Pop the cork people, I finally got the call! Yes, one agonizing week in the making (involving a few strategically placed nudges─timed impeccably, of course) and the deed is done! Color me Damien’s new executive assistant.
I’d give you the blow-by-blow (so to speak!) but my pregnant predecessor doesn’t make for good copy, so suffice to say she phoned, I accepted, and I may have promised to crochet something called a onesie for the newborn. Whatever. When the time comes, I’ll buy the most expensive whatsis known to man and charge it to Damien’s expense account.
(Damien’s expense account...pardon me while I fan myself.)
So, heed the lesson, ladies. Chromosomes (a la Paris and Nicole) may be the preferred route to the rich and powerful, but if you’re born deprived, rest assured alternatives are out there. Just ask Candy Spelling. (Sidenote: Brava, Candy! Way to downsize, girl! I'm dying to see what a poor widow gets for $2,848 a square foot these days. By the way, send my housewarming invite in care of Damien’s office, 'kay?--I'll be sure to bring a covered dish as a welcome to the neighborhood.)
In life, there are multiple paths to obtaining your heart’s desire...and sliding into the position as Damien’s assistant next week is only the first step of mine.
I'm so thrilled you’re along for the journey!
Greetings from La-La Land!
As of this very moment, Natasha’s joining the mile-high club somewhere over the Pacific, and within mere hours she’ll be cuddling Koalas and saying stuff like g’day mate. Doncha love it when a plan comes together? Me, too! (Shout out to the minions in my web who helped make it happen!)
All we need now is the final piece of the puzzle--namely, the phone call from Damien’s office awarding me the job. Should I wear a suit my first day? Or shall I go with something more feminine? Decisions, decisions!
Meanwhile, I’ve been catching up on my TiVo’d programs, and let’s just say I’m shocked and appalled by the current round of “celebrity” reality shows. I mean, come on, people. Seriously? Denise Richards…the Kardashians…Dina Lohan? Why so many hours dedicated to chicks with nothing going on but their alleged hotness?
At least Paula Abdul has a life. A scary one, to be sure, but a life. Y’know, awards shows, Home Shopping Network appearances, American Idol…unlike an episode with Denise where the highlight is watching her make love to a stripper pole in front of her gal pals.
And don’t get me started on “Brooke Knows Best.” At first, I was like, Brooke who and what makes her an authority? Then I tuned in. Oh, puh-leeze…Brooke HOGAN. Here’s where I learned what happens when your ex-wrestler dad splits from your mom and your brother’s thrown in the slammer. You get your own reality show, complete with a Miami condo, a rooftop hot tub, and a killer view! (Hm. Maybe Brooke DOES know best.)
All I can say is, when are the cable channels gonna wake up and discover the queen of reality should be…me?
Ah, Sunday....will I ever be able to enjoy another one now that Nic’s named her progeny Sunday Rose? Or eat that gelatin crap now that Brangelina has produced a Knox? (Don't get me started on how long it's gonna take that poor twin to scrawl out Vivienne Marcheline...)
Hey, speaking of the Aussie’s, I tapped into my Down Under network this weekend and all I can say is, thank the Lord those people know how to return a favor! I mean, my plan is nearly fool-proof as long as one highly popular screenwriter comes through as promised. Check it out: the script’s being shot in Natasha’s favorite vacation spot, the male lead is a guy she’s been stalking for years, and the producer’s assistant just checked into rehab.
The heavenly bodies are aligned! It must be Fate!
Yes, come Monday, Natasha Duncan will be expressing her regrets to Damien’s office and respectfully withdrawing her application.
Make room for Sascha!
This is me after a frustrating day of phone tag with one A-list director who is DEFINITELY off my Christmas list! I mean, who does he think he is, refusing to help me detour Natasha from the job in Damien's office? Doesn't he remember who wangled his big break in the first place? I'm tellin' ya. If I could perform a Barbara Eden head-blink and send him back to the mailroom, I would. He deserves it.
Well, you know me. There's always Plan B.
Greetings From La-La Land!
Lesson for the day? Do not—I repeat, do NOT—ever leave anything to chance.
Case in point: after still no word yesterday—I know…beyond depressing!—I got on the horn and put my network in motion. Well, guess what? Turns out the job is down to me and…wait for it now…that’s right, you got it--my arch nemesis, Natasha Duncan.
Don’t know who I’m talking about? Let me paint the picture: Natasha would knock her own granny over if it meant beating me to the sales rack at Nordstrom’s. She’d slip cyanide in my Cosmo if it meant more face time with my date. In short, she’s a lying, cheating, byotch.
Other than that, a stellar human being.
Trust me on this. I’ve done battle with her before and have the scars to prove it. But, not this time, ladies and gents. Not this time. All bets are off. I may have been too trusting in the past—the newbie on the scene believing she’d found a mentor—but no more Ms. Nice Chick.
