Off season

Excuse me...hello? Is anyone out there? I suspect not. Who in their right mind is chez nous at 9 on a lovely Palm Beach night. Well, pookies, I am home. Alone. With my shaker and bottle of Rodnik. No gossip to report yet, since the swallows are still in their Newport roosts. Still, I must be ready so I'm gearing up for the season, and though it is months away, I am aghast at how far behind I am already.

My teux-deux list:

1. Rent out the garage apartment. Dear Lord, send me a Sabrina who can handle $6,000 per month.
2. Retrieve the PETA pelts out of storage.
3. Get the pool remarcited.
4. Take last season's frocks over to Razamataz. Even I can't pull off Lacroix anymore.
5. Send the Birkin to Paris for lock replating.
6. Make chemical peel appointment. (Note to self: Don't mix up phone number with marcite man like last year.)
7. Lose 250 pounds of ugly fat.

That last one is going to cost me. I should have listened to Rusty Newsome and just lived with the man instead of marrying him. He was Fernando-Lamas luscious but went to seed. And now he wants to be kept in the style to which I accustomed him. God, good sex gets expensive when you become une femme d'un certain age. I was so much older then; I'm younger than that now.

Thank God I still have my work. Life here on the island goes on, and I still have my job as social columnist for local rag, The Slicky. And when the season comes -- as it always does, hell, highwater or Madoff -- I will be here to chronicle it all for you. Do come back...