I mean, really.

On a scale of 1 to 10, I declare this Saturday a 2. I just woke up ten minutes ago, but already I can tell. The maid didn't bring in my breakfast tray on time, and when she finally staggered up the stairs, the toast was cold. I fired her, of course, but the delicate balance of my day was already jarred. After I rose and drew on my dressing gown--there was a tragic piece of lint on one sleeve that I had to flick off with one pale pink fingernail and a shudder, while averting my eyes--I wandered to the balcony and threw open the French doors and saw in horror that the groundskeeper hadn't begun mowing. It was past eight already, and the smell of freshly-mown grass wasn't there to greet me! I fired him, of course. And then had one of the servant boys start in with the hand-mower. "Take off your shirt!" I called when he neared my window. He was no Brad Pitt, but the results were adequate.

I'm not even going to talk about my morning bath, except to say that I didn't let it crush my will to live, but instead bravely kept my chin high and blinked back my tears and swept grandly onward into my Saturday.