of sudden packed to capacity for 10 days straight. And if you live in the central city (i.e. Sacramento's Midtown), drunks and party-ers parade up and down your block all. night. long.

But there is a trade off. The locals put up with such mayhem for 10 days because they must recognize the benefit that comes as a result. Can you fathom what something like this does for the local economy? We are talking hotels booked (equals hotel tax revenue), parking (parking fee revenue), eating out (patronizing local restaurants), souvenir shopping (patronizing local boutiques), partying (patronizing local bars).

Social Media Weekend is a good place to start. But what else, Sacramento?

Social Media Weekend (better late than never)

2009-11-06T16:54:00.000-08:00

Speaking of forgetting to blog about important stuff, here's something important: I'm on a panel tomorrow as part of Sacramento's first ever Social Media Weekend. (Crazy, right?)

It's an event put on by Alejandro Reyes, an Urban Hive resident and Sacramento's original Success Fool and social media rockstar. Even he won't pass up the opportunity to tell you how awesome he is (all in good fun, of course).

But seriously, Social Media Weekend. What a great concept, huh? THIS is the kind of stuff that's going to move Sacramento in the right direction -- the direction of becoming more than a government town, of maturing past its derogatory cow town reputation into a destination for culture and learning.

The panel I'm on is called Growing Local Community, and I'm honored to share the spotlight with one of the Hive's founding partners, Brandon Weber, and Colleen Belcher from The Sacramento Press.

Stay tuned for a recap over the weekend...

I'm (almost) famous

2009-11-05T15:18:00.000-08:00

Who knew that one day this modest little blog would be quoted in the SN&R?

I sure didn't.

I did know that Jenn Kistler was writing the article. She interviewed me, came to FreelanceCamp a few weekends ago, and even called me last week with a some follow-up questions (as any good reporter does). And then a photographer came out.

But when I picked up the paper yesterday afternoon and raced to find the article before James, reading the lead quote -- from this very blog -- something I wrote more than a year ago -- I...well, I ...I didn't even know what to say other than, "I'm glad it was a good writing."

Truthfully, though I'm good at hiding it most of the time (see above comment), I'm kinda camera-shy. That's why I'm a writer. Because I can say what I want to say behind the veil of my work, like this blog. I can get it just right before anyone sees it, and I don't have to look anyone in the eye or experience their reaction -- their judgment. And even still there are things I am afraid to say. Because of certain people who (might) read and judge.

It's a good thing you can read this blog and the article that quotes it without me being there to see your reaction. That's probably why I'm (almost) famous.

NaNoWriMo: Should I or shouldn't I?

2009-10-29T12:22:00.000-07:00

One of the items on my goals list (er, over-achiever list) is to participate in NaNoWriMo. But it doesn't say when. It's just on there as: "participate in write a novel month" (because when I wrote it, I couldn't remember the official name).

So, should it say, "participate in write a novel month someday" or should it say "participate in write a novel month this year"?

The problem is that November is two days away. But if you're reading this blog, you must be smart and so you already know that November is only two days away. Two days! And all this time I have been stressing about what to dress up as for Halloween.

Seriously, that is the more pressing question. Obviously. I mean, my boyfriend is going to be Max from Where the Wild Things Are. So where does that leave me? As a monster? Or the sexy-secretary standby? No thanks.

Anyway, we are getting off topic.

I asked my friend Robin if she would do NaNoWriMo with me. Apparently she has a kid and a husband and a house and some other stuff that she thinks will keep her from being able to participate. To be fair I should tell you that to "win," you have to submit 50,000 words within the 30-day time frame. But Robin did tell me today that she is going to take the next two days to think about it and make a decision. So we'll see.

I also asked my sister if she would do NaNoWriMo with me. She said totally.

Leo from Zen Habits (also a zillion other blogs) is doing it. Last year 119,301 people did it and probably even more people will be doing it this year. But if 119,301 people jumped off a bridge would I jump too? (OK, Mom. Sheesh.)

So what do you think, should I do NaNoWriMo? If you haven't heard of it, click the damn link and tell me if you think I should do it. (I.e. leave a comment already!)

Movies vs. Films. There is a difference.

2009-10-28T16:11:00.000-07:00

Do you know that movies are different from films? There's a distinction that I discovered recently while having a conversation with my boyfriend:

Him: You're a hard audience to choose movies for.
Me: That's because movies aren't the same to me as they are to you.
Him: How so?
Me: You watch movies that require thought and analysis, while I watch movies so that I can unplug and to turn my brain OFF.
Him: That's true, I don't have a lot of light film in my house.
Me: No, you don't have a lot of movies in your house.

After that, we agreed to use the words to distinguish what type of feature-length DVD we want to watch.

See, movies have been little more to me than mere entertainment. And I'm talking a low form of entertainment. Blasphemy, you say? Maybe. But you have to understand that I was raised in a household that highly regulated boob-tube and movie viewing. Example: I was a sophomore in high school when "Friends" debuted. I wasn't allowed to watch it. That year I walked to school every morning with my friend Nichole, who lived down the street from me. Every Friday morning (because the show was on Thursday nights) Nichole gave me the play-by-play of the episode from the night before. That's how I learned all about the Rachel hair cut and her romantic drama with Ross.

You also have to understand that I'm a bit of a purist when it comes to the kind of experiences I want in life. I much prefer real-life/real-time/real-world, active experiences over passive experiences. I would rather host a dinner with friends and engage in good conversation. Or go wine tasting. Or play scrabble. When I want to learn or be challenged in my thinking, I much prefer to do that actively and interactively. So I read. Or take a class. Or teach. Or go to the Crocker. Or ask purposeful questions. I don't watch a movie.

But since distinguishing between movies and films, I can now say that if I want to learn or be challenged in my thinking, from time to time I will watch a film. Especially when I watch it with someone who appreciates film as much as my boyfriend does. Even better if it's with friends, followed by stimulating conversation. Which is why I'm so excited about CinemaSpeak, a new event hosted by The Urban Hive and moderated by, ahem, my boyfriend.

Guess what? It's film followed by conversation, and it's happening this Friday.

Sometimes I forget to blog about important stuff.

2009-10-27T14:35:00.000-07:00

Most of the time I whine (usually just in my head) about how I NEVER have ANYthing to blog about. Or, my other favorite, how I NEVER have TIME to blog. (Of course we all know that the truth is I never MAKE time to blog. But that's besides the point.)

Today on my to-do list I wrote: Blog post. That means I am supposed to write a blog post. Shocker. So I sat here (here being my usual spot at The Urban Hive) for a good 15 minutes trying to think of something to blog about.

I read some Penelope Trunk. Her most recent post is titled "How to deal with doubt: Take a leap." Which made me remember this post I started and never finished about being a risk-taker. I actually had to do a search for the file because I couldn't find it right away. It was buried in the most appropriate place: a folder titled "monologues." Imagine that. It's a good post. Maybe I'll finish it next week.

Reading that post made me think about FreelanceCamp Sacramento a few weekends ago and how I was sharing in one of the sessions about the challenge of selling abstract ideas. Like coworking and FreelanceCamp. And that made me think about how cool it was that my new friends Iris and Jeremy trekked all the way up to Sacramento from Santa Cruz and their uber-cool coworking space NextSpace JUST FOR FREELANCECAMP! (p.s. Sacramento, NextSpace is a community of 150 people who want to connect, catalyze and actively be the future of the economy in Santa Cruz. Where are you, Sacramentans?? C'mon people!)

Then it hit me. Sometimes -- actually a lot of times -- I forget to blog about important stuff. Like FreelanceCamp. Like how if you didn't make, it you missed out. Big Time. Right, everyone who attended? (Read: pathetic plea for comments.) Like how bummed I was just a few weeks before the event that no one had signed up and my good friend Robin helped me look for the positives and also suggested that maybe my depressive tendencies are nutrition based, not circumstantial. Like how my new-found friend Jenny came through at the buzzer with the winning point when she designed an ad that was sponsored (donated) by Sacramento News & Review. (I still owe you a bottle of wine, Jenny. I haven't forgotten!) Like how Jenn Kistler from SN&R came to FreelanceCamp and will be writing an article about The Urban Hive that should run next week. Like how even though only 20 out of 30 registered people showed up, they were the raddest, coolest 20 people who could have showed up; they were awesome contributors, way into participation (which is absolutely essential for an event like this) and left asking when the next FreelanceCamp Sacramento will be.

Some other important stuff may have happened recently. Like my new MacBook (with help from my good pal Ryan). Like hurting the face part of my head and getting stitches. Like Hot Bag O Doughnuts at Bistro 33.

Bucket o' Buttons, OR On Slowing Down

2009-09-29T11:53:00.000-07:00

In the midst of crazy-busyness, it's nearly impossible sometimes to visualize life without the crazy-busyness. I have to be somewhere by 8:00 every morning; I have to send all these emails; I have to follow up with all these people; before I follow up with all these people I have to remember to follow up with them; I have to coordinate this event; I have to attend that event; I have to look for new business; I have to prep for class; I have to grade papers.

The tasks pile up and I collect them like buttons: tiny clear ones with four holes, medium sized ones that are mostly black but sometimes brown or yellow or green, some with two holes and some with four, and a couple of over-sized buttons that make holding the little ones even more challenging. I carry around a handful of buttons with me everywhere I go. Soon I have to use both hands cupped together. Sometimes one or two buttons fall out because I can't hold them all. So I start to toss them into a red bucket and carry the bucket around with me instead. The bucket is red because it's impossible to ignore. And the buttons pile up, one on top of another, on top of another. Chink, chink, chink, buttons get tossed into the red bucket until the it's nearly full and buttons teeter precariously on the edge of falling out.

So when friends and I have the conversation about slowing down, in my mind it sounds insurmountable -- the equivalent of climbing Mt. Everest. Because the probability of my first developing an interest in the extreme sport of mountain climbing, then taking on the intense training required to scale a mountain measuring 29,029 feet above sea level, sticking with said training, and following through on the excursion by traveling to the Himalaya is, well, let's just say it will never happen.

The point is that in the midst of a discussion on possible ways to incorporate slow into every day life, I sit there thinking about my red bucket of buttons. How pretty they all are. So colorful. So fun to look at all the different designs, and every once in a while I dig through the bucket and find a gem: it's the perfect size, not too big and not too small, just larger than a quarter. It's silver (my favorite) and matches nearly everything. It's simple: round with four holes and a beveled rim, the inside edge of which is darker than the rest of the silver, giving it a bit of a worn look.

But if I linger with my favorite buttons for too long, then the bucket starts to overflow. There's a brand new layer on the top -- all the mini, clear ones, each a single email message waiting to be opened or needing to be sent. Most of the time, only one or two buttons fall over the bucket's top edge, but not too long ago there seemed to be an endless stream of buttons cascading over, and everywhere I went I left a trail of buttons behind.

Slow down? How can I slow down when I am carrying around a red bucket of buttons? What will I do with all these buttons? I can't just leave them in a pile on my bedroom floor. They need to be sorted, organized properly before I can stop thinking about them. I'll shove one batch into my left pocket and another into my right. I can put more in Ziploc baggies and deal with them one bag at a time. Maybe envelopes is a better system.

Sigh. I will probably never get rid of all the buttons. Baggies, envelopes, whatever. Even if I sort what I have and get rid of a few batches, just as I'm passing off the envelope with all the mini clear buttons, another pile comes in.

So last weekend for three whole days I didn't do anything about the pile of mini clear buttons. I let them pile up. Instead, I did things I actually want to spend time doing like read, take a nap, sleep in, read, drink wine, eat dinner with friends, buy fresh flowers, and read some more.

Do you know what happened to that pile of buttons I neglected for three whole days? Nothing. It was still there when I came back to it on day number four.

From the archives

2009-09-22T16:37:00.000-07:00

Here is a story I wrote a few years ago. I found it while cleaning out a pile of papers on my dresser. It's dated 11-4-93. You can do the math.

It was evening. The sun was just barely above the horizon making the sky a pinkish-purple color and the water was washing up on the shore. The ocean was only down the street and you could hear the water washing off the sand as the tide was going out. Not far down the river, a boat blew its high pitched horn, telling the security guard to open the draw bridge and let him through.

Peter sat at the window of the upstairs bedroom, squishing his nose against it like a pig's snout, and his blue eyes were round with wonder. As the draw bridge started to open, he jumped up, gave a cry of delight and started down the spiral wooden stair case. He walked straight ahead and stopped at the sliding glass door. Then got a running start into the kitchen and slid across the floor.

"Grandma. Grandma," he shouted, gasping for breath. "The draw bridge is opening up! Come on, Grandma. Come see," he said, tugging at her hand. Reluctantly, leaving her pot of boiling water, Grandma followed Peter around the counter and out the door. On their way out, Peter was yelling, "Come on everybody! Greg! Danny! Tony! Come see the draw bridge!"

By the time they all got down to the beach, the draw bridge was almost ready to close. All the little cousins jumped up and down and squealed in happiness. They had been waiting all day for a boat to be tall enough to make the drawbridge open. Finally, it was here.

Just as the bridge closed, Grandpa came running on to the beach, leaving footprints in the sand and his silver dollar hair shinning in the sun. "Come on kids! It's almost time to go on the boat to see the fireworks," he cried, slipping an arm around his oldest granddaughter, Alicia.

"Hurray!" all the kids shouted. But, there was one grandchild missing.

"Hey," Alicia said, "where's Jan?"

Nobody heard her. They were all running across the deck to the boat, waiting for Grandpa.

Alicia walked up the steps, her blonde pony tail swishing back and forth. She searched for Janna in the sun room where they always play house, but Janna wasn't there. Alicia continued to search the house, past the stairs and into the "mirror room," as the kids called it because of the wall of mirrors. She looked at the couch and there was Janna, sleeping like a baby. Her brown hair was smoothed out on the pillow behind her and there were impressions on her cheek from a blanket. She looked so calm and peaceful dozing lazily in the late afternoon sun.

"Jan. Jan, wake up," Alicia said, shaking her gently.

Janna yawned and slowly opened her eyes with a wistful look on her face. " 'Licia, I had a dream that it was time to go on the boat. We were just coming into sight of the Statue of Liberty. The you woke me up. Oh, it was wonderful."

"Jan," she said, "it is time. You're not dreaming now! It's time to get on the boat!"

Janna, suddenly awake, jumped off the couch and ran out of the house, down to the dock and waited impatiently with the other kids. All the kids were jumping around with ants in their pants, huddling around the gate that held them back from the boat, until Grandpa gave the word.

As soon as the last child was on the boat, the motor roared and they pulled away from the dock. As they sailed out to the ocean, all that was visible was the outline of the boat against the cherry red sun set.

redefining "what I do," OR Why I (you) need an editor*

2009-09-01T11:48:00.000-07:00

Since venturing into the uncharted waters of freelancing, I have been attempting to market myself as a writer/editor. Most of the time when I say the words, "I am a freelance writer/editor," I get a comical combination of blanks stares, quizzical looks, brow-furrowing or some variation of a facial expression that says, "what does that mean, exactly?"

It's a valid question. One that I've had to answer, and re-answer for myself many times over during the past two years. When one says she's a "writer," people seem to assume that she writes ANYTHING. While this is typically true -- freelance writers (and freelancers in general) do humorously compare themselves to prostitutes in the vein that they will pretty much do anything for money -- this is not true for me.

