Sunday, April 27, 2014

Car Troubles

Published 4/27/2014

Let me just say that having all the facts before acting is usually the best way to go. I pride myself on being pretty levelheaded and just this week I had to be the voice of reason and caller of emergency response vehicles in several situations. On Friday however, I sort of allowed a non-issue to become a full-scale production, quite unnecessarily. I shall elucidate:

So I was luxuriating in the curiously slow day at work- nothing will top the Coachella-inspired mass exodus of the two previous weekends but it was still nice- and I was thinking okay, I’m going to take my lunch break, go to this free improv show and then go home and watch far too many episodes of Gilmore Girls. These are the things I was thinking as I walked towards my car, until my thought abruptly became where the hell is my front license plate?!  It wasn’t on my car, friends. So obviously the logical conclusion was that it had been stolen and that someone was probably at that very moment committing a crime while driving with my plate and that I would be dramatically arrested, dragged out of work and just shy of finishing my toothbrush shank before the truth of my innocence and mistaken identity came to light.  Because that totally happens all the time, right?

So my next completely rational action was to attempt to file a police report, which apparently is much easier said than done. I tried the LAPD non-emergency number but after getting a recording I was told that they were too busy and I had to call back. Awesome. So I called them again because that makes sense, right? Nothing. So I thought, hey I’m really close to the Weho Sheriff Dept., I’ll just try them. Well I did and they told me that even though I was literally two blocks away, I was out of their jurisdiction and was directed instead to the Hollywood station. Of course there's a charge for filing a report on the phone and it takes two weeks to process, so I had to physically go into the station to get a copy of the report to take to the DMV.

My next logical decision then, was to leave work early because who knows what kind of name-sullying things criminals were doing with my license? This obviously had to be taken care of immediately. So at the station, OF COURSE the only officer there was brand new, extremely flustered by the phone, yet still managed to be unsubtly condescending at every turn, and OF COURSE there was someone being wheeled out on a stretcher, causing a ruckus, yelling obscenities and generally unnerving me like in everyyuppie in a precinct scene” in every movie. 

So back to Baby Cop: after trying to convince me that the theft didn’t take place in his jurisdiction,  he finally acquiesced and started to process my paperwork but he needed help, so Helpful Detective came to assist. So as they tag-team the forms, Helpful Detective tells me that I have to take off my rear plates too because once it’s filed, anyone seen driving with either plate will get pulled over at gunpoint. He seemed to really be relishing this so I very calmly and with no irony suggested that that may be slightly dangerous for me because try as I might to pass, I’m actually black, so any situation involving myself and police with guns would probably end up with me dead. And then, he looks me in the eye and says, wait for it… “Wellllll… you should just take the plates off.” Helpful Detective made absolutely no attempt to suggest that maybe that would not in fact be the case. Did that just happen?!

So fearing police brutality or worse- a fix-it ticket,  with no plates on my car, dreading the coming days of schlepping to the DMV, the dealership and possibly auto repair shops, I got home, and there on the patio sat my mother effing front plate! So as it turns out, that mischievous little piece of metal, which by the way, I knew was a little loose, had simply broken off, still attached to the mounting bracket. I’d just failed to notice it that morning. Go ahead and laugh because I have an overactive imagination… and also I am dumb. I have no qualms admitting that right now. So how was your weekend?

Thursday, April 17, 2014

My Name is Lydia, and I’m a Gym Rat

Published 4/17/2014

Hey guys, it’s me…nope, I’m still not a regularly working actor, thanks for asking. Seriously, everyone I know has been asking me how acting is going lately- but usually they ask me while I’m at work, as in the gym that I’m employed at for embarrassingly scant wages. Since I’m not on set when they ask me this and my face isn’t on any billboards, you’d think they would already have the answer to their own question but no, I guess it needs to be confirmed. Maybe they think I’m doing Method work for an upcoming role or something?

Anywho, I’ve been at this particular gym for almost six months and I’ve started to notice a few alarming trends in my behavior. I think I’m becoming that person about the gym… I think I might be a gym rat and I think it’s too late to turn back. There was a time when I had nothing but disdain for people who somehow managed to workout or at least do some approximation of working out for the entire duration of my shift. There just aren’t enough muscle groups in the world and I know this is LA but you cannot seriously tell me that you have nothing else better to do for six hours! That was how I used to think, but yesterday I realized that I’d been lingering at the desk for about 45 minutes after the class I’d taken ended and after I’d finished my shift.  How did this happen?!

