#laversary

This month I celebrate having “survived” my first year in LA.  In order to commemorate and reflect on the past 12 months, I’ll be sharing one or two stories a week throughout June about my first year in LA.  Many of these stories will involve things I haven’t really written/spoken about prior to posting them.

It was a Friday morning.  Maybe around 9 or so.  I was walking outside to my car because I had big plans for the day.  Promo drops to do, and a deposit check to drop off for a spot in a house full of creative women.  At least I thought that was the plan.  It wasn't. I walked outside and my car was gone.

At first, since I had parked on the street in my neighborhood at the time, which was North Hollywood, I thought I had forgotten where I parked.  I walked several blocks.  I couldn't find my car.  Then, I remembered.  I had several outstanding tickets.  Parking was not exactly an easy thing to come by in my neighborhood at the time, or anywhere else in L.A.  An expired meter tickets runs around $50+.  YIKES! So on my young, broke, and fabulous budget, and inability to understand the parking signs in the Los Angeles metro area, brought me to the moment where I was standing outside realizing that my car was impounded.  It was a humbling moment to say the least.

I went back inside and called the Department of Transportation.  Slowly, I told the agent on the other end of the phone my license plate number.  "Is that a California tag ma'am?" "No. No it's Maryland," I replied.  Apparently the combination of letters and numbers wasn't that of a California tag.  "And what kind of car is it?" "A Nissan Sentra.  2004. Tan." "Your car has been impounded." ::deep inhale:: "How much will it cost me to get it back?" I asked.  "$1200," the agent replied.  ::deep inhale:: "Ok thank you.  And where is the lot that my car was taken to?"  A few moments later I had all the information I needed and all I could do was cry.  It felt like the room was blacking out around me and every voice in my head was screaming "$1200. $1200." I didn't have that much money.  I had a few hundred in my savings and the rest was about to go to a deposit on a new spot.  I had been staying with friends for a number of months, and finally had enough money to move.  That money was about to be gone.  I needed to get my car back, but I was still short some money.  After getting myself together I knew what I had to do.  I had to call my mom.

Since I was unable to reach her on her cell phone I had to call her at work.  After explaining the situation, my mom agreed to help me  out on two conditions, which I wouldn't dare repeat in this post--just know that I am forever indebted to my mom.  Not only because she birthed me, but because this car thing was beyond serious.

I took the journey, via bus to get my car.  It was the middle of the day, and my car was in west bumble****, so getting a ride wasn't an option. Once I got to the lot I had to show my registration to get my car back, but of course it was inside my car.  No one just carries their registration on them, but apparently, as I later learned, it's a good idea to keep a copy of it in a safe place other than your car.  I hopped into a golf cart and was escorted by an impound employee to my car.  Calmly, I used my car remote to unlock the doors and then walked to the passenger side to my glove compartment where I kept my registration.  I opened it up and pulled out my registration...that had expired a few months before.  I began to panic. I pulled the entire contents out of my glove compartment.  It wasn't there.  I popped open the trunk.  I had a lot of boxes and things in my trunk at the time, and thought for some reason that I could have stored my recently renewed registration there.  I tore apart the contents of my trunk.  I was on the verge of tears...again.  My registration was lost.  I was driving around 3,000 miles away from home and had no proof that my car was in fact my car.  Ugh.

I called my mom yet again. She could hear the panic in my voice.  It's funny no matter how old I get my mom can always tell what's wrong with me. I could always count on her for that..maybe it's a mom thing. 

She of course told me to go look again and that it wasn't lost...and of course it wasn't.  I had found my registration.  I vowed never to leave it in a random spot  (like my center console where I found it) ever again.  

After hopping back into the golf cart, I went back to the front of the impound lot and proceeded to sign my life away to get my car back.  My stomach did flips when I swiped my check card to pay all the fees.  I thought about how desperatley I needed (and hell still need) a new laptop, and that I had just given the city of L.A. the amount that it cost for the laptop I had picked out, plus an Apple TV.  Yup, a used Macbook Pro and an Apple TV was the amount that I had given the fine City of Angeles.

I hopped on my car, turned up the radio, and drove into the sunset.  I had survived getting my car impounded in Los Angeles.  

