The Casting Director - THE JOY OF CASTING

What a week! I got hired to cast a film on Monday night, had to have casting sessions Wednesday to Friday. My partner is on vacation and I was doing everything. I feel sorry for the day that I actually have an assistant. When I say everything, let me be more specific:

630AM Wake-Up

635AM Go back to sleep

645AM Wake-up, force my dogs to wake up (he likes to sleep in to at least 11) take him for his morning constitutional.

700AM-735AM Take a shower, eat, drink, get in car and turn on the radio and listen to Stephanie Miller for the next 25 minutes as I wind my way to the office.

8AM-1PM Get to the office — Turn on computers, check messages, check emails, respond to emails, call back agents, managers, whomever, set up the audition room, make sure the camera is working, set up the chairs outside the office, make sure there are pens, clip-boards, staples, the lights work, type out the session sheets, confirm auditions, call out auditions for the next day, return the hundreds (I am not joking) of phone calls from agents, managers, my mother, put out the breakdown, scan the sides, post the sides, post the screenplay, email the sides and the screenplay to the agents and managers who can no longer afford to pay breakdown services (ummm…hello ICM sort it out?!), check-in with the producer, the director, make sure they are coming to the casting session, download previous days casting session into IMovie and send to IDVD then burn the DVD, make the DVD table of contents slips, burn 3 DVDs, post audition links selects on-line to all the producers (pray that the computer doesn’t burn out), make sure there is enough ink and paper in the 2 printers in the office, print out a sign in sheet for the actors, print out sides for the producer and director to have during the session, print out pictures and resumes for the producer and director to have for the session (lots of tress are killed in this process), make sure the audition room is clean…

1PM-145PM LUNCH – probably go to Subway – feel sick about it later…no time

2PM – Casting session. Pray that the Director, Producer and the Producer’s assistant all show up 5 minuets early so that we can start on time. Hope that all of the confirmed actors show up and that there are no long gaps in the casting session.

6PM-8PM – after seeing 30 actors (60 were scheduled) and running an hour late (I didn’t anticipate that 30 actors would show up), wrap up the session with the Producer and Director, make sure that they are happy, confirm with them that they will be at the next session. Clean up the audition room, bring all the chairs from the hallway back into the audition room, download the session from the camera into IPHOTO then import into IMOVIE and edit the session, then burn onto DVD the following morning. Return phone calls, emails and schedule actors for up-coming sessions.

8PM – LEAVE THE OFFICE, because if you don’t you will get locked in the building (happened to me on Saturday)!!! Get dinner, go home watch TV and try not to be to pissed off with the fact that you haven’t been to the gym all week and feel fat!

REPEAT THE ABOVE until the film is cast…

Oh, and try to get in new work, not ignore your other directors and producers for the three films that are almost cast and are starting production at the same time…BREATH, POOP, SLEEP…

I love my job, I love my job, I love my job…seriously, I do. When all is said and done and I am “in the zone” nothing makes me happier than the sense of accomplishment I feel knowing that I am able to do all of this and get a great cast…it is fun, just crazy…

The Independent Filmmaker - Searching for Talent

Casting, casting, casting.  Pretty much all I’m doing this week.

My producers and I finally settled on a casting director for the short we’re doing and I absolutely love her. We started working together early this week. At the same time I’ve had to deliver some preliminary casting ideas for my producer for the feature. So this week has been nothing but actors. Actors headshots, reels, interviews, websites and imdb pages. But my favorite new casting tool is Youtube.

Because here’s the unfortunate truth, if you work in this industry you do not have the time to sit around watching shows all day - so knowing every actor you should is just impossible. Which is one of the reasons you work with a casting director. But when my casting director says, “Jen have you seen so & so on such & such? She’s amazing! You’ll love her.” I want to be able to look her up immediately so we can continue brainstorming. I don’t want to wait for someone to messenger a reel or to get her latest film on Netflix. And most importantly, on Youtube I can look up actor’s interviews.

