Preface
Like 86.7% of America ¹, I sometimes want to be wealthy, famous and adored-by-all. I only tell you this right off the bat so you can immediately feel better about yourself for wanting the same OR think you’re better than me for not caring in the least of such triviality.

We’ve all seen what being wealthy, famous and adored-by-all gets you. Sometimes it’s first-class service, sometimes it’s annoying and sometimes it makes you feel lower than the most anonymous person in the world. Since I have been on the peripheral of all those, my stories contain wealthy, famous and adored people, as well as those of which you’ve never heard. But, mainly, my stories are probably just like the stories you’d write about your own life. And, just as in your life, you’ve been scared, embarrassed, aroused, saddened, thrilled, angered, maybe vomitous and definitely bored.

I have always thought of myself as nauseatingly normal, yet in every instance where I have tried to be like everyone else, my choices/thoughts/life have veered me against the “should.” Several years ago, I began to compile my stories for a memoir I was going to entitle “Just Another Memoir; Stories of a Girl Who Looks Like Someone You Know.” But I am a fatalist, and I know there is no way anyone would care about publishing this shit. So I’m putting them on my website…for lurkers who hang out at libraries for the free internet. ENJOY!

**For best results:
I use footnotes alot….as you can see below.
I refer to my husband, Mark, in many of my stories, but he wanted to be known as “Rodolfo.” Don’t ask me why. However, that’s too long to type every time, so I will call him “Rod.” Although I want you to know, I would’ve never married someone named “Rod.” But if your name is Rod, please don’t be insulted as I’m sure you’re VERY nice and handsome.
All stories are self-contained and are not listed chronologically or purposefully. Read none, read ‘em all. I won’t know the difference.

This only happened once for my dad to be forever on the lookout for any “accidents,” and I quickly learned that all I had to say was “I need to potty” and he would throw his hands up immediately and say “okay, go!” Eight out of ten times, I was lying and would go on the tickle attack ². That is to say, I was a normal kid without pants-wetting issues. So, I have determined, that a certain future tenth grade Sadie Hawkins Dance ³ moment must’ve been…a fluke?

One of the many ridiculous traditions associated with Sadie Hawkins dances is to wear a matching outfit (usually jeans and the same top) with your date, so several of my friends, my dance companion Garry and I headed to the mall to find something to wear. I remember I was wearing neon green shorts that day at the mall. If I also recall correctly, the material was some sort of moisture-wicking nylon…which was great because I leaked a little pee that day, too.

I couldn’t help it. I’ve always been a sucker for a funny guy, and Garry was a funny guy. So between the nervous laughter from having a little crush on Garry and his witty repartee, it was all too much for my urethra, apparently. No biggie though. It was just a little. No one knew. We bought our apropos-to-the-early-90’s Cosby-esque sweaters ⁴ and had a lovely time at the dance. I never wet my pants again.

Until eleventh grade’s Sadie Hawkins dance.⁵

This time there was really no excuse. My date, who was my boyfriend at the time, was dull and, quite honestly, not that bright. But he was cute and sometimes you have to compromise. In addition, the couple we went with was bor-ing.

The evening started as any other. The four of us went out to dinner at some forgettable restaurant with lots of faux-memorabilia all over the walls. Then we headed to our high school’s gymateria for the dance itself. The massive utilitarian hall was dark and decorated with haystacks and other things-that-people-from-Las-Vegas-think-is-country-looking. Before you could even get to the dance, all couples were ushered into a sectioned off area to have their picture taken. Well, it was somewhere between entering the dark gymateria and the brightly lit photography area…I wet my pants.

Now I’m sure something made me laugh very hard, thus again causing this embarrassment, but I can’t for the life of me remember what that was. I just know I was wearing jeans now. Dark jeans. And denim doesn’t wick away moisture like neon green nylon does, in case you didn’t know.

