The Creepy Callers Incident

I used to love those little sneaky one-day holidays. President's day, MLK day, Memorial day, LABOR DAY, etc - holidays that the grocery stores don't go rabid about, and there's no real decorations or family gatherings, but you still get a three day weekend to drink and get into shenanigans.

Except when you don't.

Labor day is no fun when you're the only one of your friends laboring.

This past labor day, my phone illuminated all morning with texts and tweets and instagrams and other forms of communication I can barely finagle.

"Going to the pool?"
"lol sorry awesome BBQ to go to"
"Y go to the pool when you can go to THE BEACH"
"lol LA is so like whatever, NorCal bound!"
"R. Grace where are you?"

"At my desk. Working."

One friend was horrified that I had to work on a holiday, like doesn't that go against the constitution? I had to break it down that I worked technically part-time (38 hours some weeks, but still) in a customer-service position. Christmas and Thanksgiving are the only two days I for sure have off. While everyone else was riding dolphins or sparkler-jousting with celebrities (to my out-of-LA-friends, that's totally what this city is like. All the time.), someone had to make sure their baked goods arrived on time for their fabulous after parties. And that someone... was me.

Also I'd maxed out my credit card and October rent already loomed like a beacon of despair, so I kind of... needed to work. Baffling, I know.

To the Bakery's credit, work started pretty smoothly. A jovial mood permeated the few of us that were present. Most of the calls simply asked if we had regular business hours on Labor day.

I can do this, I thought. I am being responsible and conscientious about supporting my dream! I can still join the festivities after 5pm! (And then I will look better than everyone else because I won't have puffy day-drinking face! Day-drinking face instantly drops a point on the hottness scale!)

Soon it was just me and two other people. I was starting to feel self-pitying, but tried to be extra sunshine and rainbows nice on the phone. Maybe everyone else's Labor Day joy would ooze into me through osmosis. Maybe a studio exec would call for his son's birthday and say, "your voice is perfect for the lead role in Finding Nemo 3, is it okay if I give you buckets of money and also pay for your SAG-AFTRA fees?"

What? It's Hollywood; it could happen.

I got a call from a mom in the midwest... Nebraska maybe? Somewhere where people are supposed to be nice. Her daughter attended school near one of our locations and it was her birthday! So Nebraska mom needed a delivery to her daughter, like, 5 minutes ago. How did I not already know her full order and delivery address and card information, her daughter needed these pastries ASAP OR HER BIRTHDAY IS JUST RUINED, hello?!

I looked at the clock and realized the delivery cutoff happened an hour ago. And with it being a holiday (for everyone else beside me, apparently), our deliveries were jam packed all afternoon/early evening. Ugh. Okay, gentle let-down speech. I actually feel kind of bad, maybe I can check with a store and see if there's any possible way we can have something out...

"What part of I-live-in-Nebraska don't you understand? I can't be there for her so I need to get her these pastries for her birthday / because it's her birthday / I'm in Nebraska / That's far / Do you know how far?"
"I just checked with the story and it looks like deliveries are full..."
"Can't you just bend the rules? Add another one in? It's her BIRTHDAY after all."
"Ma'am, it's a holiday so we're already packed -"
"Your website doesn't say ANYTHING about it being a holiday."

Wait, what? Isn't that just like a common sense thing? I tried to come up with another solution, to be A++ awesome at customer service and save the birthday!

"Do you know any of her friends? There is still space for a pickup in a few hours; maybe you coordinate with someone to pick them up from the store so we can still get those cupcakes to her!" Perfectly logical solution, right? I am A++ the best at customer service, you're welcome world. I could already imagine her thanking me for saving Labor Day/her daughter's birthday/her woeful lack of preparedness...

"No I DON'T know her friends / why would I know her friends / are you not listening to what I'm saying / they need to be delivered / like right now / She can't pick them up either / Then it's not a surprise / she has to be surprised / so what you're saying is my daughter's birthday is ruined / because of you / you are ruining my daughter's birthday / do you even care?"

As my favorite philosopher, Ron Burgundy, once said, that escalated quickly.

Clearly nothing was going to please this woman besides me hand-delivering the pastries directly to her daughter two hours in the past. Since my time machine was on the fritz again (good plutonium is so hard to come by), this wasn't an option.

"Ma'am, I'm sure she'd be just as excited to pick the cupcakes up in person / or even a giftcard so she can select everything herself whenever it's most convenient / I can even transfer you directly to the store so you can speak to a manager -" (the classic pass-off. yell at someone else please.)

"So you're saying my daughter's birthday is ruined?" Where? Where in the last fifteen minutes had I ever inserted the word "ruined?" I have a bit of a southern accent, but usually that just adds a syllable here or there instead of throwing in completely different words.

"I'm saying that there are a couple different options we can try to get these pastries to your daughter this evening."
"But you can't deliver them to her right now?"
"... ... ... " I could not figure out any other combination of the previous sentences to make it clearer. Ummmm....

"Nevermind, I will find another bakery that cares about their customers. You are USELESS. Stupid bitch." Click.

Whoa. My head spun and I couldn't decide what to be offended by first. Obviously calling me a stupid bitch seemed out of line. What is this, Real Housewives of Nebraska? But also, I care about people A LOT. It's the whole being-from-the-south / never-met-a-stranger-just-a-new-friend that more often than not gets me in trouble for being TOO nice. (See: The Salami Suitor Incident). I'd also been in that post-grad, under-employed funk. What use was spending four years of my life studying, thousands of dollars on books and lectures and projects? Was I still, after all that, useless? Maybe Nebraska Mom moonlighted as a political commentator; she sure was good at stringing together untrue statements to destroy my self-worth.