Once you get to a certain level of actors you know that they can hit their marks, memorize lines and deliver some sort of interesting performance. Well, basically, this is true. What I don’t know is what they’re like as people and, at the early stages of casting, that is far more important to me than anything else. As we progress I will certainly want to see tape and meet them in person, but for now I mostly want to know if the person we’re considering has any essence of the character already within them.

I know this is hard for new actors to hear, but here’s the thing, I don’t want to see actors acting in my films. I want to see my characters. And the best way to ensure that, aside from hiring the few true chameleons on this planet like Cate Blanchett and Daniel Day-Lewis, is to find the character in the actor. Casting is like a grand treasure hunt!

So back to Youtube. Jimmy Kimmel does me a massive favor by having all these up and coming actors on his show. I search for actor plus Jimmy Kimmel and viola! I instantly get some glimpse in to the actor’s energy. Are they calm, chaotic, funny, needy, smart, quick on their feet or dim? Of course this doesn’t tell me about the quality of their acting, but it does help me to widdle down a preliminary list from a larger list of talented actors. I can tell pretty much instantly if the actor I’m looking at on Youtube bears any resemblance to the character I’m trying to cast.

Now obviously this is not the only tool I’ll use to cast – that would be insane – but in terms of helping me come up with my preliminary list I’m finding Youtube incredibly helpful. And if it means I see fewer of the wrong people from the start it’s helpful for actors too!

The Independent Filmmaker - Plate Spinning

I’ve got no idea what it’s like for big kid directors but for me life is a constant plate-spinning act.  Basically, I’ve got a handful of projects at various phases that I’m trying to push forward all at the same time but with different people, money and time.  When one starts moving I focus more energy there until that one stumbles and another takes first position.  Two steps forward, one step back.  It’s a bit hectic but I know it’s working because every day, week, month and year I’m closer to where I want to be than I was before.

And this week was no exception.  As I wrote last week, I was working to sell a producer to take a leap of faith on me and my writer.  Briefly, no dice.  Crash and burn.  Well not entirely and not without possibility, very few things ever really are without possibility, but not a brilliant success either.  In summation, producer wasn’t sold, has other projects that make this feel less important and would rather not take the leap just now.  No hard feelings – I’m bummed because I really do believe she’s the best person for the film but things change, people change and films change so who knows what will happen in a month or two.  I still believe strongly in the film so I have no doubt I’ll get it made somehow.

However, in a highly unusual and nearly perfect balancing act, plate number two spun high and away when a project of mine was announced in the trades earlier this week.  It’s enough to make a person dizzy.  But I have learned my lesson enough times to know better than to start doing victory dances too early.  I’m staying calm and cool until we’re at the wrap party.  As far as I can tell, there’s just no other way to do this and stay sane.

One week excitement, the next disappointment.  One day praise, the next complete nothingness.  No wonder people in this town like speed – the ups and downs perfectly mimic the business.

I really think one of the tricks of this industry is not so much mastering the ups and downs of success and failure but riding through the ups and downs of the emotions that come along with all that.  So many of our hopes, dreams and fears are tied up with our careers that it really is a challenge to separate your self worth from your success.

I don’t really know what the answer to this one is.  I’ve seen people deal with it in lots of different ways with varying degrees of success.  I just hope that as the years go by I can find that balance of making great movies, paying my bills and maintaining good relationships with my friends and family.  Because we all know what the other options look like and to me, none of them seem very appealing.

The Personal Assistant - I want a quadruple espresso!

A honking car interrupts all the fun. A way-too-happy Chloe waves from her SUV Lexus. What’s she doing here? But, at this point, I’d do anything for an excuse to get away from the circle of mean moms around me. Spring and Summer run toward Chloe. I follow, waving good-bye to the principal and the mothers I hope to never see again. I hear them whispering about me in my wake, but I could give two shits. I finally arrive at the car, never so glad to see Chloe.

“Thanks for coming, Avery,” she says. “I thought my audition would go longer and Dean’s mother is a bit protective, to say the least.” Noooo, I think; I hadn’t noticed. Instead, in my head, I’m begging that she’ll let me go home – and not to her home. “Why don’t you hop in your car and follow us home?” she says and drives away, not giving me a chance to answer. Is she kidding?! Uh…

I do as she says and meet them home. I want to stop at Starbucks for a quadruple espresso first, but I know that’s not what she said. Plus, I saw that they have a very high-tech espresso machine in their newly-remodeled kitchen – I think you just talk to it and it makes your drink – so maybe I’ll experiment with that later.

