Chatter

03/2007

Last summer, Mr. Chatterbox (Bob Plunkett) of SARASOTA Magazine likened me to a certain-celebrated-White-House-intern. Nothing against Monica but, I felt dirty. Now, feeling dirty can be a wonderful thing but in this case, it was not.

Allow me to explain: if you were to see me on the street (and some of you do) I am wearing business attire, showing no cleavage. If you were to speak with me over lunch (and many of you do) you will not hear me discuss men, shoes or even lip gloss. If you were to date me in Sarasota (and three of you have) it would be months of dinners and movies. That is the nature of my life. It’s really quite serious.

Mr. Chatterbox said, and I quote, “she’s also Monica Lewinsky – spoiled, self-important, feeling entitled to everything the world has to offer, even an affair with the President.” Well, that hurt. For the record, I am NOT entitled to a whole host of things, including an affair with the president. But, thankfully, I am entitled to free speech.

And, here, with you, I discuss everything I won’t discuss in person. In person, it would be about things like your family, your life, your business, and most likely, your money.

Here, behind this line drawing, it’s not ALL about me but it’s about me. It’s not ALL about boys but it’s about boys. It’s not ALL about lip gloss but it’s about lip gloss and dangly earrings and that is precisely why I love this hidden world. It’s indulgent, it’s grateful, it’s fun. Thank you for your time. Frankly, I’m surprised I’ve got readers at all. Besides, something tells me you wouldn’t enjoy hearing the details of my last earnings call.

And, maybe you won’t enjoy hearing this either but, last night, I talked to the man I love. I have no other name for him. He’s simply the man I love. He makes me laugh. He makes me cry and last night, he listened to me cry. I know it’s wrong, but earlier that day, I was craving a Big Mac like the market craves investors so I quickly pulled into the lot, popping a tire, effectively paying $250 for my Big Mac (plus the new tire). Recalling the story, I was reduced to tears.

Of course, my man knew there was so much more than a Big Mac behind my tears, so (without any prompting whatsoever) he reassured me that I am NOTHING like Monica Lewinsky. Oh, but I am, I whined. It’s just like Mr. Chatterbox says – I am spoiled. I’m spoiled rotten and I’ve got the good man to prove it.

You’re right about that, he said. Don’t ever forget it.