At least once a month (it used to be once a week), I end up taking a young woman out for coffee who contacts me about getting a job. Typically, she shows up, wide-eyed, carefully typed resume in hand; her opener is usually, "Wow-you get to go to parties for a living and work in fashion--you have the most glamorous job EVER!!!"
The reality: more like Wednesday.
Woke up early with the stomach flu. Even for non-publicists, thems are good times. As much as it would be great, you can't exactly call off an event the morning of (or even the month of) with, "So sorry--it's the flu, can we postpone? Next Thursday work for you?"
I just read that Olivier Theyskens tried to move Lauren Santo Domingo's (nee Davis) wedding so that his embroiderers would have more time to finish her dress. If it's not working for him, it's certainly not working for me.
So, in between puking episodes, raced downtown. Miscalculated and parking wasn't great, so parked three blocks away, then walked two blocks in the wrong direction. Hauling a case of vodka. Whilst seven months pregnant. FYI, vodka: not exactly light, especially in six pack of liter bottles form. (P.S. to the maybe 50 men who scrutinized then walked past: thanks for your help. Maybe not the most feminist of statements, but geez).
Head to Embassy, where exactly zero people on staff at that moment can understand my pleas of "PLEASE. TAKE. THIS. VODKA. PARTY. TONIGHT. AM. ABOUT. TO. DIE." Finally, someone in the Consulate kind of understands. Would kiss him, except then in about 48 hours he would feel like I do, and that really wouldn't be thanking him at all.
Take 35 minutes to walk back to my car, one..........step.............at...............a..............time.
Email somewhat rambling apologies about how notgonnabetheresosorryamverysick.
Curl up for 36 long hours.
The end. And the very opposite of being the queen of a Columbian couture wedding.
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