At the beginning of this year, I identified some specific things about the types of clients I wanted: mainly they should be able to give me consistent, recurring business. Last year, most of my freelancing was for small businesses with a one-time need, which meant that I spent a lot of time on each project and each new client. This didn't seem to be efficient use of my time because after I spent time and energy learning how to work with one particular client, I basically had to start all over again with the next, new client on the next, new project. I was never re-using the knowledge that I had gained with a specific client, nor was I building much of a relationship with clients because they didn't have the need for an writer/editor on a regular basis (these types of projects were things like writing web copy for a new website, revising a bio, writing brochure and, occasionally, ad copy).

Identifying specifics that I wanted in my work and in my clients helped a lot. It meant I needed to find people who regularly create content and either need help creating that content, or help shaping it. I was mildly successful until life got in the way.

Life always seems to get in the way. My problem is that I'm in a perpetual catch-22: the stuff that pays my bills (and therefore takes up most of my time) isn't necessarily the stuff I want to be spending my time and energy on. There are two columns -- the income-earning column and the passion-generating column. How can I delete things from the income-earning column to make room for more stuff in the passion-generating column without going bankrupt? Or, is the question how do I turn the passion-generating column into the double entendre of one column that's both passion-generating and income-earning?

Those are questions for another day.

For now, the point of all of this is to say that when life gets in the way, I get frustrated. I get discouraged. I start berating myself for getting distracted, letting things pull me away from the stuff I really want to be working on. But how can I berate myself for paying my bills?

So then I start thinking, OK, what is the one thing that I can focus on that will a) earn me some moolah, b) not sap all of my creative energy and c) keep me plugged into the world of writing and communicating (since that is the thing that drives me).

What I have discovered (I think) is that I'm a better editor than I am a writer. Well, let me qualify: when it comes to creating content for others, I edit other people's stuff better than I can create original stuff for them. Unless I have creative liberty over the content (i.e., it's my stuff), I should be the editor.

Anyone who writes needs an editor. Penelope Trunk needs an editor. I need an editor. In fact, I wish I had an editor. And I'll tell you why: if you write the stuff that's in your own head, of course it make sense to you because it came from your head, but as soon as you try to get inside someone else's head and write what is in that other person's head, your writing task just got ridiculously more difficult. BUT, to be the objective eyes on what someone else has written out of his or her own head, well now we're talking. I can be the person to say, "this doesn't make sense," or "what do you mean by this exactly?" Because chances are, if it doesn't make sense to me, it won't make sense to most readers.

See why I need an editor?

In the end, writing is about communicating, and doing so as clearly and as succinctly as possible. Sometimes, no, most of the time people need help clarifying and fine tuning what they are trying to say. Writing is a process and I help people through that process.

More on what good is an editor to come soon...

*Today I wrote a guest post for my good friend and personal stylist (yes, I have a stylist), Kari. The title of the post is "Why I (you) need a personal stylist/thrift consultant." Man, I'm needy.

losing and subsequently finding cell phone battery: a metaphor for life

2009-08-24T12:14:00.001-07:00

Last night as I rode home on Scottie Scooterson, just after passing through the Stockton Boulevard and T Street intersection, the antique that is my cell phone flew out of my pocket and was dashed upon the asphalt. (Disclaimer: a pocket is not the normal, nor preferred, spot for carrying a cell phone while riding on a scooter. It was the first time I had done that, and shall be the last.)

Immediately I stopped, pulled to the side of the road and looked back. There lie the cell phone: on the double yellow line in the center of the street. Without thinking about the best way to maneuver (i.e., park Scottie), I turned around, pulled up next to the massacred cell phone, leaned down and picked it up. Surprisingly, the phone was in tact, but missing its battery. I glanced around the intersection, but didn't see the 1 x 1.5-inch gray square anywhere on the ground. Cars seemed to speed toward me, and I zipped away before causing traffic confusion.

As I rode, I resigned myself to being phone-less for a few days until I was able to get a replacement. (I've been threatening to get an iPhone for weeks. But it does feel like a huge financial commitment.) Mental notes: send email to family letting them know what happened, separate email to business contacts and associates, direct message people on twitter, borrow a phone if necessary. Not ideal, but definitely doable...

When I arrived to have dinner with my boyfriend (yes, boyfriend), and I told him about what happened, he said, "let's circle back to look for the battery." I agreed, albeit reluctantly, and we took his car.

There's no way that tiny piece of plastic is going to be there, and if it is, it's probably already been smashed by a car running over it.

(That's what was going on inside my head.)

We got to the intersection and pulled over. Both of us got out of the car and walked up and down opposite sides of the street. If you're not familiar with this spot, it's kind of a wonky intersection: Stockton Boulevard and T Street intersect more at a diagonal, and coming from the west there is a small side street that has access to Stockton via T Street. It's almost a 5-way intersection. So if you are approaching Stockton from the west, there is a left turn lane, a straight lane and a KEEP CLEAR section at the light.

Since the phone had landed in the middle of the street, I tried looking for the battery in the same area. There were cars in the turn lane and I scanned the double yellow line along the tires waiting for the green light. I was looking for smashed pieces of plastic. But nothing was there. When the cars pulled away, I went to the middle of the street, walked the line, and scanned both sides for smashed plastic.

Even if the thing wasn't smashed, it's so tiny and light gray that if it landed on white paint in the KEEP CLEAR section, it will barely stand out. And it's getting dark. And yet here I am, walking in the middle of the street of one of the busiest intersections in Sacramento.

In spite of my inner monologue, I kept walking up and down the yellow line, glancing back and forth in either direction to watch for oncoming traffic. I secretly wished that cars would come so that we could call it quits.

This is ridiculous.

Then I spotted a square plastic thing. I walked directly to it, picked it up and walked to the other side of the road.

"Is that it?" he said.
"Yep."
"Well done."

We got back in the car.

"This is kind of a metaphor for your life right now."
"My cell phone?"
"Finding the battery -- you found it. You didn't give up. See what a little extra effort got you?"

writer's workday @theurbanhive

2009-08-17T17:12:00.000-07:00

For many months now I have bemoaned the fact that working and/or writing in isolation is, for me, not fun. There's something about having people around that make sitting in front of a computer all day less like having daily rations shoved at you through a slot in the door while in solitary confinement.

Even if I don't have a single conversation all day, I'd rather be surrounded by people, natural light, vintage tunes and peripheral conversation. I'd rather hear bits and pieces of discussion, answer a quick question or ask my own question than have no one other than Sydney (my cat) to talk to. Usually I'm telling her to shut up all day long anyway because she won't. Seriously, she meows all day long. She's the most vocal cat I know.

Here's a perfect example: the other day something I was writing required reference to the Super Bowl. Being decidedly an un-sports-fan (go ahead, hate me if you must), I don't think I've ever actually written the words. Hence, the following conversation:

Me: Is "super bowl" one word or two?
Jason: I don't know, have you bing'd it?
Me: Bing?
Jason: It's a search engine.
Me: (check bing.com) Bing says it's two words.
Jason: (subsequently tweets exchange)

Viola -- two new things learned.

So whether other writers feel the need to work in community, it matters not -- some writers need it more than others, some don't need it at all. Regardless, on Thursday last week I simply invited writers to work for a day at The Urban Hive. There's also a social networking group for Sacramento-area writers called Writers Who Wine that I just so happen to be a member of (no coincidence there), and the monthly event was on the same day as the Writer's Workday (no coincidence there, either, thanks to JT Long and Jennifer Basye Sanders).

The day couldn't have worked out any better, and I plan to host it again next month. We had something like 15 new people through the space in one day, and more people who weren't able to make it expressed interest in the concept. A funky-artsy place to set up laptop for cat-interruption-less hours of typing away on an essay, webcomic or blog post -- what writer wouldn't love it? I haven't met one yet.

Just because I don't use Bounce anymore doesn't mean I don't love my mom.

2009-08-12T14:14:00.000-07:00

While folding my laundry last night, I couldn't help but notice how mountain-fresh the clothes smelled straight from the dryer.

"Huh," I thought. "No wonder Mom uses Bounce."

I kept folding with the following internal monologue:

Bounce makes the clothes smell SO good. Not to mention the anti-static cling factor. Nice. Wait a second, what's this? This is not a Bounce dryer sheet. Oh, yeah, I ran out of Bounce and grabbed these things called "lavender dryer bags." They were right next to the laundry detergent at Trader Joe's. Weird. When did I stop using Bounce? I like these things better. They smell way better than Bounce. They give my clothes a distinct smell. Why did I use Bounce for so long?

Because it's what Mom always used.

When I went away to college, I had to buy my own dryer sheets for the first time. I bought Bounce. Partly because it was an easy choice. I didn't have to try to figure out what to buy, I just stuck with what I knew. It was habit. But I bought Bounce mostly because it's what my mom used, and I wanted my mommy.

After college, I kept buying Bounce. This time definitely out of habit. It's one of those things like shampoo or deodorant, you just always buy the same stuff. Why change a good thing? If it ain't broke, don't fix it, yadda, yadda, yadda. It's also a comfort thing. But comfort can be dangerous.

When you're comfortable for too long, it turns into complacency. And complacency is dangerously close to apathy. Isn't apathy what happens when you do things without thinking about them? You lose interest. You lose passion because before long, you don't even know why you do the things you do. Like buying Bounce for years -- if you don't try anything new, you may never discover the sheer joy of a lavender dryer bag.

why am I a writer again?

2009-08-07T15:46:00.000-07:00

The month of July kicked my ass. Big time. (For proof, see previous post.) And I'm still recovering. (For proof, listen to me: cough, cough, cough...)

It wasn't more than a week ago that I was telling a friend that it just seems like I'll never make it. Right now I have to do about 27 other jobs besides writing to make a living. And even then, sometimes I don't make enough to make a living. It seems like I'll never be just a writer.

Because of the hell-that-was-July (in spite of my fabulous Throwback Swing Dance birthday party), I've been behind on a bunch of shit, including (but not limited to) reading blogs. Big surprise. So, today, I was taking a few minutes to catch up on some reading that's usually good for inspiration.

Not sure that was such a good idea.

Reading this reminded me what and absolutely insane idea it is to be a writer. Ugh. Will someone please smack me upside the head and tell me to get a real job?

The Ideal Job

2009-06-26T16:55:00.000-07:00

Not long ago, a friend of mine asked me about the ideal job of the Gen X & Y professional. Specifically, she wanted to know how she could find out more about how Gen X & Y professionals would describe their "ideal job."

My first response was to ask her if she'd tweeted the question. (While I am on Twitter, I do have much to say about the phenomenon, as you can imagine. Don't get me started right now, that is a whole other conundrum for a whole other monologue.)

But after getting her email, my brain wouldn't stop thinking about my own "ideal job." Funny thing is, I don't have a job. I wouldn't even say that I have multiple jobs right now. More like projects -- multiple and myriad projects. So many projects that I'm borderline overloaded, over-committed, over-extended, however you want to describe it -- scattered, even.

My current projects:

6-week summer course at Sacramento City College (read: grading 25 essays per week between now and the end of July)
The Urban Hive (read: finally part of establishing an uber cool coworking space in Midtown with two uber cool partners, James and Brandon)
Just Write Sacramento (read: creative program director a week-long summer writing program for high schoolers)
freelance writing/editing (read: aspiring toward this goal; and actually missed the mark by only $250 last month)
docent training at The Crocker Art Museum (read: must plan and lead a tour first thing tomorrow morning)
kick-ass party for my 30th birthday (read: not necessarily "job related," but important nonetheless)

Whew. Even just writing all that out makes me tired. That doesn't even include the fun stuff like the weekend trip to Ashland my sis and I take every year in July, or the weekend I'm trying to get up to Tahoe for a bit of Q.T. with the fam, or plain old, every day socializing with friends.

Regardless, I still consider everything I do my "ideal job." Why? It is exactly this: I set my own schedule. I choose how I spend my time. I choose what projects I want to work on. Granted, not all of them are income-earning projects, but some stuff in life is worth more than a paycheck. And I wouldn't trade that freedom and flexibility for any amount of money in the world.

The response I wrote to my friend who initially asked me the question also included my standard diatribe about the Creative Class and how this generation is redefining "job." We're basically creating a new workstyle because our lifestyle depends on it.

The only thing left to do is find Sacramento's Creative Class -- where are you, and what's your "ideal job"?

Thursday, June 4, 2009

2009-06-18T10:06:00.000-07:00

On the train, I looked out the window and tears rolled down my cheeks.

Tiny purple wildflowers flecked the foliage along the train tracks as we whizzed past. Bits of confetti sprinkled from heaven. I imagined my tears running down, out the window and dripping along the path to stain the flowers. Passing over a river, the tears continued to pour down and mingle with the mountain water, fresh, cool and splashing over rocks.

I tried so hard to figure out why I couldn’t stop crying. The surface answer is that every time I say goodbye to Omi, I cry.

What if it is our last goodbye?

Just writing the questions brings another flood of tears.

But there is something beyond the fear of a last goodbye.

A visit to Omi’s is essentially the equivalent to staying at an authentic gasthaus in the German countryside: fresh coffee awaits every morning the moment you get up and shuffle downstairs, bare feet kissing the hardwood floor. For breakfast, pick from a schmorgasborg of pancakes, waffles, French toast, super snackers, scrambled eggs – or, all of the above.

Take a seat at the breakfast table, a café bistro set with red plaid seat cushions and tablecloth that match the kitchen’s red walls. A soft breeze whispers through the house from the yellow sun room, soft and cheery, brushing the lace curtains to the side until it swirls around the stairway’s pine banister.

After breakfast, sip a second cup of coffee outside, rocking in the porch swing with the flower boxes, wind chimes and humming birds.

She told me about Mutti, her mother, a petite woman who worked culinary miracles in their tiny Frankfurt apartment, where the kitchen is smaller than an American bathroom. Young Marlies used to watch Mutti in the kitchen and wonder how she always seemed to produce delicious morsels of food when there was none.

“She was an angel,” Omi said. “Sometimes I even saw her wings.”

She'll be 81

2009-06-03T15:03:00.000-07:00

Marie Louise (Marlies) Davis
July 6, 1928-

Bill’s true love.
Linda’s mother.
Janna’s Omi.

Said goodbye to her today.

Tears. Uncontrollable tears.

Why so many tears?

He was just 52

2009-06-01T10:59:00.000-07:00

Robert Lee Mallahan
July 15, 1931-March 31, 1984

Marlies's first love.
Linda's father.
Janna's Papaw.

Saw his grave today.

Tears. Uncontrollable tears.

Why so many tears?

The Power of Ten

2009-05-25T21:03:00.000-07:00

My sister babysits for two little girls who are 7 and 4 (I think). Recently, the 7-year-old asked Kendra when she was born, and she said, "1988." To which the little girl brilliantly responded, "Wow, you were born in the NINETEENS?"

Age. Time. Years. Change. Milestones. Turning points.

I'm traveling right now on what I think will be the trip of a lifetime, and it occurred to me today how apropos it is that I'm taking it this year -- my 30th year.

Three decades. It doesn't sound like much to say it like that. But then again, I did witness the rise of the Internet and the Information Age. I mean, when I was in high school, we didn't even have cell phones or text messaging (read with same tone as parents saying, "when I was a kid, we had to walk up hill both ways, in the snow.") But what is that when compared to things like T.V. and men walking on the moon? (There is this paragraph comment by E.B. White that I use with my students in a revision exercise. He wrote it as a response to when man walked on the moon. You know, back in the nineteens.)

