Bastille Day 2010

Not long after Americans celebrate their Independence Day every July 4th, the French honor a similar holiday ten days later. This is known as Bastille Day. I could go into the history of why the Bastille is important, (even though the monument in Paris dedicated to this event is tiny and underwhelming just like a lot of things I've experienced lately), but that's not what this post is about at all. Two years ago on July 14th, while the French were setting off lots of fireworks, wearing scarves, and eating patriotic colored cheeses (I'm really not sure how they celebrate to be honest), I was having quite possibly one of the worst days of my life.

That's it?

Let's rewind the clock back to Summer 2010. (*Diddly do diddly do diddly do*) I had basically been unemployed since mid-November, even though I had recently attained an expensive but ultimately worthless college degree. I had briefly worked for the Census, (oh god, the horror!), and was reading scripts for a screenwriting competition at $10 a pop under the table (shhhh!), but still drowning financially. My unemployment checks didn't even cover half of my rent, and I was tearing through my savings just to afford little luxuries like the occasional ramen noodle packet and electricity.

Oh life sustaining yet nutrition less white carbs.
So delicious when you don't depend on them for survival.
 I may have this for lunch just because I can now afford real food.

Thankfully, my parents were able to take over my exorbitant student loan payments temporarily, which was a major financial hardship for them. I was also hugely overweight at the time. Not that this was unusual for me, but it certainly didn't help matters. I didn't really know that many people in Los Angeles, even though I'd lived there for a whole year. So basically I just sat alone in my apartment all day desperately combing Craigslist and other job listing sites for anything to keep the tiny South Central studio roof over my head.

It was a shitty, shitty period in my life. Weeks would go by when the only time I would step outside my door would be to move Stan from one side of the street to the other for street sweeping days. If it wasn't for this simple, yet very important task, I would have had no concept of what day of the week it was. Street sweeping was the only thing that gave me structure in my life. That's why I awoke with a jolt when I heard the obnoxious beeping of the street sweeper at 8am on Wednesday, July 14th, two hours before it was due. I had been planning on moving my car right before 10am, so I bolted out of my iron screen door wearing only a t-shirt and bright yellow happy face boxers. Sure enough, the entire side of the street was empty, and Stan was nowhere to be found. A helpful neighbor sitting on his stoop informed me that my car had been towed.

It's sad when this is the only thing giving your life structure.

This was a first for me. I had never had a car towed or even legitimately ticketed in my life! (Ok, there was that time six months earlier when I got a fix-it ticket for a busted headlight because Stan's cover fell off and lightbulbs always seem to burst). I was flabbergasted, flummoxed, and in all other ways bewildered. Luckily, said helpful neighbor knew where it had been taken and the impound was within walking distance. So I got dressed and walked the streets of South Central to rescue Stan. Remember how I said I was unemployed and broke at the time? I think I had maybe $40 in my checking account and that was it. My credit card practically screamed out loud when I had to fork over $300 to retrieve my beloved vehicle. It turns out that they were paving the street that day, without notifying the residents of Mont Clair St. They did post signs saying 'temporary tow away', but they did not have a date on them and I swear they had been up since the previous week. You know how they tend to leave those signs up for weeks after completion...

Sigh.

When I got to Stan, I noticed that not only was I towed, but there was a ticket on his windshield. SERIOUSLY? I didn't know you could be both towed and ticketed for the same offense. Yup. You can. The ticket was only for $60, which doesn't seem like that much. However, this paltry amount would have literally bankrupted me. I was so depressed that I didn't feel like going home after the impound. So I drove. I ended up all the way in Santa Monica, just wandering the beautiful, clean, smoke-free streets. Until I found the King's Head pub. And proceeded to drown my sorrows with cider and over-priced fish and chips. (Hey, I'd already spent $300 on my only credit card, what's another $30 at this point?). After the pub, I walked around the beach and pier, being all classy and day drunk, wallowing in misery. I had to stay there for several hours until my ill-advised mini-bender wore off and I could go home.

Ye Olde King's Head Pub. 

But I ended up fighting the ticket. I sent in a letter to the Parking Violations stating my case, and waited. And waited. To this day, I never received anything from them. Then my dad gets a letter from the DMV saying that I can't re-register my car until it's paid. Only now it's $154 with the late fee.

"We could certainly party with the Haiti-ans!"

