Yeah. This was a repeated nightmare for me every time I went to sleep at night and had a temp gig the next day. I thought I was going to be throttled by my boss. I was the PA from hell and all I could say was "Fuck!"

Dear Ether,

“Errrrm, can you repeat that for me again?”  I think I must have said that at least 15 times a day when I answered the phone. I was working as a temp for a very important VP for a marketing firm in London.  I had enough trouble pronouncing HIS surname (and was too afraid to ask him for the 100^th time to correct me) and felt like I should be wearing the tallest dunce cap in the building.

I began temping while I was writing my dissertation for my Master’s.  I didn’t need to travel into Uni any longer so I was able to work during the day and write at night.  PA work paid the best and because of my typing speed and my “lovely disposition” I was the perfect candidate for the gig.  The only problem was I stank at it.

I couldn’t make coffee (instant included) for the life of me.  My hand trembled so much when I presented the java to the folks in meetings there was more of the stuff on the saucers than there was in their cups.  And tea!  Forget it!  I would always turn crimson with an apology saying that we Yanks were rubbish at making the stuff and beware of the hemlock that was to come.  I couldn’t figure out the phone systems and would disconnect people—like the CEO.  I couldn’t even get tasks like photocopying right.  The damned thing would always jam when I tried to use it and it would take me 20 minutes to make one Xerox which I’m sure made my boss wonder where the hell I’d been.  Oh, and forget ever booking a meeting room correctly.  Ha!  If you wanted Room A, you’d always get Room B at the wrong time and in the year 2013.  And as I wrote above, not only could I never understand anyone on the phone, I was so flustered to get their name correct, I often forgot to take down their details.  I was the temp from hell.  Every Friday I would, with a huge lump in my throat, go into the office of whomever I was working for, and ask them to sign my timesheet.  I knew I didn’t deserve the cash—except that I had shown up on time and sat there for 8 hours.  I caused far more calamity than I did calm.

One time a gentleman called and I asked his name.  Forgive my spelling (I’ll do my best) but he said, “Rude Wank.”  I couldn’t believe it.  There was silence on the phone.  How was I going to tell my boss that a guy named Rude Wank needed to chat with him? I was so worried that I got the name wrong AGAIN and was going to go in there and make a fool of myself that I was almost inclined to forget about the message, but Mr. Wank said it was urgent.  This was the piest de la resistance.  I knew that fucking this up would be my utter downfall.  I walked into his office, and bless him, the poor bloke never gave me a hideous glare (though he was pleased to hear that I didn’t intend on making a career out of being a PA) and being the immature idiot that I was, entered like a bumbling schmuck.  “Uhh…yeah..I….ummm…just got…errr….this call….oh man……Rude Wank…..he said it was urgent.”  “Who called?” he asked.  Fuck me….I knew that was it.  I was going to back out of the room like he was Elizabeth the 1^st and I was a fucking servant and then run like the wind.  “Uh, Rude.  Rude WANK.”  “Blimey.  Okay.  That’s an interesting…well anyway. Thank you.”  It turned out that was a common Dutch name and I’d actually gotten the bloody name right, but jesus, pit stains were never heavier than that day.

The more skills you claimed to have, the more dosh you got.  So, of course I claimed to have many more abilities than I indeed had training in (hey, rent needed to be paid) so I claimed I was a master at Powerpoint, and excelled in, well, Excel!  BIG mistake.  I was called in for a PA gig where my main job was to work with dreaded Excel spreadsheets.  I thought I was computer savvy and could hack it.  Oh my god.  Have you ever tried Excel without testing yourself on it first?  That software is the DEVIL!  I ended up going to IT, begging for mercy about 6 times during the day, buying a lovely woman lunch, and having her do my work for me.  I called my agency that afternoon and told them I was coming down with a cold and couldn’t complete the rest of the week.

But, because none of these polite gents ever complained, I kept getting work!!!!! I couldn’t believe it.  But then D-day happened.  I was sent to a very high-end advertising agency.  I was to be there 2 days.  My job was to help the guy type, type, type.  I was given a hand over for all the typing(ironically with a girl with a missing digit) and she was lovely, but I smelled bad news immediately.  The guy was head of the joint, mean as hell and I was shitting my pants.  The irony of this temp job was that I actually could do it!  Typing was my forte.  But he was scary and mean.  Nothing I did was good enough.  Mr. X was a rotund man with a face that was beet red and he looked liked he was going to keel over from a heart-attack any minute.  His office had a large easel with a beautiful oversized coffee table book of designs that probably cost a fortune.  He also had a very precarious stack of art books that were at least as tall as me (I’m 5’6).  Shaking in my boots, he asked me to come in and put the books away.  They “bothered” him.  Easy right?  I was so scared with him being in the room watching me with his swollen, beady eyes. I took 2 books from the pile, but the balance must have altered and they came crashing down.  FUCK!   There had been a tea and coffee cart there from a previous meeting.  They hit that and it caused the beverages to become like a waterfall in the air landing on his precious book on the easel.  Did I mention his desk looked like Armageddon had come?  His computer was knocked off, his keyboard dangled on its side.  The red laser of his mouse kept flickering for mercy as it swung back and forth like a pendulum.  His tea was all over his desk calendar and paperwork and his trousers were soaked.  This all happened within 1 minute.  I didn’t know what to do.  I kept repeating the words “sorry” and “oh my god,” but he was silent.  And I knew like deadly Vesuvius, silence was going to turn into a violent eruption…and it did.  He screamed bloody murder.  After verbally abusing me for a good two minutes at the top of his lungs, two gentleman from offices next to his came to escort me out.  They told me to go home.  I tried explaining to my agency.  They quietly listened (it really wasn’t my fault!) and told me they’d be in touch.  I never heard from them again.  Truthfully, I could have sought out other recruitment offices to hire me (they are a dime a dozen in London).  But I was SO done with being a PA.  It was hard, not rewarding and I really was horrible at it.

