Relief.

Today I began my "new" job at the Hamlet's City Hall.

That's right-- no more dust, no more dirt, no more feta cheese-covered keyboards.

Instead, I was greeted with a lovely vase of daffodils on my desk, a funny card bidding me welcome, warm smiles, sincere thank you's, positive words and pats on the back.

In my new office, the carpet is vacuumed. The trashcan is emptied. There are no disgusting unisex bathrooms with urinals and deodorant cakes.

I am thankful. I am relieved. I am grateful!

Happy Easter

Sacrelige. Peep Show.

Have a happy Easter, everyone.

Something I've Decided.

Let's stop using the phrase "OUT OF WEDLOCK".

First of all, ain't nobody's bidness if the child's parents are married or not. The child is here sharing space with us. The lack of a wedding doesn't make the kid "OUT" or "IN" of anything; it just makes the child HERE.

Secondly, the use of the archaic word "WEDLOCK" in our modern age is just silly. The word "wedlock" insinuates marriage is some kind of granite-like, terribly superior contract; that if the contract is broken, a malignant chaos will creep in and infect the clan for generations to come.

Finally, using a phrase that easily draws a picture for those not in the know about the kid's background is cruel. The kids will be thrown to the lions soon enough, people. Give them a few brief years of blameless enjoyment before they realize life is tough and people say mean, mean things.

Just had to get that off my chest. That is all.

Sara Teasdale, Two.

Life has a loveliness to sell-
All beautiful and splendid things;
Blue waves whitened on a cliff,
Climbing fire that sways and sings,
And children's faces looking up
Holding wonder like a cup.

Life has a loveliness to sell-
Music like a curve of gold,
Scent of pine trees in the rain,
Eyes that love you, arms that hold,
And for your spirit's still delight,
Holy thoughts that star the night.

Spend all you have for loveliness,
Buy it and never count for cost;
For one white singing hour of peace
Count many a year of strife well lost,
And for a breath of ecstacy
Give all you have been or could be.

Hitting the Delete Button.

Yeah, I deleted my last post.

In case you didn't read the post, it was about a really naive idea we had at work and how we thought we'd try to open up discussion with management about our concerns. Suffice to say, it didn't come out very well.

Truthfully, I'm sick of thinking about the whole situation and didn't want to sully my blog, or your mind, with all the crap that followed.

So I hit the delete button.

I Am Really Pissed.

Each morning on my way to work, I pass a little house, ramshackle and run-down. The house is enclosed by a combination chain-link and wood fence, with the side yard visible. The yard is a sad sight, worn down to hard-packed dirt and rocks, diseased-looking scrub oaks and tufts of dead, straw-like weeds.

I take particular notice of this yard every day, because the idiot that lives there has three dogs, all of whom apparently live outside. These poor animals are out there all day, every day, in the rain, shine, snow, wind, freezing cold, or blistering heat.

The alpha dog is a beautiful German Shepherd, who acts in typical German Shepherd fashion when I drive by. He rushes the fence and leaps upward while baring his teeth and barking. He is also wagging his tail during this show of ferocity. The second, a mixed breed, is very mellow and kind of stands at the fence smiling, also wagging his tail. The third, a Husky, just sits and stares quietly.

During a recent cold spell, I drove past the house on my way to work and reflexively turned my head to see how the dogs were doing. That day, they weren't at the fence; they were in a pile against the house, trying to keep warm. Imagine-- the stucco of the house was warmer than the air outside.

*****

Sitting in The Hovel writing, I heard a dog yipping and crying. I looked out my window and saw a dog tied up outside the restaurant across the street. Being a shorthaired pointer of some kind, I know he was cold; sleet was falling from the sky and freezing on the streets and sidewalks. I'm supposing his owner just couldn't wait to get some crappy Mexican food, so he had to tie up his dog outside the restaurant in the atrocious weather, get inside where it's warm and order his stupid crappy lard-ridden food and then eat it in front of the restaurant's fireplace. While his dog is outside, yipping, crying, freezing.

*****

Looking around on the internet, I saw a headline on CNN today that a Marine was taped throwing a puppy off of a cliff in Iraq, and the tape is now on YouTube. I studiously avoided the headline, making a mental note not to let my mouse anywhere near the story, lest I open it by mistake and then... I'll have it in my mind forever. Some things you just can't undo, you know?

