Scriptwriters just don’t do their due diligence when it comes to movies centered around a temp worker. Well maybe they do and just ignore the disappointing reality that most temps do not physically resemble Lara Flynn Boyle’s character Kris Bolin in "The Temp", or Ali Larter’s character, Lisa, in the movie, “Obsessed”. Let's be honest here. Temps usually dress along the lines of fashion icon to the blind, Whoopi Goldberg. So, if you are temp that reads this blog, SlaveGirl is reaching out to you. She wants to help!

Here are some simple rules when dressing for work at a VC and private equity firms, investment banks, and hedge funds - 

If the company you will be temping at has a name that ends with the following: 

Partners

Ventures

Capital

Associates 

You would be wise to don a pair of khakis and a knit top. You can’t go wrong there. Kitten heels if you're conservative, tasteful wedges or slides if you’re especially hip (please have a nice pedicure if you are gonna show some toe). I’m a black khakis, strappy heels and fitted knit top woman myself. Strapped for cash? Your clothes don't have to be some brand designer. I sport khakis from the Gap and Old Navy. The stuff is dirt cheap. Throw on a pair of simple shoes and you are good to go. Keep the jewelry to a minimum and the makeup low key. That new blush from Laura Mercier you want to use? Save it for after dark. The dark murky world of finance is highly coulrophobic.  

People who are familiar with my personality know that I cannot keep a straight face when people who are dressed rather inappropriately walk by me. The first thing they do is look at me and say, “Ok Wendy… let’s have it….” Two of my favorite examples: 

A temp covering for an admin once walked in wearing the most fugtastic bracelet I had ever seen. The admins pinged me on IM. My response:

"Now, I’m all for shopping at Good Vibrations, the Pleasure Chest and Hustler Hollywood to pick up a few of my favorite toys, but her attempt to pass off a set of brightly colored plastic anal beads as a Tibetan prayer bracelet is a bit gauche. Oh yeah, and that vibrating noise emanating from her purse had better be a cell phone". 

My all time favorite was the woman who showed up to work wearing a pair of purple stretch pants, tucked into semi slouchy over the knee suede boots (no heel) and a silver lamé belt. My response? Truthfully, I was speechless with delight at the opportunity to comment on the clothing clusterfuck in front of me. 

"Apparently, we missed the orgy between Rainbow Brite, the Hobbits and the Pointer Sisters but their resulting fashion abortion is now walking the halls of our firm. We should feel so blessed". 

I'm such a snatch.

The next weekend when I rolled into town, Jezbollah had a surprise for Aku and I. I get to her place and Aku shows up. Jezbollah pulls out 2 bottles of Thunderbird.

SlaveGirl: Uuuh, Thunderbird? Why would you buy that shit? 

Jezbollah: Isn’t that what they drink?

SlaveGirl: Dumbass, you have greek row confused with skid row.

Aku: Thunderbird is available in Westwood? Shit..I need to move- if word gets out that grocery stores around here are selling Thunderbird, housing prices will drop even more.

Jezbollah: Well..what do they drink?

SlaveGirl: The preferred beverage is crappy beer in keg form- Pabst Blue Ribbon is a possibility, but Miller Lite is most likely, I don’t know…I mean that’s that’s how it was back in the day.

Aku: For the more ambitious liver cirrhosis patients in training, there might be some sort of mixed drink involving Everclear....

Jezbollah: Oooh…do you think they’ll have jello shots? I’ve dreamed of doing one!

SlaveGirl: Oh for fuck’s sake! You can’t be drinking anyway- you'll lower your guard and blow our cover.

Aku: Something tells me that that’s not all she wants to blow…. 

SlaveGirl: Dammit. Somebody please shoot me and put me out of my misery. 

We had to act and look the part. Which meant that the 80s to us was kind of hazy because we were “kids” back then. Everything back then needed to be defined as, vintage, classic etc. That night we would be lying about everything. When you tell a lie, it’s best to stick to the truth as much as possible. Crazy, but true.  Examples:

SlaveGirl: (Pretending to be frat dude) So umm yeah, what kind of music do you like?  

Jezbollah: Hmm...Classic Rock.

SlaveGirl: Okay, so throw in a fun fact. Something like, “My mom told me I was conceived in the backseat of a car at a Mötley Crüe concert…maybe that’s why I like Classic Rock so much”. Let's try another: What's your favorite kind movie?

Jezbollah: Oh shit.. I don't know..these are frat guys...should I say Porky's?

