I felt terrible accusing Susan Ellen of plagiarism, even though I was one hundred percent accurate.
The next day before work, I stopped at a grocery store to get her flowers. She accepted my apology when I reminded her that she was angry with me because I accused her of plagiarism. She thought getting her flowers was the nicest thing anyone has ever done.
"My husband doesn't even get me flowers," she admitted. She repeated that phrase several times throughout the day, despite the fact I've seen the phantom with the ponytail come in the house with flowers for her.
Oh, at this point I started calling her husband the phantom with the ponytail. I had realized a few weeks ago that he was always home in the basement and never came upstairs except to leave the house so he can get a taco (and obviously flowers to remind Susan Ellen that she was still married to him.)
Needless to say, I felt better that I was on Susan Ellen's good side again.
I have this issue that I can't feel settled if there's anyone who hates me. I think this is why, at that point, I continued to have terrible jobs, terrible friends, and reside in a terrible city in a terrible country in a terrible world in a terrible universe.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Friday, November 6, 2009
Ch. 43 - Copy/Paste
Susan Ellen didn't want her book to be just a regular diet book. She wanted it to be a lifestyle book - a bible for new age-y women who were ready to make a change in their lives. However, she still wanted to title it "How to Get Off the Rollercoaster of Dieting" because, and this is no lie, her favorite ride at amusement parks were rollercoasters. I think she thinks she invented the idea of relating life's cyclical nature to a roller coaster.
When I first started working on the book, Susan Ellen gave me a pile of papers she said were her notes. She informed me that they were all notes she had written and it was my job to place them together in chapters. Here's what consisted of her "notes":
- ripped-out articles from "Prevention Magazine"
- magazine ads for ProActive
- organic diet bar wrappers that have Buddhist phrases written on them
- pictures of diamonds
- articles printed from dieting websites that end in ".biz" or were later shutdown due to misinformation
For a while I was using these things as references and writing the book from Susan's own words. Well, actually Susan's own words would be this: dhgjarhgdfjkslghsdfjklghsdjkl, but you know what I mean.
However, during a review of the chapters, she would look at what I had written versus her notes and ask why this specific phrase wasn't included. She told me to just copy whatever what written on her "notes" and just "organize" it, not "rewrite" it. I gave up at that point and just did what she asked. Fuck her. She's the one who's going to look bad, not me.
I was working on the book one evening and started thinking about plagiarism. I remember in high school, one teacher said that every teacher in the world had access to a special computer where you can scan an essay and check if it's plagiarized. I don't think that's true, but as I just typed that, I think maybe it is. I don't want to take my chances. That teacher was really scary.
My thoughts continued to wander and I pictured the authors of these articles I was copying eventually suing Susan Ellen. I then pictured Susan Ellen trying to defend herself and how easily she could say "Well, I had a ghostwriter and it was the ghostwriter who plagiarized." Holy fuck.
I was, what, a few months out of college? Could you imagine getting sued at that point? Needless to say, I started to freak the fuck out.
I called her the next day and reached her voicemail. I just unloaded everything. I told her I didn't feel comfortable just copying from other articles and that it's plagiarism and I didn't think it was right. I left the apartment and went for a walk. I came back and saw she had left me a voicemail. She told me a story of how she was on an airplane once and she sat next to the beauty editor of a fashion magazine. She told me the editor always took her ideas from other people's ideas and "that's what people do". She told me she was really hurt that I would accuse her of plagiarizing ("Eh- I can't even pronounce the word and I'm not quite sure what it means"- an actual quote.). She was upset that I was upset with her. She then desperately pleaded me to never stop working for her because she needed me to keep her life in order.
This is the point of this blog, that if this blog were a one-person show, I would sit at the edge of the stage and say, "How can I keep someone else's life in order if I can't even keep my OWN life in order?"
When I first started working on the book, Susan Ellen gave me a pile of papers she said were her notes. She informed me that they were all notes she had written and it was my job to place them together in chapters. Here's what consisted of her "notes":
- ripped-out articles from "Prevention Magazine"
- magazine ads for ProActive
- organic diet bar wrappers that have Buddhist phrases written on them
- pictures of diamonds
- articles printed from dieting websites that end in ".biz" or were later shutdown due to misinformation
For a while I was using these things as references and writing the book from Susan's own words. Well, actually Susan's own words would be this: dhgjarhgdfjkslghsdfjklghsdjkl, but you know what I mean.
However, during a review of the chapters, she would look at what I had written versus her notes and ask why this specific phrase wasn't included. She told me to just copy whatever what written on her "notes" and just "organize" it, not "rewrite" it. I gave up at that point and just did what she asked. Fuck her. She's the one who's going to look bad, not me.
I was working on the book one evening and started thinking about plagiarism. I remember in high school, one teacher said that every teacher in the world had access to a special computer where you can scan an essay and check if it's plagiarized. I don't think that's true, but as I just typed that, I think maybe it is. I don't want to take my chances. That teacher was really scary.
My thoughts continued to wander and I pictured the authors of these articles I was copying eventually suing Susan Ellen. I then pictured Susan Ellen trying to defend herself and how easily she could say "Well, I had a ghostwriter and it was the ghostwriter who plagiarized." Holy fuck.
I was, what, a few months out of college? Could you imagine getting sued at that point? Needless to say, I started to freak the fuck out.
I called her the next day and reached her voicemail. I just unloaded everything. I told her I didn't feel comfortable just copying from other articles and that it's plagiarism and I didn't think it was right. I left the apartment and went for a walk. I came back and saw she had left me a voicemail. She told me a story of how she was on an airplane once and she sat next to the beauty editor of a fashion magazine. She told me the editor always took her ideas from other people's ideas and "that's what people do". She told me she was really hurt that I would accuse her of plagiarizing ("Eh- I can't even pronounce the word and I'm not quite sure what it means"- an actual quote.). She was upset that I was upset with her. She then desperately pleaded me to never stop working for her because she needed me to keep her life in order.
