For some reason, Susan Ellen never liked me to leave her house. I think that I was the hardest part for me. When I was unemployed my least favorite part was being cooped up in my house all day. Now that I was employed, I was cooped up in someone else’s house all day.
After the sweet potato incident, I decided that I would take care of my own lunch. I hated the fact that Susan Ellen lived in the Palisades, deep in Topanga Canyon and the fact I was in my stage "bring my own lunch with me to save money." Sure, I was saving money but at what cost?
Susan Ellen told me that I could eat lunch in the office. I asked if I could at least go the kitchen to eat. She said, “No. I don’t mind if you eat up here.”
I couldn’t even leave the room! I felt like I was starring in Anne Frank Goes to Hollywood.
Every time I ate my peanut butter sandwich, I felt Susan Ellen’s eyes on me. I would take a half an hour to eat and surf around the internet, checking Facebook, Perez Hilton, or email my mom about how ridiculous this job was.
The whole time, Susan Ellen would just stare at me. I could feel her judging me.
“Oh! That peanut butter is probably clogging her colon.”
“She’s drinking water out of a plastic water bottle? She’s so going to get cancer.”
“I can’t believe she goes on websites with words on them! She’s reading during her lunch break?”
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Chapter 29: The Proposal Pt 2
Since Susan Ellen is partly deaf and doesn’t like to wear a hearing aid because she thinks it messes up her inner harmony, the volume on her phone made it seem like there was an intercom in her house.
“What the fuck, Susan Ellen? What did you do?” shouted Daisy Ellen.
“I just proofread your proposal,” answered Susan Ellen.
“You changed everything! All the words I wrote are different!”
Susan Ellen looked at me desperately. “What should I say?” she mouthed.
“Say that you gave it to your assistant and that I fixed some major grammatical mistakes.”
Susan Ellen hushed me.
“Daisy, there’s someone at the door. Can you hold on one second?”
Susan Ellen put Daisy Ellen on hold – which I’m surprised she was able to do – and looked at me.
“Daisy Ellen doesn’t know I have an assistant. If she found out that I hired someone to help me out, she’ll get really mad.”
“Why?”
“She’s just like that. She’s a bitch. But, she’s my best friend and I love her. But … ugh… I hate her. So, you have to help me. She bullies me so much and I never know what to say. Tell me what to say.”
“How- when- wait, what?”
Before I was able to comprehend what Susan Ellen told me, she took Daisy Ellen off hold.
“I don’t know why you would change everything. I just asked you to proofread it!”
“There were grammar mistakes.”
Susan Ellen mouth to me, “Right?”
I nodded.
“But that’s what grammar check on the computer is for!”
Susan Ellen grabbed a piece of notebook paper and frantically scribbled, “What should I say?”
I took a pen and wrote, “Grammar check is not a good tool.”
Susan Ellen said that into the phone.
“Are you saying, Susan Ellen, that you’re smarter than the grammar check that is on a computer? You’re smarter than a computer? Is that what you are telling me?”
I’m sure the first thing Cormac McCarthy did when finished the first draft of The Road was click "spell/grammar check" and then sent it to the publishers.
I wrote down on the paper “Grammar check is not able to catch every mistake.”
Susan Ellen said that into the phone.
“Well, Susan, I’m dating a guy who is really good with computers who can fix that.”
Susan Ellen looked at me, begging me to write down a good comeback. I wrote, “I was only trying to help!”
Susan Ellen said it into the phone.
“Well, you made it so much worse! You totally messed everything up!”
“I don’t understand why you’re being so mean to me, Daisy. I was just fixing it.”
“Well, you didn’t fix it. It’s ridiculous. I don’t understand why you would think you’re smarter than a computer!”
Susan Ellen was looking at me, asking for another comeback.
I had a notebook in front me, jotting down comebacks. They consisted of:
“Daisy Ellen is a cunt.”
“This is hilarious.”
“I want to quit this job.”
“Our product is a scam anyway.”
I mouthed to Susan Ellen, “I don’t have anything.” Susan Ellen mouthed, “Okay.”
Susan Ellen continued her conversation with Daisy Ellen. “So, how are you?” she asked.
Daisy Ellen responded, “Oh I’m great! I made this pomegranate liver tonic today. It was great.”
“Oh, tell me more, girlfriend!” said Susan Ellen.
She curled up on her couch and they gabbed like little girls as if their friendship wasn’t more volatile than a husband who beats his wife.
“What the fuck, Susan Ellen? What did you do?” shouted Daisy Ellen.
“I just proofread your proposal,” answered Susan Ellen.
“You changed everything! All the words I wrote are different!”
Susan Ellen looked at me desperately. “What should I say?” she mouthed.
“Say that you gave it to your assistant and that I fixed some major grammatical mistakes.”
Susan Ellen hushed me.
“Daisy, there’s someone at the door. Can you hold on one second?”
Susan Ellen put Daisy Ellen on hold – which I’m surprised she was able to do – and looked at me.
“Daisy Ellen doesn’t know I have an assistant. If she found out that I hired someone to help me out, she’ll get really mad.”
“Why?”
“She’s just like that. She’s a bitch. But, she’s my best friend and I love her. But … ugh… I hate her. So, you have to help me. She bullies me so much and I never know what to say. Tell me what to say.”
“How- when- wait, what?”
Before I was able to comprehend what Susan Ellen told me, she took Daisy Ellen off hold.
“I don’t know why you would change everything. I just asked you to proofread it!”
“There were grammar mistakes.”
Susan Ellen mouth to me, “Right?”
I nodded.
“But that’s what grammar check on the computer is for!”
Susan Ellen grabbed a piece of notebook paper and frantically scribbled, “What should I say?”
I took a pen and wrote, “Grammar check is not a good tool.”
Susan Ellen said that into the phone.
“Are you saying, Susan Ellen, that you’re smarter than the grammar check that is on a computer? You’re smarter than a computer? Is that what you are telling me?”
I’m sure the first thing Cormac McCarthy did when finished the first draft of The Road was click "spell/grammar check" and then sent it to the publishers.
I wrote down on the paper “Grammar check is not able to catch every mistake.”
Susan Ellen said that into the phone.
“Well, Susan, I’m dating a guy who is really good with computers who can fix that.”
Susan Ellen looked at me, begging me to write down a good comeback. I wrote, “I was only trying to help!”
Susan Ellen said it into the phone.
“Well, you made it so much worse! You totally messed everything up!”
“I don’t understand why you’re being so mean to me, Daisy. I was just fixing it.”
“Well, you didn’t fix it. It’s ridiculous. I don’t understand why you would think you’re smarter than a computer!”
Susan Ellen was looking at me, asking for another comeback.
I had a notebook in front me, jotting down comebacks. They consisted of:
“Daisy Ellen is a cunt.”
“This is hilarious.”
“I want to quit this job.”
“Our product is a scam anyway.”
I mouthed to Susan Ellen, “I don’t have anything.” Susan Ellen mouthed, “Okay.”
Susan Ellen continued her conversation with Daisy Ellen. “So, how are you?” she asked.
Daisy Ellen responded, “Oh I’m great! I made this pomegranate liver tonic today. It was great.”
“Oh, tell me more, girlfriend!” said Susan Ellen.
She curled up on her couch and they gabbed like little girls as if their friendship wasn’t more volatile than a husband who beats his wife.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Chapter 28: The Proposal Part 1
Susan Ellen was working with Daisy Ellen on creating their infomercial for Susan Ellen’s saran-wrap weight loss product.
Let me just say this:
Daisy Ellen is a bona fide bitch. She has a lot of reasons to be:
1.) Her only acting gig is hosting an infomercial.
2.) She’s insecure and unsuccessful.
3.) She lives in Hollywood.
4.) She’s had so much botox she can’t feel her boyfriend’s touch anymore.
I don’t think Daisy Ellen has any control over her life. With not getting a role in a film or movie since 1982, it makes sense. I think her only friend is Susan Ellen because she’s probably the only one dumber than her. Susan Ellen is so dumb that Daisy Ellen cherishes it because there’s finally one person that she is smarter than.
Daisy Ellen wrote up a proposal for the infomercial and asked Susan Ellen to proofread it. Of course she did! Daisy Ellen is so insecure she asks an illiterate woman to proofread something for her!
Since Susan Ellen was busy putting her puppy’s snout into her mouth, she asked me to proofread it.
Now, I’m not going to say that I’m a good proofreader, but I know how to identity run-ons. Like a sentence like this one.
I also know the difference between “your” and “you’re.” Additionally, I think I’m positive that most sentences begin with a capital letter.
I tried to remember Daisy Ellen’s wikipedia page to see if she dropped out of kindergarten to pursue her entertainment career. These mistakes were horrible. They wanted to show this proposal to a semi-literate (I hope) Guthy Renker executive? It was so pathetic it was like watching a gymnast with no legs trying to walk on the balance beam. I had to do something.
I suppose my corrections made it look like I ripped the proposal apart. I swear I didn’t. I was making a bunch of random letters into something that makes sense, I swear! Susan Ellen sent the proposal back to Daisy Ellen and moments later Daisy Ellen calls.
I could feel her rage in the ring of the telephone, despite Susan Ellen’s ringtone being “You Lift Me Up” by Josh Groban.
Let me just say this:
Daisy Ellen is a bona fide bitch. She has a lot of reasons to be:
1.) Her only acting gig is hosting an infomercial.
2.) She’s insecure and unsuccessful.
3.) She lives in Hollywood.
4.) She’s had so much botox she can’t feel her boyfriend’s touch anymore.
I don’t think Daisy Ellen has any control over her life. With not getting a role in a film or movie since 1982, it makes sense. I think her only friend is Susan Ellen because she’s probably the only one dumber than her. Susan Ellen is so dumb that Daisy Ellen cherishes it because there’s finally one person that she is smarter than.
Daisy Ellen wrote up a proposal for the infomercial and asked Susan Ellen to proofread it. Of course she did! Daisy Ellen is so insecure she asks an illiterate woman to proofread something for her!
Since Susan Ellen was busy putting her puppy’s snout into her mouth, she asked me to proofread it.
Now, I’m not going to say that I’m a good proofreader, but I know how to identity run-ons. Like a sentence like this one.
I also know the difference between “your” and “you’re.” Additionally, I think I’m positive that most sentences begin with a capital letter.
I tried to remember Daisy Ellen’s wikipedia page to see if she dropped out of kindergarten to pursue her entertainment career. These mistakes were horrible. They wanted to show this proposal to a semi-literate (I hope) Guthy Renker executive? It was so pathetic it was like watching a gymnast with no legs trying to walk on the balance beam. I had to do something.
I suppose my corrections made it look like I ripped the proposal apart. I swear I didn’t. I was making a bunch of random letters into something that makes sense, I swear! Susan Ellen sent the proposal back to Daisy Ellen and moments later Daisy Ellen calls.
I could feel her rage in the ring of the telephone, despite Susan Ellen’s ringtone being “You Lift Me Up” by Josh Groban.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Chapter 27: The Book
Susan Ellen is writing a book.
I don’t think she knows how to read.
But, goshdarnit, that’s not going to keep her from writing the great American novel.
Or, the great American self-help-weight-loss-lifestyle book.
I told Susan Ellen I was trying to be a comedy writer and I suppose she thought that meant I wanted to be a ghostwriter for books on how to lose weight and make detox drinks out of olive oil, rubber cement, and paper clips.
