Blottoed and Vera Wang

Whenever Daddy mentions his wedding to Sabina, I scream at the top of my lungs, stick my fingers in my ears and shut my eyes so tight I feel like hurling, which I don’t. As my readers know, tragically, I’m not one of those women who hurls easily.

But back to Daddy’s wedding. While the screaming etc. is a correct expression of my feelings, it leaves me somewhat uninformed about their wedding plans. So imagine my surprise when my cousin Milagros Schwartz called me yesterday. I haven’t heard from her since we were both questioned by the police a few weeks ago. She said just been at the Carlyle having her weekly joy ride [her words] with her Kama trainer when she spotted Sabina going into Vera Wang with her son Elvis.

Oh, gentle readers. Is it to much to ask that the universe align itself with my desires alone? Is it wrong to despise and resent a presumptuous skank who has my father wrapped around her Sakura calgel manicured fingernails?

“Like Anne Boleyn,” says my future ex-husband, reading over my shoulder.

“Like who?”

“Lysette recommended this book to me,” he says, showing me a book that looks like a cross between a Bible and the Danielle Steel novels my mother used to read instead of paying attention to me.

“You’re reading again?”

As you know, he’s become a little obsessed with Lysette since that awful night in Queens.

“You’re writing books,” he reminds me.

That does ring a bell. And before I get too wrecked by tomorrow nights festivities, let me share this news. Two of the paperbacks of my first novel will be given away, somehow, somewhere. You can click on the thingie if you, like my future ex-husband, are reading.

Happy New Year’s, my darlings. May it be a year that indulges and provides, glorifies and sates, and preserves the privilege and fortune of those who already have it. For the rest of you, I will love you just the same once I’m completely blottoed.