My Bosses Hollywood Home

I am still at my boss’s (Dean’s) Sex Addicts Anonymous (SAA) meeting… and still lying on the floor, covered in orange soda and potato chips instead of sitting (soda and chip-less) in one of the perfunctory folding chairs. Shark continues to help me get up off the ground, which proves to be challenging, as my shoes seem to be stuck to the orange soda puddles on the floor.

While I am wondering what to do next – stay and confess my boss’s sexual sins (I’m up next) or race to his house, to be berated by his wife for losing his daughter’s homework (a daughter I’ve never even seen, remember, let alone her homework) – I hear an “Avery!!” come out of my cell phone. Oops. My boss’s wife is still on the line. Before I can figure out what to say, she does it for me. “I’m hanging up on you. I know you’ll do the right thing.” Click. I look at Shark, lost. “You’d better go,” he says. The other SAA members behind him nod in agreement. I guess they’re right, although I really would like to be anywhere but there, with that… woman. I would also rather be anywhere but here. But I can’t move… when I try to, I find I am glued to the floor, the Fanta orange soda still acting as an adhesive between my Adidas and the linoleum. I take a few steps; it sounds like Velcro every time I walk. Ah, well.

I apologize to the group and start to pick up the snacks off the floor. Shark stops me and says he’ll get them. What a nice sex addict, I think to myself. I take a potato chip out of my hair, look at it quizzically, and pop it into my mouth. I wave good-bye at everyone awkwardly and run out, trying to ignore the crunch crunch crunch of my shoes as I go. Why did I accept this blasted personal assistant job again?

I pull up to Dean’s Hollywood Hills house – or the gate leading to the house, I should say. I buzz the intercom. Nothing. I buzz again. Nothing. Come the fuck on, I think; his wife gets me to rush over and she’s not even here? Bitch.

Finally, a very chipper man tells me to come through. I pull up behind a line of cars – are they having a party? There are at least five sedans and SUVs, all starting with “Lexus,” ahead of mine. Maybe my boss sells them on the side? Hmm. Unfortunately, it’s hard to camouflage my red 1990 Pontiac Bonneville hand-me-down from the Midwest. It certainly doesn’t belong on this car lot (maybe a used one, as it has a big yellow streak of paint across one side from when I accidentally ran into a pole). Never have I had such low car self-esteem – until now. But alas…

I park and ring the doorbell. A maid answers and motions to the back of the house. I walk in – it looks like the lobby of a hotel, something like the Four Seasons (as opposed to the Ramada Inn), a fancy vase of fancy flowers here, a marble fountain there. I am afraid to touch anything as I walk down the neverending hallway. I am also afraid of the woman who will be waiting for me when I get there.

“Back here, Avery!” a voice yells out. But not a mean voice this time; a nice one, as though it belongs to one of my friends. Maybe the boss’s wife left, I think. Lucky for me…

I get to the back to find a gigantic kitchen, the type you see on cooking shows but don’t think really exist. A Barbie doll-esque woman (dressed in “Career Barbie” clothes) sits with two as-of-yet-unnamed little girls, about six and eight. They eat tea sandwiches (you know the kind, cut into little triangles) and sip lemonade while doing something resembling homework. The woman stands and comes over to me. “I’m Chloe,” she says. “Dean’s wife.” WTF, I wonder. This isn’t Dean’s wife. It can’t be the woman who called, yelling at me…

“And this is Summer and Spring,” she says, motioning to the little girls. They smile sweetly and look up. Spring?! There is no way they named her Spring. But I look down to see the homework she’s doing, with her name printed at the top in six-year-old writing (not quite printing, yet not quite cursive). “Nice to meet you,” I mutter to all of them. “Have a seat,” Chloe says. I do. “And a sandwich.” She holds out the plate for me; I take a triangular sandwich and take a bite, so she can do the talking. And, that, she does. She’s very nice. I’m so confused as to how this could be the same woman who interrupted and pulled me out of my – her husband’s – Sex Addicts Anonymous meeting.

After about a half-hour, I wonder what I am doing here. No one is mentioning the reason for my visit: the missing homework. Do I say something – or just let it go? And did she tell Dean I was coming over? What if he walks in and sees me, sees that I am not at the meeting? That wouldn’t happen, though; he’s still on set… right? I hope so. But just to play it safe, I say, “Does Dean know I’m here?” “Don’t worry about him,” Chloe says. Hmm. That didn’t exactly answer my question.