This is the point of this blog, that if this blog were a one-person show, I would sit at the edge of the stage and say, "How can I keep someone else's life in order if I can't even keep my OWN life in order?"
Friday, August 21, 2009
Chapter 42
Okay, I hate admitting this because of its connotations, but I do go to therapy. I don’t have any mental conditions to write home about, I just find spending $150 a week to talk about myself without interruption for an hour totally worth it.
I began ranting about work, and my therapist asked why I was putting up with Susan Ellen. I was spending hours at her house, working on her book, teaching her how to use a really expensive cell phone, writing all of her emails, reorganizing her office, remembering to jot down all the ideas she had for this children’s book, and I think I may have spoon fed her a liver tonic one time. I can’t remember.
My therapist told me that Susan Ellen was relying on me too much. She called Susan Ellen a physic vampire - she was sucking all of the life out of me. It was true. I wasn’t performing. I wasn’t writing the things I wanted to write. She was calling me in the middle of the night. I got up in the morning, drove three hours to Susan Ellen’s, would be there for about ten hours, drive home, go to sleep, and do the same thing again the next day.
I told my therapist that I had to do these things. Susan Ellen was deaf, lost her short-term memory, and a brain dead person has the capability to diagnose her with ADD.
“If Susan Ellen is how you describe her, she wouldn’t have been able to accomplish anything before you started working for her. I think she’s smarter than you think. She’s using these minor mental conditions to manipulate you into working for her non-stop. She’s making you feel guilty for wanting to live your own life,” my therapist responded.
Oh my God? Was Susan Ellen pretending to be stupid to manipulate me by evoking my pity? Maybe she is smart.
I did that one time. Growing up, I went to a Jewish sleep away camp and we always had hebrew school where we had to learn Jewish shit. B-to-the-oring. One day the rabbi was reading us a story and then we had to split into groups to discuss the story. I, of course, was not paying any attention. I think I might’ve been fantasizing about being a power ranger or something. Needless to say, when we had to split up in groups I was asked questions about the story and could not answer them. So, I told everyone the reason I didn’t comprehend the story was because I had a learning disorder and did not spend the last half hour off in fantasy world. So after that, guess what lucky girl got to color with broken crayons instead of hearing the Hanukkah story for the umpteenth time?
Susan Ellen was doing the same thing! She was probably using her disability as an excuse to not live up to her responsibilities and get someone else to take care of her shit. It was pretty genius on her part and probably something I would do once I become master of the universe. But for now, fuck that shit. I’m hypocritical; bite me. It was time to take a stand.
The next day I arrived at Susan Ellen’s house early and found myself picking up all of the dried up dog shit around her house from her mutant puppies.
Way to have balls, Becky…
I began ranting about work, and my therapist asked why I was putting up with Susan Ellen. I was spending hours at her house, working on her book, teaching her how to use a really expensive cell phone, writing all of her emails, reorganizing her office, remembering to jot down all the ideas she had for this children’s book, and I think I may have spoon fed her a liver tonic one time. I can’t remember.
My therapist told me that Susan Ellen was relying on me too much. She called Susan Ellen a physic vampire - she was sucking all of the life out of me. It was true. I wasn’t performing. I wasn’t writing the things I wanted to write. She was calling me in the middle of the night. I got up in the morning, drove three hours to Susan Ellen’s, would be there for about ten hours, drive home, go to sleep, and do the same thing again the next day.
I told my therapist that I had to do these things. Susan Ellen was deaf, lost her short-term memory, and a brain dead person has the capability to diagnose her with ADD.
“If Susan Ellen is how you describe her, she wouldn’t have been able to accomplish anything before you started working for her. I think she’s smarter than you think. She’s using these minor mental conditions to manipulate you into working for her non-stop. She’s making you feel guilty for wanting to live your own life,” my therapist responded.
Oh my God? Was Susan Ellen pretending to be stupid to manipulate me by evoking my pity? Maybe she is smart.
I did that one time. Growing up, I went to a Jewish sleep away camp and we always had hebrew school where we had to learn Jewish shit. B-to-the-oring. One day the rabbi was reading us a story and then we had to split into groups to discuss the story. I, of course, was not paying any attention. I think I might’ve been fantasizing about being a power ranger or something. Needless to say, when we had to split up in groups I was asked questions about the story and could not answer them. So, I told everyone the reason I didn’t comprehend the story was because I had a learning disorder and did not spend the last half hour off in fantasy world. So after that, guess what lucky girl got to color with broken crayons instead of hearing the Hanukkah story for the umpteenth time?
Susan Ellen was doing the same thing! She was probably using her disability as an excuse to not live up to her responsibilities and get someone else to take care of her shit. It was pretty genius on her part and probably something I would do once I become master of the universe. But for now, fuck that shit. I’m hypocritical; bite me. It was time to take a stand.
The next day I arrived at Susan Ellen’s house early and found myself picking up all of the dried up dog shit around her house from her mutant puppies.
Way to have balls, Becky…
Friday, July 17, 2009
Chapter 41: Snack Time
Susan Ellen doesn’t eat. Her meals include herbal and mineral capsules as well as non-positive ion- snacks. Because she has a gluten allergy, she occasionally eats these brown rice tortillas that she toasts. (She doesn’t have a microwave because she’s also allergic to foods heated by a lightbulb. I felt bad for her: she never got to play with an Easy Bake Oven.)
