Siblings Marrying Well...NOT

Dahlings,

I beg your pardon, I have been, as the young folk say, "Hella-busy."

My Friday and Saturday was taken up by wheeling and dealing with the famous and the powerful, using text messaging. My poor thumbs will never be the same again. So here I sit, my thumbs soaking in a sterling silver engraved bowl of iced Evian, while my idiotic sniveling assistant types this out for me. Baggage. If my maid spoke English...

And I am exhausted, because my assistant REFUSED to clean up after that damned Japanese puppy messed up the kitchen floor! How could I know that Xanax would loosen its bowels to that extent? I fired the lumpkin on the spot! I was PELLUCID with fury!

Look it up.

But then I had to rehire the swine, because of my throbbing thumbs. I needed to use the telephone to finish up a deal I've made to sell vintage to one of Bill Gates's foundations. It's called "Haute Cou-Poor," and it would give the chance to the great unwashed to wear Oscar de la Renta, Chanel (note correct spelling), even Hilo Hattie. But not Poiret. One has one's limits.

It behooved me to share with you, you mass of short-legged bourgeoisie out there, that I am all too familiar with Siblings Marrying Well, as mentioned by the unfortunate author of "How to Sell Clothes To A Movie Star." Or rather, I am familair with the opposite. You see, they were not blessed with the ineffable air of, how do you say it in English, modishness that descended upon my shoulders at birth. Need I say they are also short? I am trying to be tactful, because one never knows if they might somehow read this...

DON'T YOU DARE CALL THEM AND TELL THEM, OR MY THUMBS WILL BE OUT OF THE WATER AND AROUND YOUR THICK, CLUMSY NECK!

Ahem. Excuse that unladylike outburst. My patience is being tried beyond measure, and that damnable puppy is barking again...oh, Bucky, where are you when I need you?

But back to my dictating--(I SEE YOU SMIRKING!). As I was saying, one sister lives in Nebraska, the other in Trenton (ugh) New Jersey. JOHO, indeed. She married a fishmonger. The reek of their family home can be smelled across the Hudson River on a hot summer day. And all of their children look like fluke.

As for my other sister, she married an auto mechanic in Nebraska, because, well, she had to, if you know what I mean. Quite enough said about that. He works at one of those gas station franchise things, I can never remember the name, you know, where the truck drivers go to eat, shower, and spend an hour of lust for money. Quite pathetic, really. My sister keeps getting crabs and wondering why. So I do my best not to stay in touch.Let that be a warning to you all.

And now, my day is done, my thumbs need pampering, and I can't look at this lump of ordure that I call a personal assistant one moment longer. I'm off to the boudoir to slip into another wisp of chiffon...I don't bother having them cleaned, I just buy new ones, wisps are easy to come by in ultra-fashionable New York City...and give myself over to my beauty sleep. Now, where did I put those Winkies and Frownies?

Ciao,
Elisa