The way my week begins always says a lot about the kind of week I’m going to have. So when I woke up at 8:15 on Monday morning to 6 missed calls and the following 14 text message (all from Babe) I knew it wasn’t going to be a good one.
“Where r u?”
“Where r u?”
“Where r u?!”
“Literally, where are you?!”
“I have an emerrgencyyyyyyyy.”
“I might be dead.”
“Can you pick me up a juice on your way in?”
“Anything green with dandelion extract.”
“Actually wait, nevermind.”
“Just hot water with lemon and Splenda.”
“Actually, no Splenda.”
“Also, I feel like you’re always late, and it’s note cute. Just saying.”
Although I’m not expected at “work” until 10, my day starts whenever Babe gets up. So even though I was 1 hour and 45 minutes early, I was somehow already late.
When I finally got to Chateau Babe at 9, she was categorizing her closet for spring. (note: every few months Babe re-organizes her clothes for the upcoming season). Since explaining this process would be a breach of my contract I’ll spare the details. What I will say is that the entire ordeal requires hours of manual labor, an eye for distinguishing one black Tom Ford dress from another, the precision of a surgeon, and a military-like ability to follow instructions barked at you from a fashion Nazi.
Babe gave me a detailed list of things to do, then left for a work lunch with her book agent. Now, usually when Babe goes out to lunch, she’ll ask if she can bring me something. Nice, right? Well unfortunately what I ask for and what I get never end up being the same thing. That’s why I wasn’t at all surprised when I asked for tomato soup and Babe returned with edamame, which were half-eaten and cold.
I spent the rest of the week locked in Babe’s closet wading through spring ready-to-wear. When all was said and done, Babe had called me a “heathen” twice, told me that I should go to “intern school”, and used the phrase “think before asking” ten times, at least.
I’ve learned not to underestimate the rigors of spring cleaning with a self-proclaimed Closet Psycho.