There are seven of us. At least that's how many I am able to count. The estrogen levels are all running very high and to say that we're all a bit catty is putting it mildly. Lots of finger pointing and lots of "It's not my fault, it's your fault!" Come on, women, if we're going to win this thing, we've got to pull together. But no one really wants to pull together. Everyone is looking to everyone else to figure our way out of this particular challenge, but it seems that no one particular person wants to take responsibility for the outcome.
And so it's all seven of us against seven men. We have to create a new line of clothing and get it produced and have a fashion show and sell heaps of clothes and then also manage to get ourselves to the next city before the men. The seven men. There are seven men who have the same task and are trying their best to get to the next city before we arrive.
Donald Trump is being a complete ass. He's pontificating on how you must make the right business decisions, not overextend yourself, know your market and who your customer is. Shut up, already, Donald. I remind him in a not so pleasant tone that if he's really going to end up hiring one of us, he should trust that we understand the concept of supply and demand. He sputters and tells me that I will regret this when he sees me in the board room.
But we're not going to end up in the board room, are we? No, we just can't. I try my best to rally these women. I remind them that I have years of experience in women's clothing. We can win this, we really can, if they'll just please stop bitching about their broken fingernails and cut fabric! And sew.
Does anyone know what city we're supposed to go to next? Has anyone bothered to check an airline schedule? Can we manage to pull off this fashion show and still get all seven of us on a plane and to Rio before the men?
Come on now, everyone, let's get those garments finished. And onto the models. And yes, shove them down the runway, I don't care. The dress doesn't fit? Grab a needle and thread and sew it onto her body. She can rip it off later. We must win.
What are the buyers saying? Can you tell if they like this stuff? More black? Throw some dye onto her! Quick. Stand in the tub. We'll pour it over your head. It will be the "latest" look. Promise.
Have you packed? Where's your suitcase? Pack,pack, pack. Are we just going to leave those beautiful clothes hanging there on the rack? I know, I know. I'm coming. But those see through lace dresses...and those delicate silk skirts. I want them. What can I unpack and leave behind to make those fit in my suitcase? Hmmm....let's take out all the shoes. Why do I have so many shoes? This whole suitcase is nothing but shoes. And sweaters. Shoes and more sweaters. Surely I can do without quite so many shoes and sweaters.
Why is it that no matter how much I remove from my suitcase, I still can't fit these see-thru lace dresses in the bag? What is the problem?
What? It's snowing? The men have already left? Shit! We'll need a snowplow to get to the airport. Someone go find a snowplow! No, I can't go. I'm trying to squeeze these dresses into my suitcase. No, I won't just leave them. They're BEAUTIFUL. I MUST HAVE THEM. Forget the Jimmy Choos? No way. Not on your life.
Come on, don't be such a baby. Just go flag down a snowplow! Oh christ, do I have to do everything?
So yes, I get the dresses and the skirts and the shoes crammed into my suitcase, I run out into the snow wearing nothing but my thong underwear, I flag down a snowplow driven by Johnny Depp (did you all know he drives a snowplow when he's not acting...he told me so last night) and he drives all seven of us not only to the airport, but directly onto the runway and to the waiting plane and off we go for Rio.
We'll win this amazing race and I will be the next Apprentice. Just you wait and see!