I was trapped, too. I couldn’t get out of this photography line without everyone in the room looking at me walking away. I hid behind my boyfriend, who, as I mentioned was dumb, so he had no idea. We neared the front of the line. I watched as the photographer strewed each of his subjects over haystacks in poses of his choosing. I realized if I was watching each couple getting posed, so would everyone behind us be watching me…and my pelvic perspiration. I was starting to panic. It was finally our turn, and I closely followed my boyfriend as if we were attached like dogs in heat.

I decided the only graceful way out of this mess ⁶ was to pose us myself. I had seen enough of the photographer’s positions now to figure out the best way to hide a big, wet crotch stain. So I swung around from behind my boyfriend to face him. I put my hand on his outward-facing shoulder and popped my knee. Turned my head. Smiled at the camera. Perfect. Take the picture, cheese ball.

Apparently, photographers have issues with control that probably date back to their mothers ‘cause this guy was not letting me take the wheel. He directed me to sit down. I ignored him. He said it again. I remained standing, saying not a word. My boyfriend just looked at me with a blank face. ⁷ I grabbed his shoulder tightly and smiled brightly.⁸ The photographer got a little more forceful in his directions, but I was not playing. He finally looked at his assistant and said, “Well….okay.” and went back to his camera and snapped away.

Whew! Done. Thank goodness.

Not.⁹

The photographer instructed the other couple in our party to join us so we could take a group picture. The nerve! How dare he think that (a) he was going to get me to strike one of his poses just to prove a point…and (b) I want to be forever linked to this common couple through film. He did not win.

We were finally headed to the darkness of the dance and I wouldn’t have to worry about being called “Miss Micturate” for the rest of my school days ¹⁰. I headed right to the restroom to see if I could fix this but I was stopped by Jory. Jory was my best friend’s boyfriend and he was even dumber than my boyfriend. But, for as slow as Joe might have been, he was the first person to spot my…spot. He started laughing and pointing and I was mortified. Luckily, I quickly remembered how dumb Jory was and said, “I spilled lemonade on me at dinner.” ¹¹ Jory continued to laugh and said, “Sure,” but he bought it. Why would a 17 year old girl pee her pants at a dance?

After the dance we were scheduled to go with a big group of people to a go-kart center. My pants were still noticeably wet and no amount of butter-churning or tootsie-rolling ¹² could dry them, so I hopped into a go-kart and, if you can imagine Christoper Cross’ “Ride Like The Wind” playing in the background, I drove as fast as I could with my legs spread eagle and hanging over the sides. My friends tried to wave as I passed, but I didn’t notice. Within five minutes, my pants were dry and I was finally ready to have a good time.

And my boyfriend still only cared about one thing. Little did he know what kind of golden treasure he was after.¹³

Earlier this year, I had my annual physical and, since my doctor knows about my mother’s history, she recommended I get a mammogram…just to be safe. I had actually had one a few years before because of my mom’s condition, but that showed up clear. So I figured I had little to worry about this year, too. I was only 34 years old. ¹

Not so lucky. The technology used just three years ago has changed so much that they now have very detailed digital mammography machines. That meant, they could see every little spot in my voluptuous lady lumps ² this time. And they saw something that worried them. Something they wanted to see a little closer, so I was scheduled for a core-needle stereotactic breast biopsy, by which they use “a large hollow needle to remove one sample of breast tissue per insertion.” This sounded a tad scarier than a mere metal-disc-boobie-smashing mammogram.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who thought this. After my biopsy was done ³, I had to have another mammogram. There was a lady waiting to have her biopsy done right after me. I never saw her face because of the way they wheeled me into the room, but I saw her hands…and they were shaking like a washing machine with tennis shoes in it. We were wheeled and parked almost back-to-back, and I could hear her sobbing just a little. The nurses were trying to comfort her, but they were harried by the back-up of patients.

When the nurse left the room, I quietly threw out into the atmosphere, “Are you having a biopsy?” The woman’s sobs stopped for a moment. She squeaked out a “yes.” I reassured her that I just had it done and it really isn’t that bad. I didn’t lie. The actual biopsy was more on the uncomfortable scale of having to hold a yoga position for an abnormally long time (you can feel the burn, but it’s not excruciating pain). She took a deep breath and said, “Thank you. Thank you…..Good luck with everything.” I readjusted my ice-packed sore breast and put on my best cheerleader voice, “You too!”