She asked if I was interested in ghostwriting her book while I was working out of her house. I gladly accepted. I would rather do that than do her online shopping for jewel-studded enemas. Also, having the experience of ghostwriting a self-help book would be a hilarious anecdote to include in my E! True Hollywood Story.
She told me her book was a “how-to-book.”
I asked her, “How to do what?”
“Make a change,” she answered.
“What kinds of changes?”
“Changes in your life: how to be happy, how to lose weight, how to get rid of calluses on your feet, how to become more spiritual. Stuff like that.”
She told me she wrote everything; she just needs to organize her information.
Okay, I can do that. I know nothing about losing weight, foot calluses, or happiness, but I know about organization. I think.
She gave me a CD filled with documents that were her notes. I scrolled through them and realized she copy-pasted information from websites such as the Hydroxycut website.
She gave me a folder filled with her “notes.” They were pages ripped out of Prevention magazine and wrappers from her diet bars and fortunes from fortune cookies that somehow resembled Buddhist quotes.
It was like she gave me a pile of Lincoln logs, twigs, and a fake plant and asked me to organize those things into a book.
I don’t think she knows how to read.
But, goshdarnit, that’s not going to keep her from writing the great American novel.
Or, the great American self-help-weight-loss-lifestyle book.
I told Susan Ellen I was trying to be a comedy writer and I suppose she thought that meant I wanted to be a ghostwriter for books on how to lose weight and make detox drinks out of olive oil, rubber cement, and paper clips.
She asked if I was interested in ghostwriting her book while I was working out of her house. I gladly accepted. I would rather do that than do her online shopping for jewel-studded enemas. Also, having the experience of ghostwriting a self-help book would be a hilarious anecdote to include in my E! True Hollywood Story.
She told me her book was a “how-to-book.”
I asked her, “How to do what?”
“Make a change,” she answered.
“What kinds of changes?”
“Changes in your life: how to be happy, how to lose weight, how to get rid of calluses on your feet, how to become more spiritual. Stuff like that.”
She told me she wrote everything; she just needs to organize her information.
Okay, I can do that. I know nothing about losing weight, foot calluses, or happiness, but I know about organization. I think.
She gave me a CD filled with documents that were her notes. I scrolled through them and realized she copy-pasted information from websites such as the Hydroxycut website.
She gave me a folder filled with her “notes.” They were pages ripped out of Prevention magazine and wrappers from her diet bars and fortunes from fortune cookies that somehow resembled Buddhist quotes.
It was like she gave me a pile of Lincoln logs, twigs, and a fake plant and asked me to organize those things into a book.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Chapter 26: Lesbian-onics
Susan Ellen was telling me about her treatments. She explained how she puts cellophane on her clients and then massages their feet and arms.
She later went on to say that her last assistant was a lesbian and she fired her for being one. She said she couldn’t trust lesbians around her female clients because she said they would get “turned on”.
The minimum amount of gay a person has to be is by liking the song “Galileo” and I believe those straight people would be offended by Susan Ellen’s comment.
As I type this it sickens me that I kept working for her.
Needless to say, that weekend, I called Ted. Ted had to understand.
I told him Susan Ellen asked about my sexuality, which she did, and told him about her former assistant. He explained to me that Susan Ellen is a bit older than me and while she is really open-minded, she sometimes says things that aren’t as sensitive, but she means well. He also informed me her former assistant was fired because she couldn’t type.
Susan Ellen never has anything to type. Ted begged me to stay with Susan Ellen and now I believe he did so the temp agency could get her off their hands. Having no dignity, I said I’d continue.
A few weeks later, Susan Ellen was going on again about her famous clients. One of them included a famous comedian known for being a lesbian. She mentioned that she’s totally cool with gay men (“Oh my God! I love gay guys. Some of my best friends are gay men.”) However, she mentioned that she will perform her treatments on lesbians with the saran wrap, but she won’t massage them because she’s afraid she will turn them on.
I hate it when that happens. Since I am a girl, as well, that must mean every lesbian is attracted to me.
I am a huge proponent of gay rights since I attended one of the gayest schools in the history of academia. My jaw dropped when I heard this and by the time I was ready to call her a homophobe and stomp out, she had already changed the subject to how much of a bitch a celeb’s wife was and I couldn’t help but listen to her hot gossip.
As I was driving home recollecting about the day, I thought about Susan Ellen’s blatant homophobia. You cannot deny someone a massage for being homosexual. Sitting in traffic I wagered back and forth whether or not to contact a civil rights group such as GLAAD or PFLAG. Beverly Hills – based lesbians deserve massages as much as any plastic housewife who cheats on her movie-producer husband.
Still wagering whether or not to launch one of the most important civil rights campaign West Los Angeles County has ever seen, I was sitting in front of the TV watching some show on VH1 about how rich celebrities are. A segment popped up on the show about this comedian. Apparently she owns about three houses, a private jet, has her own island, a million Emmy Awards, and is probably one of the few lesbians actually adored by Republicans. And I was about to take her cause of being denied a massage by a semi-literate masseuse who legally can’t go by masseuse because she technically doesn’t have her massage license (hence, she is a pain releaser)! What was I thinking? This comedian can have anything she wants and if she were to involve herself in a scandal regarding Susan Ellen it would be the equivalent to treating a birthmark on your face as lymphatic cancer. This comedian is so rich, she can afford a time machine to travel back in time to the inventor of massage therapy and get a session with that person. Why give a fuck about Susan Ellen?
Some people are just so dumb that there is really no use in launching a campaign against them. They already lost the battle by just breathing and talking their nonsense while the smart ones laugh and write silly little blogs on the internet about them.
She later went on to say that her last assistant was a lesbian and she fired her for being one. She said she couldn’t trust lesbians around her female clients because she said they would get “turned on”.
The minimum amount of gay a person has to be is by liking the song “Galileo” and I believe those straight people would be offended by Susan Ellen’s comment.
As I type this it sickens me that I kept working for her.
Needless to say, that weekend, I called Ted. Ted had to understand.
I told him Susan Ellen asked about my sexuality, which she did, and told him about her former assistant. He explained to me that Susan Ellen is a bit older than me and while she is really open-minded, she sometimes says things that aren’t as sensitive, but she means well. He also informed me her former assistant was fired because she couldn’t type.
Susan Ellen never has anything to type. Ted begged me to stay with Susan Ellen and now I believe he did so the temp agency could get her off their hands. Having no dignity, I said I’d continue.
A few weeks later, Susan Ellen was going on again about her famous clients. One of them included a famous comedian known for being a lesbian. She mentioned that she’s totally cool with gay men (“Oh my God! I love gay guys. Some of my best friends are gay men.”) However, she mentioned that she will perform her treatments on lesbians with the saran wrap, but she won’t massage them because she’s afraid she will turn them on.
I hate it when that happens. Since I am a girl, as well, that must mean every lesbian is attracted to me.
I am a huge proponent of gay rights since I attended one of the gayest schools in the history of academia. My jaw dropped when I heard this and by the time I was ready to call her a homophobe and stomp out, she had already changed the subject to how much of a bitch a celeb’s wife was and I couldn’t help but listen to her hot gossip.
As I was driving home recollecting about the day, I thought about Susan Ellen’s blatant homophobia. You cannot deny someone a massage for being homosexual. Sitting in traffic I wagered back and forth whether or not to contact a civil rights group such as GLAAD or PFLAG. Beverly Hills – based lesbians deserve massages as much as any plastic housewife who cheats on her movie-producer husband.
Still wagering whether or not to launch one of the most important civil rights campaign West Los Angeles County has ever seen, I was sitting in front of the TV watching some show on VH1 about how rich celebrities are. A segment popped up on the show about this comedian. Apparently she owns about three houses, a private jet, has her own island, a million Emmy Awards, and is probably one of the few lesbians actually adored by Republicans. And I was about to take her cause of being denied a massage by a semi-literate masseuse who legally can’t go by masseuse because she technically doesn’t have her massage license (hence, she is a pain releaser)! What was I thinking? This comedian can have anything she wants and if she were to involve herself in a scandal regarding Susan Ellen it would be the equivalent to treating a birthmark on your face as lymphatic cancer. This comedian is so rich, she can afford a time machine to travel back in time to the inventor of massage therapy and get a session with that person. Why give a fuck about Susan Ellen?
Some people are just so dumb that there is really no use in launching a campaign against them. They already lost the battle by just breathing and talking their nonsense while the smart ones laugh and write silly little blogs on the internet about them.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Chapter 25: You know, Like, Trendy
The next Monday Susan Ellen had to get a chicken pox vaccination so I didn’t need to come in.
However I did get a call from Ted.
“Hi Becky. Susan Ellen called and wants to know if you can dress better when you come in tomorrow.”
I was stunned. Dress better? I had chosen the best of the best of the closet and it wasn’t good enough? Not only was this request insulting to my sense of style, it was class-ist and somehow anti-semitic. I’m not sure how yet. It just is.
“Yeah, Becky, if you could dress more professional that would be great because Susan Ellen is expecting some high profile clients.”
The next day I put on a dress and a cardigan.
The two and a half hour drive to Susan Ellen’s house was so uncomfortable with the panty hose I was wearing.
I arrived to her place and she said, “Oh my God! You look so cute! But, you know, you can wear jeans.”
“But Ted called me-“
“Oh, right. Yeah, by better, I mean, like you know, trendy.”
She looked away and changed the conversation.
---
Towards the end of the Susan Ellen tenure, we went to lunch and she confessed something to me.
“Do you remember when Ted called you about dressing better?”
“Yeah,” I said, still confused about the request.
“Well, I had asked you to dress better because that shirt you wore on the first day you worked for me was huge on you and every time you bent over, I could see down your shirt.”
The day I wore that outfit, Susan Ellen had me sitting on her couch leaning over her hip, low coffee table to type. If Mother Superior were typing like that you would be able to see her cleavage.
“So, anyway, I called Ted because I didn’t know what to do. You were such a sweet girl but I didn’t want to insult you. But, I didn’t want my husband walking in and seeing you dressed like that.”
Did she just turn me into a homewrecker? Or was she convinced that the presence of my cleavage would cause her husband to actually leave the basement for once and we would run off together where he would hunt squirrel and I would bake it for dinner?
Most importantly, she made me seem like a slutty dresser in front of the temp agency. Me! No wonder I was getting no other jobs. The temp agency didn’t want Jersey trash representing them at some topnotch production company. I would never have imagined I would be the inappropriate dresser. I used to wear the same sweaters the teachers wore when I was in high school! (Excuse me for looking really good in knit-sweaters with bunnies wearing Santa Clause hats!)
However I did get a call from Ted.
“Hi Becky. Susan Ellen called and wants to know if you can dress better when you come in tomorrow.”
I was stunned. Dress better? I had chosen the best of the best of the closet and it wasn’t good enough? Not only was this request insulting to my sense of style, it was class-ist and somehow anti-semitic. I’m not sure how yet. It just is.
“Yeah, Becky, if you could dress more professional that would be great because Susan Ellen is expecting some high profile clients.”
The next day I put on a dress and a cardigan.
The two and a half hour drive to Susan Ellen’s house was so uncomfortable with the panty hose I was wearing.
I arrived to her place and she said, “Oh my God! You look so cute! But, you know, you can wear jeans.”
“But Ted called me-“
“Oh, right. Yeah, by better, I mean, like you know, trendy.”
She looked away and changed the conversation.
---
Towards the end of the Susan Ellen tenure, we went to lunch and she confessed something to me.
“Do you remember when Ted called you about dressing better?”
“Yeah,” I said, still confused about the request.