Suddenly, everything sucked. I was useless; this job was un-fun, people were mean, my friends were probably signing acting contracts while riding on giraffes in a private zoo somewhere. Why was I even in LA? What was I even doing with my life? Oh no, existential crisis meltdown on a Monday in the office. Since a kitchen staffer and a delivery driver sat only two cubicles away, just hanging out, I sprinted to the bathroom, locked the door, and kept reactivating the motion-sensor faucet so they couldn't hear me crying. So cool and subtle.

I pulled myself together. After all, I only had an hour and a half left and then I could join my friends in all their fun and revelry. This is always the part in the ABC Family small-town-girl-in-the-big-city movies where something REALLY GOOD happens to restore the girl's hopes and spark her creativity for that one cool project that will get her noticed by her boss AND score the love of her life. I was ready! I was excited! I was...

I was all alone in the office.

Sometime in my sob-spectacular the two remaining guys had left for the day. This usually isn't too abnormal; but as it was a holiday, every one next door (management, hr, fancy not-customer-service staff) had left as well. And someone had turned out the lights in the hallway, casting an eery haze from the frosted windows at the front of the office. Creeeepy.

Adding to the creep factor is the location of this office. Awesome Bakery HQ sat in a rather... unsavory section of Los Angeles, directly across from a strip club and next to a motorcycle shop. Not a place that normal families, celebrating their fabulous Labor Day, would casually stroll past.

But the dead silence and lack of accountability meant I could screw around on the internet uninterrupted. Hello, reddit. All's well that ends well, right? I was getting paid to do nothing after being abused by some Midwestern monster-lady. I could handle this -

RIIIIIIINNNNGGGG

My first phone call in thirty minutes jolted me out of my not-doing-anything haze. Surely this person will be nicer. Surely this person won't swear at me.

In retrospect, I kind of wished they'd dropped a couple F words and just slammed the phone down.

"Thank you for calling Awesome Bakery, this is R. Grace, how may I help you?" Sooo cheery. Suuuch a good employee. The caller ID was blocked, but this is pretty common in LA. Lots of celebs who want their sugary treats without their personal information for some call center drone to gawk at.

"Oh wow. You sound really pretty. Are you at the Beverly Hills location?" AWWW. A compliment! This must be the universe sorting itself out; someone really lovely to make up for that awful lady. We get all the Bev Hills store calls directly routed to us, so we usually just say we are that location.

"Oh yes, this is Beverly Hills. What can I get started-"
"No. I mean it. You sound really, really pretty." Okay, getting a little weird. Uncomfortable pause. Uncomfortable laugh. Let's get this order back on track. LA guys are just super weird sometimes, right?
"Heh heh thanks, now may I get a name for this order?"

The voice changed from just a regular inquisitive dude to something dark and slimy.

"No. I mean it. You sound really pretty. Where are you? I'm going to find you." Breathing.

I hung up the phone immediately and it started ringing again from a blocked number. I would just call my boss on my... dead cell phone. Oh. Crap.

I was alone, in a huge dark office building, with no one nearby, no phone, and no weapons (I knew I should have tucked my crossbow in my purse that morning.) The only person on our office IM chat was the IT guy, who was working on an in-store issue about an hour away. After my frantic messages (Help / creepy stalker / phone is dead / I'm scared / I don't want to die at a bakery / I don't want to die ever / need weapons / help / all alone / gonna die) he offered to swing by the office on his way home... while I sat alone for the next hour and a half. He found my supervisor's cell-phone number and said I could call the Sup, but maybe I should just like... leave?

I was torn. Yes, I wanted to immediately get the hell out of there. But I also REALLY needed this job. Leaving without doing the necessary shut-down, security checks (basically, poking into dark corners in the office. Alone. Cool.) was grounds for a major punishment, if not dismissal. I needed confirmation from someone else, who could be held responsible instead if the higher-ups freaked out.

I called my Sup and the conversation went something like this:

"Hello? R. Grace? How's it going? I'm at this great BBQ right now so I'm gonna -"
"IM GONNA DIE / creepy stalker / creepy phone call / creepy creepy / thought I was in Beverly Hills / dead cellphone / gonna be a dead R. Grace / no weapons / shoulda brought my crossbow."
"Ohhh yeah... we get calls like that sometime. You're probably fine."

WHAT.

"I am ALONE / no weapons / no phone / phone kept ringing / nope nope nope"
"I mean if you don't feel safe, maybe hold on to a pair of scissors? Or... a stapler?"

DOUBLE WHAT.

"I DON'T FEEL SAFE SOMEONE JUST SAID HE WAS GOING TO FIND ME AND THEN BREATHED AT ME."
"Eh, you can go home if you want. It's probably pretty slow now that all the Labor Day festivities are starting to die down."

TRIPLE WHAT.

Not only was the Sup utterly nonchalant about pervs calling, but his advice if I got attacked was... whack them with office supplies? Like have you never watched a crime show? Scissors vs. a blunt object to the head and duct tape didn't sound like the odds were in my favor. And my aim (besides with a crossbow) is laughable - had I tried to chuck a stapler at an approaching murderer's head, I probably would knock myself out in the process, making his job EASIER. Also. I could have gone home if wanted? At any time? All the BBQ and giraffee-jousting and fire-dancing I could have participated in! My heart.

