Someone Else's Awkward: Too Fat To Fold

I was talking to someone over the weekend about my skin-head-attack-victim Halloween costume and it reminded me of a story my Nan once told me.  Now "Nan" is not the name I use for my grandmother, as most people assume, but what I called my nanny, Lenore.  And let's be honest, Nan for nanny makes way more sense Nan for grandma.  Just saying.

Anyway, my Nan was a four foot ten, 250 pound Guatemalan woman who was my family's housekeeper from the time I was six months old until I left for college.  She was an unashamedly very fat woman.  Imagine what that looks like.  No, you know what, here's a photo:

One day she was at the laundromat doing her laundry (because what else would you do at the laundromat?  Unless your that homeless guy in my neighborhood who goes to the laundromat to sleep on top of the dryers because they're so nice and warm... Wow, that got really depressing.  I'm just kidding, he actually goes there to masturbate.  But I digress.) and a woman came up to her and offered to help her fold.  My Nan assumed it was just a kind gesture, which is where she made her first mistake.  

Laundromat Woman: So... you must be pretty tired.

Nan: ... No, I'm fine.

Laundromat Woman:  Is it okay for you to be on your feet like this?

Nan:  ... I don't know what else I would stand on.

Laundromat Woman:   Hahaha.  But can't your husband do this for you?

Nan:  He's at work.

Laundromat Woman:  Ahh, isn't that always the way.

My Nan was getting suspicious of Laundromat Woman's intentions by this point but didn't really know what to do about it.  Then this happened:

Laundromat Woman: So... When are you due?  You look like you're ready to pop any day now.

Nan:  Oh, I'm not pregnant.  I'm just fat.

This is where she made her second mistake.  She should have lied.  But let's give credit to my Nan here, because she didn't really look pregnant.  She looked, just like she said, fat.  Proportionately fat.  So unless parts of the baby were growing in her arms and legs as well it didn't really make sense to assume she was pregnant.  But the Laundromat Woman didn't see it that way.  She threw down the rest of my Nan's laundry and glared at her.

Laundromat Woman:  Then why were you letting me fold your laundry?!

Nan: I thought you were just being nice.

Laundromat Woman:  I was being nice!!  But it was wasted... on just a fat person.

My Nan just shrugged and went back to folding her own laundry, which is why I love her.  The lesson here is always be suspicious when someone offers to help you.

Coming to LA, Part III: Cool After Hours Bar or THE WORST THING THAT HAS HAPPENED TO ME EVER

This is what my coming to LA stories have all been leading up to.  This is it.  This is the worst thing that has ever happened to me.

When I came to LA for the summer I had just turned 21, but my best friend hadn't yet.  Imagine how much that sucked, having only recently turned 21, being in a new city with tons of exciting bars... but not being able to go out.  Finally, about 2/3 of the way into our stay, Brandice* had her 21st birthday.  And we went ape shit.  It was like we were dying of thirst, but our thirst was for jager bombs.  We were going to take Hollywood by storm, starting with Sunset Strip.

Our first night out in LA we had a demure, sophisticated night out (read: boring) at Chateau Mormont.  The next night we got a little rowdier.  We hit up a bar called Red Rock.

We met a couple of guys, we had a couple of drinks and before we knew it... closing time.  But that's okay.  This is LA.  The guys knew of a cool "after hours bar".  I had only had two drinks so I drove and the guys climbed into the back of my '98 Mustang Convertible (rocking, I know).  They directed us to a bar that I now know as The Frolic Room.  We had a drink, but it turns out it wasn't actually an after hours bar, so after our one drink we were quickly ushered out.  But that's okay, this is LA.  They knew of ANOTHER cool "after hours bar".

Brandice was getting increasingly wasted and I was starting to wish we could just ditch the guys and go home.  But we were supposed to be taking the world by storm!  So I let the guys direct me to our next location.  I drove and I drove and I drove, and the neighborhood got weirder and weirder and more residential.  