Finally, after I’ve heard all about Chloe trying to start her own fashion line, “Mother Knows Best” – for mothers and daughters (she points out that they are all dressed alike, like a set of “mother” and “daughter” dolls) – she asks if I do yoga. “No,” I say. “You should,” she says. What is that supposed to mean, I wonder. “I mean,” she says, catching herself, “it’s important that you know how to breathe.” I’m obviously still alive, I think, so why do I need to learn how to breathe? “I’ll add you to my class next Tuesday.” What?! I don’t want to go to Yoga with my boss’s wife. Don’t I have a say in this? “I’m not sure I can –“ I start. But it’s futile. She insists.

Finally, I can’t stand it any longer; I must know the answer to the who-stole-Summer’s-homework mystery; it looks like she’s doing it now. With all the courage I can muster, I say, “So what happened to the homework?” Chloe looks at me nicely, with her perpetually pursed Barbie doll lips, as she picks up her glass of lemonade and says, “Oh. False alarm.” She smiles and takes a sip. I feel like pouring the pitcher all over her, but I don’t. I could have been confessing Dean’s sexual sins right now, I think. I’m missing that for this? To be my boss’s wife’s new best friend? My thoughts are interrupted when she says, “Is that a potato chip in your hair?” I feel my head. Yep, it is. I try to get it out of the orange soda knot in my hair that the chip is stuck in when… I hear someone’s footsteps coming down the hall. “Honey?” a man says. Dean. Do I have time to hide, I wonder. No. He comes in and…

To be continued…

My first Sex Addicts Anonymous meeting

So I’m still sitting in the Sex Addicts Anonymous (SAA) meeting my boss, Dean, asked me to go to on his behalf – and it’s finally my turn. All eyes are on me to speak, yet I just sit there, my mouth glued shut. Shark just finished talking about his addiction to rope and S&M; I have a tough act to follow. My speech keeps running through my head: “Hi, I’m Dean and I’m a sex addict. It’s been a day since my last voyeuristic activity and I’m happy to report that I’ve only masturbated fourteen times today.” Only, not out loud. Instead, my cell phone rings – and “I Want Your Sex” by George Michael starts playing. (Last weekend at a party, my friends and I thought it would be funny to add old ‘80s ringtones to each other’s phones; yes, that is my version of “deviant behavior”). This was the last thing these people needed to hear… while the other part of me wondered if it would make them start having sex with each other right then? Which would be funny, but… not. The moderator points to the gigantic, “Please turn off all cell phones” sign at the entrance. Oops. Damnit – where was my “quiet” button when I needed it? Wait – it’s a “restricted” call, which could mean Dean. And one of his rules is to always answer his calls. After all, I’m still on the clock. But why would he call during this meeting? Maybe he has something to add? Not like I want to know what that “something” may be… In the meantime, George goes on: “…Sex is something that we should do, sex is something for me and you…”

I decide I cannot let these “sex addicts” hear another lyric and answer the phone whispering, as I put a finger up to the room signaling that I will be with them in a moment. “What did you do with her homework?!” a female voice shouts into the phone. “Excuse me?” I say as I can feel everyone staring at me. Shark raises his eyebrows at me accusingly as I try not to pay attention to what he thinks; who the f*** is he? “Maybe you have the wrong number,” I tell the woman yelling at me. “Avery, right?” she says. “Um… yes,” I say. (I really need to learn how to be more assertive; there was no need to consider what my name is.) “My husband’s new assistant,” I hear her say to someone in the background, as though she’s disgusted. “Miss—“ the moderator starts to say… “Where are you?!” the mean wife yells. Do I really tell her? What if she doesn’t know Dean goes to these meetings (rather, that he sends me)? After all, it is anonymous.

“Avery, I need your full attention,” she says. The moderator nods in agreement, since he and everyone else can hear every word she’s saying. He also points to the sign again. I get his not-so-subtle hint and stand, mouthing “I’m sorry” to the group as I turn around…

… and stumble backwards into a chair… which falls into the snack table, causing chips and soda to go flying, orange soda spilling all over me as I fall to the ground. (And I thought telling my boss’s sex stories would be embarrassing.) So much for a quiet escape, I think, just as a shrill, eight-year-old voice yells into the phone, “You stole my homework!” Until she-devil wife grabs the phone again and belts out, “Avery, where the hell are you?!” From the dirty, sticky basement floor of this unknown building, I mutter, “Out running an errand for Dean.” “We need you at the house,” she says. “But –“ I start. “You never should have taken Summer’s homework.” “But –“ “Are you coming – or does my husband have to hear about this?” she threatens. Summer? I assume that is one of his two daughters – WHOM I HAVE NEVER EVEN MET! And after his wife’s call just now, I don’t want to meet her, either. Shark comes over and helps me up as he says he’s sorry for me. I say I’m sorry for me, too, as I lick some soda off my lip, wondering what to do… any ideas?

