Please Help Me. I’m a Hot Mess

*Warning: this post contains a few curse words. I can censor the smut, but not the swearing–it’s just who I am.

I need a personal assistant. I don’t have a big important job or celebrity social schedule that necessitates personal assistance–it’s just that talent like mine (the exact nature of that talent is totally irrelevant and mostly unknown) comes at the expense of some very basic life skills, such as opening mail and writing anything on a calendar.

One of my proven talents is getting stuff for free, such as concert tickets, hotel upgrades, and unwanted drinks and stares from creepy old men in bars. The key to this talent is passivity. Whisper whatever you want to the wind and see what pops up. Or post something like this on facebook:
Fark! I have 43 people following me on twitter and I still don’t really know WHAT twitter is. I can’t remember my password because I never tweet (that word is so stupid), and I’m burning out on the sound of my own voice as it is. I need a personal assistant.
Job description:
1. Must know how to open and sort mail.
2. Must be tech savvy.
Compensation includes and is limited to sincere compliments and appreciation as well as the occasional guilt gift.

Enter, Ashly and her resume:

Skills
-Answering and directing incoming calls
-Opening and sorting mail
-Making biscotti
-Kissing ass
Education
-Mt Hood Community College
-Office Administration at Springdale Job Corps Center (Certification)
-North Eugene High School (H.S. Diploma)
She forgot to mention that she is also freaking hilarious (we perform in the same stand-up comedy circles) and a mom, i.e. desperate to do anything away from her own house.

I immediately offered her the job and she accepted! I then spent 4 weeks acting like we are dating with lots of weird “you can come over if you want to but you don’t have to” emails. She finally said “Obviously you need help. I’ll be there on Thursday; we’ll figure it out.” Ashly is way over qualified, but I won’t tell her if you won’t.
I replied: OMG. I love you. Every therapist I’ve ever had said I fucking suck at asking for help. Apparently, all 17 of them were on to something…
Yes. I would love company, I mean help. And I totally have an errand at Kinkos (Ashly loves Kinkos) and that place scares the SHIT out of me. I’ve had mini meltdowns (plural) there. Depending on when you arrive, and because my life is a complete wreck, I might be:
a) yelling at someone
b) crying
c) big smile, crazy eyes or
d) gone, because I forgot you were coming (in which case, the patio door is always open and I’m probably coming right back.)

Phone is next to the microwave, food is in the fridge. Call my cell (or the police) if I’m not back in 10 or 15.
Crap. I’m pretty useless. I guess I could use a warm body/crazy barometer on a strictly “enter at your own risk” basis. Come on over and stay as long as you like or until you’ve seen enough.
Jenn

Ashly will be here in about an hour…I let you know how it goes. I hope my butt looks okay in these jeans?

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2 Comments

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2 responses to “Please Help Me. I’m a Hot Mess

  1. Melody

    Ashly rocks – so do you. I have a good feeling about this.

  2. Ashly

    It wasn’t it the job description to check out your butt in the jeans, so if when you want me to do that you’ll have to let me know. But I bet the way my butt was looking in my jeans made your butt look great in yours! That’s another service I provide; making you look even better.

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