Tanya continued, oblivious to my mental meltdown. “Sammie graduated from Bauder College. She has always had a passionate interest in our industry. Her mother, Tappy Kittenplatt, is a founding member of our board and her family has long been among our top contributors. After interviewing Sammie and listening to her innovative ideas, I am convinced that she is by far the best woman for the job. Let’s all welcome our newest senior curator, Sammie Kittenplatt.” Tanya gestured toward the side conference room door and, as if on cue, in walked a familiar fixture from the Manhattan social scene.
Wait, STOP! I wanted to shout. This was my job. It was promised to me. How could Tanya cast me aside for this interloper? My heart was thumping and I could barely catch my breath. Objection, objection, I thought. But I was momentarily paralyzed, which happens to me under stress. I sat there like a pile of discarded fabric on the dressmaker’s floor.
You could tell that Sammie was one of those girls born with a Kmart exterior that had been attended to by the right dermatologists, hairdressers, trainers, and stylists. Now she was all Bergdorf’s—legs that were long and lean, arms that were buff, shimmering peach skin, Aegean-blue eyes accenting her thick blond mane. Her heart-shaped face was punctuated by a short, wide pug nose that had not been fixed. All that perfection surrounding such a snout made Sammie ugly and pretty at the same time, prugly like Diana Vreeland had been. I envied her. Ugly beauty was all the rage this season.
“Hello, everybody,” she chirped. “I’m Sammie Kittenplatt. It’s an easy name to remember; think Sammie, only without the Davis Junior. And without the black skin or glass eye.” She turned to Nigel, the only person of color in the room. “Not that I have a problem with black skin or glass eyes, because I don’t.”
“Do I look like I have a glass eye?” Nigel whispered under his breath.
Now I remember, I thought. She introduced herself the same way on Project Runway last season.
But back to my rant. Miss Kittenplatt was dressed head-to-toe-to-purse in the same designer (Chanel), which simply isn’t done by anyone who knows anything about fashion. And let me add that her entire ensemble was black, a look that went out in the late nineties, just two more good reasons why I (mentally) cried foul play.
Tanya led us in a round of applause for Sammie. I joined in. I’m such a weenie.
Sammie’s face brightened and she fanned herself with one hand. “Thank you. Thank you. Tanya, I’m honored that you gave me this opportunity,” she started. “Ever since I was a little girl, my dream was to be a fashion designer. But when I was bid auf Wiedersehen on Project Runway, it gave me the chance to rethink my career choice. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that my talents would be better spent showcasing designers who were even more talented than I. So I talked to my mother, who’s on the board here, and, well, the rest is history. Get it?” she chuckled. “History?”
Nobody laughed.
“History. See, we’re a fashion museum that displays historical things. That’s what makes it funny,” she explained.
Silence.
“You know what they say,” Sammie added, “those who can’t, work in museums.”
Tanya chose this comedy knucklehead over me?
Checking her watch, Tanya said, “Sammie, I’d like you to spend a week following each of our curators and Nigel, our conservator, so you’ll have a better idea of your responsibilities. Holly’ll put together a schedule for you. She’ll brief you on everything about the museum. Holly knows more about what goes on here than anyone—next to me, of course.”
Tanya stood and breezed out of the room, with her perky whack-job new hire in tow. Sammie was dragging a few squares of toilet paper on her heel. That was the only bright spot of the morning.
“I’m speechless,” Nigel said. “That job was yours.”
“What could you not accept if you but knew that everything that happens is gently planned by One Whose only purpose is your good?” Elaina said. “That’s from A Course in Miracles.”
“Are you saying this is for my good?”
“Tanya had no choice,” said Martin, our ultrareligious Jewish audiovisual guy who always left early on Fridays. “Sammie’s a Kittenplatt, of the Cape Cod Kittenplatts. Her parents are huge donors. Res ipsa loquitur.”
“Res what? I said.
“It’s Latin. ‘The thing speaks for itself,’” Martin said. “Something I learned in law school before I dropped out.”
“The girl’s an A-list socialite,” Cosima said. “She knows everyone who matters, serves on the right charity committees, goes to the right parties. She’ll be pure gold when it comes to fund-raising.”
“Silly society gadabout,” I muttered.
“Yes, and you can’t compete with that,” Cosima said.
“I know, but do you think Tanya might make me a curator too? Not a senior curator,” I said. “I’d settle for being a junior one.”
My colleagues shook their heads. “This isn’t the Met. We can only support so many curators,” Elaina said.
So that’s it? The end of the story for me? Suddenly, there was a lump in my throat the size of Sammie’s schnoz. For once, I could not speak.
You Call It Madness
PLEASE, HELP ME UNDERSTAND,” I said, sitting across the desk from my boss.
Tanya spun her leather throne around and looked me in the eyes. “She came up at the last minute and was better for the role.”
“But…but how can you say that?” I asked. “I have a master’s in fashion history from FIT. She went to Bauder in Atlanta. I’ve assistant curated almost twenty shows. I wrote half the lectures anyone here has ever given. I researched eighty percent