Which means I’m hauling out the big guns. (Yes! I have big guns! How cool is that?) You see, after the last skirmish (involving a minor battle over a parking space which escalated into full-scale warfare complete with crumpled fenders and the arrival of about a dozen uniforms), I took it upon myself to bone up on Ms. Duncan. That’s right. I have a dossier so thick it requires plastic tabs and color-coded separation sheets. The thing reads like a who, what, why, where, when, and how of Natasha’s standard M.O. (modus operandi).
In other words, I’ve got enough dope on the chick to deep-six any dream she has of working for Damien.Stay tuned...
Alas, nothing to report on the job front. Can't say I'm surprised, though. With the 3-day weekend approaching, this town's deader than Madonna and Guy's marriage. No doubt Damien's already made his escape, so I'm not likely to hear back until next week.
Que sera sera, y'know? What will be, will be.
And my money's on a favorable answer by Tuesday.
By the way, what is UP with that snotty Jeremy Piven? Do you believe he had the nerve to leave me off the guest list this weekend? I mean, he couldn't still be thinking of that time...oh well, never mind.
Anyway, I'm not about to sit around and mope. Hell, no! I'm escaping myself!
Okay, so I haven't accepted an invitation to cruise the Mediterranean on Tiger's yacht. (I'm still workin' on that one, people.)
But I will be at sea...somewhere...with someone!
Greetings from La-La Land!
Hate to sound like a broken record—oops, make that a CD—but as I’ve said before, Hollywood politics are one huge yawn. Here’s why:
It’s the big day, right? My up-close, in-person interview with Damien? Not that I’m the kinda girl who sweats this stuff, but I have to admit, even I had a small case of the jitters this morning. Nevertheless, I arrived early enough to do some more of the bonding thing with my new BFF —y’know, the pregnant knitter obsessed with 18th century poets whom I hope to replace as Damien’s exec assistant. Then she sent me down to personnel where I filled out enough forms to kill a small forest before I zoomed back upstairs.
Finally, at about ten thirty (and thank God not a minute too soon because the BFF's BS’ing was seriously starting to make me nod off), she took me into Damien’s lair, er, suite.
Only he wasn’t there. (Note to self: Damien prefers his office to run like a medical practice—minus the sub-zero examining tables and the hideous open-backed gowns—meaning, he likes keeping visitors on deck.)
Which had its pros and cons, frankly. I mean, sure I didn’t relish yet another delay in the long-awaited meet, but on the upside, I got to scope out the office. Oh, yes. Not a detail escaped my scrutiny. From the masculine muted tones to the simple yet unspeakably expensive sports memorabilia. (See? A jock—new, potentially critical info!) I filed everything away in my Damien memory bank.
Finally…a pocket door slid open, and he stepped through.
Oh. My. God.
A smile more pricey than my BMW…the kind of blue eyes that blind you when they twinkle…I’ll confess. I had a hard time maintaining the infamous Sexy Sacha composure.
But rest assured, I did…which was its own reward because sure enough, as I placed my hand in his and let my lids lower just so, I heard his breath catch.
Is there a sound in the universe more gratifying? I think not.
He settled behind his desk to conduct the interview, beginning with small talk (which I expertly maneuvered to last week’s no-hit Dodger win.) Next we moved on to the job and what it entailed. Blah, blah, blah, yada, yada, yada.
Trust me. I aced the oral exam.
And just when I began dreaming of another kind of oral exam—
The freaking intercom.
With an apologetic glance, he picked up the phone, and listened a moment. “Tell George to wait. I’ll be right there.”
The damn union business again. I was sure of it.
Much to my dismay and annoyance, Damien ran off before I could seal the deal. Interviewus interruptus, if you get my drift.
But I’m not too worried. I know I made an impression. Sexy Sascha doesn’t fly under the radar.
I expect the call any minute.Stay tuned...
Greetings from La-La Land!
Hey, people. In the words of prescient pop icon Rodney King, can’t we all just get along?
I’m referring, of course, to the mounting tension between the two unions in this town. Personally, I don’t know which one to root for. I mean, come on. SAG? What woman wants to be a member of something called SAG? Perish the thought! And AFTRA? Sounds like a bunch of burly butt-crack types if you ask me.
Politics. What a snooze-fest.
But don’t worry. A little war between Messrs. Hanks and Nicholson’s not about to distract me from the important task of the day…which is to decide on the perfect outfit for tomorrow!
I’m goin’ with what I call understated sexy. Professional, yet subtly alluring. A snap, really. And now that I’ve got that figured out, I’m off to scour the new issue of People for pix of Damien.
So Friday at the Ivy was a bust. One of the Brangelina Brats had a hang nail (or something equally lame) and the whole entourage evaporated before I arrived. Bummer.