WHAT THE HELL????!!! I had to call in three separate times and wait on hold for them to determine that they sent the letter with the decision that the ticket was valid (B.S.) to the wrong address. Luckily, I was able to sweet-talk them into waiving that late fee, "totally based on my powers of persuasion." Cher Horowitz would have been proud. And since I now have a job (though I still manage to be broke all the time), it's not quite as painful to shell out $60. But since the registration deadline is ticking, I had to make sure that the check got mailed today. Because naturally this is the one case where you can't pay over the phone or online. Argh. So I literally chased down the mail man, who happened to be driving by. He was very friendly and took my letter for me. He was also a champ and didn't laugh when the back full of donated clothes I happened to be carrying split all over the road. (I was going to make a pit-stop at the Salvation Army barrel thingy). It was quite the slapsticky sight to see.

Clearly Sadie has a "Stan" of her own!

Super long, depressing, and boring story short, this was one of the worst days of my life. The only thing that got me out of my funk was that my adorable, spunky niece Miss Sadie was born the next day. So even though my life was still super crappy, I realized that being an aunt makes it all worthwhile. (Cue the Awwwws here!)

An Exercise in Sublimation

I went to Target just now to buy a yoga mat. It was on sale for $12. Somehow, I managed to spend over $200. I was feeling reckless and impulsive. When I get like this, it manifests in either of the following two ways: A) Eating too much of something that's bad for me; or B) Spending way too much on stuff I don't really need and can't really afford. Check and check. Not to generalize for over half the world's population, but I think these are pretty typical female coping mechanisms. These past few months at work have been inconceivably stressful (I know, what else is knew, but for reals, it was bad), and there's some stuff in my personal life that's just a tad effed up as well.

Strange, my yoga mat didn't come with a pretty flcwer...

FALSE ADVERTISING!!!

This was a recipe for disaster that almost cost me all the amazing progress I have been making with my healthy lifestyle changes. I gained back six of the seventy-six pounds I had lost, on top of reverting to some of my old compulsive over-eating habits. There's nothing worse than feeling out of control. Especially when you can undo six weeks of hard work and weight loss with three days of poor decisions. I let myself wallow in misery for a whole weekend. Sometimes you just have to. But then last Monday, I got over it. I did laundry, scrubbed my whole apartment (including the shower which I confess had not been cleaned in... let's just say a while), and paid bills. There's something to be said for a cathartic cleaning and organizing purge to reset yourself and gain new perspective.

I'm the life of the self-pity party!

Monday was also the first day I started going to the Burbank Athletic Center. They had a free three-day trial, so I figured I should check out the mythical place known as the "Gym." I'd never really gone to a regular gym before. I was always in sports as a kid, then I went to Curves a few years in high school (apparently they donate to some uber-conservative causes, so boycott them if you can). In college, there was a free state-of-the-art gym that supposedly Kobe Bryant used to work out at, but it was too far to walk to and I didn't have a car. After college, I was too poor to afford a real gym, so I would just go running around the 'hood. But you couldn't do that after dark at the risk of being murder-raped. Then I created this workout, but it wasn't terribly effective. I've been running here in NoHo since about September, but the repetitive motion and hard impact from the concrete really messed with my hip. It was terrifying to me to think that I might not be able to exercise for physical, not psychological reasons for the first time. But perhaps working out on commercial quality machines would fix my joint problems.

Fuck this dude. He makes me vomit.

I wouldn't want to work out at his gym anyway.

It turns out, I frickin' LOVE the gym!!! I can't believe I didn't discover this earlier! Think of how much weight and weight-related aggravation it would have saved if I'd have known that endorphins aren't just a conspiracy designed to get us off our sizable butts in pursuit of naturally occurring uppers. They really do rock, who knew? I always thought gyms were expensive, at least $40-50 bucks a month, but the BAC is actually super cheap at around $10. Even my broke-ass can afford that. I've gone every day for the past week and I look forward to it every time. If you know me at all, you know how crazy that is. They have pretty cheap yoga classes too, which I impulsively signed up for just now to try it. I'm going at 9am tomorrow, so we'll see if I'm just as jazzed on yoga as I am about cardio and strength-training. (I'm assuming Wii Yoga really isn't the same.)

Clearly I can't be trusted with a credit card when I'm emotional.

This initial impulse-buy led to the afore-mentioned yoga mat purchase. Which was accompanied by yoga pants, yoga capris, new sports bras, brightly-colored sweat towels, multi-vitamins, and a bunch of other stuff to get me excited about this new phase in my life. I think this is behavior I learned from my mother. If you're going to make a big change, it helps to buy new stuff to get you mentally prepared. Even though I probably could have made due with the million sports bras and workout clothes I already have, I needed to do this. I will probably regret it when I get my Target card bill, but for now, I'm just stoked to see what all the fuss is about. And it feels good to finally have some control again. Well, I'm still eating too many things I shouldn't, but at least I'm overcompensating for my short-comings with excessive exercising. And it's a lot healthier to take out all my rage and frustrations on the Stairmaster than getting drunk or high or eating a whole tub of cookie dough.