I pull into the long driveway, my car feeling like Cinderella once again in the midst of all the lovelier, step-sister cars of the Lexus class in front of it, the ones who actually get a spot in the driveway as opposed to the gravel at the end of it, where they ran out of pavement that’s fit enough for my car. Or not fit enough, as the case may be.

I enter to find Spring and Summer eating snacks at the table, their schoolbooks open, although I see their little pre-tween magazines tucked inside. Not my problem. I am far too tired to tattle on them. Chloe motions to me from the counter with her drawn-on eyebrows, where she’s sipping a glass of white wine. “Would you like a glass?” Hmm, I wonder. Is this a test? Am I allowed to drink on the job? “Maybe not while I’m working,” I say, a win-win answer. “Nonsense,” she says and hands me a glass, filled to the brim, before I can refuse. “Cheers,” she says, clinking her glass against mine. Cheers to what, I wonder?!

She leads me into the den and hits a remote, which makes some classical music come on from the surround-sound speakers. She indicates for me to sit; I do. I have often thought about the way rich people do this – sit around in the middle of the afternoon, classical music on, wine in hand, not a care in the world… I just didn’t even think I’d actually be in the picture.

“So, Avery… I’m so glad we have this time to talk.” She is? “Me, too,” I mutter. I hope I sound as enthusiastic as she just did. “I’ve been meaning to ask you… do you find my husband attractive?” Excuse me?! WTF kind of question is that? If I say yes, she’ll think I like him. If I say no, she’ll think I’m insulting her. What should I say…?!

The Personal Assistant - I intend to call her back, I swear!

I intend to call her back, I swear, but not from the bathroom this time. So I finish my business and go back outside when – there it is: “unavailable” calling me… again. As much as I don’t want to, I answer. “Hello?” “Avary, it’s Ruth,” she says. “Hi,” I say, as though we are old friends and she didn’t just berate me for having spoken to her while I was going to the bathroom. “Chloe is very worried about the girls’ safety and would like you to go get them at school,” she says. “Now?” I ask. “Yes,” she says. “With that prowler on the loose and everything…” I let her babble on as I think how ludicrous this has gotten… and now Chloe actually thinks there is a “prowler”?! Insane.

A half-hour later, I find myself standing outside of Spring and Summer’s school, a rather pretentious place where all the Hollywood stars’ kids supposedly go (though I could care less).

I am standing amidst a group of mothers – all of their faces look my age (the all look like they could be the spokeswomen for Botox – though not good Botox), although the rest of them does not. (What is the point of Botox, anyway, if everyone knows you are doing it? It’s not like they’re fooling anyone into thinking they haven’t aged; all these women are doing is telling us they have aged and prefer to get cow something-or-other injected into their cheekbones. How backwards.)

The mothers try to make small-talk with me, welcoming me with, “You’re new” and “When did you move to Bridgedale (we’ll call this the rich town I’m in)?” Every time I start to explain that I’m not “new” here, nor am I a mom, another Botoxed mom trying to pass for twenty-five interrupts. This makes things easy for me, as I just get to smile and nod.

Finally, the bell rings and kids scatter outside from all directions, running up to their mothers (and why are no fathers here, I wonder). The kids are awfully cute, the boys in button-up shirts and pants, the girls in cute dresses… and then come Spring and Summer, wearing mini-skirts, mid-riffs, and black pleather boots up to their knees. They look like they’re from the movie “Clueless,” yet far too young. Apparently, another mother thinks this, too. She stares at the girls, then at me. “How could you dress them this way?!” she hisses at me. “What?” I say. “No bellybuttons allowed,” she says as she points to Spring and Summer’s bellybuttons, clearly visible. “It looks like they’re wearing bikinis! I’m on the Bridgedale School Board and these girls are violating the dress code,” she says. Um… what? First of all, I didn’t dress them. Secondly, who is her Botoxed mouth to talk? I admit that the girls look a bit… slutty. But cute-slutty, not going-out-clubbing slutty.

