The never-ending struggle to make it as a television writer in LA was starting to take a toll on me. I had been striking out on interviews left and right, and things were starting to feel pretty hopeless. Sure, I had made it to some final rounds, but learning that you were runner-up for a job isn’t a great consolation. You’re still back to where you started, unsure of what to do next. My colleagues encouraged me to remain positive, but I was finding that increasingly difficult. Fortunately for me, I found new perspective this past weekend, thanks to Camp Erin - LA.
 
Camp Erin is a children’s bereavement camp started by my family friends, designed to help children learn grief coping strategies and meet other people their age who have endured similar losses. Some people who only know my sarcastic, sharp-tongued persona don’t have any clue how much I adore kids, or how much it kills me when I see them struggling emotionally. As an aspiring comedy writer, I don’t often lead with that side of my personality. Instead, I’m focused on making people laugh which can be a daunting task considering that my everyday audience regularly interacts with successful comedy writers. So I wasn’t surprised by my coworkers’ dumbfounded reactions when I told them that I was volunteering at a children’s grief camp. Breaking news: This snarky tin man might have a heart after all.
 
The night before camp started, I reverted to my teenage self, nervous that the campers and other volunteers wouldn’t like me. I hadn’t been to camp since the fifth grade, and I wasn’t sure that I even had proper camping attire. My family and friends took turns sending me humorous texts conveying their skepticism about my ability to “rough it” in a cabin for 3 days. I responded with my own quips, insisting that the cabins likely had turndown service and a concierge. I mean, the camp was in Malibu. In all seriousness, I was extremely concerned that I would say the wrong thing or not know how to offer the proper support to the campers. The coordinators had done an excellent job training us and provided toolkits that included various talking points and scenarios, but I still worried about the unknown.
 
The fact that my Aunt Amy had agreed to volunteer with me helped calm my nerves. When I thought about asking someone to join me, Amy was the first person who came to mind. It’s not just Amy’s professional background that made her an ideal candidate (she was a nurse who worked in the NICU for several years and then with PEDS bone marrow transplants), but she also has a likability factor that’s unrivaled (except by me, of course). Everyone she encounters immediately wants to be her friend, and she’s truly one of the most fun people I’ve ever met.  Amy enthusiastically signed up, and after two training sessions, we were ready to go. 
 
As Amy and I set off in her car for Malibu on Friday morning, she looked me over and then remarked, “Boy those are some nice shoes for camping!” I glanced down at my Cole Hahn weekender shoes and began to worry. The coordinators had warned us that if they found our attire inappropriate for camp, they would ask us to change. I think that they had something else in mind when they said “inappropriate,” but I was starting to wonder if my Vineyard Vines polo shirt and J. Crew shorts were unsuitable for such an occasion. When we pulled into Camp Bloomfield an hour later and noticed that everyone else was wearing t-shirts and workout gear, Amy whispered out of the side of her mouth, “Put your sweatshirt on.” I broke into a laughing fit while I scrambled to find my Camp Erin t-shirt to change into. For the rest of the weekend, I stuck with sweatshirts, baseball caps, and tennis shoes.
 
By the time the campers arrived on Friday afternoon, my ensemble became the furthest thing from my mind. I had requested to be in Boys Cabin 1, which houses the youngest campers, aged 6 thru 8. To say that they were hyper is like saying that Oprah likes bread. My fellow Cabin Big Buddies and I did our best to wrangle them in for activities, but we were lucky if we got 7 out of the 9 kids to just sit in a circle. I was becoming more and more concerned with how we were going to get these energetic youngsters to go to bed at night. One plan was to try to tire them out throughout the day. Our cabin sat atop a steep, 200-foot hill, so every time we traveled to and from the cabin, I challenged the boys to a race. This didn’t seem to do much in terms of wearing the boys out, but I did manage to lose two pounds over the course of the weekend!
 