One-Tenth of 640 Million Dollars

I do not believe in gambling. If I'm going to spend perfectly good disposable income on something, it had better be useful, chocolate, or at least shiny. Playing the lotto is basically pinning all your hopes and dreams on an expensive piece of future trash. The one time I went to Vegas as an adult, I spent all of about five minutes gambling before the flashing lights and ringing bells grew old and I skipped off to Chippendale's with my massive eiffel tower margarita in hand. I did buy one lotto ticket once on my 18th birthday just as a rite of passage. I didn't win anything and never bothered since.

But since the jackpot in California is so ridiculously big right now, this was the first time that I was ever seriously tempted. The following thoughts started floating around my over-worked and underpaid mind: "Hey, someone's gotta win it. Why not me? " and "You can't win if you don't play!" These obsessive mantras quickly replaced the usual fleeting logical conclusions, "One chance in a bazillion," "Waste your money on more tangible objects" and "The lotto is a tax on folks who can't do math" (that last one I stole from my former drama/computer/track/improv teacher''s Facebook. Thanks Walters!)

I started to fantasize about what I would do with all that money. Even if you tax the bejeezus out of a shit-load of money, you still have a shit-load of money. That is just irrefutable. Suddenly, I became one of those people I used to pity and deride for spending their last dollar on a lotto ticket. What you're really paying for with that dollar is a dream, temporary though it may be. The dream that all your problems will suddenly go away because you finally have a fat bank account. Sure, there is a documented Curse of the Lotto Winner, and they say "Mo' money, mo' problems." But I would gladly trade my problems for that of a ridiculously wealthy person's. Any takers?

With this in mind, I jumped on the bandwagon and put in not just one, but TWO whole dollars of my hard-earned money into my office lotto pool. I think mostly because they caught me when I was hungry and running late, so I was feeling especially vulnerable to the lure of large sums of money. When I got home and checked Facebook, I saw I was not alone. Clearly, the draw of $640 million dollars has caused thousands of rational people who wouldn't normally buy into this crap to increase the odds of winning even more. But again I say, someone has to win it eventually. Why not me?

So let's say I win my share of a bajillion dollars. Everyone always wants to know the first thing you're going to do with it. A new car? A yacht? A private island? For me, the first thing would be to pay off my student loans in one big lump and attach a picture of me flipping them off for screwing me over so bad the past few years. Practical and yet uber-satisfying at the same time. The next thing I'd do is pay off my parents' debt. Hell, I'm rich enough I could take care of everyone I know so that they only have to worry about paying their living expenses. There is nothing worse than being in debt. I suppose that's not exactly true. Leprosy might be worse. Having to spend an entire five minutes with Kristin Stewart and not being able to punch her in the face could also be a contender. But still, debt sucks.

After everyone was free and clear, I'd do the whole nice car, nice house, around the world vacation including a long stay in Vegas in the fanciest suite with a private party of Chippendale's dancers just for me and my 80 closest friends, thing. But I'd never let go of Stan (even though he died on my three times last week). Because I know where I come from.

Now that this blog is winding down to an end, I would like to pose an ethical dilemma that always seems to pop up in these hypothetical situations. Say you win one-tenth of $640 million dollars. Do you go to work the next day?

I'm honestly not sure.

I think they've done the drawing already, but I haven't checked if I won yet. I should do that...

So it occurs to me that I don't actually know how this works. I have three of the numbers, but they're not on the same line. What happens if you win one number? And does it have to be in the same place as the drawing? Or can you just have the same numbers? I'm assuming I didn't win anything, but I'm still confused. Oh well. It was fun to dream about being debt free while it lasted!

Beulah

I'm having an affair, and what's worse, I'm falling in love with the other woman. She happens to be a green Honda Civic I've named Beulah. But you have to understand the circumstances during which I went from a loving, monogamous relationship with Stan (my 1989 Mercury Topaz that I've had since I was sixteen, easily the longest relationship of my life), to considering transferring my loyalty and devotion to Beulah, all in under 12 hours.

Beulah, the Green M&M of Vehicles

The only things my parents still pay for are my car insurance and DMV-type registrationy fees. (Other than that, I am fully independent). So when the DMV informed my dad that it was time to get Stan smogged for his registration come June 1st, my dad made sure to give me plenty of time to take care of it. Being a natural procrastinator, and proud of it, I just now made it in to Pep Boys with four days to spare. I even made an appointment online (self-five!). Four hours of waiting, reading a large section of "The Help," and awkward conversations with a stranded young family with car trouble on the way to Disneyland and a teenage Tim Burton look-a-like, I still hadn't heard about the status of Stan.

