8 A.M.
You slept through the alarm again. Frantically wake the children, whose foreheads feel like 100 degrees. Consider calling in sick yourself, then remember: You’ve got a job interview today.
What to do: Call Pinch Sitters (212-260-6005): They’ll send a college-graduated, CPR- and first-aid-certified babysitter in two hours ($16 per hour; four-hour minimum). Then call Duane Reade: Bigger stores have full-time deliverymen who will bring kid-friendly medicine right away.
9:20 A.M.
After greeting the nanny, you run to shower, only to discover the water’s off (missed the memo).
What to do: Call any Equinox club in Manhattan, ask nicely to go on the potential-member guest list, and stealthily head for the club’s showers, where you’ll find mouthwash, deodorant, hair dryers, and towels.
10:15 A.M.
Stomp down 51st Street, cursing your overpoured skim
latte—and the innocent bystander who just spilled it on your cashmere cardigan.
What to do: If you’re in midtown or uptown, messenger the cardigan
to Sam Pritsker of Hippodrome (212-768-9080), who’ll send it back cleaned and perfect by
6 P.M. (from $5).
10:30 A.M.
You’ve never been happier to see your assistant and her Excel sheet of phone messages. First up? “A Citibank robot alerting you of early fraud, or identity theft, or something.”
What to do: Don’t call back. People get bogus calls fishing for personal info all the time. And identity theft is overhyped. If you didn’t buy $700 worth of shirts at Bergdorf, you’re not liable.
Noon
The boss wants a word.
A disagreement is followed by a gruff e-mail. Sobbing silently over the keyboard, you lash out via e-mail to your best work-friend. Seconds later, you realize it went to . . . the boss.
What to do: As long as the message hasn’t been opened, you can retrieve it. PC Outlook users can go into the Sent Items folder, open
the offending e-mail, and select “Recall This Message” from the Actions pull-down. Just remember: He could see the recall alert, which might pique his curiosity further.
1 P.M.
You escape into the elevator and break into a guilt-and-fear-induced jog on the street.
On cue: a cruel, sudden downpour. You stumble into a groove, and
your three-inch heel snaps in two.
What to do: If you’re in midtown, call Hector
at Infinity (212-755-4901); if downtown, his brother Juan at Hector’s Shoe Repair (212-727-1237). They’ll fix it in 25 minutes ($35; free delivery within six blocks).
3 P.M.
Time for that job interview. Flash your I.D. to security; they barely recognize the drenched, exhausted, new you. Upstairs,
the receptionist
laughs openly.
What to do: Laugh at yourself, point out the havoc you’ve endured, but don’t go overboard with self-deprecation; they want to identify with you, not pity you. If your hands are clammy with fear, stop by a drugstore first and apply anti-perspirant to your palms.
4:30 P.M.
Wondering how the interview went, you flip through your mental Rolodex: Who to call for the blow-by-blow? Open your cell phone—it’s dead.
What to do: Now you wish you had one of those cute little battery chargers ($20; charge2go.com).
Try a deli instead: Several in Manhattan have Express Chargers, which will power any phone for $1.50 in less than twenty minutes.
6 P.M.
A worried call from the sitter: “Your dog threw up seven times and hasn’t moved from his corner.” And you have to go directly to a cocktail party soon.
What to do: Call Pet Taxi (212-755-1757). They’ll send a minivan equipped with a stretcher in about twenty minutes, and they know the locations of all the neighborhood vets and
24-hour medical centers (emergencies from $85).
9:45 P.M.
After well-earned drinks, you blissfully fall into a cab—and a deep sleep. Startle awake, pay, slam door. But wait: “My purse!”
What to do: Call 311. Next morning, an operator calls: Medallion number? (On the receipt, rats—start keeping those.) Electronic-ticker ad? Yes. Minivan? Yes! Search is narrowed, purse description posted. Mayor Bloomberg’s integrity awards inspire cabbie to return purse ASAP.