Apparently, her quiet hissing at me didn’t work, as all the other mothers start to gather around, too. Spring and Summer have run off by this point, leaving me all alone, surrounded by collagen and cow hormones. The mothers’ eyes dart from me to Spring and Summer, then back to me again. I tune them out as a barrage of comments come at me: “They look like little tramps,” says one mother whose way-too-short sundress dares to say anything. “You have a lot of nerve,” says another, whose own less-than-motherly outfit is doing her no favors. “Wait until the School Board hears about this,” adds another. “Your husband let them leave the house like that?” says yet another.

Then the initial mother hands me a slip – a demerit, of sorts, forbidding the girls to come to school with skirts above their knees, no more bellybuttons showing, and no more boots above the ankle. Wow. She’s tough. I actually agree with her, but I DIDN’T DRESS THEM! I was too busy being arrested, caught napping, and eating blueberry pancakes, remember?

Just when I think I’m in the clear – I can finally take Spring and Summer home – the principal comes out. “Mrs. Tableau? I’m Principal Wells. I just wanted to say how sorry I am about the attempted break-in at your house today.” I can’t help but smile as I thank her – first, for assuming I am Dean’s wife; second, for saying she’s sorry for the attempted break-in I attempted. How can this personal assistant job get any worse (or better, for that matter)?!…

The Personal Assistant - Who cares if they tell “Daddy” on me?

I decide to screw it – who cares if they tell “Daddy” on me? Although I want to close my eyes and go back to sleep, I decide to get up and start “working.” Whatever that means. So far, it seems as though I’ve done everything but “work” in the truest sense of the word.

A few minutes later, Summer comes running back in. “Breakfast-time!” She runs out. Where am I, I wonder.

So after having blueberry pancakes with Dean, Spring, and Summer (Dean made the pancakes, by the way – and not out of a box; both concepts completely shock me), Dean informs me that it’s time to go to the set. We still have two hours until we have to be there, I think; but oh, well. By the way, I found it remarkable that, during breakfast, Dean never said another word about the whole “cops surrounding the house” incident. Nor did he apologize. Unbelievable – and very “L.A.” of him, don’t you think?

I am to follow him to the studio, since he may need his car at some point, he says (for what, I had no idea, for if he needs anything while at work, I’m the one – as his personal assistant - who would have to go fetch it, anyway). But I don’t bring this up, as I love the freedom of having my own car. That way, hopefully I won’t have to come back to his house later and get stuck going to get everyone “dinner” (i.e., store-bought sandwiches) again.

The day turns out to be pretty easy… A few times an hour, I bring Dean a cigarette (I know! So easy! And I get paid for this!). He never wants me to leave him the pack, as then he’ll smoke the whole thing, he says. Okay. The rest of the time, my cell phone rings off the hook while Dean is on set, directing. And every call is “business”-related. How did all these people get my number so fast, I think. Did Dean send a text to everyone saying to call me from now on, not him? I bet it was Chloe. Chloe did this. Which makes sense and all, but it happened surprisingly fast.

The calls vary in subject from Spring’s piano teacher confirming her lesson, and Summer’s tap dancing instructor “checking her availability” (she’s eight!) to Chloe’s hair stylist (or “hair sculptor,” as he pointed out in his French accent) wondering when she’ll be in for her highlights (“because she really needs them,” he adds)…

But most of the calls are from Dean’s mother. Call #1: “I heard someone tried to break into the house this morning,” she says. “Is everyone okay?” Argh. That was me, I want to tell her. But I don’t. “Just a glitch with the alarm,” I say. “I told him they didn’t need an alarm,” she says. “It’s not necessary, in that glam area they live in.” Glam?! Okaaaaay. “Who would break in, Avary?” “Avery,” I say. “And I don’t know,” I add. “There are a lot of crazy people out there,” she says. “I’m not so sure it was a glitch.” What is she talking about? “Do you want me to tell him you called?” I ask. “No, no. I don’t want him to think I’m calling to say, ‘I told you so,’ you know?” “Yes,” I answer. “Good-bye, Avary. Nice talking to you.” Really? It was? But I smile and say, “You, too.”