The nurse returned and wheeled me into the mammogram room where I had to stand and have my recently-drilled knocker pressed into a pancake again. Although it really didn’t hurt, I hadn’t been allowed to eat or drink anything since the night before, so when I stood up, I got a little light-headed. I calmly mentioned this to my nurse and she sprung into action like I had just gone into cardiac arrest. Two other nurses ran into the room with cold towels, pretzels and a Sprite. ⁴ While I appreciated the care and concern (and probably would’ve been annoyed with anything less), I think all the hubbub sent the faceless, scared woman waiting in the other room over the edge. All the nurses running around must’ve given her just enough time to escape because she got out of her wheelchair and walked herself right into a bathroom and wouldn’t come out. Those nurses were still trying to talk her out when I left.

I was the exact opposite patient for the nurses and doctor. Mind you, I was as nervous as the other woman, but I tend to be inappropriately funny in those situations. You know, the one who uses humor to distance myself from fear and intimacy.

Although I was only having a “day surgery,” I was checked into a hospital room anyway. Rod came with me and we waited in the sterile room ⁵ for someone to tell me what happened next. Finally, my room nurse came in to make sure I was who I said I was, take my vitals and give me my gown. In my defense, I’ve never been checked into a hospital that I can remember, so who am I to know what’s okay to say and not okay to say. George Clooney seemed to enjoys banter with his patients on ER. Plus, these people are going to be hurting me soon and I wanted to get on their good side.

So I try to tell a few dumb jokes to lighten the mood. The pulse machine made a flat-lining sound when she first put it on me and I do my best Fozzie Bear and say, “Hey, you’ve killed me already!” Not even a smile. Apparently, they take death very seriously at hospitals.

Instead, she instructed me to put on my gown and another nurse would be in to take me down to the biopsy room soon. That nurse did come and she was bearing a warm blanket to wrap me in. It was wonderful! Forget that the blanket had probably seen some nasty shit prior to my visit. It was warm! How cozy!

When I got to the biopsy room, I had to wait for the woman before me to finish her biopsy. ⁶ There didn’t seem to be any screaming or “why, God, why me” coming from the room, so between that and the warm blanket I was feeling a little more confident. They wheeled me in and explained what they would be doing to be…again. I’m all for being educated and informed, but at some point, hearing that they are going to be making an incision and coring out one of my girls with a long thick hollowed needle is just too much. But they have to follow the rules…the many, many rules.

The first rule was to make the patient write the word “YES” on the jug du jour. This is to ensure that both the patient and the doctor are drinking out of the same cup, as it were. I’m fairly modest (read: nervous to be exposed), so as I tentatively whipped my left bussom out and scribed the required affirmation, I giggled something about never having been so desperate to be felt up. The nurse just looked at me in shock. I’m sure it didn’t help that I do live in the South where they do a lot more thinking dirty thoughts than saying them outloud.

The next procedure is to have the doctor, of whom I’ve just met this instance, make a check mark next to my “YES” to acknowledge that he knows which one he will be working on. This seemed strange to me. Doesn’t he have my chart? Does he get his lefts and rights confused often? Does he really have to make a confirmation check mark? Are they grading him? Oh my god, is he still in school!?! My nervousness had returned. He lifted my gown, marker in hand, and my mouth opened before I could stop it. “I hope you have a lot of one-dollar bills today, Doc. Huh huh huh.” I had turned into Beavis AND Butthead. ⁷ Needless to say, he too stared at me, not knowing how to react.

Now it was time. The hard part. I took a deep breath and climbed atop the large horizontal table. I untied my gown and lower myself stomach first onto the table, where I was instructed to insert my jug du jour into the open padded hole. Imagine a cow’s utter poking through a donut. ⁸ I wondered if they would even be able to see my boob. ⁹

The nurses warned me that whatever I do I should not move. I could breath, she said, which was very nice of her. But any other movement in the slightest could cause I problem. What kind of problem, lady?! I held my breath, hoping maybe I would just pass out, but they started to raise the entire table into the air. As they continued to lift me until I was high enough for the doctors and nurses to work from underneath, I loudly proclaimed, “I’m just here for a lube, people, so don’t try and sell me any tires!”