Since her cleaning lady was scrubbing the office, I was working at her kitchen table that is covered with fake plastic diamonds. During the time, “Diamond Power” became the fad form of spiritualism amongst the Hollywood elite. Susan Ellen had them everywhere.
Susan Ellen toasted one of her brown rice tortillas and was munching on it, making the loudest crunching noises as if she were in a Pringles commercial. Before I knew it, her three dogs were crowed around her lured in by the smell of food. She broke off pieces of her tortilla and suddenly I heard the crunches noises times four.
I looked up and saw Susan Ellen and her three puppies simultaneously crunching on this rice tortilla all with their mouths open. Gazing at the three of them chewing like cows who chew on curd, my mind delved into the biggest question of all:
Which one had the highest IQ?
Since her cleaning lady was scrubbing the office, I was working at her kitchen table that is covered with fake plastic diamonds. During the time, “Diamond Power” became the fad form of spiritualism amongst the Hollywood elite. Susan Ellen had them everywhere.
Susan Ellen toasted one of her brown rice tortillas and was munching on it, making the loudest crunching noises as if she were in a Pringles commercial. Before I knew it, her three dogs were crowed around her lured in by the smell of food. She broke off pieces of her tortilla and suddenly I heard the crunches noises times four.
I looked up and saw Susan Ellen and her three puppies simultaneously crunching on this rice tortilla all with their mouths open. Gazing at the three of them chewing like cows who chew on curd, my mind delved into the biggest question of all:
Which one had the highest IQ?
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Chapter 40: Love Connections
Los Angeles is a very lonely place. You spend so many hours driving by yourself, listening to the same Arcade Fire song on Morning Becomes Eclectic, and thinking the same thoughts again and again until you are certifiably insane. I totally understand why so many people out here get busted for prostitution. So many people crave any type of companionship.
No matter how Jewish a person in LA pretends to be, there is always some motivation to keep the chosen people going. Susan Ellen claims to be Jewish but that doesn’t hamper her from believing in the animal spirits associated with the Easter Bunny.
Susan Ellen’s number one A-List client had a Jewish assistant around my age and Susan Ellen found it to be her Jewish duty to set me up with him... Jewishly. His name was Josh, which I totally hate because my brother’s name is Josh. I know it’s weird, but I never want to date anyone who has the same name as my brother or my father, for that matter. It’s just this thing I have; I can’t help it.
Also, I never want to date Jewish people. I love my people; really, I do. But there’s so few of us, I have a huge fear that if I do date a Jewish person, he will wind up being very closely related to me and I try to avoid incestuous relations when I can. I can barely associate being with people who have the same music interests as me without fear that our child will end up having half an eye or fingers coming out of his or her ears.
However, Susan Ellen gave me no choice. “I am setting you up with Josh,” she proclaimed one day.
“Okay,” I said as I was inventing a colon cleanse routine for her book. (It involved Lucky Charms and Coors Light, by the way.)
A while ago, I had showed her my headshot for some reason and she said that I looked beautiful. I found that very flattering.
A few days later, I was working and Susan Ellen picked up her cell phone and just randomly called Josh. There was something about Josh that bothered me based on the fact that he could stand to have a casual conversation with Susan Ellen.
“There’s someone I want to set you up with,” she said.
Since I could hear Josh’s voice, I heard:
“Well, is she pretty? I kind of only go for pretty girls.”
“Yes,” Susan Ellen said. “She has gorgeous red hair and a face… I mean, she has a face. Listen, I’ll send you a picture of her headshot. I mean, it’s just a picture so it looks kind of worse than how she normally looks. But she’s Jewish and smart and-“
“Well, as long as she’s pretty…”
“Well, she doesn’t look like the girls out here, so she’s not pretty like that-“
I got up to go to her downstairs bathroom. I looked at myself in the mirror. I knew I would never hear from this guy Josh. And the good news was that I never did.
No matter how Jewish a person in LA pretends to be, there is always some motivation to keep the chosen people going. Susan Ellen claims to be Jewish but that doesn’t hamper her from believing in the animal spirits associated with the Easter Bunny.
Susan Ellen’s number one A-List client had a Jewish assistant around my age and Susan Ellen found it to be her Jewish duty to set me up with him... Jewishly. His name was Josh, which I totally hate because my brother’s name is Josh. I know it’s weird, but I never want to date anyone who has the same name as my brother or my father, for that matter. It’s just this thing I have; I can’t help it.
Also, I never want to date Jewish people. I love my people; really, I do. But there’s so few of us, I have a huge fear that if I do date a Jewish person, he will wind up being very closely related to me and I try to avoid incestuous relations when I can. I can barely associate being with people who have the same music interests as me without fear that our child will end up having half an eye or fingers coming out of his or her ears.
However, Susan Ellen gave me no choice. “I am setting you up with Josh,” she proclaimed one day.
“Okay,” I said as I was inventing a colon cleanse routine for her book. (It involved Lucky Charms and Coors Light, by the way.)
A while ago, I had showed her my headshot for some reason and she said that I looked beautiful. I found that very flattering.
A few days later, I was working and Susan Ellen picked up her cell phone and just randomly called Josh. There was something about Josh that bothered me based on the fact that he could stand to have a casual conversation with Susan Ellen.
“There’s someone I want to set you up with,” she said.
Since I could hear Josh’s voice, I heard:
“Well, is she pretty? I kind of only go for pretty girls.”
“Yes,” Susan Ellen said. “She has gorgeous red hair and a face… I mean, she has a face. Listen, I’ll send you a picture of her headshot. I mean, it’s just a picture so it looks kind of worse than how she normally looks. But she’s Jewish and smart and-“
“Well, as long as she’s pretty…”
“Well, she doesn’t look like the girls out here, so she’s not pretty like that-“
I got up to go to her downstairs bathroom. I looked at myself in the mirror. I knew I would never hear from this guy Josh. And the good news was that I never did.
