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...