I’m going to get fired. Alright, so maybe “fired” is a little drastic. But pretty soon, the CFO is going to invite me into her office, close her door (which she never does, unless...), rest her elbows on the edge of her desk with hands folded under her chin, and take a loud, long, deep breath through her pointy noise. “Sarah,” she will say in that mother-restraining-herself-from-screaming-at-her-kids tone. “We’re getting a little concerned about your, how shall we say this? Attendance.”
And I, uh, I will stammer *ahem* and stutter, avoid her accusing stare by looking over her shoulder at the photos on the wall of her two kids. I’ll slide a little lower down in the thousand dollar aero chair, trying desperately to string together words that have some semblance of a reason. Why some days I blast into the office, windblown and pink-cheeked, at 10:30 in the morning, almost two hours later than usual. Why, for three days in a row I disappear for count-count-counting the minutes, from 11:45 to almost 2:00 in the afternoon. “We understand that everyone has to eat lunch,” she will say with a furrowed brow, “but not for two hours. And not for two hours every day.” Still looking at her sons’ photos on the wall, I will think, “I know how you boys feel.”
And though I will stutter and stammer, I will have no explanation to give the CFO that will be logical enough for her perfectly-financially-accounted-for mind. No, I will never be able to admit that, whilst she suspects that I may be making the rounds on job interviews or just goofing off with a couple of margaritas up the street, I am actually *sigh* gleefully tooling around town with a handful of googlemap color printouts and a list from the L.A. Times, searching for parking on side streets without street sweeping signs, and strolling from booth to booth...at the farmers’ market.
Yes, the farmers’ market. This is why I am gone during the daytime hours. I’m windblown from being out in the open air. My cheeks are pink because I've been in the morning sun.
In Los Angeles, we are absolutely, positively, spoiled fresh. California’s climate makes it possible to grow all kinds of produce year round, which means that not only do we have farmers’ markets even in November (*weep for us* trekking through *brr* fifty degree weather on a late autumn morning to get fresh produce for Thanksgiving dinner), but we have markets all over southern California and every day of the week. We have farmers’ markets in Inglewood (Tuesdays) and Brentwood (Sundays). And even in Hollywood, where no matter how many times you’ve strolled the red carpet, the only golden globes that count at the market are freshly picked yellow tomatoes and Fuji apples.
So even though the LA traffic sucks; even though there are homeless people begging for change on Rodeo Drive; even though there are way too many girls in oversized Prada sunglasses and hot pink Juicy jogging suits toting their mini yorkies around in Balenciaga doggie bags; even though the yorkie’s matching Juicy dogsuit costs more than my entire wardobe, I consider myself blessed to be living in L.A. - having access to all these amazing markets. And to truly appreciate what we have here, I have challenged myself. Can I visit a different market every day of the week, buy something that is not very familiar to me, and make something? The former is not tough – west L.A. has a lot of markets so I don’t have to travel too far. Just yesterday I walked three blocks to the Culver City farmers’ market on my lunch hour. Who knew you could get Brussels sprouts in late April? (What they actually taste like though, remains to be seen.) The latter part of the challenge, to buy something unfamiliar, is tougher. Next week I'll post my de-brief report.
So, no, I am not a traitor, out during the day on company time, interviewing for another job. But I won't have any other explanation for the CFO. Oh well. If I get fired, at least I’ll have phenomenal photos of avocadoes and a very fresh guacamole.