Chapter 39: Bathroom Breaks
I suppose I’m making myself very vulnerable right now, but for those of you interested in Freudian analyses try not to get come on your keyboard:
I have recurring nightmares where I’m sitting on a toilet, going to the bathroom, and there’s no stall and the toilet is just in the middle of everything and everyone. I have had dreams where the only available toilet would be in the middle of my college dorm hallway, a classroom right next to the teacher’s desk, an office next to my boss’ desk, the UCB stage during a show, in front of the flatscreen in a living room at a party, and anywhere else where the public is basically staring at me going to the bathroom. It’s horrible and I know I need a lot of counseling, but I cannot help but have these recurring dreams and I just think it’s integral that I share this with you.
Susan Ellen has no door to her office bathroom. What the fuck? Who just takes down a door to the bathroom? The hinges were there. The soap was moist. This was a workable bathroom, but who uses it sans door?
Susan Ellen said she never minded me using that bathroom. She didn’t care if I was peeing a visible three feet away from her.
Sure, I’ve gotten drunk at parties and peed in front of my girlfriends in the bathroom because it’s the only place we could make fun of gross people making out with each other. But peeing in front of my boss? No fucking way!
Therefore, anytime I ever felt the urge, I had to walk all the way downstairs with Susan Ellen constantly saying, “Really! I don’t mind.”
I do!
Even though she probably couldn’t hear the actual tinkle hitting the water, I minded. Going to the bathroom was the only place and time I could make fun of Susan Ellen with the person who understands my situation best: myself.
I have recurring nightmares where I’m sitting on a toilet, going to the bathroom, and there’s no stall and the toilet is just in the middle of everything and everyone. I have had dreams where the only available toilet would be in the middle of my college dorm hallway, a classroom right next to the teacher’s desk, an office next to my boss’ desk, the UCB stage during a show, in front of the flatscreen in a living room at a party, and anywhere else where the public is basically staring at me going to the bathroom. It’s horrible and I know I need a lot of counseling, but I cannot help but have these recurring dreams and I just think it’s integral that I share this with you.
Susan Ellen has no door to her office bathroom. What the fuck? Who just takes down a door to the bathroom? The hinges were there. The soap was moist. This was a workable bathroom, but who uses it sans door?
Susan Ellen said she never minded me using that bathroom. She didn’t care if I was peeing a visible three feet away from her.
Sure, I’ve gotten drunk at parties and peed in front of my girlfriends in the bathroom because it’s the only place we could make fun of gross people making out with each other. But peeing in front of my boss? No fucking way!
Therefore, anytime I ever felt the urge, I had to walk all the way downstairs with Susan Ellen constantly saying, “Really! I don’t mind.”
I do!
Even though she probably couldn’t hear the actual tinkle hitting the water, I minded. Going to the bathroom was the only place and time I could make fun of Susan Ellen with the person who understands my situation best: myself.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Chapter 38: Ring Ring
I’ve regretted doing a lot of things: kissing certain somebodies, believing everything my 6th grade language arts teacher has ever said, and not committing first degree murder when I knew I could get away with it.
The thing I regret most was giving Susan Ellen my cell phone number. The evening after she had knowledge of my digits, she called as I was pulling out of her driveway to confirm I was coming in tomorrow.
She asked a minute ago when I walked out the door and she forgot already.
She called late at night to ask where I saved files on her computer. She called early in the morning to see if I was coming in… and to ask where I saved those same files on her computer again. It was manic.
On a Sunday evening, I went with my roommate to see There Will Be Blood at the Vista. During some quiet scene in the movie, my phone rings. I turn the ringer off. My phone rings again! My roommate glares at me.
“This never happens,” I whisper. I shut my phone off.
Walking out of the theater, I see that Susan Ellen has called me seven times and has left me seven voicemails. These are actual quotes.
First Voicemail: “Hey- it’s Susan Ellen. Are you coming in tomorrow? I forget. I want to work on the book some more. I want to make on how to make a change and less about changing your diet but more like, 'how-to'. Like steps. I just don’t know if you’re coming in. (retarded pause) Bye.
Second Voicemail: “Becky. Susan Ellen. You didn’t call me back yet. I still need to know if you’re coming in tomorrow. I really want to work on the proposal. I need help with like writing it and stuff. Like, I have my ideas but I need to put it in sentences. Is sentences the right word? (retarded pause) Okay. Bye.”
Third Voicemail: “It’s me. Susan Ellen again. I’m not sure if I called you but I was wondering if you’re coming in tomorrow? I lost my short-term memory so I can’t remember if you called me back yet. Can you call me back?”
Fourth Voicemail: “Becky. Susan Ellen. I don’t really sleep so you can call me at whatever time you want to let me know that you’re coming in tomorrow.”
Fifth Voicemail: “You’re not calling me back and I really don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I’m going to do tomorrow if you’re not going to be in. My mind is like nuts and I really need someone to help me get organized. I have this infomercial coming up and (retarded pause) just call me back.”
Sixth Voicemail: “Can you call me back because I need to see if I need to call Ted to find a replacement for you if you’re not coming in.”
Seventh Voicemail: “Becky. It’s Susan Ellen. Don’t know if I called you yet, but I’m checking in to see if you’re coming in tomorrow. Anyway, (retarded pause)have a good night!”
The thing I regret most was giving Susan Ellen my cell phone number. The evening after she had knowledge of my digits, she called as I was pulling out of her driveway to confirm I was coming in tomorrow.
She asked a minute ago when I walked out the door and she forgot already.
