The Naked Truth Behind a D-Movie

The blundering bumble from a poorly written script is part of my ever challenging life of auditioning. What happened to my former life of Shakespearean Old English stage productions and comedic endeavors written by me? I'm not saying I'm a comedic genius, but I'd rather perform a stand-up show that flops, than a sexy maiden speaking poor English for a D-Movie production. Hey, they make money off of DVD sales, I get it, but really? Are you serious?

My cousin rehearsed lines with me one night and she couldn't stop laughing, because the script was so poorly written that it was almost not worth walking in for the call. It was one of these hot babes and violence deals. Ironically, I booked a role like this recently and I turned it down. I turned it down! In the past, young and desperate to act, I may have taken this role, but now...are you kidding me? I understand when the role calls for a certain type of action, and even though I might feel uncomfortable, I am the type of girl who wears a turtleneck instead of a bathing suit to the beach, and I admit, that is also an extreme reaction, so I have to get over this as an actress. Show a little skin? Sigh...fine.

One fruitful day back in Hollywoodland, I dressed in my confident get-up to prance around Bev Hills and as I walked down Rodeo Drive, I noticed a management company with a store front heading "Zeus Management" a pseudonym...highly unusual as these types of agencies don't usually solicit their business to the public, but nevertheless I walked in, uninvited. I was a cute 24 year old redhead, confident that I'd at least get a second glance, so me being uninvited was never an issue. I simply didn't care if they kicked me out.

The Greek man standing next to a wall of headshots, turned around and scowled at my unannounced arrival. He took my headshot and as I was heading out the door, he told me to sit down for a moment. Wow! Really? My uninvited entrance actually worked this time! So there I sat listening to his mumbo jumbo about what it means to be an actress in Hollywood. My excitement stemmed from my immediate response of "he is interested in signing me! Finally, an agent in Hollywood!" and then I slowly realized, as he kept speaking, that his actors were objects to him. He told me that acting requires you to accept roles you won't feel comfortable doing and I must take whatever role was offered, no matter how much nudity was in the film. WHAT????

Just to paint a positive picture here, he was obviously a fraud. My agent here is one of the best in the city and she said "If you feel uncomfortable wearing shorts and a tank top on set, I respect that. Never accept a role you feel comprises who you are as a well-trained actor." THANK GOD there are people like her. Mr. Zeus, above, didn't respect a single soul that graced his glamorous wall of working actors. Whether they knew that or not, I don't know. Some actors come from outer space and some come from a well-trained Shakespearean background with a degree and that single degree gets me further than an alien actress from the moon, I'll tell you that much.

Act like you have a Real Job

I took a not-so-long break from the art of acting, as I settled back into Canada. Acting in LA was more on the comedic side of things in more ways than one. It consisted of Friday night hosting at the Laugh Factory for South Floridian retired tourists wearing Hawaiian shirts and silver-grey ponytails as their "fancy" clothes to a swanky Hollywood comedy club. Oh yes, sitting ducks for teasing, usually because they sat in the front row, hoping to what? Become blinded by the stage lights? What were these people thinking? Sitting ducks, I say. Quack, Quack for Hollywood.

I had a swanky job at a Hollywood studio and used my lunches as a disguise for jaunting off daily to commercial and print auditions; a tedious adventure as I hoped to make it back to my office before forcing unsuspecting entrepreneurs to sign on the dotted line for whatever sordid deal we were conjuring up that day. It was a bit of a tedious endeavor...driving around in ridiculous Hollywood, auditioning and the other side of who I am, an uptight business woman? It doesn't make sense, does it?

Usually, my adventures would be for some silly AXE Body Spray commercial where I had to take a bite out of a fictitious chocolate man, a commercial which won a prize at Cannes, yet only paid their actors $1000 flat for the role. Those Robber Barons! After the audition, I'd frantically speed back to the studio as fast as I could, and role into my office in less than an hour. I had it down to an art, seriously. I knew every secret route in LA which would lead me to my destination sans traffic. I should write a book for LA visitors "How to Drive in LA like an Actress who Auditions on her Lunch Break."

Now I am back in Canadia, with a fantastic agent pushing me into great roles for "Supernatural" and "Smallville" on a regular basis. It has been very odd getting back into the swing of things. I thought I'd have some time to prepare mentally for these high-caliber roles and high-density auditioning. I'm seeing everyone I've ever wanted to be like in these tense waiting rooms. All are actors I've admired, hoped to audition against, and then I realized something; I AM one of those actors I wished to be for so long! Horrah! The time has come, so what is my problem?

