So, how are you these days? Enjoying the nice fall weather? Crunching around the park through the fallen leaves in your Véronik Avery cardigan, maybe having a quick one behind the hedge with that special someone before running home to a rum toddy?
Bully for you. I'm not. And here's the reason.
Now as you have probably heard from both "Frontline" and People magazine, Miss Ann Coulter has been trying to get at my sweater lambs since 2001, when we met on the dance floor after dinner at the White House. I was there with Jim Lehrer, who dragged me along for moral support and then ditched me to chat about Hamptons real estate with Cokie Roberts.
It was still early, so I grabbed my handbag and figured I'd go pick up something nice from this bar I know near the Pentagon, but before I could get out the door Jenna Bush got me by one arm and Ann Coulter grabbed the other and suddenly we're doing a three-way Sapphic Mambo in the East Room while the Lennon Sisters are singing "I'm Looking Over a Four-Leaf Clover" in front of a full orchestra.
Kids, I've swung enough in my time to qualify as a ride at Six Flags but that does not mean there are places I won't go. Especially when the Secret Service is watching.
So I disengaged myself as graciously as possible, which was not easy considering that Ann's bony fingers already had a death grip on my Carolina Herrera underpants, and high-tailed it back to my room at the Hay-Adams.
The next afternoon I woke up to a knock at the door. It was LaShawn, my fave bellhop, with two armfuls of red roses and a note:
I wasn't really interested in seeing her again but I wanted the underpants back; first-quality lingerie doesn't grow on trees.
I am so very sorry for my behavior last night. I was a little smashed. Please meet me for tea in the lobby of the Willard at four o'clock so I can apologize and return your panties. Fondly, Ann
By the time I got to the Willard, she was already there on her fourth cup of tea (with two olives). I tried to make desultory chitchat but finally got tired of pussyfooting around and asked to have my underwear back. Whereupon she said, "Come and get 'em, you hot little bundle of fluff," and lifted her skirt up and sweet Barbara Walker, she was wearing them.
Hotel security stepped right in–apparently that wasn't the first time little Annie had made a scene amongst the potted palms–and I took off, but my troubles weren't over. I started getting phone calls, e-mails, even old-fashioned billet doux written on Ann's signature "Garfield" stationery and scented with Wind Song. My increasingly firm rebuffs did nothing to chill the girl down.
Finally, after she snuck into Twelve Willows Farm disguised as a potting shed and tried to attack me in my boudoir, I secured a restraining order. I thought that would do the trick, and for a while it did seem she was going to transfer affections from me to Elizabeth Edwards. (What? Where did you think all the hostility was coming from?)
But now she's back. I've been holed up in this freaking apartment for an entire week because she rented a room at the flophouse across the street and she's sitting in the window drinking Red Bull and Jaegermeister shots and watching our building through her binoculars. She sent over a note saying she has clippers and a pair of wool carders with my name on them, but the police say they can't do anything until she breaks the fifty foot rule.
This is where you come in, cupcakes.
See, I was just reading this biography of Empress Sisi of Austria, who suffered as I do from an excess of charisma. Apparently, Sisi used to send her out her maid, rigged up in empress gear, to act as a decoy when she needed the adoring crowds to lay the fuck off.
I thought maybe Harry could do the job, but he doesn't have the bone structure to make it work.
So I'm still in the market for a double.
From now until November 15, I'll be accepting applications for Dolores Look-Alikes.
All I need is a nice, clear photograph of you or your sponsored candidate doing your best to capture my (let's face it) indefinable allure. Send it to Franklin's e-mail address at franklin at franklinhabit daht cahm. Put "Dolores" in the subject line.
The candidate doesn't need to be you, as long as you have his/her/its permission to enter the running. Cats, dogs, goldfish, husbands, whatever. I'm desperate. (Just no sheep, please–there are union issues. Ironic, ain't it?)
I'm going to have four of my best girlfriends pick the most qualified look-alike:
- Brenda Dayne of "Cast On: A Podcast for Knitters,"
- Carol from Go Knit In Your Hat,
- Rabbitch, and
- Stitchy McYarnpants of The Museum of Kitschy Stitches.
Remember, you got until November 15. I got Christmas shopping to do, dammit, and Ann's probably got enough Red Bull and hooch over there to last until the November elections.
Over and out.