Come on!! That shit is funny! Only one nurse laughed. The other one told me not to move. It was a tough room.

Despite the fact that these people probably wouldn’t be following me on Twitter any time soon, I retained my unseemly sense of humor throughout the ordeal. I was definitely sore for weeks afterwards and honestly never realized how often breasts involuntarily move in a day. No matter their size. But it all turned out fine in the end. The cluster they had dissected was non-cancerous and I hope to be able to say that it always will be. I really want my breasts to have a healthy immune system, and that comes from feeling loved. So I write “YES” on each of them everyday now.

It’s the little affirmations…

So it was a date! We were to drive up to his house in the Glendale hills and enjoy a delicious dinner with Gordon and his wife. Oh, let me back up here. Rod doesn’t have the best of patience and has a habit of saying “we have a dog” when he wants to leave a party or dinner or whatever. We do have a dog (2 actually), and I know he honestly is thinking of the dogs’ well-being when he says this to people, but much of the time…the dogs are fine…he just wants to leave. He still uses that to this day. “We have a dog.” That’s the code for “I want to leave now.” But this time, I made him promise that he would not cut the night short with “we have a dog.” This was going to be something special and I didn’t want him to ruin it by being rude.

So we got to Gordon’s neighborhood, and how lovely it was! Big, beautiful houses arranged perfectly along the mountainside. Each house more handsome than the next. Rod commented, “Gordon must have done better than I thought.” We were getting close to his address, and as we rounded the curve we saw a gorgeous white house with columns. We stared in awe of it. Then we realized that was not Gordon’s house….it must be the next one. But no, that house is a hideous, over-grown monstrosity with the shutters falling off. Not to mention the creepy guy with an over-grown shave peeking out from the garage. Just then, the guy ran away. Shuffling for the scratch of paper Rod had written the address on, sure enough, the address matched the one he had written.

We walked up to the door and rang the bell. A man slowly opened the door and just said, “Yes?” as if he had no clue why we were disrupting him. Rod said, “Gordon?” He just stared at us. We looked at each other. Finally, the man said, in a very heavy British accent, “AH-HA! I’m just fuckin’ with ya! Get in here before the neighbors see ya!” An air of digested Guinness beer filled the entrance hall.

We nervously followed him into the house. Suddenly, I longed for the smell of Gordon’s Guinness breath because the overwhelming stench of parrots was unbearable. Yes, parrots. There were caged birds everywhere! Squawking and throwing their food. Gordon seemed genuinely happy to have us at his house. Very proud. Excited someone was there. He walked up to one of the birds and started to tell us its name, but it came over to the side of the cage and bit him. He screamed and slurred, “Fuckin’ bird! I’ll shoot you all, you fuckin’ shits!” ²

He led us around the house and walked us by a door that led down to a carport. At the bottom of the stairs were three dogs that looked like they wanted to kill us, and I’m a total dog person. Dogs love me. These dogs hated everyone. Gordon yelled at them as they barked, “Ah, fuckin’ dogs. Shut up!” Then it was off to the garage (the same garage he was peeking out of when we drove up).

He opened the door to a two-car garage FILLED from wall to wall with one big miniature train set. Rod pretended to be interested and asked questions about the cars. Gordon became excited and seized the opportunity to talk “shop” with someone who shared his train fetish. He insisted we get in the middle of the little town. Part of the track could be lifted up, similar to a drinking bar, and then lowered back down. We were stuck. We couldn’t run or escape. Gordon opened another Guinness. Apparently one of those train cars doubled as a fridge.