She called late at night to ask where I saved files on her computer. She called early in the morning to see if I was coming in… and to ask where I saved those same files on her computer again. It was manic.
On a Sunday evening, I went with my roommate to see There Will Be Blood at the Vista. During some quiet scene in the movie, my phone rings. I turn the ringer off. My phone rings again! My roommate glares at me.
“This never happens,” I whisper. I shut my phone off.
Walking out of the theater, I see that Susan Ellen has called me seven times and has left me seven voicemails. These are actual quotes.
First Voicemail: “Hey- it’s Susan Ellen. Are you coming in tomorrow? I forget. I want to work on the book some more. I want to make on how to make a change and less about changing your diet but more like, 'how-to'. Like steps. I just don’t know if you’re coming in. (retarded pause) Bye.
Second Voicemail: “Becky. Susan Ellen. You didn’t call me back yet. I still need to know if you’re coming in tomorrow. I really want to work on the proposal. I need help with like writing it and stuff. Like, I have my ideas but I need to put it in sentences. Is sentences the right word? (retarded pause) Okay. Bye.”
Third Voicemail: “It’s me. Susan Ellen again. I’m not sure if I called you but I was wondering if you’re coming in tomorrow? I lost my short-term memory so I can’t remember if you called me back yet. Can you call me back?”
Fourth Voicemail: “Becky. Susan Ellen. I don’t really sleep so you can call me at whatever time you want to let me know that you’re coming in tomorrow.”
Fifth Voicemail: “You’re not calling me back and I really don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I’m going to do tomorrow if you’re not going to be in. My mind is like nuts and I really need someone to help me get organized. I have this infomercial coming up and (retarded pause) just call me back.”
Sixth Voicemail: “Can you call me back because I need to see if I need to call Ted to find a replacement for you if you’re not coming in.”
Seventh Voicemail: “Becky. It’s Susan Ellen. Don’t know if I called you yet, but I’m checking in to see if you’re coming in tomorrow. Anyway, (retarded pause)have a good night!”
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Chapter 37
Daisy Ellen was at it again. She and Susan Ellen were still applying for a loan for their saran wrap product and they were still working on that fucking business proposal.
On the phone, I overheard Daisy Ellen say, “We’re going to get this, Susan Ellen. We’re women starting a business. And that’s not an everyday thing. You’re a minority doing all of this and we need to use that to get people on our side.”
Susan Ellen hung up. She looked to me, “What’s a minority?”
I did a breath out/laugh sort of thing and asked, “What?”
“What’s a minority?”
“You don’t… you don’t know what a minority is?”
“No,” she said matter-of-factly.
How do you describe to someone what a minority is? It’s like describing to someone what a fruit or a Jew is or something. It’s just something you know.
I told her, “It’s just someone who’s not in the majority.”
She shrugged.
I looked over to her desk and saw three tiny bottles of rosemary oil and one tiny bottle of lavender oil.
“Okay, so here you have four bottles of oil. Three of them are rosemary and one of them is lavender. The lavender bottle would be a minority because there’s less of it.”
“Oh, well I have more lavender right here,” Susan Ellen said as she opened her desk drawer. She pulled out three more bottles of lavender oil and gave them to me. “What do you need lavender for? If it’s for those pimples on your chin I would definitely recommend sulfur-soap opposed to lavender oil.”
“Never mind,” I said as I did a google search to find where I could buy some sulfur-soap.
On the phone, I overheard Daisy Ellen say, “We’re going to get this, Susan Ellen. We’re women starting a business. And that’s not an everyday thing. You’re a minority doing all of this and we need to use that to get people on our side.”
Susan Ellen hung up. She looked to me, “What’s a minority?”
I did a breath out/laugh sort of thing and asked, “What?”
“What’s a minority?”
“You don’t… you don’t know what a minority is?”
“No,” she said matter-of-factly.
How do you describe to someone what a minority is? It’s like describing to someone what a fruit or a Jew is or something. It’s just something you know.
I told her, “It’s just someone who’s not in the majority.”
She shrugged.
I looked over to her desk and saw three tiny bottles of rosemary oil and one tiny bottle of lavender oil.
“Okay, so here you have four bottles of oil. Three of them are rosemary and one of them is lavender. The lavender bottle would be a minority because there’s less of it.”
“Oh, well I have more lavender right here,” Susan Ellen said as she opened her desk drawer. She pulled out three more bottles of lavender oil and gave them to me. “What do you need lavender for? If it’s for those pimples on your chin I would definitely recommend sulfur-soap opposed to lavender oil.”
“Never mind,” I said as I did a google search to find where I could buy some sulfur-soap.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Chapter 36: I Believe in Genies
Here is something I love about middle-aged women from the East Coast who claim they are spiritual:
The will receive a piece of jewelry, a poster, trinket, or decorative item that symbolizes their spiritual beliefs and they don’t know that these said items are from the 99 Cent Store.
These women will light these candles, adorn themselves with these trinkets, or pray to these jewels that are all bought from the same store that sells shedding brillo pads, non-adhesive scotch tape, and dew rags.
Susan Ellen showed me a plastic genie lamp that a friend got her.
“He’s been to Saudi Arabia so many times so he knows his lamps.”
Underneath the lamp, the price sticker was still on it: 2-for-1 $1.00.
“Sometimes I like to take it and rub it like Aladdin. It’s like this spiritual thing I like to do to help my dreams come true,” she explained.
“I know this sounds weird, but you know that I’m more spiritual than religious. I don’t really believe in God, per se, but, honestly, I believe in genies.”
And… you’re welcome.
The will receive a piece of jewelry, a poster, trinket, or decorative item that symbolizes their spiritual beliefs and they don’t know that these said items are from the 99 Cent Store.
