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?