Finally, after a lesson on the difference between Lionel Pennsylvania and Virginian Locamotives, he led us back into the house. So far it was like we were Golden Ticket winners for the Chocolate Factory, and we hadn’t even seen his wife. As we entered the house, again, Gordon screamed ³ to his wife to come and meet us. He told us all about her and how they had met at one of his shows. She apparently was a big fan of his (or, dare I say, “groupie”) and hung out at shows all the time. Not just Gordon’s either. He told us she was on several of the 60’s dance shows and “knew” many other bands. He said she also was an actress and stunt woman for Farrah Fawcett and other attractive women in the 1970’s. She must be quite a catch, I thought.

His wife entered the room. She could barely walk. Her legs moved up and down like she was a souped-up gansta’ car with hydraulics. She grimaced with pain but smiled through it. He instructed ⁴ her to take us on a tour of the house while he finished making dinner. She led us into the master bedroom and closed the door. She showed us a wall of pictures, many featuring her in her hey-day on the set of Shindig. The others, of him from his long-ago career.

Then she gathered us close to her and whispered, “Help him!” Her tones were pleading. Help her husband. Help them! She told Rod she didn’t know where else to turn. He needed help. He was drinking too much. She didn’t know what to do. ⁵

Then she abruptly opened the door, spread a smile back across her face and led us to the dinner table, as if she’d never said anything. Gordon told us where to sit…I had to sit next to him. Appetizers were served first. Steamed artichokes. I had never had a whole steamed artichoke before ⁶, so I didn’t really know what I was supposed to do with it. I tried to be nonchalant and wait to see what other people were doing. I looked around. Gordon started in on his artichoke. He started cursing again. This did not look good. “Fuckin’ artichoke! The damn ‘fing isn’t even fuckin’ cooked! Give ‘em back! They fuckin’ have to be cooked some fuckin’ more. Fuckin’ ‘fings!” He grabbed everyone’s plate and stuck it in the microwave for a minute or two. And, dang, if mine wasn’t the first one he brought out. I tried to pretend that I wanted to wait for everyone else to get there’s, but everyone was staring at me. Gordon piped up, ”Go on! Is it done now?” Shoot! I didn’t know how to check to see if it was done. I looked to Rod for guidance, but I quickly gathered, from his bouncing eyebrows, that he didn’t know how to eat an artichoke either. Gordon told me I needed to pull off the leaves (or whatever they are called), dip it in butter and then pull off the “meat” with my teeth. Well, I did this and got about a half inch of something soft. I assumed this was right. Gordon seemed happy with it; so I was.

We all continued to eat the leaves, and I was happy to be done with that part of the meal. Oh, but I was wrong. “You know how to get out the ‘eart don’t you?” Gordon said. I did not know how to get out the heart. Gordon really wanted me to enjoy it, so he grabbed mine and started to explain how you have to cut the top off and carefully expose the heart, then you can scoop it out with a spoon. While he cut away at my artichoke with his steak knife, I noticed something red on his hand. He put my artichoke back on its plate and started to hand it back to me. He was bleeding on my artichoke! He had cut himself while cutting my artichoke and didn’t even know it because he was so drunk! I thought, “Well, that’s it. I am NOT eating that artichoke now!”

I don’t even remember how I got out of that one, but I was done. I didn’t care! I figured I at least had the bread to eat, but that turned out to be horribly freezer-burnt, just like grandma used to make. Finally dinner was over, and Gordon began talking to Rod about various projects he had in mind. Meanwhile, Gordon’s wife proceeded to tell me about her many ailments and injuries from her stunt days. Usually I don’t mind listening to people list their maladies because that seems to make some people feel important, but something about this made me unusually depressed. Maybe it was the way she longed to be back in time or the way she clung to the last bit of stardom she could find or was it that she had to ride her horse with her legs in braces sticking up in the air.⁷ I don’t know, but it almost made me want to talk to Gordon more…although after the three more cans of Guinness, you could hardly understand him.