“Well, I had asked you to dress better because that shirt you wore on the first day you worked for me was huge on you and every time you bent over, I could see down your shirt.”
The day I wore that outfit, Susan Ellen had me sitting on her couch leaning over her hip, low coffee table to type. If Mother Superior were typing like that you would be able to see her cleavage.
“So, anyway, I called Ted because I didn’t know what to do. You were such a sweet girl but I didn’t want to insult you. But, I didn’t want my husband walking in and seeing you dressed like that.”
Did she just turn me into a homewrecker? Or was she convinced that the presence of my cleavage would cause her husband to actually leave the basement for once and we would run off together where he would hunt squirrel and I would bake it for dinner?
Most importantly, she made me seem like a slutty dresser in front of the temp agency. Me! No wonder I was getting no other jobs. The temp agency didn’t want Jersey trash representing them at some topnotch production company. I would never have imagined I would be the inappropriate dresser. I used to wear the same sweaters the teachers wore when I was in high school! (Excuse me for looking really good in knit-sweaters with bunnies wearing Santa Clause hats!)
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Chapter 24
At the time, Susan Ellen's current client was an Emmy-winning TV star, known amongst Hollywood insiders to be a total douchebag. (I know that doesn't really narrow down the field, but this is the most I can give.)
She was performing her cellophane treatments on him. She met with him for two hours every night, including weekends. It seemed as if she was also his personal assistant, picking up his dry-cleaning, and, according to her, offering advice on which roles to take.
It's still the first day, mind you, and I'm still organizing all of her bookmarks into categories.
Around 5, Susan Ellen looked at her phone and said, "You need to leave right now."
"Okay."
"Go! Go!"
It was as if she put the clues together in her mind that I was some sort of assassin, forcing me to leave before I would murder her. If only I was…
She threw my purse and my shoes at me.
"I have to go to [D.B. Actor]'s house now. I totally forgot. I need to be there now. How long do you think it would take me to get to the Hollywood Hills?"
Are you kidding me? I'm the new one to LA here and I know at 5 pm to drive from the Palisades to the Hills in rush hour traffic would take an hour and a half.
She looked at me with pleading eyes, wanting me to say something to alleviate her stress.
"Probably about fifteen minutes."
"Okay. Good. You need to leave now. Get out of here."
I speedily walked through her garage, trying to get out of her way as quickly as possible, trying to end this horrible work day as quickly as possible.
Before I walked out her garage, she approached me with her arms open.
"Okay, sweetie, it was nice meeting you."
Holy cow, she wanted to hug me.
She grabbed my body and I patted her on the back.
"Thank you so much, sweetie. You're so beautiful. I love you. I'll see you next week. Bye!"
I darted out of her driveway and walked to my car.
She drove by, honked, and waved to me.
I waved back.
I got into my car and just stared into the yellow fog known as Los Angeles' atmosphere.
As I type this, I still cannot decide what is more shocking to me:
a.) The fact that all of these experiences with Susan Ellen happened to me one day...
Or
b.) Susan Ellen was actually allowed behind the wheel.
She was performing her cellophane treatments on him. She met with him for two hours every night, including weekends. It seemed as if she was also his personal assistant, picking up his dry-cleaning, and, according to her, offering advice on which roles to take.
It's still the first day, mind you, and I'm still organizing all of her bookmarks into categories.
Around 5, Susan Ellen looked at her phone and said, "You need to leave right now."
"Okay."
"Go! Go!"
It was as if she put the clues together in her mind that I was some sort of assassin, forcing me to leave before I would murder her. If only I was…
She threw my purse and my shoes at me.
"I have to go to [D.B. Actor]'s house now. I totally forgot. I need to be there now. How long do you think it would take me to get to the Hollywood Hills?"
Are you kidding me? I'm the new one to LA here and I know at 5 pm to drive from the Palisades to the Hills in rush hour traffic would take an hour and a half.
She looked at me with pleading eyes, wanting me to say something to alleviate her stress.
"Probably about fifteen minutes."
"Okay. Good. You need to leave now. Get out of here."
I speedily walked through her garage, trying to get out of her way as quickly as possible, trying to end this horrible work day as quickly as possible.
Before I walked out her garage, she approached me with her arms open.
"Okay, sweetie, it was nice meeting you."
Holy cow, she wanted to hug me.
She grabbed my body and I patted her on the back.
"Thank you so much, sweetie. You're so beautiful. I love you. I'll see you next week. Bye!"
I darted out of her driveway and walked to my car.
She drove by, honked, and waved to me.
I waved back.
I got into my car and just stared into the yellow fog known as Los Angeles' atmosphere.
As I type this, I still cannot decide what is more shocking to me:
a.) The fact that all of these experiences with Susan Ellen happened to me one day...
Or
b.) Susan Ellen was actually allowed behind the wheel.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Chapter 23: Lunch Time
It was about three hours in to my first day when I realized I hadn't eaten breakfast. I was too much in a rush that morning to even think about lunch.
It was almost as if Susan Ellen read my mind.
"Did you bring lunch with you?"
"No, I didn't. I was wondering if it was all right if I took my half hour to drive somewhere and get-"
"No. I'll make you lunch here." She wanted me to stay like that blind character in Frankenstein.
"Oh, ok."
It was nice. I guess.
She sighed, "But I don't have any food in the house."
She looked into her refrigerator like it was the first time ever opening it. I really don't feel like I'm exaggerating when I tell you that she pushed the refrigerator door before she realized that she needed to pull it open.
"I have sweet potatoes. Do you like sweet potatoes?"
"Uh… okay."
She took out two potatoes and plopped them into her oven. She started fiddling with the knobs on her stove.
"I don't even know how to use this. I never cook."
While she went to go smother her musty puppies, I quickly turned the gas off and turned the oven on before the inferno happened.
We both took a seat at the kitchen table waiting for our potatoes to not catch on fire. Susan Ellen broke my gaze by telling me:
"So, the people at the temp agency said you were interested in losing weight."
"What?"
I remembered the conversation I had with Ted.
Note to self: Never make small talk with stupid people, even if they do compliment you.
"You totally don't need to," she said, "I mean, you could tone up here and there, but you're not as bad off as some other people I know, like my housecleaner."
And just that moment, Susan Ellen's housecleaner entered to head to the garage to put even more sheets into the washer. How many freakin' sheets does this woman have?
Susan Ellen stopped her. "Como…," Susan Ellen began, "Como—oh, how do you say it? Como estis?"
"Fine," the housecleaner answered, in her native Brooklyn accent.
My face was buried in my hand. Susan Ellen whispered to me, "She's really heavy. It affects her health."
I nodded, hoping to God that I wouldn’t shit myself if the housecleaner heard her.
"Anyway, you're fine," she said. "Except for some of the blemishes on her chin. There's products for that, you know."
I touched my chin and didn't realize that my mouth was wide open in amazement that she would point out a complete stranger's zits.
I think she took it as me being defensive.
"I mean, you're pretty," she told me. "No, I really think you're pretty. You are! You have this great hair… but you really need to use conditioner."
It was almost as if Susan Ellen read my mind.
"Did you bring lunch with you?"
"No, I didn't. I was wondering if it was all right if I took my half hour to drive somewhere and get-"
"No. I'll make you lunch here." She wanted me to stay like that blind character in Frankenstein.
"Oh, ok."
It was nice. I guess.
She sighed, "But I don't have any food in the house."
She looked into her refrigerator like it was the first time ever opening it. I really don't feel like I'm exaggerating when I tell you that she pushed the refrigerator door before she realized that she needed to pull it open.
"I have sweet potatoes. Do you like sweet potatoes?"
"Uh… okay."
She took out two potatoes and plopped them into her oven. She started fiddling with the knobs on her stove.
"I don't even know how to use this. I never cook."
While she went to go smother her musty puppies, I quickly turned the gas off and turned the oven on before the inferno happened.
We both took a seat at the kitchen table waiting for our potatoes to not catch on fire. Susan Ellen broke my gaze by telling me:
"So, the people at the temp agency said you were interested in losing weight."
"What?"
I remembered the conversation I had with Ted.
Note to self: Never make small talk with stupid people, even if they do compliment you.
"You totally don't need to," she said, "I mean, you could tone up here and there, but you're not as bad off as some other people I know, like my housecleaner."
And just that moment, Susan Ellen's housecleaner entered to head to the garage to put even more sheets into the washer. How many freakin' sheets does this woman have?
Susan Ellen stopped her. "Como…," Susan Ellen began, "Como—oh, how do you say it? Como estis?"
"Fine," the housecleaner answered, in her native Brooklyn accent.
My face was buried in my hand. Susan Ellen whispered to me, "She's really heavy. It affects her health."
I nodded, hoping to God that I wouldn’t shit myself if the housecleaner heard her.
"Anyway, you're fine," she said. "Except for some of the blemishes on her chin. There's products for that, you know."
I touched my chin and didn't realize that my mouth was wide open in amazement that she would point out a complete stranger's zits.
I think she took it as me being defensive.
"I mean, you're pretty," she told me. "No, I really think you're pretty. You are! You have this great hair… but you really need to use conditioner."
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Chapter 22
Susan Ellen was bragging about her clients again. She asked about my family and I told her that my brother actually lives in Los Angeles, too.
My brother works for the production company owned by a noteworthy person. She asked so many questions that his boss's name just slipped out.
"Can you call your brother and ask for [his boss's] number? I used to perform my treatments on him and I want to get in touch with him again."
"I don't know…" I answered.
"Just call."
"I'm not sure the temp agency allows this. And I feel really uncomfortable. And my brother has nothing to do with [his boss's] health-life."
"Oh," she answered, "I guess your brother isn't as friendly with [his boss] as I am. We go back ten years."
What the fuck?
Sure, Susan Ellen was a manipulator, I could see that. What made me furious is that she was a bad manipulator.
Plus, I could smell her asserting her pseudo-A-List power by saying she and my brother's boss go way back.
I cracked a smile to begin laughing in her face and respond with, "If you claim to be close to my brother’s boss, then why do you need me to call him?"
This was going to be the easiest cat-and-mouse game I would ever play. It would be like competing against a retard in the Special Olympics.
Then, I realized.
I'm competing against a retard in the Special Olympics.
I can't retort with a comment to show she's being obviously hypocritical. She probably doesn't know.
"That's nice," I said.
She went on to say all the nice things she has done with my brother's boss, obviously putting me in the my place on the Hollywood ladder of success.
I just smiled and nodded, smiled and nodded. I'm going to be someone's bitch for a very long time.
My brother works for the production company owned by a noteworthy person. She asked so many questions that his boss's name just slipped out.
"Can you call your brother and ask for [his boss's] number? I used to perform my treatments on him and I want to get in touch with him again."
"I don't know…" I answered.
"Just call."
"I'm not sure the temp agency allows this. And I feel really uncomfortable. And my brother has nothing to do with [his boss's] health-life."
"Oh," she answered, "I guess your brother isn't as friendly with [his boss] as I am. We go back ten years."
What the fuck?
Sure, Susan Ellen was a manipulator, I could see that. What made me furious is that she was a bad manipulator.
Plus, I could smell her asserting her pseudo-A-List power by saying she and my brother's boss go way back.
I cracked a smile to begin laughing in her face and respond with, "If you claim to be close to my brother’s boss, then why do you need me to call him?"
This was going to be the easiest cat-and-mouse game I would ever play. It would be like competing against a retard in the Special Olympics.
Then, I realized.
I'm competing against a retard in the Special Olympics.
