The Phantom Balloon Store

BOSS: I'm in a bad mood, just do what I say!
ME: But there IS NO balloon store around the corner.
BOSS: Just go there and get the balloons!
[Employer/Employee Dialogue from this AM, discussed in detail below.]

When Boss Lady is in a pissy mood, nothing matters, save tending to her every waking need or compulsion. If the voice from the other side of this crappy wall starts barking orders, it's motherfucking go time. This morning was relatively calm until suddenly, around 11 AM, I hear this:

BOSS LADY: Maris! I need this done FAST! Run to the balloon store around the corner and get me FOUR COLORED BALLOONS! Red! Blue! Orange! Yellow! Whatever! Beckham needs them ASAP!

For privacy's sake, "Beckham" is how we'll refer to Boss Lady's fifteen year old, soccer-playing, track-running high schooler, since he's the greatest thing that's ever popped out of her vagina. [Note: She has a younger kid who is less awesome and I will undoubtedly be discussing him in a later post...]

Now back to the balloon emergency.

When something needs taking care of immediately I do my best to only ask the necessary questions. What I wanted to know was why the balls Beckham suddenly needed four colored balloons, but my job is to just make it happen. Keys and cell phone in hand:

ME: Where exactly around the corner is the balloon store?
BOSS LADY: Around the corner, I said!

And we have our answer. She comes out of her office to throw a twenty at me and I hightail it around the corner on foot, since she insisted it was close enough to walk. I turn right and start eyeing all the business establishments I pass. Clothing For Pets, Coffee Cafe, Record Store, Children's Clothes... No balloon store.

I hightail my ass in the other direction. Italian Food, Snazzy Restaurant Next To Italian Food, Luxury Paper For Rich People Who Need Stationary... Again, no balloon store. I speed walk back to the office, where she can see me approaching - sans four colorful balloons - from her office window. As soon as I walk in the door:

BOSS LADY: What happened?!
ME (sweat rolling down my face): There is no balloon store around the corner. It doesn't exist. And I checked both corners.
BOSS LADY: I'm in a bad mood! Just do what I say!
ME: But there IS NO balloon store around the corner.
BOSS: Just go there and get the balloons!

Potentially risking my physical and emotional wellbeing by not immediately rushing to this phantom store, I decide to conduct a quick Google search to determine the closest balloon retailer, which I find is 1.8 miles from the office. Fuck if I was going to make that run on foot. Unfortunately, Boss Lady is blocking my compact vehicle in with her luxury SUV [the floor of which is covered with dollar bills that I have to restrain myself from pocketing every time she sends me out to fetch something her lazy ass left in the car]. I tell her I need her to move her car if she wants me to make the balloon run.

Ten seconds later I'm in my car waiting for her to back out when suddenly she's banging on my window, which I roll down so that we might communicate without yelling for a change.

BOSS LADY: I don't have time for this. Give me the twenty, I'll do it myself.

I give her the money, along with the paper on which I wrote the address and phone number of the balloon store that DOES exist and Boss Lady is out, hopefully for the rest of the day.

I still don't know why these balloons were so urgent, but lucky for this assistant, I managed not to burst her metaphorical one this time. Next time I might not be so fortunate...

Introductory Post

I created this blog for theraputic purposes, but others have encouraged me to look at this as a forum to expose my comedic nature, so we'll see what happens. Here's the skinny, kids:

After nearly a year of unemployment following graduation from film school, I finally landed a full-time position as an entertainment assistant here in Hollywood, California at the beginning of December 2008. When she told me the job was mine, I asked my new employer if I could hug her, to which she responded by opening her arms for an embrace that would seal my fate for at least a year - or until I find a way to fuck it up.

Cut to five months later. I still have my job, but the desire to hug Satan has long since faded. Between managing her son's high school soccer teams [yes, that is PLURAL] and having to hook her into exotic dance costumes she orders and has sent to the office [my guess - she doesn't want hubby to see the bill] sometimes I want to do bad things. Like sell her kidneys on the black market. Or substitute her younger son's ADHD medication with caffeine pills. These are my fantasies and god help me, I'm entitled to them.

So here we are. The Boss Lady's Bitch and you. I truly hope you'll check-in every now and again for updates or follow my feed. I promised the boss [who I will try and refer to as Boss Lady in between Satan references and name-calling] that I would stick around for at least a year, so we've got at least another six to seven months of post-worthy antics to look forward to.

Okay, back to patching in her calls while she's at her manicure appointment. Really she's just having her claws sharpened.