After dinner, Gordon insisted we go to the sunroom and listen to the solo album he had just recorded. We graciously listened to about 40 minutes of it. Then Gordon, clearly a master of “knowing his audience,” started to tell us of his newest venture. He was flying back to England in two days to meet with….drum roll please…Paul McCartney. Now we’re talking!! This is what I came for!!! He told us he had an idea and business proposition to talk to Paul about, but he couldn’t tell us about it… it was top secret. However, he could tell us that Paul will not let anyone in his house that is wearing anything originally from an animal. He ran over to the other side of the room to show us his new canvas tennis shoes he had bought just for the big meeting. Then out of nowhere, Gordon asked Rod to play the guitar. “Go on! Play us your songs!” Rod sputtered and looked over to me with those honey-do-something eyes. God must have seen those eyes, too. Just then the doorbell rang, and in walked some guy who used to play guitar for somebody…I can’t keep track anymore. Gordon’s attentions were suddenly diverted to a new vict.., er…friend, to whom he could chatter away with all night long. I looked at Rod…he looked at me….yep….“We have a dog!”

Luckily, no one seemed to care that we had to go. If Gordon or his wife ever wrote a story about the night we came to dinner…I can only hope we came off as interesting.

I told my boss, Staci, that I needed to “find myself” in the world and I was quitting. When she asked me what I was going to do, I told her I would sign up with a temp agency. (That was my plan. I had heard that you only got called in sometimes….and not working all the time sounded like my favorite job.) Staci tried to talk me out of it, but I was already gone.

So, I signed up with the temp agency and, just as I had hoped, they hardly called me into work…in fact, they never called me with any jobs. ² But I am such a worrier, that I would get up early, get ready for the day, and then panic every time the phone rang. I didn’t want them to call me in, but I also needed money. Staci was right, this temp thing was a bad idea.

Subconsciously, Staci must have felt my daily panic because she called me one day out of nowhere about a job she had heard about on the “music circuit.” A British music manager, Simon Fuller ³, who was temporarily living here in Los Angeles to work on an album, needed a “lunch time cook.” The girl who had been cooking for him had to quit.

I called the number Staci gave me, and talked to a nice young girl who turned out to be Mr. Fuller’s assistant. She asked me to come up to the temporary house he was staying in to discuss the position. So the next day (I didn’t bother to shower early in preparation for a temp gig), I headed up to Mulholland Drive. I arrived at an iron gate with a call box. I pressed the button, and was buzzed in. I really only started panicking when I couldn’t figure out where to park. I have always been a good driver, but since I have lived in Los Angeles, I have had several accidents…and I know people always say that their accidents were not their fault (similarly to prisoners who say they’re innocent), but mine really weren’t my fault. But I’ll save that series of rationales for another time.

I decided to just park and worry about getting out of it later.

I went up to the front door, and was greeted by “the assistant.” As I entered, I could see the house was huge and gorgeous…just as you’d imagine a “Hollywood Hills For The Stars” home to be. She showed me into the kitchen which was beyond words….but I’ll try: The refrigerator was like it’s own room, the granite island had a special sink just for vegetables and the stove had 10 burners! What the hell do people do with 10 burners? That’s right, they hire cooks…like “me.”

The assistant brought me into the living room, where I was told the job required going to the grocery store to get the lunch supplies and cooking them. It paid $100 a day….for about 4 hours of work altogether.

“YES! I’ll take it.” How hard could it be? It’s friggin’ lunch, for goodness sake.

Emily’s cooking resume:
Microwaved Chef Boyardee’s Ravioli on high for 3.5 minutes, 1985-1992
Boiled water for Ramen, 1992-Present
Cleaned dishes used while cooking, April, 1994

But I’m always up for a good challenge ⁴, so I started to plan my menu.

Oh, I forgot. I was also told that Mr. Fuller wanted to have a choice of three salads a day. Apparently, he was on a special, only-high-maintenance-star-types-go-on-this-diet diet, and he didn’t know which salad would be best for him until “that moment”…so I had to prepare three salads for every lunch. Then the other two were thrown away. And I was told to NEVER try and pass the other two salads as the new salads the next day! In fact, I couldn’t even serve the same type of salad twice in one week. ⁵

Back to menu planning, I started with the cookbooks that Rod and I had in our sparse collection. Betty Crocker had the suggestion of ambrosia. Oh, I love ambrosia! (As long as it doesn’t have coconut shavings in it. ⁶) I thought that would be a wonderful salad choice. You can see where I’m going with this, can’t you? Well, when did ambrosia become plebian and, dare I say, “white trash”?!? I didn’t know! I’ve always liked it at church potlucks and the like. In fact, I have recently started a coalition to win back the popularity of ambrosia!! Send money to the cause at www.iheartambrosia.org. ¡VIVA LA AMBROSIA!

