Fuzzy Thinking

Hi. It's Dolores.

So, I was sitting around the other day having afternoon tea at the 'Shoe with my friend Gracie. (I know, it seems like an odd place for it, but the staff there is always quick with the teabags.)

I don't think I've mentioned Gracie before. Nice kid. We met in the fitting room at Victoria's Secret, when she diplomatically stepped between me and the saleswoman who wouldn't sell me a Miracle Bra because "the name of the garment is not to be taken literally, madam."

Bitch.

Anyhow, the least I could do for Gracie to make up for the hoof abrasions and the small bite on her left ear was buy her a drink. Over a couple of cosmos, she told me her story. And wouldn't you know, it's so similar to mine.

After they crowned her Miss Chickasaw County, she moved from Iowa to Chicago to parlay her good looks into a modeling career. So reminiscent of my own rise from a simple Vermont farm girl to the face and body of Woolrich back in the...whenever it was.

Gracie's getting a decent amount of work around town doing catalog shoots and the occasional television ad for this podiatrist who has the hots for her left foot. She really could be going places fast, except for one thing. She's dumb. As a brick. As a box of hair. As a parcel of Dubyas tied up with a Condoleeza bow.

Seems like every time we get together I have drag her perky tush out of yet another morass into which she has sailed with all flags flying. Man problems, weight problems, fine points of etiquette and wardrobe–some days, let me tell you, she's enough to give Sigmund Freud a migraine.

But I don't mind helping, because she's got a big heart to go with her big rack and she's always grateful. Like the other day, I'd helped her over a difficulty she was having with sentence structure in Cicero's speeches, and she looked over at me with those deep, brown eyes and said, Dolores, you're such a role model and inspiration. And I said, I know honey, I can't help it.

And then she said it was a shame that more people couldn't benefit from my several advanced degrees including the big-ass PhD I earned from the School of Life. And I said, honey you're so right for once.

So, in the spirit of noblesse oblige (which is French for "If you got it, flaunt it") I would like to open the floor to all those out there wandering in darkness. I got my own e-mail address and everything, it's dolores@franklinhabit.com. My faithful assistant Harry and I will consult to decide which letters I'll answer in here.

Just don't send me any naked pictures this time, got it? Not that I have an issue, but the Boss got all twitchy and shouty last time when I set them up as his screen saver.

Some people have no sense of humor.