On Friday night, it took slightly less than two hours from the time that we had asked the campers to get ready for bed until they had actually fallen asleep. As soon as the last camper went down, I jumped into my bed and tried to get some much-needed rest. I had barely shut my eyes when a deafening racket filled our cabin and made me sit bolt upright. I initially thought that we were under attack, but it turned out to be one of our Cabin Big Buddies. He had warned us earlier in the day that he was a snorer, but I had never heard anything like it. For the next three excruciating hours, I tried to fall asleep, without much luck. Then, at around 2:30am, the snoring miraculously stopped. I wondered if I had perhaps gone deaf, but I ultimately didn’t care and I quickly fell asleep. Fortunately, nothing seems to wake up an 8-year-old boy, so most of our campers slept through the ruckus.  By 7:30am the next morning, the boys were wide-awake and ready for the new day! I was exhausted, so I snuck outside and chugged a Diet Coke that I had smuggled in my pillow case the night before. Joking aside, the boys’ energy eventually became contagious, and it made the fun activities like the Friday night dance party much more lively and exciting.
 
Throughout the weekend, I was blown away by the campers’ fortitude, especially amongst my Cabin 1 boys. Starting with the Memory Board Ceremony on Friday night, the campers were regularly asked to share with the rest of the group who had died and the cause of death. My boys made it through these activities without a hiccup. I’m 31 and I still get choked up talking about my 88-year-old grandmother who died three years ago. Her death hit me in waves, and I can’t believe that these kids have had to go through that process at such a young age. It was powerful listening to the campers share their stories, and several of my Cabin 1 boys tugged on my arm every time they heard someone else who had experienced a similar death in their family. This is a crucial component to the weekend, as it allows the campers to see, maybe for the first time, that they are not alone in their grief.
 
On Saturday afternoon, our cabin set out on a grief hike, in which the boys explored various emotions and were taught coping strategies to deal with those feelings. Several of my campers stated that they were angry that they didn’t get to say goodbye to their loved ones, and we discussed what they would say to them had they been given the chance. Their responses were thoughtful and articulate, and it provided the boys with an opportunity to share something that they might not have been given the chance to say anywhere else. 

My favorite activity of the entire weekend was on Saturday night. During the day, the campers colored lanterns in remembrance of their loved ones. After dinner, everyone gathered around the pool for the luminary ceremony. Our cabin went first, and the boys took turns saying something over the microphone to their person who had died before setting their luminaries into the water. When one of our campers struggled to talk about his person, the other campers rallied around him and comforted him. An 8-year-old boy who had barely interacted with the tearful camper sat next to him and patted him on the back until he calmed down. I was in awe. For the rest of the evening, my cabin respectfully listened to the other campers as they set their luminaries in the water and shared a message.  Once all of the lit luminaries were floating in the pool, 3 musicians serenaded us with a medley of songs, ranging from Carole King to Bill Withers. It was a very special moment and a great time for reflection.  
 
There’s a brilliant scene in the second BRIDGET JONES movie in which Renee Zellweger complains about her boyfriend’s bad behavior to a group of Thai prisoners. After listening to a couple of the other inmates’ horror stories about their boyfriends, Bridget gains some perspective and realizes that she’s been “the world’s biggest fool.” I came to the same understanding this past weekend. I had been fretting because my interviews these past two months had not yet landed me a new job and I was getting impatient. After 24 hours at Camp Erin, I realized that my work problems paled in comparison to the obstacles that these young campers have had to endure. They have all lost someone incredibly close to them far too early in life. Though I’ve had multiple friends die unexpectedly over the years, I’ve been lucky that I haven’t had a family member die unnaturally. While it’s impossible not to get caught up in our own problems, camp reminded me that I have much to be thankful for and that my problems are rather minuscule in the grand scheme of things.
 
Overall, I had more fun this weekend than I’ve had in years, which seems like an odd thing to say about three days at a bereavement camp. I threw Frisbees, played basketball, raced 6-year-olds down a massive hill (I won), attended a dance party, petted miniature horses, colored, played kickball, sang camp songs, and made awesome friends. But most importantly, I met amazing kids and helped them deal with their grief. Camp provided me with an opportunity to utilize some of my talents that I don’t often get to use in my day-to-day life. I’m not a big fan of self-flattery, but I will admit that I received my fair share of compliments over the weekend regarding my ability to interact with the kids and keep them engaged. I only share that because I’m more proud of the feedback that I received this past weekend than any other professional accolades received to date. I truly hope that I had a positive impact on the kids’ lives because they certainly had one on mine.
 
