Hi, it’s me Camille, and I’m your designated Blogger for today.
Susannah, who’s never been able to hold her champagne, is passed out cold across my bed like a beached whale though I’ll admit, a very chic one. She’s wearing that Chanel coat I’m getting when she dies but not before it goes to Madam Paulette, New York’s finest dry cleaner, since it now has candied yams all down the front (Can’t take her anywhere).
As I practically carried her into my elevator, well, Bobby the doorman did under my strict supervision of course, she kept mumbling, “Post, my post, have to…my post.” Bobby, bless his one chromosome, thought she meant the New York Post and offered to go get a copy but as her best friend, I knew what she was blathering about.
The hard part was (no, Bobby did not come in, been there, done that) was getting the password out of her. Finally, she agreed to tell me. Then she couldn’t quite remember it. Took an hour to figure it out.
Don’t get me wrong, no one knows better than me how much she loves this little strange hobby of hers, but does it have to be so top secret? Keep it someplace handy…in your wallet or with your other important documents like your Passport and Victoria Secret Undies Card (buy 11 thongs get the 12th one free).
I realize now I should have listened when she said we shouldn’t go to the Carlyle since she refused to eat there. I know it’s pricy but it’s Thanksgiving for heaven’s sake. Let us give thanks by spending money is what I always say. Not that we could even get close to that damned dining room – it’s sold out weeks in advance – months even. You’d think at 300 bucks or whatever it is a plate there would be a few no-shows. Not a chance. When we got there after she agreed to have one glass of Taittingers with me (like pulling teeth) it was fur as far as the eye could see. The wealthy all seem to ‘gather together’ at The Carlyle Restaurant. They’re so dull those people. We, on the other hand, would have jazzed up the place.
I figured we could order a coupla sides and eat at the bar but the mayhem made it impossible. If only the bartender stopped filling our glasses out of guilt for ignoring us the whole time, because at one point our friend was no longer at eye level. There she was splayed on the floor in those tights and ballet flats of hers oblivious to how she got there.
It was very frustrating for me since I had a flirt going with a guy at the other end of the bar but, friendship, as annoying not to mention inconvenient as it can sometimes be, comes first.
The next right thing was to feed her but after realizing all I had in the fridge was mustard and film, I was forced to go shop somewhere, no easy task on a late Thanksgiving afternoon. Against all my natural impulses (which would have been to go to another fab hotel), I ended up…I’m sorry, excuse me for a second…
“What did you say Susannah?”
“Of course I’ll check the spelling and please turn that bucket right side up, it’s there for a reason. It’s not a head rest.”
As I was saying, out of desperation I went to Big Nectar as opposed to Little Nectar (they don’t serve wine) to get some so-so edibles. Coffee shops with bad lighting are not my favorite even to just pick up a few things, that’s why I was tickled when Moustepher, the cab driver, agreed to go in for me. I did throw in a lamb shank, but lets face it, every man has his price. Plus the party girl from Connecticut was across my lap hurling onto the curb. I will remind her of this the next time she writes one of her little tell-alls about moi.
If you’re wondering if I mind that she has made such a character out of me, the answer is no.
Like my daddy always said, doesn’t matter what anyone says about you as long as you’re the one they’re talking about.
“What’s that Susannah? Of course I’m not telling them why you can’t write this yourself.”
My daddy also said, as long as you get even it all evens out at the end.
“Not on the Persian rug Susannah…bucket, in the bucket!!!”
Best wishes to all,
Being the good sport that I am, I edited this once I came to. What are friends for if not to make fun of one another (and correct each others spelling)…
boy, do I have a headache.