I shut off my computer and the lights as the phone rang again. Nope nope incredible nope. I grabbed BOTH the scissors and a stapler, because I was not going down without a fight. Not only did I not want to die in a bakery's corporate office, but I didn't want to prove Dr. Dad right, in that LA is super dangerous and scary and full of people that want to kill you. I could picture Dr. Dad putting a little slip of paper in my coffin, with his awful doctor handwriting: "I told you so." And then I would be stuck with that for all eternity.

I propped the building door open with my foot and scanned the perimeter. Looked normal, besides the extra rowdy celebrations of the motorcycle shop next door. If I got jumped, would they even hear me over the engine-revving and loud cheers? I hastily set the building alarm.

BEEP BEEP BEEP

Incorrect. In my jitteriness, my brain skittered all over the place, making a few-digit code as complex as the hieroglyphs. Was there a seven in there somewhere? Maybe after the head of Osiris? I had two more tries before I set off the alarm (which I have done before. Ear-splitting shrieks. Flashing lights. The perfect distraction to snatch up a frightened employee and carry her to your evil lair.) Just as a decided to make a run for it, bakery be damned, I landed on the correct code.

I darted outside and jerkily paced the parking lot. No one behind the fence. No one under my car. No one around the industrial freezer. The door had four locks, and after each one I scanned the background again. Nothing. All was clear. I checked under my car for those people that crawl under and slice your Achilles tendons - no one. I check the backseat for a hiding-in-plain-sight strangler. Nothing. No one. I flung myself into my car and flew out of the parking lot... all the way to Wendy's on Sunset Blvd for chili cheese fries.

What? The threat of being murdered makes a girl hungry. Also, not like I needed to look sooo hot in a bathing suit, as most everyone was done with their holiday celebrations. I started ugly-crying while eating my fries, so stressed out and icked out and prickly uncomfortable. I realized it was pretty hard to drive while eating fries with one hand and clutching a stapler in a death-grip in the other... so I put the stapler down so I could two-hand-attack the fries. Ahhh. Beautiful greasy stress relief.

I quit shortly thereafter and vowed to never eat baked goods again. That lasted maybe a week. But there is still a stapler that sits in my glove compartment... just in case.

NO-maste, or The "Om Mani Padme WHUMP" Incident

Yoga is still a really, really cool thing to do in Los Angeles.

I thought it would have fallen by the wayside, with all the crazy hybrid pilates classes out here. Do you know what Piloxing is? Besides sounding like a weird sex move (totally got piloxed last night), it's a combination of pilates, boxing, and  DANCE. I still don't entirely understand, because I've been too afraid to try it out. The only people I know who pilox (is that a word?) are my super beautiful model friends. Maybe piloxing makes you more beautiful... but I'm more afraid I'll show up and everyone will be all "WHO IS THIS UGLY TROUT WITH NO RHYTHM?"

(Have you ever thrown a fish on a mat and watched it flop around gasping for air? That's me. Maybe that's a visual only my southerner friends will understand. Not sorry, y'all.)

Yoga is wildly more accessible because it's 1) easier to cheat on difficult poses and 2) at least half crunchy granola people, so classes are usually less expensive. However, this being Los Angeles, they gotta make it a hundred time more complicated. Because in LA, exclusivity = more fun.

And thus, Bikram Hot Yoga was born.

Bikram Hot Yoga takes all the things a person tries to avoid when exercising (being hot, being around people, being reminded that you are exercising) and exacerbates them. It's really, really hot. It's really, really crowded. You're soaked in sweat and smelling others' sweat and being cajoled to move in ways that produce more sweat for everyone, thus reminding you constantly that you're really, really working out, in case you're able to forget for a milisecond.

Eeeeuuuggghhhhh.

I've so far been able to avoid yoga in LA by being "busy" which is usually code for "napping" or "guiltily eating pizza alone so no one knows my shame."

But I have a secret.

It's not the sweating, or the people, or the Enya that's keeping me away. It's the yoga itself. Yoga tried to kill me once, and it scarred me for life.

I started college with a lot of lofty/ridiculous ideas of "cool college me." For example, I joined like five Christian campus organizations so life would be one big youth group. Then I realized they were either marriage mills (Ring by spring! lol jk BUT SERIOUSLY.) or just boring as toast. But another "cool college me"action was going to Vinyasa Yoga at the student rec center at 8am. Obviously, I was going to be like, so flexible and enlightened and at peace with my strong core and meditation skills.

Also, I liked a boy who talked about yoga sometimes. That might have been a small motivating factor.

Every Tuesday and Thursday, I would force myself awake at the cruel hour of 7:30am (which is funny now that I have to be at work by 6am most days. 7:30 is a laughable luxury). I would chomp on some cardboard/protein bar and chug a juice on my solitary trek to the studio, before forcing my body through rapid-succession motions for 45 minutes of dolphins squeaking in the background. Cool college me had a weird idea of "fun."

One morning I woke up at probably 7:55. Oh No(ga)! I contemplated skipping but knew discipline was key to physical and mental health. Also, what if I saw that cute boy at the cafeteria today and had nothing to talk about? THE HORROR. I dashed out the door, still in pajama pants, past the cardboard/protein bar sitting forlornly on my dresser.