Here is a taste:

At around 4pm, the night prior to my audition, my phone rings. I see the call display from my agent's assistant. I panic. I have an audition the next day around 6pm out at Northshore Studios in North Vancouver and I know that my whole night is now shot. Whatever plans I had are now cancelled or cut short (my boyfriend's favourite) and rehearsing for three hours happens to become my priority. Not that this is a bad thing, but it is the life of an actor. Its the constant battle between wanting these auditions so badly, and keeping a full time job to pay the bills. Which is more important? To me, my acting and TV writing is what I want to do for a living. It is what I trained for years at university for, twice, but I like the stability of an important job as a career woman in the business world, and that too is my reality.

However, receiving last minute phone calls for auditions causes unbelievable anxiety to the point where panic attack-induced worry causes lack of sleep, a dismal next day at my real job, and an audition you wish you had nailed better than you did. I am obsessed with rehearsing, though. I don't go to bed until I know that I can carry a decent audition through the terrible nerves I conjure up while sitting in the tension-you-can-cut-with-a-knife waiting room the next day.

I have refused to become a slave to just one career and I have a steady job that I actually enjoy to a certain extent. It is in the commercial industry where I network and conjure up creative ideas for commercials. I don't audition for commercials anymore, I produce them. How ironic.

One day, the clouds of anxiety will lift, and I will be left to wonder what all my stress was about when I was doing exactly what I wanted to do in the first place. Until the ultimate call of casts occurs, and I see my name lit up on the screen as a story editor, actor, writer or producer, I will not stop my pursuit. I may learn to relax, but I will not learn to rest until the satisfaction of accomplishment becomes better than just plane old satisfactory.

Star Struck or Being Struck Down...Preferences Anyone?

Having just returned from the bold and the beautiful star-studded Toronto Film Festival, I quite honestly miss LA...slightly.

What does it take to get to that "star" caliber? I wandered aimlessly around Toronto this past weekend hoping that I would become star struck by an angelic vision of a glamorous movie star. Instead, I was struck down by human bulldozers as they tried to take a snap shot of Viggo from "Lord of the Rings." At least, I think it was him. It was hard to tell while being blinded by all of the flashing bulbs from the point and shoot cameras held by amateur paparazzi-fans beside me.

I like Toronto. I like it better than LA and possibly even New York, but the weather wouldn't suit my fancy. I once camped out in -20 degree weather, and I had to keep pinching myself to make sure I didn't fall asleep in my outdoor refrigerator, fearing I might never wake to see the light of day again. That would put a whole new meaning to freezing yourself in a time capsule, wouldn't it? But...I digress.

I met up with my up-and-coming actor friend who will be very famous in a matter of months. He will humbly disagree with me on that point, but I have the utmost faith in his career, mainly because he has his head on his shoulders which I can't even say for myself. Is that how you "make it" in sordid Hollywoodland? The other option is to imitate the likes of Amy Winehouse and become famous for “trying” to detox in a five star institute. These are the two extremes of Hollywood; creative stability and creative insanity. I will opt for the former.

My claim to fame this weekend was being interviewed by the "New Tang Dynasty Television" station...what? Yes, that was my question too. They told me they were Russian reporters, but that they are based out of New York, but part of a Chinese TV station. I figure it sounds multicultural, so good on them, oui? You can view the hilarity here by cutting and pasting this link into your browser...
http://english.ntdtv.com/?c=256&a=4831

They were interested in my opinion on the Finnish film "Three Wise Men" which was a great take on men drinking copious amounts of alcohol in a Karaoke bar, all the while reflecting on their sordid and disturbing lives. It was like watching a male version of "Sex in the City" combined with a Finnish re-make of "Leaving Las Vegas." I was left feeling equally hungover and pleased that my life wasn't even half as bad as these "wise men."

In any case, going to a film festival has inspired me. What things could I do with MY life? Maybe next time, the Russian reporter will be replaced by Ryan Seacrest, and I too will have flashing bulbs of star struck fans vying for my million dollar smile. Uh...right. Would I even want that? Careful what you wish upon a star for…

By Ms. Heels

Flakes of the Centered and Balanced Cosmopolitan Lifestyle

Why is it that the biggest flakes in Hollywood claim to be the most balanced? It is always someone creative, artsy, and nuts about yoga who, lets face it, is just plain nuts. I’m a creative almond myself which is why it is irritating to be pigeonholed into the same flakes and nuts cereal bowl.

