Neither Rain, Nor Snow, Nor Driving Rain...

Honey, pop out and get me a tall skinny macchiato and a non-fat, low-carb muffin with carob sprinkles, would you?

That's on a good day. Close to a "please" and definitely not a command. She can call me Honey if she likes, I don't mind. But God, I hate it when she makes me order those pathetic muffins with the carob dust sprinkled on top. Why? Because when she orders this in front of people it really means - bring a full-calorie Frappachino and a genuine Dakata Patisserie chocolate-filled croissant to her trailer on the downlow. Yeah... I'll be the one stuck eating that dried-out lump of sugar-free turd.

Sweetie, be a dear and take Harley & Chubbs to the groomers on West Third? They don't like the way that icky-wicky latina on San Fernando Road crops the little foofies around their eyes.

God. The dogs. She has this pair of frou-frou Chinese Crested monsters with big mops on their heads, tails and paws, but no where else. They're yappy and almost enough to make me hate the whole canine species. She gets that little baby-talk voice going whenever she stops to check-in on Harley & Chubbs (after the motorcycles and the Miami Vice character, yes). Its way worse than it looks, I promise, with those pursed up restalyne-filled troutlips of hers its like a giant hemmaroid going "oochy-oochy-coo". Ugh. At least she had the dogs professionally trained so we don't come home to doggie treasures every evening. Yeah, cuz guess who had to pick that shit up? Not the housekeeper, that's for sure. No speaka Englais my butt!

Bring me a shot of Jack and that bastard's cell number. Now!

Definitely an order this time; no cute petnames, no pretty-pleases. By this time of the evening her speech is slurred and even though she made me vow on my mother's grave that I would never let her drunk-dial Vince Vonn (surely you read about the nasty break-up in the Tabs?) again, if I don't bring the Jack and the number, I'll be out of work come 8 am. You know, when she surfaces from the hangover. At least she sticks to alcohol and not pills or coke.

Damn it, Nicki, I don't care if its 3 a.m. and you have to fucking wake Wolfgang-fucking-Puck himself, I want my Waldorf and I fucking want it NOW!!!

At least she almost got my name right this time. Nicki is way closer to Vicki than Lucy - which is what she called me the whole first week I worked for her. Being an assistant is way harder than I thought it would be. Sure, there are perks - I mean, I got to meet Vince Vonn pre-bloat and Courtney & David Ark stopped in one night too.

But this sure ain't no 40-hour a week gig. I'm her personal gopher, a professional slave. I'm an on-call dog-walker, grocery-shopper, pap-fender-offer, cell-phone carrier, umbrella-holder, door-opener, sorry-no-autographs-strong-armer, gas-pumping, salad-procuring... assistant.

In short - I'm her bitch for 500 bucks a week.