I had a charming lunch with The Baroness Seitzinger today; both of us moaned about how we don't get to see each other as much as we would like. She had completed a Walk of Shame this morning and was in need of telling someone close about the young waiter she picked up at our favorite gin hall, Twist. She had also been on a spending spree the day before and topped off a new wardrobe with a pearl necklace (someone has to prop the economy up). If there are two things which require an audience, it is a hot affair and a shopping spree.

And, yes, this is what I have to put up with. I awoke the other day to this photo prominently splashed in the pages of The Wire. There she is in all her glory: Mrs. Stuyvesant-Fish gnawing at my baby, Mr. Astor, at a holiday party that she crashed. There is no way to explain what it is like to be greeted everywhere I go with, "Did you see the picture?" And need I point out where her left hand is?

Mamie is away, probably having sensed that she was about to be run out of town for her self-proclaimed "battle axe behavior". For days she rampaged throughout the helpless town--from McDonald's to Ft. Lauderdale; no boy, man, or bottle of tequila was safe. We decent members of society have discussed just what it will take to stop her. She's too well-connected to simply bar from the country club, and we've tried locking her up under house arrest to no avail (she always finds a way to lower herself out the window).

There's every reason to believe that being hold up in Nashville with her conservation relatives--the ones that still think George Bush was right--that she will be as bad as ever when she returns. I can hear her shrieking now..."Your husband manhandles ME! I was minding my own business when he touched ME!" Something has to be done.