For example, lets pretend you are set to meet someone for lunch or coffee. If it is a man in Hollywood you are meeting, he will almost always suggest "cocktails" which, if you are a woman, you should politely suggest lunch as not to get yourself in a sticky situation, and you know I'm talking about the residue left from spilling a sugary cosmo on yourself while trying to slap the scum-bag's hand off your thigh. You call, confirm the time, and they inevitably cancel. First time, no problem. Its understandable. The second meeting is set up immediately upon cancellation, and then on the day of, they cancel again, but this time with an elaborate excuse like “my house is flooding.” Oh really? Its So Cal. It doesn't rain here. Ok, so you know they're lying, but you give them the benefit of the doubt and stupidly set up the third, the fourth and even *sigh* the fifth meeting before you sheepishly realize you are now the test dummy in their experimental reality show called “who is the sucka now?” Well, suck it up and walk away. They aren’t worth being the slurping straw you keep trying to suck that last tiny drop out of anyway.

When this happens in Hollywood North, it might be the Canadiana perspective of trying not to rock the boat if it is a business meeting cancellation, because Canadians don’t like confrontation. In America, there is no excuse for such elusive behavior, since Americans usually do what they do best and bluntly show their disgust for the world or people around them without pressing the sensor button. I actually admire those yanks for their lack of passive aggressive comments such as “I don’t think you fit here” or just the plain old “lets face it, you suck” which is usually the New York style of extinguishing a contact. Hey, at least you aren't left wondering what happened.

This flaky five meetings in a row cancellation policy happens a lot in the Film and TV industry and everyone tries to save face in case that contact happens to make it big, no matter who is on the receiving “cancelled-on” end. They say, don’t burn any bridges, but why the heck not? Bridges can always be re-built and usually with some better contact materials!

Stay tuned for a glam story on the casting couch...don't worry, I don't sit on dirty couches.

By Ms. Heels

An Actress without Dysfunction...An Oxymoron.

The forebrain does not fully develop until the age of 25, so naturally, at the age of 24, moving to Los Angeles knowing absolutely no one, seemed logical. At 25, when one develops that elicit forebrain, you begin to think of consequences, danger and possibly even...death. At 24, you’re invinsible.

So there I was, without a brain, leaving for the Hollywood Hills where my mother took her first breath at The Hollywood Presbyterian Hospital fifty some-odd years prior to my arrival. Packing my bags to escape to my mother’s “home” town, practically overnight, seemed adventurous, glamorous and somewhat naive. I knew only one person in Hollywood...one person in the 10 million plus city was at least…someone.

One would think that an actress probably comes from a broken home of vodka-holics, foster-child abandonment, middle-America poverty, trailer trash Aunts and Uncles, and abusive dead-beat, just out of jail boyfriends. You know, the stuff that memoirs are made of. Me? Well…my entire family is well-educated, employed, and they have all of their teeth.

I was always the chatty kid, the one who loved to perform, laugh, make up stories, and write radio shows. I even pretended I was some big time studio exec, which is ironic because of where my career headed later…similar to that office game I used to play, minus the "big time" part, but I’m only 27, so only time will tell. I was the perfect prodigy for a stage mom to exploit, however, my parents were too busy in school to even entertain the thought of making me into the next Jodie Foster or Shirley Temple, so I entertained myself. No one pushed me to become an actress/comedian, except my highschool acting teacher who was also the same woman who taught the Matrix star. My acting teacher, who abandoned her own daughter to become an actress (dysfunction at its best), sat me down one day and said “Stephanie, you are a talented comedic actress, and I encourage you to get your Bachelor of Fine Arts degree and pursue this as a career.” Oh, really? I thought actors just wake up one morning, glance at their reflection (several times) in the mirror, and narcissistically believe their looks will grant them an Oscar as a result of their fab genes. Actors can be *gasp* educated?

I was aiming for my biology degree until I decided on a whim to audition for the acting program at The University of British Columbia, eh? Only twelve were accepted each year, so it was more of a competition with myself to see if I could get in, rather than an “I really want to do this” career. I thought, if I make it, I’ll become an actress and earn my Bachelor of F^&@# all, as one ignorant ex called my degree. If I don’t, a doctor. Fate led me to the land of Mephistopheles…Hollywood.

Looking back, I certainly could have taken the “easier” path of becoming Dr. So-in-So. Who places “easy” and “doctor” in the same sentence? An actress with hindsight.

