One of the producers cornered me earlier in the day and told me to be in the conference room at two o'clock. I didn't say anything to Helen, knowing it would only piss her off. I liked this job and I wanted to keep it, which meant keeping everyone happy that could fire me. I was learning.

The conference room door was closed and I softly knocked, hoping no one would answer and I could walk away. Unfortunately, Stacey Sherman opened the door and glared. Her hair was greasy and she wore clothes made for Twiggy, only she was more like an over-freckled Rosie O'Donnell-- with no sense of humor. There were four other producers sitting around the conference table scarfing down bagels and lox which I could smell from Stacey's breath. God, she was gross. Helen called her the Beast of Burbank.

They all chewed as I took a seat at the other end of the table. They barely glanced at me and I wondered if they remembered why they had called me there. No one offered me anything. I lay my arms on the Formica table and leaned in. I waited, patiently.

Finally, the fatman producer, Mike Shamhead, said, "so it looks like you've quickly become very close to Helen."

I shrugged.

"We're glad that you feel like this is a family unit."

I wasn't quite sure where he got that, but I shrugged again in compliance.

"You know, sometimes Helen is in a bad mood and not so happy and that happens to everyone, but especially it seems to happen to women."

"Excuse me," I said, because I really didn't know if I heard him correctly.

Stacey blurted in with her mouth full, "PMS, Helen's got PMS."

My eyelids could lift any further and my hands unconsciously became fists.

"Let me do this Stacey." And the fatman turned back to me. "Look, we just want what is best for the show-- which is best for Helen. It just seems to me that women who lack...well...who lack...well, you know?"

"No, I don't. What are you trying to say?"

"Well it's just that, like for instance, my wife-- when she has a case of PMS and well we...you know do it, she feels much better. But Helen on the other hand, she gets PMS and she's-- you know-- not with a man, so nothing helps her and her PMS gets worse."

"Listen Fran," Stacey chirped in, "We need your help. Maybe since you're like Helen, you can get her to go see a doctor for some medication."

"Me?"

"Yeah, you. That way she won't be such a bitch to us." The fatman said and I finally got it.

"You think she's a bitch to you because she has PMS?"

The fatman picked up a Cosmopolitan from the table and turned to an article called, Curing the Monthly Dark Moon. "My wife showed this to me when I told her about Helen's problem."

"Oh, I don't think Helen has a problem. You're the ones with a problem. She doesn't have PMS-- you all are just idiots." I stood and quickly headed for the door but not quick enough. Stacey pulled at my arm. "I think you better let go of me." All I could think was that I was trapped in a chimp cage-- but I was an orangutan.

She let go of my arm, stared me straight in the eyes and said, "You know, just because you're dyke doesn't mean she'll always stand behind you." She was serious, desperate, and unrelenting. I pulled away and left.

*****

Later, after telling Helen about my "meeting" with her producers-- we laughed about their stupidity. Then she grabbed the phone, dialed and asked for Kyle. "He's my agent," she said to me, cupping the mouthpiece of the phone. "Kyle, yeah that's it, I've had it. Tell the studio to get those fucking producers off my set today or Fran will sue them for sexual harassment. No, Stacey called her a dyke and they said I had PMS. I know, can you believe it? Yes, I don't give a shit, get them the hell off my set or I will not be back tomorrow." She slammed the phone down, looked up at me, grinned and said, "Maybe I do have PMS?"