the devil wears prada

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GeM presents: The Devil Wears Prada
acknowledgments
Thanks to the four people who helped make it happen:
Stacy Creamer�my editor. If you don�t enjoy the book, blame her . . . she edited out all the really
funny stuff.
Charles Salzberg�writer and teacher. He pushed me hard to keep this project going, so if you don�t
enjoy it, blame him, too.
Deborah Schneider�agent extraordinaire. She keeps assuring me she loves at least fifteen percent of
everything I do, say, or, especially, write.
Richard David Story�my former boss. Easy to love him now that I no longer have to see him before
nineA.M . each day.
And of course a huge thanks to all those who offered no assistance whatsoever but who promised to
buy multiple copies for a name mention:

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Dave Baiada, Dan Barasch, Heather Bergida, Lynn Bernstein, Dan Braun, Beth Buschman-Kelly,
Helen Coster, Audrey Diamond, Lydia Fakundiny, Wendy Finerman, Chris Fonzone, Kelly Gillespie,
Simone Girner, Cathy Gleason, Jon Goldstein, Eliza Harris, Peter Hedges, Julie Hootkin, Bernie
Kelberg, Alli Kirshner, John Knecht, Anna Weber Kneitel, Jaime Lewisohn, Bill McCarthy, Dana
McMakin, Ricki Miller, Daryl Nierenberg, Wittney Rachlin, Drew Reed, Edgar Rosenberg, Brian
Seitchik, Jonathan Seitchik, Marni Senofonte, Shalom Shoer, Josh Ufberg, Kyle White, and Richard
Willis.
And especially to Leah Jacobs, Jon Roth, Joan and Abe Lichtenstein, and Weisbergers: Shirley and Ed,
Judy, David and Pam, Mike and Michele.
Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes.
�HENRY DAVID THOREAU,WALDEN,1854
The light hadn�t even officially turned green at the intersection of 17th and Broadway before an army of
overconfident yellow cabs roared past the tiny deathtrap I was attempting to navigate around the city
streets.Clutch, gas, shift (neutral to first? Or first to second?),release clutch , I repeated over and over in
my head, the mantra offering little comfort and even less direction amid the screeching midday traffic. The
little car bucked wildly twice before it lurched forward through the intersection. My heart flip-flopped in
my chest. Without warning, the lurching evened out and I began to pick up speed. Lots of speed. I
glanced down to confirm visually that I was only in second gear, but the rear end of a cab loomed so
large in the windshield that I could do nothing but jam my foot on the brake pedal so hard that my heel
snapped off. Shit! Another pair of seven-hundred-dollar shoes sacrificed to my complete and utter lack
of grace under pressure: this clocked in as my third such breakage this month. It was almost a relief when
the car stalled (I�d obviously forgotten to press the clutch when attempting to brake for my life). I had a
few seconds�peaceful seconds if one could overlook the angry honking and varied forms of the word
�fuck� being hurled at me from all directions�to pull off my Manolos and toss them into the passenger
seat. There was nowhere to wipe my sweaty hands except for the suede Gucci pants that hugged my
thighs and hips so tightly they�d both begun to tingle within minutes of my securing the final button. My

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fingers left wet streaks across the supple suede that swathed the tops of my now numb thighs. Attempting
to drive this $84,000 stick-shift convertible through the obstacle-fraught streets of midtown at lunchtime
pretty much demanded that I smoke a cigarette.
�Fuckin� move, lady!� hollered a swarthy driver whose chest hair threatened to overtake the
wife-beater he wore. �What do you think this is? Fuckin� drivin� school? Get outta the way!�
I raised a shaking hand to give him the finger and then turned my attention to the business at hand:
getting nicotine coursing through my veins as quickly as possible. My hands were moist again with sweat,
evidenced by the matches that kept slipping to the floor. The light turned green just as I managed to touch
the fire to the end of the cigarette, and I was forced to leave it hanging between my lips as I negotiated
the intricacies ofclutch, gas, shift (neutral to first? Or first to second?),release clutch, the smoke wafting in
and out of my mouth with each and every breath. It was another three blocks before the car moved
smoothly enough for me to remove the cigarette, but it was already too late: the precariously long line of
spent ash had found its way directly to the sweat stain on the pants. Awesome. But before I could
consider that, counting the Manolos, I�d wrecked $3,100 worth of merchandise in under three minutes,
my cell phone bleated loudly. And as if the very essence of life itself didn�t suck enough at that particular
moment, the caller ID confirmed my worst fear: