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.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
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!)
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