Call #2 happens around lunch. The caller i.d. is “unavailable,” but I figured it would be Ruth (Dean’s mom) again. “Any word on the burglar?” she says. “What?” I say. “What burglar?” “The one who tried to break in this morning,” she says. Readers, I thought she and I had covered that during the last phone call. But I really don’t want to belabor the subject. “Nope, no leads,” I say. That should freak her out some… “Who would try to break in?” she says. “Good question,” I say. And if they knew who lived inside the house, they would regret ever breaking in, I think. I don’t tell this to Ruth, of course. “Don’t tell Dean I called,” she says and hangs up.

Call #3 happens when I am in the bathroom. Now, I’m one of those people who loves her phone – but NEVER in the bathroom. I hate when people are talking while they’re in the stall. So gross on so many levels, to onlookers (listeners) like me, as well as to whomever they’re talking to. And don’t you hate it when you hear a voice from under a stall, think the person is asking you something, then realize they’re not? They just on the phone…

So I am following my own rule and not answering the phone when it will NOT stop ringing. “Unavailable” calls four times in a row. Honestly. So I fuck it and answer; unfortunately, I’m not getting out of the bathroom anytime soon and I really want her to stop calling. Besides, it could be another “unavailable” person calling…

I answer it. “Avary?” It’s her. “Avery. Yes,” I say. “Hi,” she says. “Hi,” I reply. If I knew she was calling for idle chit-chat, I never would have answered it. As she continues, I hear a girl come in and start going to the bathroom. I hope Ruth doesn’t notice. She does. “Avary — ” (still pronouncing my name wrong) “What’s that noise?” “Hmm,” I say. “Not sure.” And then the girl flushes. Thanks for that. “Avary, are you in the toilet?” Not in one, I think… Before I get to answer her, though, she chimes in: “That’s not very polite, you know.” “But I thought it was an emergency. You kept calling—“ “So you think I call too often?” “No,” I say. “Because I don’t think there’s anything wrong with a mother checking up on her little boy.” “Uh-huh,” I say. “Especially after the attempted robbery this morning,” she says and hangs up. Fuccccccck. They’re all crazy. Dean, Chloe, Ruth… And there WAS NO “ATTEMPTED ROBBERY”! But that doesn’t change the fact that my boss’s mother just got mad and hung up on me. Should I call her back? Just wait for her to call? And can’t I just have a “normal” day…?

The Personal Assistant - Two days and I want to quit…

Okay, so as much as I wanted to fuck my boss (not literally) and his uncompassionate ways, I didn’t. After all, I didn’t want to call my Midwest family back, two days into the job, to say I had already quit. I didn’t want to be a quitter. So I followed Dean into the house, he went back to bed, I went into the home office.

Now, Dean had told me there were two desks in there, one for me, one for his wife (Chloe). His office, on the other hand, was many, many hallways away. Kind of nice, when you think about it. I walk in… and can’t see the desks. Papers and craft supplies are all over both desks, making it look like an art store had had a flood. WTF? I try to figure out which computer is Chloe’s and which is mine. Finally, I guess mine’s the one without the screensaver of Dean on it.

I decide to clear away the surrounding area, trying to categorize everything properly – keeping the pink pipecleaners separated from the fingerpaints (what could they possibly be making, I wonder). I surreptitiously put everything on Chloe’s desk. I also set my cell phone alarm, so I can wake Dean up in an hour. Man, this blows. I sit at the desk for about five minutes. After not being able to get an internet connection and figuring it’s too early to text people (I don’t want to wake them the way I was awakened), I decide to lie down on the couch… after all, it is only a bit after 7 a.m. at this point. I reset my cell phone alarm for fifty minutes, instead (so I can wake up a bit before I have to wake up Dean), and close my eyes…

What seems like a few minutes later, I feel my eyelids being pried open. I look up to see Spring and Summer hovering over me, giggling. I have never hated six and eight-year-old girls so much as I did now. Remind me to never have kids.