That fated day of January 10th, 2005 where I left a man-boy I had been dating for all of two seconds, who’s name I can’t remember, but it was something generic like Dave or Matt or Pablo or something, was the turning point when my forebrain sprouted early. There was a moment of discomfort when my brand new 2004 tin-can of a Nissan Sentra was stuck in four hours of traffic on the grapevine. As I was stuck on the ten lane freeway, packed with other youngins with stars in their eyes, I glanced at that infamous Hollywood sign thinking “this is a BAD sign.” Somehow, I knew this was going to be a lot tougher than I thought, and maybe it was time to pray to my angels in Los Angeles for some much needed guidance. Are there even angels in LA?

It wasn't all bad at first, it was all bad later.

The Bad: All within a month, I got into a car accident, had my wallet stollen, was dumped by my British boyfriend, dropped my cell phone in the toilet…twice, and started serving tables. Doesn’t that sound like fun? Sign me up!

The Good: My dream had always been to perform on the Comedy Store stage ,and I accomplished my goal within the first two weeks of living in Hollywood for a TV show "Polly" Shore was producing and no, "Polly" Shore is not dead. I know what you are thinking...isn't it Pauly? Yes, but he is kind of feminine, so I changed his name. Comedy Store stage? Check. Mission accomplished, time to move home.

But I didn’t head home, I headed for The Hills, and that is where the story begins…

To Be, or Not to Be...A Londoner

Picture this...



A vacation of high tea in splendid grandeur, surrounded by romantic renaissance architecture, gestures of European affection toward pastry treats, and Shakespearean worthy adventures in the Cotswolds. Bored yet? Envious yet? Shall I continue...yet?


Honestly, Los Angeles seems like a fetus compared to such a cultured city of mouth watering fashion, highly performed British speech and note-worthy theater outings in the overseas market of London town. I'm almost embarrassed to talk about what LA has to offer compared to what I have just experienced!


After having taken my extravagant adventure in order to find the Hugh Grant to my Julia Roberts in Notting Hill, I was also cordially surprised to find that I could possibly become quite the alcoholic in a society based around having a pub on every corner. How fun! Ten pounds later and I'm re-thinking that thought. Perhaps London-born folk aren't that healthy, but they sure know how to enjoy this sordid short life we all live. Remember, I come from the land that makes starvation in Africa look like child's play, and enjoying life means hitting the trendy clubs where "The Hills" ladies "might" appear. Ooo La La-uren Conrad!


Why isn't LA like Europe? What is wrong with having a bit of culture, history, and God forbid, CLASS. Europeans have this way of housing a secret affinity for cultured awareness. The most surprising of individuals can tell you the history of a 15th century pub owned by Henry VIII back in the days where vulgarity was a virtue, and gluttonous stuffings of the face were fancifully rewarded, but the pub still lives regardless of either one getting in the way.


I had a marvelous host though, which makes all the difference in the world. Sharing a pint of Bitter, my new favorite drink, with the Hugh Grant of Hugh Grants (before Devine Brown) fulfills that European fantasy, doesn't it? Forget Hollywood glamour, I'd rather spend time with a dapper commonwealth chap ready to play a drinking game before a cultured theater event. The best of both worlds!


The Cotswolds:
I'm sure the romantic fantasy of moving to a small sheep town emulates mouth watering notions of Jane Austen's Wentworth Miller coming to rescue you ladies on his white horse and I have to admit, it isn't far from the truth! Could have sworn I was courted to milk a goat one morning followed by a jaunt to the country estate. All in one day? Why, but of course!


Lets pretend for a moment that you have tickets to a horse race. I'm not talking about the sleazy Hollywood race track and casino, I'm talking about something along the lines of THE ROYAL ASCOTT. Don't get too excited, I wasn't there, but I did see the posh folk who happened to be dressed in their finest racing tweeds that morning at tea. While their high Brit greetings of "darling" and "chap" perfumed the morning's aura of seemingly having just arrived from tea with the Queen, I was...well...trying not to feel embarrassed, nor stick out like a sore thumb by reference of my American drawl asking for more milk in my English Breakfast...tea, that is. I did "try" to resume my famous posh impression of Bridget Jones' accent several times while embarrassing my host, I'm sure! Brit in my last life? Perhaps.


Other than the beautiful Cotswolds, High Tea at the Wosley (doesn't that sound posh?) and splendid hours at The Victoria Pub where Princess Di used to date young chaps, one must wonder if this is how Londoners actually live. Perhaps this is the UK's version of a mature Disneyland, minus Mickey and Minnie unless those are the names of your race horses at Ascott.


