My boss’s wife just showed me her underwear…”

I just sit there, sipping my wine, hoping someone will walk in and change the subject. I mean, why is she even wondering if I find her husband (my TV director boss, may I remind you) attractive or not? Please, somebody… anybody – walk in and distract her. But as much as I glance around the room and doorways, no one comes. And, all the while, Chloe just stares at me expectantly, waiting for my reply. I take another sip. Shit. “Well…?” she says. “Yes. Yes, I do,” I say. She smiles a bit as she looks me right in the eye and, seeming pleased, takes a sip of her wine in reply. “Good. Me, too,” she says, still looking right at me, making me feel even more awkward (if that’s possible).

The truth is, readers, her husband is not the least bit attractive (not to me, at least). He is not the Ken to her Barbie. She deserves a hotter, younger one, who drives her around in a Barbie convertible, not in a suburban SUV. But I certainly can’t tell her this… at least not just one glass of wine in. : ) And what is the point of this conversation, anyway?

“I went shopping today,” she adds. When did she find the time, I wonder? I thought she was at an audition all day… “Really?” I say. I really could care less… especially when it comes to what a rich-person-who-doesn’t-work buys. “Aren’t these cute?” she says as she unzips her very tight jeans (they look as though they’re painted on) and points out her bright pink thong. Um… WTF? I mean, it is cute. There’s a little black butterfly placed precariously in the center, but… MY BOSS’S WIFE JUST SHOWED ME HER UNDERWEAR. And where is he, anyway? I came over for this?

Just then, as though all my silent praying to be saved worked, her cell phone rings. She quickly zips up and holds up a finger to me as if to say, “Hang on a sec,” as she answers. “Brilliant” is all she says into the phone and hangs up. She smiles at me.

“I have good news and bad news,” she says. “Which do you want first?” What a choice, I think. “Bad,” I say. “I would LOVE if you could start at six tomorrow,” she says. Not much different than today, I think… but at least this time she gave me some warning instead of waking me up and demanding that I come right over. “Okay…” I start to say. She interrupts. “I need you to go to the flower mart downtown and get about five hundred dollars’ worth of flowers. I’ll make a list of what kinds later and text you.” And she thought this was a bad task?! It’s nothing compared to the last few days of hell this personal assistant job has been… getting yelled at by her one moment, flashed the next… getting yelled at by her kids for losing homework I had never even seen one second to going to my boss’s (her husband’s!!) Sex Addicts Anonymous the next… Flowers and the flower mart, I can handle…

“No problem,” I say. After all, I’ve always liked flowers – how bad could this be? “I’ll then need you to come decorate the house with them – mainly, our bedroom and the Jacuzzi tub (she winks), you know, throw some petals around – while Dean isn’t home tomorrow,” she says. “Sure,” I say. “The only thing is, he will be home tomorrow, so you need to find a way to get him out of the house,” she says. “Okay,” I say again, becoming very aware of the fact that I say “okay” waaaay too much. “And try to hide the flowers somewhere in the meantime. The mart has the best ones only in the morning, they run out fast, so please don’t be late. And I don’t want them wilting in your car while you’re waiting to get rid of Dean,” she adds. “Fine,” I say. “No problem.”

She hands me five one-hundred dollar bills as she stands up. She holds up her glass, “Cheers, Avery,” and starts to head out. “Oh. And while you’re out, can you please pick us up some Trojans? The ultra ribbed kind? I don’t need anymore kids right now – I just got back into a size two,” she says as she motions to her tight-ass jeans. “Just use petty cash – Dean won’t mind.” And she’s gone, me left staring after her. Is she for real? And shouldn’t she just be on the pill? But who am I to argue? I’m only her husband’s assistant, after all… So when did I become hers? I gulp down the rest of my wine in one huge swallow, convinced it will overflow out of my mouth… but it doesn’t. Wasn’t there supposed to be some “good” news, too?

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…?!

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)?!…

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

I have been a personal assistant to everyone from a C-list novelist to an A-list actress. I’ve done everything from having to make 499 wedding invitations by hand in less than 24 hours to having to go find organic figs for a boss’s baby at 2 a.m. This blog tells the tale of how I balance my personal assistant life with my, well… non-personal assistant one.