Dear Wendall or whatever,
Of course I make it a point never to ask advice on anything. That would be a mistake. Even my therapist. She's only useful to field complaints. But I feel I must put forth a kind of self-statement just by way of informing the public. It's time for the little people to become illuminated as to how women who possess substantial wealth must toil ceaselessly to keep that wealth.
Don't think for a moment that because I am not actually collecting some kind of literal salary that I don't work for my money. Believe me, it's all work. The hair alone. Please. Can you imagine the hours of pulling, and foiling, and backcombing, the highlights, the low lights the extensions, the straightening? And all of these hours being consumed under the deafening drone of the blow dryers. Its three mornings a week just to keep myself presentable. More if it's a heavy event week. And yesterday I observed a smirk exchanged between stylists. What's-his-name, something spanishy, didn't think I noticed. After all of these months lining his pockets and I catch him smirking? He is so dropped. I'm trying the fellow at Glissade tomorrow. They have those hot rock treatments too. And then the waxing. Whole body waxing. Think about it. My tan needs spraying again. Manicure, pedicure, facial. And now I get my make-up airbrushed. It's the only way these days. It takes off ten years. Although everyone takes off the same ten years so the bar just stays even. Eyebrow plucking. There's' one woman in town for that and you're no one without a standing appointment. Then it's to the dermatologist. A slippery slope, oh yes indeed. The Restalyne will leave vicious little red lines if you don't keep it up. It hurts like hell, you know. They don't really tell you about how it hurts. They use phrases like "potential discomfort". I have learned to see through the euphemisms. Not that it would make a difference. Everyone must get those lines filled. No question about it. And there's Botox. Not a lot of fun. Even at those so called Botox parties. You get a little too much and your face looks like something from the morgue. And, oh yes, the serious plastic surgeries. I think of my body and I think of Vicodin and the accompanying constipation. Gullies in my thighs from the liposuction. My breasts need redoing. They're getting hard. Boulder breasts. They do that, you know. Why? Don't ask. When I shower I have to remind myself not to look. It's so depressing. The jaw line softening? Absolute kiss of death in this town. And don't get me started about the dental work. Let's see. The back teeth pulled to enhance the cheekbones. I let them talk me into caps. They said it would give my lips a youthful lift. Well, my teeth look like a piano keyboard. A rather blue piano keyboard from being over-bleached. But then, everyone's teeth look the same in my crowd so I'll call it even on that one too. Now they're suggesting Invisalign to improve a so-called bite problem. I am NOT wearing those clear braces. I've seen how they turn yellow. Ugh. And, of course, exercise. Exercise forever. I so hate Pilates and yoga though I do them both daily. One thing. I draw the line at the idiot pole-dance parties. I will not get undressed and rub up and down on a pipe. I don't care who's inviting whom to whose studio. And I did not say what the invitee said I said about the other invitee and her husband and if I did say it, it was not meant in the way it was repeated to said invitee at the pole-dance party although she would have deserved it if I had said it. I don't think I have ever seen the husband in question. And if I had seen him once or twice I don't recall having a protracted conversation with him. At least not at the yacht club as reported. Please. None of us even see our own husbands, for God's sake, unless it's a brief glimpse at an event.
Events. The goal line, if you will, for all of this preparation. The dinners, the political candidates, the hospital charities, the museum galas, the awards shows, the silent auctions for all of those private schools, the endless handshaking, the reception lines. One blends into another and as a member of the blue teeth coven I must keep smiling. Endlessly smiling. Endlessly flattering whatever man is seated next to me while I practice the underrated art of shoveling food under a lettuce leaf. I haven't eaten anything but arugula for decades. Well, there's sushi. That's allowed. But have anything else and it's a night spent curled up with a fist full of laxatives, missy!
The worst is when I am hosting the event. After fighting and manipulating my way into the position of committee chairperson of this or that charity, I have only to look forward to the sheer drudgery and horror of all the overseeing. Unspeakable. Doesn't anyone even bother to learn English these days? Apparently not. Unless it's the decorator who adds smirk upon smirk. It's not my fault that vendors have gotten so cheap with gift bag swag. Unfortunately, I can't fire him because there's only one decorator in circulation at any given time and if I don't use him it will get around, if you know what I mean. The same goes for the event planner, the real author of the gift bag disaster. Evil breed those event planners. They will take personal advantage every time. It's all about access an they know it and there's nothing to do but pretend to be their friend until it's all over which is never too soon for my taste. A fortune for clothes, of course. And don't think I enjoy clothes either. I never shop for them or choose them. I don't have time. I have a personal shopper for that. I wear it once and it then it goes straight to resale or a charity auction.
So. Why do all of this you ask Dear, I'm sorry, Wanda is it? Winnie? My memory. I think it's probably not good to combine the compounded bio-identical hormones with Xanax. Well, whatever your name is, I do this because there are others in line waiting to take my place with that husband I never see. I can feel their ruby claws heading for my throat even as I write this. Any slip and they're on me. I can't relax for a moment. No. Absolutely not. The moment I relax it will all be gone: The house in Brentwood, the jewelry, the spa treatments, the condo in Cabo, the kid in rehab, the Picasso drawings, the Char-pei. All of it. Poof! I've seen it happen again and again. Well they're not getting it, these shiny pennies. These hellhound wannabes. As long as I can still stand in line I will own my place in it. Believe it.
Just so you know.
Best regards,
A Very Busy Hellhound
Dear Hellhound,
Strongly as you fascinate me, I think I'll let this one slide. EAP editor Tod Davies has impressed on all us workers in the EAP vineyard that we need to feel compassion for even the biggest Hellhound. Not think they're in the right, mind you. But not fall for the irresistible urge to give them one big kick in the behind.
Normally, I can stay within the bounds of this directive — just. But you, dear Hellhound, are an entirely different level of play. I can feel myself wanting to leap from my basement study where I am currently composing the Manifesto for the New American Century, and slap your taut little blank face silly.
Not that it would do any good. I doubt you'd even notice.
So, Hellhound, all I can say is, enjoy it while you can. And when the inevitable conflagration comes, and your world goes up in flames, try not to take too many innocent people down with you, okay?
Have a nice day.
Yrs,
Ask Wendy
(the best thing you can do if you're in the slightest bit interested in this ghastly woman is read more about her and her kind in Linda Sandoval's LETTER FROM LOS ANGELES. Click here.)
(and if you want to read some of ASK WENDY's unsolicited advice to the young, click here… )