I can always go back when I finally get sick of rummaging through my glamorous life in LA. I make the most of pretending to be a movie star half of the time, but Europe is different. I didn't have to pretend to be anyone but myself. Such a satisfying bonus of contemplation and self reflection.

Hey London...time for tea!
Ms. Heels

Big Boys on Planes, Trains and Automobiles...

Does anyone actually believe their life is a cookie cutter image of a sitcom?  Of course! That is how these brilliant writers come up with such prolific nonsense, however, it isn't really nonsense at all...it is life.

I fly up to San Fran from LA every so often as part of my big-time studio "experience" and I've noticed that San Francisco is full of organic health nuts, and not the kind you buy at Whole Foods.  While Los Angeles is the wicked step-child of its Northern and more beautiful Cinderella-clad city, one might imagine they could very well be rivals, but at least they both have something in common; eating healthy or more appropriate for LA, starving yourself. Apparently, this news flash didn't reach the two gents I am about to talk about, deservingly, in this blog.

For my more tedious forced employment aside from blogging, acting, writing, and eternally trying to lose five pounds, I head to San Fran every other week for some good ol' fashioned e-commerce fun...not.  Does anyone use "not" anymore?  Who cares, I'm bringing it back. Some might think "lucky girl" getting to jet set her way through business opportunities for a Hollywood studio that any MBA grad would kill for, but I don't actually get to enjoy SF, because I am In-N-Out like the burger, but I know the staff on Southwest very well...I've made temporary friends. They give me extra peanuts upon my arrival.  Bonus.

Anyway, Southwest Airlines is my poverty mobile to and fro San Fran and LA.  Before this job, I had never flown Southwest. I am more of the Canadian breed, pompously refusing to fly on anything that is a terrorist target and therefore choosing only upper-class airlines such as the Canadian owned WestJet! Yeah baby!  Why do you think Canada is "up" above the USA? Americans hit below the belt anyway, it's fitting.  So after my taxi cab hijack-induced driver rushes me to my "oh please can I miss this flight so I can run away from LA" check-in time, I realize that SW doesn't have assigned seating. No assigned seating?!  What is this? Even homeroom had assigned seating in grade school.  Apparently SW hasn't taken that notion of no child left behind. Well...I wish SW had left me behind on this flight.  Where was the Bush administration now...hmm?  Leave me behind, damn it!  Take it from me, foreign policy at its best, boot those Canadian draft dodgers over the border. Honestly, as a Canadian myself I wouldn't mind a bit, but America is the land of opportunity! So where is my Oscar? Liars.

So there I was, late for my flight, and stuck at the very back of the line in order to get a standing room only "seat" on the 1970's soul plane.  Now, prior to this I was minding my own business, and this hot-looking fellow ahead of me in line started chatting and chatting and chatting and...not so hot-looking anymore.  He worked for the railroad and apparently chain smoked. Attractive. Say "hi" to Thomas the Tank Engine for me, will ya?  He did manage to squeeze in "I hope you don't get stuck between two fat dudes!"  I didn't like his remark, as I found it offensive to call people "fat" because it isn't always their fault. However, he did have a point, but I have faith in the airline Gods that they have noticed I've been a good girl this year and Santa wouldn't dare put coal in my shoe or seat, in this case.

The coal was hot and burning that night, because guess who got the last seat on the plane? Not chatty chatty bang bang...nope, it was me.

Flight Attendant:  You might not want that seat.

Me: I don't care, really. I just want to get home.

Flight Attendant:  That seat is the smallest on the plane, so you might REALLY want to re-consider.

To where? THE PLANE IS FULL, LADY! I think at this point the FA would have gladly offered me her seat, because she felt so sorry for me.  The lavatory would have been a better option, because what I'm about to tell you is the description of an opening scene of a sitcom.  

I look to my right and there it was, the two inch seat. Two inches, because of the large over-flow of what you wouldn't call "muscle" from the young man gnawing at his burger while listening to his APPLE iPOD (nice plug Apple...product placement on your unhealthy American...wish I had a camera) was practically infused with the larger than anticipated thigh build-up from the gin guzzling business man on his opposite side, obviously suppressing the fact that his left arm was much larger than my two thighs combined, and the reason why he's swiggin' gin is because gin don't are if yo a phat mo fo!  I sure don't feel so bad about losing those five pounds now.  Fantastic!  Great!  I'll squeeze in.  The faces of all the other characters on the plane were looks of steadfast daggers, inaudibly shouting "don't do it!" combined with "is she gonna make it?" like that last scene in Seabisket.  What will be the Hollywood ending, folks?