So I was taking my daily journey over at Jezebel, and they'd posted a still of the smiling asshole, weapon in hand, sunglasses and kevlar helmet on, holding the puppy by the scruff of its neck. Whammo!!! There it was for unsuspecting me.

Naturally, I didn't open the link. But that still is in my head. Oh, that I could erase it.

As a child (and I still do this sometimes), when I didn't want to hear something, I'd put my fingers in my ears and say, "LA, LA, LA, LA, LA" really loud. It worked.

Now I wish I had something like that for my eyes.

Stump.

There is a lady at work whom I refer to as "The Stump". She is short, dark and dumpy, with frizzy brown hair, bags under her eyes and stained, unmanicured fingernails. Her clothes are torn and dirty. She eats cereal and smelly feta cheese burritos at her desk.


Her personality-- well, I contend she is missing a compassion chip. Sometimes she says things that astonish me with their complete lack of empathy or insight. She can be cruel and dismissive. Unfortunately, she is intelligent.


The very worst thing about The Stump is that she is participating in an old, old scenario to get what she wants: she's fucking The Boss.


What does she want? I dunno- I guess she wants things her way. The Stump used to be in my position as Administrative Assistant, but she was "promoted". To what? No one knows her title. Is she a horticulturist? A gardener? A foreman? Queen of the parks department? We remain ignorant. Her position, whatever it is, was created by her with The Boss's blessing. She now has a desk in his office, an extension of her own, a computer, lots of papers piled on her desk, and a truckload of privilege bestowed on her by her boyfriend.



The Stump schtupping The Boss certainly gets her lots of things the rest of the staff does not have. She isn't on-call for emergencies in The Hamlet, meaning when a snowstorm hits in the middle of the night, The Stump stays warm and snug in bed, while the unfortunates on our staff have an hour to get to the shop, warm up the snowplow, and start an 12-hour snow removal shift. The Stump receives compensatory time, although she doesn't work the requisite overtime hours one must work to receive comp time. The Stump does personal errands during work hours, in Hamlet vehicles. The Stump uses Hamlet supplies, such as fertilizer, mulch, etc., for her on-the-side landscaping business.

Being The Boss's girlfriend also gets her toys. She has a GPS system for map-making, which she has never used. She asked The Boss for a greenhouse to be built on our facility property, and it stands empty and unused, without happy little pots of baby plants and seedlings; instead it is filled with dirt, dead plants and nests of Black Widows.

Most alarming, The Stump has The Boss's ear. He looks to her for advice and support when situations in The Hamlet go awry. She is, of course, filled with opinions and ideas which she imparts to The Boss with certainty and authority. More often than not, he follows her advice.


Dad used to say about people like The Stump: "She must be great in the sack." This used to horrify me when he'd say such a thing, but now that I'm older and have gained a bit of life experience, I think he must be right, in his coarse little way. Now Dad's comment fills me with horror in another way-- imagining The Stump and The Boss together... well, I'd like to have that part of my brain zapped with a powerful laserbeam so I can't visualize it again.

Yeah. Hey. Howaya?

I've been sick with some kind of lung-filling, sinus-blocking, voice-thieving, muscle-crunching virus these last few days. I slept most of last week, wore filthy pajamas, drank water and tea and ate virtually nothing. My voice is taking little trembly steps back to normalcy-- I sound like Demi Moore. Sexy.

Time disappears when I'm sick. It's an odd thought that the world went on while I was in a fever-induced daze-- people went on trips, went to work, planned weddings, worked in their gardens, bought cars, shoveled snow, wrote poems, cooked food-- all while I laid on my couch, inert, sweating, shivering, miserable. I hate missing out on life when I'm sick.

You can only imagine what The Hovel looks like at this moment. I'm longing for spring, where I can open up my windows and welcome in some warm, sweet air. I'll wash my floors, take my curtains to the cleaners, throw out old papers and letters, and start again.

It's been a long, cold winter.

Thank You, Heath.

Gluttony.

According to a quiz at Belief.net, I am spiritually a bit too thin. This is true. I live lean and mean; not out of necessity, but out of habit.

