So today I realized I haven’t written in my blog since my first day as a Production Assistant (PA). And by realized, I mean was completely aware and have just been too exhausted after a 12 hour workday to do so. And by exausted I mean lazy, because I spend a good amount of time sitting in front of my computer screen with nothing but time to kill. Or wasting time in ways such as now, as a nerf football is coming my way…
And I’m back. As the comedian Aaron Karo wrote in his last blog entry: Instead of writing a post about how you’ve been too busy to update your blog, just delete your fucking blog.
Which made me say “no,” I don’t want to delete my fucking blog. So I write.
As part of my PA duties I am responsible for picking up our lunch orders every other day. Today was supposed to be an easy pick-up from Whole Food – half the people in the office didn’t order, a huge parking lot was at my access, and the lunch would be carried out in sturdy paper grocery bags, unlikely to break on my car’s backseat, leaking juices into the cushions. The order was simple – only an idiot could mess it up. Or a girl getting hit on by two Swedish men dressed in plaid. Their accent was like a cross between a kid with Down’s syndrome and someone who has sucked the helium out of a large balloon. That voice alone made me cringe. Even in Ikea, where I’d expect such folk, I don’t believe I’ve ever spoken to a Swede. And here, at Hollywood’s Whole Foods, where the only thing needed to be assembled was my salad, these damn Swedes appeared. And appeared again. By the salad bar they commented “oh you’re very particular now aren’t you?” I mumbled something, quickly threw in what was either a bean salad or some rice mixture and moved on. As I reached into my bag to grab our sandwich orders, like the Cheshire Cat, the Swedes reappeared. Jokingly one said to me, “You shouldn’t put things into your bag – security! security!” Then, one actually looked into my bag, as if checking for the pretend items I apparently placed in there. I grabbed the sandwiches off the bar, threw them into my cart and moved onto the sushi. “Oh hello, again.” As I scrambled away, at my last stop to apply the salad dressing I forgot during my first interrupted round, one appeared again. “So how can I get your number – the girl in the stripped shirt?” “You can’t!” I replied as I squirted balsamic vinegar everywhere but onto my salad. I then tried to explain I was currently working in which he replied “You wear that to work.” Okay, so maybe a shirt which has holes that reveal my shoulders isn’t the most professional outfit, but honestly dude, sensitive subject. At my previous job, a meeting with HR in which I thought I was getting promoted, turned out to be a discussion on how my leggings were not work appropriate. Angrily, I stormed to the check-out counter. Upon return to the office, still fuming, it was discovered that I was short one sandwich. I always check the lunch orders, except for this one time. And now this poor woman would go hungry, thanks to the evil Swedes – my feelings towards them as a people no longer neutral.