The trip. I am visiting family and friends on a three-week trek from Ohio to New Hampshire to North Carolina. The family I'm seeing are my three living grandparents, all 80, or close to it. My plan is to spend time with each of them collecting and recording family stories. (I even bought myself a handy-dandy digital recorder just for the occasion.)

But before getting to Omi's (Mom's mom), I spent yesterday and today with a college friend, who also lives in Ohio. Today we figured out that we've known each other for 12 years, just a little longer than one decade. (I have one friend who I've known for almost 21 years, and I know that number to the exact date because we met the day before my sister was born.) We talked about how much changes in 10 years. When we met, we were 17 and 18, freshman in college. Now she has been married for 7 years and has four kids: 6, 4, 2 and 7 months.

Omi will be 81 in July. She was born and raised in Frankfurt, Germany; moved to America in 1954.

Wonder what she'll say has changed in eight decades.

Why Sacramento Needs Coworking

2009-05-21T16:23:00.000-07:00

These days, coworkers don’t have to work for the same company. As a noun, the word “coworker” typically conjures up the default image of people sitting inside little cubes.

But no more.

We are on the cusp of a new economy where workers reclaim and repurpose stale philosophies. Enter coworking, and a movement driven by creative professionals who refuse to be bound by the stodgy cubicle and the 9 to 5 schedule.

These are the people redefining “coworker.” They do all kinds of creative things; they think differently about working, business, food, economics, and even church. They are learning how to cowork in every aspect of life.

They are members of the creative class, which, as Richard Florida writes, is quickly becoming the dominating working class and will have huge economic impacts if creatives in key metropolitan areas can collaborate as a cohesive group.

The spirit behind coworking is inherent in the word, a verb: working together, collaborating. It’s more than a single location; rather it’s a way to harness this city’s Creative Class. To cowork is to collaborate – something that Sacramento desperately needs.

Note: this post is cross-published here.

To Blog or Not To Blog...

2009-04-02T11:59:00.000-07:00

When I started this blog, I resolved to never begin a post with "well, it's been FOREVER (said in annoying valley-girl voice) since I've posted, but..." blah, blah, blah, (insert excuses for not blogging).

But on the off chance that my adoring readers are out there pining away after my words, asking themselves "Why hasn't Janna written in so long?" or "Will she ever post again?", this is why I haven't been blogging lately. (Hint: "Nicole" is yours truly.)

Recently Naked

2009-02-27T21:18:00.000-08:00

Sometimes being a working nomad has its perks. Today was one of those days. After spending the morning working on non-online required stuffs (on account of our recently unreliable pirated Internet signal), I met a friend at Naked Lounge’s newest location at 11th and H Streets.

We worked on a project together for about an hour, and then I spent the rest of the afternoon there, happily chipping away at my to-do list (which now syncs to my Google calendar, thanks to this nifty web site) all while soaking in the inspiring vibe.

Now, there’s lots to like about this place: the green comfy chair in the corner, the cheery yellow walls, cool fruit photography, reclaimed airport chairs (or are they DMV chairs?), funky retro upholstery, cement counter tops – even vintage coasters! But, I gotta say, the coolest thing was the trip to the bathroom.

You get this key that’s like something straight out of the space age (which, I guess goes with the whole motif of the Retro Lodge project) that you hold over a sensor, barely touching it, and when the light flashes green, the door’s unlocked. But, even cooler, on the way to the bathroom, you get a sneak peek of the rest of the pad. Oh, and, in the bathroom hallway, there’s a Frank Lloyd Wright quote painted on the wall.

30 and Single

2009-02-19T14:33:00.000-08:00

A few years back, I resigned myself to being 30 and single. It was kind of a proud declaration made in jest because deep down I didn't actually think that would (and I hoped it wouldn't) be my reality. And yet, here I am, the year of my 30th birthday and, you guessed it, single. Well, ok, my birthday is in July, so it's a few months away. But still.

And the crazy thing is, it didn't really to bother me. I mean, I have a good life. I love where I live. I have a lot of great friends. My business is on the brink of taking off. My family lives relatively close and I see them fairly often (sometimes too often). My parents are living, married, and love each other. I get to do all sorts of cool stuff like teach at a community college and train to be a docent at the Crocker Art Museum -- oh, and let's not forget Scottie. I mean, seriously, what's not to love about buzzing around Midtown on a scooter? Especially when the sun is shining. It makes me feel very Tuscan.

But I got a phone call from my mom today, and fam Santoro will be celebrating her birthday this weekend. No biggie, right? Except for the fact that my 26-year-old brother now has a girlfriend. (Maybe if I link to his blog he'll actually update it. Ahem, Tony. I know you're reading this in your RSS reader, which is a lame excuse to not leave comments.) And not only will she be joining us for Mom's birthday dinner, but so will her parents. And it begins.

Actually, it started a few weeks ago when my best friend Sarah had her 30th birthday. She has a 3-month-old son and there's this picture from the party of me holding Mikey (that's her son). My mom saw the pic (this very one).

DANGER! (Cue alarm bells.) Warning to any single women approaching 30 (or any age for that matter): Do not, I repeat DO NOT, allow Mom to see photos of you holding an infant of any shape, size, species.

"Ohh," Mom cooed. "You look like a mom."

A statement that she quickly followed up with, "I want grand kids," delivered, of course, with the most sad/hopeful puppy-dog-face that a mom could muster. (Considering that my mom happens to be Cartoon Mom (another story for another day), mustering such a face wasn't that difficult for her.)

And when we talked today, she started telling me about a friend of a friend who knows a guy who's "26, solid, really nice guy," blah, blah, blah.

Rewind. What?

26? Nope.

Next, please.

Now, now, now, you're probably thinking exactly what my mom said to me, "You're just narrowing your selection even more."

Like it's not already uber-narrow. Sorry, but I've kind of always known that it's going to take one heck of a guy to put up with me. I don't mean to belittle men or to sound conceited, but I haven't met many guys who can handle a strong-willed, overly assertive, wildly ambitious, admittedly border-line controlling woman like myself.

If I had, well then I probably wouldn't be single, now would I?

In Progress

2009-02-13T13:54:00.001-08:00

The title of my (yet-to-be-published) memoir is Woman in Progress. I've adopted it as my mantra, and I've also discovered the mysterious beauty of all things in progress.

In progress spills into other areas of my life: I'm part of a writer's group, and we call ourselves Writers in Progress. I also give the students in my writing classes the same name.

In progress embodies an inherent attraction. Attractive because in it there is room to grow, which subsequently presents a challenge. If something, say a piece of writing, is a work in progress, then it's not finished. It's not quite right and still requires the attention of its creator. It needs some tweaking, so the writer returns to the keyboard, adding sentences, searching for better words, deleting the unnecessary and writing more. A work in progress by definition is flawed.

In progress alleviates the self-inflicted pressure of perfection. Sometimes, after weeks like the past two, I am tired. I need to rest. But this nagging feeling in my neck and between my shoulder blades won't let me -- it's the pressure to do more, to check my email, to start the laundry, to not sit down until every last pile is sorted and paper in its place, all neat and filed away under "2009 cell phone bills." Yes, I even label manila file folders in pencil.

In progress means I don't have to file. Not right this instant, anyway. But if saying no to something as trivial as filing is so hard, imagine what a difficult time I have saying no when my dad asks me to help him with his business. Or when a student asks me to accept an essay after the due date, even though the syllabus explicitly says (in bold and italics) "No late work is accepted." Or when a friend invites me to a party.

It's hardest to say no to time with people I love. Because I know what it feels like when they say no to me -- like something else is more important than our relationship. Like they don't actually want to spend time with me. And I don't ever want to make another person feel the way I do when an invitation gets turned down. But I also have to remember that I know what it feels like to need to say no.

By claiming the mantra Woman in Progress, I concede that, what do you know, I'm not Wonder Woman after all. I give myself permission to say no, even when I really don't want to. Being a Woman in Progress allows me to practice extending grace by extending it to the one person who probably needs it the most: me.

Celebrating Small Victories

2009-01-23T08:36:00.000-08:00

As a woman who dreams big, often it's more than challenging for me to appreciate the little things, the baby steps essential in working toward the ultimate goal of full-fledged running. Yesterday, though, I experienced a string of small victories and, slowly but surely, I'm learning to accept, no, to understand their function: they are stakes in the railroad tracks, bolts in the bridge, bricks in the pyramid -- how I need them, lest the whole huge thing crumble to the ground.

Hence, a few of my small victories:

My office. If you've been keeping up with me, you know that I often lament working from home and how difficult I find it to sit in isolation with virtually no contact to the outside world for hours on end. I also lament not having a dedicated workspace. Well my friends, I am happy to report that, yes, the photo to the left with the cheery yellow chair depicts a corner of my humble abode that has turned into an office of sorts. The bonus: I think my ever-so-gracious roommates get a bigger kick out of calling it "my office" than I do.

My schedule. Or, shall I say, the hairy beast that I am forever attempting to wrestle into submission? Frankly, I'd begun to think that there's no such thing as a happy medium between working for money and working for passion. But -- hark! Me thinks it be a glimmer of hope in the distance. Ahem. Er, I mean, for as much as I whine about how often my schedule changes and the inconsistency of it all, I guess you could say that every cloud has a silver lining, no? Despite the fact that this semester finds me teaching just one class at Sacramento City College (thus giving up 1/4 of the guaranteed monthly income I had last semester), I've parlayed the new teaching schedule into modified M-T-W hours at my part-time office gig. The bonus: Thursdays and Fridays are all jms ink all the time, baby. Oh yeah.

My work. The recently acquired office and schedule have been like a jolt of Red Bull to my working veins -- just hook me up to an IV and we'll be all set. In all seriousness, I'm revising the jms ink biz plan of attack, the coworking project proposal (more on that to come in future adventures of The Janna Monologues), implementing new strategies, setting new goals. In short, I'm completely reinvigorated. Can ya tell? The bonus: Ironically, in the last few days I've actually caught myself conjuring up excuses to go to the office. Who does that?

My celebration. What good would small victories be without small celebrations? Last night I had the distinct pleasure of hosting dinner for some dear friends. I toasted to small victories and we each shared a small victory from the day. In addition to what I've written here, we also celebrated an ESL student who clearly described the teacher she wanted to have for her next class, a 4-month-old baby who took a bottle from his daddy on the first try, and questions from coworkers that validated one friend's new position at work. The bonus: Celebrating with friends makes small victories seem, well, not so small.

Anyone else celebrating small victories?

On the Verge

2009-01-17T16:59:00.000-08:00

Last weekend, my roommate and I saw Nuclear Projects and Other Works at Verge Gallery during 2nd Sat. The cool thing about this show is that the artist, Stephen Kaltenbach, has a painting that is part of the permanent collection at the Crocker Art Museum. And even cooler (or at least to me) is that because I am training to be a docent at the Crocker, I recently acquired a good bit of knowledge about Kaltenbach and his painting Portrait of My Father, which is in the museum's Tsakopoulos Gallery of Contemporary Art. Now for the cool part: Kaltenbach was there for the opening of his exhibit, and I even shook his hand.

Art enthusiasts looking for some exceptional art should absolutely see this show. Even better, attend Kaltenbach's lecture on February 5.

2009: Unresolved

2009-01-15T15:38:00.000-08:00

This time last year (almost to the day), I came to terms with the fluctuating nature of life and have since been attempting to embrace that notion, failing along the way.

Several conversations lately have revolved around the New Year. Two questions presented to me in the last several weeks: "What are your goals for this year?" and "What word describes your outlook for 2009?"

My answer? I'm resolved to remain indefinitely unresolved. Sure, there's an inkling trying to tell me that some of the seeds planted in 2008 will take root and maybe even sprout to see the light of 2009 days. Sure, I’m excited and somewhat expectant. But the realist in me (some may call it the pessimist) aims to temper that expectancy with a healthy dose of skepticism, or caution.

Hence, the list of items officially, and maybe indefinitely, unresolved for 2009:

Unresolved: My schedule. For the life of me, I cannot seem to maintain a consistent schedule – something vital to my productivity. Inconsistency aside, there’s also a Grand-Canyon-sized crater missing in the fluidity of my time (read: highly fragmented). Most days, I work an office gig in the mornings until noon, which leaves the rest of the day wide open for me to focus on my own myriad of projects, writing and otherwise. Sounds like an ideal situation, does it not? Problem is that, as I have bemoaned on this blog before, I don’t have a dedicated work space, which means that I usually head home, change clothes, eat lunch and maybe, if I’m lucky, end up at the dining room table in front of my laptop. Or at the Weatherstone in front of my laptop. Getting back into the groove of working, though, gets thwarted with little effort by things like laundry, dishes in the sink, litter box that hasn’t been cleaned for a week (yes, I admit it). Will I ever develop those ever-elusive writerly habits and/or the willpower to never check my email in the morning?

Unresolved: My teaching. As evidenced by a recent experience, I haven’t quite figured out if teaching is for me. I have a fairly keen sense of self-awareness that has taught me to be careful of high expectations – they only lead to disappointment. Admittedly, I probably expected way too much from teaching in terms of imagining myself whimsically guiding eager students down a path of enlightenment to their creative destiny. Most students I’ve encountered so far simply want to pass, a C being perfectly acceptable. What I’ve come to realize is that I get far more gratification from offering my feedback to peers – other writers who appreciate my comments because they value the time I put into evaluating their work, which is something I’m not sure that I’m going to find in the classroom.

Unresolved: My writing. I’m a writer. I’m a writer. I’m a writer. Maybe if I just keep telling myself that, it will sink in and stick. Some of my daily/weekly/monthly activities make me feel like a writer: I read and/or talk about writing almost every day; I teach writing this semester twice a week; I participate in a monthly writer’s group; and every so often (it was three times last year), I read some of my work in front of a large-ish audience. But the amount of actual, physical writing I do? That’s debatable. If you count email, I write every day. If you don’t count email, well, that’s where it gets tricky. See the whole “unresolved: my schedule” section above? Um, yeah, that kind of affects whether or not I’ve set aside dedicated writing time. I think what I need is a constant: one thing in my schedule that can be a regular appointment of sorts around which I can begin to build a more consistent routine.

Unresolved: My business. Er, so-called business. I did establish a business in 2008. Got a license and business checking account to boot. It’s called jms ink. I even had some steady business for a while. Imagine that, establish a business and actually get some. What a concept. That, however, has dwindled, along with my paychecks and meager income that I start with on a monthly basis. So before last semester ended, I sat down and wrote up a list of goals for winter break, which included actually finishing a business plan for jms ink and a strategy for drumming up some more, uh, business. Well, the bad news is that the business plan didn’t quite get finished yet (and spring semester starts in less than a week), and the strategy hasn’t quite been implemented. But the good news is that with spring semester comes a, shall we say, revised schedule that has me working for jms ink still part-time (amidst the myriad other things I do to eek out a living), but for a full two days a week.

