Planning the escape

I sat in an hour long meeting yesterday and I found myself day dreaming. It wasn’t that the discussion wasn’t interesting. It was, actually. The meeting was about a very complex, challenging project. But, nevertheless, I was daydreaming. My eyes grew heavy despite my two cups of hazelnut coffee and I somehow got a case of the Yawns. My head was tilted—as if pulled by string, puppet-like in nature—towards the window and my eyes scanned the Santa Monica mountains. It was a gorgeous, unusually clear day.

My VP’s voice droned on and became a white noise to my imagination.

We then moved to an office next door and continued our discussion, only this time standing. This made it harder for me to drift off as I had to concentrate on standing upright and looking like I was interested. I found a mini fridge to lean against and I plopped my butt right down. The support of the fridge helped but not enough. At some point, my back started to hurt and I stopped gazing so much at the mountains and thought about new jeans I wanted to buy. I thought about weekend plans. I thought about tomato soup and the beach and lovely naps on a Sunday afternoon. I thought about red wine.

I thought, Screw this.

I dream for things beyond the corporate world and quite frankly, I don’t give a poop about my industry. We may be in an economic slump, but I’m on a motivational high. A motivational high and long-term day dream to be my own boss and to zone out the Equation, the fizz of the white noise of BS.

So while I occasionally open up a blank word doc at work to write and lay structure to my thoughts, perhaps I’ll be writing less and researching more. Maybe I’ll be working my way through less beach reads at home and more business strategy books.

Because there won’t always be a mini fridge to hold up my fat ass when I get bored at work.

This image gets me through the day

When things get rough at work, all I gotta do is look at the above and I lose it. "What really brought down the plane into the Hudson..."

Thursday afternoon musings

My manager and VP are away, so the kids can play…

The nights are warm once again and the whole city is graced with light. Dinner with G last night at Katsuya was divine; not necessarily the plate but the company. Over sushi, saki and cedar-planked salmon G and I truly caught up on life, as we always do. We were surrounded by industry types and size zeros and models in dresses that hovered just a quarter-inch above Ass Crack. Our Katsuya Kuriosity is now satisfied and we can move on to the next thing, as there will always be next things in this city. Next!

Today it’s all about the simple pleasures. Sundress weather has returned to Los Angeles so that means afternoons are spent dreamily gazing out the windows, into the light. We snuck away to get a latte this afternoon, walking past block after block of Angelenos stuck in traffic, trapped in their auto-boxes—suckers! Back at the office, it’s headphones promptly placed and Pandora on, all day. Coffee and Pandora and email jokes passed back and forth; homemade jokes of silly banter and cut-and-paste Google images. That’s what gets us by.

Tonight I see those old familiar Maryland friends of mine, the ones that I rode the school bus with when I was just in third grade, give or take. Fast forward 15 years and here we all are, joined together in the same city to wine and dine on a Thursday night, as though not a moment has passed. We’re still US, we’re just…bigger. Isn’t that lovely?

I’ve been struggling with restlessness lately. Not restlessness in the way of job or moving, but just to travel, to book a flight—anywhere! To calm this monster inside, I’m planning a few random things to curb my cravings. I’m like a crack addict, but merely addicted to the stale air of planes and the junk food of airports, addicted to that routine of grabbing the suitcase from the storage closet and planning ahead. A group of us will go wine tasting up north come early March. Wine and shenanigans, that oughtta help. And next weekend, G and I are going skiing, just for the day and then later, perhaps a month or so from now, we’ll head up to Mammoth where the real powder lies.

G’s job is ending and he could be moving soon. He could be leaving Los Angeles in four weeks or four months, it’s all so uncertain.

I will miss my best friend and favorite dinner date.

The threes

I can’t say this often, but on days like today, I truly enjoy my job. I feel as though I am on the upswing of that bell curve of good days and bad; as though a bit of triumph lies within my grasp. When times are tough—as they have been—a more perfect team forms. There is no “first to arrive” and “last to leave” because it’s all of us. It’s all of us drinking the three to four cups of coffee a day. It’s all of us wishing to run outside, even into the rain, just to enjoy some air that didn’t come from a dusty duct of an 11 story building. It’s all of us who go goofy when the clock strikes three and slap-happy laughter ensues. It’s all of us who crowd into conference rooms and fight the urge to yawn and lean over the table to talk strategy.