I can't retort with a comment to show she's being obviously hypocritical. She probably doesn't know.
"That's nice," I said.
She went on to say all the nice things she has done with my brother's boss, obviously putting me in the my place on the Hollywood ladder of success.
I just smiled and nodded, smiled and nodded. I'm going to be someone's bitch for a very long time.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Chapter 21: Male Gold Diggers Do Exist
Susan Ellen showed me a picture of her husband.
Oh dear God.
It was a male gold digger. I thought it was only an urban myth, but, no, male gold diggers exist.
She told me he was unemployed because of the writer's strike (such a wonderful excuse for being lazy at the time!) and I didn't realize until a few weeks in that he spends all of his time in the basement and never leaves. He never even answers the door or the phone. I don't think he knows how to.
"Isn't he cute?" she asked.
His front tooth was missing and he had a mullet. His hair was pulled into a ponytail. Had the picture not been in a heart-shaped frame, I would’ve thought it was mug shot of an animal rapist.
Oh dear God.
It was a male gold digger. I thought it was only an urban myth, but, no, male gold diggers exist.
She told me he was unemployed because of the writer's strike (such a wonderful excuse for being lazy at the time!) and I didn't realize until a few weeks in that he spends all of his time in the basement and never leaves. He never even answers the door or the phone. I don't think he knows how to.
"Isn't he cute?" she asked.
His front tooth was missing and he had a mullet. His hair was pulled into a ponytail. Had the picture not been in a heart-shaped frame, I would’ve thought it was mug shot of an animal rapist.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Chapter 20: A Big Political Discussion
While I was working on her couch, Susan Ellen was watching The View.
She had a list of people she needed to call. They included Mark Wahlberg, a hearing center in Beverly Hills, her mom, and Prince William.
She kept getting distracted by telling her dogs to shut-up every time her housecleaner would put another pile of white sheets into her washer.
Anyway, the ladies on The View broke into their “Hot Topics” discussion and of course, Elizabeth Hasselbeck started saying something about how Hillary Clinton is a hypocrite because she uses tampons or something like that.
Having no social decency, Susan Ellen proceeded to ask me whom I was voting for.
It was at this point of 2008 when I was learning to bite my tongue whenever I told people I was voting for Kucinich.
“I don’t know,” I answered.
“I’m voting for Hillary not for Bam Bam.”
“Who? Oh, Barack Obama?”
“Yeah. I can’t say his name. Anyway, I went to this psychic in the fall and she told me that Iran is going to nuke us if Hillary isn’t president. So I’m voting for Hillary. I don’t want to get nuked so…”
She looked at my condescendingly, as if my personal vote against Clinton would be the reason for nuclear war.
The funny thing is that I went to a liberal arts school and I have heard more ridiculous reasons to vote for a candidate than this.
She had a list of people she needed to call. They included Mark Wahlberg, a hearing center in Beverly Hills, her mom, and Prince William.
She kept getting distracted by telling her dogs to shut-up every time her housecleaner would put another pile of white sheets into her washer.
Anyway, the ladies on The View broke into their “Hot Topics” discussion and of course, Elizabeth Hasselbeck started saying something about how Hillary Clinton is a hypocrite because she uses tampons or something like that.
Having no social decency, Susan Ellen proceeded to ask me whom I was voting for.
It was at this point of 2008 when I was learning to bite my tongue whenever I told people I was voting for Kucinich.
“I don’t know,” I answered.
“I’m voting for Hillary not for Bam Bam.”
“Who? Oh, Barack Obama?”
“Yeah. I can’t say his name. Anyway, I went to this psychic in the fall and she told me that Iran is going to nuke us if Hillary isn’t president. So I’m voting for Hillary. I don’t want to get nuked so…”
She looked at my condescendingly, as if my personal vote against Clinton would be the reason for nuclear war.
The funny thing is that I went to a liberal arts school and I have heard more ridiculous reasons to vote for a candidate than this.
Friday, August 1, 2008
Chapter 19
It's still the first day. Susan Ellen asked me to organize all of her bookmarks in her Safari browser into these categories:
Diet
Skin
Hair
Colon Cleanse
Liver Cleanse and Toxins
Gallbladder Cleanse
Adopting Asian Babies
Body Wraps
Shopping
Al-Anon
12-Step
Spiritual
Hearing-AIDS
John Cusack
"Hm…." I thought. "What can I learn about Susan Ellen that involves all of these bookmarks?"
She obviously wants to adopt drunk and deaf Asian babies to go shopping with and later eat them and digest them properly. Oh, and she must really like Bullets Over Broadway.
Before I knew it, I realized that Susan Ellen was sitting near me on the couch talking to me and not to Daisy Ellen on her cellphone.
"I work a lot. Like, I'm constantly working. I have so much stuff going on. Where do you live?"
"In the Silver Lake/ Los Feliz area."
"What?"
"Silver-"
"I'm sorry. I'm deaf. I need to tell everyone this. I'm deaf in one ear. So I have a hard time hearing..."
(I think most people who are deaf have a hard time hearing.)
"Oh, ok."
"So, where do you live? I forgot. Oh, and I forgot to tell you, I lost my short-term memory. So I forget things quickly."
"I don't think you forgot; I just think you didn't hear-"
One of her puppies jumped up onto her lap.
"Who's my little baby?"
She suddenly forgot she was talking to me.
Diet
Skin
Hair
Colon Cleanse
Liver Cleanse and Toxins
Gallbladder Cleanse
Adopting Asian Babies
Body Wraps
Shopping
Al-Anon
12-Step
Spiritual
Hearing-AIDS
John Cusack
"Hm…." I thought. "What can I learn about Susan Ellen that involves all of these bookmarks?"
She obviously wants to adopt drunk and deaf Asian babies to go shopping with and later eat them and digest them properly. Oh, and she must really like Bullets Over Broadway.
Before I knew it, I realized that Susan Ellen was sitting near me on the couch talking to me and not to Daisy Ellen on her cellphone.
"I work a lot. Like, I'm constantly working. I have so much stuff going on. Where do you live?"
"In the Silver Lake/ Los Feliz area."
"What?"
"Silver-"
"I'm sorry. I'm deaf. I need to tell everyone this. I'm deaf in one ear. So I have a hard time hearing..."
(I think most people who are deaf have a hard time hearing.)
"Oh, ok."
"So, where do you live? I forgot. Oh, and I forgot to tell you, I lost my short-term memory. So I forget things quickly."
"I don't think you forgot; I just think you didn't hear-"
One of her puppies jumped up onto her lap.
"Who's my little baby?"
She suddenly forgot she was talking to me.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Chapter 18: All About Susan Ellen
Susan Ellen tried to explain to me about her business. Basically, she's a masseuse, but she doesn't have an official license, so she technically goes by "pain releaser."
However, it doesn't just end there.
Susan Ellen also has a body-slimming technique that helps you lose inches and cellulite. This technique consists of placing cellophane around your thighs and stomach for 30 minutes while you sweat away the inches. (All you need to do is drink a glass of water right after and you gain it all back again.)
Susan Ellen also has a body-detox program that consists of eating nothing but spoonfuls of apple-cider vinegar and raw asparagus for two weeks.
Susan Ellen also is going to have a line of hair products, face products, oils, creams, and other viscous liquids to "return skin and eyes to their healthiest glow and increase energy levels." She is working on a book, children’s stories, and serves as a health and beauty consultant.
Oh, and she doesn't do any of this work herself. Her rich father helped to set up her business. She has people create her body-slimming technique, diet plans, and diet pills. People who owed her rich father favors gave her connections to every A-list celebrity in Hollywood.
She spends most of her time being the personal "pain releaser" to celebrities on their movie and TV sets.
She’s now working on an infomercial for her detox products with her best friend/ C-list celebrity named [Daisy Ellen.]
Daisy Ellen was on a popular TV show in the late 80’s. She was the former fiancé of one of the most sought-out actors today and she is notorious for having a "downfall in her career."
When Susan Ellen emailed information about her projects to whomever, whenever she would write about Daisy Ellen, she would copy/paste Daisy Ellen’s Wikipedia page. Little did Susan Ellen know that the biggest subsection of Daisy Ellen’s article is “Career Downturn.”
However, it doesn't just end there.
Susan Ellen also has a body-slimming technique that helps you lose inches and cellulite. This technique consists of placing cellophane around your thighs and stomach for 30 minutes while you sweat away the inches. (All you need to do is drink a glass of water right after and you gain it all back again.)
Susan Ellen also has a body-detox program that consists of eating nothing but spoonfuls of apple-cider vinegar and raw asparagus for two weeks.
Susan Ellen also is going to have a line of hair products, face products, oils, creams, and other viscous liquids to "return skin and eyes to their healthiest glow and increase energy levels." She is working on a book, children’s stories, and serves as a health and beauty consultant.
Oh, and she doesn't do any of this work herself. Her rich father helped to set up her business. She has people create her body-slimming technique, diet plans, and diet pills. People who owed her rich father favors gave her connections to every A-list celebrity in Hollywood.
She spends most of her time being the personal "pain releaser" to celebrities on their movie and TV sets.
She’s now working on an infomercial for her detox products with her best friend/ C-list celebrity named [Daisy Ellen.]
Daisy Ellen was on a popular TV show in the late 80’s. She was the former fiancé of one of the most sought-out actors today and she is notorious for having a "downfall in her career."
When Susan Ellen emailed information about her projects to whomever, whenever she would write about Daisy Ellen, she would copy/paste Daisy Ellen’s Wikipedia page. Little did Susan Ellen know that the biggest subsection of Daisy Ellen’s article is “Career Downturn.”
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Chapter 17
Susan Ellen was born with the name Susanna Miriam Elizabeth Abramowitz-Vanderbilt (again, not her real name—but she is affiliated with an affluent family.)
She’s a petite woman and in her mid-forties. She has thick brown hair that’s normally dried straight, but, on the day I met her, she looked like she used fireworks to wash her hair. Her face looks a little like a bunny. (On days when I think extra bitterly of her, it looks like a retard bunny.)
Her house is a model home. No pictures on the walls. Every piece of furniture is white. The kitchen is never used and, since she doesn’t know how to take her dogs out for a walk, there are absorbent sheets everywhere filled with tiny little piss stains and pebbles of doody.
As I entered her home, she was talking a mile a minute.
“I’m so glad you’re here. So thankful. I had an assistant for eight years, but she left. The temp agency gave me someone else but she was horrible. Do you want some tea? Coffee? I have a lot of tea, but the only coffee I have is Sanka.”
I was so flustered. Is there an office anywhere?
“I’ll have a cup of tea. Thank you.”
“What kind? I have everything.”
“I’ll have green tea, if it’s available.”
She laughed at me. “What kind?”
“Uh…”
“Here, I’ll just make you this green tea from India or China. No wait. It’s Malaysia. Have you ever been to Malaysia?”
Is she on drugs?
“No. But I always wanted to go, though.”
What am I saying?
“Okay, I really don’t have time for talking. We have so much work to do.”
One of her dogs started sniffing her toe. She picked it up.
“Ohhhhh. Prince!” She started kissing his face. “Go say hi to…”
She looked at me.
“I’m sorry what’s you’re name again?”
“It’s Becky.”
She looked at the dog. “Go say hi to Becky! Go say hi to Becky!”
I thought she said there was a lot of work to do…
The dog came up to me. I pet it. It smelled horrible. “Musty” wouldn’t even begin to describe how horrible this dog smelled.
I looked at Susan Ellen. “So, you said there was work that needed…”
“Oh right.” She walked over to her kitchen table and picked up a cotton shirt. She threw it at me. I caught it.