With the exception of a few good financial years during my adult life, I've been poor. I've learned to do without things that most people possess; cable television, new clothes, a cellphone, a full freezer, a full gas tank, lattes from Starbucks, and stacks of DVDs.

I'm not complaining! I'm just telling how it is here at The Hovel.

On occasion, it occurs to me that I live a spartan life. This sometimes morphs into a spell of bitterness. For the most part however, I don't consider myself poor, although my bank balance tells me otherwise.

I'm very fortunate my inner life has sustained me when things are rough. I pick up Jane Eyre and read it for the hundredth time, which makes me happy. I pop Pride and Prejudice into the VHS and the world seems right again. I put together a pot of homemade soup, which satisfies hungries and reminds me I can create something delicious from those few simple ingredients I just happen to have in the cupboard. I play with and cuddle my cats, which lowers my blood pressure. I cut my hair and feel better about myself, snipping off dead-ends for an instant erasure of bad feelings.

I'm thankful I'm not a gluttonous person by nature; however, I do need to acknowledge this doing without versus having what I need. Pseudo-monastic living has its limits.

The Shoes From La Roux's Fantasy

Gina asked I post pictures of the Anthropologie shoes that are central to The Redhead's fantasy. Here they are.

"Ooooh! Lookit!!!!"

and...

I'm all over the heels. Oh boy.

Le Roux fantasme autant que je fais, peut-être plus!

The Redhead sent me a picture of dangerously adorable tangerine leather peep-toe character shoes with a white instep strap (and button!) this morning (from Anthropologie, natch), with this little story:

From: yer "sis"

Provence: As the waiter sets a tiny dish of olives next to your wineglass, you smile "Merci" and shade your eyes against the afternoon sun while looking up the road winding its way through a warm field of lavender stretching away over the hill. Tickled by the breeze, the hem of your frock flutters and dust whispers across the toes peeping out of the new tangerine shoes. "Where is he?" you wonder, glancing at your watch. A buzz in the lazy air shivers a bit louder, then louder still as it becomes the growl of a somewhat elderly motorcycle. "Un autre verre de vin, s'il vous plait", you say to the waiter. "Daniel! I wondered if you'd ever get here!"

I know that "Daniel" is this fellow, and he's driving up on a vintage Indian.

The next email from The Redhead. Attached is another wonderful pair of shoes from Anthropologie (pink Mary Jane flats, with little eyelet-cut holes-- whee!):

From: yer "soeur"

Provence, deux: A slanting sliver of sunlight beneath the bathroom door. A hiss of water, clank of pipes, whisper of a razor on his cheek. Linen skirt smooth against your legs as you slip into the pink shoes. "Oui?" you call to the quiet tap at the door. "Madame, un mimosa ou deux?" "Deux, merci," you say, and pull the windows open to a brilliant day.

I'm guessing the fellow shaving in the bath is again:

Le Roux et moi mangeons de l'un de l'autre, vous voyez ?

Lust.

There are those who lust for power, money, or attention.

Me? I lust for really cute shoes.

Just ask The Redhead and she'll tell you-- if we are in a department store, we will inevitably gravitate to the shoe section where I'll find a beautiful pair of shoes. I will hold one of the glorious shoes up to my cheek and squeal, "Redhead! Lookit!" Repeat this ten times. This is what we do when we go to the mall.

Oooooh... I lust for pasta.

Hot or cold, red sauce, meat sauce, olive oil, with vegetables, basil, or just gorgeous, velvety cheese-- it simply doesn't matter. Pasta is the ultimate comfort food and like a good shoe, goes with anything.

I do lust for a particular Australian bloke, whom I believe I've mentioned before:

You know, each time I Google My Husband Russell Crowe, I find yet another picture of him that becomes a favorite. This is today's choice. He looks relaxed and casual and kind of scruffy/messy.

*Whispering* Oh, Russell-- if you were here with me, my love, I am sure I wouldn't know what to do with you.

Hm. Wait... okay. Yes I would. Never mind.

Booklust.

The other night a friend asked me, "If you had only $20.00 left in the world, how would you spend it?" I answered, "I would go to a used book store and buy a bunch of books." I love to read, feel the heft of the book in my hands, smell the pages, relish the story, and often lose myself in what I'm reading. It is my only true escape.