SlaveGirl: If you have any urge to bring up Porky’s or Fastimes at Ridgemont High..quash it. Remember, American Pie and the subsequent shitty sequels DEFINED our existence. 

Aku: I loooooved American Pie but stopped drinking Pale Ale thanks to that movie.

Jezbollah: I thought that movie was lame.

Slavegirl: This coming from a woman who at the moment, clearly embodies “Stifler’s mom”?

If we wanted to act like we had a more sophisticated palette when it came to men:

Aku: Oh yeah I got it! I’m into older men..I’d do Brad Pitt even if he is..like, you know….old enough to be my dad.”

SlaveGirl: You're fucking golden. Perfect.

Next, we had to dress like them. It's one thing to be wandering around in flipflops and cutoffs by day, but evening was going to be a bit trickier. We were used to shopping über trendy boutiques like Kitson, raking over the racks in Nordstrom's Savvy section and hitting Barney's (the SF one totally sucks, btw), and when we felt a bit brash and spendy, we'd drop some cizash at Just Cavalli in Sunset Plaza. (Confessions of a shopaholic, anyone?)

None of that applied here. We were posing as "just out of college, working our first job" girls, but it was also a frat party, so being too dressed up would make us look way older. So, we kept it simple and shopped at Guess. Our one stop shop. We shopped for denim and tops. Even in going undercover, I needed some semblance of low key. I steer clear of obnoxious flowery tops, ruffles, excessive draping, empire waists, anything and everything using appliqué flowers with the same vehemence of avoiding rape. Yeah, I dislike frou frou tops that much. As far as I'm concerned, if you have to wear something that garish, then that means you're probably not attractive enough to bet it all on your face and/or body. Women who wear these things will NEVER admit that. 

To Be Continued...

Back in 2007, I had been running down to Westwood for the weekends to hang out with some girl friends, Jezbollah, my gorgeous and mildly slutty Lebanese friend and my beautiful friend Aku, who is always changing her appearance. One afternoon we were walking…no destination, just kind of going with the flow, going wherever the day was taking us and ended up on the UCLA campus. It didn’t even register where we were until two male students walked up and immediately struck up a conversation with us. They invited us to an upcoming fraternity party their house was throwing. Before I could object, Jezbollah was flirting with one of them and exchanging numbers. 

Note: Father Time has been extraordinarily kind to a few of my gal pals and myself. While we’re firmly ensconced in our mid 30’s (and damn proud of it), we are constantly mistaken for mid 20’s. Throw in the “Jeff Spicoli with tits” demeanor and we can shave off another year or two off (yes, this is how we behave amongst ourselves). 

After they walked away, I punched her in the arm and admonished her.

SlaveGirl: You did not just give your number to Abercrombie & Fitch!!! Did you order a side of dementia with that salad earlier today?

Jezbollah: They were adorable! Think about it… these guys thought we were students…that's sooo flattering. Lets see if we could pull this off.

Aku: This could be an interesting experiment, Wendy. Look around us- we’re in cutoffs and flipflops..we totally blend in.

SlaveGirl: Dude this will be a disaster…

Aku: Total B2C play. Bitches to college!

SlaveGirl: You did not just go there.

Aku: I’ll bet we could totally game these guys. Your ego would love it.

SlaveGirl: We "game" much bigger game, ladies...this is like taking candy from baby. Not a good idea.

Aku: Look..It’s not like we’re going to hook up with anyone, anyway. (We both turn to Jezbollah)

Jezbollah: Well not at the party. Ok. I’m kidding.

SlaveGirl: GROSS.

This had bad 80’s movie written all over it. But for the sake of obtaining possible blackmail material for future use, I went along with it. Leverage is an excellent weapon to have in your back pocket. 

To be Continued....

I had an opportunity to interview at a startup as an executive assistant to the CEO. Since it was in the summer, I felt a suit would be just a bit too stifling. V-necks and slacks were in order. That’s my preferred interview outfit anyway, because I wouldn’t have to change roadside. (Every assistant knows that going to a “doctor’s appointment” in a suit just doesn’t fly with the current boss. Men are dumb, but they aren’t blind).

When I got to the company, I was whisked into a conference room and told that the CFO would meet with me. He came in and mentioned that we might be able to get the CEO to come in, if there was time. This is usually code for “If I like you enough/ and you make my time fun” which is easy because in interviews, I’m playful. And I’m very good at it. Of course, after about 45 minutes he glanced at his watch and asked if I had time to meet with the CEO. I told him that I could stick around. He got up, pumped my hand profusely, said it was great to meet, blah blah blah and said he’d bring him out.