“I got paint on this shirt,” she said. “I remember I got it online. Can you get on my computer and find a website store where they sell it?”
I looked at her. She was serious.
“Do you remember where it was from?” I asked, holding her laundry.
“Nah. I got it, like, six years ago. But it was my favorite shirt. I’m so bummed I got paint on it. Don’t you hate it when that happens?”
“Uh… yeah, I guess. And… where…?”
“Oh! I’m such an idiot. The cleaning lady is here today and she’s currently in my office. But my laptop is down here in the living room. You can just sit on the couch and work there today.”
I sat down on the couch and found her computer. Another one of her dogs jumped up on the couch and walked over to me. It smelled even worse.
I want to be unemployed again!
She’s a petite woman and in her mid-forties. She has thick brown hair that’s normally dried straight, but, on the day I met her, she looked like she used fireworks to wash her hair. Her face looks a little like a bunny. (On days when I think extra bitterly of her, it looks like a retard bunny.)
Her house is a model home. No pictures on the walls. Every piece of furniture is white. The kitchen is never used and, since she doesn’t know how to take her dogs out for a walk, there are absorbent sheets everywhere filled with tiny little piss stains and pebbles of doody.
As I entered her home, she was talking a mile a minute.
“I’m so glad you’re here. So thankful. I had an assistant for eight years, but she left. The temp agency gave me someone else but she was horrible. Do you want some tea? Coffee? I have a lot of tea, but the only coffee I have is Sanka.”
I was so flustered. Is there an office anywhere?
“I’ll have a cup of tea. Thank you.”
“What kind? I have everything.”
“I’ll have green tea, if it’s available.”
She laughed at me. “What kind?”
“Uh…”
“Here, I’ll just make you this green tea from India or China. No wait. It’s Malaysia. Have you ever been to Malaysia?”
Is she on drugs?
“No. But I always wanted to go, though.”
What am I saying?
“Okay, I really don’t have time for talking. We have so much work to do.”
One of her dogs started sniffing her toe. She picked it up.
“Ohhhhh. Prince!” She started kissing his face. “Go say hi to…”
She looked at me.
“I’m sorry what’s you’re name again?”
“It’s Becky.”
She looked at the dog. “Go say hi to Becky! Go say hi to Becky!”
I thought she said there was a lot of work to do…
The dog came up to me. I pet it. It smelled horrible. “Musty” wouldn’t even begin to describe how horrible this dog smelled.
I looked at Susan Ellen. “So, you said there was work that needed…”
“Oh right.” She walked over to her kitchen table and picked up a cotton shirt. She threw it at me. I caught it.
“I got paint on this shirt,” she said. “I remember I got it online. Can you get on my computer and find a website store where they sell it?”
I looked at her. She was serious.
“Do you remember where it was from?” I asked, holding her laundry.
“Nah. I got it, like, six years ago. But it was my favorite shirt. I’m so bummed I got paint on it. Don’t you hate it when that happens?”
“Uh… yeah, I guess. And… where…?”
“Oh! I’m such an idiot. The cleaning lady is here today and she’s currently in my office. But my laptop is down here in the living room. You can just sit on the couch and work there today.”
I sat down on the couch and found her computer. Another one of her dogs jumped up on the couch and walked over to me. It smelled even worse.
I want to be unemployed again!
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Chapter 16
Fuck.
I am working in someone's home again.
Her shirt was tucked into her underwear. I didn't say anything. Maybe this was in style.
I put out my hand to shake hers. She practically tapped it and asked me to take off my shoes before I entered the house.
So much for my heels! My outfit was ruined. I hate Hollywood.
I stepped inside her kitchen and a slew of rodent-puppy-ankle-biters approached me like the gang in She-Devils on Wheels. They were barking so much; their eyes were going to pop out of their heads. I swear, to this day, I saw a tiny turd pop out of one of them as they howled at me.
Susan Ellen yelled something at me, but I couldn’t hear over the puppies’ explosive yelps.
"What?"
"Put down your bag. The dogs don’t like purses."
The dogs don’t like purses…
I put down my bag by the door and entered the twilight zone.
I am working in someone's home again.
Her shirt was tucked into her underwear. I didn't say anything. Maybe this was in style.
I put out my hand to shake hers. She practically tapped it and asked me to take off my shoes before I entered the house.
So much for my heels! My outfit was ruined. I hate Hollywood.
I stepped inside her kitchen and a slew of rodent-puppy-ankle-biters approached me like the gang in She-Devils on Wheels. They were barking so much; their eyes were going to pop out of their heads. I swear, to this day, I saw a tiny turd pop out of one of them as they howled at me.
Susan Ellen yelled something at me, but I couldn’t hear over the puppies’ explosive yelps.
"What?"
"Put down your bag. The dogs don’t like purses."
The dogs don’t like purses…
I put down my bag by the door and entered the twilight zone.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Chapter 15
Despite the two-hour drive, the trek from Silver Lake to the Pacific Palisades is quite nice. You get to drive on the PCH and through Topanga Canyon.
When I reached the street that I thought Susan Ellen's office was on, I grew a little concerned.
"This is oddly residential…"
I found a spot and marched up to a condominium.
Oh no…
I can't work in someone's home again.
I maintained hope. Maybe this Susan Ellen owns this condominium as her office. Miranda July has a house in Echo Park as her office. Maybe a lot of interesting and innovative people do this. I don’t know.
I marched up to the front door and saw an index card. "Please ring doorbell by the garage."
I circled around to the back and rang the doorbell.
A nano-second after the "ding-dong", the loudest yips to ever emanate from puppies echoed throughout all of the Palisades.
The garage opened outward and I saw the most frazzled lady place a pile sheets into a washer.
"Hi! Thank God you're here!"
When I reached the street that I thought Susan Ellen's office was on, I grew a little concerned.
"This is oddly residential…"
I found a spot and marched up to a condominium.
Oh no…
I can't work in someone's home again.
I maintained hope. Maybe this Susan Ellen owns this condominium as her office. Miranda July has a house in Echo Park as her office. Maybe a lot of interesting and innovative people do this. I don’t know.
I marched up to the front door and saw an index card. "Please ring doorbell by the garage."
I circled around to the back and rang the doorbell.
A nano-second after the "ding-dong", the loudest yips to ever emanate from puppies echoed throughout all of the Palisades.
The garage opened outward and I saw the most frazzled lady place a pile sheets into a washer.
"Hi! Thank God you're here!"
Monday, June 30, 2008
Chapter 14
Ted called me the next morning.
"So, did you check out Susan Ellen's site? What did you think?"
I came to the assumption that Thirty-Third Star was some kind of diet pill company. Hilarious.
I wasn't going to burn any bridges at this point in my Hollywood career. I thought this was the route to get ahead. I faked interest. Like most American girls, I used to be obsessed with Hydroxycut when my ballet instructor gave me body dysmorphic disorder. Maybe if I could recall my insecurities to help me get into character…
"Seems interesting," I said, "Maybe Susan Ellen can help me get a better body."
"Rebecca! Don't be silly. If you lost any more weight you’d be a q-tip with eyeballs."
As much work as I did learning to "love and accept my body", at this moment, I completely fell in love with Ted. My gaydar shifted into full gear, and I sincerely wished he could be my new fag to hag.
An hour later Ted called again.
"Susan Ellen wants to know if you can come in right now. Do you think you can get there in a half an hour?"
"I don't think I can," I answered. "I'm located in Silver Lake."
And she works with celebrities and I'm not showered and all of my nice-in-case-I-ever-meet-a-celebrity-clothing is lodged in the back of my closet.
How come I know more about Hollywood traffic and logistics more than a gay man who has been here years longer than me? Something was up...
I told Ted I'd get there in an hour and a half. There was no time to shower. I pulled out a pair of black leggings and put on a loose blouse. I put a belt around the blouse and threw on a pair of black heels. As I put on my over sized sunglasses to truly try and blend in with the fashion of working girls in Hollywood, I realized that every piece of clothing was from Good Will.
Whatever. I thought I looked great. Susan Ellen, here I come.
"So, did you check out Susan Ellen's site? What did you think?"
I came to the assumption that Thirty-Third Star was some kind of diet pill company. Hilarious.
I wasn't going to burn any bridges at this point in my Hollywood career. I thought this was the route to get ahead. I faked interest. Like most American girls, I used to be obsessed with Hydroxycut when my ballet instructor gave me body dysmorphic disorder. Maybe if I could recall my insecurities to help me get into character…
"Seems interesting," I said, "Maybe Susan Ellen can help me get a better body."
"Rebecca! Don't be silly. If you lost any more weight you’d be a q-tip with eyeballs."
As much work as I did learning to "love and accept my body", at this moment, I completely fell in love with Ted. My gaydar shifted into full gear, and I sincerely wished he could be my new fag to hag.
An hour later Ted called again.
"Susan Ellen wants to know if you can come in right now. Do you think you can get there in a half an hour?"
"I don't think I can," I answered. "I'm located in Silver Lake."
And she works with celebrities and I'm not showered and all of my nice-in-case-I-ever-meet-a-celebrity-clothing is lodged in the back of my closet.
How come I know more about Hollywood traffic and logistics more than a gay man who has been here years longer than me? Something was up...
I told Ted I'd get there in an hour and a half. There was no time to shower. I pulled out a pair of black leggings and put on a loose blouse. I put a belt around the blouse and threw on a pair of black heels. As I put on my over sized sunglasses to truly try and blend in with the fashion of working girls in Hollywood, I realized that every piece of clothing was from Good Will.
Whatever. I thought I looked great. Susan Ellen, here I come.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Chapter 13
A week later I get a call from Ted.
"Rebecca, we have an opening for you. Now, it's not really in the entertainment industry per se..."
Mind you, this temp agency's motto is "Staffing for the Entertainment Industry."
Ted hears my eyes roll.
"Well, it is involved in the entertainment industry I guess."
Given that I paid $40 dollars for gas that morning and my boss at my other part-time job was pretending I didn't exist, I could settle with "involved in the entertainment industry."
"Do you ever watch TV late at night and see those infomercials?"
My eyes lit up.
Please for the love of God let me work for Aqua Doodle.
That would be fucking amazing. I knew watching Adult Swim was worth something.
I answer yes. Ted continues:
"The company is called [Thirty-Third Star] and it's run by a woman named [Susan Ellen]. Basically you would be doing office maintenance. Typing, filing, answering phones, that kind of thing."
"Sounds good," I answer. (In hindsight, I can't believe I said, “"Sounds good." Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me.)
Ted gave me Susan Ellen's website and told me he'd call me again the next day with the specifics.
I went to her website. On the homepage, there was a picture of a woman, who I assumed was Susan Ellen, with three tiny-white dogs.
I clicked around and noticed some spark words such as "treatment", "detoxification", "The Da Vinci Code", and "body inches".
What the fuck was this company?
"Rebecca, we have an opening for you. Now, it's not really in the entertainment industry per se..."
Mind you, this temp agency's motto is "Staffing for the Entertainment Industry."
Ted hears my eyes roll.
"Well, it is involved in the entertainment industry I guess."
Given that I paid $40 dollars for gas that morning and my boss at my other part-time job was pretending I didn't exist, I could settle with "involved in the entertainment industry."
"Do you ever watch TV late at night and see those infomercials?"
My eyes lit up.
Please for the love of God let me work for Aqua Doodle.
That would be fucking amazing. I knew watching Adult Swim was worth something.