It’s funny.  I’m excellent at very difficult tasks.  Writing under hideous deadlines.  Making a shoot work in impossible situations.  Working with PR’s to get that one of a kind Gucci dress that Vogue wants but I sweet talk them into lending to me.  And if you need to get an interview with a celeb that won’t talk—they are butter in my hands.  But, send me to fax something and I am dumb as rocks.

As I got more advanced in my career, I ended up with a lovely assistant and also girls who I oversaw who answered to me.  I made sure to be beyond kind, patient and to never forget my years as a PA.  That and being a waitress I reckon, are two of the hardest jobs out there (well, besides hard labor).  Being someone else’s brain/Blackberry.  Whoa.  So this is an ode to all of you assistant’s out in the ether.  The ones with the pictures on cork boards and plants on your desks to give something to call your own.  I hear you.  I really do.  And to bosses out there—be more forgiving.  The job may seem easy because they are sweating bullets to make it appear seamless.  But it is an unbelievable undertaking.  Give a holiday bonus.  Give them a gift here and there.  And just say well done every so often.  And if you ever get a temp who stinks like me, pay em’ off for the week and send them home.  You’re better off.  Unless you like having stained trousers, fucked up E-mails and reservations a Cicconi’s in Los Angeles instead of London (LOL!).

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

Ahhhhhh! To me this is the most beautiful image in the world. A cup of Starbucks coffee exploding towards me waiting for me too lick every last drop. But this also pains me.....because I'm running on empty. There isn't a bloody drop in the damned house!

Dear Ethers,

My worst nightmare. No coffee in the house and no car to remedy the situation.  Now, I know other bloggers have written about coffee and their obsessions with the lustful bean, but I’m a girl who the term “Wake up and smell the coffee,” was coined for.  And I’m REALLY specific about how my coffee is made.  A French press, fat free milk and sugar-free vanilla syrup from Starbucks.  If I’m out, obviously I use Splenda and then I embrace the latte—–oh——-talk dirty to me!  

I never began bad habits like smoking a cig or 2, or drinking this evil elixir until A: I moved to London B: I started dating English gent.  When I was a little girl visiting Manhattan each summer and staying with the Big Apple Beauty, she would have a cup of java every morning with her breakfast.  And I mean, she got the good stuff.  The bullion from the gourmet place that ONLY sold coffee and they had casks all over the store and the walls lined with beans.  She tried to get me to sip it once and I thought it tasted like sour poison.  I didn’t get it.  And then in England everyone in my flat drank coffee like it was water.  In fact, I think they felt the boiling water that went into the coffee was sufficient as their intake for the day.  And Europe has great cafes and I discovered cappuccinos and lattes—I was a lost cause.  

As for cigarettes, oh man, I held out 7 and half years before I began puffing away (I really only smoke about 3-4 a day and sometimes I go a day or 2 without one). In my family, cigarettes were talked about so badly that my mom used to point people out in the street to me and ask me “Do you want to look that ugly and die as well?”  But, I finally had to succumb when I went through Duty-Free at the airport and they were having a buy one get one free offer (you know me, I’m always one for a bargain!).  I always bought English gent a carton and I thought, maybe I’ll buy a light version for me.  I figured, “Hey, If I don’t like, I’ll sell them,” good thinking, right?  WRONG!  I loved them!  Matched with my adoration for coffee, this was a combo my beautiful white teeth had been praying I’d stay away from for 27 years.  I realized that it was nice to have a smoke break at work and chat with people.  It was nice to have something to puff on waiting for the bus, or walking to a destination.  And hey, watching Jonathan Ross with a good sparkling wine and a cig—delectable!  

So you can imagine my disdain when I wake this morning after a very bad night’s sleep, look in an empty bag (left of course by English gent) with one scraggily bean rustling about in the bottom.  Tears, Ethers, tears.  And then, my Dad had taken my car and wouldn’t be back until noon.  It’s 10:44. Kill me.  So, please congratulate me for being able to put 2 sentences together and I apologize if this post is badly written because one eyes is soldered shut and the other is flickering and circling itself looking for help from a lovely cup of Joe to settle its nerves.

And then I digress (what more is there to say……)

On a final note, tonight I go to see the Vintage Valentino Show.  I was given a VIP front row seat by a friend and I am terribly excited.  I wish I wasn’t so damned lethargic.  I feel so unmotivated and lacking oomph lately….I think it’s the chastising at work and the whole drama with gent that is making me feel like a deer in headlights.  Normally, I’d be planning my outfit 9 hours ahead of time and doing twelve facials.  But, I’m in my crappy PJ’s heading off to therapy in a bit and just feeling scared that I’m going alone and won’t have anyone to talk to.  See, I’m going as a civilian not as press so I won’t have anyone next to me to chat with.  But this is a really good networking opportunity.  I promise, if I can, I will take loads of photos and tell you all about it for Saturday’s post (tomm. as we know, is our favorite day–FASHION FRIDAYS!!!!!).  

Okay, I’m gonna go and suck on that coffee bean and hope maybe some of the oil from it might go into my blood stream.

Wish me luck tonight—L.A. has NOT been kind.  I hope people are half-way decent tonight.

Dedicatedly yours, 

—One of 365