Unresolved: My relationships. Not just dating/romantic relationships, but relationships with friends, family, roommates, colleagues and even peripheral acquaintances. Someone asked me recently if I “schedule my friends.” I was taken aback for a moment because I’d never really stopped to think about it that way. But, as strange as owning up to it sounded, I had to answer, yes. Then myself and I had to agree that maybe scheduling friends is a bit sterile, but it’s no more sterile than scheduling time for one’s self – and how many of us should do that, but don’t? People don’t often talk about how managing and maintaining relationships are hard things to do, and requires deliberate effort – we choose how much time to spend with whom and when. And if we don’t choose consciously to spend time with people that we actually want to spend time with, we still choose subconsciously because not choosing in and of itself is a choice. Maybe all that sounds esoteric, but what I am getting at is that my network is full of valuable contacts, with whom I don’t spend enough time maintaining relationships, and I’ve lost touch with a lot of folks that I wish I hadn’t.

Unresolved: My spirituality. A relatively new topic for this blogspace, but I must admit that it’s hardly new to the Life and Times of Janna Marlies Santoro. The thing is that I don’t want to be labeled a “religious” writer or a “Christian” writer, and so I tend to resist writing about faith and spirituality all together. At least in a public forum. But lately I am beginning to see how closely faith relates to every aspect of life – even for folks who say they don’t have any. The truth that I'm learning is that everything matters: a person’s spiritually, or lack thereof, affects the way she lives, her priorities, how she spends her time, the decisions she makes, how she treats others, how spends her money, what kind of food she buys. For what it’s worth, I grew up in a non-denomination Bible-believing Christian church. I do believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of God and the sinless human incarnation of God. But my journey over the past several years has brought me to a point of disillusionment with mainstream Christianity and especially with the contemporary church. I don’t like the negative connotation that the label “Christian” has earned in history because of those who claim it, and when people ask, I say that I am a follower of Jesus. Besides that, as a writer, I never warmed up to the idea of alienating a good chunk of readership by marketing the fact that, among other "religious" practices, I pray regularly. Still, figuring out how to write about all of this is a mystery that I may never solve. In the meantime, though, I plan to continue writing about real life experiences that I know other real life women (spiritual or not) can relate to. After all, I’m just one of many women in progress.

Freelancing: A Year In

2009-01-11T17:48:00.000-08:00

It's not harder than I thought it would be, it's just suckier than I thought it would be.

10 reasons why:

1. For the life of me, I cannot get any business out of one particular local publication that I desperately want to write for. Wonder if I actually sound as desperate as I really am. Maybe that's the problem.
2. Teaching consumes me. Which means that while I'm teaching, there's no time to drum up business or follow up with clients, neither potential or existing.
3. If there's no time to drum up business, there's definitely no time to drum up ideas, let alone pitch them.
4. Besides, my best ideas right now go straight into the classroom.
5. I lost my biggest client a few months ago.
6. For all intents and purposes, I'm still working in isolation, craving the creative community that I envisioned and described more than one year ago.
7. In order to supplement the income, I'm also the part-time admin assistant for two local church communities. Which means that my days are so fragmented that I usually don't know if I'm coming or going. By the time I get home, eat lunch and change clothes, getting back into a working grove is a challenge.
8. Web 2.0 is the biggest time-suck ever -- how does anyone have time to maintain her online personality and still generate revenue? I sure as heck have no frickin' clue.
9. Twitter. Should I or shouldn't I?
10. Blogging. Does anyone even read this blog??

Too much -ing; not enough -ed

2009-01-08T14:39:00.000-08:00

Overwhelmed. Overwhelmed. Overwhelmed.

To do list. Business plan. Goals. Resolutions (shmesolutions). Lesson planning. Online tool learning. Prep for class reading. Professional development reading. Networking. Social networking. News reading. Keeping in touch. Visiting new babies. Watching movies. Relaxing? Socializing? Turning 30 (later this year). Eeek.

Yeah. It's safe to say that I'm overwhelmed. Here I am, with still a week and a half left of winter break before teaching starts up again, and what have I accomplished? Not a lot. Well, I guess that's not entirely true. I've done a lot. But what's getting me overwhelmed is that the a lot I've done in the past three weeks or so hasn't actually been on my list of things to get done over winter break.

I had it all planned out, too. I had a pretty little list for every day of break. Even written in pencil so that I could erase and move things around if necessary. Write one page every day. Read a little bit every day. Research writing jobs. Compile list of pubs to query. Follow up with previous clients. Update online profiles. Revise business plan. Email this person. Email that person. Brainstorm ideas. Blog once a week. Read for writers' group. Write responses for writers' group. Attend writers' group. Attend holiday parties. Plan holiday parties. Visit with family. Dinner with roommates. Take a day off.

Whew. I'm tired.

Then I read blogs like this one or that one. All with great info. Tips for snagging the kind of work you want, making connections, maintaining relationships. Suggestions for evaluating your progress, keeping track of accomplishments. Stuff that I should be doing. Getting organized. Setting (more!) goals. Simple business plans. Books to read. Sites to join.

Then, I get excited when I see things like this, and I want to participate in things like this or this. I want to do everything, but of course that's not realistic at all. I find all this stuff simultaneously inspiring and infuriating. Because people out there are doing what I want to be doing, which is good to know. It's encouraging and validating to know that others are successful with similar ideas. But, then again, how come they get to do it and I don't? How come their thing is taking off? What are they doing that I'm not? And if they're already doing it, why do I need to do it? What can one more person contribute to what already exists?

And so, I find myself pondering all of this noise in my brain, completely and utterly overwhelmed. Too much going on; not enough accomplished. See, once something has happened, I can happily cross it off the list. The problem, I've decided is that there's too much continuously happening and not enough that's happened.

Urban Hikes: For the Seasons*

2009-01-05T12:32:00.000-08:00

Take a hike. An urban hike.

Winter Wonderland
The Start: 7th and K Streets
The Route: up K Street, right on 11th Street, right on L Street, left on 10th Street, left on N Street, right on 15th Street to Q Street
The Distance: approx. 1.3 miles
The Best Part: This hike is best before Christmas. It's no Rockefeller Center in New York City, but Sacramento does have its own giant Christmas tree (several, in fact) and an outdoor ice rink right at 7th and K Streets, in front of the Hard Rock Cafe. Join the fun on the ice or just watch the scene of people circling the rink and trying their hand at figuring out exactly how to effectively employ use of the notorious toe pick. From there, this hike takes you up K street and past one of Sacramento's landmarks, the Crest Theater. If time allows, investigate what's showing and take in a holiday matinee such as A White Christmas. Or visit the recently renovated Cathedral of the Blessed Sacrament at 11th and K Streets. Next, head down 10th Street in front of the Capitol building and its own over-sized Christmas tree. This scene is especially impressive at night. Up N Street to 15th and Q takes you to Naked Lounge, one of Sacramento's many independently owned coffee shops, where a warm drink is in order -- especially on a chilly winter day.

Spring to Life
The Start: 10th and L streets
The Route: around Capitol Park as many times as desired, up Capitol Avenue to 18th Street.
The Distance: one time around Capitol Park is 1.1 miles
The Best Part: Take this hike mid- to late-spring, when nature starts coming back to life. You'll notice the rose garden on the east end of the park, which should be just starting to bud again. On the south side, try to identify some delicious smelling plant, which I think is a magnolia tree, but of course that could be entirely wrong. Either way, each time you pass by, you'll know what I'm talking about -- it's like walking through a spritze of nature's perfume. It's the best place in the city to savor the fresh crispness in the air that comes with spring. End this hike with a refreshing iced tea at Java City on 18th and Capitol, under the most amazing tree in Sacramento.

Summer in Sactown
The Start: Front and K Streets, Old Sacramento
The Route: down Front Street, left on Capitol Mall, right on 3rd Street to the Crocker Museum on O Street
The Distance: .5 miles
The Best Part: Not only is it a short distance and perfect for enduring the heat of a Sacramento summer, it's also mostly an indoor hike -- another perfect escape from the heat. Grab an ice cream at Produce Junction (I think is what it's called) on Front and K Streets in Old Sac. Savor it on your way, and take your time -- you'll need it to keep your cool as you head over to The Crocker Art Museum, which is quickly becoming my favorite place in Sacramento. Aside from the building itself being just plain cool, it contains so much history, culture and creativity all in one spot. An hour at the museum equals countless minutes of quiet contemplation (disclaimer: the level of quiet does depend on the time and day of your visit) and inspriation. I highly recommend a visit to the Crocker for a good dose of peaceful, spiritual rejuvenation.

Awesome Autumn
The Start: 16th and T Streets
The Route: straight up T Street to 59th Street, left on 59th Street to the Light Rail station, take Light Rail back to Midtown
The Distance: 3 miles
The Best Part: T Street is likely one of the most gorgeous streets in Sacramento -- especially during the fall. From 16th Street, you'll see a variety of house from old Victorian style to newly built town homes. Pay particular attention to the large white house on the corner of 22nd and T Streets -- its the house where Joan Didion grew up. Once you cross Stockton Boulevard, the street widens, and a boulevard park (complete with benches at either end) divides multiple blocks. This stretch of T Street has an impressive canopy of trees, and when the leaves start to fall, they dance to the ground in a spectacular medley.

*Written at the request of a friend of mine, who put together a creative Christmas gift for her mom this year: a guidebook of hikes written by family and friends.

Way to go Sacramento

2009-01-02T14:49:00.000-08:00

All I have to say is that there better be a Second Annual Ball Drop for New Year's Eve 2009...

And so...

2008-12-30T11:20:00.000-08:00

What is it with these two little words? Apparently, I love them. Just can't get enough of them.

I've just reread some of the blog posts from the past year, and it seems that I have an odd obsession with using "And so..." One post in particular, I had it in there as a transition three times. (Of course I have since edited them out.) But it's almost like they were my salt and pepper, sprinkled on to add flavor or something.

Actually, I despise verbal (or in this case, written) clutter. Verbal clutter -- you know, those superfluous words that get thrown around in communication (written or otherwise) to sound fancy, more intelligent, or to simply take up space and embellish the word count.

"Very" is another one of those words. Rule of thumb: anytime you're tempted to use the word, don't. Think about it. How is "very cold" different from "cold"? Either it's cold or it's not. Even better, get specific and use details to describe exactly how it was so cold that the simple act of breathing alternately froze and thawed your nose hairs (inhale, freeze; exhale, thaw).

Perhaps, though, written clutter has its own peculiar time and place. See, as annoying as it was to go back and read "and so..." every paragraph, the words still served a purpose for a time. They were place holders. They stood in the gap as temporary transitions, allowing me to get through the piece until I came back to it and figured out a better way to say what I was trying to say.

And so, I guess what I'm trying to say is that whatever works to get a draft down, it doesn't really matter because writing is all about rewriting anyway.

Where My Talent Is

2008-12-11T15:30:00.000-08:00

Little else upsets me as much as untapped potential. Except for maybe laziness, because the two often come together like a pair of Siamese twins joined at the heart, the most fragile part of the body, thus making separation next to impossible.

Today was the last class period of the college comp class that I've been teaching at Sacramento City College. Today was also the day that the students' final portfolios were due.

Zipping over to campus on Scottie, I was eager to collect the portfolios; eager to get my mitts on their collective blood-sweat-and-tears from our semester together; eager to have a tangible representation of their processes. From what I've observed in class and in their early drafts, a lot of work has gone into these portfolios -- and that's an understatement. They've stressed, wrestled, whined, questioned and powered through everything I threw at them -- from Shitty First Drafts to mediocre subsequent drafts and stellar almost-there drafts.

From day one I tell my students that writing is a process, one that evolves over time. One would think that it works to my advantage that I have 16 weeks to drive home the point. I tell them that we are basically going to be rewriting their essays all semester long until they turn everything in to me in a final portfolio -- and if they don't turn in a portfolio, they don't pass the class.

More than one student came to me uttering the words, "I can't..." and I looked each one of them in the eye and said, "Yes, you can." I've been their cheer leader and coach, rooting for them from the sidelines while offering guidance. I have coaxed them into thinking and exercising their God-given brains, even when they didn't want to. I'd like to think that because of my cajoling, several of them (I am thinking of two in particular) have uncovered another dimension of their layered and complex selves -- their creative component.

Imagine, then, my disappointment today when two students simply don't show up; when one student shows up late and it's my policy to not accept late work; and when one student shows up, but says to me, "I just want you to know that I'm here only as an observer today."

"What does that mean?" I asked.
"It means I'm just here to observe."
"So you're not turning anything in?"
"No, I'm not turning anything in."
"You're not turning in your portfolio?"
"No."
"You realize that if you don't turn in your portfolio, you can't pass this class."
"Yes, I realize that, and I'm not happy about it."
"Well, then why are you not turning it in?"
"I don't have it."
"How do you not have it? I just met with you last week and I saw your essays; you were working on them."
"I know. I know I was working on them, and I have them on my flash drive, but I couldn't get them printed out."
"So you're not turning it in?"
"Probably not."
"Well, it's due today, so if you're going to try to turn it in, you better go print everything out right now."

He leaves. Class starts. Students begin presentations. Part of their Creative Research Project. Student returns. In the middle of student presentation. He glances frequently around room. Must be looking for something. He turns head back and forth, away from student presenting. Student presentation ends. He leaves. Next student presentation starts. He returns. In the middle of a student presentation. Again. He has stapler. He staples papers. During presentation. He gets up and leaves. Again. Then returns. Again. Presentation still going on. Class ends. He turns in papers and takes off. Flip through pages. Not even close to meeting requirements.

WTF?

The kicker is that we spent a good 20 minutes during the last class period -- two days ago -- going over the portfolio requirements in specific detail.

On the ride home, I found myself so upset that I physically felt it in my clenched jaw and tense shoulders. The more I replayed the incident in my mind, the more frustrated I got. Why do I do it? Why do I stand up there all semester long, pouring myself into that class and those students only to have them blow me off? Why do I take it so personally? Why do I care so much when the students obviously don't?

I tried to talk myself out of the downward spiral with positive rationalization like, "It's only one student" and "think of the others who are going to pass, and pass well" and, as a good friend of mine said, "The thing about college is that you are there to help people who want to learn. If they don't want to learn...F 'em."

But I couldn't shake it. I rode Scottie down 21st Street, past Zelda's and Pieces and tears started to stream down my cheeks, making the cold sting. I better be PMSing.

What is wrong with me? Why am I so upset? I'm not just upset, I'm angry. But why? Why am I angry? I'm angry because I feel like I'm wasting my time. But I'm not wasting my time. There are students in my class who have excelled this semester. But I still feel like I'm wasting my time. And I'm angry. Why? Why am I so angry? Because I'm trying to teach people how to write and they don't want to learn how to write. Because I'm teaching these classes to make a living. And all I want to do is write. In the class room, I make money, but I don't write. I give my time -- myself -- to these students, and not to writing.

Ah, how the deadline looms...

2008-11-05T11:23:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite sounds in the world is that of clacking keyboards from busy fingers typing while the mind frantically writes. As I myself type away, I am surrounded by a room full of click-clacking keyboards.

After yesterday's historical election, how could I not use the opportunity for a writing assignment in the journalism class that I teach at Cosumnes River College? You're so right, I couldn't.

Hence the writing-on-deadline exercise that my students are working on at this very moment. They received the assignment this morning when class started at 10:30, and their deadline is noon. The assignment is to write a reaction story about the country's newly elected president, which means that they had to go out-and-about around campus to get quotes -- talk to at least 10 people, to be exact -- come back to class, write up their story, and email it to me by noon.