To me, lust is not sinful, at least as it applies in my life-- my quiet, uneventful, largely celibate life. Screw Thomas Aquinas and his little list of the Seven Deadlies! I'm keeping lust close to me, thank you very much, and it's a cheap, cheap thrill.

3:10 to Heaven

January 8th, 2008- a day I look forward to with one fluttering heart, two sweaty palms, and three heapin' helpin's of overwhelming anticipation!

Thaaaaat's right... My Husband Russell Crowe's movie, 3:10 to Yuma, is coming out on DVD.

Note the tagline: "Time Waits for One Man". It should've read: "T-Bone Waits for One Man."

Just saying.

As I've mentioned before, dear readers, I have a rich fantasy life.

Greed.

Here's the iconic greedmeister from Wall Street, Gordon Gekko. He is the poster child for the deadliest of the seven deadlies-- GREED. Underhanded, manipulative, and dishonest, these qualities make a person like Gordon into that one thing-- GREEDY.

The news is always filled with greedy characters, but one group of people in particular spring to mind-- those steroid-taking, human growth hormone-shooting baseball players.

There's only one reason why these guys take the steroids and hormones; they want to be faster and stronger than anyone else on the field. Because players can't be those things just by sheer talent and athleticism, they get an edge over other players by shooting up the stuff.

So why do these athletes feel the need to be faster and stronger than anyone else? It's not because of their inherent competitive natures. It's the money, baby! If they're faster and stronger than other players, they'll get the contract from the ball club that'll make them rich and famous. They'll get the hitting record. They'll get the good press. They'll get the attention and adulation from fans. They'll get the money.

Barry Bonds has been haunted by rumors of steroid use for many years. After being outed once again in Mitchell's report, Bonds stubbornly said for the umpteenth time, "I've never taken steroids". He thinks that if he keeps denying it, the public will eventually believe him. Bonds also knows his hitting record would be forever sullied with an asterisk if he said he made the record while taking performance-enhancing drugs. If he didn't have his record, he would certainly lose the money and respect he apparently craves. Greed. Again.

Why don't the ball clubs punish their players by firing them for lying and cheating? Because it's the money, honey! If the clubs don't have big players in their lineup, who would come to see the games? Nobody! If nobody comes to the games, how will the clubowners get rich? They won't! The club owners want their share of the pie, so it goes around and around. Corruption. Cheating. Greed.

Politicians are greedy assholes too. You think this war in Iraq is about "terr-ists"? No. It's about control of the Middle East's oil. Greed.

Those assholes who ran Enron into the ground? All those employees who worked for that corporation-- their pensions gone. Everything they worked for, gone. Why? Because the folks that ran Enron decided they wanted more money, so they used the pension plan and retirement money set aside for their employees to pad their own stupid wallets and fund their ridiculously opulent lifestyles. Greed.

I can't describe to you the difficulty I've had writing this post because I hate the concept of greed so much. I've revised, revised, revised and I still find greed such a repulsive subject, I hate to even give it another bit of effort.

Simply put, greed sucks.

Talkin' Shop

This conversation was intercepted by Pakistani authorities (thanks to NPR for the transcript):

Maulvi Sahib: They were our men there.

Mehsud: Who were they?

Maulvi Sahib : There were Saeed, the second was Badarwala Bilal and Ikramullah was also there.

Mehsud: The three did it?

Maulvi Sahib: Ikramullah and Bilal did it.

Mehsud: Then congratulations to you again.

Maulvi: Where are you? I want to meet with you?

Mehsud: I am in Makin. Come I am at Anwar Shah's home.

Maulvi Sahib: OK I will come.

Mehsud: Do not inform their family presently.

Maulvi Sahib: Right.

Mehsud: It was a spectacular job. They were very brave boys who killed her.

Maulvi Sahib: Praise be to God.

Do these men truly believe what they're saying to one another? Aren't there tiny voices in their heads telling each of them that they're full of crap?

To me, there's a silver lining to Bhutto's death and it is this:

What pissed these murderers off more than anything else was that Benazir Bhutto was a woman.

God bless you, Benazir! You can rest easy knowing that you agitated these men daily with your brilliant mind, your courage, and most of all, your gender.

