A Reader Cries Out! (To Daphne, Of Course!)

Lambs, the world is beginning to fill and be fouled with the sludge and revolting goo of inelegance! I want my life back! The only thing that can possibly help me to center my chi at this point, is to sit down and read the "Dear Daphne" advice column. Daphne has such wisdom! Such insight! Such killer French nails! Let's see what the letter writer says, shall we, Darlings?

Dear Daphne,



I have a dilemma that is so awkward and embarrassing that I am not enclosing my real name. Indeed, dahling, I have asked an errand boy to walk across the state line and mail this from California so you do not even need to bother with my real location. (It's only an 8-hour drive, so how long can it be to walk? I gave him a box of Peeps to keep up his energy, after all.)


The sad and embarrassing story is that Fifi, my darling, brilliant and very fashionable Yorkie, clashes. With my turquoise Fendi bag, that is. It's horribly embarrassing when I'm in the Prada store, for instance, and I know everyone there is thinking quite loudly, "Why does that woman PUT UP WITH IT? Carrying a brown dog in a turquoise purse?" But you see, Fifi is too delicate to walk. I WILL NOT have her like a slave on a leash.


Can you recommend a solution? Would it be possible to dye her to match, without making a terrible mess?



Ever gratefully,


Someone Fashionable Who Babs Would Approve Of


Darlings, please shield your eyes. I had no idea the letter was going to be so upsetting. Dears, it's time we had a little talk. You see, Lambs of mine, there is a place called "Oregon", which is where everyone in California has moved. They have all opened tiresome little shops with what they think are clever names, and driven the local inhabitants either east into the merciless desert, or west into the sea, where British Petroleum executives have their way with them. It's too awful, Darlings. The poor things, soaked and unrecognizable with dark beer, are shipped back to England and forced to watch the World Cup until the sound of those absurd little horns drives them completely mad and they actually begin to enjoy watching "Coronation Street." Well, what can you do, Darlings, we are talking about the British. Or Oregonians. Or Yorkies. Or something. Oh, Lambs, I suddenly feel so tired and headachey, just like when you send me email pictures of you and Christine attending yet another Lilith Fair concert. I've got to go lay down. At least there is always one thing in this world that I can cling to, and that's Dear Daphne. What's that, Lambs? You say she's on vacation? That's it, I'm jumping off the Mackinac Bridge! Well, of course I mean that I'll have one of the lesser staff jump for me. I've got mah jong!

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