At the engagement party for Sabina and my father, I never called Sabina a “gold-digging, contaminated whore.”
The person who sent Elvis down to our storage space in the cellar of the building to bring up another case of Dalmore was not me. Nor did I lock him inside. Finally, when Elvis didn’t return to the penthouse for over an hour, I did not reply to Sabine, when asked about his whereabouts, that he was “probably just taking a nap.”
I most definitely did not spike Sabine’s gin rickey with a mix of valium and Opana. Does that even sound like something I would do?
When Elvis finally shlepped in covered in dust and crying, I absolutely never said, “Where the fuck is my Dalmore?”
When Sabine collapsed and someone suggested we call 911, I couldn’t have taken the battery out of all the available mobile phones, because at the time I was yelling at my errant architect, Marc Muellem, who has yet to finish renovating the bedroom. When the medics arrived, I did not fondle the biceps of one of them and aggressively insist that he drink a mint julep.
When my cousin Milagros Schwartz suggested that the wedding night have to be postponed in light of the news that Sabine had fallen into a coma, I positively did not improvise a version of the Haka after singing a refrain of “Glory, Glory Hallelujah!”.
There you have it. I hope that clears everything up. All in all, I think Elvis and I threw a very successful party. And since it is August, we’re off now to my future ex-husband’s place on Meadow Lane. I hope you’ve found a swimming pool in which to immerse yourself, and I’ll see you soon, darlings.