By college, I had a pretty good grip on my hypoglycemia [For the record, that's low blood sugar,  NOT a type of cancer. I clarify this because my eye doctor's assistant saw it on my chart and said I "looked pretty good for someone going through chemo." What the hell sort of backhanded compliment is that?]. I knew the basics, like I probably shouldn't eat just Little Debbie Marshmallow Supremes as a meal. I skipped the breakfast bar partially out of lateness but moreso out of taste (cardboard is EFFING GROSS especially first thing in the morning). However, I reasoned that I'd had a huge, cheesy burrito at 1am (I miss you, Cosmic Cantina) that was still probably in my system, and I still had water.

Do you hear the ominous music booming below the dolphin squeaks?

I arrived to class a little shaky, but chugging water like a pro. Morning workout classes were why brunch was invented, probably. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw that cute setting up his mat in the corner. I of course did the logical thing of not actually speaking to him, or looking at him directly, but setting up front and center immediately facing the instructor. I mean, obviously I would impress him with my great yoga prowess and then he would talk to me and we'd go get brunch, and probably live happily ever after. That's how dating works, right?

We started with some floor stretches lead by our very calm, zen instructor. Ah, yes, sitting down, I can do this. Besides mildly dozing during child's pose, I felt extra fuzzy and warm and bendy. TOTALLY impressing this cute boy with my stretching abilities.

Then, we moved on to a lot of upside-down poses. Downward-facing dog. Warrior 3. Downward-facing-dog-peeing-on-a-fire-hydrant. The usual. Ahh, I was doing great. So calm, so focused, so much blood rushing to my head.

We were serenely encouraged to slowly transition to "mountain pose" (aka just standing up), stacking our vertebrae one at a time. I still don't know what that means. Like our spine is one of those child's ring toys? My vertebrae, at least, are all connected (poorly, crookedly, but still in one piece), so I just jumped straight up. I am mountainous, I am strong, I am... unable to see?

THUD.

I am collapsed on the floor.

I am sooo uncool right now.

I opened my eyes to my totally calm, zen, yogi FREAKING OUT. Am I alright? Do I have a concussion? Should he get the nurse? An EMT? He was definitely harshing everyone else's mellow.

I tried to laugh it off and said I just needed some water, and to carry on. I think I also started to say I was overcome by enlightenment or something, but trailed off because I forgot where I was. I semi-consciously comforted my yoga instructor, who looked to be near tears, and picked up my stuff to go to the hallway water fountain. In the hallway, I leaned on the wall to steady myself. Then, I slid down the wall to get a little more stability. Then I kind of just laid on the floor next to my water bottle. Close enough.

Somewhere in the fog, I managed to call my lady mom, probably to say my goodbyes and reaffirm that Lil Watz couldn't take over my bedroom even if I passed on.

"R. Grace WHAT ARE YOU DOING. Get up. Go to the cafeteria. Get food. Now." Lady mom wisely realized that my fog-brain could only process short directives. I weakly tried to argue.

"My stomach hurts. I think I just need to sleep. On the floor. Right now."

I should have been on the debate team.

She forced me, entirely through three-word-or-less sentences, to get up and cross the courtyard to the cafeteria. I think I argued with her about wether or not ice cream was an acceptable breakfast food. I settled on an omelet and some fruit. With each bite, I slowly regained brainpower and also the ability to feel humiliation. What had I done? Who had seen me?!

I ran into that cute boy later in the day. He said hi and I immediately launched into some stammer-y explanation about the events earlier in the day. He looked at me, baffled.

"Oh, R. Grace, I don't do yoga in class. I do it outside in the park by myself."

I was briefly relieved that I hadn't embarrassed myself in front of him (and thusly, anyone who mattered) in class that morning. Following that realization, I had embarrassed myself just now, with my long story, retelling everything in graphic detail.

So obviously I never went back to yoga again.

Go on with your yoga, my dear Angelinos. While you're cultivating superpowered yeast infections (yoga pants and intense sweat? HELLO.) and climbing the rungs to self-awareness, I will find my own path to inner peace and bliss.

And it most likely involves pizza and air-conditioning.

The funemployment incident

Job hunting sucks.

Job hunting fresh out of college, in a new city with a high unemployment rate, without a soul-crushing internship to drag you into an office drone position, sucks you into a hazy endless despair devoid of self-worth and runneth over with expensive coffee.

I found myself jobless last year after abruptly quitting a job as a server-ish at a sketchy bar. And by "ish," I mean I was paid under the table for four weeks, seemingly random sums of money. I don't suggest quitting with no backup plan. However, I also don't suggest telling your employees they "really need to dress more bar-sexy-cute-club-girl" when their uniform already consists of booty shorts and shirts "artfully" shredded to just a few strips of fabric. I would say the shirt only covered the necessities, but I found mustard in places that I certainly hope wasn't visible to the public. Eek.

So I embarked on the adventure of finding a new job in Los Angeles. My first one was super easy to get, so obviously jobs would just rain out of the sky onto me. I had a college degree! I had marketable skills! I had an A+ resume and quirky, eye-catching cover letter! The applications began and I realized...

I had... nothing to offer. Sure, I had a degree and relevant work experience and an internship once, but who cares about that? I'm pretty sure everyone at my corner Starbucks has no less than a Master's degree and have been working in coffee for 5+ years. I can't compete with that. Furthermore, 99.9% of the office/reception/etc jobs I sought out required "1-2 years of industry experience," which you can only obtain by... already having an entertainment industry job. It is an endless loop of YOU'RE NOT GETTING HIRED.

