A bit about moi.
I have been accused of being elitist, and perhaps I am. However, I came from humble beginnings. Many do not know that yours truly was born in a small petit bourgeois town in the middle of this country. I refuse to say exactly where, I do hope you understand. The press can make so much of something like that.
With the help of my dear, darling Mama, I created myself. I never knew my father. Whenever I asked Mama about him, she’d spit on the floor and leave the room. She made it her life’s mission to teach me about the finer things in life. She realized early on that my sisters, Clytemnestra and Iphigenia, were a lost cause. But that there was certain, how do you say it in English, je ne sais quois that had descended on my shoulders at birth.
Dear Darling Mama
My younger sister Iphigenia lives in Nebraska, my older sister in Trenton (ugh) New Jersey. (JOHO, indeed.) Clytemnestra married a fishmonger. The reek of their family home can be smelled across the Hudson River on a hot summer day. And all of their children look like fluke.
As for my other sister, she married an auto mechanic in Nebraska, because, well, she had to, if you know what I mean. Quite enough said about that. He works at one of those gas station franchise things, I can never remember the name, you know, where the truck drivers go to eat, shower, and spend an hour of lust for money. Pathetic, really. My sister keeps getting crabs and wondering why. So I do my best not to stay in touch.
Mama was terrified of revealing her age. So she burned her, my and my sisters' birth certificates. So, I have no idea when I was born. Because Mama insisted on not aging, I had to remain eleven years old for ten years. (Fortunately, we moved several times.) Perhaps that was why I became obsessed with fashion. Wearing pigtails and frilly dresses looks somewhat odd when you are tall and busty, unless someone is paying you to do so.
Darling Mama instilled in me a love of the better things, and later on, after my sisters were married, moved us to New York to expand my social connections. She expected me to marry royalty. When first I told her I intended to make fashion my career, she took to her bed for a week. However, it didn’t take much to send Mama to her bed…later on, when I was able to make her life easier, if the maid forgot to serve mustard with her pate en croute, off to bed went Mama.
I had to claw my way to the top of my profession, and I was not afraid to use my natural assets. I have slept with many of the most powerful men—and a few powerful women—in the United States. I cannot name names, but anytime you pick up a copy of Business Week or Time, think of me. In fact, I caused several of Dick Cheney’s early heart attacks. The Secret Service won’t let me near him now, although I did steal his space heater at the Obama Inauguration.
My creamy décolletage was like a magnet to those few heterosexual males in the garment business. The men I slept with for pleasure, the women so that they would buy my beautiful lingerie directly off my sleek white back. I also married, and divorced, three times. However this is not to time to go into sordid details.
And now here I am: a model of chic, stylist to the stars, and owner of one of the most extensive vintage clothing collections in the world. I only wish my dear, darling Mama was here to see how far her daughter had come. It is the source of my greatest pain. Fortunately, Bucky, my miniature pinscher, is an unfailing source of comfort, and the true love of my life. And there is always Dior. Ah, yes, Dior.