I plan on staying actively involved in Camp Erin, and I encourage others who are considering volunteering to act on those impulses. I had contemplated volunteering at Camp Erin for 3 years before I finally signed up, and I’m now beating myself up for not doing it sooner. I’m not suggesting that everyone go out and volunteer at a children’s grief camp, but rather explore opportunities that play to one’s own strengths. Camp Erin taught me a lot, and I humbly offer the following takeaways, which I strive to implement in my everyday life: 

• Disconnect from your phones and other electronic devices and reconnect with each other.
• Don’t take anything for granted, as life is a gift.
• Tell your family that you love them often.
• Talk openly about your loved ones who have died.
• Be there for each other. With the support of others, there aren’t any hurdles that we can’t overcome. 

To preview the documentary made about Camp Erin, click this link: ​https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uTTpCmMCLLE

I haven’t posted a blog in almost a year, but I figured that the best way to cope with my recent professional struggles was through my writing. For the past two years, I have been working at the same television literary agency in Beverly Hills. I love my company, but ever since I ruled out being an agent last year, I’ve been itching to move on. I still wanted to be a television writer, so my colleagues encouraged me to pursue a job working for an established Showrunner (the person who has overall creative authority and management responsibility for a television program). My Master Plan centered around working for a Showrunner for one year and then charming said Showrunner into hiring me on his or her writing staff. But as I’ve learned these past two months, things never seem to go as planned. I’ve gone on eight interviews, but none of them has resulted in a job. I always try to find humor in my pain, so here are some highlights that shed some light on my recent interviews:  

• One of our clients told me that when sitting down with a Showrunner, I should try to act like a mirror, mimicking the body language and mood of the person interviewing me. This sounded like good advice, but my first Showrunner meeting was with someone who had recently undergone back surgery. When we sat down, he looked to be in terrible pain and was slumped over in his chair. I slouched a bit in my seat, but I ultimately decided that mimicking him wasn’t the way to go. Instead, I focused my efforts on making him laugh. I tried roughly 8 different personalities on him, none of which he found engaging. He checked his watch at least three times within the first ten minutes of our meeting, and the only time that he laughed was when I ran into the door on my way out. NEEEXT!
• My boss set me up to meet with a wildly successful comedy writer looking for a new assistant. Heading into the meeting, my boss advised me against using sarcasm because she didn’t think that the writer would respond. Well, that’s like telling Batman to leave his Batmobile at home – sarcasm is my armor.  I absolutely loved this woman, but to avoid sarcasm, I somehow began discussing the most serious and depressing topics. On more than one occasion, the writer remarked that she might cry. This isn’t exactly the emotion one is hoping to tap into when meeting with a comedy writer. To illustrate how uncomfortable the meeting turned out to be, here’s an excerpt from my “thank you” note to the writer: “I hope that I didn’t bum you out too much with my talk of autism, bereavement camps, suicides, and paraplegics. I didn’t realize that it was possible to work all of that into a 30-minute meeting with a comedy writer, but I somehow managed to!”
