On Cliff Bars and Lessons in Using the Mute Button

One of the largest components of being an assistant in "the Biz" as they say (they being my grandparents and people who are very out of touch in the Midwest), is listening to phone calls.

What's that? You declare! You're still an assistant? I know, YOU GUYS, I know. I want to shake my head in pity too. But whatever, it's actually kind of the norm here and I do a LOT more than normal administrative stuff and I do all this social media stuff... and anyway before I go down the rabbit hole into that whammy of an existential crisis let's go back to the whole "listening-on-phone-calls" thing.

This morning I see that my boss is on a call (bosses: assistants don't like it when you place calls without them. See, we have very few areas of our professional lives we can control at this juncture, and dialing the goddamn phone is one of them) and I know it's about one of our shows and being the curious little lassie that I am (and knowing full well it's both accepted and expected that I listen to all calls, actually I probably should have been listening sooner...) I decide I will hop on the call to hear what's up.

Meanwhile: I'm eating breakfast. A Cliff bar, to be precise. (Blueberry Crisp - for those of you into gory details and energy bar porn and shit. Weirdos).

So I throw on my headset, pop in a chunk of my sad breakfast into my mouth and begin masticating the shit out of that Cliff bar. I mean - when you're eating a Cliff bar you need to chew the shit out of those things. Especially because the entire time you're convincing yourself that it's a good and normal breakfast and that yes you're totally going to feel full after eating!!!!! and to make you feel EVEN MORE FULL!!!!!! you just need to really chew the shit out of each and every bite you take!!!! YOU CAN DO IT! EMBRACE THE CLIFF BAR!!!!!

(So maybe I have some unresolved issues about Cliff bars... )

So Bossman and Networkman are talking. I'm chewing.

Now wait a minute and let's pause right there (I know what you're thinking and no there's not a real point and I might not ever get there. Deal with it). I want to talk about me and chewing for a moment. See, the name of this here blog is, for those of you who can't read (which by the way means someone is reading this aloud to you, so for that I am sorry, but also hope they know when certain words are to be screamed for extra emphasis), is Jaw Wired Shut - and if you'll recall, yes I've had my jaw wired shut. So when I chew you can actually kinda hear some clinking. Probably something to do with the seven plates of titanium in my face. ANYWAY.

So Bossman and Networkman are talking. I'm chewing. And I've joined the call. 

I'm not on mute.

I'm NOT ON MUTE.

So next thing I know there is a very awkward pause in the conversation and a brief moment of silence in which it's quite clear that Bossman and Network man can hear someone chewing.

That's me: Hey guys. Just chewing the shit out of my Cliff bar directly into the microphone of my non-muted headset microphone. You're welcome!!!!

The good thing was, as soon as they awkwardly paused, I realized my mistake and flipped the mute button on like my life depended on it. But yeah. I just gnawed down with my metal mouth into the ears of two dudes discussing SRS BSNS. That's serious business, you guys. (Not what I actually did with the chewing and the non-muting. This is just a dumb story. SRS BSNS is an acronym for "serious business." Try to keep up, okay?)

Now, there's a way for my boss to see when someone's joined the call, so I'm thinking that as soon as he hangs up he's going to walk over to me and make fun of me, which is one of his favorite pastimes, but THEN -- THEN YOU GUYS -- the Networkman starts chewing. And Bossman CALLS HIM OUT ON IT.  HA! HA! HAHAHAHAHA! We all chew on the phone! Admit it! How often are you eating while you're talking!? I do it, I know YOU DO IT TOO! In fact, I chew in my bosses ear all the time. He might not know it because usually it's muted but it happens.

So yeah that was a CLOSE CALL and then validating and fun and momentarily hilarious (whatever IT WAS FUNNY you had to be there, okay?) and I'm just glad that my cover was maintained but also seriously, Stamos, no mute button? What is this, amateur hour? I've been an assistant for like FOUR THOUSAND YEARS and that's one hell of a rookie mistake! ALWAYS USE THE MUTE BUTTON.

Yeah so I guess that's the moral of this story you guys: REMEMBER THE MUTE BUTTON. And also - Cliff bars aren't worth it. But Blueberry Crisp is okay.

Celebration, Panic, Celebration

I am a lucky asshole.

Seriously.

So, as noted in my airport post yesterday, I spent most of my 25th birthday traveling. While on the 6 hour flight to LA I read a lot in a new book (YA Fantasy, obv) and watched several episodes of 30 Rock before my computer died. Upon arrival, I was so excited to be back in LA I packed up my various carry-ons quite quickly, booked it to the baggage claim, and met DiTonto outside, who had decked out my car in some serious birthday decorations and was blasting Manu Chao—a great welcome home/birthday surprise. (And thank God she brought my car because my 60+ lb. bag would not have fit in her VW Bug). We went straight to one of our fave dinner joints: Panera (so classy) where I got a lot of Happy Birthdays and perplexed expressions when people realized we were, in fact, serious, and yes, in fact, celebrating a 25th birthday dinner at Panera of all places.

While Ash and I were catching up we both commented on visiting friends back East and how everyone else’s apartments seemed to be a lot more “adult” or together than ours is. Then we ran over a giant palm frond, and then in the middle of the road pulled over and I got underneath the car and yanked it out, and we then decided we would bring it to our apartment (and we wonder why our place looks like a cross between a deserted beach shack and a fraternity house).

Back at home we played some video games for a little bit and then, feeling the tug of our messed up time cycles, DiTonto went to bed and I decided I would unpack a little bit and get some sleep myself.

Or so I thought.

I walked into my room and started to go through my stuff, admiring my new shoes, wondering how I left the most random things at home in New York when all of a sudden I realized, with certainty, something, very, very bad.

I left my computer on the airplane.

Yes, I, girl with a computer tethered to her arm, left my beloved machine and keeper of all I hold dear under the seat in front of me on the Goddamn airplane.

Panic ensued. As did feelings of nausea, hyperventilation, as well as a game plan as to how I was going to finance my new MacBook Pro that I would surely have to buy—all without telling my dad for at least a month. Trying to act rationally, I told myself it would be okay because I have most all of my files backed up on an external hard drive I keep at home.

I spent about 45 minutes on the phone with various people at Continental, attempting to discern whether or not my plane had already left LAX, where it was headed to next, and if anyone had discovered a computer on board and was good Samaritan enough to turn it in.

In what felt like a race against time, around 10:45 pm I booked it to the airport, employing techniques from the 20 minutes I once watched of The Secret, reciting, “I will get back this computer. My computer will be returned to me” over and over again, begging with the Universe to cut me some slack—it’s my birthday!

Well, I guess begging the Universe/God for kindness/to return computer works because when I pulled into short-term parking, ran as fast as I could to the Continental desk at the terminal, a nice woman there made a few calls, and twenty minutes later my computer was back in my hands, and I no longer felt a strong urge to vomit.

Like I said, I am a lucky asshole.

Awkward

I just realized that I titled a post (two below) "An Brief Essay." Good work me, you've yet to learn how to us "a" and "an" properly at a mere soon-to-be-25-years-of-age.

Thank goodness this blog has editing capabilities. Sorry for all those who must suffer my occasional lapses in spelling/judgement/sanity/proofreading.