My co-worker Jessica, who I have not seen for a week, approaches me in her usual jovial manner. “Hey–how are you? I’ve been reading the blog…lots of movie reviews huh?” She makes the kind of face you wouldn’t want a doctor to make while looking over your chart. “I mean…they’re good…but, I want to know more about you. What did you buy at the grocery store? How do you spend your days? What’s your routine like? These are things you should explore”.
Those are excellent questions Jessica, and my apologies to those who read my words voraciously, but crave further knowledge about my “inner life”.
I start most mornings by walking about the property…
I’m going to stop you right there. Yes, I do look exactly like Kate Middleton. Is it frustrating to be her super attractive doppelganger? Of course it is. People ask me all the time what it’s like to be as beautiful (if not more so) than the future Queen…and I say that I simply don’t know any different. Even as a tiny baby in my pram, I was elegant and breathtaking. So what’s it like to be so beautiful? That’s like asking what it’s like to breathe…I just do, I just am. But I’m not Kate, and I’d really appreciate it if she’d stop calling me for beauty tips and fashion advice– get your own look girlfriend!
When dressing myself, I really like to take my time crafting my look. I have a hair and makeup team, there’s a dozen or so individuals, working tirelessly to polish the diamond that is…well, me. My closet, oops sorry closets, there’s one for every home, but wherever I am, these spaces are large enough to land a plane if necessary. At the beach house, it’s a lot of linen and silk, lots of white, lots of flowing dresses, you could imagine, my kind of wealth affords you only the finest fabric. In my city home, it’s a lot of black, but again, only the most luscious material. I’m not a hobo darling, so I don’t dress like one.
Definitely not me, that’s Paula Abdul, a very dear friend who I call “Crazy Sauce”. Look at her sitting on my belt holder and sunglasses display case. What a hoot! (PS-Do NOT let her mix Percocets with tequila, though–you will lose her for at least an 24-hours, and will most likely have to post her bail).
In order to keep my body in it’s peak physical condition, I have the most magnificent trainer: Johnny Hardbody, but those of us in the know call him “Johnny Bod”. But because my body is already impeccable, I mostly just watch “The Bod” punch large slabs of meat a la Rocky while I smoke cigarettes. By my third morning cocktail, its probably ten-thirty or eleven in the morning, and I’m feeling pretty loose. I start to get ‘hands on’ with my trainer. Sure, it makes him uncomfortable, but I just throw fistfuls of dirty money at his washboard abs and insist that he dance for me. And he does dance…they all do. If I’m feeling a bit bloated, like I maybe I accidentally ate something the week before, and it’s really pushing the limits of my couture, I just sort of lay there as “The Bod” stretches my limbs to and fro.
Once the hard work has been accomplished, I am ready to head into the office and do the real work, the writing. But first, I just sit in front of my many leather-bound books and ooze sexuality.
At the end of the day, I make time for my husband.
Whoops! sorry, wrong slide. Not my husband, though George was rather persistent. I said “George, you don’t love me, you love the idea of me”, and then I got on the jetliner, not looking back once. Naturally, he was devastated, he sent endless cards and presents–claiming that I was “the best he never had”. He then dated every other brunette under the sun, searching for a suitable substitute. Get over it Clooney, I’ve moved on…so should you.
As a general rule, I don’t eat much, so by nightfall, I usually go Gwyneth on this one and have a Guinness because it says that I’m posh, but also “down to earth”.
But, at the end of the day, when it’s time for bed, that’s when the fun begins.
Pajamas are for sissies darling, you haven’t lived until you’ve slumbered in an evening gown and high heels.
So, dear Jessica, I hope this glimpse is sufficient. Of course, this is an average day without press junkets, visits from my many celebrity friends, or when the nanny insists that I look my children in the face.
But despite the unearthly beauty, the money, the fame, I’m just a regular woman trying to live life to the fullest. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to check on the groundskeeper, he’s been giving me so much grief lately, and you know how hard it is to get good help these days.