Okay, but I’ve moved way ahead of myself. My first day, I went to the grocery store. And not just any grocery store. I went to Gelson’s. This is a very posh grocery store in Marina del Rey. I knew they would have all the most fancy of ingredients and brand names…and since I was being reimbursed for the groceries, what did I care. I needed to look like I knew what I was doing. You know, style. ⁷

So for the first day, I served the ambrosia and two other salads. Needless to say, he didn’t eat the ambrosia, and actually had his “assistant” tell me never to make ambrosia again. ⁸

I also cooked a nice chicken thing for lunch, although I am a vegetarian and didn’t try it to see if it was good or anything. He seemed to be okay with it. The “assistant” didn’t comment on that part of the meal, so I assumed it was good.

Day 1, was over. I cleaned up and went home. I tried to prepare a new menu for the next day. It was very stressful. I couldn’t sleep. I had nightmares about cooking, in which the sink would be piled with old, dirty dishes and the mold was talking to me, saying things like, “Your fish is burning” and “We need more coconut shavings!”

I decided to get up early and go to my neighborhood grocery store check out stand. I knew that at the end of the cashier’s kiosk, just above the candy and tabloids, I would find one of those little pocket-sized cookbooks on salads. I found a recipe for some warm spinach salad. I bought the ingredients and headed up to the Hills. This was going to be the salad he would pick today, I just knew it. But as I cooked the spinach, it started to shrink! Oh, crap! It’s shrinking down to nothing! There’s not going to be enough to serve! I served it anyway. I just added some raspberry drizzle to the rim of the bowl. It looked French.

No one yelled at me, so Day 2 went well. Must get ready for Day 3.

Oh no. This was not looking good. Mr. Fuller was going to have a meeting during lunch! I had to cook and serve three people now…by the pool! And this time he wants a cheese tray!

Ha! I felt smarter this time. I didn’t get Cheese-whiz and crackers, like I would have at my own party. This time I got fancy cheeses! Brie, Goat, and some other stuff that the deli guy said was supposed to have mold on it. Ha-ha! Who’s NOT white trash now, Mister Fuller?!?

I prepared the meal and was feeling pretty confident. I had previously set the table featuring napkin folding, which is my strong point. (I am all over the display side of meals.) I could hear Mr. Fuller and his two guests in the living room listening to some advance copy of an Annie Lennox song. (Mr. Fuller managed her, as well as a band called SClub7.) They were working, I was working. All was right with the world. Now the food was ready; the three men were ready. I brought the cheese tray out to the pool.

Okay. How was I supposed to know that the cheese tray is not served until the end!!??!! Who the hell does that?! Oh, Europeans?! Oh, I’m sorry!! I’m American, see!!! And proud of it!!! And I eat my cheese FIRST!!! ⁹

Drum roll please….Mr. Simon Fuller will now speak to Emily directly…for the first time…in front of his business guests: “The cheese tray comes at the close of the meal. Take this away.”

I lowered my head and took the cheese tray back into the kitchen with my tail between my legs. Then I sprinkled Ajax on the cheese and re-served it. Just kidding. But I did leave it out on the counter until I re-served it, so it got a little hot.

I continued with the meal, cleaned up and went home.

As I struggled to come up with new salads for Day 4, the phone rang. It was the “assistant” saying that Mr. Fuller was flying back to New York and would no longer be needing the services of my fine cuisine. Did he really go to NY? Who knows. I was relieved, yet saddened that I wouldn’t be getting $100 everyday. Either way, I learned a great lesson…mayonnaise, canned fruit cocktail and marshmallows were not created for the wealthy.