The Devil Wears Prada wish list
And I am not talking about clothes.
I’m talking about all the things Miranda’s first and second assistants get and do for her. Like finding her a perfectly-cooked steak at ten in the morning. And keeping the Starbucks ever-flowing. And getting a copy of the latest Harry Potter before it’s even published.
Once you start thinking that way, the possibilities abound:
1. Someone to do the Starbucks run in the morning so I can keep working.
2. Someone to grocery shop for me, since it is one of my most hated tasks. That and ironing.
3. Someone to cook for me, not because I mind cooking so much, but because sometimes (like for the past year) I can’t think of what to make, so we end up having the same thing over and over. I’d love someone to say, “I know–let’s have chicken pot pie tonight!” and to then go shop for all the ingredients and make it. I’d love to come out of my office at dinner time, have the whole gourmet meal (yes, chicken pot pie is gourmet) waiting for me, then go back to work while someone else loads the dishwasher.
4. Someone to do what Miranda’s assistants do at that party–stand next to me, whispering in my ear the names of the people coming toward me. That would save a lot of embarrassment.
5. Someone to handle on a moment’s notice every time-eating errand that comes up during the day, from filling the car with gas to going to the post office to taking the car to the shop.
I’m sure I’m not thinking big enough, but those items are a start. The vision of just getting to do the fun stuff–walking the dogs, reading the paper, eating my oatmeal–then turning everything else over to some wonderfully competent person so I can get down to work in the morning sounds heavenly.
I was at a writers conference earlier this year where we played a game meant to duplicate what might happen in our writing careers. And it got to the point that every time you got the card that began, “You’re a big-time writer . . .” you’d shout out, “No! No, I’m not!” Because everything that followed that opening phrase was always bad.
“You’re a big-time writer. You decide you need a Ferrari to show your success. Deduct X amount from your reserves.”
“You’re a big-time writer. You decide to remodel your kitchen. Deduct $40,000 from your reserves, and 4 months from your writing schedule.”
And so on.
One of the doomed cards was, “You’re a big-time writer. You decide to hire an assistant.” And the writers who drew that one went on to lose more and more money each month because their assistant’s salary did not equal greater production of books. Therefore, no extra income, just extra expense.
My friend and fellow writer Barry Lyga was at that conference with me, and every now and then if one of us starts talking a little too foolishly about what we’d like to spend money on, all it takes is the other person saying, “You’re a big-time writer.” Stops us dead cold. It really takes the joy out of thinking one day I might hire a personal chef to make the morning oatmeal.
But the rest of you are free to dream. If you had an assistant or two, what would their tasks be?
Technorati Tags: The Devil Wears Prada, Writing, Publishing
Most important job any assistant can have: Groupie-wrangler.
But, hey — mow the lawn. Clean the house. Fix the wife’s computer when it acts up. Update my web site. Drive me places so that I can read on the road. (Or sleep.) Make doctors’ appointments for me.
In short, all the stuff I’d rather not be bothered to do. But NO ONE else makes my oatmeal. That’s sacred, man.
Hey, that sounds like it was a fun game!
I have my assistant read this blog to me. And the new task is — bring me the oatmeal of Barry!
Okay, the joke here, folks, is that Patrick was at that game, too. And he completely wiped the floor with all of us. Not only was he a best-seller, he also kept his expenses ridiculously low, and ended up a multi-millionaire while some of the rest of us went bankrupt and had to go back to our day jobs.
Patrick, leave Barry his oatmeal, for pity’s sake. Do you have to take everything?
You can have my oatmeal when you pry it from my cold, dead fingers.
It is so hard to take such masculine bickering serious when there is a cute, black puppy peering down upon our banter.
Did I win something? How strange…
And I wouldn’t take it all!!! And it would be my evil assitant taking it, not me. And I would offer to buy it. I’m a nice guy. But I have to see if your oatmeal is better than mine. (Mine’s really good — cinnamon!!!)
–cold, dead fingers really creep me out. I’d let you keep that bowl.
the only thing my assistant would be paid to do (other than of course, “wrangle groupies”, that is so curiously and uncomfortably retro, it made me fall out of love with you Barry, however, i am extremely fickle and forgetful, so your wife shouldn’t get too comfortable just yet)is to take dictation of ALL my gloriously original ideas–then i too could be a writer.
in fact, other than not knowing how to type (i know, i cover it very well), the only inpediments to me not becoming a famous writer are lack of time and lack of talent and frankly as i find myself with more and more time on my hands, as evidenced by succumbing to the tyranny of the blog, there is perhaps only one inpediment.
which takes me to the other stuff. i love doing all that STUFF. didn’t always. but these days i love to “garden”–fancy word for “yard work”. i LOVE to cook and shop for cooking and clean my house after the housekeeper has been here (trust me, no one cleans the way i clean, with an uzi). it’s not that i don’t love gorgeous clothes, and that all i want from “the devil”, there’s just something something nice about remembering that, push comes to shove, you can do it all and do it well, cuz ya used or maybe always have, or should have.
I would have my assistant do my masculine bickering for me and pet the cute black puppy then name it ‘table’.
Annette said: “it made me fall out of love with you Barry”
You’ll be back. I’ll be waiting.
Annette, can you bring your cleaning Uzi over to my place? Pretty please? I just need one demonstration. I htink I must clean with a feather pillow.
I clean and clean and clean –seriously, i spent days cleaning the other week, and it looks like my house threw up on itself a scant seven days later.
What would I do with an assistant, aside from the uzi cleaning jobs?
1) Two words: Back rubs.
2) Two more: Shoulder massages.
3) Book all my appointments.
4) Post office duty.
5) make me tea every morning
6) organize and file all my mail. (I think my mail is the part of the apartment where the mess begins.)
7) be there to catch my clothes when I discard them, then hang them up or fold them neatly so I’m not left scrambling in the morning for something a) clean and b) unwrinkled.
Mmmm… that was fun.
yes diana, you need the power of the uzi. it is not however for the faint of heart. you must surrender youself–translation, be willing to toss (or if it makes it more palatable “recycle”). as so often happens in this crazy mixed-up yin/yang world of ours one of my dearest friend is a hoarder. she refuses to throw anything out and reached gridlock about 15 years ago. our birthdays are within a few days of each other and for years i would “joke” that for her birthday i was going to clean out her laundry room. starting about five years ago i asked her if for MY birthday i could clean out her laundry room? well last year, due to a tragedy in family, i had my opportunity and ran with it. she’s still complaining about all the many things that have gone missing. no regrets here whatsoever, even though some (such as her mother) would say that it has irreparably “altered” our friendship, so, so sweet.
so ask rb to give me your address, leave the key under the mat, and leave town for a couple of days, if you dare. we all have our own unique ways of artistic expression, mine is what might be referred to as minimalist.
Uh, Diana, she might be serious.
When you call her “rb”, for some reason I get hungry for roast beef sandwiches.
I don’t know why.