These women will light these candles, adorn themselves with these trinkets, or pray to these jewels that are all bought from the same store that sells shedding brillo pads, non-adhesive scotch tape, and dew rags.
Susan Ellen showed me a plastic genie lamp that a friend got her.
“He’s been to Saudi Arabia so many times so he knows his lamps.”
Underneath the lamp, the price sticker was still on it: 2-for-1 $1.00.
“Sometimes I like to take it and rub it like Aladdin. It’s like this spiritual thing I like to do to help my dreams come true,” she explained.
“I know this sounds weird, but you know that I’m more spiritual than religious. I don’t really believe in God, per se, but, honestly, I believe in genies.”
And… you’re welcome.
Chapter 35: Susan Ellen Vs. the Sumo Wrestler
I really like the “Day in Pictures” featured on bbcnews.com. I like using them as my desktop background.
While I was working for Susan Ellen I had this amazing picture of a sumo wrestler as my desktop. When Susan Ellen noticed it, she started dry heaving.
“Ew! That is so gross. He’s so fat!” she exclaimed.
I told her that sumo wrestling is an ancient Japanese art form and I really liked the framing of the photo and the man’s expression. I was not about to say that the only reason the picture was on my desktop was because it was a hilarious picture of a fat man in a diaper.
“Ugh! How could you look at that everyday? I’d want to kill myself,” Susan Ellen said, the next day, after I turned my computer on.
One day, I was showing Susan Ellen how I was dividing up the chapters in the book on my computer. I had a small window up on my computer.
“Can I fix something on your computer?” she asked. I was a bit taken aback. I thought Susan Ellen didn’t know anything about computers. However, if I underestimated her genius in dieting and skincare expertise, maybe I underestimated her regarding her computer skills as well.
I got up from the desk and Susan Ellen took control of my computer. She dragged the window in front of the sumo wrestler’s face and enlarged it to cover his entire body.
“I just can’t look at him,” she said, “He’s grossing me out.”
The next day, I saw another photo on “The Day in Pictures” that I ended up using to replace the Sumo Wrestler.
“Now, that’s a beautiful picture,” Susan Ellen remarked. “Way better than that fat man.”
It was a picture of a smoky orange sky caused by wild fires.
Why had I that as my desktop background? I don’t know, but for my sense of pseudo-irony at the time, Susan Ellen was right. It was way better than that fat man.
While I was working for Susan Ellen I had this amazing picture of a sumo wrestler as my desktop. When Susan Ellen noticed it, she started dry heaving.
“Ew! That is so gross. He’s so fat!” she exclaimed.
I told her that sumo wrestling is an ancient Japanese art form and I really liked the framing of the photo and the man’s expression. I was not about to say that the only reason the picture was on my desktop was because it was a hilarious picture of a fat man in a diaper.
“Ugh! How could you look at that everyday? I’d want to kill myself,” Susan Ellen said, the next day, after I turned my computer on.
One day, I was showing Susan Ellen how I was dividing up the chapters in the book on my computer. I had a small window up on my computer.
“Can I fix something on your computer?” she asked. I was a bit taken aback. I thought Susan Ellen didn’t know anything about computers. However, if I underestimated her genius in dieting and skincare expertise, maybe I underestimated her regarding her computer skills as well.
I got up from the desk and Susan Ellen took control of my computer. She dragged the window in front of the sumo wrestler’s face and enlarged it to cover his entire body.
“I just can’t look at him,” she said, “He’s grossing me out.”
The next day, I saw another photo on “The Day in Pictures” that I ended up using to replace the Sumo Wrestler.
“Now, that’s a beautiful picture,” Susan Ellen remarked. “Way better than that fat man.”
It was a picture of a smoky orange sky caused by wild fires.
Why had I that as my desktop background? I don’t know, but for my sense of pseudo-irony at the time, Susan Ellen was right. It was way better than that fat man.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Chapter 34: Susan Ellen’s Guide to Drinking Water
As mentioned earlier, Susan Ellen hired me on to be a ghostwriter for her diet book that also included lifestyle tips like how to include Buddha into your life and relieve dry feet.
One chapter in the book included something along the lines of “Susan Ellen’s 8 Tips for Getting Your 8 glasses of Water a Day” (despite the fact that it’s been proven that the 8 glasses of water a day isn’t necessary to stay healthy.)
Here were some of her tips she asked me to include in the book. If some of these seem exaggerated to you, you’re right. They are exaggerated. This is because I was writing the book; not her. She said I could add in anything I thought would be necessary for the book’s success.
1.) Have a drinking race! See how fast you can drink a bottle of water and try to beat your record each time to play the game. Every time you beat your previous time, reward yourself with a bottle of water.
2.) Listen to music while you sip water and take a sip at every beat. Don’t worry if you choke; at least you will be on beat!
3.) Drink three glasses of water every time you cry to replenish the water you lost through your tears. This is especially good for people who lost a loved one in a freak accident.
4.) Next time you go to the Olive Garden for the Soup, Salad, and Breadsticks menu, replace the soup with a bowl of water. Once you get really advanced, you can replace the salad and breadsticks with a bowl of water, as well.
5.) If you live in LA, drink a gallon of water everyday it doesn’t rain. If you don’t live in LA, drink a gallon of water everyday.
6.) At parties, drink water instead of liquor and act drunk.
7.) Become an Aquarius.
8.) Take up smoking and then start quitting. Every time you get a cigarette craving, drink a glass of water. If you already smoke, you’re halfway there to a healthier new you!
One chapter in the book included something along the lines of “Susan Ellen’s 8 Tips for Getting Your 8 glasses of Water a Day” (despite the fact that it’s been proven that the 8 glasses of water a day isn’t necessary to stay healthy.)