When I met with the CEO, I found him to be a typical hot mess that CEOs usually are. A bit harried, fumbling around for my resume (I handed him one), his blackberry going off incessantly and all the other indications that he was feeling rushed. Eventually he settled in and found his groove. The interview was going well, and we were having a nice chat. He even made me toss my head back in laughter a few times. Suddenly, the skin on my neck felt slightly rough and itchy. Every so often, I’d scratch it. I figured it was the weather so I thought nothing of it. When I started scratching my neck, I could have sworn that the CEO’s demeanor changed. I would have bet my bonus that he actually raised an eyebrow at me. Still, I was confident, unfazed and answered all his questions. He kept his answers to my questions very short. There was a definite change in behavior. He said that he had a meeting to prep for, ended the interview and said they’d be in touch. I was disappointed because I knew that I didn’t get the job and on the walk back to the parking lot I started analyzing the conversation in my head.

When I got to the car, I slid into the driver’s seat and immediately adjusted the mirror to my neck to see how bad the irritation on my neck was. To my horror, I noticed the dried streak of white crust on my neck. (Say it with me, you dirty bitches and lecherous men: “OH MY GOD…”)

I burst out laughing. I can’t even imagine what this CEO must have thought about me. Actually I knew. The good old pearl necklace. I love them. I’m all for a man giving me a pearl necklace, but hey, it better have a Mikimoto logo on it because I’m bratty like that.

The reality was, I had used a peel off facial masque that morning on my face (courtesy of Shiseido, not the boyfriend). In my rush to make it to the interview on time, I had not peeled it all off and the tightening in that area had made my neck itch, hence the scratching, leading to the CEO’s eyebrow arching moment. I’m sure he must have felt very uncomfortable. Come to think of it, I don’t think he shook my hand at the end of the interview. After I left, his imagination surely ran rampant that morning. I suppose he thought I really blew it.

SlaveGirl loves a pearl necklace especially from her friends Tiffany and Mikimoto.

I’m writing to you because I really need to rant. This isn't just a spoke in my menstrual cycle as it's been building up for quite sometime. It’s been 20 years since I’ve left the Heathers behind at Westerberg High, but I’ve come to realize that their spirits have taken on the form of executive assistants. 

In most small VC firms, the operations staff is minimal. Unless there’s an actual office manager overseeing all the EAs, there’s always that one admin that will claim seniority over the others. She wants the title of “Office Manager” with the secret aspirations of eventually parlaying it into a  “Director of Administration” engraved elegantly onto her business card. Her typical behaviour includes being an attention whore, peacocking her rapport with all the higher ups just to display her perceived dominance in the admin pecking order, and just being generally nosy, all up in your Kool-Aid, and trying to throw you unsolicited advice, so she can feel superior.

She won’t actually want to take on anything that even remotely resembles the duties of an office manager, yet she still likes to be “in the know” with all that’s going on. Yes, we have another Heather Chandler on our hands. Since the partners have the astute perception of the deafblind when it comes to catty bitches, this type of admin usually goes unchecked. 

Whenever I’m chastised by this brand of snatch, I'll give her my typical attitude, assuring her that her need to be “kept in the loop” will be met with a nasty slipknot, so it’s really in her best interest to step off. I’ve learned and grown from that drain cleaner incident of ’89.

The rest of the assistants are just as bad. There are the passive types, who are always yellow with fear or just tending to go with the flow, a.k.a the Heather McNamaras, and of course, the coup fantasizing, ever so "Absinthe green with envy" Heather Duke version, who would love nothing more than to have Heather Chandler thrown out and then ascend the throne herself. Looking around here makes me realize that this place is one executive assistant away from turning into Lord of the Flies. 

I'm not quite sure what to do here, but I promise you, my angst over these pointless power tripping wage slaves won't result in a body count because really, I have no desire to send my resume over to San Quentin when I can send it over to Sequoia Capital. Whenever I get that plan together, rest assured, it'll be "very". But for now, let me enjoy my lunch break, a world without the Heathers, where I am free. My cherry slushie is calling me.

Yours truly, 

Wendy Kroy (The Veronica Sawyer of the firm) 

The 2nd Rule of Facebook:

We...DO NOT...make a movie about Facebook.