• A few weeks ago, I interviewed to assist a Showrunner and a Non-Writing Producer of a successful Young Adult show. When I walked into their office, it smelled awful. One of their dogs had crapped all over the carpet. The Showrunner playfully asked, “You like dogs, right?” Unwilling to lose a job over my aversion to pets, I smiled and lied, “Oh yeah! I love them.” It didn’t sound very convincing, but I hoped that they didn’t notice. As we walked toward the conference room, the dog responsible for the mess began growling at me from across the office. The snarl grew more aggressive the closer I got, as though my mere presence in the office were upsetting her. The bitch was getting so hostile that I started to feel like Damien during the zoo scene in THE OMEN. The Showrunner tried to justify the dog’s response by informing me that the dog had cancer and was out of it. I feigned compassion while I secretly surmised that I could put up with the dog’s accidents for a few months until the cancer put her out of her misery. However, as the interview progressed, I discovered that there were three more dogs that took turns coming to the office, and I would be responsible for walking and feeding them. A disheartened expression covered my face, and I knew that was the end of that interview.  
• Two weeks ago, I interviewed for a Showrunner whose new drama got a series order on a major network on Thursday nights. I was scheduled to meet with him at the studio at 9:00AM, but traffic was getting in the way. I arrived at 8:59, and by the time I found parking it was 9:03. I raced across the street and tried to enter through the studio doors when a guard started yelling at me. I was still discombobulated from my commute, and I could barely hear what the guard was saying. Without paying attention to my surroundings, I started to walk across the street to the guard’s booth. Just then, a car nearly PLOWED into me! He honked and I hustled out of the way. I caught a glimpse of the driver from my peripheral vision and prayed that it wasn’t the Showrunner. Sure enough, it was. I laughed and apologized when he greeted me in the lobby, but he didn’t seem to have a sense of humor about the incident. He just said, “Yeah I thought that was you.” Woof. The rest of the interview didn’t go much better. At that point I realized that I definitely needed to work for a comedy writer. 
• To shake things up, I accepted an interview at a major production company that didn’t really have much to do with writing. Still, it had creative elements and I figured it would be a nice change of pace. When I walked into the lobby, the entire television department from a studio that I've previously referred to as WDW was sitting in there waiting for a separate meeting with the production company. I hadn’t seen any of the WDW folks since I had backed out of a job offer two years before, which didn‘t resonate well with them. After exchanging awkward greetings, they asked me what I was doing at the production company, and I confessed that I was there for an interview. When my interviewer finally appeared and saved me from this terribly awkward encounter, the WDW crew wished me good luck. While walking to the conference room, the interviewer asked me how I knew WDW. I explained that I had previously accepted a job there, but that I ultimately turned it down to work for my current agency. Not a stellar way to begin an interview, and I had a feeling that it had ended the interview before it even began! 
• At my latest interview, the Executive started off by asking me about one of my old employers listed on my resume. He was strangely fascinated with her, and he wanted to “get the dirt.” I told him that I wasn’t big into gossiping about my previous bosses, which was sort of a fib but sounded like something future employers would want to hear. He pressed me a bit more and I finally caved. We proceeded to spend the majority of this interview dishing about a woman for whom I hadn’t worked in years. He laughed a lot, but when the meeting ended, he simply said, “You should take her off your resume,” and that was the end of it. I couldn’t tell if he ever even considered hiring me for the position or if he only brought me in to badmouth this woman. I took his suggestion about updating my resume as a sign that I wasn’t getting the job, since I wouldn’t need another resume if he were to hire me. 