Here were some of her tips she asked me to include in the book. If some of these seem exaggerated to you, you’re right. They are exaggerated. This is because I was writing the book; not her. She said I could add in anything I thought would be necessary for the book’s success.
1.) Have a drinking race! See how fast you can drink a bottle of water and try to beat your record each time to play the game. Every time you beat your previous time, reward yourself with a bottle of water.
2.) Listen to music while you sip water and take a sip at every beat. Don’t worry if you choke; at least you will be on beat!
3.) Drink three glasses of water every time you cry to replenish the water you lost through your tears. This is especially good for people who lost a loved one in a freak accident.
4.) Next time you go to the Olive Garden for the Soup, Salad, and Breadsticks menu, replace the soup with a bowl of water. Once you get really advanced, you can replace the salad and breadsticks with a bowl of water, as well.
5.) If you live in LA, drink a gallon of water everyday it doesn’t rain. If you don’t live in LA, drink a gallon of water everyday.
6.) At parties, drink water instead of liquor and act drunk.
7.) Become an Aquarius.
8.) Take up smoking and then start quitting. Every time you get a cigarette craving, drink a glass of water. If you already smoke, you’re halfway there to a healthier new you!
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Chapter 33: Newfound Respect and White Face
What’s that syndrome that happens when a hostage falls in love with his or her captive? Isn’t it a Susan Sarandon movie? Or am I just dreaming? (Ah, that’s the question I ask most often in my life.)
I suppose during my tenure with Susan Ellen, I began to slightly respect her. Or pity her. Or feel guilty that I thought she had a cocktail of ADD, Downs Syndrome, and pseudo-Conservatism and I ended up being proven wrong by my temp agent.
Does this happen to people when they work for crazy bosses? After a while they start to really respect them?
Whether this is a condition or not, this phenomenon did happen to me.
In the skincare community, there is a trend called “Face Whitening”. Basically, if you care at all about the health of your skin, your face must look as white as possible.
Susan Ellen calls this “White Face” and even wanted to include a eugenics tree in her book. (Remember, the book I was ghost writing for her on how to lose weight and do some other shit?)
Being the entrepreneur, Susan Ellen was calling a bunch of cosmetic manufacturers to look for a scientist to work with to help her develop her own line of “White Face”.
Per usual, Susan Ellen had her phone volume all the way up. She asked her questions to a representative who responded again and again, “I have no idea what you’re talking about ma’am. I don’t think this is the department you are trying to reach.”
As I was working on chapter 37 of her book, “How Cellulite Causes Breast Cancer”, I thought to myself, “Wow! That representative is acting like a dick toward Susan Ellen! He doesn’t know! She’s a genius.”
They ended their conversation and the phone rep said goodbye with the company’s obligatory phrase:
“Thank you for calling the National Association of Architectural Metal Manufacturers. Have a good day.”
That guy is a moron. He doesn’t even know what manufacturing company he works for!
I love you, Susan Ellen!
I suppose during my tenure with Susan Ellen, I began to slightly respect her. Or pity her. Or feel guilty that I thought she had a cocktail of ADD, Downs Syndrome, and pseudo-Conservatism and I ended up being proven wrong by my temp agent.
Does this happen to people when they work for crazy bosses? After a while they start to really respect them?
Whether this is a condition or not, this phenomenon did happen to me.
In the skincare community, there is a trend called “Face Whitening”. Basically, if you care at all about the health of your skin, your face must look as white as possible.
Susan Ellen calls this “White Face” and even wanted to include a eugenics tree in her book. (Remember, the book I was ghost writing for her on how to lose weight and do some other shit?)
Being the entrepreneur, Susan Ellen was calling a bunch of cosmetic manufacturers to look for a scientist to work with to help her develop her own line of “White Face”.
Per usual, Susan Ellen had her phone volume all the way up. She asked her questions to a representative who responded again and again, “I have no idea what you’re talking about ma’am. I don’t think this is the department you are trying to reach.”
As I was working on chapter 37 of her book, “How Cellulite Causes Breast Cancer”, I thought to myself, “Wow! That representative is acting like a dick toward Susan Ellen! He doesn’t know! She’s a genius.”
They ended their conversation and the phone rep said goodbye with the company’s obligatory phrase:
“Thank you for calling the National Association of Architectural Metal Manufacturers. Have a good day.”
That guy is a moron. He doesn’t even know what manufacturing company he works for!
I love you, Susan Ellen!
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Chapter 32
“What?”
“Susan Ellen is a genius,” Ted repeated over the phone. He had called to check in to see how I liked working with Susan Ellen.
“Really?”
“Yeah. Just, if you look at the products she’s developing, they are state-of-art.”
Granted, I never looked into the exact products she was making regarding the oils she uses to put on your tummy before you wrap yourself in her saran wrap contraption. I knew she was also developing a line of lotions, oils, and hair products, but I never saw anything about that.
“I don’t know…” I answered.
“Look, I know that Susan Ellen can we a little intense. I know she has a big personality and may not always use her manners. But she is an eccentric woman because she is so talented. She’s a mad genius. She is amazingly popular among the stars. All the celebs go to her. She has so many deals with companies. Becky, my friend, you’re working for a genius. Working for her weight loss company will look really good on your resume in becoming a comedy writer.”
I thought for a moment. What if Susan Ellen was a genius? We all know that the top thinkers, artists, and leaders have some strange attribute to their personality. Maybe Susan Ellen is so horrible because she has so much talent. She’s an idiot savant. Maybe if I continue working for her, I’ll end up seeing the savant part!
“Susan Ellen is a genius,” Ted repeated over the phone. He had called to check in to see how I liked working with Susan Ellen.
