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

This article is going to be the end of me. And on shoes, nonetheless....and I LOVE shoes! So, sorry for the rambling below (I needed the break from writing!).......but hey, how badass is this Chanel heel that our Queen Of England, Madonna wore? Now these really are KILLER heels!

Dear Ethers,

A really short one tonight.  My apologies.  Tomorrow could be the same (yes, the victim might be the Wish List!).  I have two enormous feature pieces I am writing that are both due on Tuesday and I am having a really rough time with them.  One is re-working a piece that was really creative (written like a story). It was  bought (yes!) and then my Editor wanted me to add a philosophical element to it that required getting quotes from major companies (which you have to chase, chase, chase) and re-arranging the piece to keep its integrity and also allow it to make sense (no!).  It’s tricky when you sell a piece to a major newspaper.  Once they buy it, they can be cheeky and keep asking you to make little tweaks until it has elements in your work that you never intended.  I really loved my original and wrote it on a whim when a cool event in the fashion world caught my fancy and made me wonder.  It just poured from my fingers and I was so pleased with it.  So was my Editor, but then she wanted to turn it into a leading feature for the week before Christmas—a very savory slot—and needed it to be a more powerful statement story and not as “fun.”  Hey, I get paid per word and am pretty damned psyched, but still, I feel stuck because I don’t think what she’s asking exactly works.  Sighhh…but, this is going to be a big deal and I just started working with this paper (and lord knows I need the dosh and exposure) so I’m not going to say no.  And, hey, a good writer is always one who can take a deep breath and hit the delete button and make edits.  

As for the other piece, you’d think it would be so easy!  I had to interview 3 major shoe designers and ask them each the same 7 questions.  Then, all I have to do is formulate a story about shoes—and hey, even easier, I get to pick the idea of the theme.  I’m allowed a two paragraph lead-in and then I have to weave their answers in cleverly.  Simple, right?  WRONG.  I can’t believe of all things SHOES are giving me a nightmare (maybe it’s my new relationship with shoe gal!).  I think I’ve written and re-written this feature about 4 times and have erased them all without saving one draft.  It’s the main story for a special on shoes for the November 15th issue and I am having is-SHOES!    It’s my first assigned piece from my Editor and I want to show her I’m really good.  She says she’s tried out loads of freelancers and they’ve sucked and I don’t want to fail her.  Maybe she’s cursed me like many a women have cursed a man.  You know, talking about how past boyfriends have stunk in bed right before you and she are about to sleep together.  All sorts of thoughts probably go through their minds and then it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy.  UGH!

Anyway, the fuckers are both due Tuesday, 9AM PST and I am shaking in my boots.  I’ve never been this nervous about my work before.  I think I’ve had the confidence kicked out of me by so many Manolo’s (ha ha…ermm…ha) that I’ve lost my One of 365 pride.  It’s also nerve wracking when you know that one company you work for just fired a shed load of people and are making serious budget cuts which trickle down to you and this might be a way to make up for that loss of much needed cash.  

So, will you forgive me today?  My eyes are crossing from staring at my Mac—I even got desperate enough and tried to distract myself from writing by taking crazy pics with my Photo Booth on my computer.  I’m proud to say that I have wonderful Warhol-esque images of me cross-eyed and sticking my tongue out.  

I have to dish about the party. Some nutters were there and I’ll let you now Mr. Depp, sadly, didn’t show.  But a few famous faces did and a crazy Arab prince arrived and I have a hilarious story about that which will make you wonder if I am lying about some of the crazy shit that happens in my life.  

If you asked me when I was a kid if I would be 29, sitting in front a computer on a Sunday night ready to burn all my heels as a coup d’etat against the governing body of shoes or that I would even be obnoxious enough to use the expression coup d’etat instead of speaking English, then I think I would have tried to buckle down on my math and science skills and tried to become a therapist (I’m nuts, remember—and they say it helps one to know one—maybe I would have been great!).  

Jesus, for a quick post this thing is already almost 900 words with my ramblings.  I can’t ever write a short tid-bit, can I

Sorry for complaining, but it sure was nice to write about something else besides heel height and balls of feet.  And, seriously, no matter how bad this writer’s block is, it certainly beats the red carpet.  BLECHHHHHHHHH!  Sighhh……crystal ball, I beg of you, where will I be in the next 5 years??

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365