Sloth.

On a Discovery Channel special about these creatures, Ralph Fiennes memorably and beautifully pronounced the word "sloth" with a long o, rhyming with "both", rather than the nasal American pronounication of "sloth". When I am in the midst of bout of sloth, it should be pronounced the American way; ugly and short: "slaaaaaaaahth".

Sloth is a sin of omission, rather than a sin committed in action (see keying of mailbox below in Wrath). It's a state of being in which one is careless and lazy. The modern definition of sloth includes the possession of talent in any form and leaving that gift untapped and unused.

Sloth is a byproduct of melancholy and depression. Walk into a slothful person's living space (like The Hovel) and you'll see dirty dishes in the sink, overflowing trashcans, sticky floors, dirty laundry, dusty furniture and general disorder.

Day-to day duties are neglected. A slothful state creates piles of paper, like unanswered letters and unpaid bills. Phone calls aren't returned. Science projects flourish in the fridge.

Forget about completing an ambitious project, like filing a month's paperwork into personal files, balancing a checkbook or refinishing a cabinet. As long as one is slothful, these projects will never be completed. If they are, it's with sheer willpower.

I've a few talents-- singing, drawing, painting, and am an engaging conversationalist. Do I use these talents? No. I feel much worse about this aspect of sloth than any other.

Can you tell I'm well-acquainted with this deadly sin? I'm usually in sloth mode rather than out of it.

I am fully aware this is a result of clinical depression, and trust me, I fight it. I hate living in a dirty house. Usually I'll wait until it gets so bad that I cannot stand my surroundings any more, then I take a deep breath and dive in to complete whatever it is that needs to get done. Sometimes I'll experience a burst of inspiration and indulge myself with a creative pursuit, such as sketching an amateurish still-life or an even worse, a watercolor or pastel picture. Afterward, I look at the thing I've created and tell myself, "Well! You're not that talented after all!", then slide backward into creeping slothfulness.

Wrath.

There is a fine line between love and hate. I'm ashamed to say that a person whom I love very much and who was instrumental in shaping the woman I've become, is also the person with whom I was most angry in my life.

Michael and I met in the smoking section of our office building. We were the two loser-tobacco-addicted-holdouts in our tower, otherwise filled with healthy Southern Californians. We quickly fell in love, and I moved into his condo. After seven months of living together, I noticed a definite cooling of Michael towards me. What followed was something I didn't expect in the world of love between grown-ups where people are supposed to talk about their problems and solve them in a sane, civil, and adult manner.

One night, Michael and I went out with friends to hear some live music. It was a crowded bar, and we got separated. After awhile, I was tired, slightly drunk, and annoyed that he had disappeared. So I decided to punish Michael by leaving without him. That'll show him! I thought stupidly.

I went home and fell asleep. Waking up the next morning, I looked at Michael's pillow, which was devoid of his curly-haired head. I got up and walked through the house, thinking he'd fallen asleep in one of the other bedrooms. No Michael. I went into the garage; his car wasn't there.

Panic.

I ran upstairs and called some friends. "Is Michael there?" I asked embarrassed, realizing that I sounded like a dumbass for not knowing where my own boyfriend was. After exhausting that option, I started calling the hospitals, the police station. No Michael. So I sat down in the living room in my robe and waited for the phone to ring, watching some insipid Danny DeVito movie where he was playing a mentally-challenged guy. I got angrier and angrier as the minutes ticked by (not at the movie-- at Michael). What the fuck is going on?!?

The phone rang. It was Michael calling from the car. "Are you alright? Where are you?" I quizzed him, worried sick.

"We need to talk," he intoned.

Oh, here we go.

"Right now? On the phone?" I said sharply. "Ohhhhhhh no you don't. Come home and tell me to my face." I slammed the phone down and laid on the couch.

Ten minutes later, Michael came in, wearing his clothes from the night before and sporting his sunglasses. He slumped in a chair. I sat up, hyper-alert, and lit up my millionth cigarette of the day. "Well, Michael? Talk," I snipped.

"I'm not happy. I want you to move out."

God. The adrenaline that flooded through me!

"Is it because I left last night? I was tired, so Glen gave me a ride home. Is that why you're saying this?" I quavered.