“Why are you sleeping at work?” Spring’s chipper six-year-old voice says. “Yeah,” Summer pipes in. “Does my Dad know?” Uh. The good ol’ “Does my Dad know?” threat. Again, did I tell you how much I hate these kids…? I don’t care how cute they are in their blonde pigtails.

“I wasn’t sleeping,” I mutter while rubbing my eyes awake. “Were, too,” Spring says. She’s awfully bitchy for someone who has such a pretty name, I think to myself. Then again, lots of girls with pretty names are bitchy, like “Amber”s, “Heather”s, “Tiffany”s… But that’s not the point right now. “I just closed my eyes for a second,” I tell them as I sit up. But it’s too late – they run out, chanting in their little sing-songy voices, “We’re telling Daddy, we’re telling Daddy!”

I knew I should have just gone home…

The Personal Assistant - “Don’t worry about that prick of a boss you have”

As I am being hauled off toward the police car, the tears in my eyes now falling in disbelief, I hear a voice. “What the hell’s going on here?” I turn around – it’s Dean, groggy and still in his pajamas. “Did you have to blast your sirens so loud?” he asks, to no cop in particular. They don’t answer him. And how could they? I doubt sirens have volume control, like “loud” and “louder.” Then, Dean spots me and says, “Avery, what on Earth…? What happened?!” I take a few deep breaths in an attempt to stop crying and mutter, “I tried opening your door.” “Damnit!” he yells. “I told Logan and Chloe to make sure this wouldn’t happen. Mother-fucker.” So it’s not my fault, after all, I think. And is he actually being compassionate? “If it hadn’t been for those damn sirens, I could have gotten another hour of sleep.” Um… was he kidding? And what was I doing here – at 7 frickin’ a.m. – if he was home?!

“She’s clear,” he tells the cop as I am de-cuffed. Maybe now I can go home and get that extra hour of sleep Dean was talking about… “Well, since you’re here, you may as well start the day,” he says. Honestly?! “And wake me in an hour.” He goes back in, leaving the door wide open. The cops roll their eyes and give me a sympathetic look. “Sorry, miss,” one says. “Yeah,” adds another. “And don’t worry about that prick of a boss you have. You won’t have this job forever. None of ‘em do,” the first cop says. I thank them, grab my jeans from my car, and go inside. I don’t know how my day could possibly get worse…

But wait a second – haven’t I had enough for a day-and-a-morning’s worth of work? Maybe I should just drive home. Fuck this guy and his uncompassionate ways… What do you think?

The Personal Assistant - Damn this personal assistant job…

We left off with my being at my boss’s house, having dinner with him and his family, when he asks me what “penance” he is supposed to do before his next Sex Addicts Anonymous meeting. A meeting I went to for him tonight. Damn this personal assistant job…

My mind is racing with bullshit on what to say and I even start to open my mouth when — his wife speaks. “Not in front of the children, dear,” she says to Dean pointedly. Phew. Did I mention how much I love his wife? (I am being sarcastic – mostly – but she did serve a nice purpose right now.) I give Dean an “Oh, well” look and eat the rest of my sandwich in three gigantic bites. I also manage to text myself under the table, so that my phone will buzz and I will be able to get the f*** out of here. It works. “Is that your phone?” Chloe asks sweetly. “Sorry. I thought it was on silent,” I innocently mutter between bites. “It’s probably my roommate wondering where I am,” I start to say. “I promised I’d drive her to the airport –“ “Don’t be silly, you have a life, too,” Chloe says. I do? I think to myself. They could’ve fooled me. But I need to take full advantage of it. As I quickly chew my last bite, I stand up and say I’ll see them tomorrow as I head for the door. “Great. Meet me on set at 10,” Dean says, not even looking up. Would it have been so hard for him to look up? Really? Whatever. “Sure,” I say pleasantly, happy to be free at last.

