Steak n Angst.

I feel like a Voodoo spell has come o’er me this week.

Monday, I almost rear ended someone and I lightly crashed into a cement post on my way out of a parking garage, buckling my front bumper out of alignment. Completely unsure of myself on the road, I was looking forward to navigating around luxury rides and fancy people in Beverly Hills last nite at work. Nope!

All was going fine (a good sign: I dropped off dinner to Bob Newhart – who is now the dearest man I know), until I pulled up to Boa Steakhouse on Sunset. I stopped by Valet to ask about a good parking spot. The attendant pointed me to a garage around the corner. I zipped in there, asking their attendants about the parking situation. A nice worker said he’d “watch my car while I went in” to pick up the food. Perfection! I flipped him my keys and ran inside.

Boa on Sunset is the kind of place that has paparazzi waiting in broad moonlight outside the front door. The people are dressed to the nines. The hosts are models. I had already been to Boa on Santa Monica — with hands down, the most wonderful valet in the city. THIS time, however, I had driven into the wrong lot and was in valet for SoHo House, an ultra private members only blah blah blah. That. But the attendant had made the “It’s cool” verbal deal with me.

I waited inside Boa for-ev-er. Watching people sip their cocktails, click their shiny heels and cheek kiss their way to fame. Finally, the order was ready and I skittered down the stairs (No paparazzi following this girl!) and showed my ticket to the valet attendant.

Him: “Uh…. you said you would be 15 minutes.”

Me: “I know! I’m so sorry — it took forever in there.”

Him: “Ok… but you’re gonna have to pay $30.”

Me: (Shock has made my face go slack) “Twenty dollars?”

Him: “Thirty. Thirty dollars.”

I looked at the lady attendant, who was no help. I looked at my dirty busted-bumper Honda Fit, nestled in between Porsches. I felt the heat of someone else’s $150 steak dinner order in the bag I was holding. I quickly calculated what that loss would mean to my measly earnings for the night…

And I lost it.

I paid the $30. And cried fat, broke tears up Laurel Canyon, all the way to a home that was already decorated for Christmas with a Santa and fairy lights. A young woman with a foreign accent signed the receipt. No tip.

I sat in my car, trying to be thankful that $30 is something that can be recovered. Even when my budget doesn’t even allow for the occasional latte.

I heard an owl somewhere in the trees.

What would Bob Newhart do?

I wiped tears off my face and decided the best thing would be to finish my shift, and go home – right to bed. Which I did. I slept 8 hours, woke up early, and went for a fresh morning jog to clear my head. Goodbye, Monday Voodoo!

Almost immediately, I tripped over uneven sidewalk and slammed my hands and knees into the pavement. Skinned, bloody and flush with embarrassment, I hopped up and adjusted my headphones. My music was still playing, so it was a second before I realized I also smashed my iPhone screen to smithereens. (Still works.) I waved at a few other joggers “I’m ok! Yeah…all good.” And wondered if I should just give up, turn around and go home.

But I kept on going.



Steak (before I wrote on it.)

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