And then we were there.  Except we weren't anywhere.  We were on a street of crappy looking homes in what at the time I assumed was Compton, but now know was most likely just West LA (yes those places are absolutely nowhere near each other, but other then my apartment and my internship I had no idea where anything was) .  The guys got out of the car and headed for one of the homes.  I tried to grab Brandice's arm before she followed them, but I couldn't catch her in time.  Either way she did not seem concerned that we were most likely going to die tonight.

An old black man opened the door a crack and I think, although I may have added this into my memory for effect, asked for a password.  The door was locked with one of those chain locks that you only find in hotel rooms and apartments where people get murdered a lot.  He closed the door, drew back the lock, and ushered us in.  Then he locked the door behind us.  With a key.

Right by the door there were several very large men playing poker around a table, smoking some of the largest joints I've ever seen.  We passed by them and over to a wooden bar in the next room.  It was the kind of bar your dad would have set up in his basement den for when his friends come over to watch football, not the kind of bar where you order $2 MGDs from an 80 year old man with gold capped teeth.  And yet that's exactly what we did.  The guys led us to a table in the corner by a large juke box and we sat.  By this point I was terrified.  I couldn't speak, or move, or tear out my hair and scream for help.  I was frozen like a statue.

And that's when the girls came out.  They strutted out in single file from what I can only assume was one of the house's bedrooms.  And there was no denying it.  They were prostitutes.  This cool "after hours bar" was, in reality, a brothel.  And not a nice fancy brothel like you read about in Game of Thrones, or even a kind of cheesy brothel like in that reality show about Las Vegas brothels.  This was a brothel where half of the hookers were missing teeth and are more than willing to let you pee on them for the right price.

(Not at all like this picture)

It wasn't until one of the girls took a seat on the guy next to me's lap that I jumped up from the table.  Without a word I grabbed Brandice's arm and pulled her towards the door.  Which was locked.  We were trapped.  The large men at the poker table were staring at us.  I am very surprised that I didn't piss my pants at this point.  Then the 80 year old man appeared and unlocked the door.  I literally sprinted for my car.  The guys tried to follow us but I turned into Ryan Gosling in Drive and sped away, hopefully spewing gravel in their faces.

After that we had a lot of demure, sophisticated (read: boring) nights out, and I was totally fine with that.

Coming to LA, Part II: How to be an Impressive Intern

Before I got to LA I applied for several internships.  One was at Toby Maguire's production company and part of the interview process was writing coverage on a script.  That's normal enough except that as part of the coverage I had to write whether or not I thought it would be a good movie for Toby to star in.  The script I read was about a wrongfully imprisoned convict who escapes and seeks vengeance on the people who framed him while trying to hide from the police who are chasing him down.  I could tell that Toby Maguire wanted to do this script,  he wanted to change his image, he wanted to be seen as tough.  So I should have just said "Yes, Toby would be amazing in this."  But I couldn't.  (I think this may have been right before Spiderman came out, but even if I'd seen Spiderman it still wouldn't change my mind)  Toby Maguire just does not strike me as a bad ass escaped con.  He's more like an sociopathic librarian.  Needless to say, I did not get that internship.

 

The internship I did get was at a British production company that had made many of my favorite films.  They only accepted three interns for the summer program at their LA office and I was incredibly proud to have landed such an awesome internship.  I later found out that I had been chosen because the assistant who interviewed me really liked my necklace and thought I seemed "cool" (God knows how she got that impression).  Regardless I wanted to make a good impression.  So when they sent me on my first "run" (errand) I tried to be prompt.  They sent me to a hardware store to get a key copied.  Sounds easy enough.  Not for me.

The offices were located one block from Santa Monica Blvd and the address of the hardware store was only a few hundred off from our address.  In New York that meant it was only a few blocks away.  What with parking the way it is in LA I figured it would be faster to walk than drive.  I would be wrong.  It was two miles away.

I started out walking peacefully along Santa Monica Blvd.  It was a nice day, I was in LA, loving life.  But as each block passed I started to notice I wasn't getting any closer to the hardware store.  I started to walk a little faster.  I was wearing cute flip flops, not really meant for long walks, but I ignored the pain.  Still no hardware store.  I started to run.  Now in LA people look at you funny even if you're just walking, but girls running down the street, sweating profusely in "casual professional" attire definitely draw attention.  Cars were honking at me.  My feet were bleeding.  I took off my shoes and started running barefoot.  