I applied to roughly 5-6 places a day, at least five days a week. That means by the beginning of October, I'd applied for over a hundred jobs. Besides one or two "thank you for your application" emails, I had nothing. Now this was the calm before the holiday storm, so retail and food/bev places were dead, but still. Over one hundred not-even-worth-responding rejections can do a number on one's self-esteem.

I am not a special snowflake.

At least in all this struggle and doubting of self-worth, I had the uncommon luck of amassing a really tight-knit group of friends. To keep our spirits up, we started an elaborate prank war on social media. I came back from running an errand to find no less than eight facebook statuses about feces and my bowel movements one day. Really high-brow humor. The worst/best at this prank war was a certain friend whom I will call the Buffalo, because he's actually a centaur-like creature - half-man, half-buffalo. That may seem hard to believe, but my life in Los Angeles is pretty much a magical realism fantasy, so just go with it.

Finally, finally, after much wailing and gnashing of teeth, I got a phone call! Not an email, not an automated response, but an honest-to-goodness HUMAN BEING who wanted me to come in for an interview the next day. I would be interviewing for a receptionist position at a talent agency less than a mile from my apartment. Seriously, the best possible job I could find and it was within my fingertips!

In my excitement I told everyone - my soon-to-be gentleman caller, my redheaded twin, my roommate, the Buffalo. I would finally be a productive member of society! I would finally be able to order drinks when we went out!

I wore my best professional chic black dress - pepulm and peter pan collar and HIRE ME heels. ("Hire me" heels are like "F-k me" heels, except slightly more subtle). I carried my designer bag that my aunt got for me after graduation, specifically so I would look fab for interviews. I reviewed potential interview questions with my friends beforehand. I splurged on a *grande* latte as I got ready that morning. I walked in to my meeting with the two main agents with my head held high. That job was mine.

They proceeded to tear apart everything on my resume, as if they hadn't seen it before calling me.

"So two years in a performing arts box office... you haven't *really* been a receptionist before?"

"So you don't have industry experience?"

"So you don't have advanced Excel knowledge / mutli-line phone / weird specific human resources software experience?"

"So... you have archery listed as a 'Special Skill'?"

The first three I managed to stammer through justifications and explanations of how my other traits transferred over, but the last question got me excited. We were always encouraged in college to throw in a hobby or outside skill on your resume to show well-rounded and drawing connections. TIME TO SHINE.

"Oh yeah, I'm pretty handy with a bow and arrow! It'll cut down on your security costs, ha ha. It requires attention to detail and focus, which are traits I will definitely bring to this position. And also I'm really good at 'hitting my target' goals, ha ha ha..."

They didn't laugh.

They proceeded to explain that they didn't like to hire anyone who had any interest in acting whatsoever, because they'd had trouble with girls stealing breakdowns and submitting themselves for projects. However, they really liked me (maybe the archery jokes won them over), but they were skeptical and did I have anything to say?

Did I have anything to say?

You can reject me. You can not laugh at my jokes. You can think I'm unfit, and a loser, and not right for the job. But don't question my integrity.

I stood up in the office and eloquently argued that my journalism training forbid me from compromising secrecy of information, that journalists had been imprisoned for protecting the anonymity of their sources. I stated that I was a Christian, and maybe that didn't mean much in LA, but that I strove to adhere to a strong moral code of honesty and truth. Never has a receptionist position been held with such a sense of duty and responsibility.

When this was my only job prospect for weeks, I really did treat it as if my life was on the line.

They loved it. Their whole demeanor changed and they continued talking with me for a couple more minutes in a much more relaxed, pleasant manner. They told me that I would definitely hear from them soon about scheduling a follow-up interview. SUCCESS. Kinda.

I scooted out of the tight parking lot on cloud nine. A few hours later, my phone lit up with a call to them. I shrieked to my roommate that "THIS IS IT / it's happening / a real job / a grown up job / time to start shopping at J Crew / I'll have my own desk and everything / la la la."

I answered to a very strange, very angry voice.

"You hit my car in the parking lot today / I saw you / White car / my car is ruuuuuined"

Oh. No.

I was almost a gazillion percent certain I hasn't sideswept anyone, but then doubt crept in. It was a tight parking lot, after all, and they had the description of my car. If it was something like a BMW or a Porsche (stupid Porsche drivers), then even the slightest mark could be cataclysmic. Especially since this person had a really weird accent and sounded very hoity-toity important Hollywood type. My entire career could be over.

I started to apologize and they hung up abruptly. The Agency. My job. Car insurance. Oh no oh no oh no.

I called them back immediately and began apologizing as soon as the current receptionist answered.

"Um... whaaaat." She stopped me with the Southern California vocal-fry that makes my ears bleed.

"Someone from the agency just called me on this number and said I hit their car when I was leaving. I interviewed this morning for the reception position, I'm R.Grace. I was just their a couple hours ago. Um, um, please connect me to whoever called / I am so sorry / I didn't think I hit anybody / but if I did I want to apologize / and I'll fix it / I'm so sorry / I've never hit anybody before / omg omg"

She put me on hold to check with everyone in the office. Werk that multi-line phone, girl.

"Uhhh like no one here called you?"

"I... but... I got a call from this number. They knew my car from this morning."

"R. Grace? From this morning? Like... let me check again."

After an agonizing two more minutes, she confirmed that like, no one there had called me. Unless someone had left early. But she didn't have a record of a call to me anywhere in her system. I hung up, shaking and on the verge of a complete meltdown, and saw a missed call from the Buffalo. I immediately called him back to relay my tale of misery and woe.