I answer yes. Ted continues:
"The company is called [Thirty-Third Star] and it's run by a woman named [Susan Ellen]. Basically you would be doing office maintenance. Typing, filing, answering phones, that kind of thing."
"Sounds good," I answer. (In hindsight, I can't believe I said, “"Sounds good." Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me.)
Ted gave me Susan Ellen's website and told me he'd call me again the next day with the specifics.
I went to her website. On the homepage, there was a picture of a woman, who I assumed was Susan Ellen, with three tiny-white dogs.
I clicked around and noticed some spark words such as "treatment", "detoxification", "The Da Vinci Code", and "body inches".
What the fuck was this company?
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Chapter 12: The Temp Agency Part C
My new temp agent.
He was a man who had the looks of William H. Macy and the voice of Tim Gunn. He was once a top agent for film directors and for some reason he got demoted to being a temp agent for bums who just like watching films. Due to his work with high profile people, he will be known as Ted.
I could write loads about Ted's personality, but I think you'll be able to figure it out yourself as I now provide for you a transcription of what when down in this interview. The italics include the thoughts that went through my head that were never spoken.
***
TED: Well, you seem to be a good typist, know a lot of important software. Oh! I see you went to Emerson.
ME: Yup.
TED: We like Emersonians out here.
I never know what to say when people say that. Especially because I hate most Emersonians.
ME: Okay.
TED: So, tell me, Rebecca, what aspect of the entertainment industry do you see yourself working in?
ME: Well, I'm not sure, but something creative.
TED: What are your career goals?
ME: Well, right now I'm really interested in comedy. I think I want to be a comedy writer.
TED: You're not saying the magic words, Rebecca.
ME: Wha- I mean, excuse me?
TED: You're not saying the thing that you want to do in order to help your career.
Is he asking me to blow him?
ME: Okay… what should I be saying?
TED: That you want to work in an agency.
ME: Oh, I don't want to work in an agency. That I know.
TED: Yes, you do.
ME: What?
TED: Working in an agency is the best way to learn the inner-workings of the entertainment industry.
So is selling coke in the champagne room…
ME: Yeah, but I don't want to be an agent. It seems to me, and I could be wrong, that agencies really like to hire people who want to become agents.
TED: But you want to be an agent…
ME: No. I don't.
TED: You're open to being an agent...
ME: No. I want to be a comedy writer.
TED: Okay, okay. But what if you reach a point where you no longer want to be a comedy writer?
ME: I never really thought about it.
TED: So, you never really thought about NOT not being an agent.
ME: What? I guess so.
TED: Okay, great. I'm just going to jot down here that you're interested in being an agent.
ME: I’m not sure-
TED: Do you know how much power you would have working at an agency? Let's say you read a script that you need to do coverage on. And Brad Pitt's agent calls and says, "Rebecca! My client Brad Pitt needs a project, stat!" And you had just read a script that Brad would be great in! Brad's people read it. Brad accepts. Suddenly, people come to you saying, "Hey- hey Rebecca! Get Brad on the line we need to discuss something with him" or "Rebecca! We need you to make some phone calls to the producers!" And the producers hear your voice. They see that you are a great typist and from Emerson and they remember you. Not only that, but you're basically responsible for this movie getting made, being a big hit, and giving Brad Pitt 20 million dollars.
I want to rape whatever temp read the script to Troy.
ME: Does Brad Pitt even need 20 million dollars at this point?
TED: Well, that talk sounds like you definitely want to be an agent.
Oh my God. He wasn't joking.
ME: No…
TED: Rebecca, can I ask you a question?
ME: Sure.
TED: Do you think snipers just wake up one day and have all the skills that they need?
ME: What? I have no idea.
TED: Snipers need experience before they decide to work at becoming a talented and successful sniper.
ME: Uh… okay.
TED: So, if you really want to be a comedy writer you should work in an agency and then decide that you no longer want to be a comedy writer and you want to become an agent. It's the only way to break into the business.
ME: But, I don't want to be an agent. I want an agent.
TED: Rebecca! You're a feisty one. I like you. As the guy says in Mean Streets, "I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."
ME: I don’t think that's-
TED: Nah, I heard enough from you. I'll put you down on the list and call you as soon as something opens up. Thanks, Rebecca!
***
I stood up and noticed he had an Annie Hall poster hanging in his office. I looked at Alvy.
You couldn't help me out here?
He was a man who had the looks of William H. Macy and the voice of Tim Gunn. He was once a top agent for film directors and for some reason he got demoted to being a temp agent for bums who just like watching films. Due to his work with high profile people, he will be known as Ted.
I could write loads about Ted's personality, but I think you'll be able to figure it out yourself as I now provide for you a transcription of what when down in this interview. The italics include the thoughts that went through my head that were never spoken.
***
TED: Well, you seem to be a good typist, know a lot of important software. Oh! I see you went to Emerson.
ME: Yup.
TED: We like Emersonians out here.
I never know what to say when people say that. Especially because I hate most Emersonians.
ME: Okay.
TED: So, tell me, Rebecca, what aspect of the entertainment industry do you see yourself working in?
ME: Well, I'm not sure, but something creative.
TED: What are your career goals?
ME: Well, right now I'm really interested in comedy. I think I want to be a comedy writer.
TED: You're not saying the magic words, Rebecca.
ME: Wha- I mean, excuse me?
TED: You're not saying the thing that you want to do in order to help your career.
Is he asking me to blow him?
ME: Okay… what should I be saying?
TED: That you want to work in an agency.
ME: Oh, I don't want to work in an agency. That I know.
TED: Yes, you do.
ME: What?
TED: Working in an agency is the best way to learn the inner-workings of the entertainment industry.
So is selling coke in the champagne room…
ME: Yeah, but I don't want to be an agent. It seems to me, and I could be wrong, that agencies really like to hire people who want to become agents.
TED: But you want to be an agent…
ME: No. I don't.
TED: You're open to being an agent...
ME: No. I want to be a comedy writer.
TED: Okay, okay. But what if you reach a point where you no longer want to be a comedy writer?
ME: I never really thought about it.
TED: So, you never really thought about NOT not being an agent.
ME: What? I guess so.
TED: Okay, great. I'm just going to jot down here that you're interested in being an agent.
ME: I’m not sure-
TED: Do you know how much power you would have working at an agency? Let's say you read a script that you need to do coverage on. And Brad Pitt's agent calls and says, "Rebecca! My client Brad Pitt needs a project, stat!" And you had just read a script that Brad would be great in! Brad's people read it. Brad accepts. Suddenly, people come to you saying, "Hey- hey Rebecca! Get Brad on the line we need to discuss something with him" or "Rebecca! We need you to make some phone calls to the producers!" And the producers hear your voice. They see that you are a great typist and from Emerson and they remember you. Not only that, but you're basically responsible for this movie getting made, being a big hit, and giving Brad Pitt 20 million dollars.
I want to rape whatever temp read the script to Troy.
ME: Does Brad Pitt even need 20 million dollars at this point?
TED: Well, that talk sounds like you definitely want to be an agent.
Oh my God. He wasn't joking.
ME: No…
TED: Rebecca, can I ask you a question?
ME: Sure.
TED: Do you think snipers just wake up one day and have all the skills that they need?
ME: What? I have no idea.
TED: Snipers need experience before they decide to work at becoming a talented and successful sniper.
ME: Uh… okay.
TED: So, if you really want to be a comedy writer you should work in an agency and then decide that you no longer want to be a comedy writer and you want to become an agent. It's the only way to break into the business.
ME: But, I don't want to be an agent. I want an agent.
TED: Rebecca! You're a feisty one. I like you. As the guy says in Mean Streets, "I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."
ME: I don’t think that's-
TED: Nah, I heard enough from you. I'll put you down on the list and call you as soon as something opens up. Thanks, Rebecca!
***
I stood up and noticed he had an Annie Hall poster hanging in his office. I looked at Alvy.
You couldn't help me out here?
Monday, June 9, 2008
Chapter 11: The Temp Agency Part B
I'm like a temp whore. My name is registered with so many temp agencies all throughout the country, I feel like I’m the Jason Bourne of corporate-staffing America.
Every temp agency asks you to take exams on Microsoft Office and Excel. What they don’t know is that every temp agency gives you the same exam. So, if you get to see your errors from a previous test, you're golden by the time you take another one via pure memorization.
Needless to say, I aced those exams and performed my typing exam quite well with my eyes closed. (I was hungover, after all, and may have done some “wake and bake” action to subdue the nausea.) Most typing exams have the same text. ("Here at [insert name of Agency] is it always important to listen to your supervisor…")
I finished the exam and went back into the waiting room and sat next to another woman waiting. She was wearing an expensive pants suit, leather shoes, and reading Variety. As I concluded in my mind, "I never want to be like her", the man who would change my perspective on Hollywood entered.
"Rebecca?"
Every temp agency asks you to take exams on Microsoft Office and Excel. What they don’t know is that every temp agency gives you the same exam. So, if you get to see your errors from a previous test, you're golden by the time you take another one via pure memorization.
Needless to say, I aced those exams and performed my typing exam quite well with my eyes closed. (I was hungover, after all, and may have done some “wake and bake” action to subdue the nausea.) Most typing exams have the same text. ("Here at [insert name of Agency] is it always important to listen to your supervisor…")
I finished the exam and went back into the waiting room and sat next to another woman waiting. She was wearing an expensive pants suit, leather shoes, and reading Variety. As I concluded in my mind, "I never want to be like her", the man who would change my perspective on Hollywood entered.
"Rebecca?"
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Chapter 10: The Temp Agency Part A
I freaked out after I left the boss-man's company. I was semi-jobless again. I tried to see if I could ever survive on $1,400 a year with my other internet job. No dice according to the parental units.
I talked to a few people and googled here and there and found a temp agency that catered to entertainment companies. I sent my resume. I was startled to see that they had asked me to come in for an interview, not only because the writer's strike was in full-force, but because they addressed me as "Maria" in the email.
The day of my interview was the one day a year when the weather decides to go all New Jersey on us and give the "native" residents of Los Angeles a reminder of what a drizzle actually is.
Probably two drops of rain fell upon the entire city. However, that did not keep LA residents from leaving their houses and apartments completely prepared with galoshes, raincoats, umbrellas, and canoes.
Wearing a white shirt and velvet shoes, I entered the temp agency in a big building in West Hollywood. As I got off the elevator, I checked in with the receptionist who asked me, "How horrible is it out there?" By this point, the only precipitation outside was the piss coming out of a homeless man in the alley.
I talked to a few people and googled here and there and found a temp agency that catered to entertainment companies. I sent my resume. I was startled to see that they had asked me to come in for an interview, not only because the writer's strike was in full-force, but because they addressed me as "Maria" in the email.
The day of my interview was the one day a year when the weather decides to go all New Jersey on us and give the "native" residents of Los Angeles a reminder of what a drizzle actually is.
Probably two drops of rain fell upon the entire city. However, that did not keep LA residents from leaving their houses and apartments completely prepared with galoshes, raincoats, umbrellas, and canoes.
Wearing a white shirt and velvet shoes, I entered the temp agency in a big building in West Hollywood. As I got off the elevator, I checked in with the receptionist who asked me, "How horrible is it out there?" By this point, the only precipitation outside was the piss coming out of a homeless man in the alley.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Chapter 9: QuickBooks
It was the Wednesday right before what would be my winter break. I was deciding the perfect time to quit.
8 AM: I enter boss-man's apartment. I take a seat at my desk.
8:01 AM: Boss-man walks in and hands me a pamphlet for a QuickBooks seminar.