That's when the office started calling me.  I ignored the first call, but after they'd called five times I had to answer.

Production Company Assistant: Where the hell are you?  It should have taken you ten minutes to do this and you've been gone half an hour.

Me: My car went to the place but the parking is bad and they ran out of keys and there was an accident and  zombies attacked and it's the Apocalypse...

Production Company Assistant: Whatever.  Get back here NOW.

I finally arrived at the hardware store.  It took them about 3 seconds to make the copy.  If I had driven it would have taken me all of five minutes.  But now I still needed to walk back.

When I got back to the office I was sweating, dirty, there were twigs in my hair (not sure how that happened) and my feet were bleeding.  It had taken me over an hour to get a key copied and everyone at the office thought I was mentally ill.  And that's how you impress people at your internship.

Coming to LA, Part I: He Offered Me The Crack Pipe

In between Junior and Senior year of college I decided to do an internship in LA.  My high school best friend accompanied me, not to do an internship, just for the experience of living somewhere different (and because I begged her to as I HATE BEING ALONE AND ALSO HATE MEETING NEW PEOPLE).  We found an apartment in Westwood to sublet from two UCLA students, but unfortunately we wouldn't be able to move in until a week after my internship started.  In the interim my Dad found a "rent by the week" hotel at which we could stay.  He looked up pictures online and said it looked nice.  At the time I was not worldly enough to know that "rent by the week" was code for crack den, but I soon learned my lesson.

These were the actual pictures on the website:



This is what it looked like in real life:

(Okay, that's technically a photo of a prison, but you get the idea.)

There was a tiny bed with springs sticking out, a dirty sink on one wall and a TV bolted to the ceiling.  The showers were down the hall from us and creepy old men would stand out in the hall and lecherously watch us walk back to our room in our towels.  There was a sign posted outside the building that said "NO VISITORS" which we didn't really understand when we moved in.  Later we learned that rule existed so that hookers wouldn't bring their tricks here.  But none of this alerted us to the fact that we were living in a crack den.

Even the "communal back patio" didn't scare us off:

But then one day I was walking to the bathroom and noticed our neighbors' door was open.  Now we were pretty familiar with our neighbors because we could hear them through our wall.  This was partly because the walls were made of cardboard and partly because they were constantly screaming at each other.  But there was one aspect of their lives that we were not familiar with.  They were crack heads.  They were smoking a crack pipe with the door open and absolutely no one cared because... EVERYONE THERE WAS A CRACK HEAD.  Suddenly it was like my life was flashing before my eyes.  I remembered all the missing teeth I'd seen, the fact that everyone seemed jittery, the used syringes on the "communal patio".  Then we made eye contact and he offered me the crack pipe.  HE OFFERED ME THE CRACK PIPE.

So what was a girl to do but shout: "No!  No means no!" run to the bathroom and lock myself in.  That night we slept in the car and two days later we moved into our legitimate apartment.  But at least we had our first LA Experience.  We could cross live in a crack den off the bucket list.

Today's Moment of Awkward: My Beautiful Cervix

Going to the gynecologist is pretty much always awkward.  You're in a cold room, in a tiny dressing gown and some woman (preferable, I can't even imagine how awkward it is with a man) is fondling your breasts and poking things into your vag (yeah, I said vag).  But sometimes it's more awkward than usual.

My gynecologist came into the room, asked me the normal questions, then told me to lie down and spread my legs.

Gyno: Sorry, the implement warmer is broken in this room so this is going to be more uncomfortable than usual.  Hahaha.

Umm, maybe it's just me but that doesn't seem funny.  Is this what torture feels like?  I don't want to get too graphic here so let's just say she used the cold implements and it is, as promised, even more uncomfortable than usual.

Gyno:  On the plus side, you have a beautiful cervix.

Me:  I hear that a lot.