The Buffalo:  "Hey R. Grace, how's your car? Heh heh." Wait, what?

Me: "Oh my gosh were you near the agency / did you see something happen / I just called them back / I don't know what happened / omg omg omg / life ruined / how could I have hit someone's car / omg"

The Buffalo: "What do you mean, you called them back?" I detected a slight note of concern in his voice.

Me: "I got a really weird call from their number so I called them back / I hit someone's car / but they were gone from the office / oh no oh no / I have ruined my chances / I am a failure / might as well move back to North Carolina"

The Buffalo: "R. Grace, didn't the voice sound super weird and fake? Wasn't it strange that someone would freak out on you on the phone without giving any personal information? And then I called you immediately after?"

Me: "I mean yes but this is Hollywood. People are weird. Some agent wants to sue the pants off of me."

The Buffalo: "R. Grace... the agency didn't call you. It was me."

WHAT.

WHAT.

Apparently, there is a nifty little app (I had a dumb phone at the time) that will disguise your number as another number for less than a minute of call time. Our friends had discussed this about a week before but I hadn't paid any attention, because it wasn't something I could use. He chose a number I would recognize so I would pick up, and then adapted a terrible accent and an outlandish story just to rattle me for thirty seconds or so before he called to laugh at me. However, he didn't take into account two things:

1) I take everything literally.

2) Crazy situations like that ACTUALLY HAPPEN to me all the time (see: any previous story on my blog.)

Had I taken a minute to think about the situation before calling, I would have realized how fishy the situation was. I was deeply embroiled in a prank war. I *knew* I hadn't hit anyone. The voice was laughably weird. There was no actual information exchange or way I could have contacted the angry car owner. I just so happened to get a phone call from the Buffalo immediately after. And yet. I fell for it. And I fell hard. In the midst of processing this, I realized:

The agency had no idea about any of this. they just had a nearly-hysterical interviewee call them about a call that they CLEARLY didn't make, that the entire office now knew about. I could see them marking my name off of the list.

Cue: complete sobbing breakdown

"YOU RUINED MY LIFE" I screamed/sobbed "THIS WAS MY ONE CHANCE AT A JOB IN WEEKS AND YOU RUINED IT. DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG IT TOOK FOR ME TO JUST GET AN INTERVIEW? I'LL NEVER GET A JOB."

Yelling, sobbing, yelling, sobbing. This was very dramatic.

He offered to call the agency and explain that it was a joke gone awry, and that he never imagined I would call them, and it was all a silly, silly, misunderstanding.

I wonder which is more undesirable, a crazy girl who thinks someone called her in a rage, or a crazy girl with crazy friends who play elaborate games? My guess is both get a big red line through the name.

 I told him it wasn't worth the effort, and stormed out of the house, absolutely convulsing with tears. My life was an abyss. I was never going to get hired and would have to move home with my parents. My mean ex-boyfriend would be proven right, and I would live out the rest of my pitiful life in obscurity.

The next day, I heard from the super cool bakery that I'd contacted back in MARCH, that they wanted me in for an interview. And shortly after that, two retail stores called me to say they were starting their seasonal hires early. My funemployment was drawing to a close.

I decided to look up the agency online to wallow a bit longer, and found terrible reviews of shadiness, additional fees, and dishonesty.

You know, all the things I so ostentatiously orated against.

Well nevermind then.

The Buffalo (after much apologizing), points out that he inadvertently saved me from possibly getting tangled in scams and who knows what else. What seemed awful in the moment was actually a saving grace.

Meanwhile, I'm looking into pursuing a Master's in British Literature so I can move up in the world and start serving coffee.

A Real Cinderella Story Incident

I finally understand the phrase "so broke it's not even funny."

Maybe it was working an eight hour shift followed by six hours of babysitting. Maybe it was picking up last-minute babysitting on my first (supposed) day off in eight days. But as I sat in the gas station serious contemplating just sleeping there instead of spending half of the evening's babysitting money on gasoline to get home, I was not laughing. Not even an ironic chuckle.

Everyone makes the whole starving artist thing sound glamourous until you actually calculate cost-per-bite of your frozen pizza.

I sat morosely in the light of the Beverly Hills gas station, surrounded by BMWs and Porsches and people who could afford appetizers with their meals. I glumly flicked through my work schedule on my phone, trying to calculate how many days I could cut out my beloved Starbucks and/or food overall. Somewhere in the distance, a tiny violin played a sad, sad song.

I finally filled my car up (okay, a quarter of a tank) and gathered myself to leave... when someone pulled up right next to me - uncomfortably close for late at night and a gas station in general.

I thought maybe it was a Porsche, because all Porsche drivers are dicks. I'm not sure if the car begets the sense of entitlement, or the sense of entitlement begets you buying the car. I just wanted to begettin' out of there - but when I looked back, the car kept going. What's more pretentious than a Porsche? A glossy, black limo.

The tiny violin played a little louder.

But then, out of the limo stepped... a man (what where you expecting? A velociraptor?). This man totally had the whole old-world seen-it-all Eastern-European-wise-mystical-grandpa thing going for him. He was decked out in a full classic chauffeur outfit complete with DRIVING CAP. But all of that was far less interesting than what he held in his hands. He walked right toward me, extending a huge, white envelope.

The tiny violin switched its tune from pity to a lively 18th century waltz.

He knocked on my window and I rolled it down, subtly wiping caked-on baby drool off of my shirt. His wize, godfatherly face looked genuinely excited -

"I am so glad to have found you!" He exclaimed. Um, me too, dude.