He says, "I'm sending you to Huntingdon Beach to learn QuickBooks. Look at the dates on here and tell me which of them are good for you."
Wait. What? He just told me I was supposed to drive to Huntington Beach for a week-long seminar that makes waiting in line at the DMV equivalent to skydiving?
Who the fuck does he think he is?
Huntington Beach is a good hour and half away from where I live and he wants me to be there by 7 AM to learn QuickBooks for five days in a row? Really?
Sure, knowing QuickBooks may be necessary skill to have, but, frankly, I'd rather develop my skills in juggling than QuickBooks.
If he had given me the option to take an online tutorial (i.e. more YouTube time) then maybe it would've been okay.
But you don't just hand a person a pamphlet and force them to drive to some Marriott to learn a computer program and drink Sanka all day out of Styrofoam cups. He may have every right to ask me to learn QuickBooks, but he could've done it in a less rude way.
After everything I've been through with the boss-man: discovering his intimate chats with girls, putting up with his smelly apartment, asking me to organize his collection of business cards from gentleman's clubs, his inappropriate humor in which I could make millions if my laziness didn't get in the way of me suing for sexual harassment, his anger issues, his violent tendencies... ALL OF THIS…
… did not compare to the intense amount of resentment I felt in him wanting me to drive to Huntington Beach to learn QuickBooks.
The time changed to 8:02 AM.
I looked at boss-man.
"Yeah, this job isn't really working out for me."
8 AM: I enter boss-man's apartment. I take a seat at my desk.
8:01 AM: Boss-man walks in and hands me a pamphlet for a QuickBooks seminar.
He says, "I'm sending you to Huntingdon Beach to learn QuickBooks. Look at the dates on here and tell me which of them are good for you."
Wait. What? He just told me I was supposed to drive to Huntington Beach for a week-long seminar that makes waiting in line at the DMV equivalent to skydiving?
Who the fuck does he think he is?
Huntington Beach is a good hour and half away from where I live and he wants me to be there by 7 AM to learn QuickBooks for five days in a row? Really?
Sure, knowing QuickBooks may be necessary skill to have, but, frankly, I'd rather develop my skills in juggling than QuickBooks.
If he had given me the option to take an online tutorial (i.e. more YouTube time) then maybe it would've been okay.
But you don't just hand a person a pamphlet and force them to drive to some Marriott to learn a computer program and drink Sanka all day out of Styrofoam cups. He may have every right to ask me to learn QuickBooks, but he could've done it in a less rude way.
After everything I've been through with the boss-man: discovering his intimate chats with girls, putting up with his smelly apartment, asking me to organize his collection of business cards from gentleman's clubs, his inappropriate humor in which I could make millions if my laziness didn't get in the way of me suing for sexual harassment, his anger issues, his violent tendencies... ALL OF THIS…
… did not compare to the intense amount of resentment I felt in him wanting me to drive to Huntington Beach to learn QuickBooks.
The time changed to 8:02 AM.
I looked at boss-man.
"Yeah, this job isn't really working out for me."
Chapter 8: The Family
I knew in my mind that my time with boss-man was winding down. This was getting too weird. I couldn't even stand the smell of his apartment anymore.
For the next few days I tried to conjure up the strength to say, "I quit" to his face. This was a difficult task because it would involve talking to him and looking at him with his un-brushed curly hair and his Carrier polo shirt with coffee stains all over it.
He ordered a bunch of holiday cards to send out to his past and potential clients. He was quite proud of his choice. He took one of the cards out. "Read them," he ordered.
The inside of them read, “Warm Holiday Wishes. From the [Lame Company Name] Family.”
Who the hell was this family? It was just him and… me.
Oh God. I'm a part of the [Lame Company Name] Family!
I don’t to be a part of this family!
I don't want to be a part of a team with this man!
I am out here in Los Angeles to become an actor… or a writer… or a director… or a producer… okay, I came out to L.A. to work in catering, but I did not come out here to be part of the [Lame Company Name] Family!
I want my television debut to be on a Kotex pads commercial and not being interviewed for the news coverage about an L.A. small business owner/failed standup comic that gets a reality show because he made some wisecracks when he was caught by Chris Wallace on To Catch a Predator.
I started breathing heavily. He was looking at me for a response. I opened my mouth.
"I… I…"
Say it, Becky. Say you quit. Get the fuck out of there.
"I… like them a lot."
I'm such a pussy.
For the next few days I tried to conjure up the strength to say, "I quit" to his face. This was a difficult task because it would involve talking to him and looking at him with his un-brushed curly hair and his Carrier polo shirt with coffee stains all over it.
He ordered a bunch of holiday cards to send out to his past and potential clients. He was quite proud of his choice. He took one of the cards out. "Read them," he ordered.
The inside of them read, “Warm Holiday Wishes. From the [Lame Company Name] Family.”
Who the hell was this family? It was just him and… me.
Oh God. I'm a part of the [Lame Company Name] Family!
I don’t to be a part of this family!
I don't want to be a part of a team with this man!
I am out here in Los Angeles to become an actor… or a writer… or a director… or a producer… okay, I came out to L.A. to work in catering, but I did not come out here to be part of the [Lame Company Name] Family!
I want my television debut to be on a Kotex pads commercial and not being interviewed for the news coverage about an L.A. small business owner/failed standup comic that gets a reality show because he made some wisecracks when he was caught by Chris Wallace on To Catch a Predator.
I started breathing heavily. He was looking at me for a response. I opened my mouth.
"I… I…"
Say it, Becky. Say you quit. Get the fuck out of there.
"I… like them a lot."
I'm such a pussy.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Chapter 7: The Fight
I unlocked the door into his apartment one day and cringed. This was becoming a daily ritual. Every time I entered I would take a whiff of whatever product Rosalia used to clean his apartment. It smelled awful. It smelled like a pediatrician’s office. It was just that standard clean smell that makes you feel like no one cares about you but they’re going to pretend to.
He wasn’t there that day. Good. I hoped he wasn’t coming back. He recently hurt his back and he was hanging around the office a lot more. He couldn’t drive because he was constantly on Vicodin. It sucked. He couldn’t wear shoes because it hurt his back too much and he didn’t bother to brush his hair. He’s already unattractive to begin with, but this was just getting out of hand.
Luckily, today, he was not in. Thank God. I needed a day of work without doing work.
I sat down at the desk and began my usual morning routine of making the coffee, answering the trivia on IMDB, taking a nap, etc.
The phone rang. I answered it. It was boss-man. He curtly asked me to email some air-conditioning guy about some conference boss-man was holding next month.
We hung up. I emailed the guy then fell back asleep.
Two hours later, the phone rings again. It’s boss-man.
“Becky? I’m sorry if I sounded so short with you before. I got in a fight.”
“What?”
“I got in a fight.”
What the fuck?
Call me afraid of confrontation, but when I see a real-live fight that doesn’t involve Tolkien, Keanu Reeves, or being able to do martial arts in heels, I get disgusted. Real-live fights are the biggest turn-offs for me. I lose respect for anyone who cannot control their anger to the point where they need to touch another human being. That other human being did not ask to be touched. That other human being was not hired to be touched. What the fuck is your problem?
Here’s what happened:
Boss-man enjoys talking loudly on his cell-phone. He likes it when other people think he’s important. Fine. We all have small dicks every once in a while.
He’s talking on the phone in a Noah’s Bagels and doesn’t see that it is his turn in line to order. The man behind him taps him on the shoulder. However, this shoulder tap ignites that pain in his back.
Boss-man hangs up the phone, asks the shoulder-tapper “What the fuck is your problem?” and proceeds to push him. The other guy pushes back. A fight ensues. An employee ceases his shmearing to kick the two men out. Now, boss-man becomes another name in the long-list of angry Orthodox Jews who can no longer enter a Noah’s bagels.
And you thought the Bloods had it tough…
It’s at this point, I decide, I’m going to quit soon.
He wasn’t there that day. Good. I hoped he wasn’t coming back. He recently hurt his back and he was hanging around the office a lot more. He couldn’t drive because he was constantly on Vicodin. It sucked. He couldn’t wear shoes because it hurt his back too much and he didn’t bother to brush his hair. He’s already unattractive to begin with, but this was just getting out of hand.
Luckily, today, he was not in. Thank God. I needed a day of work without doing work.
I sat down at the desk and began my usual morning routine of making the coffee, answering the trivia on IMDB, taking a nap, etc.
The phone rang. I answered it. It was boss-man. He curtly asked me to email some air-conditioning guy about some conference boss-man was holding next month.
We hung up. I emailed the guy then fell back asleep.
Two hours later, the phone rings again. It’s boss-man.
“Becky? I’m sorry if I sounded so short with you before. I got in a fight.”
“What?”
“I got in a fight.”
What the fuck?
Call me afraid of confrontation, but when I see a real-live fight that doesn’t involve Tolkien, Keanu Reeves, or being able to do martial arts in heels, I get disgusted. Real-live fights are the biggest turn-offs for me. I lose respect for anyone who cannot control their anger to the point where they need to touch another human being. That other human being did not ask to be touched. That other human being was not hired to be touched. What the fuck is your problem?
Here’s what happened:
Boss-man enjoys talking loudly on his cell-phone. He likes it when other people think he’s important. Fine. We all have small dicks every once in a while.
He’s talking on the phone in a Noah’s Bagels and doesn’t see that it is his turn in line to order. The man behind him taps him on the shoulder. However, this shoulder tap ignites that pain in his back.
Boss-man hangs up the phone, asks the shoulder-tapper “What the fuck is your problem?” and proceeds to push him. The other guy pushes back. A fight ensues. An employee ceases his shmearing to kick the two men out. Now, boss-man becomes another name in the long-list of angry Orthodox Jews who can no longer enter a Noah’s bagels.
And you thought the Bloods had it tough…
It’s at this point, I decide, I’m going to quit soon.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Chapter 6
Boss-man left an email lying on his kitchen table. As I was heating up some coffee, I read it and then typed it up and emailed it to myself. Here it is:
‘sup MAsterFLTR81-
its been sooooooo looooong since i last rote. im soooooooo sorry,, but things’ve been uber busy with classes. ugh 9th grade is hard!!!
aaron and I finaly broke up because he kept pressuring me 2 have a 3-way wit this grl Courtney. and im like fuckin’ no way. i told u be4 I didn’t mind him cheatin and shit- i always new he wuz but like…i couldnt do it NEmore.
idk. i met this ew guy corey who works at the bowlin’ alley. he treats mee good so idk wat will happen wit that but well see.
howz ur life? work? love life? sex life? NEthing kinky?
luvs,
kuteykitty118
‘sup MAsterFLTR81-
its been sooooooo looooong since i last rote. im soooooooo sorry,, but things’ve been uber busy with classes. ugh 9th grade is hard!!!
aaron and I finaly broke up because he kept pressuring me 2 have a 3-way wit this grl Courtney. and im like fuckin’ no way. i told u be4 I didn’t mind him cheatin and shit- i always new he wuz but like…i couldnt do it NEmore.
idk. i met this ew guy corey who works at the bowlin’ alley. he treats mee good so idk wat will happen wit that but well see.
howz ur life? work? love life? sex life? NEthing kinky?
luvs,
kuteykitty118
Monday, April 7, 2008
Chapter 5
Here is a subsequent list of items that boss-man leaves lying around his apartment:
1.) A framed picture on a city street of him standing behind a woman who is bent over. Her arms are crossed over her chest hiding her cleavage. This picture is 8 by 11” and framed. I’m assuming he’s going to hang it on the wall next to the picture of his nephew from his bar-mitzvah. This inspired me to frame a photo that I was tagged in on Facebook where I was doing coke off of the dick of a male prostitute in Cabo. It is hanging on the wall next to a picture of my roommate's nephew's baptism.