Should I attend Sex Addicts Anonymous?

Where did I leave off? Oh, right… my personal assistant job and trying to decide if I should attend my boss’ Sex Addicts Anonymous (SAA) meeting, or just call it quits – on my first day on the job, no less. I kept waiting for my boss (we’ll name him Dean) to call me back and say he was kidding, “Gotcha, Avery.” But he didn’t. Silence (except for my nervously beating heart, which I never knew could pound so loudly).

All I could do was weigh my options. It was now a little after 5 p.m. I have until 5:59 to decide whether or not I go to the 6 p.m. meeting. I don’t want to be fired – especially not on my first day, of my first industry job ever. On the other hand, there must be a job where I wouldn’t be asked to go to my boss’s SAA meeting, right? Then again, I did sign on to be a “personal” assistant and vowed to the old assistant that I would do “anything and everything” the boss wanted me to do. How could I have been so stupid? I have morals, damnit. And standards. (Someone in L.A. had to.) But it took me six months to find this job… and a million other kids would kill to get it; I didn’t want to give it to them. And I don’t want to go back to working at a diner, serving chicken fingers…

Maybe I could suddenly get sick? Flu? Cough? I know… food poisoning. That’s always an easy one to fake – after all, someone who doesn’t believe you’re stuck in the bathroom throwing up is a very sympathetic-less person. Then again, suddenly getting sick seemed awfully coincidental. I mean, Dean saw me healthy all day… not like he actually saw me, but still. I had sounded fine on the phone with him…

I talk to myself like this until about 5:49 p.m., then get into my car and do what any moral, determined girl would do: I go to the meeting.

I arrive at the meeting, in the basement of some nondescript building. There is no “SAA” sign, just a handwritten “Meeting” one, with an arrow pointing to a room. Kudos to them for their anonymity, I think. I walk in at 5:59 p.m. – I’d hate to be late for my first SAA meeting (let’s hope it’s the last, too). I cautiously enter and look around to see about ten people, I’m guessing from 35-50 years old (I’m certainly the youngest), sitting in chairs in a circle. I take a seat next to a woman in her 50s (she doesn’t look like a sex addict, I think) and a guy in 40s with lots of piercings and leather (who looks more like what I think a sex addict would look like; now we’re talking). The moderator, a guy about 60 (ew), welcomes all the “newcomers” and looks right at me. I want to tell him I am not here for “me,” but I don’t. Not yet, anyway. He reminds us that we should feel free to be as open as possible – this is a “safe space.” People then start going around the circle and sharing stories about their weeks and “deviant behavior,” stuff like, “I finally sold all my porn on eBay” (says a meek guy in his 30s) and “I wanted to walk into the party (a swingers party, by the way, readers), but didn’t” (says the woman in her 50s!). Everyone claps after each person’s achievement.

Next to me, Shark (I know) is in the middle of talking about his S&M addiction (as he tears a paper cup into shreds), while I am panicking that I am next (as well as trying to subtly scoot my chair away from him). In my head, I keep reciting what I’m going to say: “Hi, I’m Dean and I’m a sex addict. It’s been a day since my last voyeuristic activity and I’m happy to report (or “proud to report”?) that I’ve only masturbated fourteen times today.” Or maybe I should say, “I am down to masturbating just fourteen times a day”? What is the best adjective? Like anyone here is going to care. I then think that they’ll be too focused on my turning 99 shades of red as I faint from embarrassment. I start practicing my speech again – while trying to listen to Shark’s account of bondage devices and how he keeps having nightmares about them (which I am not supposed to be telling you, so shhh), hoping there will not be a Q&A afterwards (especially since who am I to give these fellow sex addicts advice; wait! “fellow sex addicts” – I’m not a “fellow” one of them; I’m practically a virgin in comparison).