He then extracted from the envelope an invitation so ornate the paper alone probably cost more than my frozen dinner awaiting me at home. Gorgeous pink marbled paper, embossing around the edges,  gold script trailing the edges... I scanned the top to discover...

A PRINCESS BALL.

And suddenly it hits me.

I am Cinderella.

Like, forreal.

I've seen all the Disney movies and 90s Rom-Coms. Ever After taught me that the fairy godmother could be a clever old man. A Cinderella Story taught me that it could totally happen to just a girl like me. The Little Mermaid taught me that I didn't even have to speak the same language as my prince. I was ready for my big, magical reveal. Bippity-boppity-boo me up, captain.

"Map on phone? Can you find this address?" He pointed halfway down, to an address barely legible in all the swoopy script.

"Uh yeah... sure?" I fumbled with my phone. Maybe this was the modern-day equivalent of the glass slipper? I hope my future prince didn't expect me to be technologically adept. Wouldn't we have servant to update our twitter statuses and instagram our breakfasts? I anxiously typed the address in... and it was so close I could practically walk there! Obviously, I could quick change in the gas station bathroom, they could just drop me off at front, and then pick me up and take me back to the gas station by midnight...

"Oh thank you. Good." And then he abruptly shoved the invitation back in the envelope, marched back to the limo, and sped off into the night.

Wait! What about me?

I briefly considered following him and just turning up anyway, but then I surveyed my sorry estate. A half-eaten turkey sandwich and worn flats with a hole in the bottom sat shotgun. Weird yellow streaks wrapped around the front of my car from a run-in with some poles. I smelled like Desitin and my hair was matted in one place with milk.

I sat there a couple minutes just in case. The roaches skittering about didn't suddenly become anthropomorphic and commiserate. None of the sliced mangos at the fruit stand turned into a magical carriage. And my fairy godfather did not come back.

I drove off, trying to drown out the tiny violin with some awful sex-you-up-real-good song on the radio. Some day, my priiiince will come...

And then a Porsche honked at me.

Jerk.

A Very Awful October Incident

October is my favorite month. I love everything about it – pumpkins, leaves, Halloween parties, sweaters. The beginning of my first October in LA was rough. The temperature hung out in the upper eighties and the trees stayed bright plastic-y green. I didn’t pack any sweaters in my one meager carload of stuff when I drove out to LA, anyway. I wanted to make snickerdoodles (because they are the best autumn cookie ever), but between the carbs and the gluten and dairy, almost everyone I knew couldn’t/wouldn’t eat them. Not only was October failing me on multiple levels, but I’d just quit my job at a super skeevy bar and finished my first level of acting classes with no money to continue – so October started out as a month of failure.

I refused to let circumstances get me down. One morning, on the second or third day of the month, I decided to wake up super early (before 11am) and go for a run. Starting the day/month off right! After a refreshing, invigorating run, I would apply to a couple high-profile PR agencies and spend the afternoon leisurely choosing from job offers.

Because unlike the hundreds of other places I applied (screw you, starbucks), today was going to be different. Today, I was going to be awesome.

I even felt so cool and hip and “totally California” that I decided to run in only a sports bra. ~Edgy~, I know. But with the temperature creeping toward ninety and the unfortunate fact that I sweat like a morbidly obese man, it made sense.

I trotted down to the underground parking beneath my building to grab my iPod. I bounced around the garage, singing Call Me Maybe, and did a dramatic turn –

And saw blood dripping from the trunk of my neighbor’s car.

A clump of scraggly blond hair hung out from the end, matted with the same blood that was drip, drip, dripping on the floor of the garage.

You know, just your average dead-body-in-the-trunk-of-a-car, happens all the time in Los Angeles, right?

Three thoughts instantly played through my mind.

1-    I am going to die.

2-   I am going to die in Los Angeles, and my dad is going to say, “I told you so” approximately 700 times at my funeral.

3-   I am going to die not wearing a shirt, and everyone is going to think I’m a total skank.

I bolted upstairs to my apartment and locked the door, shaking so hard I dropped my keys twice. Dead body. Murderer in my complex. What if someone saw me? What if the murderer saw me? Who was the girl? Was I a witness? Why did I ever decide to live with someone I met on the internet?

I picked up my phone and panicked about who I should call. I had a bad experience with 911 being utterly useless during a break-in once, so they were out. I considered calling my crush because he lived nearby, but even in what I thought were my final moments alive, I thought mayyybe he would think I was kind of weird/crazy and I WANT HIM TO THINK I’M COOL. Discovering a corpse would probably put me in the “too weird to date” category. I mean, I guess getting murdered would put me in the “too dead to date” category, but obviously I wasn’t ((/am never)) thinking rationally.

So I called another guy friend, who already knew I was weird.

As soon as he answered, I started yelling/weeping – not so subtle if there was a murderer hanging outside my door.

- “OHMYGOD SHE’S DEAD / HOW DO YOU TELL IF SOMEONE’S DEAD / I MEAN I THINK SHE’S DEAD / DEAD BODY HELP / OHMYGOD CAN YOU COME OVER / WHAT DO I DO / I’M GOING TO DIE / HELP ME I DON’T WANT TO DIE OMG OMG OMG”

As I gasped for air (my final breaths?), he asked if I’d tried to shake my roommate.

- “What? She’s not home, that’s why I’m calling you!”

- “Wait… who’s dead? Are you in your apartment? Carbon monoxide poisoning? You should go outside.”