So here I am, slightly defeated, but trying to take lessons from each of these failed meetings. There are still a few positions that I’m in the running for, but I’ve learned not to hold my breath. My current boss keeps telling me that the Showrunners who rejected me would have gotten in the way of whatever “amazing job” I will get next. It’s a nice sentiment, but she might be more full of shit than the cancer dog. Nonetheless, I’m going to persevere and hold out hope that some sucker will eventually take a shot on me!

Does anyone remember the episode of Friends where Phoebe hates Pottery Barn?  On the show, she gripes about the fact that the furniture is mass-produced and that the merchandise isn’t authentic. That may very well be true, but this uninspired consumer happens to love Pottery Barn. In fact, my past few apartments have easily resembled various Pottery Barn catalogs. My only problem with the franchise is that it’s not exactly within my new budget. In particular, I found a leather recliner that I knew would fit perfectly in my apartment, but it was $1,400. That seemed a little steep considering that I struggle to pay for groceries. So when the manager at one of the stores that I frequent suggested that I get a part-time job to acquire the enviable employee discount, I jumped at the opportunity. I warned the manager that I could only work on select weekends and he was surprisingly on board with that stipulation. I was nervous about taking on another job, but the swindler in me figured that I could give my two weeks notice once I ordered my recliner. 

I had to work two whole shifts before my discount card arrived in the mail. During that time, I discovered that I’m not passionate about working in retail, but more on that later. I also learned that my new discount extended to Williams Sonoma, West Elm and the Pottery Barn Outlet store. Jackpot! I called the outlet and they happened to have my recliner in stock. I had no time to waste, so once my card arrived, I headed straight to Tejon, CA. Tejon is two hours outside of LA, and there’s literally nothing in the town except for an outlet mall and a handful of fast food restaurants. In other words, Tejon is Paradise. The recliner only ended up costing me $450, which was more than 50% off the retail price. Since I had spent far less than expected, I stopped by the J. Crew Outlet store and purchased a gingham button-down shirt for $14. Sure, I ended up getting food poisoning from Tejon’s Taco Bell, but I still considered the trip a huge success and I plan on visiting the metropolis again. 

Now that I had my coveted recliner, I began to ponder whether I was going to continue to occasionally work at Pottery Barn. I had several weddings coming up, and the discount was fairly substantial. Since I only had to work once every 3 or 4 weeks to hang onto the discount, I figured that I would ride it out until they fired me. I had never actually been fired from a job before, but I had serious doubts in my ability, or desire, to sell home goods. 

Before every shift, the manager meets with the employees to explain their “goals for the day.” They typically include opening up Pottery Barn credit cards, obtaining customers’ email addresses, and reaching some sort of monetary sales goal. I smile and nod as I receive my instructions, but in my mind, I know that I’m not going to do any of that. Instead, I stroll around the store and scope out future purchases for my apartment. My favorite place to discover bargains is the stockroom, which is like a treasure trove of forgotten items. I routinely find merchandise that has been hiding on the shelves for years, which means that the prices have been marked down significantly. For these items, I place them somewhere discreet until my shift is over so that I can purchase them before leaving the store. I bought these amazing dice last week for only $2.97!

Another practice that is likely preventing me from becoming Employee of the Month is my tendency to befriend customers. When people come into the store, I trap them into lengthy conversations because it helps pass the time. The other day, I met this really fun couple whom I talked to for almost two hours. They informed me about Dapper Day at Disneyland, which is held twice a year, and everyone, including Mickey Mouse, wears Gatsby attire! They had me at Dapper. Throughout the conversation, my manager paged me twice to see if I could help ring people up at the register.  I told him that I was busy assisting another customer. I’m sure he thought that I was in the midst of a massive sale with clientele (I still don’t even know what clientele is). Instead, the couple purchased a $40 picture frame marked 50% off. Initially they had been interested in purchasing a very expensive dining room table and chair set for their 22-year-old son’s starter apartment. Naturally, I explained to them that a 22-year-old would destroy this table playing beer pong, and I directed them to World Market to find a similar style for a fraction of the cost. 

I think the managers were starting to notice my ineffectiveness on the sales floor, so they asked me if I would come in one day to help out in the stock room. I spent the afternoon assisting two employees with unpacking boxes and replenishing inventory on the storage shelves. Although these two co-workers had told me their names at least five times, I only remembered that one of them was named Hector. I couldn’t remember which one, so I just opted to call them both Hector until one of them corrected me. In an interesting twist, neither objected to this name, so I wondered if they were actually both named Hector?! The Hectors were nice enough, but I could tell that they were slightly frustrated with my work ethic. In my defense, I had been told that it was going to be a leisurely afternoon of assessing our inventory. But, this turned out to be actual physical labor. Not to mention, the air conditioner was broken, causing me to sweat bullets through my Burberry polo shirt. I was tired of the Hectors suggesting that I work faster, so I opted to hide out on the other side of the stockroom and played Words With Friends on my phone until my shift ended. As I clocked out, I asked one of the sales associates which stockroom employee was named Hector. He looked at me quizzically and then replied, “Neither of them.” Go figure. 

The day before my latest shift, the manager called me and asked me to come in early because it was time to complete my 6-month evaluation. Holy crap! Had it been six months already?! I guess time flies when you only work 1.5 times a month. I would be lying if I didn’t say that I was a bit nervous about the evaluation. I was certain that the jig was up and that I was going to get canned as soon as I walked into the manager’s office. I even considered going on a hasty shopping spree to use my discount one last time. I sat down with the manager, resolute to accept my fate. As he read the evaluation from his computer screen, I was shocked by what I was hearing. In a nutshell, he told me that I had exceeded expectations and was a “joy” to have around the store. Was I being punk’d? I started to think that he had mixed up my personnel file with one of the other employees. I glanced over his shoulder to verify that my name was indeed on the monitor. It was! Perhaps expectations are just super low in retail?! It looks like I will be shopping for some time to come!