Alan Sorkin is writing the screenplay for a Facebook movie based on Ben Mezrich's forthcoming book, "The Accidental Billionaires", which people will purposely not read because everyone's attention spans are shorter than Pamela Anderson's booty shorts. Mezrich should just deliver the story via Twitter already. 

Since David Fincher is very possibly going to direct this weak sauce of an idea, let's indulge it for just a moment...who gets to play Mark Zuckerberg? Why not let technology whittle down the list of people to possibly play the Zuckster? Thanks to MyHeritage.com, here are our possibilities:

Ummmmm....This is FAIL on so many levels... although Jason Biggs might work. If he could be cast, then the script must include this line being said to him by a chick: "So this one time at Mashup Camp......" 

Not satisfied with this casting, I moved on to Sean Parker's casting hopefuls as well. Just for fun, I threw mine in too. Both can be found over here. 

I love David Fincher, but I'm left pondering a question of netiquette as I pass on this movie...do I give it the ass or the crotch? Neither. Just a good old middle finger.

Sadly, the thrill of witnessing Hollywood hotness roaming the streets may be an hour’s plane ride away from the Bay Area, but it might as well be happening in another universe. That kind of physical attractiveness walking into a firm, be it a portfolio company CEO or a board member is like a glorious meteor shower. We know they’ll be coming around sometime, so naturally, we prepare for the show and even though it’ll be brief, we’re thrilled to be there. And we’ll talk about it.

Case in point: Office Manager calls me after work and tells me to look super hot when coming in the next day. I questioned her about it and she just said cryptically,"You haven't been here long. Trust me, you're going to love this." I was the new girl at the firm at 5 weeks and counting so I complied. 

The next day, Mark* walked in. Rarely does my jaw physically drop. It’s happened maybe 2x in my life. This was one of those moments. Artfully messy and luscious dark hair, gorgeous green eyes, and of course, a perfectly predatory smile. 6ft tall. Very lean. Maybe about 175 lbs. tops. When a man is built like a god and has the charm of the devil, there's really no stopping him from taking over my universe. Resistance is futile. After he said hello to all the assistants, he walked up to my desk and peered over my computer screen to say hi. 

Mark: You’re new? I’m Mark.

Slave Girl:  “Uuuh....Oh, I’m Wendy. Nice to meet you. Can I get you something? Water? Coffee? (the phrase “A blow job” did pass through my mind. Not gonna lie here.)

Mark: (Smiling) Oh, you’re the one who hung up on me.

Slave Girl: Oh! Well I apologize for that. New phones and all.

Mark: I’ll let you off the hook this time. (He grins and walks off) 

Slave Girl passes out. Actually she was just too damn charmed to say anything. 

Office Manager: Dude. You have your “O” face on right now. Was it good for you?

Slave Girl: Who is he? He's got that "D&G undie model masquerading as an investment banker" thing. Hotness like that is a sin. 

Assistant 2: And you know he's got to be amazing in bed. He’s a friend of Daniel’s*. He comes out to the West Coast offices every two months or so and has lunch with him. I told him go over to your desk and haze the newbie. 

Slave Girl: Dude. I’d let that man violate me in so many ways that Amnesty International would be knockin' on his door.

Assistant 2: (Singing) Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door..

Slave Girl (chimes in singsong): Hey, hey, hey hey hey

Office Manager:  *sigh* Amen to that. 

Gorgeous men may be a gift from heaven, but our minds are forever entrenched in the gutter. 

*Names have obviously been changed

Truth: The larger a woman’s breasts are, the less intelligent men become.

I’ve got a nice set of sweater kittens (if I may say so myself) and every once in a while, I do wear moderately low cut shirts. Hanging out in LA, Miami, NYC or San Quentin won’t warrant a second look at them from men; as far as they are concerned, I’m looking very Sister Christian and should sex it up more. Show up at any Valley happy hour or “afterparty” to chill out for a drink where the herds of nerds are gathered around looking like oxen but not as interesting, and the conversation turns into the running of the bullshit…

(After 5 minutes of a guy having a strained conversation stating his credentials to SlaveGirl’s chest, she’s annoyed and proceeds to extricate herself from the conversation). 

SlaveGirl: Yeah ummm…that’s impressive.. I’m sure you’ll be a real asshat to your firm.

Buzzed Dude: What did you say?

SlaveGirl: I’m sure you’ll be a real asset to your firm.