I felt conflicted about my feelings toward over-weight individuals at that moment, because I do feel for them and I have nothing against them as I'd like to make abundantly clear, however, they didn't even try to move over for me.  Whether they are big or small, its common courtesy to do so, and I had the middle seat.  Period.

I made it.  Unscathed? Uh...I don't think so.

My final question is, how do two health food nutty cities produce such fine specimens for fast-food commercials? What childhood tragedy did these two have to survive in order to subsequently spend the rest of their lives nurturing their trauma by stuffing five hundred Big Macs into their Big Gobs? Must've been anorexic moms or sisters or something.

It was the first and only time I actually paid close attention to the flight attendants demonstrating how to use the oxygen masks.  I might need one for later when my lungs are being squished to death by blubber and I'm not talking about the Judy Blume novel.

To add insult to injury, the younger obese gentleman (doesn't that just roll off the tongue?) decided that farting his way through the flight added to the aroma of the 200 other contestants on the plane.  I was sitting next to the winner, American Farting Champion.  I hope he gets a farting record deal from Simon Cowell. Fox...I just sold you your next reality show, so cut me a FAT check.  

I had a dream about Simon the other night.  He gave me a hundred bucks and his phone number, then whispered in my ear that he wanted to take me out to this exclusive restaurant and FATTEN ME UP! Foreshadowing? Simon could never be that clever of an actor.  Oh wait, he's a Brit.  Yes he can.  All the Brits win acting awards. Time to move to London and fake it 'til you make it. Maybe they'll give me a BAFTA.  Its better than OSCAR the Grouch anyway.

I clenched my teeth until the final moments when I thought the plane was gonna crash from that last air pocket just feet above the landing strip.  Bye Mom and Pops! I've always loved you.

I'm alive, which is why I'm writing this blog.  Someone needed to document the cliched remark made by motor mouth. His offensive joke turned into reality...just like Seinfeld.  Lets give him a staff writer job, shall we? Good on ya, Conductor!  Lesson learned?  Here's your sequel, Hollywood: Big Boys on Planes, Trains and Automobiles.

Stephanie Francesca

Studio Temp in the Devil's Castle

Temp

Definition: a noun - a temporary or contract employee (usually in an office). Temps receive fewer benefits than other employees.

I loved being the "noun" described above. As a former temp at a well-known Hollywood studio, my experiences ranged from slacker-status to high-stressed mania, all in the company of some of the most ego-centric executives you have and will ever meet. 

My favorite experience happens to be one of my most traumatic. I remember the phone call, "Stephanie, we know you are the best temp on the Lot, but this job might be a little...well...difficult." Whatevs. I can handle anything, but I started to worry when the head of Human Resources gave me her personal cell phone number as a "call me at ANY time if things get tough." Who was this guy? The Godfather? Close enough. He was the dictator of one of the most fruitful divisions of the studio. His name was known by everyone, except by me. When the temp agency told me his name, I naively asked "Who's that?" Ignorance is bliss, but after this experience, I beg to differ.

I dressed in my Sunday best and walked in with my head high, shoulders back, and lips pursed sternly giving off an air of confidence as I entered the old Hollywood executive building. You know, the one's you see in all the movies? The infamous building where 1950s movie stars apparently had affairs with the head honcho back in the glory days of Hollywood. I was enthused! How amazing! So close, yet so far from fame.

I walked into the oppressive office expecting to see Mr. Hitler himself, but no one was there. Hmm...perfect time to snoop. Everything was leather clad, mahogany hued and delicately touched with green velvet. The grand appearance was stuffy and expected to make you feel intimidated. The vibe was so thick, you could churn the air with a wooden spoon-the only way Hollywood would have it.

I glanced around the shark's office seeking out something, anything redeeming. Innocent 'til proven guilty, unless you are German and then its the opposite. There it was, the light at the end of the tunnel - pictures of his family. Awww, he's a family man! I was so excited he was someone human, that I called my mom at work to let her know I thought this might be the key to his soft side; family. "Human" resources just hadn't gotten to know this person's pillsbury doughboy soft side.

