Help Me, Daphne!

Lambs, there's no other way! Give me a pen, quick! No, wait. Send in one of the staff, with a pen. 

What's that you say? It's the staff's day off??? Today is February 30th? Because that's their designated day off, you know, Darlings. Well, no matter. Here's Phoebe.

Phoebe, be an angel and take a letter! Here's a pen and paper. Don't get chocolate from those bon bons on the paper, dear! All right. Yes, just hop right onto the arm of this priceless antique chair. Between us, we don't weigh as much as Lionel Richie, and it held him just fine when we had him tied to it. Oh I know it, darling, someone had to stop him from singing "Superfreak". Yes, I know that it turned out we had the wrong singer, but I think he enjoyed his time with us all the same.

But never mind! This is pressing business! Take this down:

Dear Daphne,

I am a long time reader, first time writer. (That sounds mental, doesn't it, Phoebs? Let me start again...) I own most of the newspapers in which your column appears, and I adore every word you write! I know you won't let me down in my hour of need.

I am a wreck lately, Daphne, and the reason why is that Valerie Bertinelli has infested the grounds of my stately home. Yes! First, she moved into the old burrow that Nicole Kidman left behind when Enrique sold her to the zoo. He had left it stuffed with poison pellets, but she just munches them like candy to no apparent ill effect! It must be all those years she spent married to that rock star fellow, what was his name? David Lee Roth? Roth IRA? Someone like that. No matter.

The point is, I get no sleep at all, because the woman goes skittering up into the trees at night, to gnaw on the bark. The poor thing is starving! She camps on a branch right outside my window, crying and moaning piteously. I tried to throw give her a baked potato that Judith had sent up, but she just shrieked, "Carbs!" and dropped it like a...well, you get the idea.

One morning, I went out onto the lawn to try to talk to her. Woman to woman, you know, even though I wouldn't normally be caught dead with trash. I thought we could talk about her movies, or her children, or people we both know, like Whoopi Goldberg, who got her start when I hired her to mop the sun room floor. But no. Valerie Bertinelli just looked up at me from her crouch, with a mouthful of lawn, and babbled something about how much weight she has lost. SO tiresome.

Daphne, should I have Enrique, my gardener, set out one of those humane traps, so that we can feed the poor thing with an eye dropper? Or should I just give Mel Gibson the temp job he's been begging me for, and let him chase her around the grounds with a bazooka until the problem is solved? Please let me know. This whole thing has my chi so off-center, it may never get back where it should be.

Air kisses and thanks in advance,

Babs In Pompano Beach