And there’s something to appreciate in all of that.

I have a good friend in Los Angeles who I often talk to about work matters and business. He takes his career very seriously and has a work ethic that puts most people to shame. On several occasions he has mentioned to me the two sets of “threes” that Coach John Wooden went by:

Don’t lie, don’t cheat, don’t steal.
Don’t whine, don’t complain, don’t make excuses.

It’s going to be a tough 2009. I will reference the Two Sets of Threes often.

Food!

The belly rules the mind.
~Spanish Proverb

It’s Dine LA Week in Los Angeles! I’m not sure why they call it “week” when it’s actually two weeks of Foodie Heaven but week will have to do. I’m making the rounds at a few joints I’ve been meaning to indulge in to take advantage of special pre-fixe menus for mouth watering prices. First up : Katsuya in Hollywood tomorrow night, supposed superb Japanese cuisine and celebrity magnet. Next week is Ford’s Filling Station in Culver City, where the chef is none other than Harrison Ford’s son and I have heard nothing short of rave reviews. Yum!

And it's Sunday. Again.

The weekend, stream of consciousness:

Hipster bar in Venice on Friday night, where the girls wear black skirts and black tights and little make up. Stellar parking spot, no line. Fate. Drink of choice in the bar: martinis. My drink of choice: red wine. I met a girl there who owns a printing press from the early 20th century and designs her own prints, yet is afraid of color. She is engaged and refuses to pick colors for her wedding.

Cloudy Saturday morning so my friend and I ditched the bike idea but still headed for the beach. Panting and puffing up the stairs, up and down, up and down, until our legs couldn't stand it any more. Then we went running along the beach. Beautiful and wild and quiet.

Mounds of cleaning and laundry and then Infatuation came over and made me dinner. I drank wine and watched him chop vegetables and sear garlic and pour olive oil on this and that. Delicious. He is the first boy to ever make dinner for me, whole and pure and from scratch.

Today we went on a long walk around Brentwood and stopped for coffee at our favorite shop. We strolled through the farmers market and were disappointed the ponies and goats were gone.

Gamble House in Pasadena this afternoon. It smells of age, of wood. It is supposedly haunted.

Now: work.

Jo, rung out and drained.

I am exhausted. My face is taking on the color and shading of artificial office lighting, that sallow blandness of neutrals; those endearing smudges in the wall of business victories forged in a unpredictable economy; the blotchy nature of dreams grinded, like stains in the carpet. I awoke this morning and my body said, simply, “No!” It did not want to make that familiar 1.5 mile drive to the office, down that pot-hole ridden lane in the morning fog that Los Angeles manages to cough up come dawn and reclaim come dusk. My body, our bodies (Go Team!) are now struggling to fight muscle atrophy; my shoulders are leaning forward in an all too familiar gesture. My hands, they naturally reach out, seeking keyboard or hazelnut coffee, just to my left. My neck, it clenches a phone even after hours, when a phone no longer rests in the nook between ear and shoulder.

My energy, that wild beautiful tornado, is unraveling.

The days of the week tumble together like a child’s toy blocks. They collapse like dominoes and then it’s the weekend. I believe all of Los Angeles must be tired, even the sun is tired. She has been hiding for a few days now and when I look out at our floor-to-ceiling windows, it’s a vastness of gray.

Although I am tired, it is the weekend, almost, and that is something to celebrate. This weekend I will dust off that candy-apple beach cruiser of mine and head west until I see ocean waters. My friend and I, we will bike side-by-side and discuss our weeks and boys and jobs and food. We’ll pant and laugh and stop somewhere for lunch on the way back. We’ll dodge cars and old ladies walking, and the occasional bus. On Sunday I head north to the Gamble House in Pasadena to tour a home of brilliant craftsmanship. If you don’t know what the Gamble House is, Google will tell you.

And so it goes, life in Los Angeles.