Finally I decided to ask the very cute and charming Pep Boy Artin. (He's lucky that he was cute and charming, otherwise I would have been even more annoyed at this waste of my time). He said, oh, bad news, it failed. I had joked in my Facebook status before leaving that I had my fingers crossed for him to pass, otherwise it was "curtains for ol' Stanny." But it never really occurred to me that he would actually fail. Sure he has his many many many flaws and eccentricities, but he's always come through for me in the past six and a half years.

How can you not love this face?

Naturally, the technician who tells you exactly why he failed and what you need to do to get him fixed, wasn't in that day and won't be in tomorrow for Memorial Day (which is already my day off and I don't think I get holiday pay so it's more of a nuisance than a mini-vacation like for most people). Plus, it's an extra $140 not to mention a whole day without a car in order to diagnosis this mysterious illness. Not including the repairs to make him pass. I'm already having a belt-tightening month and was barely going to afford the cost of the test and an oil change. Now I find out I have to sink even more money into Stan just to pass California environmental standards? I'm all for the environment, but do the hippies mind forking over the money to buy me a new Prius? 'Cuz I don't have it, son.

I found out that it's possible I could qualify to get financial aid from our bankrupt state to "retire" my old man. It's the least they could do since they're the ones imposing such high standards anyway. But the thought of letting go of my buddy, the Murtaugh to my Riggs, is heartbreaking. Not many partners-in-crime will stick with you even after throwing up all over them while driving in Laker traffic on the 10 freeway. I always knew that Stan wasn't going to last forever. But it's like losing your first dog or your first boyfriend. That's a bond that will never break, no matter how temporary. I just know that I'm going to cry if I have to drop Stan off at a recycling plant to be dismantled. Think of how gut-wrenching that one scene in Toy Story 3 was!

I picture this, only insert a

Mercury instead of cute CGI toys.

Sure I'll be happy to get a new car. One that functions like it's supposed to and doesn't make weird old man gurgling and sputtering sounds. And idly browsing the North Hollywood online used car market yielded a few prospects, like the lovely, enticing, and affordably priced Beulah. The more I check out her statistics and financing options, the more seduced I become. But the fact remains that I am broke. The best thing about Stan was that he was completely paid for. I'm even considering getting a bike and just biking to work. But we all know that not having a car in Los Angeles is laughable.

The Green M&M of M&Ms

Hopefully I'm just jumping the gun and throwing the baby (or old man car) out with the bathwater. I don't know how much it's going to cost to fix. It could be less than a couple hundred dollars in which case maybe I can squeeze a few years out of Stan. But at the same time, isn't it better to start putting the money towards a new car and let go of the past? Should I start embracing a future with Beulah, the saucy Japanese mistress?

Homebody

It is my friend's birthday today and he just invited me to come hang out with his friends at the Edison Lounge downtown tonight. My first instinct was panic. The following are my reasons:

1. The Edison sounds swanky. Which means I will feel like a homely midwestern cousin (who's actually from Northern California) that they take pity on in my $20, three year old dress from Target that is a smidgen too small. If they let me in at all.

2. Though I just got paid, I'm still recovering from my recent bout of unemployment. And awkward social occasions require at least one glass of overpriced wine for me to loosen up and be my sparkling self.

3. Downtown parking, if you can find it, is a pain in the butt. One of my charming idiosyncrasies is that I tend to avoid situations in which parking is difficult. It stresses me out way more than it would the average non-neurotic person. Plus I always get hit on by black homeless guys named Tiny who play the jazz trumpet, while walking to/from my car.

4. I don't know very many people here even after over a year, and I should use this opportunity to expand my social network. (Brief shout-out to the random yet brilliant team of David Fincher and Aaron Sorkin). The problem here is that I don't really like meeting new people, being a stodgy misanthrope.

5. Sad as it is, I really just want to do nothing today. My big plans were to watch old episodes of Two Guys, a Girl and a Pizza Place (I'm on a Ryan Reynolds kick right now). I should be writing my Great American Novel, but I'll probably end up spending the weekend with a slightly obscure late 90s sitcom.

But I would like to see my friend again, and it has been too long since I interacted with normal people (outside my office, that is). So I may force myself to shower, straighten my mutinous hair with the savage yet effective In-Styler, and drive all the way (10 minutes) downtown to celebrate the birth of my former writing partner and UC Irvine cohort with a delicious yet bank-breaking glass of merlot.