This month I celebrate having "survived" my first year in LA.  In order to commemorate and reflect on the past 12 months, I'll be sharing one or two stories a week throughout June about my first year in LA.  Many of these stories will involve things I haven't really written/spoken about prior to posting them.

The first time I took a red-eye, it was July of 2011, some 3 or so weeks after I first arrived in LA.  I went straight from a full day at work and night training to LAX to catch a flight to North Carolina.  My grandfather had died, and the only way for me to get to the funeral in time from LA was to fly overnight; to take the red-eye...

I still remember where I was the moment I found out that my grandfather had died.  It was July 4th weekend.  My first chance to really "breathe" since arriving in LA.  I had a long weekend coming up, and the Friday before the 4th I decided to celebrate with a friend of mine from D.C. by hitting up happy hour at a restaurant downtown. We had many drinks--many many drinks and took the bus back to her place.  Tipsy, we had girl talk and eventually began blasting music and taking shots with her roomates.  We were even going to go out..but never made it out.  You know how that goes sometimes.  At some point during the night I had gotten a text from one of my cousins, he is technically the oldest even though we are 7 days apart.  

Earlier that day my grandfather was taken via helicoptor to the UNC medical center in Chapel Hill.  My dad had called me to let me know.  I was sitting in traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard, coming from the mall in Century City.  He told me my grandfather had a stroke, or maybe a heart attack.  I can't remember which.  My dad said that he should be fine though.  My dad's voice didn't shake when he told me this, and honestly my grandfather had heart attacks and pnemonia and many other heart problems in the last several years and always recovered. He was a fighter.  If no one else in my family was worried, then why should I be?

Since my cousin lives in Raleigh he was able to get to him before anyone else in the family.  So that night, while I was thousands of miles away tipsily celebrating the long weekend, he was at the hospital. Later my aunts came; they live in North Carolina.  At one point I think my mom texted me to say that she was booking my dad a flight to North Carolina.  Or that maybe he was on his way, I can't remember.  I just, I don't know even when I found out my dad was flying last minute to North Carolina I didn't worry too much.  It was only when my cousin kept texting me and saying that our grandfather was going into surgery and that when he later came out he had come to yet, that's when I got scared.  That's when a wave of guilt started to come over me, but everyone told me not to worry, and eventually, I ended up passsing out on my friend's couch.  I passed out on her couch, and then in the pre-dawn hours my phone rang.  It was maybe 4 or 5 in the morning in L.A.  I was able to make out that it was my sister calling.  I shook it off though.  I had been getting all types of early morning calls and texts since I moved a few weeks before.  People kept forgetting about the time difference.  It was annoying.  It was Saturday.  I was hungover.  I figured I would call her back when I got up.  

Then my phone rang again.  And again.  I got a voicemail that said "Cate please call me."  A text message that said the same.  Then it rang again, and I answered.

"Hello?" I said in a hushed hung-over tone.  There was uncontrollable sobbing on the other end.  "Amber. Amber.  What's wrong?"  After some more sobbing my sister formed the words...our grandfather had died.  

I felt all the hangover feelings leave my body.  Quickly.  I jumped up.  I had so many questions.  I just told her ok.  That I would call her back soon, that I wasn't at home. I walked to my friend's bathroom, turned on the water and started crying.  I felt so guilty.  So guilty that I wasn't on the phone with my family the night before.  When I texted they just told me not to worry.  My cousin, the first person there told me he would just keep me posted.  I even told him to call if he needed to and my phone never rang.  I just kept on with my night.  All I wanted was to be back on the east coast.  I didn't even know how I was going to get back to the east coast. I had just moved, I barely had any money, and last-minute plane tickets can cost upwards of $800.  

Fast forward a few days, including a few visits to the beach during 4th of July weekend, and I was in my car driving to LAX after training to catch a red-eye cross country.  I had my hot-pink neck pillow and some snacks.  My earphones turned up loud.  I was just ready to get back to North Carolina.  I had just been there in May to see my grandfather before I moved.  I had just talked to him on Father's Day.  A few weeks later and I'm on a plane getting ready to bury him.