But. . .guess what was on my answering machine when I got home? Drum roll, please!
And I quote: “Mr. (name redacted!) can meet with you on Tuesday at 10 a.m. here at the office. We look forward to seeing you.”
Squee! My interview with Damien!
(Pardon me while I get a good old-fashioned case of the vapors. . . . . . . . .okay, I’m back. Winded, but back.)
Just think. Approximately forty-eight hours from now, I'll be breathing the same air as Damien. Can you imagine?? Not only that, (here come the vapors again!) we'll touch for the very first time. I can picture it already. He'll rise from behind his desk...his eyes will light up with male interest...and when he extends his hand to shake mine, I'll allow the moment to linger a tiny bit longer than it should.
Stop right there, Sascha.
See, this is the tricky part--where the finesse of a seductress outscores the impulse of a rookie. The careful thing to remember is that when it comes to the war of love, victory is rarely achieved in the first battle, and instant gratification must often be sacrificed in favor of the short-term goal.
Yep. The goal on Tuesday, my friends, is the job, not the man. But trust me...It's only a matter of time.
Oh, crap. Speaking of time, I'm late. Gotta gussy up for the big to-do at the Malibu Pier tonight. Can you believe it's finally re-opening? And, please. We're talking MALIBU. Think of the celebs! Hell, they don't even have to fire up the Hummer--they can practically walk!
Hm. Maybe Damien'll be there!
The good news?
I aced the meet-up with his exec assistant—the one going on-maternity-leave (translation: early retirement). Like I said yesterday, we have a roundabout connection, so I dug up enough info on the chick for a separated-at birth-epiphany. (Knitting? What a coincidence! I just finished an afghan! Obscure eighteenth century poets? Love them!) Seriously. I don't know how this oddball snagged such a primo job in the first place.
Anyway, now for the bad news.
Not even a glimpse of HIM. Muy disappointing, but a minor setback in the scheme of things. As long as I advance to round two in the process, it’s all good.
By the way, to make things easier, I’ve decided to give HIM an alias. What do you think of Damien?
Oops. Gotta run. Tess just called with a Brangelina sighting at the Ivy, complete with a pack of paps frothing at their Nikons. What could be better on a Friday afternoon?
Stop the presses…I’ve got HUGE news. I mean, we’re talking bigger than huge. Ginormous, maybe.
See, in case you weren’t aware, getting ahead in Tinsletown is all about who you know…and, baby—my BlackBerry has names and numbers you wouldn’t believe. So I got a call this morning from Tess who heard from Zoe that Rachel Preston’s sister-in-law is preggers.
You know what that means, right?
It means HE’s gonna be in the market for a new assistant!
Hallelujah! Step right up! Interview time!
So I instructed Tess to get ahold of Zoe who in turn phoned Rachel Preston’s sister-in-law, and voila! A two o’clock appointment for tomorrow! (You didn’t think I’d go through personnel, did you? Come on. That’s a fast track to Rejection City.)
Anyway, cross your fingers!
And stay tuned…
Greetings from La-La Land!
Fasten your seatbelts…I saw him tonight!
Yes, savvy seductress that I am, I scored an invite to the premiere of Deathstar 2, the latest from the folks who brought you that stellar production, Deathstar 1. (Quelle horreur, people. Trust me. Wait for Netflix.)
Anyway, so I gussied up in my finest knock-offs and single-mingled in the lobby, hoping for a glimpse. Suddenly, there he was in all his Armani glory. Bond-like in a tux, the obligatory starlet tucked under his arm with lashes so fake her lids drooped from the weight of the glue, he leaned over to whisper something in her ear. She responded with a silly schoolgirl giggle.
(Gag. Naivete and cleavage—not my favorite combo. Don’t get me started on the tacky number from Frederick’s. How thoroughly pathetic.)
Yet effective, y’know? For even as I watched, I saw the signs—the flirtatious smiles, the furtive winks, the private conversation—all prelude to the imminent sexual encounter. I know, because I study this behavior. I’m a master of this behavior. The dense little moron with a death-grip on her date could take lessons in seduction from moi.
(Hell, he’s a man…they practically seduce themselves.)
Ah, yes. There it was. The subtle disengaging from the crowd…the imperceptible swerve toward a side exit. Libidos taking precedence over a movie they didn’t care to see anyway.
No one noticed but me.
A moment later, they disappeared from view, swallowed by the labyrinth of hidden hallways leading back to their limo. Soon--maybe even en route to his palatial Hollywood estate--they'd strip off their clothes and engage in carnal frenzy.
He’d be hers tonight. Perhaps even several nights.
But I’m not worried. She won’t last longer than it takes for him to commit her name to memory.
Then it will be my turn.