I peeked into his private headquarters and photos of his teenaged daughter, his two infant children and his young blond wife, obviously his second marriage (a Hollywood law) caught my attention. I turned to my right, and I saw even more pictures, and before I knew it my glance in every direction focused on picture after picture after...uh oh. Re-wind. This guy was a work-a-holic and needed pictures to remind him of what his family looked like, because he was never around to grace them with his Stalin-like presence. In my opinion, lucky wifey-poo and kids. This all meant, he was miserable and I was now screwed.

I glanced at his over-booked schedule only to be satisfyingly relieved that he was in New York for the "Diablo Wears Armani" premiere and then he was off in a couple of days to TomKats wedding. Wow. This guy was bigger than I thought. My only task that day was to call his cell to give him his schedule. Easy enough, yet still rather intimidating. I shakingly dialed his digits and was answered, after a short ring, with a brash "WHAT!" on the other end of the line. "Uh...hi, I am your assistant today and I just wanted to introduce myself." He seemed disinterested as I was merely a flea on the ground, so I skipped the introduction and headed straight for the goods. He then asked me to patch him into human resources and I immediately figured I was fired for not pronouncing "schedule" properly. By accident, I stayed on the line and listened in, ok not by accident. I was curious. I overheard him say "this new girl seems ok, why don't we hire her?" and the HR rep didn't miss a beat when answering "Sir, we have someone else more suitable in mind." More suitable! What am I, chopped liver? I was livid! I wanted to pipe in and announce my heroic 80 words per minute typing skills, damn it! I just wanted to have the opportunity to work for the gestapo if I so desired.

Then, the horrific moment came. The moment when I realized his assistant, who was obviously being replaced for a reason, forgot to leave me the password to the computer. The computer which housed his entire rolodex with every Hollywood celebs personal cell number. A gold mine for a stalker. HR didn't even do a background check on me. Scary. Lets hope Prison Break Anonymous didn't get the temping memo.

I called Miss ASSistant and I was furious. She didn't answer. F*%$! What if he calls for some Hollywood big-wigs number? I calmed myself down saying "he won't, he's sitting with the Devil as we speak." Then, the phone rang and up popped his call-display. Oh God. OH GOD! "Mr. Swimming with Shark's office, this is Stephanie?" I perkily squealed. "Get me Martin Scorsese!" the Devil squaked. OH MY GOD! There it was. The exact moment I had been dreading. What? Martin? THE Martin Scorsese? Zero access to his rolodex meant zero tolerance by the Chinese water torturer. I assertively stood my ground and told Mr. Great-White, "I'm sorry, your assistant didn't leave me the password to your rolodex, but if you have an extra copy somewhere..." I was curtly interrupted with "F*#&$$* then call Martin Scorsese yourself and tell him I'm going to be late!!!" SLAM goes the phone and I colapse in desperate frustration. Call Martin Scorsese myself?! Who has his number? Do I dial 411? Do I call the HR reps cell? I call my mother. Logical, right? Seeing as I am not part of Hollwood's club of nepotism, I'm not calling her for Scorsese's digits, but she was and still is my current 911 speed dial operator who happens to have all the answers no matter how paranoid mothers can be. She'll know what to do. She just said "oh well, what can you do?" I laughed. Its true "oh well" is the optimistic mind frame a buddhist would have taken, but I was not a buddhist, I was a temp so it was perfectly acceptable to carry-out the anxious drama and glass half empty mind-set in this particular situation.

Buddhism aside, I was entering the danger zone within the Top Gun's office. The phone rings again and its his incompetent assistant. I tell her the problem and she's silent, says nothing. Her heart probably stopped, as did mine! I finally get into the rolodex with her missing password and dial Mr. Scorsese's number. I anxiously await his answer only to get his assistant. Slightly relieved, I leave the "late" message and breathe a sigh of relief.

The phone rings again and its Joaquin Phoenix. Yes. YES! The only moment in my life where I thought "I love Hollywood!" We actually chatted a bit...well...I told him Mr. Hammer-Head wasn't there and he said "thank you." As far as I'm concerned, he and I are now BFFs.

To add insult to embarrassing injury, I really needed to use the bathroom, badly. I drank too much diet coke out of nervous infused energy that somehow didn't allow me to run down the hall fast enough, so I decided to use Shark's private bathroom. Not really allowed, but I was already in his bad books, so in the words of Juno, how many more shenanigans could I possibly get into?