There is something about writing on deadline that has always been something of a thrill, kind of a rush. Mind you, it's a different kind of rush than, say, riding a scooter, but a rush nonetheless. There is an inescapable pressure that inevitably comes with a short turn around -- I don't know how to describe it, exactly, but it forces the words out onto the page, er, screen. For some reason, most of my best writing is done under that pressure. No longer can you run and hide from the message that's been percolating in your brain for days, weeks, maybe even months. No more excuses; you must intentionally ignore distractions, intentionally formulate your ideas into sentences, and intentionally, no, forcefully, play those computer keys until they sing the glorious click-clack-click-clack.

This is the first short-deadline assignment of the semester, so I am eager to see how well the stories turn out.

In the meantime, I wonder how many reactions this humble blog can elicit...

Halloween: a year in reflection

2008-10-31T12:24:00.000-07:00

Exactly one year ago today, I gave my phone number to a homeless man.

Last October 31 was the middle of my final semester of grad school at CSUS; less than two weeks after I had resigned from my job; the beginning of an acute awareness of how much I despise working in isolation; one of many in a string of days that I spent at the downtown library on 9th and I Streets; and a time when I was unusually broke. Hence, life seemed to require some creative solutions, one of which was to drive as little as possible (i.e. cut spending on gas).

After laboring from 9 a.m. until 7 p.m. at the library, my brain functioned like a computer about to crash, and I was experiencing all kinds of error messages. I came out of the library and walked over to where I had parked my bike. There were three homeless guys congregating at one of the benches, right next to the bike parking. But my bike was not there.

Confused, I walked back in front of the library entrance to the other set of bike racks because, clearly, I had forgotten where I had actually parked it. Only the bike wasn't there either. So I walked back in front of the library entrance to the other side, looking back and forth from one bike rack to the other, wondering where my bike could have wandered off to.

"I think someone stole my bike," I heard myself say. Out loud.

"Was it that pretty red beach cruiser?" said one of the homeless guys with a mustache and gray stubble.

"Yeah, that's it," I said.

"That bike was here all day," he said. "I saw it here all day and thought, that's a pretty bike."

"I know, I've been here all day. And it is a great bike."

"It was here just a few minutes ago, when I left to go check on my buddy. I came back and it was gone so I figured you went home."

"Really? What time was that?"

"Just a few minutes ago, musta been 6:30."

"Dang, it's only 7."

"Well, I know what it looks like. Let me go see if I can find it -- I'll take a spin around the park to see if I find someone with it."

Before I could say anything, he was off down I Street toward Cesar Chavez on his own beat-up mountain bike. Not five minutes later he was back in front of the library. "I didn't find it," he reported.

"Oh, well, that's OK. Thanks for trying." I turned to leave.

"Well, I'll keep my eyes out for it, 'cause everywhere I go I see people with bikes and half of 'em are stolen and I know what yours looks like."

"Are you sure?"

"Oh, yeah, I see tons of bikes every day."

"OK, well, if you find it, how will you find me?"

He wore a brown plaid flannel shirt with a breast pocket, out of which he whipped a small hand-held device. "I have a cell phone," he declared.

So I gave him my number. It was a Wednesday. On Friday, Jon called saying that he found my bike.

"It's down here at Loaves and Fishes," he said. "And you better come right away otherwise it will be gone again."

When I got there, a guy who claimed it as his own had it chained up. Security informed me that if I wanted it recovered, I'd have to call the police. Which I did. Five times before an officer was dispatched.

By the time the officer arrived, Loaves and Fishes was closing for the day and the security had confiscated the bike. Problem for me was, because I bought it from craigslist, I didn't have a sales receipt or proof of ownership.

I did, however, have my laptop with a cute pic of me on the bike (yes, the very same pictured here). Although the officer said he believed it was my bike (I even pointed out that the back tire was missing the cap to its air valve, as in my photo), he still booked it into police property. (Joy.)

Regardless, I reclaimed it a day or two later and my trusty bike and I were reunited.

scoot scoot

2008-10-30T10:15:00.000-07:00

Typically this time of year makes me depressed. Not that I don't enjoy the holiday season and all that it represents, but it's just too damn cold for me to fully embrace said holiday bliss. Many people have heard this from me before -- I would rather be hot than cold. And it doesn't even mater how hot it is: if I had to choose between sweating and shivering? Bring on the sweat! (By the way, I sweat a lot.)

Today, however, I found a new appreciation for fall, and those distinguishing features that come with it: crisp air, changing colors, falling leaves, and yes, even the chill in my bones. Why? I am so glad you asked.

Allow me to introduce a very special addition to my life. May I have a drum roll please....Scottie Scooterson. Yep, that's the two of us together. Ahh. Such a happy couple. He's going to make my life so much easier (more on that to come), and I can't wait to drag him all around town. He'll take me anywhere I want to go -- well, most anywhere. He doesn't go on the freeway, but that's ok. I still love him. And he sure is easy on the eyes.

Maybe I have a (whisper) human problem?

2008-09-22T20:04:00.000-07:00

If you've never met my beloved cat, Sydney, behold a photo of the princess herself, grooming in all her glory. (Please note by the computer screen in the background that this stunt takes place literally as I type this very blog post, hence making it increasingly difficult considering that the caps lock key keeps getting pushed inadvertently -- see the sentence below for further evidence.)

She's quite the socialite, for a feliNQ

Ahem. Let's try that again, shall we?

She's quite the socialite for a feline. Although, her personality comes with a few annoying quirks. One in particular I've never been able to figure out: she meows incessantly for food -- even after she's been fed.

I've tried everything. Not feeding her, thus not rewarding the behavior. Squirting her in the face with water. (Cats hate water, supposedly.) Startling her with loud noises. Nothing works. Nothing, I tell you.

So yesterday, my roommate presents me with a gift: a book entitled Cat Talk by Sonya Fitzpatrick, The Pet Psychic. (I kid you not.) Though it's actually something of a joke, I thought there just might be some tidbit of info that could prove helpful in addressing the meowing issue.

I proceed to peruse the table of contents and my eyes land on chapter 5, "Attitude Problems and Disruptive Behavior." Ah-ha! I say to myself and flip to page 104, where Ms. Fitzpatrick has conveniently outlined 15 things that can lead to disruptive cat behavior. The list is followed by "stories that show a cat's point of view" and a gentle reminder that "it's always a cat with a human problem, not a human with a cat problem."

Huh. Wonder what my problem is.

Say it ain't so

2008-08-26T16:53:00.000-07:00

Over the weekend, one of my roommates said something in passing about Corti Brothers closing, which didn't seem at all plausible. Not that I didn't believe my roommate; the news simply didn't compute with what I know of the place and it's history in Sacramento. Which, I will admit, is very little, but I have had the distinct pleasure of once meeting Darrell Corti, who is pretty much a legend on the national and global food/wine circuit. It was a brief introduction, thanks to my friend Rick Mindermann, Darrell's right-hand-man. I used to pay Rick and Corti Brothers a regular visit while working at Sierrastyle Publishing when I would pick up the monthly wine feature for the magazines.

Then today I read this.

Atrocities!

I happen to think Sacramento is a pretty cool place. And it's places like Corti Brothers that make it such. What will become of this city if and when all the local gems are no more? Now there's a question I don't even want to think about.

Downtown Letdown

2008-06-28T09:40:00.000-07:00

Where else in the world would you see a woman with a neck brace gyrating to some live music along side a crutch-waving man and a woman donning a balloon helmet? Why, at Cesar Chavez Park in Downtown Sacramento, of course.

Such was the scene last night at the Friday Night Concert in the Park. Sad to say, though, that the entertainment we were hoping for -- Mumbo Gumbo -- had, unbeknownst to us, been postponed and replaced with a less-than-stellar substitute group by the name of Syncro. Clever name, though not-so-clever music. Although they did have a pretty rockin' sax player as the lead instrument, which is an original take on a 4-piece band. But still. It was mediocre at best. Definitely a disappointment.

Now you must understand that I'm something of a longish-time Gumbo fan. You see, because I was introduced to the group when I first moved to the Sacramento area back in the early 2000s (you know, in the good ol' days, before text-messaging started raping the English language and the art of communication. But I digress.), there is a bit of nostalgia attached to seeing Mumbo Gumbo live. Besides that they're just fantastic performers. And the fact is that I see them maybe once a year. So I was looking forward to seeing them last night, to introducing some new friends to their fine music, and fully expecting to dance the night away right in front of the stage while belting out the lyrics to "Love Makes Me Stupid" (because love -- or the lack thereof -- really is making me stupid right now) as per usual for a Gumbo good time. (OK, that was cheesy. Apologies.)

The night was not a complete bust, however, thanks in part to the aforementioned eclectic collection of characters whose sole purpose (of course) was to make up for the lack of entertainment coming from the stage. More so, I was in the company of good friends, which as we know, makes all the difference in Downtown.

Post Script: There is a possibility that photos will be posted at a later date and time.

World's Worst Pick-up Lines

2008-06-25T16:11:00.000-07:00

Guy passes on skate board.

Guy on skate board stops.

"Do you happen to have the time?"

"Sorry, I don't."

What should have happened:

Guy on skateboard continues to skateboard merrily along; I continue to walk merrily along.

What actually happened:

"I was also wondering if your personality is as stunning as you look."

Hmm. Let me think about that one. Well, considering that 1. it's probably close to 90 degrees; 2. I just ran two miles, which means that 3. my face is an obnoxious shade of red; 4. sweat is dripping down my face; 5. my hair is in a ratty pony tail; and 6. I'm stinky, unless my personality is obnoxious, drippy, ratty and/or stinky, I sure hope the answer is a resounding no.

But thanks for asking.

"Good question."

"I don't suppose you'd give me your phone number so that I could find out."

Not likely.

I did, however, consider giving him my web site so that he could see what I look like sans two-mile jog. But only for a split second.

People, people who need people...

2008-06-19T15:07:00.000-07:00

Hello? Anyone out there? Anyone? Anyone?

The teaching gig is over. At least until fall. And I find myself in the same predicament that I was in a few months ago. I spend (almost) all day, (almost) every day by myself. Alone. No people. Sometimes even no talking. Or very little of it.

I. am. going. nuts.

Is it really possible to kill, oh, I don't know, say 30 minutes (or more) by staring off into space until the sun shining through the glass on your balcony door turns all fuzzy and you're in such a daze that you think you're finally being called home? (Look to the light...) Yes. Yes it is.

Ach. The point I'm trying to make here (fear not, there is indeed a point) is that for several months I've been talking about, thinking about, researching about, dreaming about, wishing about, hoping about this crazy little idea called coworking. And I'm making some progress: connections with others (people!) who are interested in the concept, connections with others (more people!) who are interested in helping get the process going, and even a lead on a prospective space.

But nothing is gelling quite yet, and that progress feels more like baby steps forward and 6-foot-tall-adult steps backward.

The problem, I think, is that my focus has been mostly on finding a space. You know, if you build it they will come. Because thus far, creating consistency has been nearly impossible due in large part to the simple question: where could a coworking group comfortably meet on a (semi) regular basis? But the reality of that focus is that when I sit down to work (yes, sometimes I actually get work done), there are no -- you guessed it -- people.

Now, this prospective space that I speak of is a promising prospect -- it's just moving a hellava lot slower than I would like. So in the mean time I need to find the people. I need to be with the people. People, where are you?

The good news is that I recently moved into a very rad apartment in Midtown and I have -- despite some of my work-from-home issues -- actually been working from home. And while working from home, here I sit at the dining room table thinking, how cool would it be if there were a few other people here working with me? Why can't I have people here? I'm sitting here writing, and there are five empty chairs around this table -- people could be sitting there, in those very chairs, working on their laptops. We've got wifi. There's even a printer and a coffee maker. What more do a couple of coworkers need?

An addendum to the good news is that I also have two very rad roommates who are cool with my opening the place for coworking sessions a couple of times a month.

Now all I need are people.

Prima Primitivo

2008-06-07T15:04:00.000-07:00

In case it isn't obvious, Boeger Winery is quite possibly my favorite winery -- though I reserve the right to add to the list of favorites at any time for absolutely no reason at all. It's safe to say, for now at least, that Boeger is definitely my favorite local winery. When I go out to eat in Sacramento (which, sadly, isn't that often), I specifically look for Boeger on the wine list. And when I find it, oh happy day.

And what a happy day it was on Friday last week to discover that not only could I order Boeger's Barbera at Paesanos (of which I was already well aware), but also the Primitivo was a special offering on this particular evening. We ordered a bottle.

Oh happy day.

Class of '08

2008-06-05T21:11:00.000-07:00

So I've been deliberating about whether or not to post this pic, because really, this is not technically a personal blog. That's not the intention, anyway. But would you just look at this photo? I mean, we are one good looking family, don't you think? Not that I'm biased or anything (or even the slightest bit narcissistic). But still. Who can deny a fabulous photo when he/she sees one? Besides that, my little bro graduated from high school a few weeks ago. Crazy. He's the youngest; the last of the snot-nose-punks to leave the hallowed halls of public education; the last to cross the proverbial threshold into the confusing, undefined, at times exhilarating and at other times torturous stage of life known as The College Years. Even more crazy.

I just don't know what to do with myself

2008-06-03T12:59:00.000-07:00

Does anyone really care about time? Why is that when we’re busy, all we want is a little bit of free time to take care of all the things we never have time for. And when we have that free time, we can’t figure out what to do with ourselves and all we want is a bit of structure to help fill that time. Isn’t that the way – always wanting the opposite of what we have, never satisfied.

And so here I sit at just such a juncture. The semester is over. Final essays have been read. Grades have been posted. I just recently moved. Which means there’s plenty of unpacking/organizing/cleaning to do around the house. Yet when I look around the bedroom, kitchen, dining room, the sight so overwhelms me that I sigh and tell myself I’ll do it – whatever it may be – tomorrow.

Same thing is happening with writing and several miscellaneous projects that I’ve got brewing. There’s a to-do list in my brain. I even wrote the list down. But when I look at the list, I want to sigh, crawl back into bed, throw the covers over my head and make futile attempts at convincing myself that I am, in fact, not the goal driven person who gets highs from ceremoniously crossing items off to-do lists.

See, I know what needs to get done; it’s only a matter of doing it. And therein lies the rub – exactly how does one motivate oneself to make progress on multiple projects; to organize one’s schedule so as to actually be productive on said projects; and to track progress so as to attain some kind of tangible result indicating said progress?

Some days (today is one of them, I think), time gets the best of me, and before I know it, half the day is gone. Poof. Bye-bye. Just vanished. And what have I got to show for it? Nothing. Not a damn thing. Except for, well, shaved legs and maybe a blog post. If I’m lucky.

You know you’re a public transit convert when

2008-04-16T09:35:00.000-07:00

•friends offer you a ride before you ask.
•you have a friend’s car for the day and don’t bother to use it.
•friends and colleagues are gracious enough to wait patiently for 30-plus minutes when you miss a scheduled appointment because the bus was late.
•you forget your pass one day and the bus driver on your regular route gives you a daily pass without question.
•a fellow transiter asks you if the Meadowview train goes to Franklin, and you answer confidently.
•the bus driver asks you if the 240 stops right in front of the Baker’s Square.
•you actually run – not speed walk, but all-out-sprint-to-the-finish run – more than two blocks to catch the bus or light rail.
•upon seeing you running to catch said transportation, a fellow transiter stands in the light rail door so as to allow you to, in one breathless motion, step up, slide through the doors and sit in unison with the train’s forward movement as it pulls away from the station.