I’m fairly athletic, but I’m the first to admit that my recreational pursuits typically favor the prep in me (tennis, sand volleyball, club soccer, etc.). The other day, I asked my work friends if they would be interested in throwing a Gatsby-attired croquet tournament. They quickly shut me down, insisting that it was the WASPiest thing they had ever heard me say, which I doubted. The point is, I love playing sports, but I don’t have what people refer to as swagger. So when my friend, Andy, invited me to play pick-up basketball with him last Sunday, I warily accepted. I’ve always enjoyed playing basketball, but the closest I’ve ever come to playing pick-up was at my parents’ country club when I was a tween. My sister and I would reserve the club’s court for 4 hours under various pseudonyms, and then we’d challenge any club members who stopped by to a game to ten. Most of these members were middle-aged men, so I suspected that the competition at Andy’s event would be a bit fiercer.  Still, I had been itching to get back on the court and I figured that it would be a good way to make some new friends.

I met Andy at his old roommate’s apartment in North Hollywood, and we walked over to the park together. When we arrived, it became pretty apparent that I wasn’t part of the regular crowd. Not only were Andy and I the only two Caucasians in the entire park, but my conservative Adidas ensemble clashed with everyone else’s wife-beaters and shorts that were worn around their ankles. I honestly felt like I had walked into the opening credits of THE FRESH PRINCE OF BEL-AIR, and my goal became less about playing well and more about escaping the afternoon unnoticed.  

Once everyone was assembled on the court, the two tallest players convened out front to pick teams. The taller and more intimidating of the two made the first selection, announcing, “I’ll take Notre Dame.” Holy Shit! Was he talking to me?! I looked down and realized that I was unintentionally wearing a “Notre Dame Basketball” T-Shirt and a pair of “Notre Dame Basketball” shorts. I feared that this ensemble was sending the wrong message, as an outfit this obnoxious was usually reserved for players who wanted to show off, not players hoping to blend in. Also, I hadn’t shot a basketball in well over a year, and I doubted that my bounce pass was going to be enough to warrant my first-round pick. 

As play got underway, I somehow managed to secure the first rebound of the game. Just then, someone yelled the N-word at me. I was appalled. I don’t know that I’ve ever really heard people use that word outside of rap songs and films. I looked around and realized that it was my teammate yelling it at me. It took me a second to figure out why he was angry with me, but then I realized that he was just calling for the ball. Clearly, I was not at Knollwood Country Club anymore. As play went on, I did my best to blend in, taking minimal shots and just making sure that the player I was guarding didn’t score. I took one 3-point shot because I was wide open, but it wound up being an air ball so I reverted back to my initial plan of bounce passing. I could tell that the tall teammate was disappointed that he had wasted his first pick on me, but what could one do in this situation? 

Going into the second game, I decided that I would play a bit more aggressively. If nothing else, I wanted to at least get in a good workout. As we matched up with our opponents, I was a bit startled by the guy who elected to guard me.  The dude looked like Snoop Dogg’s shady doppelganger. He had cornrows, a face tattoo, and appeared as though he hadn’t showered in at least a week. His basketball shorts’ pockets were full of metallic objects that kept making noise every time he ran down the court. Once I got past these initial observations, I realized that I had at least a 3-inch height advantage over Snoop Jr.  I told the point guard to look for me down low, and on our next offensive possession, I called for the ball and easily scored. The next two possessions, I did the exact same thing. The fourth time down the court, I started to call for the ball when Snoop Jr. leaned in and said, “N-word, do that again and I'll f*ck your shit up.” Umm…maybe that’s how people joke with each other in North Hollywood?? The only thing I knew for sure was that I wasn’t going to take any chances. So when the ball was thrown to me, I quickly threw it back to the point guard. He yelled at me for not shooting, but at least he didn’t threaten me so I felt like I had made the safest choice (literally). 

