Hazy Shade of Orange Alert: Or how I learned to start worrying so that I'll die of a heart attack by the age of 35.

I am now more convinced than ever that agents speak to one another. For one purpose only: To drive their clients, slowly but surely, bonkers.

EXHIBIT A:

My Friend has an agent, called in this blog, Joe. Friend and I are taking a class together on Tuesday nights. A class I convinced (read: forced) Friend to take. This class is fraught with its own internal dramas, but, at that time we weren't to know that. However, on that first night of class, being good dutiful students, we all turned off our cell phones. Post-class, there was a symphony of "DING"s and "BEEP"s as everyone turned their phones back on. It was at this exact moment that Friend realized there was missed a call. From Joe.

Being that class ended at around 10 pm, it wasn't really a good time to call Joe back. But, I convinced (read: forced) Friend to, worried about the all night neuroticization that would ensue. Besides, I reasoned, Joe called around 8:30. Meaning, Joe probably wasn't in the office. But, he left his cell phone number and it kind of sounded urgent. Friend called, got his voicemail, left a message. Which led to a sleepless night fretting about what the phone call could possibly mean. It is, after all, staffing season. Stress alert is now at level orange.

It, of course, turned out to be nothing, really.

EXHIBIT B:

I had a meeting on Monday. It wasn't a big deal meeting. But, a meeting nonetheless. See, hubby's agreed that if I get staffed, he won't move to Dublin (pressure, anyone?). So, it was a big deal meeting to me. It seemed to go well. It lasted an awful long time, there was loads of laughter (not just by me), it was just... fun! So, I called my agent, Bob, after the meeting to debrief. Bob seemed pleased with my enthusiasm and said he'd get back to me after he'd spoken to the person I'd met with... this is when I started freaking. On the ride home from meeting.

Let me preface this with, I seriously seriously seriously think the meeting went fabulously. But, I read a lot. A lot of Industry Books: writers on writing, writers on meetings, writers on sex... and the one thing that seems universal? Even if you think the meeting went fabulous, the other person may have hated you, and will express this to your agent. So, you'll come out of this meeting floating on cloud 69 and find out from your agent later that the person you'd met with? Well, they had a completely different meeting than you did.

CUT TO:

Third night of class ends. All phones are turned on. I have no missed calls. Great. I get home. Talk to hubby about our respective days. Get ready for bed. Watch Idol (wow, Kat sucked!). It's in the middle of Idol that hubby turns to me and says:

HUBBY: Did I already tell you that you'd had a couple of phone calls?

ME: (watching Idol, can this wait?) Nope.

HUBBY: Chef Friend called.

ME: (um, still watching Idol) Oh, cool, I'll call her tomorrow.

HUBBY: And Bob called. I saved the message so you can listen to it eight million times.

I listen to message eight million and three times. I dissect Bob's every inflection.

BOB (filtered): Hey Boom, Bob Bobberson here. Number's 310-FREAK-OUT-NOW. When you get a chance... (click).

Cue: Sleepless night.

Normally, Bob and I communicate by email. The only other time I've gotten a message from him (see previous blog entry about agents) was when I was passed on by a show I was dying to get on. So, till now, one out of one calls had been bad news. A precedent had been set. Yes, I realize I'm overreacting.

To recap: Two out of three classes have resulted in phone calls from agents. Taking in Exhibits A and B, clearly Bob and Joe have been bored lately, they know my friend and I are taking this class, and they're still fucking hazing us.