Punctuation Pet Peeves

2008-04-03T12:31:00.000-07:00

Yes, I have them. Of course I have them. What kind of self-respecting writer/editor/writing instructor would I be if I didn’t have them? What is my biggest punctuation pet peeve? It happens to be a “toss up” between exclamation points and quotation marks!

But I realize that not everyone has punctuation pet peeves like yours truly, a self-proclaimed, anal-retentive punctuation Nazi of sorts. And so, for the most part, I keep these oddities to myself. You’re welcome for at least realizing (and somewhat coming to terms with) the fact that probably no one wants to hear, let alone read, about such a bland topic as what particular punctuation mark should be used and when and where and in what context.

However, this post serves as a small form of personal validation as I have just read a brilliant essay with the brilliant title, “Notes on Punctuation,”* by Lewis Thomas. Of course it is only brilliant because he shares my disdain for the exclamation point and my annoyance with the misused quotation mark. And because he has said it much more eloquently than I, I shall leave you herewith two excerpts from said essay (note the fabulous use of the word fob):

“Exclamation points are the most irritating of all. Look! they say, look at what I just said! How amazing is my thought! It is like being forced to watch someone else’s small child jumping up and down crazily in the center of the living room shouting to attract attention. If a sentence really has something of importance to say, something quite remarkable, it doesn’t need a mark to point it out. And if it is really, after all, a banal sentence needing more zing, the exclamation point simply emphasizes its banality!”

“Quotation marks should be used honestly and sparingly, when there is a genuine quotation at hand, and it is necessary to be very rigorous about the words enclosed by the marks. If something is to be quoted, the exact words must be used. If part of it must be left out because of space limitations, it is good manners to insert three dots to indicate the omission, but it is unethical to do this if it means connecting two thoughts which the original author did not intend to have tied together. Above all, quotation marks should not be used for ideas that you’d like to disown, things in the air so to speak. Nor should they be put in place around clichés; if you want to use a cliché you must take full responsibility for it yourself and not try to fob it off on anon., or on society. The most objectionable misuse of quotations marks, but one which illustrates the dangers of misuse in ordinary prose, is seen in advertising, especially in advertisements for small restaurants, for example ‘just around the corner,’ or ‘a good place to eat.’ No single, identifiable, citable person ever really said, for the record, ‘just around the corner,’ much less, ‘a good place to eat,’ least likely of all for restaurants of the type that use this type of prose.”

Yeah. What he said.

*Essay originally found in The Medusa and the Snail by Lewis Thomas, published by Viking Penguin, a division of Penguin Books USA Inc. Copyright 1979 by Lewis Thomas.

Sad Day for Writers

2008-03-27T17:32:00.000-07:00

So I didn't really want to jump on the fake memoir bandwagon, but after reading this, seems like I gotta.

The thing is, I happen to be writing a memoir. And that people who think they can package their fabrications as "memoir," (which, yes, does take creative liberty in the autobiography/non-fiction department) may be ruining the chance that writers with talent and integrity (not to mention the chutzpah it requires to actually write a memoir) have at truly affecting others with their words, well, it makes me so angry that I could curse. And if you know me, I have to be really worked up for that to happen.

Who do these people think they are? Where do they get off?

A lot of blame has been placed on the publishers for not fact checking. True, the publishing house does -- and should -- carry some of the responsibility, but, frankly, I lay the blame at the feet of the so-called writers who are not even worthy of being called "so-called writers." They are wannabes. And, worse, they are liars who take advantage of the power of personal storytelling.

For the record, my memoir is so far from being fake that I'm scared to pursue publishing it.

The ex factor

2008-03-27T14:39:00.000-07:00

So I spoke with my former boyfriend of 4 years this week. He's getting married in August.

And that's all I have to say about that.

Sans Auto, Days 4-7

2008-03-17T15:52:00.000-07:00

Apparently posting every day – even for just one week – is easier said than done. Alas, I have left my adoring readers hanging nearly four whole days for the week-of-Ravlessness finale.

Day 7 (Sunday, March 16)
Weekends being what they are, there’s less scheduling, hence less necessary travel. Today I took the beach cruiser out for a cruise, heading over to Java City where I met up with BFF Sarah for coffee and chats. We then tossed the beach cruiser in the back of her ghetto-mobile (a.k.a. Doge Caravan), drove back to her house for some early-afternoon French toast (my fave) and then I biked back home. Church was attended via light rail, and a ride home from my friend Renee.

Day 6 (Saturday, March 15)
The morning found me light-railing over to meet my friend Ryan at Temple on 10th Street, then to the office for a few hours before heading up to Cameron Park. Since yesterday was my brother’s birthday, I went to spend the afternoon/evening at the rent’s for dinner and funfetti birthday cake. (Happy Birthday!) This is usually a pretty easy route, even sans auto, as the light rail goes all the way to Folsom, whereupon someone from my beloved family picks me up. Tony dropped me off on T Street on his way back home to Dublin.

Day 5 (Friday, March 14)
Fridays are non-teaching days for me. So the route today was pretty simple: after a morning jog (three miles, thank you very much) and a brisk walk over to Safeway and back (needed milk), I light-railed it over to 7th and J for a few hours. Then back to 16th Street for a meeting at Bricka Bracka on 21st and P.

Day 4 (Thursday, March 13)
The route today would have been exactly the same as Tuesday’s route. Funny thing, though: the 54, which takes me from the Florin light rail station to Cosumnes River College, stops right in front Luther Burbank High School. Well, it just so happens that my roommate teaches at Luther Burbank. And so at her suggestion, I rode with her to school, had a semi-tour her campus and classroom, then hopped on the 54 for the ride to CRC. Coming back from CRC is still the most annoying part of this whole public-transportation bit, because I still haven’t nailed down if I could make it work to head straight to the office or some other place for the rest of the afternoon without stopping at home. But stopping at home means that I can change and unload unnecessary stuffs that I’m usually carrying. But it also means an extra, out-of-the-way leg of the trip. In the grand scheme of things, though, if this is the biggest annoyance, it seems relatively insignificant, does it not?

Sans Auto, Day 3

2008-03-12T22:57:00.000-07:00

Today I headed to West Sac for my MW class, so my travels took me on the same route as Monday with one slight variation and a near-mishap.

Since the MW class doesn’t start until 10:30 a.m., I dutifully looked up the bus times last night to find out if there was a later schedule than the 8:07 62 that would still get me to the class on time. Indeed, there was an RT bus at 9:15 and a Yolo bus at 9:35. Armed with this info, I happily told myself that I would go for a jog this morning at 7, shower at 8 and easily catch the 9:15.

Yeah, that didn’t happen.

And, as I was standing on the corner of 21st and T at 9 a.m. waiting for the 62, the thought occurred to me that perhaps I looked at the schedule wrong. Because I was still waiting for the 62 at 9:20. So I called up RT to find out when the 62 was supposed to be to my little corner of Midtown, to which the helpful customer service rep replied that it should be there at 9:15 and 9:45. Alas, I was trying to catch the 9:35 Yolo bus!

After a deep breath, I mentally played out the worst-case scenario: I'd miss the bus to West Sac and have to cancel class on the day before spring break. Okay, not quite a tragedy.

When the 62 arrived at 9:25, I simply asked the driver if he thought we’d make it to 14th and L in time to catch the 9:35. He said it would all depend on how many people get on and off, and how much traffic there is. He also mentioned that he didn’t have a way to contact the Yolo bus driver. And after another minute he added that if we were late, he’d be sure to honk as we approached the stop.

As it turned out, there was virtually no traffic; we seemed to hit all the green lights, and there was no need for my kind driver to honk after all.

Sans Auto, Day 2

2008-03-11T22:09:00.000-07:00

The traveling I had to do today had me more stressed than the trip to West Sac yesterday. Probably because there’s more of a time constraint on Tuesdays and Thursdays than Mondays and Wednesdays – class starts at 9 a.m. on the T/Th schedule. And usually I have to be to campus by at least 8:30 to print out a few things, and pick up copies from the print center. But I’m happy to report that today’s travels also came off rather swimmingly.

Destination: Cosumnes River College
Departure: 7:11 a.m.
Arrival: 8:15 a.m.
Route: Downtown Light Rail from 23rd Street to 16th Street. Transfer to Meadowview train from 16th Street to Florin. Transfer to RT Bus 54 from Florin to CRC.
Cost: $2
Difficulty: 0
Notes: Although this trip is not difficult, it’s hard to trade a 15-minute drive for an hour public transportation ride. Though, as I mentioned yesterday, reading does help. Today, for example, I came across and excerpt in the book I’m currently reading, which I then read to my class.

Destination: Home
Departure: 11:17 a.m.
Arrival: 12:20 p.m.
Route: RT Bus 54 from CRC to Florin. Transfer to Downtown Light Rail from Florin to 16th Street. Transfer to Sunrise train from 16th Street to 23rd street.
Cost: $2
Notes: It was a toss up between heading straight downtown, where I have an office, or going home first to eat and change clothes. Heading home won out in the name of hunger and comfort, though it was a slight hassle with the back-and-forth Light Rail trips.

Destination: 7th and J
Departure: 12:55 p.m.
Arrival: 1:07 p.m.
Route: Light Rail from 23rd Street to 8th and K
Cost: $0 (pass from earlier trip still valid)
Difficulty: 0
Notes: It’s always annoying to walk up to the station as the train is leaving. Alas, I had left my apartment at 12:39 and missed the 12:40 train. So I called my mom while I waited for the next one.

Destination: Home
Departure: 7:00 p.m.
Arrival: 7:18 p.m.
Route: Light Rail from 7th and Capital to 23rd Street.
Cost: $2
Difficulty: 0
Notes: Again found myself arriving to the stop as the train was pulling away. And, alas, 7 p.m. marks the start of trains every half-hour for the rest of the evening. So again I found myself waiting, this time for a good 30 minutes since I had left the office at 6:30. Sigh.

Total Cost: $6
Verdict: In spite of some elongated wait times, and based on the public transportation experiences of yesterday and today, I’m leaning toward the decision of forfeiting the Rav. Sniff, sniff. And, thanks to the comments of one RT Rider, I shall invest in a monthly pass, and probably one of those $1 route books, too.

I just hung out with Justin Boeger.

2008-03-11T13:22:00.000-07:00

Well, okay, it was like a month ago. But still. The fact remains that, thanks to a few key contributors – one of them being winemaker Justin Boeger – I had the privilege of coordinating a fun/funky event in honor of the biggest accomplishment of my life thus far in creative style.

Everything started when I wanted to throw a party. Then I started thinking about how to make the evening more purposeful than strictly a party that’s all about me. So I got the idea to incorporate a literary reading of sorts, and then other components started to take form in my mind – ways that would round out the evening into more of a cultural event: live music, a featured winemaker and a fabulous space.

To think that a winemaker – and not just any winemaker – was actually at the event is still a bit of a shock to me. That Boeger Winery winemaker Justin Boeger himself came and essentially hosted a private wine tasting for my guests and me was, well, let’s just say that I was (and still am) thrilled. In a word? Rad. And the wine, of course, was just as rad.

For the tasting, Justin poured his personal favorite: The 2004 Reserve Milagro, described as crisp all around with a nice finish and integrated, soft tannins.

In addition to the Milagro, I ordered several bottles of Boeger’s signature wine to use as thank you gifts: the 2006 Barbera, a nicely balanced wine that is easy to drink by itself or with just about anything. That evening, friends and I discovered the wonderful combination of this wine and chocolate chip cookies. And of course I kept a few of bottles for myself.

By the way, does the flattery count when alluding to one’s self? (A pdf version is available here, click "Tasting Notes.")

Sans Auto, Day 1

2008-03-10T20:26:00.000-07:00

Doing a week-of-something posts must be a blogging trend. I learned it from my friend Jean, and considering that this week I’m experimenting with the whole car-less thing, it seemed only appropriate. So here it is, day 1:

Destination: West Sac outreach center of Sac City College
Departure: 8:07
Arrival: 9:07
Route: RT Bus 62 from 21st and T to 13th and L. Transfer to Yolo Bus 42 from 13th and L to Harbor and West Capitol.
Cost: $2
Difficulty (on a scale of 1-5, 5 being the most difficult): 2
Notes: Didn’t quite figure out the RT/Yolo Bus transfer protocol

Destination: 7th and J Streets
Departure: 1 p.m.
Arrival: 2 p.m.
Route: Yolo Bus 240 from Harbor and West Capitol to 6th and J
Cost: $1.50
Difficulty: 2
Notes:Still having some difficulty figuring out the Yolo Bus schedule, but it seems that Yolo Buses don’t run as frequently as RT buses. The 1 p.m. departure above reflects the time I left campus to walk to the bus stop. The bus departed West Sac at approximately 1:35, which wasn’t a very long ride back to Downtown.

Destination: Home
Departure: 3 p.m.
Arrival: 4 p.m.
Route: Light Rail Gold Line from 7th and Capitol to 23rd Street
Cost: $0 (transfer included from Yolo Bus, I think)
Difficulty: 0
Notes:This trip did include a walking detour from the office to a UPS store on L Street, hence the hour-long trip.

Total cost: $3.50
Verdict: Getting the bus to West Sac was not nearly as difficult as I imagined. It does require an hour of travel, thus forcing me to leave an hour earlier than when driving, but was able to make use of the time by reading. Over all, no complaints so far.

Adios, Rav?

2008-03-10T20:02:00.000-07:00

It’s damn expensive to drive these days. It costs me probably close to $200, or more, on a monthly basis. $100 for insurance, at least $100 for gas, oh, and, let’s not forget that the Rav has 173,000+ miles on it and burns oil. Yes, burns oil. It goes through about a quart a week, and in a perfect world I’d be putting that much in it. But in the world of Just Janna, oil is – you guessed it – expensive.

And with the price of gas only escalating? I run that gas tank dry. So dry that I prayed myself to the gas station last week and coasted up to the pump just in time.

All this to say that for the past couple of weeks, I’ve been contemplating getting rid of the poor thing. It started as all ideas do – only in my head as I wondered whether or not I could actually pull off a sans-auto lifestyle. When I slowly began articulating the concept to some friends and acquaintances, the general consensus was “that’s a big step.”

Is it? So it’s a matter of security, convenience and independence. But really, do I need a car to feel secure and independent? And what’s convenient, anyway? It’s actually pretty convenient that I live two blocks from a light rail station, one block from a bus stop, that I own a rad beach cruiser, and – best of all – that my foot is healing.

So my mission is to find out just how big of a step saying adios to the Rav really is. This is week is my official trial run. See, with the Rav parked out front, what happens is that I tell myself I’ll do the public transportation thing and then, because I know the Rav is there, I sleep just a little bit longer until – oh, what do you know? I have to drive, or I’ll be late. Oh, well, I’ll just figure the public transportation out next week.

This week, though, Mom is babysitting the Rav. I have no choice.

Let’s talk dollars.

2008-03-09T19:19:00.000-07:00

The first time I had a real dollars-and-cents conversation about money with someone other than my family happened a few months ago, after I had resigned from my job. It was with my friend Marie, and the topic came up because I had basically stopped driving, and was taking public transportation almost exclusively.