To say I’ve always been enthusiastic about wellness in general would be an understatement. I considered being a personal trainer for years and I always work out, but I think I’ve recently descended to another, scarier level. Fitspo board on Pinterest? Yep, I’ve got one. Do I hang out with members outside of work? Guilty. Do the subjects of “carb cycling” and “counting macros” surface in my conversations more than once a week? Sigh. Am I following the Quest bar lawsuit, whilst eschewing all other inferior protein bars? You got me.  

There was a time when I was still friendly towards people who work out less than five times a week but I fear that those days may be coming to an end. Not only am I becoming a gym rat, but I’m even more of a health snob than I was before. Some would blame this on my full immersion in this LA lifestyle- I’m probably one step away from joining a startup cult- but the truth is that I’ve always been pretty keen on preserving myself. Not to be cheesy , but exercise is important and also have you seen the smog here? Angelenos can’t afford not to be  fit.  So basically what started as fun has become silent judgment towards people who don’t take advantage of farmers’ markets. Like, if you don’t like kale we probably can’t be friends. Just kidding, but really I’m kind of serious.

So that’s that. I just hope that I never become the girl who has a full face of makeup on at a seven AM spin class. If you ever see me doing anything like that, you are cordially invited to punch me in the face because it means I’ve lost my damn mind. 

Thursday, April 3, 2014

Because of Course!

Published 4/4/2014

So last night, I mistakenly assumed that I could casually go to the Arclight for an advance screening of Cuban Fury (which by the way has caused me to love Rashida Jones even more), making little to no effort regarding my appearance because I had just gotten off of work and no one would be paying attention to me anyway, right? Nope! Because of course there would be a series finale premier of Mad Men happening at the very same time. This of course meant that I received many a side-eye from multiple people that essentially said, “Who the hell is this basic girl and why is she wearing flats?!” But whatever, I got to see the miniatures used in The Grand Budapest Hotel, which reminded me why I love the Arclight and why I love Wes Anderson even more.

Anywho, I’ve been having a day. Firstly, I’ve been fighting off some sort of respiratory-congestion-fun. Most people would just go to the doctor, but I can’t because while my job told me in no uncertain terms that they most certainly will not offer me benefits because of my part-time status and provided documentation that said as much, good ol’ Covered California is not convinced. This means that I get to remain in a murky, uninsured limbo. So that’s cool. #murica

Nonetheless, impending iron lung aside, I planned to finally do some writing because I’ve been putting it off for far too long. All I have to do is go get my oil changed and then I can spend the whole day getting my Dan Humphrey on and drinking tea and pretending that I’m much more literarily astute than I really am… maybe get my hands on some opium or at the very least a little absinthe because that’s what good writers do, right? That’s what I thought. That is what was supposed to happen. What actually happened is that I went to get my oil changed and found out that all four of my tires are dangerously bald (that explains that clicking sound) and need to be replaced. All four of them! Who wants to buy four tires on a Thursday morning? I wouldn’t have nearly enough time to dabble in antiquated hallucinogens! So I spent a large part of the day pricing tires and being put on hold and doing a lot of creative accounting because apparently one should be able to pay for auto repairs when one is an adult. #starvingartist #isittoolateforlawschool?

So after that nonsense played out I decided to go to Victoria’s Secret to get my free panties to cheer myself up because why not? Seriously, they never stop sending those coupons. And also the person who lived in my apartment before I did refuses to change her address so I get multiple pairs every month. When the highlight of your day is a free piece of cotton it sometimes causes you to reevaluate your life but oh well. #lifehacks #freestuff #sorryimnotsorry  So as I walked by Zales, one of the associates asked if I’d like to open an account there. Obviously, she couldn’t have known the day I’d been having but even still, do I look like someone who can BUY DIAMONDS right now? Diamonds! Hmmmm? Nope! No, that’s not going to happen. Sigh. So that’s me. Also, I forgot how awful apartment hunting in LA is. How did I find the place I live in now? How?!

Well good night world. I’ll just be over here stressing about things I can’t control…