“And I just couldn’t look at the rope… hanging there in my closet, all alone…” Shark went on. Wow, and to think my boss had problems. He should feel lucky. It’s not like his closet is full of whips and chains, too… then again, how do I know it’s not? After all, I have yet to go to his house. Suddenly, it’s quiet. “Miss… miss?” the moderator says, breaking me out of my X-rated daydreaming. I look around. Everyone is staring at me. Shoot – my turn.

To be continued…

The Job Interview

Hi, again. Last time, I gave you a brief overview of the best (and worst) parts of being a personal assistant. And now it’s time to peek into that life. So hang on to your reading glasses… it will be a bumpy ride.

The former assistant had warned me about the job (after he had to rent a helicopter for said boss to impress a date and the helicopter took too long to get to the desired destination, making him late for dinner; needless to say, the boss was not too happy and gave the assistant the “choice” between being fired or resigning), but what did I know? I was fresh out of college and couldn’t find an industry job to save my life, so why wouldn’t I take it? Plus, I am very detail-oriented, so I would never make that helicopter mistake, I muse to myself as I drive to the interview.

The interview is pretty short – the boss, a TV/film director, asks if I know how to answer phones (who doesn’t; I think being female helped me out here, too, as girls use the phone more than guys, right?). He also asks how my driving record is, as I would be running a lot of “errands” for him and his family. Luckily, I excel in both of these requirements and excitedly say I would love to answer his phones and run his errands (I should be an actress, I sound so convincing). He says he likes my enthusiasm and that I start the next day.

My tasks will differ day-to-day, the boss tells me – anything from giving him notes on scripts to buying him toothpaste. I am to meet him either at his home office, or on set of whatever TV show or movie he is filming, and he will give me a list of tasks to do – some by the end of the day, some by the end of the week.

My first day goes pretty well: I make some calls, go to the grocery store, and “guard” (i.e., hang out in) his trailer. Pretty easy. “What was the old assistant talking about?” I wonder. Plus, when the boss is shooting, I barely even have to see him – and who wouldn’t want a boss like that? All is going pretty well… until about 5 p.m. I get a frantic call from the set: “Avery! Where are you?” “In your trailer,” I say. I don’t know where else he’d expect me to be; I had told him when I’d gotten back from buying his peppermint Colgate. “What are you doing?” he wonders. “Reviewing the ‘To Do’ list,” I respond. This was partially true. The “To Do” list was in front of me, but so were bottles of red and pink nail polish; I couldn’t decide which to use. Luckily, he decided for me. “We’re working late–” he says. “Okay,” I tell him. “Don’t interrupt,” he snaps. “Sorry,” I mutter. Maybe the old assistant was right about the boss’ “occasional” mood swings, I think. “Anyway, we’re shooting late. I need you to do me a favor.” “Sure. Anything,” I say. Anything?! I say to myself. “I can’t make my SAA meeting tonight. I need you to go for me.” Hmm… SAA, I wonder. What could that mean? “Society for American Archaeology”? (I have a friend in it; maybe she’ll be there?) Or “South African Airways”? (I hear they’re a great airline, but why a meeting so late at night? And is the boss planning a trip to Africa that I don’t know about? I’ve always wanted to go…)… Okay, I give up. Any guesses, readers…? If you guessed “Sex Addicts Anonymous,” you win.

The boss tells me the address and says, “And tell them I’m down to masturbating just fourteen times a day.” Fourteen?!?!, I want to scream. Instead, I calmly say, “Fourteen. Got it,” as I write it down (why am I writing this down?!) and wonder where he does all of this masturbating – what if I am sitting on the very couch where he does it? I gasp and stand up, examining the back of my jeans (stainless – phew!), then frantically look around to see what other places could be his targets, so to speak. Uh – what am I doing? I don’t want to know this. In an effort to not look around, I close my eyes — until he interrupts. “Oh – also tell them I haven’t participated in any voyeuristic activity on set this week,” he adds as I hear someone in the background yell, “We’ve gotta get this shot now, Boss.” (“Shot”? – if they only knew.) He hangs up. I don’t know which is worse: knowing that my new boss (of less than nine hours, by the way) is a sex addict – or that I have to go talk about his sex issues for him.

So I’d like you to help me decide… I am a nice girl from the Midwest. Should I go to the meeting? Or call him back and say I know I am his personal assistant and everything, but this is a little too personal? (Next time, I will tell you what I did and the consequences of my decision.)