The reason for this was twofold. Mainly me-minus-income couldn’t afford the luxury of gas. But in addition to that, even though I didn't get a free ride to grad school, my Sac State tuition also bought me a free ride for Sacramento Regional Transit, e.g. light rail and bus. Similarly, Marie shared with me her attempt at cutting back on spending, and one of her strategies (if I remember correctly) was to monitor her outlay on food by 1) not eating out, and 2) spending a maximum of $15 per week on groceries. Ambitious!

Other than the whole public transportation thing, I’ve also had to curb my spending in a lot of other areas:
•rent – now living with roommate, who has been described to some as an angel, which nearly cut housing expense in half.
•clothing – i.e. haven’t purchased new clothing (sadly including much-needed bras and panties) for more than a year.
•beauty maintenance – have not seen hairstylist at Mosaic since before October. Have also forfeited the pampering of pedicures and massages.
•social outings – whenever possible, socializing has been limited to hosting friends at home, accepting invitations of the like, and, thanks to generous friends, some semblance of a social life has been salvaged.
•Internet – have never paid for Internet service, come to think of it. With the advent of wireless service, it’s highly possible to do so by either 1) pirating an unsecure network; 2) frequenting coffee shops with free wifi; or 3) camping out at public library for hours on end. Have been known to do all of the above.
•caffeine addiction – quitting this spending habit cold turkey has been, well, impossible, thus haven’t kicked it just yet and don’t plan to. Though, have restricted coffee consumption to strictly homebrewed, allowing for exceptions only when necessary for professional purposes. Such exceptions include, but are not limited to, business meetings, network meetings, coworking, and/or general stamina and productivity.

It’s now me-plus-income, and although the status of my paycheck has changed, the status of my bank account hasn’t. Funny how that works.

Six-word Memoir, Chapter 2

2008-03-06T11:31:00.000-08:00

This week I had the students in my English Writing 300 class at Cosumnes River College write their own six-word memoirs (some wrote more than one) and they were fabulous -- no, they were rad. So rad, in fact, that I asked for their permission to post them here.

Still haven't left after he cheated.

Was expecting more from myself.
No kids, no husband, just me.

United States Passport, new, happy life.
Learning to dance, met my soul mate.

Living by the cross, come with a price.

Nothing but music moves me inside.

Life, your life, our life, death.

Want it, got it, hate it.

In class, half my life gone.

Made bad choices, still no regrets.
Never born rich, still a survivor.

Always faithful and dedicated to commitment.

My family, my friends, my everything.
Need a friend, hear me out.
Mentally bullied, I still stood up.
Best friends made a better person.

Tattoo: Carpe Diem, seize the day.

Fuck others, it's about me first!

Young, dumb, still young, still dumb.

Hate to love, love to hate.
I enjoy energy, helps me live.
Love is blind. Help me see.

Must be the weather.

2008-02-28T22:32:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago I noticed that my car (also affectionately known as the Rav) was running a little rougher and/or louder than normal. But I didn’t really think much of it mostly because I don’t have the means to do anything about it at the moment. Then one day this week as I was driving to teach English 300 at Cosumnes River College, a car passed me, and the person in the passenger seat was pointing toward the Rav's rear. Again, I didn’t really think much of it because there wasn’t any way to confirm that this person was actually gesturing at the Rav and me. But regardless, when I got to campus, I peeked at the Rav’s back end, and what do you know? The muffler pipe is broken. Nice.

And so I have been driving around with a broken muffler for, oh, probably about three weeks now. And I have continued to drive around with the Rav in this condition since, as mentioned above, I don’t have the means to do a darn thing about it. Wouldn’t you know it, though, it took three weeks of this equipment malfunction before anyone bothered to point it out – I mean really, how often does one have reason to look under the rear of one’s vehicle? It’s the age-old dilemma of, who would be a real friend and tell me when I had a piece of spinach from lunch stuck in my teeth and who would be too coward to say anything and let me walk around like a moron, unwittingly introducing myself to the love of my life. Hypothetically speaking, of course. What is wrong with humanity? (Well, a lot. But we won’t go there. At least not right now.)

All this to say that today, a small piece of my faith in humanity has been restored. Because you see today, not one, not two, but three kind people took the time to ask if I knew that the Rav's muffler was broken. And who do you think these kind folks were? Men. Yes, men, it seems, are prone to notice such things about an automobile's anatomy. But sadly these men were not my fantasy hero, Superman; not my knight-in-shining-armor; and not my prince charming on a white horse. No, no. They were all indeed very observant men, who also happened to be at least the same age as my Gramps.

Celebrating with Wine and Words

2008-02-14T00:51:00.000-08:00

Ironically, it will be difficult to find the words to describe how simply amazing Saturday, February 2 was. There are no words, really. The evening was nearly perfect, and I couldn’t have planned it any better – which says a lot for the self-proclaimed anal-retentive planner that I am.

I say nearly perfect for there were several key people missing from the evening whose presence would have made it just so, namely my brother.

But regardless, the best thing is that those who came genuinely wanted to be there – and I cannot say enough to express how truly grateful and touched I am. And now for a recap…

If you haven’t checked out the awesomely funky Bows & Arrows on L Street, go. Now. Say hello to Olivia and Trisha for me. These two women are some of the coolest chicks I know – they pretty much let me do whatever the heck I wanted for my party, and everyone had a fabulous time celebrating, listening to great music, eating great food, drinking great wine, hearing literary readings and shopping, of course. (Oh, and, Olivia asked me if I'd be willing/interested in organizing a regular reading of sorts at the store on a quarterly basis. So stay tuned for info on the Wine and Words Reading Series.)

This great music that I speak of was provided by my good friend Ryan on guitar and vocals. Toward the end of the evening, he was even joined on the mic by his wife, Samantha. Several of my guests asked if and when Ryan will be recording a CD…Ryan?

This great food that I speak of was the workings of my talented little sis, Kendra. She single-handedly worked up a menu, made the food and delivered everything to the store. It’s seriously is like having a personal caterer, only better.

This great wine that I speak of was none other than the local Boeger variety, thanks to winemaker Justin Boeger. I’m still a little bit in shock that Justin was actually there, serving wine. One little tidbit that I failed to mention at the event is that Boeger Winery is the first post-prohibition winery in El Dorado County. And the wine is just plain good.

The literary readings I speak of were courtesy of two of my writing compatriots from my creative writing program at CSUS, Marie and Bridget, and, yes, yours truly. In short, personally, I have never had the kind of reaction to my writing as I did that night, and again, there are no words to express how overwhelmed I still am by the positive response.

Six-word memoir

2008-02-12T23:19:00.000-08:00

Woman in progress writing the journey.

What is your six-word memoir?

Four reasons to not skip grad school

2008-02-07T19:45:00.000-08:00

Maybe it’s because I just finished my M.A. in English with an emphasis in creative writing that I got a little defensive after reading this. Or maybe it’s that I’m holed up in my apartment on account of a foot injury, with nothing better to do than email, surf the Web, catch up on blogs that I haven’t had time to read for weeks, update my own blog, chat online and watch educating/inspiring video clips.

Regardless, here is my rebuttal to the afore-linked link:

It’s not a job requirement, but it sure does help in the employment department. I find it a little ironic that in the post previous to the one linked above, Michelle Goodman wrote something to the effect of how a lot of freelance writers “do part-time jobs, corporate work, teaching work, contract work, and other money-in-the-bank gigs,” and also have “other pursuits outside journalism.” When it comes to the teaching work mentioned here, virtually every kind of teaching job does require a higher degree of some kind – even if it’s not technically a master’s degree, anything below the college level does require a credential, which can be considered grad school. And for the record, this newbie freelancer has a part-time gig as an assistant professor of English at two of the community colleges in Sacramento, which does require an M.A.
Everything relevant I learned in my grad program you couldn’t learn in one class. Basically, for the purposes of English and literature and writing, there’s no other time in life – especially not in undergrad – where I will have the chance to study such a specialized subject matter in such depth. One of my lit classes was a British drama course wherein we studied Stoppard and Aykbourn exclusively. I had never been so thrilled with theater in my life, and I subsequently took a solo trip to NYC to see five performances of an eight-play series by Aykbourn performed by his original British cast. That, I can easily say, would never have happened had I not been in grad school. Oh, and, I was also inspired to write a play.
All of the connections I’ve made over the years on the job were only enhanced by the connections that I added to my network because of my grad program. Two things here: first off, I was mentored one-on-one while writing a memoir for my creative project by a published author. I don’t know many other writers who have the privilege of a personal cheerleader and coach who has already been through the toils that is the writing process. In addition to that, I had the chance to actually meet and personally speak with not one, but two authors whose books I studied in my program. That’s pretty rad. (Yes, I said rad. It is a severely underrated word and I’m campaigning to bring it back. Everything else ‘80s seems to be back in style, so why not?) Second off, I now have a strong community of writing peers (key word, peers) with whom I share my work and with whom I have a reciprocal relationship of giving and receiving feedback. No doubt this can happen without going to grad school, but I would argue that it’s probably a helluva lot harder and it’s likely that the writing community would not be as tightly knit as those of us who have bonded over the common grad school experience.
“It’s a dang expensive way to avoid working.” I couldn’t agree more. Which is why, with the exception of my final semester, I worked full-time for the bulk of my program and took classes part-time. That’s right, I worked in my field as a magazine editor gaining that invaluable on-the-job experience while going to school. I went to grad school and got paid to learn the publishing industry. And do you know what it taught me? To self publish, which I’m about to do here pretty quick. You might say that I “found myself.”

y not?

2008-02-07T08:09:00.000-08:00

Why not challenge an ottoman to a wrestling match? OR, why not get attacked by an ottoman?
Why not inadvertently invite 6-plus firefighter/paramedics into the apartment?
Why not take a ride in the ambulance known as Medic 01?
Why not accept ottoman repellent offered by Tony, paramedic of said Medic 01?
Why not trust two paramedics, the aforementioned Tony and his partner-in-crime Lance, who speak to each other in Spanish and sometimes Japanese (when Lance cheats, so says Tony) for comic relief and claim to be a stand-up-comedy team that can’t get a gig?
Why not laugh at Tony’s ottoman jokes?
Why not laugh, period?
Why not blog about the silliness of it all?

Don’t Text Me.

2008-02-06T21:38:00.000-08:00

Since when did text messaging become an acceptable form of communication? It used to be taboo to break-up over the phone. Now we’re saying the same about text messaging (at least I am) and demanding the courtesy of a phone call or, worse, an email.

For the record, there is a time and a place for the phenomenon that is texting. Apologizing is not one of them. In fact, some things in life are just not appropriate situations for sending me a text message:

Coming out. Exactly how am I supposed to respond to a text message that says, "My family has known for a while now, so I wanted to let you know that I'm a lesbian."?
Announcing the desire to move out of town. Absolutely needs to be a conversation. And, no, texting does not constitute a conversation, which involves at least two people actually speaking to each other.
Apologizing after an f-up. Texting in this situation is, for all intents and purposes, a copout. Just don’t do it. Get some balls, pick up the phone and apologize like a man -- no, like a woman.
Flaking out, blowing off or altogether backing out of plans for no good reason. See number 3 above.
Breaking up. As much as I eschew the Carrie Bradshaw persona, it’s actually rather apropos to quote a "Sex and the City" episode at this juncture. Ever see the post-it episode? Yeah, breaking up via text is essentially the same as the all-too-famous, “Berger broke up with me on a post-it!” Again, see number 3.

Touch Down

2008-02-03T23:09:00.000-08:00

I don’t love football. But I love my dad. And today Dad’s beloved New York Giants kicked butt in Super Bowl XLII. I can honestly say that I’ve never had so much fun watching football, and seriously, what more could you ask for than a TD with 35 seconds left on the clock? Oh, maybe multiple sacks on the revered Tom Brady would be a nice bonus. (I stopped counting after three.)

The day was a victory in more ways than one. Last night I hosted a culminating event to celebrate finishing my master's degree and entering a new phase of life (more on that to come, after some much-needed rest), and Dad was able to be there when at first he had been scheduled to work. That he was able to make it, I think, made me realize how important it was to me that he be there -- and he told me afterward how much he enjoyed the evening. To have shared the evening with him and to know that he appreciated it was a touch down. To follow that up by sharing the experience of the Giants' win with him was nothing short of a winning field goal.

Join the Revolution

2008-02-01T14:39:00.000-08:00

Revolution Wines, that is. A few weeks ago, I went out with two of my girlfriends who also happen to be fellow Writers in Progress: Bridget and Marie. Bridget, who has lived in Sacramento for almost two years, had yet to be out on the town so I took her to my default night out: drinks and karaoke at Hamburger Patties (formerly, and always in my heart as, Hamburger Mary’s) and dancing at Faces – the only place for girls to dance without fear of being groped by men.

But I digress. This is after all the Wine About It category, so back to the wine. Before going out, Bridget and I decided we should have some wine so that we didn’t have to buy drinks while we were out (novel concept, huh?). So we popped in to my favorite wine bar/wine shop 58 Degrees & Holding Co. As a huge proponent of local wine, I promptly looked for an El Dorado or Amador County label. As a huge proponent of not spending too much money, I also was looking for something in the $10-15 range.

What a delight when I stumbled upon a bottle of Revolution Wines’ 2005 Zinfandel for $13. I had heard about this urban winery, but had yet to try their wine so it certainly was a serendipitous discovery. Upon taking the bottle up to the counter, I asked the friendly wine steward (whose name I am sorry to say I forget) if he had tried the wine, and if it was any good. His response was, “It’s decent for 21st and P.” (Twenty-first and P being the location of the winery.)

I’m happy to report that I couldn’t agree more, and that I plan to visit Revolution Wines’ tasting room at some point in the very near future. So check back for more on Revolution Wines.

The Highest form of Flattery

2008-01-16T08:52:00.000-08:00

It's said to be imitation. Perhaps. But yesterday, I believe I discovered flattery in its true highest form -- for a writer. I received an email from a prospective client with this little gem:

"According to your blog, your phone rings about once a day...if your mom
hasn't called yet, can I have the call today?"

That's right, my friends. Allusion is the highest form of flattery. Oh, and, in case you missed the reference, you can read this.

2008: Unresolved

2008-01-13T21:17:00.000-08:00

My one contribution to the comic relief on New Year’s Eve was to declare that my only New Year’s Resolution is to make it through 2008 without attending a single wedding. If you know anything about the past two years of my life, you’ll find this at least somewhat amusing since you also know that I have attended more than my fair share of holy-matrimonies. What’s even more (sad) funny, though, is that there’s probably no chance whatsoever that I’ll actually have the opportunity to keep that resolution.

(Update as of 12/30/08: 2008 found me attending not one, not two, but three weddings.)

And so, instead, I consider the great paradox that is the New Year’s Resolution, no doubt on the brain every January 1 or thereabouts. The thing is that New Year’s Resolutions typically are a list of unrealistic tasks and unattainable goals set forth by millions of unhappy people in a last-ditch effort to fix their lives – again. Cynical? Maybe. Wrong? I'm not convinced.

Regardless, a few years ago, I resolved (on January 1, of course) to (try to) take a more realistic approach to life and to (try to) claim a realistic perspective of myself – not an easy feat, mind you. It’s something that must be reclaimed multiple times a day. Which is why I refuse to create a list of superficial platitudes that I hope will somehow magically change the state of my existence, and for the better.

