I've been surprised, over the past couple of days, to read the scathing reviews of the movie version of "The Devil Wears Prada."

I intend to see the movie, although I haven't yet. It surprises me, though, that the reviewers universally also pan the book. Now, it wasn't the best book that I've ever read, but it hit home repeatedly.

An article in the Sun involved interviews with real, live secretaries...oops, assistants, in New York fashion publishing. They all seemed disgusted with the book. OF COURSE an assistant should expect to be sent out in the rain to get Starbucks for twelve. OF COURSE she should be expected to go back if the coffee got cold. OF COURSE she should expect to have to babysit for her boss, and WHY would she think that would merit any extra pay or (gasp) appreciation?

I've got news for you, world. The whole damned country is not some scatterbrained idiot trying so desperately to break into New York's ticky-tacky world of fashion (and yes, it IS ticky-tacky--get over your credit card selves and LOOK at that crap they're foisting on you) .

I worked for someone, once, who was the "lite" version of Miranda, the devil/editrix of the title. (hoo, boy, I bet she'd wet her politically-correct didies, too, if she caught me using a feminine form, there...) And, you know what? I finally got fed up with her crap, her self-serving idiocy, her smarmy asininity, and QUIT. Which is what any self-respecting person would do, really; in reading the book I only marvelled that the heroine sucked up and dealt with the crap for as long as she did.

Sadly, it's a good picture of corporate America. Too many overqualified people have been produced for too few jobs and, especially in either fashion or publishing, it's a cutthroat world. Therefore, the low men on the totem pole have to suck up and deal with the demeaning, idiotic crap that they're given, if only to stay employed. Too few people are willing to tell the Mirandas of the world that, indeed, they're nasty, mean-spirited bitches who've fucked their way to the top and really have about as much talent as the average dust bunny. (I personally expect one of the dust bunnies under my bed to graduate summa cum laude from Harvard, which also tells you precisely what I think of that school.)

"The Devil Wears Prada" was, indeed, a sensationalist little novel, but it hit too close to home for most reviwers' comfort. When one has already willingly given up any modicum of self-worth to fetch coffee (and what the FUCK was wrong with the coffee in the office?) three times in a row in pouring rain, it hurts to see someone else demeaning that precise activity.

You know, I can see myself in Miranda's shoes, but I'd like to think I'd have a different perspective, though I'd keep the meanness:

DG: We need coffee, Assistant. Would you set up coffee service for twelve? I'll give you a hand in a minute.
Assistant: Oh, YES!!! I'll run to Starbucks right away.
DG: Er, is the office percolator broken?
Assistant: No, I just assumed...
DG: Precisely, which is why you belong in New York and not in Baltimore. We have perfectly good coffee here, or have you not figured that out yet?
Assistant: But what will you do for cream and sugar? You'll want pure cane sugar and cream from cows fed on orthoponic...
DG: What are you, blind? there's a pint of milk in the fridge and Domino sugar in that funny little silver thing, which you obviously do not recognize as a sugar bowl.
Assistant: But bagels...?
DG: (exasperated sigh...) What's your name...Andy, or whoever you are? HOW long have you been working for me, and you do not understand that I do not EAT bagels? If you insist upon making work for yourself, why don't you telephone Hoehn's for some doughnuts?
Assistant (overheard on 'phone): He wants doughnuts, STAT!
DG: Dear God, you WERE brought up in a barn. Give me that...
..... I'm so sorry, I hate to telephone you with such late notice, but if you could have your delivery boy get me a couple of dozen--no, no, plain sugar is fine--I'd be most obliged!
Assistant: But...
DG to Personnel: NEVER again send me someone who isn't from Highlandtown.