- “THE GIRL IN THE TRUNK IN MY GARAGE IS DEAD CAN YOU PLEASE COME OVER.”

He again reiterated that I should go outside where there was open space, and then lurk around and get the license plate, and finally call the police. I crept outside and slunk against the wall, with one hand by my neck so I couldn’t get garroted (shoot, I’ve seen Phantom of the Opera – “keep your hand at the level of your eyes”). He told me he needed to get ready and would head over immediately, and to call back if anything changed.

I flitted around the outside of my complex like a hummingbird on speed. Who needs drugs when you have the fear of imminent, painful death looming overhead? Suddenly, I noticed a man exiting one of the apartments. I flung my body behind a tree and prepared for the worst. Should I confront him? What if he had a gun? The murderer appeared to be a skinny Asian hipster in a purple V-neck. Not what I was expecting, but those hipsters do have a lot of pent-up rage at society. From my spot, I watched him walk up to the corpse car and get in – not even bothering to check and see if anything hung out of the trunk. His first murder, for sure. Very sloppy.

The garage gate opened and I prepared myself to memorize the license plate – 911 already typed in my phone. I’ve never been more focused in my life then when that car turned and headed toward me…

Until I noticed two perfectly placed neon-red handprints on the top of the trunk.

In the sunlight, the smears of blood around the trunk also appeared bright red. And as any crime-TV-junkie knows, blood turns brownish when it oxidizes (ooh big words!) The hair flapped limply, suddenly appearing like a cheap, ratty wig.

Wait, what?

My phone buzzed.

-      - "Did you get the license plate number? I’m headed over soon!”

-       -" No…”

-       - "What?”

-       -“I don’t think you need to come over anymore…”

-       - “WHAT??”

-       - “I think it was fake.”

-        

I explained the situation, but only grew more confused as I tried to articulate it. In the dim lights of the parking garage, I was completely certain that I’d been standing four feet away from a fresh corpse – it was DRIPPING BLOOD ON THE GROUND, for crying out loud. But in the sunlight, something seemed suddenly but severely off. We briefly debated whether or not to still call the cops before he stopped and swore –

-       - “I hate October. Stupid people.”

I took offense to this. How could you hate the best month ever? If someone would just eat my damn snickerdoodles, health concerns be damned, then these stupid Los Angelinos would appreciate the wonderfulness of October.

-       - "That’s a bit harsh. October is my favorite month ever and just because this happened to be an unfortunate way to start the month – ”

-       - "R. Grace, it was a Halloween decoration.”

The revelation took a moment to sink in. And then it made sense. Well, except for

-       - "WHAT THE HELL SORT OF DECORATION IS THAT? WHO DOES THAT?”

-       - "People with poor taste, I assume.”

-       -"IT’S THE SECOND OF OCTOBER! WHO DECORATES THAT EARLY? WHAT HAPPENED TO PLASTIC SKELETONS AND PUMPKINS? THAT’S NOT SPOOKY IT’S TRAUMATIZING. I HOPE SOMEONE SEES IT ON THE 101 AND CALLS THE COPS.”

-       -"I seriously doubt they’ll get too far before someone makes them remove it.”

But once my rage subsided, my fears crept back.

-       - "What if it’s real, though? I mean it really is too early to decorate… and the perfect time to hide a body in plain sight is around Halloween so maybe everyone assumes it’s a decoration when actually it’s a body and I thought the killer was so sloppy but maybe he’s very smart omg there’s a killer next door and he saw me looking omg omg he knows where I live omg…”

-        - "R. Grace, that’s quite a stretch.”

-       - "Do you know how elaborate serial killers can be? Silence of the Lambs is my favorite movie; I KNOW THESE THINGS.”

After a couple more minutes of assurance that I wasn’t going to die, my friend told me to go ahead and go on a run anyway. It would burn off all the adrenaline and make me a little less jittery. Sage advice. I got this, right? A brush with the macabre wasn’t going to stop me from having ~the most productive day ever.~

I ran past maybe four house before a giant flash of black fur and teeth came charging at me. This effing beast came out of no where, jumping and flailing and definitely going to kill me, probably to save my serial killing neighbor the effort. What do you do when a giant dog targets you for a kill?

Probably not stop and scream, “HELP HELP IM GONNA DIE,” but that’s exactly what I did.

(I once had a large dog take a solid chomp on my bottom, so I do tend to freak out and panic around dogs. Just a little bit.)

In my one stroke of good fortune for the day, the owner came outside and called off the ferocious beast before it could shred the flesh from my bones. I then had to listen to a sob story about animal shelters and abandonment issues for a good five minutes. I wanted to mention that I’d have some serious abandonment issues if my leg abandoned me inside the creature’s vicious jaws, but decided to smile and nod and go on my way.

Running: round three. Two brushes with death were plenty for one day. I could overcome these obstacles. This was a test! I got this, I got this –

And then I stepped dead-center (ha) on a rotting squirrel carcass.

Squirrel entrails and sneakers are not a good mix.

I gave up.

I staggered back to my apartment, leaving a little trail of gore to the garden hose. Murder car had yet to return. I didn’t even care. Squirrel guts seemed a more pressing issue than certain death.

I finally returned to my apartment, somehow alive, and went straight to look up a recipe for snickerdoodles. My computer had at least six tabs open on how gluten would kill me, dairy would kill me, carbs would kill me… close, close, close.

Out of all my options, death by snickerdoodle seemed the most preferable choice of the day.

October is the worst.