The reality is that life is messy and complicated, full of conflict and contradiction – but that is the beauty of being created as complex as we are. There are aspects of life – at least of my life – that are in a state of perpetual flux, that cause me to question my own preconceptions, that are officially, and may very well be indefinitely, unresolved.

Unresolved: My jogging schedule. A few years back, somehow I got it in my head that starting to jog for exercise would be a good idea. Ha. For a while there, I did pretty well; kept a consistent schedule and even ran a 5K or two. Lately, though, it’s been hit-or-miss. Some days I’m on, other days I’m off. Some weeks I’m on; other weeks I’m off. Some months I have a jogging partner; other months I don’t have a jogging partner. There is no predictable pattern to my motivational whims.

Unresolved: My career. I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. Well, not entirely. I know bits and pieces (I want to write, I want to publish, I want to facilitate creativity), but I don’t know what all of that looks like. And sometimes I don’t know things like what to write, or what to publish. And other times I don’t know what “facilitating creativity” even means (like right now). But I do know that as I journey through life, this thing called my career – that is what I do – will likely change and grow as I continue to do so.

Unresolved: My finances. Talk about complicated – this topic is one hairy beast. Career, shmareer. How about, can I just pay the bills, please? Ironically, I was more worried about money when I actually had it, when there was plenty but it was never enough. Now that there really isn’t enough, it is surprisingly freeing to simply not spend money because, well, there isn’t any.

Unresolved: My intimidation. There’s no way around it, some people are intimidating and some situations are intimidating. In fact, in my adult life I have been told on multiple occasions that I, myself, am intimidating. Will I ever stop being intimidated or intimidating? Probably not. But by acknowledging this, I’m strangely more equipped to deal with it.

Unresolved: My self-doubt. Intimidation breeds self-doubt. And for some reason, regardless of my accomplishments and the confidence that others tell me I exude, there are still seeds of self-doubt deep down at the bottom of my soul that take root and sprout up every once in a while. Thankfully, it’s not often, but they definitely exist – the voices that say I’m not good enough, or not fill-in-the-blank enough, or too much fill-in-the-blank. I’ve been told that they're the voices of the Devil, and while I believe that to be true, squelching those evil whispers doesn’t exactly come naturally.

Unresolved: My love life, or lack thereof. Ah, yes. My love life. Sigh. Enough said.

Ode to a Premonition

2008-01-01T11:54:00.000-08:00

This time last year, I had a feeling – a premonition – that Big Change was mysteriously lurking on the horizon. I distinctly remember sitting in my office shortly after New Year’s Day chatting with one of my co-workers, Kelley, and saying these very words: “I just know that by the end of this year, nothing will be the same as it is right now.”

Have you ever been haunted by your own words? It’s a little creepy.

So without further adieu, in no particular order, the Revolutions of 2007, both major and minor. (Granted, Revolutions may be a bit dramatic. Perhaps Modifications or Adjustments would make a more appropriate word choice. But then again, I do have a flair for the dramatic.)

Minor Accomplishments (or, Minor Setbacks):
•Successfully recovered from literally losing my laptop, an egregious mistake that was made by yours truly in 2006 as a result of a momentary loss of cognitive brainpower (a.k.a. complete and utter stupidity).
•Successfully smashed the RAV-4’s back end into the stairs of my apartment complex, thus adding yet another touch of character and charm to the poor, dilapidated, on-its-last-leg vehicle.
•Successfully completed one-half of a training schedule for running a half-marathon. (Read: did not actually run the half-marathon.)
•Successfully had my brand new beach cruiser stolen whilst slaving away on the forth floor of the public library downtown.
•Successfully declined two potential job offers from Seattle Pacific University and Prosper magazine.
•Successfully passed up (i.e. chickened out of) an opportunity to introduce myself to the editors of Sactown Magazine.

Major Accomplishments:
•Successfully lived alone for almost one full year, thus realizing and coming to terms with just how much of an extreme extrovert I really am.
•Successfully completed three 5k races, two of which were benefit events: the Women’s Fitness Festival benefiting WEAVE and Run to Feed the Hungry benefiting Sacramento Food Bank and Family Services.
•Successfully had the aforementioned beach cruiser recovered two days after it had been stolen. (This story is yet to be written.)
•Successfully survived attending not one, not two, not three, but four – yes four! – weddings.
•Successfully survived attending my 10-year high school reunion. (Go Grizzlies!)
•Successfully resigned from my position as managing editor at Sierrastyle Publishing for the purpose of focusing on finishing my last semester of grad school at Sacramento State University.
•Successfully wrote a memoir and completed a Master of Arts in English with an emphasis in creative writing.
•Successfully established jannamarlies.com with the help of Jason Barnett, web programmer, and Mazzarrello Media & Arts, the genius behind the flat out stellar design of the site. The best compliment was from Gary, one of my former coworkers: “It’s totally got Janna written all over it.” I couldn’t have said it better myself.

Coworking. Ever heard of it?

2007-12-01T13:24:00.000-08:00

The official coworking wiki and blog describe the concept as “a café-like community/collaboration space for developers, writers and independents.” Stumbling across this movement was born out of my own experience during the past two months and I’ve been researching it frantically. (As I mentioned previously, it didn’t take long before I went into withdrawal from regularly being a part of a creative and collaborative environment.)

During this process, I emailed a guy who has a similar-concept group more exclusively for start-ups and entrepreneurs who wrote the following to me: “Another problem with co-working around here is Sacramento is decidedly un-urban. I think that in order for co-working to survive, you need a core of people who live where they work, are working on smaller projects, and have a creative bent. I just don't see that locally.”

This is a statement with which I whole-heartedly disagree, and, considering that, number one, you’re reading this monologue, and that, number two, at least 20 people within my network and circle of acquaintances are folks with a creative bent, I should think that you would also disagree.

My goal is to personally spearhead a coworking community and eventually establish a space somewhere in downtown/midtown.

So. Here’s the bottom line: I need help.

What I’m looking for:
•a partner. Someone who can commit to working on this project with me. Now, don’t freak. I’m willing, able and quite eager to do the legwork myself. However, we can’t forget my collaboration-withdrawal. That means what I really need is someone with whom I can brainstorm, bounce around ideas and anything else that can be construed as “creatively collaborate.”
•coworkers. Independent workers (freelancers, designers, programmers, artists – anyone who works independently from home, cafes, or a non-traditional office space) in Sacramento with an interest in being part of a grassroots effort on the ground level.
•space. A living room with wifi will work just fine for now.
•web designer/programmer. Coworking Sacramento will eventually need its own Web presence.
•funding. TBD based on need/interest/other variables as they arise.

There’s a lot more I could say about how fabulous coworking is (or sounds, since I’ve not yet experienced it first hand) and about how freakin’ excited I am to start and see something established in a city that I have become very fond of. But pretty much everything I’ve read online regarding coworking resonates in my bones like hearing an incredible tuba solo, so I figure why repeat what’s already been said so eloquently by others? You just might feel it in your bones too, and if you do, I want to hear from you.

Confessions of a City Singlton

2007-11-27T14:25:00.000-08:00

Let’s set the record straight. I am not, nor do I wannabe, the next Carrie Bradshaw. The difference between Carrie and yours truly is that I – surprise, surprise – am a real person, writing a real column (or blog, if you prefer).

Unlike Ms. Bradshaw, I report to an office every morning. I haul my lazy butt out of bed at the ungodly hour of 6 a.m.; head to Capitol Park for a jog in an attempt to maintain some semblance of a girlish figure; and when I go out, I do not garnish a flood of male attention that subsequently provides a disposable amount of material for this column.

To be clear, yes, I’m technically a singles columnist, but if you’re looking for the Sex-and-Sacramento version of “Sex and the City,” you won’t find it here. Sorry to disappoint.

I have, however, spent hours contemplating my debut as Sacramento’s very own Super Single Girl on the illustrious pages of this blog. It’s unclear how I, Janna “dateless” Santoro, finagled the position of convincing you, dear reader, that I actually know a thing or two about the single life. In reality, my authority on the subject is limited to the fact that I have been single for an inordinate amount of time – the whole of my blankety-blank years.

Having dispelled any lingering misconceptions based on everyone’s favorite fictional singleton – semi-admirable if for no other reason than her entertainment factor – I remain bumfuzzled by the nature of the Columnist Code of Antics to follow. Surely, there must be some kind of secret society. If there is, I sure as heck haven’t been inducted and doubt I’ll receive a membership card any time soon.

If indeed the Code exists, it does so to dictate Columnist gallivantings. So, when not chronicling glamorous escapades and scandalous dating relationships, Columnist – faithful to Code – parades shamelessly about: plotting, scheming and seeking new opportunities to secure Columnist Goddess status – far above non-columnist mortals. The Code insists that Singles Columnist inhabits uber-chic writerly confines, outfitted with hip office space and an antique baker’s table in lieu of a traditional desk – one strewn with paper, sticky notes, magazines and books in no discernable order. One wall, painted a bright, funky color, functions as a makeshift bulletin board for clippings and random inspiration.

As the happy byproduct of a perpetually booked social calendar, Stereotypical Singles Columnist’s phone rings incessantly. She hits a new restaurant every night of the week and a new club every weekend – always with a new date in tow. She has an impeccably fabulous wardrobe, never wearing the same outfit twice and pulling off ensembles that don’t match yet oddly work. Singles Columnist always looks good.

Well, I’ve got the baker’s table.

Officially, I do not fit the stereotype. My place in the city, while considerably less than uber-chic, possesses a unique and humble charm. If I’m lucky, my phone rings at least once a day, though it’s usually my mother. My social calendar is never booked, and I’ve been known to spend many a Friday night at home. Alone. Writing this column. If my soon-to-be beloved readers expect me to maintain the hip-single-columnist image, I’ll have to upgrade my wardrobe so that it comes with a personal fashion consultant – and prospects for increasing the cash flow.

Admittedly, the pressures of maintaining a columnist persona are somewhat alleviated with the perceived anonymity of publishing online, which should help in the maintaining-a-low-profile department. (We’ll see how well this theory holds.) Otherwise I’d have nothing about which to monologue save for my semi-recent jaunt to “The Apprentice” auditions (don’t ask). This is, after all, a potential date-killing gig, and dating has enough drama.

Writing Fiend

2007-11-25T14:10:00.000-08:00

I have been non-stop writing. I’m surprised that I don’t have calluses on the tips of my fingers from typing all day every day for the past two weeks. You know what else I am surprised at – my own stamina. Before now, I had no idea that I had this kind of endurance when it came to writing. And let me tell you, it’s exhausting! Not to mention the fact that during these writing stints, I have virtually no contact with the outside world. Despite the isolation, I’m quite proud of this accomplishment because in just over one week (on December 5, to be exact) , I will have submitted my 80-plus-page master project for completion of a master of arts degree at the University of California, Sacramento. Until now, I didn’t know this kind of writing was in me.

I’ve learned a lot about writing recently. My main conclusion is this: if I can do it, anyone can. One of the other courses I’ve been taking this semester is a teaching writing internship and I’ve been contributing to a freshman comp class at a local community college. Modern composition pedagogy emphasizes writing as a process – something I think was intrinsic for me, but I never explicitly thought or spoke about writing in those terms – and so focusing on teaching, guiding, coaching others through a writing process has indirectly forced me to be more aware of my own process.

This experience has also given me pause to consider why I don’t write more. I mean, I call myself a writer, but how much do I actually write? Up to now, it’s only been when absolutely necessary – not very writerly of me. The reality is that there are so many things that I could and should write about: wine (granted, not a pressing life issue, but something that I enjoy nonetheless), literature (a topic on which I have much to say), dating escapades (which are, if nothing else, entertaining), trials and tribulations of life as a single girl (of which there are many), teaching writing (a relatively new topic of interest), the way women are portrayed in the media (something I do explore a bit in my master project), and most importantly, faith, spirituality and what God is doing in my life.

One thing is certain: writing has been an immensely rewarding experience for me this year, which is now coming to a close. And so I simply must resolve to write all day every day more often.

I'm going through withdrawal.

2007-11-06T20:30:00.000-08:00

It happened much faster than I had expected. Took just three days, actually. That it happened was no surprise. No. The surprise was in how quickly withdrawal set in. Withdrawal from working? Hardly. I’m talking about withdrawal from regularly participating in a creative and collaborative environment. Luckily I have plenty of projects with which to keep busy (this Web site being one of them), but right away I knew that I wouldn’t be able to write/work in the seclusion of my one bedroom apartment. Aside from the fact that I wouldn’t see another human all day, Sydney, my adorable tuxedo cat (as much as I love her), is an absolute pest. When I’m at the computer, she has to be on my lap with her head between my hands. If she’s not doing that, she’s walking all over my desk, across the keyboard and back. Try typing and keeping a flow going with that kind of distraction!

Armed with this knowledge about myself, I resolved to work in one of my two choice coffee shops located within walking distance of my apartment in Midtown Sacramento: The Naked Lounge or Java City. The place that I end up on any given day depends entirely on my mood. Naked Lounge equals creative; I need stimulation. Java City equals professional; I need to be productive. Both places have coffee (a given) and free wifi (I do have to confess that I prefer the coffee at Naked Lounge) – what more could a graduate-creative-writing-student-slash-freelancer ask for, right? People, of course. Good thing both of these fine establishments have a decent flow of folks throughout the day. And when I say throughout the day, I mean the whole day – I’ve been known to haunt one of these locations from 8 a.m. until 6 or 7 p.m.

Alas, even with the aforementioned decent flow of folks, there is still one thing that I don’t get from either one of these fine establishments: interaction. More specifically, collaboration and creative exchange. (More on that to come.) And so I’ve found myself struggling with working in isolation. Sometimes I go for an entire day without having a conversation with any other human being. And this is a huge problem for someone like myself, who happens to be an extreme extrovert. What is a girl to do?

No time like the present to dot, dot, dot. (Start a blog.)

2007-10-25T20:20:00.000-07:00

The time has finally come for me to give in to the blogging trend. It’s a required component of an online identity these days, is it not? Alas, I’ve resisted for so long mainly because everyone has one. Which begs the question, how then would I even begin to distinguish myself from the mass of bloggers, bearing their souls to the World Wide Web? Additionally, in the words of my good friend and writing compatriot, “I’m not a joiner.” At least when it comes to blogs. And now I have succumbed to the pressure. It would seem an appropriate time for me to do so considering the transitional state in which I now find myself. Also considering that I am in fact a writer, even I am a bit surprised that I haven’t started one before now.

So what was the impetus for this ingenious, albeit delayed, breakthrough? I’m glad you asked. As of October 25, 2007, I am less than two months from completing a Master of Arts degree in English with a creative writing emphasis (woo-hoo!), and also as of October 25, 2007, I am less than two weeks into a stint that will hereinafter be referred to as freelancing (For now, at least. I reserve the right to dub the stint as something completely different altogether at a later date should I deem it necessary.). In other words, I resigned from my position as managing editor for Sierrastyle Publishing (a gig that lasted the better part of 3.5 years) to focus on finishing my graduate program.

All this to say that I’ve initiated a drastic life change and I’m about to embark upon an incredible journey that will no doubt challenge and stretch me in all areas of life – mentally, physically, emotionally, spiritually – like never before. And I intend to keep track of that journey and my progress. If you are so inclined to follow this journey, offer questions/comments/concerns/snide remarks, so be it.

Hence the obligatory blog.