"No." A stone.

"Do you have someone else, Michael? Where did you stay last night?"

"I was at a friend's house. No, there isn't anyone else."

"Bullshit, Michael," I said, chuffing smoke like a train. "I don't believe you."

He sat looking at me, without taking off his sunglasses.

"For God's sake. Take off your sunglasses!"

He didn't. There he sat, immobile, silent.

"What am I supposed to do, Michael?"

Nothing. Like the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come, he was. All's he needed was a black hood.

I stubbed out my cigarette. "Okay. I'm going to take a shower. When I come out, I want you to be gone."

I got into the shower, scared, hurt, furious. Crying. Jesus Christ. Why won't he tell me what the fuck is going on? What did I do?

When I got out of the shower, robe on, hair in a towel, he was still sitting in the same spot, a fixture.

Michael said quietly, "I'll pay the deposit for your new apartment. I'm also going to pay your moving expenses. I'll give you the money when you figure out how much you need."

I stared at him. God, he really wants me to disappear. And he's giving me the money to do it. "Fine," I snapped. "I'll call you. But you're not staying here, Michael! You're staying with your 'friend' until I leave, whoever that is. You won't be here when I am. You aren't gonna just stop by to pick up some stuff. You'll call me beforehand and I'll make sure I'm not here when you come by." I kept staring at him, waiting for him to say why he was doing this.

"Okay," he answered. With that out of the way, he got up and left.

That was the moment I became certifiably insane. It lasted for the next four months.

Anticipating my future pharmaceutical needs, Michael tactfully left a full bottle of Xanax in the kitchen cupboard. I took two of them each night and washed them down with (at least) a six-pack of beer, just to get to sleep. I packed half-heartedly. I looked for an apartment. I listened to Van Morrison and Beatles CDs. I obsessed. I fumed.

When I drove deeper into the city limits of Crazytown, I became vengeful. With a key, I scratched out my recently-engraved name on our mailbox. I tried to make Michael's day-to-day life as miserable as I possibly could. I would see Michael out around town and glare at him, just to make him squirm. I accessed his personal voicemail account and erased "important" messages. I timed my smoke breaks to coincide with his so I could ride in the elevator with him to glare and say bitchy, crazy shit. I looked through all his clothes for clues as to why this was happening-- it's a girl, it's gotta be some slut he met, there's gotta be a phone number around here somewhere. I accused him of coming over and moving stuff around the apartment when I wasn't there: "Did you come over here today? The reason I ask is because I can't find the fucking T.V. remote. I know you were over here, Michael! Did you hide the remote?!?"

God, I was so awful. I hated myself for hating him. I hated him for not loving me any more. I hated how I felt. There was a typhoon of loathing and desperation that whirled around in my brain, unrelenting, unstoppable.

Finally, I realized I needed help quickly or something bad was going to happen. I made an appointment with a shrink and told him the whole sordid, messy tale.

"What do you need to make yourself feel better about all of this?" he asked gently.

"I need to have Michael dead. That would make me so happy. I would like to see him suffer." I remember saying this and noticing the shock in the shrink's eyes.

I was so blatant, heartless, and evil. I'd become a monster.

****
This was, thankfully, many years ago. He and I have both moved on. One night we talked about this whole mess. I told Michael everything I'd felt during those months, except the fact I wanted him dead. I've never told him that.

Michael, if you read this, sweetie, I'm so sorry.

Pride.

A bit of genealogical background on our old friend, Mimi Van Wyck, from the loathsome Harper's Bazaar "A Fashionable Life" issue:

Mimi, her mother, Mary Lynn, and her brother, Bronson, share an antique name dating all the way back to when New York was known as New Amsterdam.

Big deal. I've got it all over Mimi in the antique name department.

This is the Howard University standard. HU was founded by one of my ancestors, General Oliver O. Howard.

This is General Howard, looking suitably dignified and generally general-ish. O.O. graduated 4th in his class at West Point, lost his arm at Fair Oaks and had three horses shot out from under him during the Civil War. He went on to found Howard University, and was later appointed to spearhead the Freedman's Bureau, where he treated the Native Americans abominably, I'm sorry to report.

Here's O.O.'s monument at Gettysburg!

