The Site

Two years ago, after paying off all of my debt and feeling incredibly free and bold, I decided to start an on-line maternity store. (Put the money in the bank instead of spend it? Are you crazy???) In my big-picture plan, I thought I could start this while working my day job since the Internet is on at all hours of the day, and then in a few years (or year in my plan), make enough to quit my day job to do it full-time. Then, when I was ready to have kids, I’d have a flexible job where I could have my kids around. (I was realistic enough to realize I would still most likely need a nanny to help, but in my mind, I was making enough to pay her, too.)

Anyway, without going into the minutia of starting the business, hiring web designers, getting decent photographs, dealing with a back-end that didn’t work right and again, the web designers who couldn’t fix it, I’ll let you know it fell flat. The inventory is languishing in the office closet (it’s a large closet) waiting for me to raid it for this pregnancy and to sell of the rest of it.

It’s kind of become like a large tumor I pretend I don’t have. “What? That thing? Oh, it’s nothing. It’ll take care of itself.” Or so I hope. I keep dreaming of coming home to an empty closet and a full bank account. Often, I forget all about it until either Pete asks me what I am going to do with it (“Stop asking me! I’ll figure it out!”) or miraculously, someone orders something.

It’s so bad I don’t even check the business email very often, but last week I did, and lo and behold! Someone made it through my unencrypted (it expired) check-out! New hope dawned! I sold a shirt! Perhaps I will revive the shop and unload this stuff at discount prices! Hallalujah! Of course, in between wanting to barf and sleep, I kept forgetting to pack her shirt. So, this morning, I finally sat down to pack up her shirt and send it off with heartfelt thanks. But the size of the shirt she ordered WAS ALREADY SOLD! Yes, I sell things to my friends straight out of the closet (there’s an idea – sell out of the trunk of my car) and I don’t always update the inventory on the site. (Well, I did, but that was on the NEW site that we had rebuilt, but no one knows exists.)

I’m starting to feel like I am always supposed to have an albatross. First, the credit card debt that I did a fine job of accruing, and now, the maternity inventory that I also did a fine job of accruing. I mean, finally, someone wanted to buy something! How, oh cruel world, can this woman want the same white t-shirt as my friend in small?! Where are the big people I keep reading about? Why does everyone want a small???

Frustration is an understatement.

Maybe a week...

This woman wouldn't last a week in Hollywood, or should I say her bosses wouldn't? I mean, four months? Seriously. This was the first time the woman verbally abused her. THE FIRST TIME. Your skin has to be thicker than that to work as an assistant. I know. Lord, don't I know. Every assistant in this town knows.

Crossing the Line

The WGA went on strike on Sunday night. This doesn’t really affect me since I am not a late night TV watcher, and honestly, the shows I watch, well, I can live without them. From what I know, I am on the side of the WGA. Why shouldn’t they get a piece of all the pies they are a part of? All I hear is that digital is the next wave of entertainment. It seems only SMART to want a part of those residuals. Wouldn't anyone?

Today, as I drove across the line on my way to work, I wanted to shout, “Hell yeah! Hold out for the money!” But, I can’t really yell that as I cross the line into the studio where I work. At the end of the day, I need my paycheck and my day rate is a lot lower than most of the unions in Hollywood. So, for any writers out there, I’ve got your back. Silently, but I’m with you.

Calling all emergency personel...

Just when I thought I couldn’t move up anymore in my current job, I get handed new responsibilities. Today, I got named the floor warden. It could have been my striking good looks, or most likely, the fact I sit in a fish bowl so was the easiest target to ask. I tried to think of a reason why I couldn’t be the warden. (I goof off way too much. I’ll be the first to head home given any opportunity. If the building is shaking, I’m getting the fuck out.) But nothing speakable to someone I didn’t know came to mind. So, he handed me the groovy yellow flashlight, a whistle, a map of where to go and promises of bringing me a bright orange vest. Who can resist a woman in an orange vest? I mean really, it says SEX. In prison. Or by the side of the road with the surveyer. Hot.

Being the floor warden is a big responsibility if there is an emergency. Although, the fire guy told me that I don’t have to make sure everyone gets out. I just need to make sure they KNOW to get out. I’m down with that. I figure I can blow the whistle, scream, “FIRE (or earthquake or terrorist)! GET THE HELL OUT OF THE BUILDING!” and head out to safety. I can account for the fools when I’m safe.

I went around my huge floor (all 10 of us) and made sure all of the assistants knew where to go in case of an emergency. Only one smart executive cared to know where this spot might be. My boss even laughed about it. He won’t be laughing when we can’t find him because he is in the wrong parking lot and people are headed into a burning building to find him, or maybe he will. I told the other assistants they are responsible for informing their bosses of the emergency plan. I mean, let’s be realistic here. I was the kid who wanted to sneak home during fire drills in high school. I was the girl who sat under the piano during sorority meetings because I could lay down and no one would notice. I make fun of people in authority roles (is this authority?). I’m hardly the type to be floor warden. But I will rock that orange vest. Now, if they’d only give me a hard hat.