“Really?”
“Yeah. Just, if you look at the products she’s developing, they are state-of-art.”
Granted, I never looked into the exact products she was making regarding the oils she uses to put on your tummy before you wrap yourself in her saran wrap contraption. I knew she was also developing a line of lotions, oils, and hair products, but I never saw anything about that.
“I don’t know…” I answered.
“Look, I know that Susan Ellen can we a little intense. I know she has a big personality and may not always use her manners. But she is an eccentric woman because she is so talented. She’s a mad genius. She is amazingly popular among the stars. All the celebs go to her. She has so many deals with companies. Becky, my friend, you’re working for a genius. Working for her weight loss company will look really good on your resume in becoming a comedy writer.”
I thought for a moment. What if Susan Ellen was a genius? We all know that the top thinkers, artists, and leaders have some strange attribute to their personality. Maybe Susan Ellen is so horrible because she has so much talent. She’s an idiot savant. Maybe if I continue working for her, I’ll end up seeing the savant part!
Monday, January 19, 2009
Chapter 31: Genius Bar
After dishing with my friends all of my Susan Ellen stories a lot of them questioned me as to why I didn’t quit at that point.
There are a few reasons why. First and foremost, I was a new L.A. transplant so I was still getting my bearings. (I know I still use that excuse when it comes to laundry but we all have our flaws, right?) Secondly, I am young. I don’t know a lot about life or how to stand up for myself or have the basic gist about employees’ rights. In my college internship program, they stressed the importance of adapting to your boss and developing techniques to deal with demanding jobs and big personalities. Basically, I’m programmed to just deal with it. I don’t realize I’m in a shitty situation until it’s too late. There have been so many times in my life when I should have had metaphorical abortions but I ended up waiting until it was too late and raising metaphorical cleft palate babies. Take for example, my previous boss.
Quickbooks?! He wanted me to learn QuickBooks? Are you fucking kidding me?
Thirdly, I chose not to quit my servitude after a call a received from Ted.
It was a Friday and I didn’t need to go into Susan Ellen’s until 3 because she had to get a chicken pox vaccination and then she was going colon-cleansin’ with Daisy Ellen.
“Becky! It’s Ted. How are you?”
Oh! It was so great to hear his Tim Gunn-esque voice!
He continued, “I just wanted to check in to see how things were going with Susan Ellen?”
By the middle of that question, I was ready to answer:
“Susan Ellen is a borderline retard. She doesn’t need a personal assistant. She needs a registered nurse. She is rude, incoherent, and completely unprofessional! She looks at my emails! She asks me personal questions! She is unclear in her directions! Each day I go into work utterly amazed that she somehow managed to make her pathetic excuse for a business look like a legitimate company for you! You totally screwed me over and sent me to a company because I checked off ‘gets along well with others’ on my application! You assumed ‘Oh! She seems so agreeable and nice. She must be stupid. Let’s send her to this trainwreck of a company so we can just fill the spot already’. Well, guess what, Ted, as much as I want to go to Beauty Bar with you to discuss Zac Efron, it’s no more Miss Nice Girl. I’m going to be aggressive and get what I want and if you dare put me in another position that resembles this job I have now, I will seriously consider killing you. Seriously. Seriously, I will weigh the pros and cons of committing murder and taking your life. Seriously.”
But, the only words I could get out was “It’s…”
Ted interrupted me with, “Isn’t Susan Ellen a genius?”
There are a few reasons why. First and foremost, I was a new L.A. transplant so I was still getting my bearings. (I know I still use that excuse when it comes to laundry but we all have our flaws, right?) Secondly, I am young. I don’t know a lot about life or how to stand up for myself or have the basic gist about employees’ rights. In my college internship program, they stressed the importance of adapting to your boss and developing techniques to deal with demanding jobs and big personalities. Basically, I’m programmed to just deal with it. I don’t realize I’m in a shitty situation until it’s too late. There have been so many times in my life when I should have had metaphorical abortions but I ended up waiting until it was too late and raising metaphorical cleft palate babies. Take for example, my previous boss.
Quickbooks?! He wanted me to learn QuickBooks? Are you fucking kidding me?
Thirdly, I chose not to quit my servitude after a call a received from Ted.
It was a Friday and I didn’t need to go into Susan Ellen’s until 3 because she had to get a chicken pox vaccination and then she was going colon-cleansin’ with Daisy Ellen.
“Becky! It’s Ted. How are you?”
Oh! It was so great to hear his Tim Gunn-esque voice!
He continued, “I just wanted to check in to see how things were going with Susan Ellen?”
By the middle of that question, I was ready to answer:
“Susan Ellen is a borderline retard. She doesn’t need a personal assistant. She needs a registered nurse. She is rude, incoherent, and completely unprofessional! She looks at my emails! She asks me personal questions! She is unclear in her directions! Each day I go into work utterly amazed that she somehow managed to make her pathetic excuse for a business look like a legitimate company for you! You totally screwed me over and sent me to a company because I checked off ‘gets along well with others’ on my application! You assumed ‘Oh! She seems so agreeable and nice. She must be stupid. Let’s send her to this trainwreck of a company so we can just fill the spot already’. Well, guess what, Ted, as much as I want to go to Beauty Bar with you to discuss Zac Efron, it’s no more Miss Nice Girl. I’m going to be aggressive and get what I want and if you dare put me in another position that resembles this job I have now, I will seriously consider killing you. Seriously. Seriously, I will weigh the pros and cons of committing murder and taking your life. Seriously.”
But, the only words I could get out was “It’s…”
Ted interrupted me with, “Isn’t Susan Ellen a genius?”
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Chapter 30
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?”
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 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!)
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