I'm guessing there aren't any Van Wyck memorials at Gettysburg, or anywhere else, for that matter. Heh heh!

This is Castle Howard, Suffolk, England.

Sadly, these particular Howards are somewhere in my tree, but certainly not on my branch. I'm just throwing it in here because let's face it-- that is one gorgeous castle.

Prior to their trip across the pond, the Howards populated England for many a century. The Howards landed on these shores around the same time the Van Wycks showed up. Maybe they were neighbors and had barbeques and stuff! Maybe not.

Another branch of my family, the Suttons, settled in England (via France) before the Howards. In fact, the Sutton crest bears the motto (translated from Latin) "Puttin' the 'Anglo' in 'Anglo-Saxon' since 1066".

That newbie Mimi Van Wyck may have an old name, but mine are older, thank you very much.

Envy.

I think envy is different from jealousy. Jealousy is when you want something someone else has which you used to have, like your otherwise awesome boyfriend you dumped because he called too much, or your beautiful house you had to give up because your mortgage rate went through the roof. Envy, on the other hand, is wanting that which another person has. Whatever it is they have, it is something you will never have, have never had in your life, nor could you ever hope to have.

Exhibit 1: Kelly Wearstler.

Kelly is featured on the cover of the Fall 2007 issue of Harper's Bazaar's "A Fashionable Life". Looking at her photo conjures a black wave of hateful envy through my brain; chestnut waves cascading around her shoulders, wide cheekbones, feline eyes, golden skin and Christian Louboutin pumps (one pair of "dozens" in her closet).

It only gets worse on page 47, where Kelly's story begins.

Kelly Wearstler, in a chocolate crepe Tracy Feith sundress, pancake-flat Chanel gladiator sandals, and oversize Marc Jacobs aviator specs, curls into one of the glossy black wrought-iron patio chairs between the pool and the pool house she has converted into a home office of her estate, on the Beverly Hills side of Sunset Boulevard (of course!- T.). Wearstler has flopped down out of not so much exhaustion as ease-- although this mother of two small boys, Elliott, age 4, and Oliver, 5, and the captain of a burgeoning global empire would be forgiven if it were the former.

I wouldn't forgive her. I would laugh at her.

Poor Kelly-- not only is she renovating her home, she's redoing her office space too. Stress! A nosy neighbor "caught" Kelly running her business out of the old bungalow space during the renovation of the new office on La Cienega. The City "totally came down on us" says Kelly, and adds: "What do you expect? This neighbor has metal exterior shutters." What a loser!

You want to design clothes too, Kelly? Along with your interiors business and your boutique on the 7th floor of Barney's on Wilshire?

"Why shouldn't I do clothes and anything else? I mean, look at all the inspiration I'm surrounded by*. We just got back from Uruguay and Argentina, and we're going to India and Japan this winter." How weird! Me too!

* Never end a sentence with a preposition, Kelly (T-Bone's Mom).

Exhibit 2: Mimi Van Wyck.

Mimi is an event planner, putting together weddings and parties for the rich and famous. When she and Ray Hamilton "Ham" Morrison III decided to get married, they wanted their day to be extra-special. The venue? Charleston, South Carolina. They thought it would be fun to have a Mardi-Gras themed wedding reception!

Zipped into a white sheath hung with chains by Alexander McQueen and sci-fi jewelry by Kara Ross, (Mimi) is a punk-rock Princess Leia. "Bronson has me changing at least fi-ii-ive times at the wedding," she says, sounding just like what a magnolia would sound like if a magnolia could talk. "It's cray-ay-zy."

Grrrrr.

Ham had been thinking of becoming a pro stock-car driver. (Mimi urged him to, well, think again.) Instead, Ham now restores Charleston's creaky historic residences...

I'm choking.

The wedding day!

Morning arrives, and Mimi climbs behind Ham on his British policeman's motorcycle, off to fetch croissants and orange juice.

The story goes on from there, but I'll spare you (and myself). Suffice to say the article concludes with a full-page photo of a radiant Mimi 'n' Ham at the airport, ready to jet off to the Grenadines for their honeymoon. Mimi's diamond glints as her hand clutches her Hermes briefcase. Ham, in a blue blazer, looks impossibly handsome.

************

Now folks-- that's envy.