The next morning, I get a frantic call from Chloe – at 6:49 in the blasted morning. WTF? Thinking I’m dreaming, I let it go to VM… until my phone rings five more times. She was nothing if not persistent. “Hello,” I mutter. “Avery, is that you?” a way-too-chipper Chloe says. “I think so,” I say. “Thank goodness,” she says. “I need you to come over.” I look at my clock: 7:01 a.m. “Now?” I ask. “Yes. I have a last-minute audition in a half-hour and need you to watch the girls,” she says. She didn’t even ask me, just demanded it. Isn’t it funny how people do that? Even if she had asked, what would I say – no? And who knew she actually got auditions? “Let me get dressed –“ I start. “No need,” she says. “Just get here now.” Maaan. “The girls are still asleep. If I’m gone before you get here, I’ll leave a key by the door, above the motion detector on the right. And the code to the gate is pound, six nine six nine.” Was she serious? “Okay. Got it,” I mutter back. Was this really happening? Dean said 10. Not 7. Uh. And where was he?

But I do as Chloe says and drive over in my Paul Frank pajamas – which can almost pass as cargo pants. Almost. I also managed to shove some jeans and a tee-shirt into a bag, for when I meet Dean on set later. Paul Frank PJs may pass at the house, but…

I arrive and punch pound, six nine six nine into the gate intercom. It works. I drive up the long driveway and park behind the Lexuses (or Lexi?) again. I try to figure out if one is missing, to see whether or not Chloe has left yet, but it’s no use. There are too many to count and who knows which she was in the mood to drive today? I make a mental note to pay attention to this next time. But in the meantime, I go up to the door and see the motion detectors: two on either side of the gigantic front doors, as well as every way I turn. The doors are probably over eight feet tall. How’s a girl to reach the key? Hmm. And couldn’t Chloe have just left the door unlocked – or left the key under a more easy-to-reach location, like under the “Welcome” mat? I look down and see the mat. I stomp on it a few times in frustration as I brainstorm on how to reach the key…

A few minutes later, I see one of the girl’s pink dirt bikes nearby and park it right under said motion detector. I step onto the seat, teetering a bit as I stand on my tiptoes, trying to reach the key (if this sounds scary, imagine actually doing it; I kept envisioning being the only girl in the ER with a concussion from falling off a bike… trying to reach my boss’s house key). Finally, I jump up and get the key – score! But as my foot feels around for the bike seat to land on, I notice the bike has fallen. Damn those kiddie kickstands. I fall to the ground, bracing myself with the palms of my hands. Ouch. With my hands bloodied and cut, I fumble for the front door – the key won’t go inside. WTF? I look up – yep, that was the motion detector on the right… I try the key again. Nothing. I grab the bike again and decide to look on top of the other motion detector; maybe she meant stage right. I wipe my bloodied hands all over poor Paul Frank’s cute little monkey faces as I position the bike under the motion detector on the left…

I’m standing on the bike seat when I hear a deep voice behind me, “Don’t move,” which only makes me want to move. I turn around to face the voice – falling off the bike as I do so. From the ground, I look up to see a cop. And more behind him, their cop car lights flashing (but without the blaring sirens). I blink a few times, then do hear cop car sirens as more cars pull up. WTF is this? “What were you doing,” the cop closest to me says. “Trying to get in the house,” I whimper. “Obviously,” he says. “You’re bleeding,” he adds. “Yeah,” I say. “My balance was a bit off—“ “Obviously,” he interrupts again. Maaaan, is this guy an ass. “Nice PJs,” he says as I start to stand up. Was that really necessary, I wonder, to humiliate me even more? He walks toward me, removing his handcuffs from his belt as he does so. No frickin’ way… “The silent alarm went off. I’m going to have to arrest you for trespassing,” he says. “But… I wasn’t trespassing,” I stammer out, making myself sound even more guilty than I look. “I’m their assistant.” “Since when?” he asks. “And their assistant’s a guy,” he adds matter-of-factly. “Not anymore,” I say, confused. Why would Chloe leave me the wrong key, I wonder. Unless she did this on purpose…? Do you think she did this on purpose? “Logan, their assistant, is the only one on the list of approved key-holders,” he says. “So you’re coming with me,” he adds as he cuffs me and starts to read me my rights… (And to think that this is only my second day, readers. How much I have yet to look forward to…)

The Personal Assistant - The Wife knows about Dean’s SAA meeting!