This she doesn't find funny.

Me: It's actually been called the Mona Lisa of cervixes.

Gyno:  Please remove your top so I can check your breasts for lumps.

Me: Yes, ma'am.


P.S.  Let's try to ignore the fact that the above picture is from a movie about a girl with teeth in her vagina.

Today's Moment of Awkward: ID Photos Are Bad For a Reason

I hand the bouncer my ID.

Bouncer: Wow, this is a really good picture of you.

Me: Yeah, for an ID photo it's great.

Bouncer: Not just for an ID photo. (He eyes me)  This is a really good picture of you, period.

Me: Ok.  I get it.

Bouncer:  You don't even really look like this.

Me: Thanks.  Thanks a lot.

Life Lesson Learned: I Am Not A Prima Ballerina

I would like to start this out with something that sounds pretty vain: I have a dancers body.  Now let me clarify. I have the body of a dancer who gave up on her dream of dancing at least ten years ago and has since let herself go.  But at one point, probably around age 14, I had a dancer's body.  And to me that means I am secretly a prima ballerina trapped inside the mind of a total klutz.  That is why there were several years where whenever I got bored I would try to give off the vibe that I was a ballerina until someone asked about it.  That sounds super weird, but in reality it was super duper weird.

Freshman year of college we had to help out for a certain amount of hours on Junior and Senior films.  Since I had no technical skills yet this meant that I mostly carried stuff and then stood around.  So I pretended to be a ballerina.  Whenever I was just standing around I would do it in second position.  Sometimes I would put my foot on my leg, kind of like Tree pose in Yoga.  Do ballerinas even do that?  Who knows.  Finally one of the upperclassmen asked me if I was a dancer.

Me: What?  No.  HAHAHA.  Why would you think that?  WHY?

Upperclassman:  Ummmmm....

So when I heard that a ballet style workout class was becoming popular I had to try it.  In LA Cardio Barre is to the 2010s what Jazzersize was to... when was jazzersize?  was it even a real thing?  Anyway...  there was a groupon deal for ten classes, so of course I snatched it up.  Now I can have pretty good posture when I want to but my hand-eye-coordination and ability to remember choreography are nonexistent.  Most people who have taken a Cardio Barre class would say "That's fine Jessie, you don't need really need those skills for Cardio Barre".  To those people I say "You have underestimated my lack of skills".  Even after five classes I was consistently a beat behind everyone when they changed positions.  Still, in my mind at least, I was rocking it.  I was somehow sure the people next to me were like "This girl must have a background in dance."  It turns out they were not.

There was an older lady, probably in her 50s or 60s next to me, and in all reality she probably did have a background in dace.  (Bitch.)  And so throughout the entire class she decided it was her job to teach me what I was doing wrong.  (Bitch.)  Now I'm sure she had the best intentions (bitch) but she came off as a total bitch (bitch).

Old Dancer:  You should straighten your leg more.

Me: (silent hatred)

Old Dancer:  You're arching your back too much.

Me: (silent hatred)

At one point she started touching me and trying to realign my body.  DO NOT TOUCH ME!  YOU ARE NOT THE TEACHER, is what I screamed inside my head.  Outwardly I forced a smile and a seriously passive aggressive "thank you".

After 60 minutes of this class was over and I was ready to kill somebody.  I tried to make a quick getaway without eye contact, but the old dancer foiled that plan.  She tapped me on the shoulder.  I only didn't punch her because she's old and also because I don't know how to punch.

Old Dancer:  I'm sorry if I was being intrusive.

Me:  Yeah, I mean, you're not the teacher, so...

Old Dancer looked PISSED.

Old Dancer:  Well no, but I take this class a lot.

Me: Then why are you still in Beginner?

Old Dancer: (hmph)  I was just trying to help.

Now Old Dancer looks on the verge of tears.  I'm beginning to wish I had punched her instead.  How did I turn into the bad guy here?  What if this is all she has in her life?  Correcting people at Cardio Barre is the only way she can feel superior at something.  And now I've ruined it.

Life lesson learned: I am not a prima ballerina.