For the rest of the game, I passed the ball and refused to take any shots. Tired of running around the court like an idiot, I volunteered to sit out the next game. At that exact time, another white guy showed up at the park, and took my spot. He was about three inches taller than me, and I watched in admiration at his aggressive play. Apparently he didn’t care that Snoop Jr. was potentially carrying weapons in his pocket, as he guarded him incredibly close. He also attempted to block shots left and right. At one point, the tallest guy on the court (the same guy who foolishly selected me first) was driving toward the basket and the white dude managed to block his shot. I was impressed by his gumption, but on the very next play, the tall guy knocked out the white guy’s tooth. Watching the white guy with a bloody mouth squirm around on the ground desperately searching for his tooth, I couldn’t help but think that that might have been me. The tall guy, completely unfazed by his actions, asked me if I wanted back in the game. Frightened, I lied and said that I was too tired to play. For the next thirty minutes, I kept to myself until Andy finally announced that he was ready to leave. 

After fist bumping my new “friends” at the park goodbye, I hightailed it out of there. When Andy and I were almost to our cars, Andy realized that he had left his water bottle on the court. I could tell that he wanted me to walk back with him, but I convinced him that it would be quicker if he just drove back on his own to get it. As we got to our respective cars, Andy invited me to play again the following Sunday. Apparently, he didn’t realize how traumatized I was by the day’s events. I didn’t want to insult him, but I also didn’t know how to politely tell him that I prefer schooling middle-aged white men at the country club. Instead, I told him that I would be traveling for the next few weekends. I figured this would buy me some time and save me a trip to the dentist! 

I’ve come to believe that budgeting is a lot like dieting. It’s something that almost everyone needs to do at some point in life, but instead, most people continue to recklessly indulge in hopes that things will magically work themselves out. Inevitably, your careless decisions catch up with you (either in the mirror or on a credit statement), and you’re left wondering how you ever let things get so out of control. 

I’m the first to admit that I’ve never been a particularly good dieter. I’ve always subscribed to working out excessively so that I could overindulge on burgers and fries, rather than cutting calories to give my aching body a break. Unsurprisingly, I’ve applied a similar approach to my financial wellbeing. When money’s gotten tight, I’ve found other ways to earn more money in order to support my lifestyle. This has worked fine for the past 8 years, but due to my decision to take an unpaid internship at a literary management company for the first six months that I lived in LA, my financial waistline was starting to catch up with my rash spending habits. After watching my savings deplete the last few months, I finally acknowledged that it was time to implement the dreaded budget. 

In the beginning, like dieting, setting a budget seemed like it would be a fun adventure. That first day, I was on a savings-adrenaline high, imagining all of my untouched monies earning .001% interest in the bank. But then, after about two days, my mind started playing wicked tricks on me, and all that I could think about were the sacrifices that I was making. Things that I had never even thought about buying suddenly seemed like essentials that I couldn’t live without. It had only been 48 hours since I had crafted my financial diet before I cheated. Only, instead of hiding out in a pantry binging on potato chips, I found myself logged onto Pottery Barn’s website ordering kitchen canisters at 2:30 AM. Like I said, essentials. After that first lapse, it made cheating going forward much easier. Before long, boxes were being delivered to my apartment on a daily basis, and I realized that I was spending more money than I had been before implementing the budget. It was time for a reset. 

Instead of cutting myself off from everything at once, I decided that in my new approach, I’d start with a few things and build from there. I scoured my credit card statements and tried to identify luxury items that I could do without. One high-cost item that seemed dispensable was cable television. With all of the new available platforms to watch TV, I figured that paying $80 for cable was superfluous. This notion likely holds true for people with patience, but unfortunately for me, I was about to discover that patience is the one virtue that I definitely do not possess. 