Continued from last week…

(We were at the part where my boss, Dean, comes home and I’m sitting with his wife (Chloe) and kids (Spring and Summer), terrified he will be mad that I am not at his Sex Addicts Anonymous (SAA) meeting, instead.)

Dean comes in and kisses Chloe, then Spring and Summer, while I try to nonchalantly eat the potato chip Chloe so nicely pointed out in my hair. Crunch. All turn and look at me, especially Dean, who acts as though he’s noticing me for the first time. “How was the meeting?” he asks. Guess that answers my “Does his wife know he goes to Sex Addicts Anonymous meetings?” question. “Fi-fine,” I stammer out. I have never stuttered in my life… until now. “Aren’t you going to thank her for going?” Chloe says. Then she turns to me and says, “I’m trying to get him to say “please” and “thank you” more.” “Thanks for going, Avery,” Dean says like a little boy who was just scolded by his mother, but with an earnest twist. Amazing, the power Chloe has over him. And all just in the first minute of his being home. But I don’t mind – he doesn’t ask me anything else about the meeting – or about why I am back so soon, so Chloe can do all the talking she wants. Dean’s eerie calm also makes me wonder if bi-polarness runs in the family – or perhaps they’ve rubbed off on each other? Whatever the case may be, I don’t want to catch it.

By the way, did I mention that Chloe is about half Dean’s age? They are the typical middle-aged-guy-going-through-a-mid-life-crisis-who-meets-and-marries-a-young-girl Hollywood couple. And the cliché gets worse – she was an extra in a show he directed, and she was barely legal at the time (eight years ago). To make matters worse, she and I are only a year apart; she’s older (thankfully). “What’s for dinner?” Dean says, interrupting my thoughts. “Tea sandwich?” Chloe offers. Dean shakes his head. “Real food,” he says. “We could send Avery out,” Chloe says. Hey, I think. What happened to being her new best friend? If I really were, I would offer to go get them some food, not be asked. And do they remember that I am sitting here? Can’t they look at me, instead of talk about me in front of me? But alas… I must remember I am the hired help, the Cinderella in the Ken, Barbie, and cute kids to match scenario I am now in. And, ironically, we are in the Barbie Dream House as I speak. But the clock in the dream house says it’s nearly nine o’clock; shouldn’t I be going home now, not going to get them dinner?

Ten minutes later, I find myself at the grocery store, holding a list written in Chloe’s loopy writing in one hand, money in the other (she had told me to get something for myself, too – the only bonus in this scenario so far). I am ordering various sandwiches at the deli: this one with extra cheese and no mayo, that one with no cheese and mayo. As I wait, I wonder why Chloe couldn’t just make these sandwiches herself – were they really much harder than triangular ones? And wouldn’t it be cheaper to make their own (not like they had to worry about money, but…) I also try to ignore the neon “WE DELIVER” sign flashing before me. Uh. I just want to go home. Finally, the deli guy hands me my order and I put my high school waitressing skills to good use, as I double and triple-check every sandwich; all correct. I get to the cash register and am appalled to find that each “gourmet” sandwich is nearly ten dollars. Hell, I should have bought all the ingredients, made the sandwiches for them, and pocketed the change. Ah, well. Before my sandwich is rung up, I run out of money – and pay out-of-pocket for a sandwich I never would have normally bought for myself. And it’s not exactly the kind of thing you can go put back on the shelf…

I bring the sandwiches back, hoping I am done for the day. Everyone starts to eat, but I can’t take it anymore; I’m exhausted. “Well, do you need anything else—“ I start. Chloe interrupts (of course she does). “Avery, you should certainly eat with us. Right, Dean?” His mouth full, he nods. “Yes, stay!” Spring says, excitedly. Aw, that’s cute. Fine. Why not, I think. I unwrap my $12.95 sandwich and take a big bite. “So what penance am I supposed to do before next week’s meeting?” Dean asks. Shit… I knew I should have gone home, I think. Didn’t he realize I left early? Guess not… But now what? Do I make something up? But if I do, will he know? Or do I tell the truth…? Any ideas, readers?

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