When I first announced that I was moving to Los Angeles, people warned me that I might spend half my time in my car. I laughed and said defiantly, ” I like to drive!” with a hint of snotty, teenage girl attitude. Nothing could prepare me for the countless hours I now spend sitting in traffic, slowly turning from a sweet-natured, loving, generous young woman to an embittered, ruthless, impatient, anxiety-ridden bitch. If I need to be somewhere at 7pm (like my Groundlings class, for example) I have to leave at 5:30pm to go exactly 12.3 miles. If I lose track of time and I leave at 5:45 or even worse, 6pm (please note this is an hour to go 12.3 miles) the following behavior pattern ensues:

I run out to my garage, frantically pushing the secret keypad code into submission. I fling myself into my car, maneuver artfully out of my tight parking space, simultaneously avoiding the wall on one side and my neighbors’ mercedes and land rover on the other. I turn on the radio in hopes of hearing helpful traffic information, only to hear Ashlee Simpson’s “Pieces Of Me” playing on two stations at the same time. I turn the radio back off to avoid getting that annoyingly catchy tune in my head. I drive impatiently through the many stoplights on my way to the freeway. 6:10~~I make it to Cloverfield and notice that the 10 freeway East is jam packed to a standstill, so I decide to take an alternate route via Pico Blvd. I assure myself that I still have 50 minutes to make it to class. I turn East on Pico only to find that many other brilliant people have thought of the same idea, so I slowly wait through many a light as I watch the clock go from 6:15 to 6:20 to 6:30. And I haven’t even made it into Hollywood yet. At this point I still retain my fantasy that I can make it the rest of the way by 7. After all, there’s still half an hour. I finally admit to myself that I am running late and I turn down a side street in a panic. Then because I am not yet completely familiar with smaller streets, I find that the street I chose doesn’t go through. I now have to cross a major street without a stoplight to stop the trafiic. I zoom my car throught the coming traffic and zig and zag myself through side streets hoping to find my way. It’s now 6:50 and I’m stuck at a stoplight. I know there is no possible way that I will make it in time. I begin to feel my shoulders tighten and my jaw lock and my fingers grip the steering wheel. I become increasingly angry and feel the road rage bubble up into my chest. I start yelling at the cars in front of me to “Go, go, go!” My breathing becomes animal like while the optimist in me holds on to the possibility of still arriving on time. “Maybe if I find instant parking…” Ha! Slowly the optimist dies and I feel the beginnings of tears swell in my eyes. I blame Los Angeles and people who don’t signal and population growth. I decide with finality to move from LA as soon as my lease is up (in August 2005). “It’s not like this is San Francisco!”, I yell at the winsheild. Finally, at 6:57 I manuever into a parking spot, scan the signs to make sure I can park there and run to class. I make it, but only by the hair on my chinny, chin, chin. As I climb the stairs to the Groundlings rehearsal space I vow that next time I’ll definitely leave by 5:30…

*a.