MY BIZARRE ROLLERCOASTER

It is five o'clock when I write this piece. In the morning, that is. I can't sleep anymore and besides, I have plenty to do today. Something with a magazine we are launching and something with a very prestigious seated dinner. In the Westerkerk. I don't know if you've ever organized a dinner for 130 A-listers, but I can tell you: it's a task.

The WhatsApp groups are tumbling over each other. We have our standard chat space Amayzine editorial team, the coolest app group in the country, and Amayzine sales. Now Amayzine Magazine and Amayzine LOTY have been added. If I haven't looked for five minutes, I'm usually greeted with 37 new messages.

A glimpse into the past few days. “Hi, I'm at the Pulitzer, the lady here knows nothing about my arrival.” A famous makeup artist has flown in from NY and is already scratching at the gate of my favorite hotel early in the morning. Six messages later, everything is arranged and the person in question can check in nice and early.

The list of RSVPs is exploding. We have 130 spots and in the past few days, the counter has been constantly and firmly at 136. Breathe in, breathe out, there are always a few people who cancel at the last minute. Not this time, though. But luckily we had claimed a table for unexpected guests, so everyone has a spot.

“Hi, I'm at the Pulitzer, the lady here knows nothing about my arrival.”

Then the top model who is going to win an award tonight. “She’s here,” says her agent. “But if American Vogue calls or Mert and Marcus want to do something with her again, that obviously takes priority.” I say I understand, but then I send all kinds of wishes into the universe. I wish her a hundred shoots with Mario, Patrick, Mert, and Marcus, but Not Right Now.

Then the outfits. Mine I had already sorted out on Friday. A stunning Ronald van der Kemp via Net-A-Porter. I don't even have to hold in my stomach. Ha.

But now the rest. For the top model, we had ordered two beautiful suits from Claes Iversen. Beautiful, but her legs are so long that her agent preferred a dress. Suddenly Ronald van der Kemp popped into my head again. I called his right-hand person. She turned out to already have one foot in the car to Paris (couture week), but if I indicated which looks I would like to borrow, she would pull them out for me. And when I could roughly pick them up. “We’re already in the car,” I shouted, and seventeen minutes later we loaded our Renault full of couture.

Now to finalize the seating arrangement (Anouk Smulders is coming after all, just like the big new boss of a cosmetics company), arrange an outfit for our male makeup artist, bind 130 ribbons to our magazine (I wrote the handwritten notes for each guest last night) and find my daughter's library book. Otherwise, I'll have a fight with the teacher. Bye!