Buzzed Dude: Oh thanks. You’ve got some nice assets yourself, little lady.

SlaveGirl: (Infuriated by that term "Little Lady") Hey ummm, could you please get your tongue off the floor? My heel is just about to give you the most unsanitary tongue piercing ever…(without waiting for response SlaveGirl leaves; he grabs her arm)

Buzzed Dude: Sorry, I’m just distracted by…your…..looks (he smirks, looks her up and down again).

SlaveGirl: Your game blows harder than Tera Patrick.

Buzzed Dude: Oh that’s harsh…okay, so my game is off. My mind froze up. Any suggestions?

SlaveGirl: Yeah.

Buzzed Dude: ?????

SlaveGirl: Here’s a pro move. Head to the men’s room, unzip your pants and give your brain some air. Maybe you’ll feel better.

1) Mourning Michael Jackson. Beat it with the "Beat It" already. Get over it, people.

2) Thanks to this "life streaming" trend, the right to free speech is getting treated like it's a continuous obligation. Some people truly need serious dietary restrictions in regards to their feed.

3) The rise of finance and techie males in the 30-40 something (eek!) age range that are substituting the term "pumped" for "excited". I've heard this term about 5x this week and am sufficiently concerned; given the alcoholiday that is now upon us, there's a good chance that their plans involve homemade fireworks, beer bongs among other things, a possible detour to the emergency room, jail, or probably both.

That said, have a happy and safe 4th of July- may the only blackberries you pick up be the kind that are fresh and succulent... :-)

Given this description, most of you might be thinking, "This girl thinks waaaay too highly of herself; she's a complete bitch..." but the truth is...I am.  Deal with it. Men around here are so clueless as to what they say to a woman and how it comes off- I can tell who those types are and the usual course of action is to remain polite yet aloof so they lose interest and leave with their egos intact. But there's always that one Valley douchebag who is successful, has a peculiar sense of entitlement so he chooses to spit game with a persona that reeks of a Tyler Durden wannabee; that is the player I save my venom for....

(within 3 minutes of conversation)

Douchebag: You seem like a fairly naughty woman.. what would it take to bring you home with me?

Slavegirl (Raking her forefinger gently over his chest and whispers lightly in his ear): I truly appreciate you being so forthright about your needs, but to be honest...I already have one asshole in my pants and I really don't need another. 

This is just a quick blurb- Congratulations to Pud errr.... I mean Mr. Philip Kaplan, on his new opportunity with Charles River Ventures. While I do miss Fucked Company oh so very much, I'm sure he'll do very well.

Note to Phil: I really like musicians and have a thing for drummers..so ummm... hopefully you can teach George Zachary how to play the drums? *wink wink*

Now that you are on the other side, your Sand Hill Road welcome is not complete without that gentle slap from Sand Hill Slave...

Remember when.....

Everyone read the Industry Standard..... in print?!?! 

Silicon Valley launch parties almost overtook Hollywood movie premieres in coolness?

We drooled over Po Bronson in People magazine and immediately ran out to buy "The Nudist on the Late Shift"?

Cosmopolitan Magazine briefly featured Mark Van Haren and got girls excited?

Anyone who was anyone was in Round Zero?

Katrina Garnett hired famed fashion photographer Richard Avedon to shoot her rockin' the curves in a Herve Leger dress? (Hope you saved the dress babe, because Herve is ruling the runway these days!)

Women would be "start up" groupies at networking events?

Therapists would charge those same women $300 an hour to hear them cry about their top self esteem issue: "My boyfriend isn't a CEO at an internet start up..." 

Geeks dropping phrases such as "funded by a top tier venture firm", "pre- IPO stock options" on attractive women made "league disparity issues" a thing of the past?

Exercising options happened more than exercising outdoors?

The calculation of your AMT usually resulted in a visit from an EMT?

SF Hotspot Ruby Skye would have a line around the block and the Bubble Lounge was packed to the gills with.. what else...? Internet Bubbleonians! (Thx "Sosa" for the term- it always makes me laugh to hear it...)

The trailer for Startup.com would appear before movies and Bay Area audiences would snicker, hoot, and holler?

You couldn't look at pictures of epic dotcom failure Boo.com's founders Ernst Malmsten and Kasja Leander without thinking "And now Sprockets..WE DANCE!" 

Ahhhh those were the days!!

Silence may be golden, but I’m telling you, dealing with people that were clearly born under the silver standard really sucks.