That's what came across my mind an hour ago when my caller ID read, "Mamie Stuyvesant-Fish". It was way too early for someone who is usually nursing a hangover the size of Montana on a Saturday; still, it seemed better to know what a viper like that was up to and I picked up the call with a tender, "Why, Mamie; what a treasure to hear from you". "Well, Caroline; just how is this fine Saturday treating you?" (She was up to no good; that much I knew.)

"Well, Mamie, I am cooking Mr. Astor a robust lunch as we just finished circling South Beach on our bikes. As you know, he has a big appetite." "Why, don't tell me your adorable husband is off today...I was just wondering if Ladies of Quality were taking cocktails this afternoon?" That's funny; usually you could lob a bottle of Old Spice through her bedroom window and still not flush her out in the daylight, but that old battle ax has the nose of a bloodhound when it comes to having a chance to cozy up to Mr. Astor. As if to make my blood boil even more, she had the nerve to add, "I certainly hope Mr. Astor won't start pawing me again in the middle of the day."

The nerve. As if the photographic evidence doesn't clearly show Mamie's octopus-like arms all over my baby, and all he ever does is give her a little tickle to make her shriek. (Yes, someone with hide that thick is still ticklish.) Still, there's no need to deprive anyone of much-needed alcohol. We can't be selfish or cruel. So, there it is: Cocktails at 3 PM with Tommy Decker.