2.) Boss-man asks me to organize his receipts. All of them are from his stay at various Holiday Inns in Southern California. All of them have “Adult Video” included in the subtotal. I therefore file them in business expenses.
3.) When boss-man is working at home, he chats on IM. I do, too, but with the computer on silent. However, boss-man seems to like the AIM jingles he customized. This is because every time he would send an IM the sound would be Fonzie saying “eeeyyy!” Every time he would receive an IM, it would be of a woman screaming. I have yet to decipher whether she was screaming out of ecstasy, or pain. Or even both. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was into snuff.
1.) A framed picture on a city street of him standing behind a woman who is bent over. Her arms are crossed over her chest hiding her cleavage. This picture is 8 by 11” and framed. I’m assuming he’s going to hang it on the wall next to the picture of his nephew from his bar-mitzvah. This inspired me to frame a photo that I was tagged in on Facebook where I was doing coke off of the dick of a male prostitute in Cabo. It is hanging on the wall next to a picture of my roommate's nephew's baptism.
2.) Boss-man asks me to organize his receipts. All of them are from his stay at various Holiday Inns in Southern California. All of them have “Adult Video” included in the subtotal. I therefore file them in business expenses.
3.) When boss-man is working at home, he chats on IM. I do, too, but with the computer on silent. However, boss-man seems to like the AIM jingles he customized. This is because every time he would send an IM the sound would be Fonzie saying “eeeyyy!” Every time he would receive an IM, it would be of a woman screaming. I have yet to decipher whether she was screaming out of ecstasy, or pain. Or even both. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was into snuff.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Chapter 4
I spent my days off vomiting and laughing. I imagined boss-man as a person who has actually had sex before and I would vomit. Then, I recall the fact that I found a raunchy IM conversation printed out and I would laugh.
Who prints out those conversations? Subsequently, who places them next to the tax forms that you plan on sending to the IRS?
I talked to a few friends, especially some friends who have worked as nannies or personal assistants before. Many of them that when you work out of someone’s home you may find personal things that you wish you didn’t find. Like it or not, people have personal lives with weird fetishes and you just need to pretend you didn’t find it. It’s just like losing your virginity or attending the Catholic Church: weird things happen, but you just got to deal with it and move on.
Someone told me once they knew a person who used to clean homes. He mentioned one day this person found a used mason jar of tampons underneath the sink.
Now, based on what I read of the chat it didn’t seem like he was talking to any underage or threatening anyone in anyway. Both parties seemed consenting on having such a discourse. Who am I to judge? The hours were good. I needed money. My new boss at the time at my other part-time job was embarking on his reign of dictatorship and taking responsibilities away from me. I needed the money and well… something to do.
Who prints out those conversations? Subsequently, who places them next to the tax forms that you plan on sending to the IRS?
I talked to a few friends, especially some friends who have worked as nannies or personal assistants before. Many of them that when you work out of someone’s home you may find personal things that you wish you didn’t find. Like it or not, people have personal lives with weird fetishes and you just need to pretend you didn’t find it. It’s just like losing your virginity or attending the Catholic Church: weird things happen, but you just got to deal with it and move on.
Someone told me once they knew a person who used to clean homes. He mentioned one day this person found a used mason jar of tampons underneath the sink.
Now, based on what I read of the chat it didn’t seem like he was talking to any underage or threatening anyone in anyway. Both parties seemed consenting on having such a discourse. Who am I to judge? The hours were good. I needed money. My new boss at the time at my other part-time job was embarking on his reign of dictatorship and taking responsibilities away from me. I needed the money and well… something to do.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Chapter 3
The boss-man went on a lot of sales calls. He was never there. He basically left me alone in his apartment, cold-calling a bunch of vitamin manufacturers to get sales leads.
I am going to confess something:
I never made a single call.
Well, I made a few and after a bunch of receptionists and operations managers hung up on me, I stopped caring. I didn’t give a shit about my job. I didn’t give a shit about getting 0.00002 percent commission if the boss-man did get a sale. This is because every time a receptionist or operations manager hung up on me, I felt like I was getting stabbed with a branding iron. It just hurts being rejected even in the smallest of situations especially when you are a highly sensitive person.
So, I stopped calling. The boss-man would come in occasionally I would pretend to do work like organize receipts or put one piece of paper in a folder and then switch it over to another folder. The second he would leave I would spend all day on youtube, perez Hilton, or do stuff for my other part time job.
One day he asked me to organize a bunch of stuff on his desk while he was trying to sell a heating coil to some plant that manufactures fake tits.
I was on the phone with my roommate Ashley, which usually took up a two-hour chunk of my workday, as I was piling receipts from different Holidays Inns in one pile and articles about celebrity-humidifiers in another pile.
Then I saw something very suspicious. It was an AIM chat that he had printed out.
Before I knew it, something pulled my eyes to some key words on the piece of paper:
Anal
Fisting
Hard
Oh my fucking God. Who is this creep? And why does he let me work hours that are so compatible to my schedule?
I IMed all of my friends and called Ashley. I told just about every I knew. It was the most stunned I’d been since I once saw two old dudes blowing each other in the Fens my junior year.
I am going to confess something:
I never made a single call.
Well, I made a few and after a bunch of receptionists and operations managers hung up on me, I stopped caring. I didn’t give a shit about my job. I didn’t give a shit about getting 0.00002 percent commission if the boss-man did get a sale. This is because every time a receptionist or operations manager hung up on me, I felt like I was getting stabbed with a branding iron. It just hurts being rejected even in the smallest of situations especially when you are a highly sensitive person.
So, I stopped calling. The boss-man would come in occasionally I would pretend to do work like organize receipts or put one piece of paper in a folder and then switch it over to another folder. The second he would leave I would spend all day on youtube, perez Hilton, or do stuff for my other part time job.
One day he asked me to organize a bunch of stuff on his desk while he was trying to sell a heating coil to some plant that manufactures fake tits.
I was on the phone with my roommate Ashley, which usually took up a two-hour chunk of my workday, as I was piling receipts from different Holidays Inns in one pile and articles about celebrity-humidifiers in another pile.
Then I saw something very suspicious. It was an AIM chat that he had printed out.
Before I knew it, something pulled my eyes to some key words on the piece of paper:
Anal
Fisting
Hard
Oh my fucking God. Who is this creep? And why does he let me work hours that are so compatible to my schedule?
I IMed all of my friends and called Ashley. I told just about every I knew. It was the most stunned I’d been since I once saw two old dudes blowing each other in the Fens my junior year.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Chapter 2
I never thought of LA having a Jewish section because I always believed the entirety of LA was the Jewish section. Now, I know you may ask me about the Latino population, but let me inform you of this:
Chances are the Latinos sleep in the guesthouses of the Jewish section.
Needless to say, LA does have a Tel Aviv close to Beverly Hills. The neighborhood is filled with synagogues, Kosher stores and Kosher plastic surgeons. Yes, even though the Jewish population in LA believes that eating meat and dairy as unnatural, they will gladly buy their face from Rubbermaid.
This is where my future boss-man lived. He was, indeed, an Orthodox Jew, even though he would jokingly refer to himself as a feminine cleansing product. I suppose Moses called Aaron a pussy every once in a while and had me wonder why National Lampoon never made a movie about that.
I walked into his office and the first thing I noticed were the boss-man’s diplomas on the wall. However, not one of them was from an accredited university. On the bottom of one it said “Page 1 of 1 www.checkwriting101freeonlinetutorial.com.” Most of the other schools were two week-long seminars held in Econo Lodges.
His apartment smelled like my grandma’s or my pediatricians.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Chapter 1
Two years ago, if you were to tell me I would now be living in LA, I would laugh in your face. Then, I would retreat back to my college dorm of a Boston apartment and think to myself, “Yeah, I know I’ll eventually end up in LA.”
After a few months of living out here, I took a job in probably the exact opposite industry that I’m qualified for. I majored in film and theater and I took a job as an “admin assistant” for a guy who sells air conditioners.
I have “admin assistant” in quotations because I basically was a secretary for a guy who ran a start-up business out of his home as a manufacturer’s rep for probably the most boring industry in the world besides pink-soap-manufacturer-for-public-restrooms.
When I read the Craigslist ad, there was no indication that this would be a home office. However, when I had my interview in a Jack in the Box, I became a tad suspicious.
The second interview took place in his home office. It was located near an old folks’ home, which is the opposite of an elementary school which is the exact place a sex offender is not allowed to live. Hence, I deduced he was a sex offender.
However, I did not want access to proof, as I was happy I was actually getting some form of income. Therefore, I decided putting a butter knife in my bag was protection enough.
After a few months of living out here, I took a job in probably the exact opposite industry that I’m qualified for. I majored in film and theater and I took a job as an “admin assistant” for a guy who sells air conditioners.
I have “admin assistant” in quotations because I basically was a secretary for a guy who ran a start-up business out of his home as a manufacturer’s rep for probably the most boring industry in the world besides pink-soap-manufacturer-for-public-restrooms.
When I read the Craigslist ad, there was no indication that this would be a home office. However, when I had my interview in a Jack in the Box, I became a tad suspicious.
The second interview took place in his home office. It was located near an old folks’ home, which is the opposite of an elementary school which is the exact place a sex offender is not allowed to live. Hence, I deduced he was a sex offender.
However, I did not want access to proof, as I was happy I was actually getting some form of income. Therefore, I decided putting a butter knife in my bag was protection enough.
The Prologue
It’s almost midnight. My hair is a mess and I’m analyzing about how much of a pussy I’ve been for the past few months. As I sit, contemplating about where my life has taken me, I chug a bottle of Boone’s Farm Strawberry Daiquiri I bought for two dollars at CVS. This will be my dinner tonight.
The problem is that I don’t know whether I’m celebrating or commiserating. I’ve had an odd job for the past few months and I either quit the job after I was fired or I was fired after I quit.
That was the ambiguity of working for Susan Ellen (Don’t google her. I’ve changed her name because her father, even in death, is still a controversial mogul. And, no, her last name isn’t Plainview and not because Daniel Plainview is fictional, but because such eloquence of a Daniel Plainview cannot be present in Susan Ellen’s genes.)
I don’t really know how I feel about my sudden separation from Susan Ellen. I spent so much of my time bending over backward and then explaining to her what the phrase “bend over backward” actually means and I can’t believe it’s all over.
Needless to say, here’s the blog about my crazy part-time yet life-consuming odd job in LA, with a little backstory here and there.
The problem is that I don’t know whether I’m celebrating or commiserating. I’ve had an odd job for the past few months and I either quit the job after I was fired or I was fired after I quit.
That was the ambiguity of working for Susan Ellen (Don’t google her. I’ve changed her name because her father, even in death, is still a controversial mogul. And, no, her last name isn’t Plainview and not because Daniel Plainview is fictional, but because such eloquence of a Daniel Plainview cannot be present in Susan Ellen’s genes.)
I don’t really know how I feel about my sudden separation from Susan Ellen. I spent so much of my time bending over backward and then explaining to her what the phrase “bend over backward” actually means and I can’t believe it’s all over.
Needless to say, here’s the blog about my crazy part-time yet life-consuming odd job in LA, with a little backstory here and there.
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