The toilet wouldn't flush. WOULD NOT FLUSH. It was broken? Oh Lord. I frantically fiddle with the flusher, open up the top portion of the toilet only to find...well...nothing I could fix. DOOMED!! I call my mother, again, out of panicked desperation. How was she going to help me all the way from Canada? If he found out I used his PRIVATE bathroom, "off with her head!" I call my mother every five minutes to give her the toilet update. This guy was full of crap anyway, so it was perfectly fitting that the toilet would break. I decided to go to the fridge to look for comfort food, but as soon as I opened the fridge, the door falls off. What is happening?! The negative energy is causing a massive influx of break-down central. Alice ain't in Wonderland anymore. Wow. Gotta get out of here. What's next, peeps?

OH, Mr. Shark Tooth decided to head home early from the Big Apple and jet into the toilet-plugged, fridge-broken, computer-jammed office. Lucky him to be heading into such Hollywood glamour. His dramatic entrance was not a greeting of niceties. He sarcastically asked if I "finally figured out how to work A computer." Gee, thanks. I rudely replied with a very fake "yes, thank you for asking. Your assistant finally called me back." No response from Mr. Wicked Witch of the West. He was giving me the silent treatment...how machiavellian of him. He then gets on the phone and yells at his assistant saying "I have two F*&@## assistants and not one of you could figure out how to use a F*&@# computer? You two are F$#%#%@@ useless." I had never heard so many profanities come out of a family man's mouth. Maybe those photos in his office came with the frame. 

Was I really one of the "two" F-ing assistants he didn't like? How could this have happened? I type 80 words per minute! Doesn't anybody care? Didn't matter. Where did I make that wrong turn in the road? This couldn't possibly be the road less travelled, because I didn't feel as though I was the only one who had experienced his vulgarity.

That moment probably wasn't the best time to plug my actress status as I had already plugged his toilet. One plug a day gives plumbers their pay. At that moment, I hear the toilet flush by itself. A metaphor for my perfect temp record being flushed down the loo. What should I strive for now? I have to admit, if we do have guardian angels, there was one on my side right then. He didn't even seem to notice the toilet flushing on its own. Thank God. I just wanted to scram, and I had no shame in telling him "I need to leave early" and that I did, never seeing the guy ever again, and never telling anyone I plugged his toilet except for maybe EVERYONE I know.

A Little Bit More...

So I decided to finally, after three years of hating LA and all that it has to offer, start embracing being single and as Carrie Bradshaw so eloquently put it "start dating the city."

Nothing is more satisfying than going out with a Mexican...Mexican food, that is. After my boring jaunt to the gym, I reward myself on an almost nightly basis treat of rice, chicken tacos and delicious chipotle salsa. Exciting? Oh yes! Mmmm...my hot date with Mr. Mexico doesn't get much hotter than that! However glam that might sound, I have to admit that since going to my favorite pseudo healthy fast-food joint as a singleton, I've noticed that it is filled with other Hollywood singletons! What are we doing?! I stand there in line trying to embrace my independence while these really good-looking male suiters, who are waiting for their numbers to be called, stand their gawking. What is this? Shall we sit down and start speed dating while we are waiting? We mine as well. The tables seem to be set up just for that reason. Why else would we be going on a Mexican fast food holiday...alone?

The ironic part is people associate Mexico with Romance and it quite appropriately runs independently in the romantic language category marathon. Its sweet melodic music plays anxiously in every nook and cranny of Los Angeles, and heck, the name Los Angeles DOES mean angels in Spanish. So while most of us stand there waiting in line for our "angel" to come and rescue us from our misery, I would rather let the food be my rescuer, or I could settle for that hot guy waiting for his number to be called. Maybe I should just give him MY number instead! What I am saying is, here I am going to Poquito Mas (the name of this perfectly robust Mexican joint) to escape from romance, but I am being bombarded by it instead because of the nature of what Mexico represents. Seems like a double-edged sword, doesn't it? How many hot single people actually end up in the same place staring at each other while sober? Forget coffee houses, with bailey's of course! Forget bars! Forget the beach where everyone is half naked! Remember Poquito Mas which stands for A Little Bit More. A little bit more of what? Love? Romance? Mexico? All of the above? No wonder I love this place!

To be frank, and my middle name is Francesca, this little Mexican joint is fantastic. It is my place of solace. I go there to think about...well...nothing. I go there to relax while dipping my corn chips into that delicious chipotle salsa and I sip my diet coke in peace. I avoid eye contact with even the hottest of men, and I indulge in the satisfaction that I am actually happy being alone, and I will take a little bit more of that any day of the week ;)