I embarked on my cable-less journey by setting up my Apple TV and linking it up with my parents’ Netflix account (baby steps). Once I realized that Netflix only streamed shows’ prior seasons, I purchased a Hulu Plus account. Unfortunately, my internet speed did not meet the minimum streaming requirements, so I was forced to call ATT and increase my Mbps. This kept me satisfied for about a weekend, but then I discovered that several of my favorite series were missing from Hulu. Not one to initially give up, I borrowed my friend’s HBO GO login and used another friend’s cable credentials to access WATCH ABC and FOX NOW, but I still missed the thrill of live television. With college basketball playoffs quickly approaching, I decided to drive to Best Buy and bought my first set of rabbit ears since my dorm days. I started with the cheapest antenna that I could find, but it only granted me access to myTV. After watching hours of ALL IN THE FAMILY reruns, I returned to Best Buy to purchase the most advanced antenna that they sold. Even then, I could only get six channels to come in clearly, and that required me standing in the back corner of my living room and not moving. For the next few days, I tried to maintain a positive outlook while straining my eyes to read basketball scores, but it was the frustration of remembering login information for four different streaming accounts that eventually forced me to cave and call ATT. Before you knew it, not only did I have cable, but the salesman talked me into signing up for premium movie channels and DVR. In hindsight, trying to survive without cable was probably a strange choice for someone who moved to Los Angeles to pursue a career in television writing and development, so I stand by that expense. 

Still determined to make some budget cuts, I went back to the drawing board (my credit card statement) and noticed that I spend an exorbitant amount of money on food. I shared this with my family who suggested that I try to eat out less. My sister even offered some suggestions for cheap meal alternatives, which included pasta and eggs. I drove to my local Von’s reinvigorated, but I soon found myself pining for the foods that I could no longer afford. Like Holly Golightly gazing through the windows at Tiffany’s, there I stood, drooling at the seafood counter over Scottish salmon. At the very least, I hoped I could buy enough crabmeat to prepare my Kickin’ Crab Chowder. Unfortunately, the prices were far out of my range. I phoned home to complain about this injustice, but my mom informed me that seafood was not necessarily “roughing it” and that I should stick with my sister’s initial suggestions. Clearly, she didn’t understand the severity of the situation. Nonetheless, I hung up the phone and proceeded to gather the ingredients for my crummy omelet. 

As I checked out at Von’s, I was puzzled when the cashier said that the total cost of my ingredients exceeded $30. This time, I called my sister to ask how exactly this was saving me any money. She also seemed confused, so she asked me to walk her through the list of ingredients.  As I started naming them (butter, eggs, shredded Mexican Blend cheese, goat cheese, sundried tomatoes, peppers, basil,…), my sister interrupted and said that when she suggested making eggs, she actually meant, “making eggs,” not an omelet. It was a simple misunderstanding. I concluded that since I had already gathered the necessary ingredients, it made the most sense to pay for them and try my sister’s basic eggs recipe at a later date. After all, this was still saving money relative to the salmon and jumbo prawns that I initially had my eye on. 

The most difficult challenge for me throughout this journey has been choosing what to buy when my bank account only allows for one item. A few years ago, I bought my dad the popular Eat This, Not That book to help him make healthier food choices when faced with two options (I’m aware of how hypocritical that gesture was since I’m a chronic junk food consumer). Unfortunately for me, there’s not a Buy This, Not That book, and in my deranged mind, there doesn’t always appear to be one right answer. I was faced with such a predicament back in September. Because I hadn’t secured a full-time job with benefits since moving to California, I was responsible for procuring my own health insurance. My fluctuating income had made me ineligible for Obama Care, so a large portion of my limited funds was going to health coverage that I wasn’t using (I still don’t have a doctor in LA). Around this same time, I had spotted a new leather recliner from Pottery Barn that I knew would fit perfectly in my apartment. Naturally, I toyed with the idea of giving up my insurance for a few months and putting that money towards a down payment on the recliner, but my friends advised against it. Apparently, it’s illegal to be uninsured. Who knew?! From my friends’ reactions, everyone but me! So instead of gambling with my health coverage, I did the second most logical thing…I got a part-time job at Pottery Barn on the weekends so that I could get the recliner for 40% off. This might seem like an extreme measure to others, but as we’ve learned, I’ll do what it takes to have my cake and eat it, too! 

I know that it might appear that I’m no better at budgeting than when I first moved to LA, but that’s because I’m not. However, I am working on it! Just the other day, I wanted to buy a vintage croquet set, but I stopped myself when I realized that doing so would make it exceptionally difficult for me to pay my rent. In conclusion, my initial attempt at budgeting may have bombed, but like dieting, setting up the right financial plan is a marathon, not a sprint!