Much “To Do” About Nothing

Hi. I’m Avery. Yes… just like the label. I know, I know – what parents would name their kid after a name brand office supply? None that I know of (although if you were, too, I would love to hear from you; perhaps we could even start our own “Kids Named After Office Supply Brands” club; anyone out there named “Hewlett-Packard”?). Anyway, my one-of-a-kind, often-misspelled name aside, I’m here to talk about being a personal assistant in Hollywood – something I’ve done for nearly a decade. Like those Hollywood celebrity bus tours, showing you houses like Madonna’s and Lucille Ball’s, I’ve taken a personal assistant tour (only, working inside some of those houses), working for a film producer one year (or a few months, as it turned out), a novelist/chef the next. I know the celebrity tour sounds like more fun, but you’d be surprised at how entertaining the personal assistant to celebrities tour could be, as well –- especially since it allows you to get a backstage pass to your boss’s life that no one else gets. And you actually get to get off the bus and go inside. (Sometimes, this is a drawback, but we’ll get to that another week.)

I always say being a personal assistant is like being a doctor… almost. You are on call 24/7… for about 1/100th of the salary. But it’s not about the money, right? Right. So why do it?

A few perks include:

Travel - I’m not talking about driving across town, from Hollywood to Santa Monica; rather, I’m talking about flying – and to pretty cool locations.

Driving the boss’s cool, $100,000 car - which is usually a thousand times cooler than your own.

Food - assuming your boss says to help yourself to whatever’s in their fridge; and, assuming you are hungry (which assistants usually are).

Casual appearance - Yep, you don’t have to get up early to take a shower like those agent trainee friends of yours. You also don’t have to get up early to iron your clothes - you can wear pretty much whatever you want; hell, you can even throw on some clothes from the hamper. This is true most of the time, except for the occasional press junket or black tie event you’ll have to attend.

Contacts - Your boss’s friends and business associates – and their assistants - become yours.

Own hours - Depends on the boss, but many give you “x” number of tasks to do by a certain day/time, so as long as you do them, you have all the free time you want.

Alone time - No bogus office politics or bitchy co-workers to deal with. And down time to work on your screenplay/reel/other personal things you’d rather be doing (and I mean your personal things).

Pay - Usually almost double what your agency and production assistant friends are making; depends on experience and the level of “celebrity” you are assisting, of course.

Being promoted - if your boss sees you as more than a chauffeur or dry-cleaning-picker-upper.

Fun - if you like all – or most – of the above.

While a few non-perks include:

Travel - This time, I am talking about when “travel” means driving across town – especially in rush hour; it is no longer so fun.

Driving your boss’s cool, $100,000 car - but the fear of getting even the slightest scratch on it could cause you much anxiety and require that you get a prescription for Xanax.

Food - if your boss says eat whatever you want, only it’s everything you don’t want, such as “wheat meat.”

Own hours - but on call 24/7, just in case your boss has a thought or question, or needs you to run to their house at 11 p.m. on a Saturday night to screw that tiny little screw back into their sunglasses (which they should not even be wearing at 11 p.m. on a Saturday night, anyway).

Alone time - You know your agent trainee friends, the ones who have to get up early to take showers and iron their clothes, so they look like their agent bosses? The bonus of their serious agency, 7a.m.-7p.m. or 9a.m.-9p.m. jobs is that they actually get to interact with many other assistants all day, both in person and on the phone. You don’t get to do this as much. Hence, you may not meet as many people (you can; you just have to try harder; suggestions on how to do this another time).

Pay - No matter how much you are paid, the cost of being on call 24/7 sometimes outweighs the monetary benefit. Sometimes.

Not being promoted - Many celebrities/writers/etc. don’t promote their assistants unless they have their own production company or someplace to promote them to… and, usually, they don’t promote personal assistants like you because you are just too good at your job and they don’t want to lose you in that role.

Doing “personal” errands - Personal means personal - and the definition of “personal” is different to every boss. We will get very into this.

So, in a nutshell, those are the pluses and minuses (I am sure I will think of more). And, no, despite my overflowing assistant resume, I don’t want to be a career personal assistant. Do any of us really want to be career assistants out here…? I didn’t think so. (Not like there’s anything wrong with wanting to be one; I just don’t know many… or any.) I want to be a writer. Actually, I am a writer; just not always a paid one. And this blog will tell the tale of how I balance my personal assistant life with my personal one. I will relay what I would have (and would have not) done differently in given situations, and so forth. And next time, we will peek into my life, the life of a personal assistant. Until then…